A/N: This is the first time I've written a short story set in the 'baristaverse'—the version of the Milky Way in which my Watty winning novel The Four Baristas of the Apocalypse takes place.  The main character is a new one and there are no baristas, but long-time readers may recognise a few familiar faces and names.  Don't worry if you haven't read the novel, no prior knowledge is required (and there won't be a test).  3300 words.

"Boss, we've got company."

"Company? Out here?" Pick poised, the spacesuited figure turned to look back at the Spectra, floating half a click or so away, out beyond the boundary of the asteroid field. "Are you sure?"

The pause that preceded Zan's response was calculated, to within fourteen decimal places, to precisely convey her opinion on the merits of a biological entity, with a couple of glorified meatballs for optical sensors, questioning the telemetric data of a hyper-advanced quantum AI, equipped with the most advanced scanners science could provide.

But as the ship's computer was pretty sure her owner wouldn't notice the pause, she followed it with a resigned, "Yup."

The aforementioned owner kicked away from the asteroid. "Trouble?"

"Nah," responded Zan. "Well, not the getting-blown-up kind. But it's a Galactic Conglomerate shuttle, so the overdue-tax-return kind could be an issue."

"GalCon? Bloody hell. Any chance they haven't spotted us?"

"Oh, yeah. But by the time I finished telling you how small it is, they'd be here. Want me to reel you in?"

"No. But do it anyway."

Minutes later, sans spacesuit but suspicions intact, the tall, lean figure stood on the Spectra's bridge, braced to repel boarders—psychologically, at least. He'd reserve the actual firepower for if the unpaid speeding fines came up. However, one look at the face of the woman stepping through the airlock was all it took to crack his defenses.

"Uva Kwoin! What the hell are you doing here?"

The Councillor's aristocratic, Arcturan features, all high cheekbones and smooth, geometric planes, arranged themselves into the cool smile he remembered so well. "I could ask you the same question. What's the galaxy's most-renowned bounty-hunter doing out here in the boondocks, swinging a pick like a common rock-hopper?"

"Retired bounty-hunter," he corrected. "And what's wrong with rock-hopping? It's a perfectly respectable, honest occupation."

Kwoin arched a sculpted eyebrow. "Yes, I suppose it is. It's just when I think 'respectable and honest' I can't really say yours is the first face I picture. In fact, it would be fair to say that when I think 'respectable and honest' the last person that springs to mind, the very last individual I'm inclined to think of, is the one, the only, the infamous retired bounty-hunter Bonk Strifeman."

He shook his head. "You came all this way just to insult me?"

"Oh Bonk, as usual, you have me all wrong. Right now, honesty and respectability are the very last things I need. Insult you? I'm here to recruit you."

Expression pensive, Strifeman watched the main viewscreen until the exhaust flare of the Councillor's shuttle dwindled to nothing more than just another pinpoint of light, lost among the stars.

"Zan, set up the drive for a scrunch to the Merak system."

"Sure thing, Boss. Hey, just out of curiosity, does this little trip constitute some new and exciting version of the concept of retirement? You know, one without the retiring bit?"

"Shut it, Zan. Let me know when we're close. I'll be in the strategy room."

"You mean the bar?"

"That's what I said."

Ensconced in his well-worn armchair, whisky in hand, Strifeman watched as a hologrammatic Uva Kwoin, projected from the ship's video-log, reiterated her earlier spiel. He needed reminding as to why exactly he'd signed up for this half-arsed, ill-conceived mission, a job that could well get him killed, instead of sticking to his half-arsed, ill-conceived retirement plan of asteroid-prospecting, where the only thing likely to kill him was the boredom.

Ah, boredom. Sweet, sweet boredom. He'd love to get a taste of some of that, one of these days.

"Bonk," said holo-Kwoin, "you know I wouldn't be here unless the situation was desperate—particularly given our...history. But this crisis goes far beyond the personal. The fate of the galaxy is at stake."

Strifeman drained his drink. Wasn't it always?

"Several weeks ago, a hardline Rigellian expansionist group known as The Tall kidnapped the renowned quantum scientist Barnarth Warffle."

Working on the assumption that this collection of words should probably mean something to him, Strifeman had at that point contributed a sage nod.

Testament to her long experience with that nod, Kwoin's eye-roll indicated her precise awareness of its actual sagacity content. "Warffle is working on the cutting edge of research into ten-dimensional hyperspace, and his most recent paper caused a sensation in academic circles with its proposals for a method of accessing those higher dimensions.

"What this could lead to is the construction of a machine with the cabability to transform time and space—to alter the very fabric of reality. Warffle calls this proposed machine the divergent unreality device—the DUD."

Strifeman had been hoping he'd misremembered that bit—sadly not.

