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"Got a problem?"
Later, Genys would swear
the man's voice was just as greasy-gritty-rancid as the body odor that wafted over
her left shoulder, as the speaker stepped up behind her. She met his gaze in the
mirrors behind the rotating service pod in the center of Friggley's.
Gleaner. A captain, according
to the garish assortment of brightly colored enameled bits of metal sewn or glued
all over his long tunic. Speculation said that smell added just as much to a Gleaner's
rank as the number of pilfering missions he survived, and how much profitable loot
he could haul away.
"Getting there."
She couldn't decide if the Gatesh Green was a good idea, or just an invitation for
the Fates to open the doors of the nearest garbage chute of bad luck right on her
head.
As if they hadn't already?
"Aww, the cute little
captain-girlie's having a bad day, boys," the Gleaner growled, ending on a
squeak. How he managed that without damaging his vocal cords, she couldn't imagine.
She really wished he would. "What's your ship, sweetie?"
Genys turned on her bar stool. Friggley's was one of the few bars left in this half of the galaxy with stools that spun. If she was drunk, that might be fun. Nobody got drunk on Tullian spicewater. Maybe she could turn really fast and hold her arm out, and the Gleaners would be polite enough to run into her fist?
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