brutal intent.” Now, do you really want me to get up?"
"Aye, I want you to get the fuck up!” the bounty hunter screamed.
Hovering in the corner of the room was a vid-com, one of an ancient variety that had seen better days. Its titanium surface chipped and pitted from the drunken target practice of the bar's patrons over the years, miraculously the plasma recording device still worked—a testament to the fine an Ghermáin engineering of the Tappa Industries. What the vid-com recorded for the Aneas Quadrant Tribunal that afternoon would be replayed over and over again and examined closely by dozens of officials who would finally file the recording away, none of them keen on sending yet another bumbling bounty hunter after Dolan.
For those who would view the action later, the bar had been dimly lit, smoky, the herky-jerky movements of the participants appearing on the screen caused by the slowly disintegrating integrity of the vid-com tape. Rolling blips and white streaks of interference, caused by passing spacecraft, interfered with a strong, clear signal and thus distorted the confrontation—but it was obvious what had happened. Only the werewolf and the bounty hunter appeared on the viewback. However, it would be enough for those who studied it to have it brought forcefully home to the members of the Aneas Quadrant Tribunal that Dolan wasn't a man to mess with. He could be one mean motherfucker when angered.
There was the skirl of the bounty hunter's silver bullet tumbling through the air, the mirror behind the bar shattering. Blaez, the man for whom that deadly shot had been intended, was lying on his side on the floor, his left hand wrapped around a ten-inch long handle with a dragon perched at the base. The laser light of his whip wavered for a moment then retracted into the dragon handle with a sharp sizzle.
For a moment Albert Brewster stood where he was—knees still bent, arms stiff as a day-old cadaver. His pale blue eyes were wide, his mouth ajar with a thin stream of spittle seeping from one side. He made a strangled sound, and then his head fell from his shoulders to roll beneath one of the gaming tables.
Blaez was lying at eye level with the gruesome trophy for a moment then got easily to his feet, dusting off his black jeans, snapping the handle of his laser whip back into its leather sheath. He straightened his shoulders, reached for the bottle of whiskey, poured himself another drink, downed it, slammed the shot glass on the bar and fished in his pocket for a beryllium slug, slapped it down, then walked out of the bar without a second glance at the man he'd killed.
Outside the bar, it was colder than a witch's teat. A thick rime of frost lay on the ground and it crunched as he walked toward the refueling station at the edge of the shoddy little town. A single light glowed in the station but all around him the windows of the buildings were dark and not one single curtain, one single blind moved as he made his way down the street.
The air reeked sharply of sulfur and something even more obnoxious. With his keen sense of smell, the odors were combining to give him a wicked headache. That did nothing to elevate the black mood into which he'd been sinking since landing on Gelal.
His ship was sitting where he'd left it. The fuel had been brought to it for he didn't trust—or allow—anyone to touch his baby but him. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, reaching out to stroke his hand down the gleaming black hull of the Fiach class runabout that was his pride and joy.
Glancing around, he didn't see the station attendants but that neither surprised nor alarmed him. His kind were feared—and rightly so. Taking the wallet from his back pocket, he opened it and counted out what he felt should cover the refueling. If it did, that was okay. It is didn't, tough shit.
Climbing into the cockpit of his baby, he glanced out the windshield and saw people milling around outside the saloon. Some of them—obviously
"Aye, I want you to get the fuck up!” the bounty hunter screamed.
Hovering in the corner of the room was a vid-com, one of an ancient variety that had seen better days. Its titanium surface chipped and pitted from the drunken target practice of the bar's patrons over the years, miraculously the plasma recording device still worked—a testament to the fine an Ghermáin engineering of the Tappa Industries. What the vid-com recorded for the Aneas Quadrant Tribunal that afternoon would be replayed over and over again and examined closely by dozens of officials who would finally file the recording away, none of them keen on sending yet another bumbling bounty hunter after Dolan.
For those who would view the action later, the bar had been dimly lit, smoky, the herky-jerky movements of the participants appearing on the screen caused by the slowly disintegrating integrity of the vid-com tape. Rolling blips and white streaks of interference, caused by passing spacecraft, interfered with a strong, clear signal and thus distorted the confrontation—but it was obvious what had happened. Only the werewolf and the bounty hunter appeared on the viewback. However, it would be enough for those who studied it to have it brought forcefully home to the members of the Aneas Quadrant Tribunal that Dolan wasn't a man to mess with. He could be one mean motherfucker when angered.
There was the skirl of the bounty hunter's silver bullet tumbling through the air, the mirror behind the bar shattering. Blaez, the man for whom that deadly shot had been intended, was lying on his side on the floor, his left hand wrapped around a ten-inch long handle with a dragon perched at the base. The laser light of his whip wavered for a moment then retracted into the dragon handle with a sharp sizzle.
For a moment Albert Brewster stood where he was—knees still bent, arms stiff as a day-old cadaver. His pale blue eyes were wide, his mouth ajar with a thin stream of spittle seeping from one side. He made a strangled sound, and then his head fell from his shoulders to roll beneath one of the gaming tables.
Blaez was lying at eye level with the gruesome trophy for a moment then got easily to his feet, dusting off his black jeans, snapping the handle of his laser whip back into its leather sheath. He straightened his shoulders, reached for the bottle of whiskey, poured himself another drink, downed it, slammed the shot glass on the bar and fished in his pocket for a beryllium slug, slapped it down, then walked out of the bar without a second glance at the man he'd killed.
Outside the bar, it was colder than a witch's teat. A thick rime of frost lay on the ground and it crunched as he walked toward the refueling station at the edge of the shoddy little town. A single light glowed in the station but all around him the windows of the buildings were dark and not one single curtain, one single blind moved as he made his way down the street.
The air reeked sharply of sulfur and something even more obnoxious. With his keen sense of smell, the odors were combining to give him a wicked headache. That did nothing to elevate the black mood into which he'd been sinking since landing on Gelal.
His ship was sitting where he'd left it. The fuel had been brought to it for he didn't trust—or allow—anyone to touch his baby but him. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said, reaching out to stroke his hand down the gleaming black hull of the Fiach class runabout that was his pride and joy.
Glancing around, he didn't see the station attendants but that neither surprised nor alarmed him. His kind were feared—and rightly so. Taking the wallet from his back pocket, he opened it and counted out what he felt should cover the refueling. If it did, that was okay. It is didn't, tough shit.
Climbing into the cockpit of his baby, he glanced out the windshield and saw people milling around outside the saloon. Some of them—obviously
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