Sierra Bravo

Her red-hot anger had faded, replaced with cold, hard determination. The enemy had shot up her brand new ship, and she wanted payback. She knew she could hurt someone, maybe even kill them, but that was their problem.
Alice undid her harness and crossed to the back of the cockpit, where she took the steps down to the airlock. She discovered the chunks of masonry she'd brought along had moved around in flight, and she had to move several pieces off the hatch before she could open it. When it swung back she was assaulted by the sound of the thrusters, and she winced at the loud roar. Then she put the hammering waves of sound out of her mind, leaned over the edge of the hatch and looked down. The vans looked like toys at this height, the cars alongside even smaller. She saw more flashes, and several shots flew past, bright against the afternoon sky. Arnie had assured her they could do him no damage at that range, but she'd forgotten to ask what would happen if they hit her.
Alice reached for the first chunk of stone, sliding it over the decking towards the hatch. She hesitated when it was right on the lip, balanced precariously, then shrugged and gave it a gentle push.
The chunk disappeared, and she held her breath and started counting. At four seconds there was a puff of dust next to one of the vans, and the men scattered. Alice frowned. She'd expected more than a piddly little dust cloud, and she wondered if she should have brought something a lot bigger. Still, she could always come back.
She took the next chunk of stone and released it. Seconds later the left-most van seemed to shake, and she smiled as a giant crumpled hole appeared in the roof. Another hit, and one of the doors fell off. More lumps of masonry followed, until the vehicles were smashed into twisted metal shapes, and when Alice saw black smoke and flame pouring from one of the cars she pumped her fist and shouted with delight.
"Is everything okay?" Arnie asked her.
"Getting better," said Alice, as she watched the flames spreading. There was a bright explosion, scattering burning fragments over the car park, and before long all the vehicles were engulfed. A thick plume of smoke drifted across the city, and Alice grinned to herself. They'd damaged her transport, she'd smashed theirs.
Satisfied, she got up and closed the hatch. Then she dusted off her hands and headed to the cockpit.
"Was the mission a success?" Arnie asked her.
"Yeah, we gave 'em something to think about." Alice took her seat. "Come on, let's go home. I want to tell Harriet where they're hiding out."
— ♦ —
Harriet was quiet as the cab drove through the city outskirts. At one point she thought she heard thunder, but when she looked up the sky was clear. "That better not be Alice."
"Reckon she's terrorising the locals in her ship?" asked Birch, with a smile.
"She's got a whole tank of fuel and she's itching to burn it up." Harriet frowned. "She'd better save enough for the trip home, or I'll give her what for."
"I admire your positive attitude."
"What do you mean?"
"You're talking about home, when we're not out of this mess yet."
"I've dealt with bigger threats than Darting before now."
"No you haven't."
They fell silent, and Harriet wondered whether Birch was being deliberately hard on her. Maybe she was underestimating this Anita Darting woman, but how bad could she be?
They turned off the main road and took a tree-lined avenue. There were cars parked along both sides of the streets, and modest gardens overlooked the road. They reached a house halfway down, and the cab drew up across the driveway.
There was a clatter nearby, and as Harriet got out of the cab she saw the strangest sight. An old man was pushing a lawnmower up and down a neat lawn, enveloped in fumes from the smoky, chattering exhaust. And walking alongside, supporting him with a firm hand, was a battered bronze robot. There was a picnic table in the shade, with a half-empty glass and a jug of something or other.
The man looked round as they entered the garden, then reached down and did something to the mower. The chattering stopped, and Harriet saw the robot studying them curiously. It had warm yellow eyes, and the serial number on its chest spelled out XG-87 in faded lettering. Its owner was staring at them too, and when he recognised Birch he gave a shout of joy and advanced with his arms held wide. Birch hugged the older man, and they clapped each other on the back in a friendly greeting.
"Dave Birch, you old reprobate. What are you doing here?"
"You calling me old, Skin?" Birch turned to Harriet, his face lit with a beaming smile. "This is Sid Flint, our old desk sergeant. Best organiser you ever met!"
"Just don't call me Skin," said the man. "It wasn't funny twenty years ago, and it's not funny now."
Harriet smiled and shook hands. "Harriet Walsh. Dismolle Peace Force."
"Scrap, two more glasses!" cried Flint. "And this time, bring something stronger."
"Your doctor advised against it," said the robot, in an even male tone.
"Now's not the time for fussing, Scrap. You can tell me off later."
"As you wish."
The robot turned and left, and Birch watched it go. "New toy?"
Flint shook his head. "Carer. He fusses over me, but it was either this or a rest home."
"We're all getting old," said Birch diplomatically.
"Betty passed a couple of years back." A shadow crossed Flint's face. "Nothing's been the same since, truth be told."
"I'm sorry." Birch laid his hand on the older man's shoulder, and they stood in silence. Then the robot came trotting back, glasses clinking in one hand. Up close, Harriet could see it had lived a hard life, with small scratches and dents all over its body. It seemed to move easily enough, and when Flint knocked a glass over the robot caught it before it