"Once, many-a and many-a, you told me to put that down," Roland says as he slides into the seat opposite Joe with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee (saucer included; it's a good ashtray) in the other.
Joe thinks about this, searching, as ever, for the perfect laconic reply. The one comeback to rule them all; the one that would make Dorothy Parker piss herself in envy.
Taschen is a cold red dusty world with a dried-out sky; the terraforming didn't do so well here as it did on the two other planets in this system. They're thriving; Tashchen only has Cluny and a handful of other two-road towns, with a scattering of dirt-farmers and ranches between
( ... )
Joe shrugs, and leads Roland through the drifts of fine red dust around to the frontside of the building, where there are batwing doors.
In the distance, down the street, an enormous hanger is being built by technology Joe doesn't recognize; trucks and cranes that float on what looks like heat haze. On the mostly-finished side wall some kind of flying thing is airbrushing on a crest with an eagle.
"Some kind of future thing," Joe mutters. "But looks pretty familiar, still." He pushes through the batwing doors and into the murk. A bar like this should have a bounty or two posted, in his experience.
Few sounds are generally as satisfying as bootheels on wooden planks. There are gaps between the boards; they're large enough to lose something in. Not a bootheel, though.
There's no blood on the planks, either -- though there are a few suspect-looking stains. Those might just be from chewing tobacco, though. Either way, they're faded. It smells like iron in here. Iron bars on the cell. Something metallic, and musty. Some of the iron is rusted; it looks like the dirt outside.
Browning's the first one in; he takes a seat behind a desk that looks like it was made of pasteboard. Roland's next; he's got his gun by the grip.
Chaim shoves Joe through the door, because he can.
Roland looks distinctly unamused. He's good at that.
Browning opens up his desk drawer and tosses the deputy a bundle of paper credits. "Ell, go to the infirmary. Send Hoskins to go back and clean up the mess at Potter's. This whole thing is cao de dao ting hao de zaijian, and if the Alliance is who finds find Airman Grossman with his nose on the back of his head it'll all go to hell in a handbasket."
The big man nods, and with a last dirty look at the gunslinger and the bounty hunter, goes, squelching.
Browning sighs and runs his fingers through his close-cropped hair. "If you boys can sit tight while I send a wave, I won't have to lock you down. Believe me when I tell you if the milit'ry boys find you there won't be no trial."
The cell is open. There's a bench inside. The lawman pulls the only new looking object in the building, a complex plasticky screen and keyboard combination, over to him. The sonic pulse rifle is still laying across the desk.
The bunkhouse is essentially a very large tar-paper shack, down to the black sheets of...something...peeling off the sides. It's ugly. Hugely ugly.
The interior isn't all that bad, though. Rows upon rows of cots, separated by sheets for privacy; sometimes there'll be two or three jammed up together. Those are for families. There's a communal cast-iron stove in the middle for heat, and a fireplace at each end. As far as cooking facilities go, that's it.
Roland's standing just outside the doorway, looking in.
Many, many people are inside, looking out.
Roland doesn't look at Joe. Instead he moves inside.
Ohhh, we're gonna die here, Joe thinks optimistically. "Knee howdy, everybody," he says dryly.
One of the people in this room is not like the other; a thin youth dressed not in the shapeless dull-colored garments the others wear but in a well-cut suit with a string tie.
"Ni hao, gentlemen," he says in accented English. "Welcome." He address the room in rapid Cantonese, and as a good percentage of the farmers mutter among themselves and shift out another door. "I'm Liu Zhongren; I'm the spokesman for the First Settlers's Cooperative to the Alliance and the Board of Selectman, and a friend of Mr. Potter's. I understand you are in need of... a port from stormy seas?"
Comments 103
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He's very drunk.
"Fuck you."
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"It won't do you any good."
At least he's not saying I told you so about Mina.
Yet.
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He needs another drink. "B'lieve I saw you with a glass glued to your hand at the wedding r'ception," he drawls.
Not his, Joe's, wedding reception. And not Roland's, either, Christ have mercy. Cuthbert and Susan's.
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Roland looks at the field. Looks at Joe.
Waits.
It's his fucking pass, after all.
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In the distance, down the street, an enormous hanger is being built by technology Joe doesn't recognize; trucks and cranes that float on what looks like heat haze. On the mostly-finished side wall some kind of flying thing is airbrushing on a crest with an eagle.
"Some kind of future thing," Joe mutters. "But looks pretty familiar, still." He pushes through the batwing doors and into the murk. A bar like this should have a bounty or two posted, in his experience.
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"Yar," he says, staring at the hangar in progress.
"Familiar."
That prickle, that strange intuition that's his version of the touch -- it's there: You've been here before, Roland.
And then he pulls his eyes away and focuses on what's inside.
Skreeeeeek go the doors.
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There's no blood on the planks, either -- though there are a few suspect-looking stains. Those might just be from chewing tobacco, though. Either way, they're faded. It smells like iron in here. Iron bars on the cell. Something metallic, and musty. Some of the iron is rusted; it looks like the dirt outside.
Browning's the first one in; he takes a seat behind a desk that looks like it was made of pasteboard. Roland's next; he's got his gun by the grip.
Chaim shoves Joe through the door, because he can.
Roland looks distinctly unamused. He's good at that.
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The big man nods, and with a last dirty look at the gunslinger and the bounty hunter, goes, squelching.
Browning sighs and runs his fingers through his close-cropped hair. "If you boys can sit tight while I send a wave, I won't have to lock you down. Believe me when I tell you if the milit'ry boys find you there won't be no trial."
The cell is open. There's a bench inside. The lawman pulls the only new looking object in the building, a complex plasticky screen and keyboard combination, over to him. The sonic pulse rifle is still laying across the desk.
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Roland eyes the Cortex screen -- that's what he assumes it is -- warily. It doesn't look like the ones he's seen on Serenity.
Meantime, he holds still. No point in pacing. That'll make Browning nervous.
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"Well, I'm sure glad I ain't drunk off my ass in Milliways," he says dryly. "That'd be bad for my health."
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The interior isn't all that bad, though. Rows upon rows of cots, separated by sheets for privacy; sometimes there'll be two or three jammed up together. Those are for families. There's a communal cast-iron stove in the middle for heat, and a fireplace at each end. As far as cooking facilities go, that's it.
Roland's standing just outside the doorway, looking in.
Many, many people are inside, looking out.
Roland doesn't look at Joe. Instead he moves inside.
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There's a young man watching them -- not with any trepidation; with interest.
"Ni hao," Roland says, cordially.
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One of the people in this room is not like the other; a thin youth dressed not in the shapeless dull-colored garments the others wear but in a well-cut suit with a string tie.
"Ni hao, gentlemen," he says in accented English. "Welcome." He address the room in rapid Cantonese, and as a good percentage of the farmers mutter among themselves and shift out another door. "I'm Liu Zhongren; I'm the spokesman for the First Settlers's Cooperative to the Alliance and the Board of Selectman, and a friend of Mr. Potter's. I understand you are in need of... a port from stormy seas?"
Reply
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