"A working DUD would be a tool of incalculable power and scope," continued the hologram, "a tool that in the right hands could do unimaginable good, but in the wrong hands...well, let's just say The Tall most certainly fall into the latter category. Those fanatics will stop at nothing to achieve a Rigellian-ruled galaxy and a functional DUD may just be the catalyst they need to make that possible.

"Bonk, we can't let that happen. But with GalCon-Rigel relations in such a delicate state we can't very well send an armada in to rescue Warffle—at least, not without sparking a galaxy-wide war.

"What we can send..."—even in their translucent, hologrammatic form, Strifeman felt the weight of those green eyes—"is you."

He poured himself another drink. Bugger. It still sounded nuts.

Of its eleven planets and several hundred moons, only one solitary body in the Merak system was habitable. And, Bonk reflected, as the Spectra skimmed the arid, wind-blasted plains of the seventh planet's solitary satellite, an uninviting little planetoid called Flavo, even this dump stretched the definition about as far as it would go.

Formed from the ejecta of a cataclysmic collision between the gas giant it orbited, and a wandering rogue planet, the moon's riches of colossal diamonds were the only reason it had been terraformed to its current state of borderline survivability—but no further. Mining company CEOs were a pragmatic bunch, and they weren't about to waste a single credit on niceties such as a temperate climate or viable ecology.

And that same pragmatism had seen Flavo abandoned the instant its riches ran dry, rendering the uninviting hellhole of no conceivable use to settlers or colonists—but the ideal location for a terrorist group's secret lair.

Or apparently not so secret, given GalCon knew of its existence. The Rigellians were a formidable people—strong, resilient, warlike and fearless—but somewhat lacking when it came to matters clandestine. Or—for the most part—intellectual.

Orbital scans revealed no signs of life, but Bonk had expected that. He'd have switched to rock-hopping a long time ago if he'd had to rely on boring, legal tech like orbital scans.

"Zan, have you uploaded Warffle's DNA to the tracking drones?"

"Six done, one to go."

"Cool. Hang on—I thought we had ten drones."

"Well, we did. But remember a few weeks back, when the cocktail-mixer died? And I said maybe you could use the shaker? And you said you'd be damned to hell if you'd shake your own drinks like some Aldebaran undergrad, and that I'd better bloody well find some replacement parts in the next five minutes, otherwise you'd put the fridge in charge of the ship? Remember that?"

Strifeman's expression grew dogged. "No."

"Well, I guess it was a few cocktails into the evening. I can find the video-log, if you like?"

"Just launch the bloody drones, and let me know when they get a hit. I'll be in the—"

"The strategy room?"

He didn't bother to answer.

Several hours and a few strategies later, Bonk leant into the sandy gale that appeared to be Flavo's sole variety of weather, and slogged his way towards the ventilation shaft the drones had flagged. Feeling a little dizzy after the space-jump from low orbit, he was glad he'd refrained from that last strategy.

"Zan, are you sure this is the place? I can't see a bloody thing."

"Boss, remember that last time I was wrong?"

Behind the visor of his helmet, Strifeman's brow creased. "Um...no?"

"Exactly. So, shut up and take five steps north-north-west."

A sand-blasted, knee-high shaft loomed out of the haze. "Found it."

"Amazing. Right, I'll head up another hundred clicks or so, in case these guys have orbital patrols. Give me a call when you've bagged the nerd."

Briefly, Strifeman was tempted to remind the computer just who gave the orders, but decided to save his breath—it hadn't made any difference the last half-dozen times he'd tried it. Instead, he set to work with a piece of tech that didn't talk back—his laser-cutter.

One cramped ventilation shaft, twenty minutes of trudging and three unconscious Rigellians later, he crouched at the junction of two corridors, rubbing the knuckles of his hand as he contemplated his next move. He'd forgotten how hard Rigellian heads were.

Any doubts about what the DNA tracker on his wrist was telling him were put to rest by the two heavily armed guards stationed before the door he was looking at—something important was behind that door, and in a dump like this that something could only be Warffle.

The question was how to get to him. Taking out a single Rigellian, from behind and with the elements of surprise and hangover on his side, was one thing—getting past these two was quite another.

Force wasn't going to cut it—so, thanking his lucky stars he wasn't dealing with the sharpest species in the galaxy, he took a deep breath and strode out into the open.

"Intruder! We have an intruder. Hey, you two—sound the alarm! There's an intruder in the compound!"

The guards raised their gleaming, multi-barreled weapons. "Halt!" barked the one on the left. "Who are you?" demanded the one on the right.

Hands on his hips, Strifeman glared down at them—even with their platform-soled boots and towering battle-caps, his six feet four inches still gave him a decided height advantage.

