“Why not?” I smiled. “Kinda like stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.”
“Well, if it were my pick, Jet—I’d choose that newer, silver Starburst over there.” She pointed to a stream-lined space yacht with smooth, seashell contours and high, curved bow.
I gave a slow nod. “On first glance it’d be my pick. But I have another in mind…”
Chapter 6
We returned to the bar and the subdued company of Blest and Noss. Blest stared, practically comatose. Noss, ever the ordinary man, flicked back his short brown hair, looked out from a bland face with pale blue eyes. The glare of the vid screens flashed lurid news in front of us. Thankfully the volume was lowered to allow some upbeat pop music to take precedence, but I could still read the subtext:
“The warlord from Hazzerot continues to exert his threat of terror over the free colonies. When will the madman stop? Here’s live footage of the scene at Bajor’s square.”
The reporter’s voice spoke quickly and somewhat garbled over the muted noise of battle. I saw shells dropping, towers toppling, kids fleeing with family members, the odd blood-streaked pet in tow. I gritted my teeth.
The camera went blank. There was a solemn pause, a flashing picture then static.
“That’s all we’ve got, viewers. Our cameraman and news anchor, Jerle Tomas, are presumed dead on Bajor.”
I reached to turn the set off.
“Hey,” cried one of the jolly boys from the nearby table. “I was watching that.”
“Tough break, chief,” I said, changing the channel. “We don’t need any more doom and gloom to cheer our little world. Let’s watch some mindless soaps, or Dustin BeeJee yodeling along to a sing-a-long.”
“You’d deny the threat of Mong?” the man rasped.
“Don’t deny anything, chief. Just don’t want to hear that bastard’s name, is all.” That was the truth. I grew ill at hearing the lunatic Mong’s name, remembering well how he and Baer had blown off my hand from the wrist down. The warlord’s captain, Baer, was a hole in the ground—I saw to it myself. The details came back to me in painful waves, how Wren had managed to get me out of that death hangar on Trellian with TK and get to a regen shop. Only by a hair. Then by hairs again, managing to get me this robot, mechanical right hand that was now my albatross and a killing machine.
The blowhard Sal came shambling up, rolling up his sleeves as if to make something of the news thing. Blest, with no love for bluster or Mong, stood up to face the drunk. “You, Mr. Fancypants, can go suck—”
Eyes turned in our direction.
I shouldered Blest aside, inserting myself between him and the flustered Sal. “Language, Blest, language,” I hissed. “A respectful environment here, no need to draw any undue attention to ourselves.”
“I hear you, Rambo. That lowlife Mong’s ship almost killed us and made ghosts of us all.”
“Let’s not get into the eschatological points about this.”
“Do you even know…” He looked at me sideways, lowered his voice, “Do you even know what that means?” He shook his head in disgust. Sal seemed to have shrunk at the sight of something crazy in Blest’s eyes because he ducked back to his table.
So far my double-speak had kept Blest’s brain busy. I liked it that way. I liked the boy’s spunk, but he was a constant irritant. I cleared my throat. “Wren, what do you think about our prospects here?”
Her eyes made a casual sweep. “Good to fair.”
“Yeah, why do you say that?”
“That mark over there, for example, he’s carrying a wad of cash and low on luck. Get a few more in him, he’ll be only too willing to lick salt from your palm.”
I nodded. “Not bad. But what about baldy over there? He’s looking mighty ripe.”
“Yeah, but risky with the dead stare and the constant swiping of nose with a twitching hand. Might try something desperate. Don’t like the turn of cheek either or the way he lifts his upper lip in a leer at the young woman behind. It’s as if he’s a lecher feeling plucky away from his wife.”
Blest glared. “What the fuck are you two talking about?”
“Relax, Blest,” I said. “Just a little game Wren and I play, not to worry. We talk shop when we’re bored. How about we order some food and talk about cheerier things?”
“Yeah, with what money, Mr. Rambo?” quipped Blest. “The Sir Jorry compassion fund?”
“It’s on me, kid.”
Noss licked his lips and grinned. “Sure, steaks are fine, medium rare, please, with fries on the side.”
Wren signaled the barman. Blest and she ordered barbecued varamein, apparently a big game delicacy on Gistron. Blest requested another rum.
“Rambo, you’re not ordering,” Wren said, cocking her head. She flashed me one of those wry looks with the dark lashes.
Lips parted, I let out a near silent belch. “Later, not feeling so good, Wrensy.” I stood up to make for the restroom down the hall.
I felt one of those gut aches coming on. As quickly as possible, I hustled without looking like a complete clown. Sitting down on the can, I tried to void. Nothing. Only cramps. Too much stress. A frequent happening, ever since Mong and his cretins had blown off my hand. I settled down and felt the wires and machinery loosen inside then a sharp pain rip through my guts followed by a loud plunk in the water. I closed my eyes, let them glaze up in agony.
The door cricked open. Footsteps. A familiar voice. Detran?
“Sh—” A stern cough. “Don’t be talking too loud.”
Something caused me to lift myself off the seat, feet straddling the rim, even while half way through a dump. I felt a familiar tingle of the hustle in my bones and
