by Ivan Ertlov
"... hey, general announcement, I'm a stupid tourist, and I'm carrying around an obscene amount of cash!"
Bettsy hoisted, Troshk jumped back, and Dilara hissed angrily. Frank himself unconsciously reached to his side and into the void after the Stormcommander had not armed him this time. A mistake, and all their eyes were now fixed reproachfully on Florbsh.
Because the latter had actually shouted the last sentence.
Greedy movement came into the shadows and figures at the tables and benches in the twilight; shadows and silhouettes grew larger and moved towards the tourists.
"According to an old saying, a brawl only begins with the second blow"
- German proverb
4.
Eastwood
The table, robbed of one of its legs by sheer physical force, flies through the room, rotating around its axis in the air.
Playing cards and glasses, fountains of beer, wine, and questionable other liquids are hurled in all directions, accompanied by a shower of those delicious little candied chocolate nuts.
Three, four, five of them hit Frank, but he doesn't even notice; he's far too distracted by the Hursh fist that's punching him painfully in the ribs from behind.
He whirls around, reaches forward and manages to grab the head, that long, narrow thing from which two eyes stare at him in astonished horror.
He pulls the skull down and jerks his knee heartily upwards, once, twice, three times directly against the chin of the aggressor, who collapses, panting.
A jug of mossy-smelling wine flies past Frank's cheek and sails into Bettsy's back, where it shatters against the chitin and lets its sweet contents run down her carapace.
Not even a scratch is visible, and even if, she wouldn't notice. Enthusiastically hoisting a Toronk who weighs a good two hundred kilos, she tosses him over the counter where he lands in the bartender's vat.
The latter, in turn, is swinging down the stairs, nagging loudly and indignantly, trying to break up the quarrels with his tentacles.
The chaos is perfect.
What started out as a traditional harmless robbery from the Rim Worlds textbook is now a full-blown bar brawl, a confusing battlefield of around three dozen combatants and more than twice as many fragile, ever-shifting alliances.
Bones break, furniture is shattered, guttural shouts and sharp screams pierce the room.
It's fun!
Frank leaps forward, undercuts the swing of a half-naked shaved Borsht - no, not the one from the spaceport! - and rams his head into another Hursh who is about to knock out the teeth of the fellow exiled beneath him.
Troshk growls enthusiastically, grabbing the Tarjah directly in front of him by the left ear before the opponent can even get his bottle into striking position.
One, two, three quick turns around his own axis, then the Stormcommander lets go of the treeglider, who heads towards the entrance ...
... well, sailing.
He slaps hard against the door frame and almost falls to the floor unconscious - but only almost.
Dazed, he struggles to his feet, staggers forward, positions himself in front of Troshk - and draws his sickle blades, snarling!
As if from nowhere, Dila jumps in, throwing herself protectively in front of the Stormcommander with the remains of her last opponent's skin and hair between her teeth.
The ritual steel of her people now also shines in her hands, and the hissing cry of violence from her wide-open mouth silences the pub. But not her opponent, who sneers at the astrotelepath.
"What are you, little flightless one, doing here?"
Fists pause in mid-air, raised table legs, chairs, and glass bottles are carefully set down again.
No one dares to breathe; everything that can still stand, crawl or sit stares with eyes widened in fear and horror at the two Tarjah, who begin to circle each other, snarling.
Their blades flash, their rows of teeth are bared.
Everyone knows what this means.
The cheerful robbery attempt, the almost friendly brawl is now over, the bloodbath begins.
Florbsh has literally crawled under a gaming table; only hesitantly does his pseudopod come out to watch the massacre in the making.
Frank looks desperately at Troshk, then at Bettsy, whose three-eight has disappeared into her new bag, rummaging frantically for something.
A last attempt to prevent the inevitable.
"Dila, you don't have to ..."
Her head jerks around, and for the first time, Frank sees a Tarjah in a blood frenzy, with red-rimmed eyes that have almost completely lost their cuteness.
