Michael Flynn - Up Jim River

In theory, this should have made her a lively debarkation port, with companies of settlers moving through, drinking the local vawga , buying last-minute trinkets, seeking last-minute joys. The planet could have called herself “Last Chance” with some justice. But she had become a cul de sac on Electric Avenue. The worlds out the Wilderness Road were more advanced than those along the Gansu Corridor. Many had large populations and, though their technology was primitive, colonizing them would be problematical.

Billy found something akin to a hotel, called a “bed-and-breakfast.” Hotels were not a major industry on Gatmander. She held few attractions for off-planet visitors, and native Gats were homebodies. Consequently, some families earned a little hard currency by renting out rooms and serving meals to strangers.

The next morning the family served them breakfast; or, as they put it in the peculiar back-handed syntax of the Gat born and bred: “Unto us there is an occasion for breakfast.” Méarana immediately understood why the room and board was so inexpensive. There was barely enough board to count as a splinter. A bowl of some coarse-ground cereal called “fortitude” liberally greased with dollops of butter and syrup and washed down with a fatty milk called chacha . Méarana supposed the cereal was called “fortitude” or “grit” because one needed that virtue to consume it.

She was alone in her fastidiousness. Billy usually resigned himself to whatever food he was given; and the Fudir was, as always, indifferent. Teodorq seemed actually to enjoy the meal and asked for seconds, and Méarana made note to avoid the Wildman’s native cuisine.

Their hosts, sahb and memsahb Dukover were neither friendly nor unfriendly. They smiled at the right times and spoke the pleasant formalities, but their attitude was summed up in the Gatmander hospitality motto: “Guests Happen.”

“These Gat-fellas,” said Billy Chins later that morning as they walked toward the mercantile district, “they talk such-much funny-style.”

Teodorq laughed, but before Billy could frown, he pointed down a side street and said, “The shop’s down that way.”

The wind was chill and blustery, channeled by the dark, narrow lanes between the warehouses. It carried a touch of sleet. Gatmander’s long winter had ended, and its long spring was underway. Flower buds peered suspiciously from plots and pots; krunsaus watched for shadows. The world had a long orbit and would be some while making up its mind. When they turned up Chandler’s Lane the wind blasted them so that, even wrapped in the “snow-cloak” she had been loaned, Méarana shivered.

Or did she shiver from hope? Teodorq had promised no more than the name of the world from which the medallion had come; and the shop-owner might not know even that; but despite all past disappointments, she had come to expect some great breakthrough. But what of it? Were the outcome a sure thing, hope would be superfluous.

Teodorq paused before a weapons shop and studied the window holo display with longing. “Remember what I told yuh, babe,” he said. “I can’t be no bodyguard without I got weapons to guard yuh with.”

“Later, Teddy,” said the harper. “After you’ve led us to the shop.”

She moved on and the Wildman followed. The Fudir hesitated. The Pedant wanted to study the weapons and the Brute concurred. Thus did hunger for knowledge and lust for combat find common ground. Between them, the two influenced the memory and the animal body, and so the scarred man forgot for a moment where he was going and his body turned to the display.

A variety of weapons were mounted on stands and pedestals: automatic pellet guns, revolving cylinder pellet guns, electric teasers, induction nerve dazers, brass knuckles, daggers and knives in an alarming range of shapes and sizes. A two-handed broadsword with an elaborately jeweled pommel leaned against the side of the display. Hand-lettered cards announced the provenance of the weapons. Zhenghou Shuai. Ākramaņapīchē. Kaņţu. Enjrun. Worlds he had never heard of. Worlds of the Wild. Peoples to whom the crafting of a weapon was a work of art. Gloriously filigreed, garishly pastelled, engraved, burnished, some, indeed, could be intended only for ceremonial use. That saber, for example. That automatic. But for the others, their form followed their function.

Beautiful, the Brute sighed—delighted by the craftsmanship or by the functionality, who could say?

All of the pellet weapons are from Ākramaņapīchē and Kaņţu, said the Pedant. The more utilitarian edged weapons are from Enjrun, as well as some muzzle-loaders and flintlocks. Electronic weapons are only from Zhenghou Shuai.

And you know what that means , the Sleuth whispered. It’s an elementary deduction .

But since he would not draw it, the scarred man remained bemused. Pedant said, Must you always show off?

Oh, look who’s talking. Are you sure you’re the memory and not the ego?

Oh, that’s your job.

The Sleuth sniffed and dropped out, and the scarred man found himselves staring at a catalog of weaponry. Then the Pedant dropped out, and he forgot what the catalog had been.

“I hate it when those two assholes quarrel,” muttered the Fudir.

You could try being nicer to them .

They started to turn away, but Inner Child kept their eyes glued to the display. «Those could hurt us, if we ever found ourselves on the wrong side of them.»

“You’re supposed to be cautious and wary,” Donovan growled, “not paralyzed with fear. You’re useless.”

This time he did turn away—to find that Billy Chins had lingered.

“Sahb let Wildman have such-much weapons? Who guard us against our guard?”

“Billy,” said the scarred man, “we are truly awed by the depth of your trust.”

“Trust be better found hiding neath caution,” the khitmutgar replied.

“How much sambai long—I mean, what protection are broke old-fella you and liklik meri if the muscle turns on us?”

“I’m more concerned that he’ll try to run out on us. He’s not atangku, only a contract worker. To some of these Wildmen, ‘honor’ means everything. To others, it means nothing.” He clapped a hand to Billy’s shoulder. “They practice taqila . If you’re not of their tribe, they’ll pretend to be your friend, look you straight in the eye, and lie like hell.”

“Master sahb lucky, then,” said Billy with a wide grin. “Eyes belong-you never straight enough look into!”

Donovan directed a playful swat to Billy’s head just as Méarana turned about and pointed from up the lane. “Teddy’s found the place!”

CHENG-BOB SMERDROV’S IMPORT-EXPORT, SPECIALISTS IN WILDWORK, was a large, barnlike structure formed of “grown wood.” Its bins and shelves held the most chaotic concatenation of gimcrack and miscellany this side of Jehovah’s Starport Sarai. Cheng-bob himself was a bear of a man, bushy of beard and ruddy of cheek. His eyelids were folded at the corners and his nose was long and straight. He smiled to excess.

The importer sat on a high stool behind a wooden counting board, leaning his beefy arms upon its well-worn surface. “As it pertains to me,” he was saying to Méarana as Donovan and Billy entered, “there is no occasion of memory. Many diverse goods from many diverse worlds pass through this building. Importer-exporter is a trade unto me, but art-critic is not.”

Teodorq waved his medallion. “Yuh sold me this bauble no more’n six moons ago. Yuh can’t remember that?”

Cheng-bob spread his hands helplessly. “Many Wildmen pass before my gaze. What makes one more memorable than another? It is for the buyers of Valency and High Tara that these goods are assembled. Wildwork is much in vogue in that quarter of the Arm. For me only rarely is there an occasion of retail.”