"I'm the one telling you we've got an intruder, moron. Now, are you going to go and sound the bloody alarm or not?"

The two guards exchanged a glance. "Er..." hedged the one on the right, "we're not supposed to leave our post."

"Yeah," added the one on the left. "Plus, we don't even know who you are. Show us some ID."

"ID?" Strifeman slapped the guard's battle-cap, knocking it askew. "ID? You think we've got time for IDs, when there's an intruder running amok? You two clowns want to be the ones who let this whole operation go to hell in a handbasket?" He whacked the other guard's cap. "Well, do you?"

Expression thunderous, the guard on the left straightened his cap. "Why don't you go and sound the alarm, if you're so bloody worried?"

Strifeman smacked his cap clean off. "What are you, an idiot? You haven't even seen my ID, and you want me to go sound the alarm? For all you know I could be the intruder."

The guards exchanged another glance, this one decidedly perplexed. "Um," ventured the one on the right, "but you're not...are you?"

Only a rapid duck prevented Strifeman's swing from knocking his cap off, too. "Numbskull! If I was the intruder, I'd hardly be running about saying there's an intruder, would I? Anyway, think about it—if I'm the intruder, and I go off to sound the alarm, I'm not really going to do it, am I? I'm just going to continue whatever nefarious activities I'm here for. And if I'm not the intruder, then I will sound the alarm, and no doubt get all the credit for saving the day, and become a hero, and get all kinds of rewards, and...and..."

Strifeman's expression became thoughtful. "Actually, you know what? Never mind, I'm happy to go—"

He froze, as eight barrels of lethal intent pointed at his face.

"You're not going anywhere," growled the guard on the left.

"Yeah," added the guard on the right. "Not so fast. Think you're pretty clever, don't you? Well, we're here to tell you, no long-assed streak of offworld trash is stealing our glory."

"Yeah," confirmed the guard on the left. "If anybody's sounding any alarms around here, it's us, alright?"

"But—"

"No buts, smart-guy. You're staying right here."

Strifeman looked from one guard to the other. He sighed. "Fine. Have it your way. And I promise I won't go wandering off or anything, while you're gone."

Both guards' eyes narrowed. After sharing a final, suspicious glance, the one on the left turned and pressed his palm to a panel on the door, which swung open in response. He jerked a thumb at Strifeman.

"Get in there. We're locking you in with the scientist, 'til we get back."

A great, frizzy bear of a man, stuffed into a crumpled labcoat, Warffle was not at all what Strifeman had expected. Having to explain to the scientist that he'd been abducted also came as a bit of a surprise.

"What? Abducted? Oh, I don't think so. Would you like some cheese?" The big man held out a plate. "It's rather good."

Nonplussed, Strifeman held up his hand. "Ah...no thanks. Listen, are you telling me you came here willingly? To help the Rigellians?"

Clearly not a man to let unwanted dairy products go to waste, Warffle helped himself to a good-sized chunk. "The who?" he mumbled.

"The Rigellians? You know—short, bad attitude, fond of guns, big hats? The people who brought you here?"

"Rigellians, you say?" The big man scratched his beard, dislodging a cascade of cracker-crumbs. "Can't say I noticed. Whoever they are, they're awfully keen on science—they invited me here to continue my research, all expenses paid and with none of those troublesome ethics committees. Naturally, I jumped at the chance. And then, of course, there was the cheese. Are you sure you wouldn't like some?"

"You've seem to have eaten it all."

Warffle looked at the empty plate. "Oh, never fret about a little detail like that." Glancing around the room, he spied an overflowing wastebasket, which he gathered up and emptied into a transparent cylinder atop a nearby bench, humming tunelessly all the while. Fingers dancing a staccato rhythm across a keyboard beside the cylinder, he watched on as—with the briefest of preliminary shimmers—the pile of trash vanished, to be replaced by a large cube of...cheese. Cheese which the scientist retrieved with a pair of tongs, before brandishing it at Strifeman.

"I'm afraid I've eaten all the crackers. But if you give me a moment, I can calculate the coordinates to transmogrify up some more."

Strifeman regarded the cheese for a moment, before—in a sudden blur of movement—knocking it aside and seizing Warffle by the lapels of his lab coat.

"Listen, science-boy. I don't want any cheese, you have been abducted, I'm here to rescue you, and the Rigellian's don't give a xaphalod's pancreas about science—they just wanna take over the galaxy. And if that cheese trick of yours means what I think it does, and you've made them a working DUD, then they're a whole lot closer to doing it. So, shut your hairy face—by order of GalCon, you're coming with me."

Warffle blinked. "I...but...you mean..." His eyes widened, as the allegedly brilliant brain behind them processed. He put down his tongs. "Okay."

