Boots

"You hear about this kinda stuff all the time," Purple Al told Boots, his mechanical cat, best friend and sole companion aboard the one man, deep space freighter, Star Bucket. "Some lady accidentally locks herself in the Omni-San while she’s gettin’ all fancy for a night out with her special beau. Then the auto-dry controls get stuck and the door don’t open and the emergency abort control don’t work and the fail safe don’t kick in. The odds is horrible against it, but when you got billions, and billions of people in the galaxy, somebody is gonna beat them odds. So the special beau shows up, flowers in hand and finds out he’s got himself a date with a piece of jerky." Purple Al chuckled. "I seen that story on the Intergalactic Inquirer. You know it’s gotta be true."

"An’ I remember I seen on one of them Tri-Dee shows, about some guy who was messin’ with his projector towers, tryin’ to get a sharper picture of the game. You know what it can be like when you can’t get them towers just right. Most people just call a repairman, but this guy just has to try to fix them all by himself. So anyway, some freak thing happens that ain’t never supposed to happen. There’s some sudden power surge or somethin’ like that and poof, the guy vaporizes himself; nothin’ left but a little heap of ashes and a tiny wisp of smoke. I mean you hear about that kinda stuff and you laugh and you shake your head and you say to yourself, ‘what an idiot’ and you go on about your business and you never think it can happen to you."

Purple Al laughed till he coughed, then coughed till he choked but didn’t move. He knew his best friend might pounce on him and sink her poison stainless steel fangs into his delicate flesh and that would be it. That would be the end of Alphonse Plum; Purple Al to his friends. He was now one of those very same idiots he laughed about. The irony was not lost, even on him. It just didn’t seem quite as funny because now it was happening to him. No, that wasn’t right. It was not one bit funny at all, except in a hysterical, out of control, crazy kind of way that also left him feeling a little uneasy about himself. The need to giggle swelled inside him, but he took another look at Boots’ teeth and strangled the impulse.

"I can see it now," Al told Boots wistfully. "This has gotta be on one of them shows where they tell how people get into stupid situations. Hey, girl! We could be on the Tri-Dee, you and me."

Reflexively, Purple Al reached out of the mop locker into which he had jammed his ample butt so he could scratch Boots affectionately behind the ear. He’d done the same thing, on reflex, ten thousand times before. But this time was different. Her E-Z Wash Pelt would have stood on end except that he had already removed it when he had tried fix her. Without the black artificial fur, Boots looked more like some metallic demon cat from robot Hell. She was just as deadly as the nightmare she appeared to be. Her segmented, brushed poly-steel tail pointed straight up. She was so close he could see the micro-thin stainless steel irises dilating back and forth under the flexi-plast lenses in her eyes; the lenses themselves flexing, attempting to focus.

Boots’ stance warned Al he was very close to a deadly bite. A vicious hiss spurted from between her teeth.

"Hey, hey, hey," Purple Al carefully inched back his hand. "Take it easy girl. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I just wanted to give you some lovin’. Just like old times. Come on baby. We’re buddies. Remember?"

Boots didn’t.

Boots was the name Purple Al had given his Verminator 5000, Homebot’s anti-vermin device. It came in very handy on ships like the Star Bucket. A gift from his mother-in-law, the device was a nostalgic rendering of an Earth cat and performed many of the same functions without the litter box. Besides, she had some clever, factory installed soft ware that made her act almost annoyingly affectionate toward her owner. The program had worked quite well.

"Now how did we get here Boots? Just how in the ...," Purple Al almost cursed, then looked around sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed; an absurd notion considering the fact that the Star Bucket was a one man deep space freighter.

He looked at Boots. She was just a bot, albeit a robot that was about to kill him. But he still loved her. And why shouldn’t he for crying out loud? The little bot was his best friend. In his long hauls between planets, Boots had always been by his side. She would to rub against his leg or stalk a piece of string or jump in the middle of his supper or listen to him ramble on for hours, never complaining. Just because she was having a little problem now, didn’t mean he stopped caring about her.

Boots homicidal eyes, still flexing and dilating ominously, remained fixed on him.

"Ah, girl," he said, "I tell you this much, it ain’t my fault. They ought to make things so they don’t break every time you accidentally spill beer on ‘em or drop a crate of parts on ‘em or something. Nobody seen me do any of that anyway so they can’t prove it, can they girl? It must have been bad design, or all that cheap labor they use when they make things like you."

