wood in places. The bar was solid mahogany with tarnished metal stools. There were only two tables in the entire place; one was circled by four men playing poker.
The bartender, a white-haired man with big belly and a finely articulated artificial right hand, frowned at me as I moseyed slowly up to the bar.
I held up two fingers. “Whiskeys.”
He nodded, filled two shot glasses with a golden liquid. The aroma calmed me and brought me back. There was a time when I’d have had trouble with the alcohol. Drinking one whiskey would lead to another, then another, then another. That was years ago. I hadn’t had a drink in so long.
“I’ll have another,” I said. My first two shots were down. “Make it two.”
The barkeep’s frown deepened. “Eight stars,” he said. “Coin. No credit.”
I fished the coins out of a pocket and dropped them on the bar. The barkeep nodded and poured two more glasses. Then he turned around to a stove where he was frying up something that smelled like fat and spices. Thick sausages rolled around in the pan. He looked back at me questioningly.
Bile bubbled up in the back of my throat. The image of the slaughtered boy flashed in front of me. Sausages. He had been next to a sausage-making machine. There was no way to know if that boy had made it into the sausage machine, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to take the risk. The two shots of whiskey looked up at me like the yellow eyes of death. There was peace in them. An answer. Get lost. Let it all go. Be at peace.
Be dead.
It was good whiskey. The best. Those first two shots still lingered in the back of my throat, calling out to their friends. The alcohol had little effect. The nannies in my blood burned it off almost as fast as I could drink, but alcohol slowly killed the bastards. All that tech inside of me would die if I drank hard enough. Eventually, I’d overload the nannies and they’d stop repairing my body from the damage done by my metal arm.
They’d recover, though. They always did. It always hurt.
Behind me, one of the poker players won a hand, hauling in hundreds of stars in a single bet. I glanced sideways at him. Of all the men there, he was the only one who looked like he made some money. He was a man in his thirties, smooth-skinned and bright-eyed. He grinned at winning, but he didn’t look down at his money. Instead, his gaze flickered from one opponent to the next, as if sizing them up. As if expecting trouble.
“Mighty nice town you have here,” I said to the barkeep.
The barkeep turned to me, bent down so our eyes were level, and said, “Mister, we plan to keep it that way.”
Our scowls locked, his face twisted into a mask of disgust that didn’t seem to fit his rosy cheeks and soft jowls. The poker players stopped, filling the room with a heavy silence. The barkeep’s hand moved slowly under the bar out of sight, but he kept his eyes right on me. Muscles in his neck tensed, like he was some great bear ready to rear up and maul someone for waking him up. His eyes flashed with an inner light.
I spoke through gritted teeth. “Barkeep, best take your hand off of that weapon.” For a second, I didn’t know if he would back down. A man protecting his place of business could be a fierce thing. “I’m unarmed.”
His scowl turned to a mirthful grin and he stood back from the bar. He laughed from his belly. “Just giving you a hard time.”
I grunted.
The poker players anted up.
“Why are you in town?” The barkeep pulled out a rag and started wiping down the already clean bar. “Swallow Hill ain’t on the way to anywhere, and it ain’t on the way from anywhere.”
“Well,” I said. “Heard the whiskey was good and the people friendly.” I downed another shot.
“You’re half right.”
“That’s good whiskey.”
He polished the bar with a scrap of filthy cloth. “We’re not so bad. Just don’t like rough-looking strangers walking into town, especially after all that’s been going
The bartender, a white-haired man with big belly and a finely articulated artificial right hand, frowned at me as I moseyed slowly up to the bar.
I held up two fingers. “Whiskeys.”
He nodded, filled two shot glasses with a golden liquid. The aroma calmed me and brought me back. There was a time when I’d have had trouble with the alcohol. Drinking one whiskey would lead to another, then another, then another. That was years ago. I hadn’t had a drink in so long.
“I’ll have another,” I said. My first two shots were down. “Make it two.”
The barkeep’s frown deepened. “Eight stars,” he said. “Coin. No credit.”
I fished the coins out of a pocket and dropped them on the bar. The barkeep nodded and poured two more glasses. Then he turned around to a stove where he was frying up something that smelled like fat and spices. Thick sausages rolled around in the pan. He looked back at me questioningly.
Bile bubbled up in the back of my throat. The image of the slaughtered boy flashed in front of me. Sausages. He had been next to a sausage-making machine. There was no way to know if that boy had made it into the sausage machine, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to take the risk. The two shots of whiskey looked up at me like the yellow eyes of death. There was peace in them. An answer. Get lost. Let it all go. Be at peace.
Be dead.
It was good whiskey. The best. Those first two shots still lingered in the back of my throat, calling out to their friends. The alcohol had little effect. The nannies in my blood burned it off almost as fast as I could drink, but alcohol slowly killed the bastards. All that tech inside of me would die if I drank hard enough. Eventually, I’d overload the nannies and they’d stop repairing my body from the damage done by my metal arm.
They’d recover, though. They always did. It always hurt.
Behind me, one of the poker players won a hand, hauling in hundreds of stars in a single bet. I glanced sideways at him. Of all the men there, he was the only one who looked like he made some money. He was a man in his thirties, smooth-skinned and bright-eyed. He grinned at winning, but he didn’t look down at his money. Instead, his gaze flickered from one opponent to the next, as if sizing them up. As if expecting trouble.
“Mighty nice town you have here,” I said to the barkeep.
The barkeep turned to me, bent down so our eyes were level, and said, “Mister, we plan to keep it that way.”
Our scowls locked, his face twisted into a mask of disgust that didn’t seem to fit his rosy cheeks and soft jowls. The poker players stopped, filling the room with a heavy silence. The barkeep’s hand moved slowly under the bar out of sight, but he kept his eyes right on me. Muscles in his neck tensed, like he was some great bear ready to rear up and maul someone for waking him up. His eyes flashed with an inner light.
I spoke through gritted teeth. “Barkeep, best take your hand off of that weapon.” For a second, I didn’t know if he would back down. A man protecting his place of business could be a fierce thing. “I’m unarmed.”
His scowl turned to a mirthful grin and he stood back from the bar. He laughed from his belly. “Just giving you a hard time.”
I grunted.
The poker players anted up.
“Why are you in town?” The barkeep pulled out a rag and started wiping down the already clean bar. “Swallow Hill ain’t on the way to anywhere, and it ain’t on the way from anywhere.”
“Well,” I said. “Heard the whiskey was good and the people friendly.” I downed another shot.
“You’re half right.”
“That’s good whiskey.”
He polished the bar with a scrap of filthy cloth. “We’re not so bad. Just don’t like rough-looking strangers walking into town, especially after all that’s been going
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