Her snarl is now directed at him, briefly and intermittently, before she fixes her gaze on her opponent again.
No, the cheese is eaten; no one can prevent ...
"We pay your booze!"
Dozens of heads turn, greedy eyes sway away from the fighters, fix on the Metaltaster.
Bettsy stands in the middle of the pub, stretched high up, segments fully extended.
In the claws of her three-eight shines a bar of chucknorrisium, enough ultra-hard metal to buy a small glider.
Hissing and clicking, she yells the only spell that can still avert the bloodshed.
"THE NEXT ROUNDS ARE ON US! AS MANY AS YOU WANT!"
*
"That's enough for this piss-up here, your rooms and to replace the smashed furniture. Which in turn means that today is probably my lucky day. Do you want another round, or will you tell me what you're really looking for?"
The octopus actually seemed more than satisfied; by now, he seemed genuinely jovial and friendly. You couldn't blame him - his place was now full of happy revellers, who no longer just regularly high-fived the strange visitors, but above all, had stopped trying to tear his hotel apart or slash each other. Even Dila and her near-opponent had meanwhile toasted and buried the hatchet, while Florbsh had switched from beer to harder liquor to calm his nerves.
If he had any nerves.
Frank did not make the mistake of underestimating the innkeeper. He may not have possessed a backbone in the literal sense - but the lurking, excellently played indifference with which he had asked his question was a warning to be careful. A warning that Troshk either did not hear or deliberately ignored.
"We are looking for an old friend of ours, maybe you know him. His name is Gurabsh ..."
Two of the tentacles, which had just been busily cleaning glasses, stopped moving while head and beak slowly realigned. The Stormcommander was targeted first and given another good look, then Bettsy, and finally Frank.
"The old Himmelfreund?"
This time it wasn't imagination; the tone was actually lurking - and the question itself a test. Frank shook his head.
"No, Himmelfeind. Himmelfeind-Kreuzpointner, to be precise."
The host made a sound that could best have been described as a resigned sigh. A kind of fate-given concession mixed with something else that was hard to grasp ...
... regret?
"You will find him at the peacekeeper's place. Please understand that someone in my profession does not want to accompany you there. And probably no one else in this room either."
Dilara jumped onto the barstool next to Frank and leaned forward. For a split second, her side brushed his thigh, and a shiver ran down his spine.
Damn you, adrenaline and its after-effects!
"We don't need a guide; we just want directions. With the money you've made today - which also comes out of my pocket - you might as well reciprocate."
The parrot beak laughed briefly, and it didn't take too much imagination to hear the cynicism.
"Show recognition? Maybe even grateful? Do you a favour because of that? Here you are, you can have it in the form of good advice: get out of here or, for all I care, go to town for a few days. Spend or forfeit your money, go to the opera, join one of the trance journeys of the locals - but stay away from the peacekeeper."
Dila tore open her mouth, exposing her rows of teeth, whose hundreds of s
mall but razor-sharp daggers forcefully reminded the bartender that his body was decidedly soft and probably tasty.
"All right. But don't say later that I didn't warn you. If there is a later for you."
Troshk grumbled sullenly and casually placed the assault rifle on the counter.
"Enough of cryptic warnings and useless hints. The way to the peacekeeper, please."
The last rearguard action of the innkeeper, who must have been sincerely worried about the most solvent clientele in a long time, came to an end.
"When you go out, keep to the left. Stay on the main road until you reach the edge of town, where a small stone path leads down the hill towards the coast. The peacekeeper resides there on the right."
Frank nodded gratefully at him.
"What does his house look like? How can we recognise it?"
The parrot beak laughed croakily.
"Oh, believe me, you can't miss it. It's quite ...
... well, let's call it impressive."
*
"This is absolute madness! Guys, have you ever seen anything like this?"