The real answer to Al’s question about how they got into this situation was Al, or rather his conceit. His unjustified confidence in his abilities, just one of his many flaws, that he could fix anything started him down the path to his current dilemma. To understand, he’d have to back track a couple of days.

The problem hadn’t been bad at first. Al could live with her knocking things over now and then. Sometimes it even struck Al as funny when Boots would chase after shadows at full speed and bonk her little metal skull into a bulk head. Al would chuckle when he heard the deep "tho-o-o-ong". Then he’d roar when she’d come stumbling out afterwards, her eyes spinning ridiculously.

But, the problem gradually crept from part time inconvenience into full time aggravation. Lately, it seemed like Purple Al was always cleaning up some nasty mess or rubbing Doc Starbuck’s Magic Ointment into a barked shin. That nasty thunk Boots’ skull made when she crashed into something, stopped being amusing and started to be annoying, really annoying. "Boots!" he’d fume, "Will you stop doing that?"

And once something started to nag at him, Purple Al couldn’t leave well enough alone.

"Cheap!" Al had sneered as he cradled Boots’ chin, surveying for damage. "All this stuff is so darned cheap. That’s because it comes from them slave labor planets. What do you expect when you only pay somebody five hundred dollars a day? Who can live on them wages? I said it at least fifty times; you ain’t gonna get no geniuses and you for sure ain’t gonna get no one who gives a diddley about what they’re doin’. No wonder all this stuff is crap."

Purple Al peered into her eyes as if they were windows. "Maybe it’s just some loose wire or somethin’," he muttered as he shone a light into an ear port. Of course, it was all wasted effort. "I’m goin’ to have to open you up, ol’ girl, and take a look." He unzipped Boots’ E-Z Wash Pelt and peeled it back. As it popped over her poly-steel skull, his fingers found the first access panel, the one allowing technicians to access to the head. There, in big red letters a warning read, "CAUTION: Do Not Open!."

There were a bunch of other words Al didn’t bother to read. "Bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo. Them are just words cooked up by some lawyer. It don’t mean nuthin’ except they don’t pay for nuthin’. Probably have to pay some idiot a half year’s profit just to open you up and say you can’t be fixed and I got to buy a new one. Ain’t that the way it always is, girl? You don’t have to worry. There ain’t another you, nowhere."

As for the rest of the words, well, Purple Al scoffed at words like "danger" and "… serious bodily injury or death."

"Alphonse Plum ain’t no idiot," he snorted. Though he may have been technically correct, Purple Al sometimes left plenty of room for doubt.

He deftly turned Boots on her side and started to pry open the second access panel located in her torso. That is until his eye caught the factory seal, or rather what was written on it in big red letters "WARRANTEE WILL BE VOIDED IF ... ."

"Um!" Purple Al grunted, frustrated. Now, he was going to have to pay attention to the words. Mother Rodriguez, his mother-in-law, had bought Boots for him as a birthday present three and a half years ago. Mother Rodriguez was not a person with whom to trifle. And Mother Rodriguez was a maniac about warrantees.

He looked again under Boots’ torso and, sure enough, she had taped the original sales receipt and warrantee to Boots’ little metal belly. Al could have bet the title to the Star Bucket that she had done everything necessary to properly register that warrantee.

"That’s all I need, Bootsie girl," he noted cautiously. "It’s one thing to mess with Homebot. They may have more money than most planets. They may have more lawyers than Lucifer, himself. But messin’ with Mother Rodriguez … now that’s crazy."

"Well …," Purple Al pondered. For the time being, he made the wise choice. "I ain’t sure I’m that brave, girl. Maybe you could go a little longer. Besides, I got me a couple of other jobs comin’ up that need taking care of pretty soon."

First, he had to repack a shipment of contraband he had agreed to smuggle; tiny, hand carved, antique, crystal figurines recently "emancipated" from the Olimar Planetary Collection. Second, it was about time to play hot shot pilot and Purple Al loved playing hot shot pilot. Unfortunately for Al, his opinion of his flying abilities were about as well based in reality as his opinion of his ability to fix things.

