Dragonfly by Erica Hayes

burned candy floss and a sparkle-lit parlor of virtual shooting games. Engine noise and thudding machinery from the docking arms echoed in the metal walls, and the low iron ceiling shuddered.
    People strolled or hurried: mechanics and spacejocks in flight suits and coveralls, a woman and her two ratty kids, a fat greasy guy in an ill-fitting suit. I couldn’t see my new caveman friends. Pity. I could use a good ass-kicking to calm my nerves.
    A pair of patrolling marines sauntered by, green laserlight glinting from the tubular accu-sights each wore slotted over one eye. They carried shiny-barreled laser rifles slung low across their tight-molded black combat suits. Looked like Imperial security had a heavy presence here, even if they were corrupt and half asleep.
    Dragonfly leaned against a bulkhead waiting for me, hands stuffed in pockets and that annoyingly sweet little smile. “Still alive?”
    I scowled, just to make myself feel better. “I didn’t start a fight. Happy?”
    “So far. Come on, we’re late.”
    I followed him down the metal steps to the next level, where a dirty crowd milled around a bar furnished in dented plastic. Vapid electronic music burbled in a mist of apple-scented shisha smoke and colored lights. Voices and laughter in three languages blurred to hash. We sidled through the crowd, to a dim-lit corner where a grotesquely fat shaven-headed guy sat stuffed into a metal alcove, the table cutting into the smeared khaki flight suit stretched over his belly.
    FatBoy saw us, and raised his half-empty beer glass with a sloppy grin. Already two or three empty jugs littered the table. “Ahoy there, ya rotten anarchist scumbag,” he boomed in Brit-mangled Rus, his damp jowls shaking. “Don’t you got a watch? Happy hour’s over.”
    “Drinks are on you, then,” Dragonfly said.
    He stood aside for me, and I squeezed into the booth on the bench opposite FatBoy. The greasy vinyl stuck to my bare thighs, bacteria no doubt multiplying with glee on my sweaty skin, and I spared a moment’s regret for my lost flight suit.
    I concentrated on the fat guy, cataloguing him for future reference. Older than Dragonfly, hands big and scarred from manual work, a dent in the side of his skull from some old wound. A fighter, not a thinker, even if he was past his prime. My anticipation sharpened. Was it time for action? Would I find out what Dragonfly was up to at last?
    FatBoy shot a glance at me, his beetling brows merging in a frown. “Who’s your new girlfriend?”
    I swallowed an indignant snort.
    Dragonfly just shrugged. “She’s okay.”
    FatBoy rubbed stained hands on his stretched flight suit. “I can see she’s okay, kid. She looks more than okay to me. But I don’t recall a threesome in our discussions. Not that I’m complaining, mind.” He leered at me, a harmless wink ruining the effect.
    I didn’t care. Enough with the crude remarks. I grinned back, sharp. “You know how sometimes it’s your lucky day?”
    “Ha, ha. Capital. I like her already.” FatBoy gave a happy snort.
    I leaned forward, the shatterjay ready in my hand. “Today isn’t your day.”
    Dragonfly’s hand came down on mine, squeezing. “Calm, children. Lazuli, meet Sebastian Fouchon, known to his alleged friends as Little Bastie the Trash-Hauler. He has a dirty mind and a dirtier mouth and means absolutely nothing by either. Bastie, this is Lazuli. I picked her up ripping off the Esperanza mob’s database, and if you don’t keep it in your pants, she will blow it off. There. Now can we act like grown-ups, just for a few minutes?”
    Bastie rolled heavy shoulders, sweat spraying, his washed-green gaze merry. “Certainly, old chap. Any friend of yours and all that. No offense, miss. Care for a drink?”
    He grabbed his jug and a couple of smeared glasses and poured us each a frothy beer.
    I shook Dragonfly’s hand off and jammed the jay back in my pocket, scowling. But my mouth watered. I hadn’t slept properly for