Read Online [03] Elite: Docking is Difficult by Gideon Defoe - Free Book Online Page A

might have agreed to read his unfinished novel. That was the bit that was making her anxious, so even though it wasn’t on the schedule, she decided to take a ship out and patrol the dead space around the station; that way she could avoid her boss and hopefully nobody would try to talk to her.
    She chose Police Viper number six like always, because it had an ammonia leak coming out of the starboard wingtip that maintenance never seemed to fix. Phoebe had become pretty adept at timing it so that with a few spins and twists she could leave behind a fleeting floating gas doodle in the vacuum. Sometimes she drew famous landmarks. Sometimes she drew actor’s faces. Most of the time she drew genitals. She wasn’t particularly proud of herself, but it was still a skill.
    After a couple of hours she got bored of the space doodling, and decided she should probably at least go through the motions of her actual job. She scanned a readout showing all the traffic coming and going from the
Jim Bergerac
that day. A methane shipment. Some Indigenous Outsider Art. Some more Indigenous Outsider Art. Methane. Art. Art. Methane. Art. Then a name caught her eye:
    Misha Bulgakov – Transport Barn – Pig (substitute)
    And before she really had time to think about it, she found herself beaming across a message.
    Ahoy. This is Officer Phoebe Clag of the
Jim Bergerac’
s C&E division! Prepare to be boarded!
    Misha didn’t reply, but a
Ready
code meekly signalled his acquiescence, and his ship slowed to a crawl as her computer, in turn, automatically matched his pace and fired out a wobbly docking tunnel.
    Phoebe scrolled through the rest of his ID. She frowned.
    Pilot’s Rating: Harmless
    Violations: 19 tickets for Minor Docking Damage, 1 health and safety citation for cabin fungal residue.
    Payload: Pigs (substitute)
    Previous 50 payloads: Pigs (substitute)
    For a moment she thought that maybe it was a different Misha. But then his picture flashed up, and there he was, looking slightly lumpier and pastier than she recalled from the night before, but definitely him. According to the log, his ship – designated Transport-Barn
Malkovich,
the sole ship for which he had a licence – hadn’t ever gone more than thirty miles from Gippsworld. And his trading history suggested that his import-export business empire was limited mostly to export, and the luxury items were limited entirely to the pigs. Phoebe excitedly straightened her police hat and brushed some of the previous night’s noodles off her jacket. Nobody had bothered lying to her for ages.
    ‘Hi there! Unexpected spot-check!’ she said, stepping through the airlock and flashing him both her badge and a nervous grin. Misha’s stricken, sweaty face instantly made her regret the whole idea. It had seemed as if it would be cute a few moments earlier, but the poor guy, obviously mortified about being shown up, looked like he was ready to puke.
    ‘Hi there,’ he said weakly, waving her through into the ship’s cramped, little cabin.
    ‘I guess the top-of-the-line Anaconda is at home for the day!’ She meant that to sound like a breezy shared joke, but as soon as it was out of her mouth she worried it had come out like a dig, because Misha just stared miserably at his shoes. Phoebe coughed awkwardly. ‘Sorry about running off last night. My colleagues are a bit hard to escape.’
    ‘Sure, no problem,’ mumbled Misha.
    ‘I can’t even remember the details of half the stuff you and me were talking about, by the way,’ she lied. ‘That Lavian brandy goes straight to my head. Seems like I don’t have hollow legs!’ She tapped her metal leg in a self-deprecating way, but he didn’t say anything. Perhaps, thought Phoebe, sinkingly, it would be best to just act business-like and get this over with as quickly as possible.
    ‘So, let’s check out the cargo, shall we?’
    Misha, still avoiding any eye contact whatsoever, led her through to the hold. About forty Gippsworld pigs, not