Chapter OneThe StrangerMetagosStaff in hand, the stranger arrived in the slums of New Xaxxis, capital city of the planet Metagos. In days past, the underground caverns housing New Xaxxis had been derisively referred to as the Glass Abyss, thanks to the gigantic crystal obelisks towering proudly from the ground like stalagmites or hanging from the ceiling like jagged, broken fangs. The entire city was laid out like a wagon wheel, with roads and canals sectioning it off. The very poorest section, sometimes called the Children’s Maze, was situated at the hub.
Swathed in black leather, the stranger was tall, lithe, and human. His face was almost as dark as his ankle-length bantha-hide coat. With his every step along the slum streets, moisture oozed around the edges of his boots, drawn from deep artisanal wells.
Gaping volcanic vents in nearby vacant lots jetted steam that drifted upward toward the ceiling, forming into wispy clouds, which personal flight craft, birds, and leather-winged reptiles glided through.
Three armed enforcers appeared: one human and two Zilka, much like four-legged, armored bugs. “Here’s an ugly one!” the human cried, laughing. He and one of the Zilka were armed with shock prods. The other bug carried a halberd with a smear of dried blood on the blade.
“All you humans are ugly,” the halberd-wielding Zilka said to his human companion. “But this one could give lessons.” They cackled at the mild witticism. The stranger seemed to ignore them, but if they thought he hadn’t noticed, then they’d missed the angry glint in eyes as black as a blaster’s barrel.
“Checkpoint, stranger,” the first enforcer—the Zilka carrying the shock prod—said. “Citizen or newcomer?”
“Newcomer. Rim-runner. Just landed.”
“Are you armed?” he asked.
The newcomer nodded and carefully thumbed aside his black cloak, revealing the hilt of a holstered blaster. Under the triple threat of their weapons, they disarmed him of the pistol but ignored his two-meter brown staff, formed from some seamed and knotty wood.
“Gotta have the right credentials,” the second said, the human—a big male with outsized hands. Strangler’s hands.
“No weapons. You can enter,” the third said, and the second laughed.
“He won’t live long,” one said, as if the newcomer were not standing directly before them.
“Welcome to New Xaxxis,” the third sneered.
The stranger scanned a few buildings and spotted a placard promising gaudy entertainment a few steps away. He walked half a block, ignoring solicitations and questioning eyes, until he found the sign reading vin-vin’s wheelhouse and pushed through the door. The interior was crowded with tables and noisy, but the bar proper seemed underpopulated, and he found himself a seat.
The bartender’s name was Vin-Vin Sunfall. He was a reptilian Metagosan, with all the dense, almost casually brutal musculature famous among a similar breed, the Trandoshans. It had been a busy night with patrons enjoying their drink and food and the music of the Xaxxis Axis Quartette and acrobatic dancers (“Hot Licks! Cool Tricks”). But he noticed the stranger when the doors opened. Vin-Vin noticed everything. It was one reason he was still alive when the rest of his family fed the Web.
Without speaking a word, the stranger pointed a finger at a glass of foamy brown bitters currently being drained by a Muun miner, then lifted that finger in request. He seemed a man whose fondest wish was to be left in peace.
When the stranger had entered, he’d moved as if gliding on rails. His brown eyes suggested a soft yet focused gaze. This was a man of action who was seeking calm. No. He was the center of calm and would remain so even amid violent action. Vin-Vin’s fingers brushed Bloodhammer, the massive peacekeeper under the bar. He hoped he wouldn’t have to reach for it, at least in part because the thought of fighting this newcomer twisted his gut.
Vin-Vin poured, served, and took a coin in return. He’d have then moved his attention elsewhere, but two enforcers, a human and one of those annoying Zilka bugs, swaggered through the door, wafting attitude and unwashed skin. The Zilka’s powerful musk glands reeked of adrenal danger. The pair pushed their way through the crowd and bracketed the stranger. It seemed to Vin-Vin that they were attempting to renew a discussion that began outside.
“You strut in here like a Harch on death sticks,” the human said. “Who are you working for?”
No reply. The Zilka, the taller of the two, leaned over and drooled a greenish gob of sputum into the stranger’s drink and then stepped back, smirking, awaiting a response.
Nothing. The musicians continued to play their percussion and wind instruments, and the dancers writhed in display of skill. The murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses and cutlery continued as if nothing had happened. When the stranger didn’t react, the shorter said, “He’s a brave one.”
They chortled, jostling each other merrily as they left.
Huh. Did they think the stranger was afraid of them? Or had they sensed the same danger signs that had raised his own hackles?
The stranger calmly pointed again, raised the same finger a second time, and slipped a coin onto the bar.
This one is interesting, Vin-Vin thought.
The dark, strong face exhibited no fear and no anger in response to the provocation. In fact, there was no reaction at all.
“What brings you here, ssstranger?” Vin-Vin asked, the sibilant hiss typical of his species lengthening the last word.
“Heard there’s work.”
The bartender polished a glass. “For the right kind of man.” He chuckled slyly. “Or maybe the wrong kind, if you know what I mean.” Vin-Vin gave a practiced wink.
The stranger raised an eyebrow. The rest of his face didn’t move. Impressive.
“How about one who doesn’t mind dirtying his hands?” the stranger said.
Maya-12, a holodroid who appeared to be wearing a business suit, sized the stranger up. She morphed her appearance to resemble a severe, alert dark-skinned human female and approached him. She was a regular. Her “sister” droids Maya-8 and Maya-14 were the acrobatic dancers in the Xaxxis Axis.
Maya-12 used Vin-Vin’s Wheelhouse as a base of operation, connecting with clients for everything from bodyguarding to therapy, language lessons, massage, and private investigation. She and her sisters had never created a problem for Vin-Vin, and that was mostly what mattered.
“New here, stranger? Need orientation? A tourist guide? I have connections to the Sa’ad. Care to meet a spider-worm?”
The stranger smiled. “Not at the moment. But if I did, you’d be the one. Here, please. Whatever the lady wants.”
He placed another coin on the bar.
“Lady . . . ?” the droid said, surprised.
“To my eyes, yes.”
Right answer. She slid in next to him. “My name is Maya-Twelve. You’re new here.”
“Just a tumbling fasha-weed, looking for a place to root awhile.”
She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “It isn’t safe here. Not for a . . . gentleman. Might be better to move on.”
“Appreciate the advice.”
She pocketed the coin, shrugged, and spotted a table where the two other Maya-series holodroids were hailing her. The music had paused, and they were taking a break. Maya-12 headed over.
The stranger slid another coin onto the bar.
“The sssame?” the bartender asked.
“Information.”
Vin-Vin wiggled his claws, and the coin disappeared. “About what?”
“The layout hereabouts. What might a fellow seeking employment need to understand?”
“Well, now. Information. I can do that. New Xaxxisss is a sssnake with two headsss, and sssooner or later anyone who kissesss one gets bit by the other.”
“Who are you aligned with?”
“Oh, I’m happy where I am, friend.”
“So what are these two heads?”
“Chulok and Sssybil. Everyone knowsss that.” His forked tongue flickered to lick thin reptilian lips.
“Hiring?”
The bartender laughed. “Sssybil rarely hiresss other than her own children.” He paused, wondering if he should say the next thing, and then decided to. “Sometimes her children hire outsidersss.”
“Got a lot of kids?”
“A new one almost every day.”
“Busy lady. And this Chulok?”
“Oh, they hire. When there’sss an opening.”
Copyright © 2024 by Steven Barnes. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
