The other Uzek frantically works to free itself from the other’s grip. It raises his blaster and points it at its friend, but it’s too late. A misstep by the injured Uzek takes one leg off the roof, and its weight does the rest of the work. Both of them go over the edge, but there’s nothing piled on the alley floor to break their falls.
They aren’t high enough that the fall kills them, but Nixon’s blaster does. A couple of shots into each, and the alley floor is shiny with Uzek black goo blood.
“It’s just me and you now,” he shouts.
“That’s good,” the translator says. “Fairer fight.” She’s not as close now. She’s moved.
Nixon approaches the corner where the street meets the alley. He wipes at his eye, and peels away more blood. He has both hands holding the blaster. He sneaks a look out into the main street, but he can’t find the translator.
She calls again: “Over here. I think I’ve found something that belongs to you.”
Nixon pokes his head out again. She’s out in the middle of the street bending over the pile of debris that Nixon tripped over earlier.
She stands up and Nixon sees it in her hand when it catches a spare bit of light. It's his card. She pinches two corners of the card and lets it spin between her fingers.
"Well now." She stops the card from spinning and holds it up above her head. "Looks like something important. How about you come out now?"
Nixon steps out from the alley and onto the sidewalk. He has the blaster raised and pointed at the translator.
“So that's how we're playing this?" She asks and raises the blaster rifle up to her side and points it toward Nixon.
"This is the game now," he says and takes three steps forward off the sidewalk. "And since I'm such a good sport, I'll give you first shot."
She laughs, casual. Then the rifle jumps in her hand. A shot goes well wide of Nixon, and he returns fire almost immediately. It’s a well-aimed shot, and the translator screams when her raised hand disappears in a glow of light as the blaster beam hits her in the wrist.
Her big rifle clatters to the ground and she goes down with it. She’s screaming and holding the nub that remains at the end of her right arm.
Nixon approaches slowly, keeping her in the center of his aim just in case she has some kind of plan for a situation like this.
She doesn’t.
She’s still screaming and rolling around on the ground when Nixon gets up next to her. He drops his blaster to his side and looks at the empty end of her arm. She doesn’t fight.
“Now you and dad have something of a matched set.”
He looks closer at it. Her hand came off just below the wrist, and her green skin has gone black. There’s very little of the goo blood that he saw from the other two Uzeks he killed earlier.
“You’re lucky,” he tells her and drops her arm to the ground. She winces when the burned end hits the pavement. “Heat from that blaster bolt did a good job sealling up that wound. You should be fine walking back to wherever you go to after a fight like this.”
She just looks at him and moans with the pain.
“I wanted to kill you. Still do, being honest. But you’re going to go back with a message for me.”
He pauses for her to at least acknowledge what he’s said, but she doesn’t. Not in anything that Nixon understands. She’s muttering something in Uzek under her breath and through the moans.
“This is finished. That’s what I want you to tell whoever it is that’s in charge now. We’re even. I let you live. That squares our books.”
She’s shaking her head.
Nixon stands and looks around. It takes him a minute, but he finally sees it—a small bump in the road. And something in that bump that catches the light. It’s her hand. It’s his card.
“Not. Finished,” the translator says as Nixon walks away. “NOT! FINISHED!”
08
Nixon picks up the translator's hand by its thick middle finger. It's pudgy and soft, like an overstuffed dumpling. He plucks Mira's card out of its grip and then drops the hand back to the ground. It slaps with a meaty whop.
He wipes the card across his cloak and cleans off her black goo blood then drops it into one of his interior cloak pockets. The crackers that were there are crushed to crumbs now. He pulls the pack out and rips open one end. He tips it up and the insides come out in a wave. Most miss his mouth and fall to the ground. The rest he chews quickly then swallows.
He balls up the packaging in his hand and lets it fall to the ground.
The spaceport is a glowing beacon in front of him. Bright lights become the only thing he can see. This kind of focus is dangerous. He recognizes that and tries to fight it off by looking away from the silhouettes of ships that continue to grow as he gets ever closer. He tries, but he doesn’t succeed. Not for long anyway. He’s drawn in by the spacecraft in front of him. He’s swayed by the possibility they represent. They will let him put some distance between him and this place. Some distance between himself and the people here who want to pull him off these streets and get their pound
