“And if I am?”
“If you are, then I’ve heard a lot about you. You wanna leave this place, go back to what you know?”
“And that would be?”
“You know…I reckon as every trader on the road has probably heard stories of Trader and his crew. The richest, smartest there was until he disappeared. And what a crew—the one-eyed man who was the meanest and smartest fighter in the whole of the wastes, and the guy with glasses, J.B., the one they called the Armorer, who supposedly knew more about blasters, plas-ex and grens than any man who ever lived. Hell, than any two men who ever lived.”
“You’ve given us a good buildup.” Ryan smiled.
“Only the truth as I heard it,” Conroy replied. All trace of previous humor had gone from his voice, and he was now deadly serious. “Listen, Ryan Cawdor, you must know that I hire from trip to trip. That’s because I’ve never found anyone I can trust to handle sec and keep their shit together. Just look at these guys.” He indicated the drunken revelers around them. “Fuck it, they deserve to party hard after this trip, but they’re just mercies. Never found any yet that I could keep on between trips and trust not to try and rip me off or get themselves chilled. These are good boys for action if you pay them, but basically they’re scum, right?”
“And me and J.B. aren’t?”
“You’re class of a different kind,” Conroy said, leaning forward. “We leave tomorrow. Come with us, you and the Armorer. I know he ain’t taken to me, but I don’t give a shit about popularity contests.”
“It won’t bother him any, either,” Ryan said slowly. “Mebbe we will, at that. I’ll talk to J.B., and we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll take a drink to that.” Conroy smiled, ordering more of the spirit for himself and his companion.
Ryan took the drink from the trader. He had no intention of making the rendezvous, but it could be useful cover. If the baron and Yardie thought they were leaving with Conroy, then their absence wouldn’t be put down to trying to find the Gate, and they should be left well alone.
Meanwhile, on the far side of the bar, J.B. was talking to a sec man whom he had seen only recently.
“Yeah, I was through here only a couple of weeks back,” the sec man confirmed. “I was riding with a convoy that had come across from the west, trader called Malloy. He was supposed to meet up with trader Malone down on the coast, some pesthole little ville called Godot. But before we even got that far, he got into trouble with this baron called Estragon, who claimed Malloy was trying to rip him off.”
“But that happens all the time,” J.B. interjected.
“Ah, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Malloy really was trying to rip Estragon, which was a fucking triple stupe dumbass thing to do when you reckon on Estragon having just about the biggest stockpile of weaponry between here and the coast.”
“So what did you do?”
“Only thing we could—me and some of the other boys. We jumped ship, dude. Got the fuck out as fast as possible and ended up trying to get work in the nearest ville, which is where I picked up with Conroy’s crew. He pays well, and he gets rich by being hard but true—surest way for a trader to get chilled is to cheat. Play hard, but play fair if you want to survive, right?”
“I’ll go along with that,” J.B. said, his thoughts momentarily going back to his own days with Trader.
“Right. And besides, it landed us back here mighty quick, and this is just about the best damn ville in the whole land when it comes for getting drunk and getting laid.”
The sec man downed the rest of his brew and banged his glass down on the table in front of him. He blinked slowly and heavily, then sat, missing his chair and falling to the floor. The revelers around him laughed, those who noticed in the confusion all around. J.B. was laughing, as well, a laugh that was stilled in his throat as he bent to help the man to his feet.