spilled alcohol, fish, voided bowels, the eye-watering smoke of burning hair and the stench of burning flesh. Cautiously Ryan started to rise from the dubious shelter of his table to go to Krysty’s aid.
Two things happened. The logjam of patrons fleeing out the front door cleared, admitting a rush of Monitors and dreadlocked pirates he guessed were Sea Wasps waving blasters and blades, with not a “peace-bond” in sight. Ryan turned, snarling, bringing the SIG to bear on the new threat.
And up from behind the bar, roaring and silhouetted in flames, rose McDugus Fish. He had a short-barreled machine pistol clutched in beefy fists, and he sprayed the wrecked room with 9 mm messengers of death.
Jak’s Python bellowed, its flash huge and report ear-shattering in the close space. A black Sea Wasp with a bundle of orange dreads went down in the front entrance, blood spraying from his thigh.
From the corner of his eye, Ryan caught sight of Doc. Sword in one hand and the dead Monitor woman’s pump shotgun in the other, he vaulted an overturned chair with his long coat billowing behind him like a cape. He raced straight at the bar, where McDugus Fish had just slapped a fresh magazine into his stubby autoblaster.
The huge barkeep tried to bring the blaster to bear on Doc. With a mighty leap the old man sprang to the bar top and kicked McDugus Fish in the face. The bartender fell back out of sight, triggering a burst that brought a cascade of dust and wood splinters falling from the ceiling. His head cracked one of the stout plank shelves in two, then he slumped out of sight.
Doc turned and loosed his own brain-imploding blast into the ceiling from the scattergun.
“All right, you scurvy devils,” Doc shouted. “Who wants to order a last hot meal of lead? ”
At the storm of gunfire, the inrushing crowd stopped dead, then flowed right back out.
Ryan, Jak and J.B. were instantly in motion, hurling tables and chairs into the doorway in a makeshift barrier. Mildred fired shots through the windows to discourage people from poking their faces in.
In the corner, abandoned by her customers, JaNene Fish sat with palms pressed to gaunt cheeks, screaming.
Smoke filled the doomed gaudy to the rafters. His eye stinging, Ryan moved quickly to Krysty’s side. Her limbs moved feebly, without apparent purpose. But at his touch she sat up quickly and smiled at him. “I’m all right, lover,” she said, getting to her feet.
She wobbled, giving her words the lie. He caught her arm.
“We got to go, people!” Ryan shouted. “Out the back. Jak, clear the way.”
“Okay!” Jak exclaimed. His pack already shouldered, he ran to the back door. He pushed it open a hair, took a three-second look then slipped out.
Ryan grimaced as he heard shots, including the glass-edged boom of Jak’s Python. Somebody screamed. It wasn’t Jak.
The one-eyed man hurriedly helped J.B. and Mildred on with their packs.
As the companions headed toward the back, blasters flashed at the front door, the bullets cracking past Ryan’s ears.
Once through the back door, he quickly sidestepped to avoid silhouetting himself against the increasingly bright flame light. They were in an alley between neat, small buildings, built of planks painted white.
The alley didn’t even smell that bad, considering the purpose the gaudy customers used it for. The outhouse pit was well limed.
Blasters flamed across the street to Ryan’s left. Holstering his handblaster, he unslung the Steyr Scout longblaster he had hastily slung beside his backpack. Without bothering to loop his left arm in the shooting sling, he threw the weapon to his shoulder. Through the sight he got a quick view of unmistakable dreads behind some kind of out-thrust handblaster.
He fired. A dark cloud puffed like smoke behind the target’s head and the shooter went down. Ryan saw other dark figures fleeing, apparently discouraged by their friend’s fate as well as the longblaster’s boom and
Two things happened. The logjam of patrons fleeing out the front door cleared, admitting a rush of Monitors and dreadlocked pirates he guessed were Sea Wasps waving blasters and blades, with not a “peace-bond” in sight. Ryan turned, snarling, bringing the SIG to bear on the new threat.
And up from behind the bar, roaring and silhouetted in flames, rose McDugus Fish. He had a short-barreled machine pistol clutched in beefy fists, and he sprayed the wrecked room with 9 mm messengers of death.
Jak’s Python bellowed, its flash huge and report ear-shattering in the close space. A black Sea Wasp with a bundle of orange dreads went down in the front entrance, blood spraying from his thigh.
From the corner of his eye, Ryan caught sight of Doc. Sword in one hand and the dead Monitor woman’s pump shotgun in the other, he vaulted an overturned chair with his long coat billowing behind him like a cape. He raced straight at the bar, where McDugus Fish had just slapped a fresh magazine into his stubby autoblaster.
The huge barkeep tried to bring the blaster to bear on Doc. With a mighty leap the old man sprang to the bar top and kicked McDugus Fish in the face. The bartender fell back out of sight, triggering a burst that brought a cascade of dust and wood splinters falling from the ceiling. His head cracked one of the stout plank shelves in two, then he slumped out of sight.
Doc turned and loosed his own brain-imploding blast into the ceiling from the scattergun.
“All right, you scurvy devils,” Doc shouted. “Who wants to order a last hot meal of lead? ”
At the storm of gunfire, the inrushing crowd stopped dead, then flowed right back out.
Ryan, Jak and J.B. were instantly in motion, hurling tables and chairs into the doorway in a makeshift barrier. Mildred fired shots through the windows to discourage people from poking their faces in.
In the corner, abandoned by her customers, JaNene Fish sat with palms pressed to gaunt cheeks, screaming.
Smoke filled the doomed gaudy to the rafters. His eye stinging, Ryan moved quickly to Krysty’s side. Her limbs moved feebly, without apparent purpose. But at his touch she sat up quickly and smiled at him. “I’m all right, lover,” she said, getting to her feet.
She wobbled, giving her words the lie. He caught her arm.
“We got to go, people!” Ryan shouted. “Out the back. Jak, clear the way.”
“Okay!” Jak exclaimed. His pack already shouldered, he ran to the back door. He pushed it open a hair, took a three-second look then slipped out.
Ryan grimaced as he heard shots, including the glass-edged boom of Jak’s Python. Somebody screamed. It wasn’t Jak.
The one-eyed man hurriedly helped J.B. and Mildred on with their packs.
As the companions headed toward the back, blasters flashed at the front door, the bullets cracking past Ryan’s ears.
Once through the back door, he quickly sidestepped to avoid silhouetting himself against the increasingly bright flame light. They were in an alley between neat, small buildings, built of planks painted white.
The alley didn’t even smell that bad, considering the purpose the gaudy customers used it for. The outhouse pit was well limed.
Blasters flamed across the street to Ryan’s left. Holstering his handblaster, he unslung the Steyr Scout longblaster he had hastily slung beside his backpack. Without bothering to loop his left arm in the shooting sling, he threw the weapon to his shoulder. Through the sight he got a quick view of unmistakable dreads behind some kind of out-thrust handblaster.
He fired. A dark cloud puffed like smoke behind the target’s head and the shooter went down. Ryan saw other dark figures fleeing, apparently discouraged by their friend’s fate as well as the longblaster’s boom and
Similar Books
