Murderbot in a Bow Tie

Barter Station didn't breathe so much as wheeze - a staggering heap of half-dead starships lashed together like old sailors swapping regrets, adrift in a fog of industrial solvents and questionable legality. It had the unmistakable vibe of a market that sold everything you didn't want and charged extra for anything that worked.

Originally the Scavenger's Guild's bright idea to save on fuel and crew, Barter had evolved from a salvage operation to commercial enterprise when they realised the real profit came from letting the desperate, the criminal, and the outright curious just come aboard and spend.

The Morrigan’s docking clamps grudgingly latched onto the rusting carcass of an old bulk freighter, its hull patched with sheet metal, faith, and what looked suspiciously like duct tape. Somewhere deep within the tangled mess, a klaxon gave up mid-warning and died.

The crew stood at the top of the ship’s ramp. Below, Barter sprawled: a labyrinth of gantries, scaffolds, and market stalls lashed onto the broken bones of forgotten warships, like weeds growing through a graveyard. The smell hit them first: burnt coolant, cheap spice, and the tang of desperation.

“Charming,” Morwen muttered, eyeing a flickering neon sign that read ‘Eels - Cr5’ and immediately wished she hadn’t.

Maltz adjusted his goggles, which fogged from the humidity radiating off the crowd below. "Five creds? I don't even trust 'em to have eels."

Scarred-Snout sneezed. Hard. “Honourless air. Stale and weak,” he rumbled.

"Focus, lads" Caitlin growled and stalked down the ramp, eyes darting warily. “In and out, no messin’. Supplies. Nothing else.”

Which, of course, was a bald-faced lie. Barter didn’t let anyone leave without picking up something they didn’t want, be it questionable tech, bad luck, or a stab wound.

“I think that smell just bit me,” Morwen noted, adjusting her jacket and glancing warily at a robot that wheeled past trailing a cloud of suspicious steam.

Maltz pulled his goggles further down over his eyes. “This place has character.”

“Character’s what you call it when the maintenance crew’s given up,” Caitlin shot back, pushing through a throng of hawkers peddling everything from Aslan fertility idols to suspiciously labelled protein paste.

It was here, deep in the Bad Air quarter, where the scrubbers wheezed, the lights flickered, and the walls were covered in colourful graffiti, that they stumbled onto Crazy Liashii’s Used Robots.

The sign was lit by a flickering neon tube that spelled CRA Y LIA HII’S USED R BOTS, as if the sign itself was embarrassed to be associated with the place. And there, amid the leaning towers of robot limbs and decommissioned warbots, stood a small Bwap wearing the kind of grin that should have come with a health warning.

He shuffled forward, resplendent in a patched-together merchant’s robe festooned with faded trade tokens. His scales were polished to a dull gleam, his Registered Associate of the Scavenger's Guild pin sat askew on his scrawny chest, and his spindly fingers clutched a datapad so covered in smudges it may as well have been opaque.

“Ahh, esteemed visitors!” Liashii rasped, thick with faux warmth. “You arrive on the perfect day! Everything must go. Clearance prices! Special discount for sophonts of discernment.” His tongue flicked in the air, tasting credits.

“Discount?” Caitlin raised a brow. “Last time someone said that, it cost me three hours in an autodoc.” Behind her, Scarred-Snout’s ears flattened slightly in instinctive distrust.

Liashii’s tail flicked, his grin widening. “Ah, but incidents build character, captain! And today – today - I have something truly special. Rare. Elegant.”

"Behold!" The Bwap spread his arms grandly, gesturing to a gleaming, ovoid automaton nestled between piles of shattered drone husks.

"It's an egg," Maltz said bluntly, his goggles pushed up onto his furry forehead. "A floaty egg."

“Not just any egg!” Liashii crooned. “A Kimim AAR - Type 14 Secure Courtesy Assist Unit. A marvel of hospitality and... optional enforcement in case of mutiny. Anticipates needs. Delivers tea. Neutralizes threats.”

The crew stared.

“It’s a killer teapot, isn’t it?” Quinn said flatly.

Liashii’s smile never faltered. “Allegedly.”

The Kimim glided forward, offering a delicate tray of drinks, delicacies, and something that looked like sushi if you squinted hard and ignored the twitching.

“Hospitality and enforcement,” Liashii purred. “Imagine the peace of mind... the convenience.”

Caitlin smiled indulgently, “Look at the wee bastard. A homicidal Fabergé egg. I love it! How much?”

Liashii spread his hands in a gesture of munificence. “For you? A mere Cr29,999!”

Morwen stepped forward, arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to cut hull plating. “Twelve.”

Liashii staggered back, clutched his chest like she’d stabbed him. “You wound me, Madam! This is artisan craftsmanship! Twenty-seven.”

Several minutes passed in a flurry of exaggerated gasps, dramatic gesturing, and increasingly absurd counter-offers involving bundles of replacement servos and a coupon for half-price access to Barter’s ‘Good Air’ lounge (fine print illegible).

Finally, with a heavy sigh that sounded like it came from the depths of his soul, Liashii slumped in a chair. “Fine. Twenty. But I’ll expect glowing reviews.”

Morwen handed over the money with a slight nod. “Don’t push your luck.”

Caitlin watched the entire performance with a wry smile. “See, this is why we bring her.”

“But if this thing even looks at me wrong before I’ve had my coffee,” she added, “I’ll have it melted down into spoons before breakfast."

“Perish the thought!" Liashii's smile widened as he pocketed the creds.

Later the same day…

The crew stood in a semi-circle around the Kimim AAR, which hovered politely just inside the airlock of the Morrigan, its polished metal surface reflecting the slightly suspicious expressions on their faces.

The egg had a presence, which was unsettling because most eggs didn’t.

“Alright...” Caitlin said, hands on her hips. “What are the odds it serves the tea before pulling a gun?”

“Pulling a gun? Me?” The Kimim's voice was smooth, cultured, and smug enough to make Scarred-Snout’s ears twitch. “I exist solely to serve, Captain. Beverages. Delicacies. Polite conversation. The occasional... disciplinary action, if so required.”

“Ah yes,” Morwen said dryly, leaning against the bulkhead with arms crossed. “Because nothing says ‘fine dining’ like a mutiny gun hidden in the tea service.”

“It does fold napkins nicely though,” Maltz said, poking it with a screwdriver. “Very precise. Almost... too precise.”

“It’s probably plotting to kill me,” Caitlin observed, tilting her head, “but look at it. How can you stay mad at something that goofy?”

“Captain O’Neill,” the Kimim purred, “I assure you, I am programmed for impeccable manners.”

“Mmm,” she replied, tilting her head appraisingly. “You’re very polite for something that might be plotting a coup.”

“Only if you say the magic words,” the Kimim murmured softly. The words ‘Senior Officer Request Protocol’ flickered briefly on its display before vanishing with the speed of someone deleting their browser history at work.

“Right.” Caitlin’s green eyes weighed up the gleaming ovoid like it might explode or offer her tea. Or both. “Get it installed in the galley. And Maltz – make sure it doesn’t interface with Cathbad without supervision. Last thing I need is a civil war over who gets to serve the biscuits.”

“Oh, I’m sure that won’t happen...” Maltz’s grin suggested he was very much hoping that it would.

Caitlin watched the Kimim dubiously, arms folded. “Let’s at least see if this shiny lad knows how to make an Irish coffee without turning it into a security incident.”

As the Kimim headed towards the galley, its soft hum trailing behind it, Caitlin narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t make me regret this, Egg.”

And for a moment... just a moment... one of its red indicator lights flickered, as if winking.