Free Stark Surrender

loud voices and a splintering crash were followed by piercing squawks of outrage. The kiosk beside the noodle shop exploded into the space where he stood, knocking his supper from his hands. Bowl, broth and noodles went flying, along with a shower of globead chains and fluffy boas in brilliant, acidgel hues.
    Two young males in chartreuse jackets followed, laughing uproariously as they tussled. Behind them, a stout woman shook her fist at them from the wreckage of her business. “It’s all broken,” she screeched, “all ruined. Stupid gangers!”
    Anger flaring at the wrestlers’ careless destruction and their interruption of his meal, Lode thrust out his leg and booted the two wrestlers out into the street, where they thudded against the side of a parked cruiser and fell to the wet, filthy pavement. One of them lay still. His bright jacket now streaked with filth, the other scrambled to his feet and scowled toward the sidewalk.
    “You better go,” the Pangaean urged behind Lode. “You don’t want to deal with the GloJacs. Very bad news.”
    “So am I.” He stood where he was just long enough for the tough to spot him and realize it was he who had shoved them, not the Pangaean. As the ganger aimed a menacing fist at him, Lode smiled.
    The ganger backed up a step. Then, as if realizing he’d shown fear, he sneered, gaze malevolent in his tattooed face.
    “You don’t mess with us, fool,” he called. “Better watch yo’ back—sooner or later we’ll be there—and you’ll be dead.”
    Those who had paused to ogle backed away, gazes falling. Some frankly bolted for cover.
    “Go now,” the Pangaean begged. “I don’t need their attention—please.”
    “Sorry,” Lode murmured. He watched the ganger bend and hoist his companion over his shoulder. Then Lode moved on up the street.
    Exhaustion dragged at him, exacerbated by the constant pain in his head. He needed gesics, sleep and a safe place to hole up.
    “Hey, there, mister!” called a cracked, reedy voice from the shadows of an old church. A holovid of a golden cross on the façade sputtered and flickered like a flame in the wind. “A few credits for an old soldier?”
    Lode paused, and focused through the pain on the ragged pair huddled under the church portico with synthetic blankets. Both were thin and wrinkled, one with a deeply scarred face and eye-patch, the other missing an arm. An empty wine bottle lay at their feet, the recyclable fabric crumpled to get the last drops. As useless as the pair of them.
    As one of them held up a com, Lode shook his head. “I can’t …” he paused, closing his eyes as a shaft of pain radiated behind his temples. He needed to keep his resources for himself. But they were veterans. He stared at them, trying to decide what to do.
    “P’raps y’ better join us, cap’n,” the other veteran quipped. “Churches is for them that’s lost.”
    The two cackled together. The soldier missing an arm got slowly to her feet. “Maybe you’re the one who needs help.”
    “No. Keep your distance.” He reached inside his bag and found the fancy laser. Pretty, but useless. He tossed it to her. “Here. Sell this.”
    She caught it, mouth agape, then squinted up at him. “Thanks. But you got any more like this in yer bag, be careful. Me and Joe here, we’re ex-Space Forces. The others on these streets? They’ll kill you for it.”
    “I can handle myself.”
    She backed up a few steps. “Easy, easy. ‘Course you can. But whatcha doin’ down in the streets?”
    “Looking for ... someone,” he said.
    Eye-patch grinned widely, revealing gaps in his teeth. “Good luck to ya.”
    The female soldier was squinting up at him. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Seen you before, I have.”
    Lode was already moving away into the night. “No. You don’t know me. No one does.”
    Least of all himself.

     
    Chapter Seven
    Kiri talked herself out of going with Joran a half dozen times.
    What was she thinking, running