Things never really changed over the millennia. It will always be tough to make ends meet in a one man operation. Besides, Purple Al had a lot more than himself to worry about. The wife and kids had needs ands wants too. He had conveniently convinced himself long ago that he couldn’t afford principles. So he was always ready to make an shady run now and then. To his somewhat dubious credit, he did have his own warped sense of scruples. Nobody was ever supposed to get hurt. Also, though not exactly a scruple, the job had to pay well.

The Olimar Glass was scattered all over the cargo deck, plastered there by the gravity net. Usually, Purple Al didn’t bother to waste power and profits by maintaining gravity in the cargo area. But the priceless artifacts had to be removed for repacking and he didn’t want them wandering off to collide with bulk heads, decks, hatches and what not.

Because of their cultural significance, by interplanetary agreement, these figurines could not be removed from Olimar. To Al that meant, after the figurines had been stolen, they not only had to be smuggled out of Olimar; they also had to be smuggled into his next destination. Double smuggling made Purple Al’s price and heart soar. That was good. Of course, the chances he could get caught doubled as well. That was bad. But like most who try this sort of thing, Purple Al was sure he could never get caught. Famous last words.

Now, Olimar is not a rich planet. It relies heavily on it’s reputation as a free port for the movement of goods throughout the Confederation of Planets. The authorities on Olimar were not about to create bottle necks for all those tons and tons of commercial shipping. They created profits and jobs as they passed through Olimar ports. They would never shut down the ports, not even to prevent the smuggling of priceless cultural artifacts. After all, culture was culture, but business was business. Those assigned to retrieving the artifacts and arresting the thieves were at a distinct disadvantage.

Olimar’s only economically feasible export is a certain rare earth, somewhat useful in processing extremely light metal alloys. Because it is the only commodity that contributes favorably to a precarious balance of trade, the rare earth receives priority shipping treatment. That means it moves more quickly and receives less scrutiny. Naturally, Al placed the stolen artifacts in barrels of the rare earth. The authorities suspected this too and made the rare earth containers their top priority. But try as they might, the authorities couldn’t search every barrel. Purple Al had played the odds and won.

The Olimar Glass was being sent to an executive-type who had a fondness for these sorts of antiquities. He was located on Al’s next stop, The Mega Corp Planet, a wholly owned planet of Megalith Corporation. Normally Al could have left the Olimar Glass in their current containers except that Megalith Corporation mined a product that directly competed with Olimar’s rare earth. Naturally, the Mega Corp Planet banned all imports of the Olimar rare earth into any of its planets or facilities except for "research purposes". "Research purposes" meant that only enough came in so that Mega Corp chemists could either steal the chemical composition of Olimar’s rare earth or find a way to ruin it. That also meant there wasn’t enough going in to the Mega-Corp Planet to smuggle it past customs in its current containers.

But Purple Al had a plan. "You are so-o-o clever!" he chuckled to himself as he patted Boots. Boots purred a strange yet familiar mechanical purr. "Not you girl; me! They got themselves a real mean plague goin’ on down there on the Mega-Corp planet only nobody is supposed to know on account of the Megalith Corporation wants to keep it secret. Medical supplies is needed somethin’ desperate. Now me, I’m just going to put this stuff in containers marked ‘medical supplies’. Once the containers get there, that rich guy executive who had ordered them won’t have no problem moving them through customs. But even if he does, hey, I’ll be well paid and well on my way."

Purple Al chuckled to himself as he inventoried the figurines, until he found that three were missing. "Some one must have grabbed some," he muttered, frustrated. The practice, called "shrinkage" was not uncommon. If he was ever forced to tell the truth he’d have to admit he’d done some himself. But what really made Al angry was that his price was based on the number of figurines he successfully delivered. Some one had just stolen from his pocket.

"I ain’t gonna get nothin’ if it gets lost along the way!", he fumed at Boots. "I mean for cryin’ out loud. Ain’t nobody’s got no respect for nobody else’s stuff no more?"

But lost pieces weren’t Purple Al’s only problem. He kept one ear tuned to the navigation console because he also had a course change coming up. It wasn’t legal or even smart to manually navigate in the very tightly controlled space around planets but as he’d already proven, Purple Al wasn't always legal, nor was he always smart. Interplanetary law required that all incoming ships turn over their helms to the Automated Port Docking Authority whenever they entered a star system. But, some time ago Purple Al had dumped a beer on his link between the helm and the APDA.

