28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
To my relief, the vendors were not quite so pushy this time of day.
As darkness fell, most of them were packing up their stalls, and several ignored us as we passed.
I suspected a whole new roster of nighttime hucksters would appear, trying to lure passersby back toward the brothel or a gaming hall or a saloon, but by the time they set up shop, we would hopefully be long off-planet.
Ursa, too, relaxed against me as he saw we would no longer be barraged on all sides by impertinent salespeople.
Now that they were no longer paying attention to us, I felt a strange sort of tenderness toward the vendors.
In the fading daylight, many of them looked tired, eager to close up shop and turn off their public personas.
Some of them chatted and laughed familiarly with one another, recounting their escapades from the day.
Many had children with them, the older ones helping to pack up the shops, the younger ones playing games with each other, laughing and shouting as they weaved through the stalls.
That was humanity, wasn’t it? The good and the bad, the unexpected duality.
You could never guess at who somebody truly was by how they presented themselves, not even by what they said.
There are whole worlds going on inside each of us, and everyone else only catches a glimmer of what’s happening on the surface.
It made me feel rather magnanimous toward my fellow man as a whole—so much so that I didn’t even grumble when I saw there was a rather long queue of people waiting to take the shuttles back to the shipyard.
I leaned companionably against Ursa and watched as the sun set on the horizon.
Then I let my gaze drift over the town for one last time.
As I did so, my gaze snagged on the announcements board, which had several advertisements for various shops, some general rules about the conduct of the town . . . and some wanted posters for intergalactic criminals, like Jesse Diablo.3
Several holos of bleary, hardened faces glared out from these bulletins, eyes steely as they stared down an invisible camera lens and thus seemed to stare straight out at anyone viewing them.
There was only one holo that was an outlier to this.
It was of a woman, hair pulled back into a tight bun, glasses slightly askew, who seemed to be not entirely aware her holo was being captured.
Her eyes wandered before she abruptly sneezed, morphing her face into a rather grotesque expression.
Then the entire holo relooped and started over again.
It was, I realized with no little amount of horror, a holo of me.
This had to be the work of Rawley—not just because he’d be the only one petty enough to try to stick me with a charge of attempted murder after he’d attempted to kill me (more than once, I might add), but also because he had chosen the most unflattering holovid of me possible to broadcast on the galaxy-net.
For the record, no one looks good in their lab ID photo, and I was clearly unaware that a holo was being taken—hence, the sneezing.
But those concerns were rather petty when I was standing only ten or so yards away from a wanted poster with my face on it, forced to wait in a long queue of people before I could get back to safety.
At least I had a little luck on my side.
Darkness had now firmly settled in, making anyone’s features more difficult to see, including my own.
I also looked dramatically different from the vid Rawley had chosen; my hair was loose, my clothes were much less lab-appropriate, and I’d chosen a new frame for my glasses since then.
4 Plus I had the advantage of standing next to a giant, wild, devastatingly handsome man, who tended to draw the eye.
As such, hopefully, no one would associate me with the wanted holo.
As it turned out . . . my luck held. The queue shuffled forward slowly, with no one paying each other much mind. By the time we were able to climb onboard a shuttle, I nearly sagged with relief. That is, until a new thought struck me.
I would have to tell Tobago.
Rawley likely wouldn’t have sent alerts about me to only remote port settlements.
Bounty hunters, law enforcement agencies—several people would now have my image and be actively looking for me out in the ’verse.
That put not only me but also the entire crew of the Trojan Horse in jeopardy. I had to tell Tobago.
But I really, really didn’t want to.
Tobago would not be pleased. He would not like the extra attention it brought to his ship and the crew’s, shall we say, less-than-totally-legal activities.
Despite my long friendship with Tobago, he was captain now, and he would have to put his crew first. I understood his position, even as the knowledge made my stomach roil with nerves.
Because it likely meant Ursa and I would get dumped like spoiled cargo, maybe even here on Amazonia, if Tobago thought it was too dangerous to keep us onboard.
It looked like Ursa might very well get his earlier wish to stay here and live in the canyons.
Hopefully this dress could be rehabilitated into something more practical if I would be living like a cavewoman . . .
But, no. I couldn’t let myself give up quite so easily. I would have to find a way to be honest with Tobago while also presenting the information in such a way that simultaneously reminded him what valuable crew members we’d been.
Well, what a valuable crew member Ursa had been, anyway, with his ability to move cargo so quickly and efficiently, and his heroic rescue of me on Newearth.
I might have been helpful at something, once.
Ooh, the Vikings! Yes, that had been helpful .
. . even though I’d undermined Tobago and gone around his back to do it.
Hmm, maybe best not to bring that up, actually . . .
The entire shuttle ride back to the ship, my mind was whirring, trying to shape what I should say, how I should say it, when would be the best time. After a meal, surely? People tended to be much more agreeable then . . .
I needn’t have bothered, though, I realized the moment I laid eyes on the Trojan Horse. The loading ramp was down, the doors to the cargo bay open, and the entire crew was waiting for us—including Tobago, whose eyes were like steel as they locked onto mine.
1. No, I will not be elaborating any further. Those greedy Brethren always want more of the “good bits,” but they will need to be patient and only hear about things when it serves the story.
2. They’ve become increasingly less patient with some of my detours. I suspect they realize I’m trying to extend the story in some places that don’t always fully warrant it.
3. A rather nasty fellow, or so I always believed. Now I might need to reconsider that position, for reasons which will soon become clear...
4. People really do underestimate just how much of a difference this makes!