The Backworlds by M. Pax Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t want to be involved with her past
one good transaction, which would put more chips in his fund. Nope. Beyond that
would be utter foolishness.
    The dark-clad people reinforced his
decision. The kind of profit they might proffer, well, it had to be as shadowy
as their clothes. Black market, illicit channels, secret trade, dripped off
their hems like dew in the evenings on the ganya trees. They might as well have worn lit-up signs saying so on their heads.
    Craze would have to be careful not
to jump like a Croakman after freshly hatched
ricklits. Eagerness would cost him in this venture. A mere percentage playing
the Jix’s patsy was hardly worth the risk. No, he wanted a bigger payoff and he
knew if he could figure it out, the opportunity had just walked in.
    For now, he followed Gattar’s lead,
playfully catching her kiss, holding it against his heart. “Ale it is for you,
Sweets.”
    He only had to stand and take a
half step to the left to lean over the bar and summon the barkeep. Placing
Gattar’s empty pitcher on the counter, he said, “Refill, please.” He pulled out
his tab, punching in the saloon’s pay code that was painted several times in
neon on the wall behind the bartender. “How much?”
    “Two chips.” The tank of a woman
grabbed hold of the handle and settled the ewer under the nozzle, drawing the
tap.
    The beer gurgled out, glunking and sputtering in an uneven flow. Craze’s stomach
bucked, but he sent her the payment.
    Head bent, he glanced sideways. The
shady figures surrounded Gattar. She maneuvered her chair so her back faced
none of them. She had some smarts. Craze couldn’t deny that. He wasn’t so sure
about his own, standing deep in a den of cons slicker than Bast. He hoped his
skills were up to this challenge.
    “What you got in single malt?” he
asked the barkeep.
    She set two bottles on the bar. One
would leech all the color off of the composites making up the furniture and
fixtures in here. He pointed at the other in a round bottle that would still
kick his belly, but it was at least drinkable.
    “How much?” He hated paying for
booze when better bottles lay in his bag, but it was rude to bring liquor to a
bar. And in a place like this, it could get him stomped until he became part of
the sticky crap on the floor.
    The bartender set the full pitcher
down before him, then patted the top of the malt. “Ten.”
    He nodded, considering the folks
chatting with Gattar. Their clothes didn’t have tears or patches. They weren’t
worn at all either. Along with the scent of trouble, Craze detected money. A
lot of it. He hoped they were of a mind to share, and he would get the idea
going by offering them some malt. It was a manipulation that had often worked
for him on Siegna—give to get.
    “Five cups with the bottle,
please.” He pinged tank woman the cost and a tip. Not tipping here would be as
poor of a decision as drinking from the bottles in his pack, especially with
opportunity so close.
    He set the pitcher in front of
Gattar and the bottle and cups in the center of the table, greeting the three
folks in black with a thrust of his chin. Craze poured himself a hefty serving.
It was a far cry from Bast’s magic carpet, but steps
above the rubbish the Jix drank. Then he gestured between the three strangers
and the bottle. “Thirsty? There’s a cup for you, too,” he said to Gattar.
    She shook her head, opening her
throat, gulping down more of the house horror ale. That she could drink so much
of it, like it, and not get sick baffled Craze. Perhaps it was one of the
modifications her race’s DNA had been given when it was spliced and diced up by
the Foreworlders back on the fabled Earth.
    He pulled at the smoky warmth in
his cup, wincing at the sharp, bitter notes, notes that had no business in
malt. The Jix and her shady friends had better make this up to him and his
taste buds. Otherwise, this was the second worst hour of his life after the
most recent one spent with