"No way am I gonna pay three years profit to fix this danged thing!" he had railed when he found out how much it would cost to repair. "I’ll just fly without it." Then, when he found he wouldn’t be allowed into any port without it, Purple Al exploded, "They don’t got no right to make a law like that. I tell you what, it’s them big companies. They make all these regulations. They’re just tryin’ to put us little guys out of business. I ain’t gonna let ‘em get away with it. I got rights. I can go where I want. They can’t to stop me!"

Besides, he fancied himself a pretty good pilot. He figured out that if he was careful, he could fool them. He could read the APDA signals as they came in and copy them exactly. "Keepin’ a low profile" he called it. He had been doing a pretty good job of it for almost five Earth years. That, too, was about to change. The problem with Boots was about to get much worse.

As already mentioned, tools, scraps of wrapping, open containers, a few mounds of earth and the Olimar Glass were scattered across the deck. Boots picked that time to go wild. The glint of light from one piece of the tiny antique glass figurines caused her to think it was some Vermin. She pounced and knocked it to the ground smashing it. Then she crouched and took aim on another priceless item.

"For cryin’ out loud Boots!" Al shrieked, beside himself with fear and anger. Like some hippopotamus ballerina in a mine field, Al quickly tip toed across the deck and grabbed Boots by the scruff of her artificial pelt. "Do you know what you just did you idiot cat? Huh? Do you know? You just cost me a thou … a mil ..." Purple Al had trouble with numbers greater than his available digits. "You cost me a whole lot of money. You … . Do you know what that means? That’s like a ... like a bunch of groceries for the kids. Do you know you’re takin’ food outta’ the mouths of your family? Do you ... you ... ?"

Purple Al never wanted so much to smash something as he did at that moment. But as he lifted her high above his head, he caught a look in her eyes. They fumbled back and forth, in and out, trying to focus. It seemed to Al that she was dazed, confused, maybe even a little hurt, and she was totally pathetic. His will to smash her dissolved. He pulled her down and hugged her against his chest.

"Ah, dang it Boots," Purple Al moved her so she was cradled under his arm. "It ain’t your fault. I guess I’m sorry." His finger nails clicked as he scratched her metal chin. "Yeah, there you go girl." Boots whirred that odd metallic purr of hers. Al decided to solve the problem right then and there.

A brighter man might have just turned Boots off or placed her in some safe lockup. But well, …. Besides, Boots was his best friend. It never occurred to Al to turn her off. That would have been like turning off a human being. Al wouldn’t do something like that; no way.

Nevertheless, a tiny wave of fear still washed over him as he approached the access panel for the second time. He could feel Mother Rodriguez’ angry eyes ready to stab him in the back. The trembling tip of his magnetic screw driver found the first tiny poly-steel screw. Taking a deep breath, he loosened, then removed all four, carefully placing each in the zippered breast pocket of his jump suit so he could find them later. The factory seal seemed to dissolve as he gently pried the panel open.

Al gravely examined the fragments of the seal and fretted about Mother Rodriguez, not realizing all sorts of interesting new things were happening inside Boots.

Boots’ tiny body was pressure filled with a very special inert gas. Later, at the trial, Homebot would claim the purpose of this gas was to preserve the special insulation and circuits inside the bot, but only if Purple Al left Boots’ seals intact. Of course, Purple Al had just broken that seal. The pressurized gas hissed out, startling Purple Al. He squealed and jumped back, hitting his head on the corner of the open mop locker. He clutched his head and squeezed his eyes shut till they stopped watering. He blushed as he glanced around to see if anyone had seen his foolishness, then blushed again when he realized how ridiculous that was.

By design, though Homebot would later deny it, the oxygen which rushed in to replace the inert gas, began to dissolve the insulation and circuitry like acid. The idea was that the Verminator 5000 would shut down completely and require expensive servicing or replacement. The design concept was sound. The odds against something bad happening were astronomical, but when you have billions and billions of people in the galaxy, "somebody is gonna beat them odds".

Dissolved conductors, currently liquid, flowed by chance this way and that across micro circuits within Boots little metal shell. Random flows eventually came to rest and resolidified, creating all kinds of new pathways for electrons. One result was that Boots could no longer recognize Al. Another was that she did not automatically shut down as she was designed to do.

