Our little pissing match had attracted some unwelcome attention, in particular three large and rather unfriendly looking aliens. Picture the love child of an armadillo and a rock, beaten half to death with the ugly stick. Their tentacle-like tongues flicked in and out of their narrow mouths as they formed a half-circle around us.
“You are hoo-man?” the largest one asked in the local trade language. My wrist console translated for me through my ear-jewel, though I understood well enough to get along without it.
“Yes,” Jane answered before I could say anything. “Though we are not official emissaries, we express our greetings in a spirit of friendship.”
She was a lot better at the trade language than I was, but she had still missed a few non-verbal cues. The two grunts stood with their centers of gravity low and their arm-like upper appendages ready for action, like linebackers just before a play. They all carried dagger-like blades on their belts, with a longer one sheathed on the backs of their knotted shells. It was clear that they weren’t here to establish friendly diplomatic relations.
My hand slipped down to Kindness, the .45 ACP 2011 holstered on my hip.
“You come with us,” the head rockadillo said, its tongue flitting rapidly. “No question. No resist.”
“I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake,” said Jane, frowning at their odd request.
“We no mistake. You hoo-man, you come now. No more talk!”
“Friends, please,” said Ivosh, stepping between them. “There is no need to—”
Without any warning, Grunt Number One lunged forward and threw a punch into Ivosh’s body with a sickening snap, and the empath tumbled over the countertop. Jane screamed, and I bolted into action.
Gunslinger to the Stars
Sam Kletchka here, freelance gunslinger and interstellar privateer. This, my friends, is how I went from being stranded in the armpit of the galaxy to becoming the luckiest human being in the universe.
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