“Hurry up, Mikka!”
Across the space between them appeared ‘Three of the moons
“Double-phrase for ‘droid-made’, makes 43 klep.”
Sor smiled sweetly as he joined ‘moons’ to ‘Saturn’ with ‘imploded
“Triple-syllable for ‘imploded’: 92.5 to me, sucker!”
Mikka mind-melded with his weapons. You could never be sure an
old-time galanaut like Sor had entirely lost the habit of post-victory genocide,
and Sor’s ship was itching for a fight.
There was a burst of noise aft.
“Mother ship beacon,” sang Mikka. “Call it a draw.”
Before Sor could answer him, the retreating picket’s neutron-drive scattered the phrases.
* I don't know if sci-fi writers invented flash-fiction, but a 'drabble' is an SF story no more than 100 words long.
Friday, 11 January 2013
The cock-a-leekie ebbs from the right of the bowl, and I read in its jetsam a turn to the north. It is part way through the Wellington that I realize that though the meal is just right the train itself is quite wrong. I have until the dessert course to re-think my holiday, and until breakfast to make contact with my luggage, checked-in to the van. I’ve made worse mistakes, I decide, and order a liqueur.