Al could now see the dissolution but was unaware of the havoc it was causing. He continued his examination. "It’s like they wanted this stuff to come apart. Those dirty, no good ... " He didn’t finish the sentence. His eyes screwed up in concentration as he peered into the tiny opening in Boots’ side. "Sorry girl," he apologized to the bot, thinking about what he was going to say to Mother Rodriguez. "They never had no intention of honorin’ this warrantee, did they? What do they care? You know what really fries my eggs? Even if I had the money to send you in, they’d probably just throw you out and tell me I had to buy a new one. I might never see you again." At that thought, Al’s voice began to cloud up, as if his next words might make him cry. She was his best friend after all.

Al choked back the emotion and reached through the tiny aperture with his smallest set of needle nose pliers so that he could move some wiring out of the way, creating even more new circuits. None of these new pathways were intended or anticipated by Homebot. Most important for Al, though he did not know it yet, was that the automatic power down mode designed by Homebot on the advice of its lawyers, was bypassed.

A minor electrical shock ran up the pliers into Al. More startled than shocked, he jumped back again, bumping his head on the corner of the open hatch to the mop locker again. Only this time he really smashed himself. He grabbed his head and muttered a few curses as he searched his battered brain for someone to blame. At first he couldn’t find anyone or anything to blame except himself and that just wasn’t very satisfying. But, after a quick search of his slightly damaged mind, he found a culprit.

"No good cheap imports!" Purple Al railed. He proceeded colorfully and at great length about poorly paid factory workers and their employers. He failed to pay any attention to Boots for one hundred critical seconds. That was how long he had to safely reach over and turn Boots off. After that, the only thing that could turn her off was the remote control buried in the tool drawer under Al’s work bench, which was on the opposite side of the cargo deck.

By the time Purple Al was ready to get back to work on Boots, Boots was no longer ready to be worked on by Purple Al. Thanks to the random rewiring, Boots’ went back to very basic programming with a few new and interesting additions. Her only mission, as far as she could remember, was to trap vermin. Only now Al had been added to that list in the vermin file. Her programming told her to hold that vermin, in this case Al, until her owner told her what to do. Since she no longer recognized her owner, she didn’t even know for whom she was waiting. Boots did know that if this vermin in front of her, moved or tried to escape, it would be terminated. After several very close calls Al finally began to realize the same thing.

That pretty much answered Al’s question about how they got into their present predicament even though he would be unaware of the all the intricacies until much later, and then only dimly aware.

"Well," Purple Al paused then asked, "Since we’re here, what do we do now girl?" Boots hissed, but the Star Bucket had the answer.

A loud, annoying buzz burst from the helm. Course changes had to be entered immediately. The Star Bucket was about to leave its APDA designated lane of travel. At any moment he might be noticed by the Spaceway Patrol. Trapped in his mop locker, Al saw the Olimar Glass still scattered all over the deck behind a very dangerous and jittery Verminator 5000.

"I can handle this," Purple Al gulped, but he was wrong.

Suddenly, klaxons blasted and red lights flashed. Purple Al turned white. "Oh-my-gosh! We’re gonna hit another ship. Boots, we’re gonna hit another ship! Boots, Please," he begged, "you gotta let me out of here. I gotta change course quick or I’ll be a space hamburger and you’ll be a bunch of space junk!"

Boots seemed unconcerned.

Purple Al looked longingly at his environmental suit with the perfectly maintained oxygen valve, fastened to its peg within arm’s reach of the remote control on the other side of the cargo deck. Behind it, through the portholes, something loomed massively to his starboard side. Al could make out the unmistakable edge of the Galactic Space Ways logo. He glanced at Boots.

"Man! What a choice. I get poisoned by you or explode when that GSW spaceliner rips us open like a cheap liquor pouch?"

The spaceliner menaced, rushing closer, nearer. Al could almost feel its mass sucking the tiny Star Bucket into it. A minute black pin-point on the behemoth swept into view, growing at an alarming rate until it was almost the same size as his own porthole. In that pin-point, now grown to a porthole of the cock pit, the GSW pilot cursed at him. Al watched, fascinated as the other’s lips moved like some high speed machine, his face turning and twisting, his arms, hands and fingers communicating in universal sign language. Only the few feet of vacuum between them spared Al what would certainly have been the worst tongue lashing he ever received. That was saying something because both his parents and parents-in-law were still living, and like his long suffering spouse, were willing and adept at expressing themselves. It seemed to him they spent much of the time he was in deep space devising new ways to verbally assault and humiliate him.

