Chapter 14: Mark | page 3

The Rusty Frigate looked for all the worlds like an actual crashed ship. It was artfully painted to make the crumpled hull look convincingly corroded. The ship had never been exposed to the elements long enough to rust. The nose, smashed and ripped open to form the entrance to the bar, lacked the sharp, ragged edges of a real crash. It had smoothed, rounded edges, probably to avoid injuring drunkenly reeling customers.

At some point, long before Coldhand had lost his hand and heart, the bar’s owner had purchased the shell of a small freighter. Rather than equipping it with expensive engines and life support systems, it had been meticulously cut and pulled back, the equipment inside rearranged to create a suitable bar. The Rusty Frigate was a popular watering hole for those who had once made their color in the stars, but whom circumstance had grounded on Axis.

Coldhand stepped inside. A husky Lyran bouncer eyed his Talon, but thought better of trying to disarm the bounty hunter. It was early in the afternoon and the Rusty Frigate was nearly empty of customers. Behind a row of dark consoles that served her bar stood Sarah Marcus, the middle-aged owner of the Rusty Frigate. Her Prian-blonde hair was peppered with gray and her once-curvaceous figure had many years ago become plump and matronly. Behind her, a display glowed with a selection of drinks and their prices. She scowled at Coldhand as he approached.

“What’re you doing here?” Sarah snapped. She reached under the bar, probably going for the antique shotgun that she kept there.

“I only need some information, Marcus,” Coldhand said.

“Why should I help you?”

Coldhand said nothing, only watching the angry woman patiently. Finally, Sarah sighed and turned over a glass, filling it with colorless liquor that smelled like it could probably melt lead.

“What kind of information?” Sarah asked.

Coldhand reached for the drink, but Sarah made a rude gesture at him. She finished it off herself in two large gulps, and then refilled the glass. After a moment’s thought, Sarah poured another and nudged it across the bar towards Coldhand.

“I’m looking for a gang that calls themselves the Steelskins. There was a shoot-out with the police and now they’ve gone into hiding,” he said.

“Those boys work a few levels down from here,” Sarah told him. “They brawl with the other gangs from time to time, usually the Grinders and Sisterhood. But they make their color on Vanora White. The Steelskins have a lab somewhere that produces the stuff.”

“Do they sell the White themselves or do they deal wholesale to someone else?” Coldhand asked. He took the Afterburner in his cybernetic hand, the metal of his fingers clinking on the glass. Sarah winced at the sound.

“Those Steelskin boys deal their Vanora White themselves. They don’t want to give a cut to a middleman, I suppose. You going to drink that or let me talk it to death?” she asked.

Coldhand was turning his glass. The light flashed from the faceted sides. “Twenty percent,” he said quietly, to himself.

“What? It’s on the house, as always, you damnable robot.”

She thought he was talking about paying for the drink. Coldhand was silent. His failure with the cedrophin did not inspire him to try again so soon. Strong drinks, good chems and beautiful women… All pointless.

“No reason to let it go to waste, then,” Sarah said. She reached out and took the glass, slipping it easily from the bounty hunter’s smooth cybernetic fingers. The stout bartender upended the contents into her mouth and swallowed hard.

“The one I need is called Vyron Fethru. Do you know him?” Coldhand asked.

“Vyron’s their salesman. A smooth-talking Dailon,” Sarah answered. “A hawk, I think, but it’s hard to tell with them. Knows how to cut a deal, that one.”

Coldhand nodded. She had given him enough information to hunt his mark to ground and take him. Without thanking Sarah, he turned and strode out of the Rusty Frigate.