And the giant didn’t.
“Take me to Giles,” the bounty hunter said in a low growl.
The oaf muttered some slang and unwisely motioned for Rechs to follow. Anyone twitchier on the other end of the powerful scatterblaster would’ve blown the ogre’s head off right there. But Rechs was a pro. And loss of life needed to be kept to a minimum. Every blaster shot, every body, every argument, fight, what have you, increased the likelihood that whoever it was that was holding the hostages would hear he was coming for them and make their play. Which meant killing at least one of the legionnaires so the House of Reason would take them seriously.
And if that happened… Rechs was pretty sure he’d need to just go ahead and kill everyone so that didn’t get done again anytime soon.
Object lessons were the best lessons, but they did leave an impression. And generally ended up either increasing the bounty or getting him war criminal status—as had happened in the past.
The image of the Doro’s chest cavity suddenly turning into a gaping hole had dissuaded the oaf. That was an object lesson.
Following the oaf, Rechs soon approached a bar whose electricity and lighting were still working. It was deep in an old pleasure arcade that had once offered simulated combat thrills in the old VR uprights. Now it seemed an island of neon fantasy in a sea of darkness.
The bar was called The Tennar’s Shell. But most of the illuminated letters had been shot out. Now, glowing neon red in the darkness, all that could be read of the old sign, unless you had full-spectrum imaging like Rechs did with his bucket, was the word hell.
The oaf with the cane turned back slightly and rumbled, “Giles is inside.”
Then he stepped back and let Rechs pass, indicating he would stay where he was.
Rechs carried the loaded scattergun cautiously as he entered, expecting a fight.
What he found within was like any old honky-tonk a bounty hunter could find on almost every outer station, fringe colony world, and Class F star port no one ever really went to, complete with stellar pool tables where all the balls were cheap knockoffs of planets and the pockets black holes. Except on these broken tables, instead of a background image of space or swirling nebulae as the pool table’s surface, they just showed the projection face, a dull reflective mirror staring back up at the player and daring them to get any enjoyment out of the lifeless game.
None of the tables were in use. But that wasn’t for a lack of patrons.
Rechs found himself facing at least sixteen down-station dead-end loser types. Some sat at tables with their hands, claws, or tentacles near but not on their weapons. Others clustered along the walls or leaned against a rickety old wooden bar, trying to play laconic and uninterested to the hilt because that’s what actors playing hard boys did in the entertainments.
Despite the tension and the nonchalance act, everyone was nervous. Rechs could practically smell that. They’d heard the shot, and they’d seen that the dog man, whatever his name was, wasn’t here.
If they were getting paid by Giles, then this was how they earned their keep. When the shooting started it was their job to finish things by shooting back until it stopped. But here was someone who wouldn’t go down easily, didn’t mind shooting first, and looked to be ready to shoot a lot.
And then there was Giles, sitting there in the middle of it all. Or so Rechs imagined the human to be.
Giles Longfree was an older man. Older than the rest and slightly older than Rechs appeared. He had quick, furtive, mischievous eyes and gray hair slicked back and needing a cut. He wore an expensive if not trendy suit and a string tie like some of the colony types preferred. He had a pack of cigarettes and a gold lighter on the table and he was casually leaned back, one leg crossed and staring straight at Rechs like he’d been waiting for him all along to arrive with all his weapons and simmering menace.
He looked to Rechs like a made man in one of the cartels who knew he carried some weight and demanded some respect. Not just some thug.
Giles Longfree was an earner.
And likely he didn’t care if Rechs was a bounty hunter here to take him in, because he had all his men armed to the teeth right here behind him. And if Rechs was just some chungo looking for passage into the city? Either way…
“Wait a minute,” Giles said, suddenly leaning forward and letting go of the too-cool-to-care-because-you’re-in-my-world-now act. “Hold the comm… I know you!”
Rechs remained standing still. Scattergun cradled. Watching the shooters across the bar. Tagging who needed to die first.
“You’re that bounty hunter!” erupted Giles Longfree.
The boss slapped his hands together and the sound caused some of his hired blasters, the twitchier ones of course, the scared ones, to jump a little. Others waited. Immobile. Coiled like hydra-vipers ready to strike out from some dark recess under a rock that never should have been turned over in the first place.
“Yeah…” said Giles, rubbing several days’ worth of beard growth. He looked around at his hired guns. “Boys, we are indeed honored. This is the one and only Tyrus Rechs.”
At that point Giles stood up and raced around the table like he was some kind of servant waiting to be of use, suddenly springing into action for just such an occasion.
“This is indeed an…” He didn’t finish his sentence as he dusted off a chair and placed it right in front of his table. He shouted, “Arac! Get me the good bottle of Faldaren! The stuff we got off that liner out of Antares.”
Then he resumed, satisfied the chair was clean and places just right.
“This is indeed an honor, sir. Tyrus Rechs.” He threw his arms wide. “Can you believe it?”
It was hard for Rechs to tell if the guy was serious.