He glanced at Boots again. She made it clear he was better off risking a collision. Purple Al cringed and prayed.

"Lord, I know I ain’t on your list of best followers, but if you get me out of this I promise I’ll never do anythin’ wrong again. I’ll go to Confession right away. Then I’ll go to the cops. I’ll give back all this stolen stuff. I’ll plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the Court. When I’m outta prison I’ll make it up to Carmen, that’s my wife. Uh, I guess you already know that." Peeking through his fingers one last time toward the starboard portal, he was convinced his prayer would be unanswered. The madly gesticulating pilot’s incredible lips sped faster as they swept closer to his.

God must love a chance to redeem a sinner. It seemed Al could almost see His hand as it reached out and pulled the other ship up, up. But would it make it?

Just before it ground the Star Bucket into so much star dust, the massive spaceliner appeared to gather itself and vault majestically over Purple Al’s tiny ship. Al watched a furiously burning retrorocket, last vestige of the GSW spaceliner and its vitriolic pilot, disappear from the porthole. Al could only guess that it receded to port. From his tight vantage point in the mop locker, he looked around. It really was a miracle. The Star Bucket was still in one piece.

"Yahoo!" screamed Purple Al. His rear end made a slight popping sound as he sprang up and pulled free of the mop locker where he had wedged it.

Half way off the deck, he heard Boots hiss. Somehow, almost in mid air, Purple Al managed to freeze, balanced on one toe like some overweight prima donna. Without moving his head, he skewed his eyes down toward his best friend, half expecting to see her poison fangs sinking into his foot. Once again, something, maybe some ghost of a memory held Boots back. Purple Al managed to fall back down in slow motion to a sitting position. It must have taken an hour. The laborious process made his muscles scream but it also gave him time to consider his promises to God. He was determined to keep his word. The helm still buzzed it’s warning.

"O.K. Lord, you kept your side of the deal. I’m gonna go to Confession and then turn myself in." For what seemed like another hour, he looked longingly at the Olimar Glass, still scattered across the cargo deck of the Star Bucket. "All that money and effort; what a waste."

"Uh, Lord," Purple Al selected his words carefully, trying to remember exactly what he had promised God, looking for some wiggle room. "Would it be O.K. if I make this delivery first? You wouldn’t really want me to go to prison before I made sure my family had a little money. Wouldn’t it be a sin to leave them without anything?"

God might have heard Purple Al. Once again klaxons screamed and red lights flashed. "Now what the ..." Purple Al started to ask but suddenly remembered. He craned his neck to get a glance at the console for a read out, then slumped. "Too late."

The pilot of the GSW liner, the lips at the porthole, had communicated his displeasure to the Spaceway Patrol. The Patrol dealt with the big guys like GSW all the time and felt a certain obligation to take care of them as fellow professionals. Besides, on a personal level, patrolpersons and pilots frequented the same cafes, bars and motels. It wasn’t the least bit uncommon for a pilot and patrolman to be married to each other and cover the same lanes. So, in a very real sense, they worked closely together as family, friends, family of friends and friends of family. When somebody messed with one of the "family", all the other members tended to get excited. In this particular case, the patrol craft of Trooper Yates, wife of the Gesticulating GSW pilot Al had messed with, was closing fast on the Star Bucket.

Boots had not moved one fraction of a millimeter. That didn’t mean that she was any less vigilant. Even the smallest moves drew a hiss. Al just slumped against the inside of the locker. The only bright spot he could see was that Boots hadn’t killed him yet. He thought about praying again but felt he’d pretty much blown that one. Still, he though he could give it a try. "What’s the worst that could happen?" he asked Boots. He didn’t want the answer.

By now, Al also faced a personal problem. He hadn’t been able to relieve himself in several hours. The problem had become so pressing Al was beginning to think a dash to the head might be worth the risk. "Poison is bad," he told Boots. "Death is bad. Peein’ your pants is worse." He could already hear the blond co-anchor on the evening gossip semi-news.

" ... and when they found him, Mel, he had urinated in his pants," Joan chuckled knowingly to her co-anchor.

"O-o-h, how embarrassing." Mel, the co-anchor, shook his head, smirked and then said, "What an idiot. I’ll just bet we see him soon on one of those shows about how silly people get themselves into trouble."

