Alastiar Reynolds

Antoinette Bax watched the police proxy unfold itself from the airlock. The machine was all planar black armour and sharp articulated limbs, like a sculpture made from many pairs of scissors. It was deathly cold, for it had been clamped to the outside of one of the three police cutters which now pinned her ship. A rime of urine-coloured propellant frost boiled off it in pretty little whorls and helices.

‘Please stand back,’ the proxy said. ‘Physical contact is not advised.’

The propellant cloud smelt toxic. She slammed down her visor as the proxy scuttled by.

‘I don’t know what you’re hoping to find,’ she said, following at a discreet distance.

I won’t know until I find it,‘ the proxy said. It had already identified the frequency for her suit radio.

‘Hey, look. I’m not into smuggling. I like not being dead too much.’