[AgentZero]

Rightso, as promised. I've decided to start releasing smaller 'episodes' of the story, rather than trying to put together big epic releases, which should mean more updates, more often. And so, Episode II!

Marxus Griffdon, President and Chief Executive Officer of the Bluestar Corporation, was a very busy man. Every day for him was rigidly scheduled down to the second, to the point where something as fumbling while tying his shoes could ruin his whole day. Which was likely why his shoes tied themselves, he reflected as he slipped his feet into black business shoes whose looks belied their luxurious comfort. His shirt even buttoned itself, though it had been a long time since it had needed to do so. The nanoweave embedded in his clothing kept the clothing, and their wearer, impeccably clean at all times while also maintaining a just-ironed look through even the most rigorous of board meetings. Marxus had some time ago taken to sleeping in his clothes, having realised that all the time he spent getting dressed added up to hours over the course of a year, and given the length of time a man like him could be expected to live, this would add up to years more productive work over the course of his lifetime. After a cursory glance in the mirror, he strode out of his bedroom, where an attendant was waiting to hand him a compact breakfast bar and a cup of coffee worth more than the average factory worker's yearly salary. He crossed the wide hallway, his office door swishing open ahead of him, and took his seat at his desk.

"Any news, Davis?" he asked his attendant. Expecting the same negative response he'd gotten every day for the last twenty years, Marxus turned to his data terminal even before he'd finished asking the question, and so was perfectly positioned to whirl around dramatically when Davis responded with a hesitant, "Well actually..."

Davis cleared his throat nervously before continuing. “We received a report from one of our patrol units on the Bluestar-Zedron border. I'll save you the details, the noteworthy portion is in a segment from the lead cruisers sensor log.” Davis waved his hand at Marxus' data terminal; a point of etiquette more than anything else, since the terminal was controlled via cerebral implant. A holographic display sprang to life over the terminal, displaying the fuzzy yet still recognisable outline of a Bluestar cargo ship. And surrounding were four no less fuzzy but no less recognisable outlines of Ashclan destroyers. Marxus sighed. Somewhere in the last few years, Davis had gone and gotten himself a conscience, and would from time to time interject scenes of Ashclan brutality into morning briefings in an attempt to get Marxus to do something about a Zedron Holdings problem. Davis stifled his objection with a raised hand, adding, “Please, sir, just watch.” Marxus sighed again, more for dramatic effect this time and settled back in his chair to watch.

The Ashclan destroyers nipped and ducked around the cargo ship, streaks of light reaching out from them caused blooms of light all across the freighter's hull. Marxus was on the verge of inquiring as to exactly what he should be looking for when suddenly there was a bright flash, and the outline of another ship appeared in between the destroyers and the cargo ship. A split second later, streaks of light reached out from the new arrival and turned the four Ashclan ships into expanding clouds of light. Marxus looked up at his assistant, who nodded towards the screen, indicating there was more to see. The recording, sped up several times for watchability, showed the new arrival dock with the freighter, then after approximately an hour, undock and speed away from the cargo ship before disappearing in a flash of light.

“Ballsy,” Marxus muttered. “The other pirate clans are sensible enough to leave the Ashclan alone. Were there any survivors?”

Davis shook his head. “Sir, they weren't pirates,” he said.

“But they docked with the freighter, didn't they?” Marxus asked. “Why else would they-”

“To repair the drive field, sir,” Davis replied. “The drive assembly took several hits during the attack, and failed shortly before this ship arrived.”

Marxus snorted. “Repairing a drive assembly takes days, not hours, Davis.”

“Yes sir,” Davis replied. “That's what the freighter's engineer told their engineer as well.”

“And what did he say?” Marxus inquired.

“Um, she, sir,” was the reply. “And she said, erm-” Davis paused to clear his throat. “'And oranges take months to grow, but I can make apple pie in twenty minutes.' Sir.”

Marxus stared at his assistant for a long moment. “What does that even mean?” he asked, stressing the last word with frustration.

Davis shrugged. “I don't know sir. Our analysts think it might have been a figure of speech in their native language that just didn't translate well into ours. I've got a couple of them looking into expressions in other languages to see if anything comes up, but so far they've had no luck.”

Marxus' brow furrowed. “They were aliens?”

“No, sir,” Davis replied. “They were human, but the crew of the cargo ship said she had an accent they'd never heard before, and the crew on that ship was quite... diverse.”

“What about the rest of their team, did any of them have a recognisable accent?”

Davis shrugged again. “Unknown sir, they just sent the one girl.”

Marxus glared at Davis. “So you're telling me that some mysterious ship, which doesn't match anything we have on record by the way, shows up out of nowhere, blows three ships belonging to the most murderous band of psychopaths in the galaxy out of the sky, and then sends one single little girl in to repair a damaged drive assembly in under an hour? Anything else?” he asked, his voice holding a sharp edge of sarcasm.

“Um, well, by all the reports, she was unusually attractive for an engineer.”

Marxus slowly rested his forhead in the palm of his hand. “Davis?”

“Sir?”

“Get out.”

“At once, sir.”