“No, this time you do shut the fuck up,” Hal broke in across him, ‘”cause the way you could talk the pads off a stickle ain’t got jackshit to do with it.”
“So what has it got to do with?” Ryan answered in a growl even lower and more threatening than the workman’s.
“It’s got to do with you uppity dipshits comin’ in out of nowhere and tryin’ to muscle in our jack,” Hal returned.
“And nothing to do with not getting our pussy?” Mildred countered.
“You take our jack, we take it out in trade,” Emerson rumbled from behind Hal.
“We don’t want your jack,” Ryan said. “We just want our blasters back and to get on our way.”
“Yeah, sure, but if Crow here decides that he wants to divide up the bonuses with you, you ain’t gonna say no,” Hal continued.
“Think we triple stupe as you look?” Jak said, sneering. Never the best traveler, the confined space, heat and movement of the wag made him feel like puking, and made his temper unnaturally short. This pointless argument was beginning to grate on his nerves.
Rysh decided to take up the argument. He half rose from his seat, swaying unevenly as the wag raced across the old blacktop, and leaned across to where Jak was sitting, hunched into himself to try to counter the feeling of sickness.
“Listen, you white-faced mutie scum, why don’t you keep your views to yourself, ’cause I don’t want to listen to the opinions of some piece of shit freak like you. That okay with you, is it?” he said mockingly, leaning almost into Jak’s face. He was bent over, legs slightly apart to keep his balance, his left hand gripping the mounting shaft of the blaster that divided the bench seats.
“Oh, dear,” Doc murmured to himself.
For Doc had seen Jak tense within his jacket, which he had wrapped around him protectively despite the heat. The multicolored patches, dulled in hue by time and travel, contained tiny pieces of metal that were sewn into the fabric and kept the much repaired camou jacket together. Doc, seated right next to Jak, had seen some of the small metal shapes just shimmer as they moved slightly.
He knew it meant just one thing: trouble.
Rysh’s sneering smile was still right in Jak’s face when the albino moved. His calf muscles had tensed and pushed, throwing his body forward. This momentum was increased by a nod of his head that brought his cranium forward at the optimum point of his torso’s movement, giving his scarred and pitted forehead extra momentum at the point of impact.
It was a sudden and violent movement, unexpected in such a confined space despite the air of tension and the taunting. Jak’s stringy white hair flailed around him in strands as his forehead connected with the bridge of Rysh’s nose, the crack sounding preternaturally loud in the enclosed space.
The thickset and muscular workman howled like a baby as the bone in his nose splintered beneath the impact, shards of it tearing through the skin and nasal membrane to gush out of his nostrils with the seeming river of blood that flowed freely. His eyes blurred, suddenly distant and out of focus as he staggered back instinctively, his grip loosening on the blaster’s mounting shaft that had been helping him to keep his balance.
Tex was unable to resist a quick look over his shoulder, yelling “Fuck!” when he saw what was happening. Despite this, Crow didn’t look back, but he did notice that the wag suddenly slewed across the road as the distracted Tex lost concentration for a second. The vehicle jerked as it moved, the sudden change of direction throwing the occupants in the back off balance.
Tex looked back quickly and corrected his course. But the damage was already done. Rysh, with no mounting shaft to steady him, and his senses misted by, the pain, staggered in the middle of the wag before falling onto his back. He hit the floor of the wag with a groan as the air was driven from him—not by the impact of the fall but by the sudden intervention of Jak’s knees on his abdomen.