Blue dust huddled over Main Street, New Helena—another one-horse town out here in the West Galaxy—as Pokey Holliday parked his sorry excuse for a ship the only way he knew how. Terribly.
He killed the engine and a sigh of relief escaped the ship, which was technically a refurbished lifepod from one of the early colonising fleets. Pokey had got it off a scrap dealer a few years back for a good price. Sometimes he wondered if old scrappy ever found out.
After wrestling open the patchwork hatch, he stepped out to a crowd of wary onlookers. He slung them his steeliest gaze through the haze.
If this was the sort of man whose name preceded him, it was only because he’d never figured out how to get anywhere on time.
“Right, then.” Pokey pulled back his coat to reveal a plasma blaster on his hip. Outlawin’ 101. “I’ll have a word with the meanest of the lot of ya.” He gave his blaster a menacing pat. “Won’t take long.”
All at once the onlookers pointed towards a big piece of man slouched against some whiskey barrels in front of the saloon. Pokey could tell right away the brute’d had guts. He suspected they’d occupied the place where a giant hole had not long been blasted.
There was no need to guess who was responsible.
Frontier towns right across the West Galaxy were rife with WantedHolos offering a nice reward for bringing her to justice: a dead-eyed plasma slinger by the name of Honest-to-God. Of course, what they were really offering was a warning.
Or in Pokey Holliday’s case, something to aim for.
The saloon didn’t fall quiet when Pokey entered. That was a trick of the trade our boy was yet to get the hang of. He surveyed the room, which smelled of booze, sweat, and citrusy vapour. When his gaze eventually settled on a lone figure at the far end of the bar, he could smell trouble, too.
“Honest-to-Damn-God!” he said, and that got the place listening. “Here I was thinking you’ve been avoiding me.”
The woman at the bar carried on drinking.
Being ignored was hard on the ego at the best of times, worse when your only ambition in life was to gain some notoriety. It could trigger a man into bad decisions, rash decisions, like reaching for his blaster and saying something foolish like, “Well, a coward can’t outrun fate forever, heh-heh. Comes a time when you’ve just gotta look it in the eyes and draw.”
Honest-to-God threw back the last of her drink and set the tumbler down on the counter. With barely a half-turn of the head she said, “All right, boyo.” Her voice was deadly calm. “If you’re looking to die today, I can arrange it. Almighty knows I’d be glad to. But if it’s a name you’re chasing—cos I suspect there ain’t a soul in the West Gal’ that could pick you from a pair—then you’re gonna wanna do your dying out in the blue dust at ten paces, not on some saloon floor. In which case, it’d be a shame to bite the plasma without one last drink, wouldn’t it?”
This was by a cosmic mile the coolest and most terrifying thing anybody had ever said to Pokey. He stood dumbstruck, blaster grip slackening. A massive bubble had holed up in his throat and he wanted badly to swallow it, but was afraid of the comical gulp it’d make.
Maybe a drink wasn’t a bad idea.
The barman had already filled two fresh tumblers with whiskey at the suggestion. It looked a good drop.
But hell if it was gonna be Pokey Holliday’s last.
From then on, there was no point thinking of time in measures of minutes or hours. Glasses of amber drew a better picture.
The first one went down like kicking your socks off after a long day on the scavenge; no thought of tomorrow’s aching. The second, a well-placed footstool. Numero the third (which, counted on fingers one, two, three, made the shape of a blaster) went down like the best damn whiskey to ever wet young Poke’s lips, and he let everyone know it.
The atmosphere grew lively then, patrons all singing and dancing and dealing and scrapping.
Pokey lost count of glasses, started counting new acquaintances instead.
For all the holes he’d have to put in Honest-to-God soon enough, he had to admit she was fine company. The two got to trading tales of lawlessness, and Pokey fought with an urge to play ignorant to her exploits and wanting to absorb a master of the craft.
He made do with drunken candour. “I tell ya, I’ve waited a long time for this. Ain’t seen a corner of the West Galaxy without your mug on it.” He gestured wildly to the WantedHolo behind the bar. “Got me feeling like a joker who ain’t worth a bounty for nothin’.”
“It takes time,” said Honest-to-God, “and not dying. It’s too bad you ain’t seem to have a handle on either.”
Right about then Pokey began to see double, so it was the Honest-to-God on the left who added, “But that’s today’s upstarts for you: want it all without the grit.” The other gave a sage nod.
It was a harsh truth, but even in his current state, Pokey supposed he needed that sometimes if he was gonna reach his potential. He took a moment for some thoughtful swaying. “How is it that no matter what I do, you’re always one step ahead?”
Both Honest-to-Gods offered a wry smile. “Up at dawn. Plenty of water.” They set a pair of glasses down in front of him.
If Pokey stared at them for long enough, they merged into one. It made him wonder whether he might be in danger of losing an enemy, or gaining a mentor. He chuckled at the thought.
“Drink up,” said Honest-to God, starting for the exit. “I’ll see you out in the blue dust.”