"I can hardly wait to see that," Joan responded, then both would cackled heartily as they peered directly at the Tri-Dee audience.

"Yeah, real funny!" Al shouted at the pair.

Boots coiled up, started to spring. Al froze, or every part of him except his bladder. "Ah man!" he wanted to wail but didn’t. He’d already pushed Boots beyond endurance. He thought it might be safer if he didn’t blink. By now he wondered if she would kill him if he did.

Immediately, Al felt the moisture in his eyes evaporate. Why did he have to go and think that? He needed to blink.

He really needed to blink. If he didn’t his eyes were going to look like raisins. They probably already did.

He was going to blink. He couldn’t help it.

It was coming!

He couldn’t stop it! And when he did …

Here it was!

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Purple Al’s heart exploded. Well, it felt like it exploded.

He didn’t hear his own shrill, unintelligible scream as he leapt back from Boots smashing into a bucket of cleaning solvent. His pressing personal problem suddenly was no longer pressing. He’d deal with the embarrassment later; if there was a later. He scrambled for something, anything to fend off Boots’ attack, surprised he didn’t already feel the poison reaching its steel finger toward his heart. His hands clutched at a mop handle. He wheeled desperately, in a pitiful attempt to defended himself.

But when he turned, amazingly, Boots hadn’t moved. "Thank you Lord," he whispered under his breath. He peered at Boots, trying not to move even his eyes. He’d already been luckier than he deserved. He’d better be very careful.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Al’s heart almost burst again. "Wha …?" he started.

"Come on Buddy! Open up!" a powerful woman’s voice boomed over the intercom.

Al jumped again but this time just a little. He glanced quickly toward the cockpit but saw nothing.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

"Open this can up immediately."

Purple Al looked toward the air lock. There in the porthole he saw a Patrolwoman. It was amazing how quickly our priorities can change. It didn’t take him more than a second to forget almost everything else and remember the Olimar Glass glittering all over the cargo deck, just out of the Patrolwoman’s view. "Uh, just a minute, officer."

"Trooper Yates buddy, and the answer is no. I want this hatch open pronto."

"You don’t understand, officer…"

"Trooper Yates."

"Trooper Yates. It’s a dangerous disease I’m transportin’ for a research project."

"Nice try. Open up."

"What if you get sick and die or somethin’? I don’t want you blamin’ me."

"I’m serious."

"Some idiot spaceliner pilot almost ran me over. The container with the disease is smashed." That was the wrong thing to say to the wife of the "idiot spaceliner pilot".

"All right buddy. If this hatch isn’t open in ten seconds, I’m blasting it down your throat. Do I make myself clear?"

"The cargo has spilled all over the place."

"one, two ... "

"Look I got this broken Verminator that will kill me if I move."

"Then you got a real problem buddy cause I’m gonna blast this can open if you don’t. So you can worry about some kitty bite or you can figure a way to hold your breath for a very long time. It’s up to you. Three, four …"

"You don’t have no right to do that."

"You’ll find a complaint form at the Coroner’s Office. Eight, nine ... "

"What happened to seven?"

"ten, ... " Trooper Yates leveled her laser pistol at the door.

"No! Wait! I’m comin’.." Sucking in a deep breath, Al clinched his eyes shut and skittered around Boots. He winced, expecting to feel the teeth clamp down, the poison burning in his blood. Nothing happened.

"Well, what ... ?" he muttered and approached the air lock. He pretended to turn the wheel with all his might.

"I’m sorry officer but I think it’s stuck." He grinned through the porthole at the Trooper Yates. She grinned back and pointed the blaster right at his face.

"Try again."

Given the right lubrication, the hatch popped right open. Trooper Yates shoved her way in. Heedless of Boots’ poison fangs, she muscled him back against the bulk head, her forearm crushing his trachea, her hand laser touching the tip of his sweaty nose.

"O.K. buddy. Turn around, put your hands on top of your head and intertwine your fingers. You got that or does the wife of the ‘idiot spaceliner pilot’ need to explain it harder." For emphasis, Trooper Yates shoved her forearm into his trachea a little harder.

"Hello," Al squeaked through a partially collapsed wind pipe, offering his hand, attempting to expand his options, "my name ... "

"NOW!" She practically cut off his air.

