No, I have not spent the last eight months on this foray into non-licensed sci-fi. I have a life, you know. Well, maybe. Depends who you ask and what planet they’re from.
In any case, these are two little flights of fancy, cobbled together as I was sifting through spare parts.
Butler Alfonce III
Manor daily log: Taurus ascendant, 20:00 hours PST.
Location: Space Police holding cells
The Santa biker was a thief, a technology pirate—now all too common in the asteroid colonies. Some bikers claim to support noble causes with their vandalism, graffiti, and interstellar theft. Really, most offend because they can. Ruffians.
He appeared on the monitors at precisely 06:00 hours, Pleiades Standard Time. Master was still out on "business," laid out after a very full night at the Debbie Debris Diner, ogling that waitress again.
Ah, yes, the raffish rascally biker and his break-in. Using a plasma switchblade, he disabled external sensors and gained entry through the lower airlock. Proceeding with uncanny surety, he located our family safe behind the portrait of Master’s great, great grandfather, bypassed the alarms, and stole the files of Master’s illicit transactions. Without touching a single electrum bar, he fled on his bulbous retro speeder.
Having watched the whole affair from the security monitors, I hastened to my own scooter and gave chase. I must recover those files before Master realizes they are gone, for my own sake as the ancestral butler of his family. He might call the Space Police on me.
The Santa biker wove through early rush hour, eventually leading me to where the nova-debris mines dump slag.
The ruffian stopped there, hovering in the space waste. Intent on ramming him, I reconfigured my scooter’s vanes.
I would have those files once more, safe again so that “Master” must continue to pay me, lest I ruin his already shoddy reputation. My family has lived off his for three generations. Blackmail is a butler’s best friend.