xows, shaped and coloured like bus-sized turds, would rise from the swamplands of Nama Prime to streak en masse towards the local sun. Once the heat became intolerable they would explode, releasing countless spores - a few of which miraculously found their way back to the swamplands. This had been going on for millennia before the gourmets of the galaxy decided that the rarity of Xowflesh more than made up for its execrable taste. So now at every migration the xowpokes would be waiting, hovbikes and harpoodoes at the ready, to snag a xow or three to tide their bank accounts over for the next few years. The upshot was that the average xowpoke was unemployed for 99.99658 per cent of their lives.
The crime rate on Nama's Moon was, it would be fair to say, astronomical.
M'Oloo nestled into his well-worn groove at the bar and raised another cigarjuice. He was feeling uncharacteristically cheerful. That evening he would be meeting Ziggig and the boys to divide their recently acquired earnings in a fair and democratic fashion, so he was anticipating a fun night of double crosses and friendly knife fights.
The saloon doors squealed. What little conversation there was - mostly the exchange of bored insults - halted, and booted footsteps crossed the floor. M'Oloo kept his back to the newcomer, sneaking a hand towards his knife. Caution paid, on Nama's Moon.
He watched a figure approach the bar from the corner of his eye, dipping his head in the universal gesture for "gimme a drink". The barman, M'Oloo couldn't help noticing, was grinning like a chezhir felinox. He risked a more substantial glance to the side, careful to avoid eye contact, and choked on his cigarjuice.
The newcomer was a boy, no older than seventeen. His attempts to look manly by thrusting out his chin and scowling, succeeded only in making him look constipated.
"New in town?" the barman sneered. Some of the other patrons were tittering, probably for the first time in their lives.
The boy nodded and perched himself on a xowhide stool, eyeing the cigarjuice bottle. The barman shrugged and poured out a shot, clearly as intrigued as the other patrons.
The kid downed the shot in one and almost died.
Like a gun discharging, the bar exploded with laughter. M'Oloo joined the mirth, sniggering through yellowed teeth. The youth's eyes looked like they might pop out.
"Snecking hell!" the kid hissed.
The bar fell silent. Faces fell mid-guffaw, brows knotted together and mouths hung open.
The kid's voice wasn't natural.
"That's... hkk... that's strong stuff," he said.
M'Oloo almost slipped from his groove in the bartop.
The voice did something strange to his mind, shivering along his spine and sending pinpricks dancing across his neck, like spiders under his skin. If he'd been asked to describe the surreal tones he might have mentioned strange echoes, unnatural pitches that rattled his skull. He might have alluded to whalesong, or jabberbat squeals, or the tinny rattle of electrolysed metal. He might have used adjectives like "haunting" or "resonant". But, this being him, he would probably have settled instead for "snecking weird."
A brief glance around suggested that his fellow xowpokes were inclined to agree. And in M'Oloo's experience, things on Nama's Moon that were considered weird were only a moment or two from being considered dead. He put his hand back on his knife.
"We ain't real fonda freakos round here," he growled. The voice was still scratching around in the back of his mind, like a crow hunting a worm.
"Feeling's mutual," the kid said. M'Oloo resisted the urge to throw up, his stomach deciding that it couldn't cope with the voice either.
"W-whaddaya want here?" the barman said, propping himself upright with one meaty fist. He was sweating.
"Looking for some folks," the kid said, eliciting another chorus of groans. "Looking for some folks with hovbikes. Would've come into some money recently. Maybe just came back from their holidays."
Even through
The crime rate on Nama's Moon was, it would be fair to say, astronomical.
M'Oloo nestled into his well-worn groove at the bar and raised another cigarjuice. He was feeling uncharacteristically cheerful. That evening he would be meeting Ziggig and the boys to divide their recently acquired earnings in a fair and democratic fashion, so he was anticipating a fun night of double crosses and friendly knife fights.
The saloon doors squealed. What little conversation there was - mostly the exchange of bored insults - halted, and booted footsteps crossed the floor. M'Oloo kept his back to the newcomer, sneaking a hand towards his knife. Caution paid, on Nama's Moon.
He watched a figure approach the bar from the corner of his eye, dipping his head in the universal gesture for "gimme a drink". The barman, M'Oloo couldn't help noticing, was grinning like a chezhir felinox. He risked a more substantial glance to the side, careful to avoid eye contact, and choked on his cigarjuice.
The newcomer was a boy, no older than seventeen. His attempts to look manly by thrusting out his chin and scowling, succeeded only in making him look constipated.
"New in town?" the barman sneered. Some of the other patrons were tittering, probably for the first time in their lives.
The boy nodded and perched himself on a xowhide stool, eyeing the cigarjuice bottle. The barman shrugged and poured out a shot, clearly as intrigued as the other patrons.
The kid downed the shot in one and almost died.
Like a gun discharging, the bar exploded with laughter. M'Oloo joined the mirth, sniggering through yellowed teeth. The youth's eyes looked like they might pop out.
"Snecking hell!" the kid hissed.
The bar fell silent. Faces fell mid-guffaw, brows knotted together and mouths hung open.
The kid's voice wasn't natural.
"That's... hkk... that's strong stuff," he said.
M'Oloo almost slipped from his groove in the bartop.
The voice did something strange to his mind, shivering along his spine and sending pinpricks dancing across his neck, like spiders under his skin. If he'd been asked to describe the surreal tones he might have mentioned strange echoes, unnatural pitches that rattled his skull. He might have alluded to whalesong, or jabberbat squeals, or the tinny rattle of electrolysed metal. He might have used adjectives like "haunting" or "resonant". But, this being him, he would probably have settled instead for "snecking weird."
A brief glance around suggested that his fellow xowpokes were inclined to agree. And in M'Oloo's experience, things on Nama's Moon that were considered weird were only a moment or two from being considered dead. He put his hand back on his knife.
"We ain't real fonda freakos round here," he growled. The voice was still scratching around in the back of his mind, like a crow hunting a worm.
"Feeling's mutual," the kid said. M'Oloo resisted the urge to throw up, his stomach deciding that it couldn't cope with the voice either.
"W-whaddaya want here?" the barman said, propping himself upright with one meaty fist. He was sweating.
"Looking for some folks," the kid said, eliciting another chorus of groans. "Looking for some folks with hovbikes. Would've come into some money recently. Maybe just came back from their holidays."
Even through
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