Limited to just two, complying or dying, Purple Al picked the former. As he turned, Trooper Yates moved behind Al, her blaster still in her right hand, a pair of cuffs now in her left. She pulled Al’s right hand behind his back and forced it up between his shoulder blades. Al winced but kept silent. This was clearly not the time to debate police conduct. She threaded the cuffs through a weight saving hole in the support ribs of the cargo bay and holstered her laser. His face against the bulk head, Al sucked in a deep breath. It seemed like the first in years.

"Now, I don’t know who you think you are, but around these parts we ... " Trooper Yates stopped. Al didn’t really need to ask why. The reason was scattered all over the deck. Any half decent officer had to know that this was the recently stolen Olimar Glass.

"Yeah," Al tried to explain as he acted incredulous, "I just found out about that stuff myself. A crate fell and broke open. One of them even broke. See all the bits of glass? Boy was I surprised. I can’t tell you how upset I am. People are always trying to take advantage of us little guys. I was just about to call when you showed up and saved me the trouble."

"Really," Trooper Yates answered so earnestly that Al knew she didn’t buy one word. The Patrolwoman moved toward the glass, unconcerned about him or Boots. Al could see she was getting dangerously close to the murderous metal feline. For some unknown reason, the bot still hadn’t moved but she still looked ready to pounce immediately. The idea did cross his mind to let Boots attack Trooper Yates. It wouldn’t really be his fault. But, he couldn’t let that happen.

"Uh, Trooper?"

"I didn’t say you could speak," Trooper Yates said over her shoulder as she continued to look at the figurines.

"Look," Al searched for the words, "I’m not sure what you’re gonna think but you gotta believe me when I tell you this."

"What?"

Purple Al nodded under his arm pit back toward Boots. "That bot there is pretty dangerous."

Trooper Yates just stared at him as if he was crazy.

"No, I really mean it. The reason I almost ran into that spaceliner was because this thing went crazy and almost killed me." He looked into Trooper Yates’ eyes but still couldn’t read trust. "Honest. Look, just do what you gotta do to me, but stay clear of Boots. That’s what I call her." Trooper Yates continued to stare and suddenly Al felt very foolish. "She’s kinda my ... best friend. Anyway, I just don’t want her to really hurt you."

Trooper Yates almost warmed when she realized he had been trying to protect her. "I know all about the malfunction. I saw it through the porthole before I rapped on the glass." She pulled an official looking remote control out of her pocket. "Homebot issues these remotes to us. I just used mine to turn it off. They work on all security bots."

"I didn’t know," Al grinned sheepishly.

Trooper Yates pointed at the figurines. "You know I’ve got to arrest you."

"Yeah," Purple Al answered glumly.

"But …," Trooper Yates paused a long time as if considering, "… I appreciate what you thought you were doing just now."

"Yeah," sighed Al.

A good long while of calling in for assistance and cataloging the scene passed. Al felt a compulsion to say something. "It’s just that it doesn’t look too good for me right now and I worry about the wife and kids."

"I know what you mean," said Trooper Yates, not unkindly. Then after quite a while she added, "Eh ... what did you say your name was?"

"Alphonse Plum, but my friends call me Purple Al."

"Yeah, I heard of you," she said.

"You have?" he asked brightly, visibly flattered.

"Yeah, you’re small trouble." Al deflated almost as quickly. Trooper Yates actually smiled. He was startled to notice her smile was quite stunning. Then her brow knit, as if she were considering some hard choice. "Things aren’t so good for you now, but look on the bright side. You still have your wife and kids and this bot here didn’t kill you after all. Hey, maybe you even have a lawsuit against Homebot."

That was it! Al’s eyes glazed over as he began to cogitate. Trooper Yates could almost hear the ideas go clunk in Al’s head. Purple Al fancied himself a pretty good jailhouse lawyer. Again, though his high opinion of his abilities had little basis in reality, he was certainly better at manipulating the law than he was at navigation or even bot repair.

Trooper Yates worried as a big grin slowly crept across his face. Forgetting every promise he had made to God he said, "Maybe this ain’t such a bad day after all."

THE END

Bio:I am quite young for a father of nine (yes nine). I always had a dream to write but never the time. Finally, about a year and a half ago I decided I'd better stop wishing and make time before I ran out of it. I started to learn about computers by writing stories like this one. I hope I've learned a little about both.

E-mail: John.Gilmore@tsjc.cccoes.edu

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