For a brief, liberating moment, Frank fell back into that childlike wonder, that carefree, innocent enthusiasm that one supposedly loses with age.
Not in this case.
His delighted exclamation was not directed at the long building on the edge of the city; unlike most wooden structures, this one was formed of stone, titanium and steel, protected with bars over the windows and a double-secured polymer entrance door.
Not even at the magnificent lawn, which formed a deep green and lush, bizarre contrast to the dusty grey-orange of the surroundings, standing out like a foreign body.
No, it was the ship, parked behind the building, that fully captured his attention. Bigger than a glider, bigger than a shuttle or fighter - maybe it had once been a bomber, maybe even a corvette. Despite its size, it had a sleek, elegant appearance, curved forms made of a black base material that seemed somehow alive. Above it, seamlessly interwoven plates of gleaming silvery metal, reinforced at the bow to form a massive armour plating, from which a whole row of weapon bays protruded. It had obviously not been flown for years, wearing its patina and an inch-thick layer of red-yellow sand - but it did so with the dignity and majesty of a queen of the battlefield.
Bettsy clicked excitedly, and her antennae bobbed with excitement.
"This is a Toronk wedgebreaker, a relic from the grey past - but by no means obsolete technology. The hull is not built but grown; it takes decades to reach its shape and to store enough natural polymers. Folks, this is one of a kind, an absolute masterpiece of the geneticists and bioengineers of the walking trees. Yes, I have heard of it but never seen it with my own eyes!"
"I did."
Astonished, they turned to Dilara, who took a step forward, walked onto the lawn and carefully examined the silhouette behind the house.
"Twenty years ago, when the Exoloar Consortium tried to impose a trade blockade on the Rim Worlds in an attempt to force the Furbahr into an exclusive treaty with them. The latter refused, hiring every free trader, every pirate, every owner of an arms-bearing ship on the planet to break the blockade in one glorious blow. What a battle, how daring!"
Frank stepped to her side, as surprised as he was curious.
"You were there?"
Dila nodded, and a hint of wistfulness, a vague longing for times long past, wilder but also simpler, was in her large, dark eyes.
"Yes, indeed I was, as a young, inexperienced pilot and astrotelepath on one of the heavy freighters that confronted the Consortium mercenaries."
"Did you make it?"
She smiled and playfully poked Frank in the ribs.
"Of course, otherwise, I wouldn't be here. But it was a ship like this that flew through the blockade first, and I mean really through - it just rammed and smashed through the fattest Exoloar starship. The wedgebreakers were incredibly rare even then, legends from a time when they didn't pay attention to every single mineral unit when they built ships. I didn't think I would ever again ..."
"Get off my lawn!"
Frank and his comrades whirled around, startled by a deep, gnarled voice that brooked no argument.
A shiver ran down his spine when he saw the big old Toronk walking slowly towards them from a side entrance, an antique repeating rifle at the ready. The giant of his people was barely three metres tall, and centuries of life experience had left their mark on its bark and roots. Its crown branches were almost defoliated, photosynthesising slowly with a remnant of foliage. The bark was grey, cracked and brittle, but the visual areas on the upper trunk seemed wide awake and alert. The articulating membrane beneath was warped into a grim expression, moving slowly but relentlessly. Heavy, shuffling roots still betrayed abundant remnants of that wiry strength with which they could once have won any race, so-called moisture from the grass beneath them with every step.
Of course, many of the small side and back branches had dried up, some even dead, but the trunk quivered with ancient, still active and dangerous life. A badge had been carved at two metres high, a star with a stylised shotgun in the centre, not unlike the rifle he was pointing at them. The ancient weapon lay so calmly and naturally in its supporting branches that it seemed like part of his body.
Without being specifically asked to do so, they raised their hands and paws, claws and pseudopods. Frank cleared his throat and tried to sound as respectful as possible.
"Sorry for our intrusion, we thought, well, since there's no fence here and ...
