Patron of the Arts

“Seems to me you are coming out here at about the right time,”

admitted Johann. He took another gulp of beer. “Things are sort of coming together. I took care with those seedlings of yours. Those farmers over at Burroughs will pay plenty for first crack at those.”

Marta Dolores Farms, Silva & FitzGerald, Deimos Fecundity,

Geoponics,

Promised

Land,

Inc.,

Burroughs.

Astroagronomy, the Alfonso VI Hacienda, Silverberg Kibbutz, Lambardar Ranch, Canalalgae, all near Bradbury. Aragom Rancho, Herbert Farms, Pantheon Nursery, George Grange & Mineral Company, Wells. Olericulture of Mars, the People’s communes, Peteler Ranch, Polecanal.

Thank you, Huo.

“That some sort of drinkables in those stasis capsules?” Johann asked with great solemnity and a twinkle in his eye. I nodded. “I peeked at the invoices. You really have that many Raven Blacksword adventures in that tape library?”

I nodded again and with continued solemnity Johann raised his finger. “Tender of the bar, a drink of alamajara for this gentlemen from my personal bottle.” We waited in silence, even if no one else did, until the smokey purple glasses were filed, then he toasted me. “May your air never give out and your strike be a pure one.”

I tipped my glass back at him. “May the wind be at your back and the printouts never fouled.” We drank in silence and the fluid was liquid fire all the way down.

“You!”

There was a great rumbling growl and I turned to see the crowd parting. It became as silent as that place was ever going to get. Faintly I heard the sounds of lovemaking and a gasp of distant passion. Someone laughed near me, then choked it off.

Nikolai stood near the door, the front of his yellow warmsuit drenched in blood. The white steriplast was startling against his sunburnt face and dark beard. He was glaring at me.

I looked him over. He wasn’t armed as far as I could see, which made me feel slightly better. Now that he was forewarned against the mazeru, I couldn’t hope that he would fall for the same thing again. I hoped they had a good surgeon in Ares Center.

“Stomp that cleanboot, Nik!” Some partisan to my left.

“Hah! Git ’em, fancy foot! He needs it!” I was not completely alone.

“You kill Wheaten.” The gutteral statement was news to some and I felt the shift of sympathy.

Survival of self is a constant. I heard Shigeta speaking. Never do the expected unless the expected is the unexpected. I still hadn’t quite figured that one out, but then I hadn’t intended to use any of this. He came toward me suddenly, almost at a run, with a determination I found appalling. We’re supposed to be above such things, I told myself. We’re climbing to the stars, step by step. Fledgling gods in torchships. Apprentice godlets do not have barroom brawls with giant bullies whose brains are mismeshed on Eroticine.

But no one ever informed Nikolai of his latent godhood, and he knocked me into a wall of miners and tried to stomp me. I rolled aside and kicked upward, kissing his hip with my boot. I rolled again and took a glancing blow in the thigh that all but numbed me. I used a drunk in a worn crimson warmsuit to climb erect, then dodged Nikolai just in time, hitting him a jinzoo in the kidneys.

I backed quickly to get some room and when he charged again, with a frightening animal growl, I feinted a face kick and got him in the groin. As he doubled over I brought up my knee and broke his jaw. Blood, teeth, and gobbets of flesh spattered me, but he fell limply to the floor.