the haze of nausea, M'Oloo heard warning bells.
"Maybe," the kid said, "these folks have an interest in concerts ."
The last word was delivered with such bitterness that the glasses along the rear of the bar shattered, a galaxy of shards which the patrons were too busy vomiting and rolling about to notice.
"You boys heard of anyone like that?"
There was now so much puke splattered across the wooden boards that the token sprinkling of sawdust had given up soaking duties and was instead floating merrily beneath the saloon doors.
M'Oloo tried to draw his knife in shaking hands. His eyes, going the way of Niagra Falls, noted the look the kid gave him. He gave up on the knife and sprinted for the door.
"I'll take that as a yes, then." said Roolán.
They came for him at midnight, demonstrating a stunning lack of imagination.
Roolán was waiting for them. He'd been waiting for them for two weeks, one way or another. Waiting for the authorities to dump him on some mudball planet three parsecs from Shtzuth, waiting for the hospital to discharge him, waiting for the pangalactic solicitors to confirm he'd inherited everything his parents owned, waiting for the local fuzz to announce that their investigations amongst the xowpoke communities of Nama's Moon had been fruitless, waiting for a passenger shuttle to arrive, and - most importantly - waiting to pluck up the courage required to pursue the revenge he wanted.
He felt obliged.
Watching them "sneak" (a charitable expression) along the central street, knives and guns stashed in pockets crammed with whiskysmokes, Roolán came to a very sudden and very unhelpful realisation:
He was scared absolutely shitless.
The man from the bar - an oily creature with a combover and threadbare clothing - was conducting a fraught conversation with the group's leader, a thug almost as wide as he was tall. Roolán could have guessed at their topic of discussion even if the morons had attempted to keep their cigarjuice-drenched voices down.
"Telling you, Zig, it's dangerous! We should t-"
"Should nuthin', Oish. One kid askin' questions is all. Knifework inna dark. No trouble."
Roolán shuddered. The gutter he was clinging to squealed as his weight shifted, forcing him back into the shadows of the hotel's roofspace. He needn't have bothered - the goons were so fixated upon swaggering that nothing short of a flying naked supermodel would have persuaded them to look upwards.
"But his voice, man! I'm tellin' yo-"
"All you're tellin', geek, is this little sneck's got himself a throat infection."
"No! It's different to that! Did things to my head, man!"
"Snecking baccjunkie..."
"No, man! His voice wasn't natural!"
"Damn straight it ain't natural - snecking kids comin' round, making trouble. And you let him get away."
"I came straight to you, Zig! I couldn't ju-"
"Shht." The big man silenced M'Oloo with a dismissive wave of his hand and paused outside the hotel, squaring his shoulders. Given their size, this took a while. "Look alert," he growled. "All you boys, blades only. Let's not cause a fuss."
Then they slouched into the lobby.
Roolán took a deep breath and ignored the shakes creeping along his limbs. The night was cold and he pulled the folds of his xowpoke jacket, bought earlier that day, tighter around his chest. He wondered whether he should have bought a knife, or even a gun. He wondered whether he would even get a chance to use one.
Actually, scratch that: he wondered whether he'd be able to. He wasn't so much out of his depth as he was treading water above the Mariana trench with sharkbait stapled to his legs whilst wearing a faulty lifejacket.
He took a deep breath and reminded himself that adversity was nothing new.
He'd been banned from uttering a single sound since he hit puberty. When his parents discovered they'd sired a mutant - when his voice broke, literally, at twelve - they'd left earth in a hurry, saying farewell to their prim and proper friends, quitting
"Maybe," the kid said, "these folks have an interest in concerts ."
The last word was delivered with such bitterness that the glasses along the rear of the bar shattered, a galaxy of shards which the patrons were too busy vomiting and rolling about to notice.
"You boys heard of anyone like that?"
There was now so much puke splattered across the wooden boards that the token sprinkling of sawdust had given up soaking duties and was instead floating merrily beneath the saloon doors.
M'Oloo tried to draw his knife in shaking hands. His eyes, going the way of Niagra Falls, noted the look the kid gave him. He gave up on the knife and sprinted for the door.
"I'll take that as a yes, then." said Roolán.
They came for him at midnight, demonstrating a stunning lack of imagination.
Roolán was waiting for them. He'd been waiting for them for two weeks, one way or another. Waiting for the authorities to dump him on some mudball planet three parsecs from Shtzuth, waiting for the hospital to discharge him, waiting for the pangalactic solicitors to confirm he'd inherited everything his parents owned, waiting for the local fuzz to announce that their investigations amongst the xowpoke communities of Nama's Moon had been fruitless, waiting for a passenger shuttle to arrive, and - most importantly - waiting to pluck up the courage required to pursue the revenge he wanted.
He felt obliged.
Watching them "sneak" (a charitable expression) along the central street, knives and guns stashed in pockets crammed with whiskysmokes, Roolán came to a very sudden and very unhelpful realisation:
He was scared absolutely shitless.
The man from the bar - an oily creature with a combover and threadbare clothing - was conducting a fraught conversation with the group's leader, a thug almost as wide as he was tall. Roolán could have guessed at their topic of discussion even if the morons had attempted to keep their cigarjuice-drenched voices down.
"Telling you, Zig, it's dangerous! We should t-"
"Should nuthin', Oish. One kid askin' questions is all. Knifework inna dark. No trouble."
Roolán shuddered. The gutter he was clinging to squealed as his weight shifted, forcing him back into the shadows of the hotel's roofspace. He needn't have bothered - the goons were so fixated upon swaggering that nothing short of a flying naked supermodel would have persuaded them to look upwards.
"But his voice, man! I'm tellin' yo-"
"All you're tellin', geek, is this little sneck's got himself a throat infection."
"No! It's different to that! Did things to my head, man!"
"Snecking baccjunkie..."
"No, man! His voice wasn't natural!"
"Damn straight it ain't natural - snecking kids comin' round, making trouble. And you let him get away."
"I came straight to you, Zig! I couldn't ju-"
"Shht." The big man silenced M'Oloo with a dismissive wave of his hand and paused outside the hotel, squaring his shoulders. Given their size, this took a while. "Look alert," he growled. "All you boys, blades only. Let's not cause a fuss."
Then they slouched into the lobby.
Roolán took a deep breath and ignored the shakes creeping along his limbs. The night was cold and he pulled the folds of his xowpoke jacket, bought earlier that day, tighter around his chest. He wondered whether he should have bought a knife, or even a gun. He wondered whether he would even get a chance to use one.
Actually, scratch that: he wondered whether he'd be able to. He wasn't so much out of his depth as he was treading water above the Mariana trench with sharkbait stapled to his legs whilst wearing a faulty lifejacket.
He took a deep breath and reminded himself that adversity was nothing new.
He'd been banned from uttering a single sound since he hit puberty. When his parents discovered they'd sired a mutant - when his voice broke, literally, at twelve - they'd left earth in a hurry, saying farewell to their prim and proper friends, quitting
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