... Forgive me, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Frank Gazer, commander of the independent merchant ship Yrsha. And you are …?"
The Toronk growled, not letting them out of the optical sensory cells - and kept his branch on the trigger.
"Eastwood. Edge Eastwood. I'm the peacekeeper here."
A step behind Frank, Florbsh bubbled quietly to himself.
"Eastwood? Edge Eastwood? We're on a mission of stupid names."
Bettsy hoisted.
"Shut up! Are you trying to kill us?"
Eastwood followed the banter with growing displeasure but flinched briefly as Dilara pushed forward, passing Frank and taking a step towards the peacekeeper. The tips of her ears quivered with excitement.
"This - this is a Marauder K-13! One bullet in the barrel, fourteen in the stock magazine! Can shoot just about anything from air-filtered heavy metal over toxic tree sap to bark beetles."
The peacekeeper creaked indignantly.
"Yes, indeed. A very efficient weapon. Which is why, for the first and last time, I ask you the all-important question - what do you want from me?"
But there was something in his voice, a slight tremor as of leaves shaking in the wind, and he eyed Dila with an attention that seemed to merge into curiosity. The astrotelepath ignored this as well as the question, raised a hand and stretched it towards the ship, which still towered like a gigantic monument behind the house.
"This - this is the Tree of Life!"
Surprised, Eastwood took a step back, let the barrel of his shotgun travel upwards, took the immediate threat out of the situation while Dilara now pointed at him.
"And you are the Wooden Corsair! A fucking legend! The most famous pirate who was never caught!"
Frank gasped in relief when the Toronk finally lowered his weapon and indicated a bow.
"That's a big, unexpected compliment from the fanged mouth of the Raging Beauty. But I suppose for once no one calls you that anymore?"
Dila shook her head, and Frank realised once again, with a strangely longing melancholy in his heart, how little he knew about his co-pilot. But when he looked into the puzzled eyes of Troshk and Bettsy, it was not only him.
Eastwood laughed briefly.
"Neither do I appreciate the Wooden Corsair, not anymore. Those are names from a different time, a different life with different, much simpler priorities than today."
He looked around attentively and carefully.
"I take
it, for once, that this is your crew - and this amazingly mannerly human your living provisions?"
Dila shook her head with a grin.
"No, Frank is actually our commander - well, sort of at least."
The peacekeeper's leaves straightened in astonishment.
"Really? The Raging Beauty takes orders from a human? My goodness, how long have I been rooting?"
Bettsy scurried forward, clicking placatingly.
"Taking orders is a bit of an exaggeration. We're more of a collective, you know? Equals among equals."
"So, like communists? That's a human religion too, isn't it?"
"No, not communists, but comrades, partners in a common Consortium. Friends."
Troshk growled.
"Yes, and accompanied by our slimy lawyer."
With astonishing speed for his age, Eastwood jumped back, brought his rifle back to bear and pointed the muzzle tremulously at Florbsh, who responded with a resigned sigh.
"Chill out, old tree. Not THAT kind of lawyer."
*
"How did you find me? And please don't tell me you're after some ancient bounty."
Eastwood had planted himself in his on-call pot behind a large desk, offered them reasonably comfortable chairs and a coffee. Instant, laced with synthetic caffeine and coloured with tar - the stuff tasted atrocious but didn't fail to have an effect. Frank's gaze slid over the flickering holos of various wanted posters hanging on the walls, over the weapons cabinet with an astonishingly potent arsenal that even elicited an appreciative grunt from Troshk. They left the talking to Dilara, however.
"Honestly, we weren't looking for you. I didn't even know you were still breathing sunshine. With your way of life ..."
The peacekeeper rustled conspiratorially with his last leaves.
"We all come to rest one day if the great carpenter doesn't get us first. What about you? I heard rumours you'd gone to the Mining Consortium."
"I did! That's where I met Frank, Bettsy, and Troshk. We have since set up our own business; we now own a small prospectorate."
