Jessamyn thought it out. 'I get it. It wasn't the alcohol you thought would hit me…'
'Of course not, your greymass could shrug off a concentrated squirt of pure smacksynth.'
'…it was the taste.'
'Right. You've got a touch of extrasensitivity. Work up to the extremes.'
She drank some more water. It was beyond anything she had ever experienced. 'I feel like a new girl.'
'Jessamyn, you
She began to relax. This was fun. She hadn't expected to have fun ever again. (In the back of her mind, the moonface tick-tocked, tugging her towards her responsibilities.) She looked around the bar. It was typical of the places she had been in during her Psychopomp days. Half Oldstyle-Western, half Scavsurplus-High Tech. The customers drank and drugged peacefully, trying not to make contact with each other, and the gaudy girls plied their trade quietly.
There was a cowboy song on the juke, 'I Dreamed of a Hillbilly Heaven,' and the two Maniax were practicing their fast draws against a GenTech Amusements Machine that zapped you insensible with a light voltage if the computer-generated gunslinger cleared leather faster than you did. One of them lost a showdown, and slumped on the shockplate, dropping the gamegun. His gangbuddy pulled out a real gun, and cocked it.
'Whoa there, big fella,' said Magda. 'Them things are expensive.'
Jessamyn thought the Maniak might start a fight—she needed some action just now, her muscles tingled—but the heavy-set panzerboy backed down, and hauled his pal off.
'Just natural high spirits,' Magda said. 'Them boys skinned a solo Op out in the sand last week, fenced his hide to the yakmen. Well off his trail, this feller was. Some fancy-pants search-and-destroy customer from Los Angeles, California.'
'Which agency?' Doc asked. 'Holderness-Manolo.'
'I've heard of them. Glamour boys. Industrial warfare, mostly. The occasional movie star divorce. High flyers. They don't come in-country often.'
Jessamyn sipped her drink. There must still be warrants out on her. But it didn't mean anything. There would be paper out on nine-tenths of the people in the room, including the gaudy girls and the town drunk. This was a townload of fugitives. Buzzsaw the cat was probably high on the FBI's Most Wanted Felines list.
'Any idea who the solo was gunning for?'
'Nahh, could've been anybody? The Red Baron was through a month or two back, racking up his score. And an esperado by the name of Al Amogordo took Buck Standish out on Main Street Wednesday last. Crossed his eyes and exploded Old Buck's head in some quarrel over a high yaller lady, then hit the trail in Buck's G-Mek convertible.'
'There'd be a price on him.'
'Yeah. The solo was probably after Al.'
Doc Threadneedle ordered another drink, and tipped a few drops into Jessamyn's water. “Try that.'
It was astonishing. 'This is better than sex.'
'Have sex, and then see what you think.'
Jessamyn cooled out her mouth.
A cowboy sauntered over to the bar, and sidled up next to them.
'Hey, beaut, you in the market for some home-baked Western-style lovin'?'
She looked him over. 'Come on, Wyatt Earp' she said, 'do I look like a hog-tied sheep to you?'
The cowboy pushed his stetson back onto the crown of his head. He had thick-oiled hair, and old acne scars.
'Well, hell, lady, if that's your attitude, perhaps you'd better just sew it up, sister, cause there ain't no better stud bull than Curtius Kenne in the whole territory.'
Magda laughed. 'Ignore him, Jessamyn. He just won the election. The town hasn't had an Official Asshole for too long.'
Curtius smiled, and a gem sparkled. 'Jessamyn? That's a real purty name. Is that for real?'
'Yes. Excuse me.'
She grabbed him by the back of his neck, and scraped her empty glass across his smile. He screeched, and she let him go. He was bleeding from the mouth. She looked at her glass. It was not scratched.
'Paste, huh? I thought synthetic stones were getting better these days.'
'Why you…'
He drew his hand back, and she reached out to stop the punch. It was as simple as catching a falling cup. She pushed a little too hard, and Curtius shouted.
'My shoulder.'
Doc Threadneedle stepped in, and gave the cowboy's arm a wrench, setting the joint back in true.
'Sorry. Don't know my own strength.'
Kenne was mad now. Everyone in the bar was looking.
'You're…you're one of
There was fear and hatred in his voice. 'What do you mean?'
'One of the Doc's monsters. You ain't human. Hell, Doc, your packagin' gets better and better, but what you put inside stinks to high heaven, you know. It's gettin' so a fella don't know where he's dippin' it. I take it all back, sister. You're just a sexclone with steel teeth, and I ain't interested.'
The drunk in the corner, who wore what was left of some kind of camouflage outfit, came over, pulling a revolver out of his britches pocket. Jessamyn tensed, ready to shear his head off his neck with a karate move.
Magda shook her head, and Jessamyn relaxed. The drunk plonked his gun down on the bar.
'You've got a quarrel, settle it this way. Best of seven.'
'This is Jitters,' Magda said. 'He's British.'
The drunk saluted smartly. His hand vibrated. She didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know how he had picked up his nick-name. Jessamyn hefted his gun. It was a seven-shot model, a Webley and Scott .38 Bulldog, standard British Army Issue. A toy next to a ScumStopper Magnum, but it could do the job. She broke it, and slid five slugs out, leaving two consecutive bullets chambered. She sighted down the barrel. It was off, but it would do for a round of roulette.
'You game, cowboy?'
Kenne gulped, and looked around for a way out. 'Guess I am, Mizz Frankenstein, guess I am.'
'Ladies first?' She pointed the gun to her temple.
'Toss you for it.'
Magda dropped a one-armed bandit token on the bar. Kenne guessed lemon, and won the first pull.
Click.
He sighed with relief, and passed the gun over. Then, he took a shot of whisky. Magda refilled his glass. It vanished down his throat, by-passed his stomach and stood out on his forehead as droplets of 90% proof sweat.
'The good stuff, huh?'
'Fella deserves Shochaiku if it's gonna be his last drink.'
Jessamyn slipped the barrel into her mouth, and sucked it like a lollipop, fluttering her eyelashes at Kenne. His eyes popped.
Click.
'Your move.'
'Good thing it's Curtius,' Magda said, 'if'n he blows his brains out, at least we won't be all day scraping them off the floor. Just my dainty little hankie will be enough to clean up that kind of a smeared speck.'
Kenne's adam's apple was bobbing up and down. Jessamyn looked him in the face, smiling pleasantly. Shutting his eyes tight, he jammed the gun against his skull, and…
Click.
'Give it here.'
He was reluctant to let it go. She raised the gun, and pulled the trigger.
Click. 'Bang,' she said. Everybody jumped. Kenne spilled his drink. 'No, really, just joking.'
Kenne took the gun.
'Have you worked it out, cowboy? Three chambers, two bullets. Short odds.'
