From out of the cloudy sky, a sting-wing darted toward the mob of people. A blaster boomed, and the dead mutie tumbled to the ground out of sight. Rooftop guards, Ryan realized. This ville was very well protected, and by damn good shots, too. Suddenly, he was glad he decided to talk his way out of the problem.
Moving toward an eatery, Ryan saw folks pay for bowls of vegetable stew with local jack, big predark silver coins stamped with a crude letter A, just like the armband of the guards. Someone had to have shaved off the original embossing and hand-pounded on the new face. He’d seen it done many times. Made sense. The stuff couldn’t be duplicated anymore, and wouldn’t wear out like the old paper stuff.
Taking a seat at an empty table made from an industrial cable spool tipped over on its side, Ryan started to think about how to find the baron’s private vault. But the smell coming from the wood-burning stove was shifting his attention. It had been too long since he’d had a good night’s sleep, so food was important. Ideas would come with a full belly.
“What’ll it be?” a barmaid asked, wiping the table with a damp rag. She wore a very loose dress with a mechanic’s apron tied around her trim waist.
The top didn’t button closed very well, and a lot of her was viewable. Ryan guessed that not only food was sold here. “What do you have?”
“Veggie stew, cold roasted potatoes and some green beer that won’t make you puke much.”
“Any bread?”
She looked at him for the first time. “Sure. All you want. That’s free from the baron. You new here?”
Damn, he walked into that one. “Stew,” he said. Then took out a single round from his shirt. “This should cover it.”
The woman gasped and swept the bullet off the table and into a pocket of the apron. “Are you insane?” she hissed, leaning closer. “No, that’s right. You’re new here, right? Thought so. Guards didn’t search you very well. We ain’t allowed to have blasters or ammo. Only the baron and his troops.”
That was standard for most villes. But if the baron had all the blasters, why was he so nice to the civvies? Mebbe he had blasters, but little ammo. Might be a bargaining chip there.
Resting the tray on a round hip, the barmaid, leered suggestively. “This’ll get you meat in the stew, or a romp with me. I’m Dolly.”
“Finn. Thanks, but I just got laid,” he lied. “Only want some food.”
“Suit yourself.” The barmaid eyed him up and down. “But if you change your mind, we can use the back room here. No charge, stud.”
“What about some info?” Ryan said, laying his hand on the table and pushing forward another 9 mm round.
Dolly licked her lips while eying his hand. “What do you want to know? If it’s jolt you’re looking for, we don’t got none. Baron forbids all drugs. Says it slows us down building greenhouses.”
“Fifty strokes?” he asked.
She blanched. “You get caught with jolt, you go to the Machine.”
There was that phrase again. It had to be some sort of torture device. Probably the rack. “What does he care if we have fun?”
“He’s got the blasters,” the woman said. “Besides, he’s the best baron we’ve ever had. And I’ve lived through four of them.” She grabbed her breasts and jiggled them. “Tits like these keep you alive, as long as they plump. The last one tried to make rules about everything, including fucking. His own sec men turned on him and made their leader baron.”
Dolly jerked a thumb. “Put up the gaudy house right off. No more rape in the back streets at night. Guards go for free, but everybody else pays. Fair, I guess. Them’s the ones fighting those winged devils. Baron Strichland is tough, ten lashes for lying to a sec man. Twenty for stealing, fifty for rape or stealing food. And it’s the Machine if you damage a greenhouse.”
Ryan merely grunted and waited for her to continue. Most folks talked to a serving girl, not with them. Shut up and listen, and they were always a mine of data. She bent over the table, her breasts almost spilling out, so he patted her ass and stroked her partially exposed leg.