“Well, now, you’ll have to talk to them about that.” Pete leaned to the side and somehow spit a stream of dark juice past the toothpick. A long trail of the stuff hung from his lower lip, thick as molasses. He reached up and swiped it away with his palm, then rubbed it on his coveralls.

Molly looked at the stains covering him and wondered just how much of Pete’s coloration was actual grease. If any.

“I tried to tell them to go,” she complained. “But they wouldn’t listen.”

“Could be they think it’s their ship,” Pete said flatly.

“What? Their ship? That was my father’s ship and now it’s mine!” Molly looked down at the Wadi as it tried to curl itself into her pocket. Its tail swished in the air, then disappeared.

“Well, now.” Pete spit again, dribbling it right down the front of his coveralls. The maneuver seemed to save him a step or two. “What I heard was your daddy owes Scottie some money. You never know with interest compoundin’—they might have a claim on her.” He nodded toward Parsona. “Besides, why’d your daddy give such a fine ship away? How old are you?”

“Where’s the sheriff’s office?” Molly asked, ignoring the questions and cursing herself for allowing a tangle of lies to develop.

“Directly on Main,” Pete drawled.

Molly turned and headed off in the direction of town.

“But he’s gonna tell you just what I said,” Pete hollered after her.

ѻѻѻѻ

Molly followed the busiest road into town. She preferred the thick plumes of dust from the traffic and the catcalls from the vehicles’ occupants to the unknown of quiet streets. Especially with so much dangerous politicking in the air.

Most of the cars on Lok were large-tired buggies suitable for travelling between towns with no interconnecting roads. They passed by in one of two speeds: slow—the people trying to sneak away from the trouble they’d just caused; and fast—the ones about to effect their own.

Ignoring offers for rides and things less-pleasant, Molly kicked at rocks along the shoulder and fumed over the idea of those brigands being on her ship and likely going through her things. The Wadi rode along across the back of her neck, its tiny claws gripping her shirt and a little flesh, its head lolling with her gait. Grumbling to herself, Molly walked past rows and rows of politicians smiling down from their posters and banners, all of them promising her something for just a few drops of blood.

She stopped at the outdoor counter of the first cantina she came to and bought water for herself and the Wadi. She chose her left pinky for the vote, even though it was swollen to the point of uselessness. Her new strategy was to sacrifice one digit completely so she could heal up the rest.