Having anticipated the need to be a little more 'persuasive' Strifeman lowered his clenched fist. "Right. Fine. Good." Drawing his concealed sidearm, he blasted the cylinder into smoking wreckage. "Let's go."

Sirens blaring, he led Warffle back towards the ventilation shaft at a run, or at least at as close to a run as the scientist could manage, which was not very.

"Um," puffed the big man, "Perhaps I should mention that while you have destroyed my prototype DUD, I...er...may have provided the Rigellians with the blueprints to build more."

Rounding a corner, they were confronted with two soldiers coming the other way, one of whom Strifeman dropped with a blast to the kneecap, before knocking the other unconscious with a fist to the face.

"Son-of-a-bitch," he cursed, shaking his smarting hand before turning back to glare at Warffle. "You gave a group of people you barely know the plans to build a machine that could threaten the galaxy? For cheese? And here's me thinking you were some kind of genius."

The hirsute, sweating features became defensive. "Well, I didn't know they were a threat to the galaxy, did I? And it really was very good cheese. Even so, I only consented to give them the plans because of the energy problem."

"Energy problem?" Strifeman discouraged a couple of soldiers approaching from their rear with a few blasts, before dealing with another that popped out of a side corridor by bashing his cylindrical hat down over his eyes and shoving him back the way he'd come.

"Yes," panted Warffle. "In order to function—to be able to bridge the dimensions—the DUD requires an enormous amount of energy. A desktop unit, capable of modest matter transmogrification is one thing—to build one on a scale that could influence a war is quite another. I found it impossible."

As they drew to a halt at the foot of the ventilation shaft, Strifeman holstered his gun and nudged the scientist towards the ladder. "That's a relief. Up you go."

"Yes," Warffle continued, placing a foot on the bottom rung, "I found it impossible. But Bluxlspun didn't."

Strifeman's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"A young Rigellian scientist by the name of Flixl Bluxlspun. Brilliant fellow, doing all kinds of interesting work with zero-point energy. Quite solved the problem."

"You mean...?"

"Oh yes, they're now quite able to build a full-size DUD, capable of some absolutely colossal warpage of multidimensional spacetime. In fact they already have—testing is only a day or two away, I believe."

The bounty-hunter boggled at his quarry. "Why the hell didn't you tell me this earlier?"

"Well, firstly, you didn't ask," replied Warffle, his tone mild. "And secondly"—reaching into his labcoat, he drew a triple-barreled handgun, which he pointed at Strifeman's head—"you had a gun in your hand."

The scientist stepped down from the ladder. "Did you really think I would miss the activation of my greatest creation? Or that I didn't know for whom I was creating it?" He grinned. "You must think me an idiot."

Solemn-faced, Strifeman regarded him for a moment, before returning the grin. "Well—yeah."

The telltale crease between Uva Kwoin's usually serene eyes revealed the extent of her concern. "Please don't tell me Warffle escaped."

Reclining on a plush couch in the councillor's office-suite, Strifeman put his boots up on her no-doubt extremely expensive coffee table. "Oh, please. A swift kick to the nuts and the big guy went down like a sack of...um, let's just say his resistance was short-lived. He's currently trussed up in the Spectra's luggage compartment."

The crease remained. "And the DUD, Bonk? Did they activate the DUD?"

"Yeah. 'Fraid so."

Leaning back, Kwoin gripped the arms of her chair. "Tell me. What have they created? What horror have they wrought?"

Strifeman sighed. "A battle-station, Uva. But not just any battle-station. Those bastards converted Flavo—the whole damn moon—into the biggest battle-station in the history of the galaxy."

The Arcturan woman paled. "Oh my," she breathed. "That's it, then. It's over. We're doomed."

"Well, I don't know about that." He drained the last of Kwoin's excellent Betelgeusean whisky from the crystal tumbler in his hand. "You see, before we left I, uh...convinced Waarfle to hack into the computer system and do a little reprogramming. I suspect you don't need to worry too much about that particular battle-station."

Kwoin's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

"Well, mostly because no matter how big they are, battle-stations made entirely of cheese generally aren't too much of a threat."

The councillor stared at him—and then dissolved into a most uncouncillor-like giggle. A giggle that tugged at Strifeman's heartstrings. "Oh, Bonk. I should have known better than to doubt you."

He took a deep breath, sensing that his moment was now or never. Removing his boots from the coffee table, he straightened. "You know, Uva, I was thinking—as I'm in the sector and everything, maybe you and I could have, um...dinner, or...something. You know, to...er, talk about old times?"

For a moment longer, a hint of softness lingered on the aristocratic features, and then—as though a switch had been flicked—the cool, collected councillor was back.

"I'm sorry, Bonk—that ship has launched. I'm afraid not even the galaxy's finest bounty-hunter always gets their man...or woman."