Handling space pirates is like handling a finicky warp drive: you must know how far you can push them.

 

I’d pushed Grace’s limited allocation of scruples about as far as was sensible, so told her where to find the warp drives. She dispatched her minions to fetch the old units.

 

“That was smart, Jimmy. So, what other trinkets have you salvaged from the troop carrier?” she asked while playing with long pigtails of red hair that she reputedly used to throttle victims.

 

I have never bought that story; throttling was too messy for a classy pirate like Grace O’Malley.

 

“There’s nothing else. You scoped the ship, Grace. After floating around in space for a century she’s been picked clean. I’m amazed the drives were still there,” I said.

 

Grace eyed me suspiciously. “That crossed me mind too.”

 

I would rather cross a river of molten lava infested with starving fire crocs than Grace’s mind. And I disliked the way she was playing with the memory probe which was one of her favorite toys.

 

“I’ve danced with you a long time, Jimmy boy,” said Grace, fixing me with inscrutable green eyes. “You wouldn’t come all this way on the off-chance you’d pick up a few clapped-out drives to hock on the scrap market.”

 

“C’mon Grace, you’ve searched my ship, and the carrier’s clean. What else could there be?”

 

“That’s the question I’d like to dive into with some help from me little friend here,” she said in that Irish brogue that made the memory probe sound like a tickle stick.

 

To my immense relief, a minion arrived with a message. Grace weighed the information before instructing the collection of evil intentions she called a crew to pack up and leave pronto.

 

“Seems like Space Command is on its way, Jimmy. I don’t s’ppose you know anythin’ about that?”

 

“Me? No. Anyway, how come your stooge in Command didn’t warn you? You need to step up your bribing, Grace.”

 

She laughed. “Peas in a pod you and’ me Jimmy! But maybe you’re gettin’ a little old for the wheelin’ and dealin’ life.”

 

I shrugged. She had a point. It seemed like an age since I left Space Command and set up as a professional scavenger. It was getting harder to remain shipshape.

 

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to talk about ex-Captain James Smirk's future career next time, eh Jimmy?”

 

“Looking forward to it, Grace.”

 

* * *

 

“Lizzie, I’d kiss you if your cheek wasn’t numb. You timed that phony message to Grace about Space Command to perfection. I promise to fix that glitch in your sensing system as soon as we get back.”

 

“If I had any breath I wouldn’t hold it,” said Lizzie from the co-pilot’s seat.

 

It was getting tough to keep the old girl together. I guess that’s the price I pay for building an android from reclaimed parts.

 

“Where to, Jimmy?”

 

“Nowhere,” I said, double-checking that Grace’s weapon-festooned ship had departed the scene. “We’ve more work to do. Stay here and keep an eye out for other uninvited guests.”

 

“A poor choice of words,” she said, referring to her less-than-perfect replacement eyes.

 

I hated this part of the job: traipsing through dead ships that had once hummed with organic life. Before removing the warp drives I checked that there were no crew remains to bury. Some dealers don’t bother, but that doesn’t sit right with me. The ship had been abandoned during the interplanetary war that lit up Sector Ten of the galaxy a century ago. Every so often a relic from that conflict drifts into our neck of the woods. They usually become ensnared in the gravity field of a planet and eventually descend toward a fiery death. Lucky for me, a buddy in Space Command tipped me off that this venerable can had appeared, and I had time to salvage the ship before she entered her swan dive. Grace got the same tip-off.

 

After navigating endless corridors I finally found the officers’ quarters and entered.

 

“The motherlode!” I said, opening various cabin lockers.

 

* * *

 

“Are you going to tell me what you brought back,?” asked Lizzie, setting a course for home.

 

“Uniforms.”

 

“So now we are in the fashion business?”

 

“These are a century old, Lizzie. Which makes them vintage.”

 

“And vintage military apparel is worth a lot of money?”

 

“You got it.”

 

Something else I’ve learned about space pirates is that they get so fixated on looting shiny treasure they tend to overlook the less obvious booty. I wished I could be there when Grace found out.

 

“Let’s go, Lizzie. We have some hungry vintage apparel collectors to feed. How about if I buy you a new brain core?"

 

“Are you saying I’m dumb?” she said.