Read Online Fleet of the Damned by Chris Bunch; Allan Cole - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris Bunch; Allan Cole
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would take the yellow out."
"Mister," the farmer said, "you're either a damn fool, or—"
The salesman laughed. "At my age," he said, "I've gotten used to a lot worse things than being called a fool."
"Listen, old man," the farmer said. "You're Imperial. Don't you know better than to come near a Tahn place?"
The salesman snorted. "Pish, man. You're talkin' politics. Never gave a damn about politics. Only thing I got in common with politicians is what I sell. Matter of fact, fertilizer's a lot more useful. And my stuff don't stick to your boots, either."
He turned to the cargo compartment of his gravsled. Instantly weapons came up. The salesman just pulled several small bottles out of a carton. He held one out for the farmer, his face total innocence.
"My calling card," he said.
Cautiously, the Tahn farmer reached over the fence and took one of the bottles. He looked at the printing on the side. The salesman figured that the time was ripe for introductions.
"Ian. Mahoney," he said. "Fine cider and fertilizer… Go ahead. Try it. Whipped that batch up myself. A little raw, but it'll do the job."
The farmer opened the bottle and sniffed. The sweet smell of apples drifted out. And underlying it, there was the sharp odor of alcohol.
"It's nothing serious," Mahoney said. "Maybe seventy-five proof or so. Take a shot."
The farmer sipped, then sucked in his breath. It was good stuff all right. Without hesitation, he chugged down the rest of the bottle.
"That's damn fine cider," he said.
Mahoney snorted. "You oughta see my fertilizer. Nothing clotting organic in it. All pure, sweet-smelling chemicals. Great for the plants, and you don't have to worry about the kids getting ringworm—long as you keep 'em away from your cattle."
The farmer laughed. Mahoney noted the weapons being lowered. Then, with some relief, he saw the Tahn wave his hulking children over to him in a friendly gesture.
"Say, mister," the farmer said. "You got any more of that cider?"
"Sure thing."
And with a honk of his nose, a grin, and a scratch of his behind, Major General Ian Mahoney, commander of the Imperial First Guards Division, reached into the back of his gravcar to buy the boys a drink.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I t was a country inn—large, gleaming white, with exposed stained beams of expensive wood. The gravcars lined up outside were all reasonably new and worth many, many credits. For kilometers around, the farmland was sleek and water-proud. The name of the place was the Imperial Arms Inn.
Bloody figures, Mahoney thought as he reached for the door.
He heard voices shouting from within in heated debate.
"Clottin' low-life Tahn. Up to me, police'd clear out every one of them."
"Clot the police. We gotta take care of our own business. A being oughta kill his own snakes. I say we all get together one night and—"
Mahoney was spotted instantly as he walked inside. A church-hall hush fell over the room. Mahoney automatically honked into his handkerchief—cursing mentally to himself that he had ever dreamed up that touch—and strolled over to the bar.
He eased his bulk into a stool. "Shot and a beer, friend," he told the bartender.
All around him, every person was listening intently to each word he said. The bartender filled up a mug and placed it before him. A second later, a shot glass chinked beside it.
"Traveling through?" the bartender asked, sounding way too casual.
"Sure am," Mahoney said. "But real slowly, today. Hell of a hangover."
He took a sip of his beer and chased it with the full shot. The bartender refilled it.
"Party too hard, huh?"
Mahoney groaned. "You don't know the half of it," he said. "I happened by the McGregor place, yesterday. You know the spread—maybe thirty klicks out?"
The bartender nodded, as did the rest of the room. Everyone knew the McGregors.
"They just married off their last kid," Mahoney said. That was far from news to the crowd in the inn. "I showed up just at reception time. Hit it right off
"Mister," the farmer said, "you're either a damn fool, or—"
The salesman laughed. "At my age," he said, "I've gotten used to a lot worse things than being called a fool."
"Listen, old man," the farmer said. "You're Imperial. Don't you know better than to come near a Tahn place?"
The salesman snorted. "Pish, man. You're talkin' politics. Never gave a damn about politics. Only thing I got in common with politicians is what I sell. Matter of fact, fertilizer's a lot more useful. And my stuff don't stick to your boots, either."
He turned to the cargo compartment of his gravsled. Instantly weapons came up. The salesman just pulled several small bottles out of a carton. He held one out for the farmer, his face total innocence.
"My calling card," he said.
Cautiously, the Tahn farmer reached over the fence and took one of the bottles. He looked at the printing on the side. The salesman figured that the time was ripe for introductions.
"Ian. Mahoney," he said. "Fine cider and fertilizer… Go ahead. Try it. Whipped that batch up myself. A little raw, but it'll do the job."
The farmer opened the bottle and sniffed. The sweet smell of apples drifted out. And underlying it, there was the sharp odor of alcohol.
"It's nothing serious," Mahoney said. "Maybe seventy-five proof or so. Take a shot."
The farmer sipped, then sucked in his breath. It was good stuff all right. Without hesitation, he chugged down the rest of the bottle.
"That's damn fine cider," he said.
Mahoney snorted. "You oughta see my fertilizer. Nothing clotting organic in it. All pure, sweet-smelling chemicals. Great for the plants, and you don't have to worry about the kids getting ringworm—long as you keep 'em away from your cattle."
The farmer laughed. Mahoney noted the weapons being lowered. Then, with some relief, he saw the Tahn wave his hulking children over to him in a friendly gesture.
"Say, mister," the farmer said. "You got any more of that cider?"
"Sure thing."
And with a honk of his nose, a grin, and a scratch of his behind, Major General Ian Mahoney, commander of the Imperial First Guards Division, reached into the back of his gravcar to buy the boys a drink.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I t was a country inn—large, gleaming white, with exposed stained beams of expensive wood. The gravcars lined up outside were all reasonably new and worth many, many credits. For kilometers around, the farmland was sleek and water-proud. The name of the place was the Imperial Arms Inn.
Bloody figures, Mahoney thought as he reached for the door.
He heard voices shouting from within in heated debate.
"Clottin' low-life Tahn. Up to me, police'd clear out every one of them."
"Clot the police. We gotta take care of our own business. A being oughta kill his own snakes. I say we all get together one night and—"
Mahoney was spotted instantly as he walked inside. A church-hall hush fell over the room. Mahoney automatically honked into his handkerchief—cursing mentally to himself that he had ever dreamed up that touch—and strolled over to the bar.
He eased his bulk into a stool. "Shot and a beer, friend," he told the bartender.
All around him, every person was listening intently to each word he said. The bartender filled up a mug and placed it before him. A second later, a shot glass chinked beside it.
"Traveling through?" the bartender asked, sounding way too casual.
"Sure am," Mahoney said. "But real slowly, today. Hell of a hangover."
He took a sip of his beer and chased it with the full shot. The bartender refilled it.
"Party too hard, huh?"
Mahoney groaned. "You don't know the half of it," he said. "I happened by the McGregor place, yesterday. You know the spread—maybe thirty klicks out?"
The bartender nodded, as did the rest of the room. Everyone knew the McGregors.
"They just married off their last kid," Mahoney said. That was far from news to the crowd in the inn. "I showed up just at reception time. Hit it right off
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