Creamer waited, watching the locals pass, wincing every time they called some inane greeting his way, answering their waves. Who cared if the lunatics were friendly?

“Turalon. This is the AC, Com Officer Cissi speaking. How can I help you, Colonel?”

“Thank God. Cissi, I need you to dispatch a shuttle to pick me up. I’m at Port Authority.”

“One moment, Colonel.” Silence. Then, “I’m sorry, sir. Nothing’s headed dirtside until tomorrow.”

“This is an emergency.”

“Sorry, sir. Captain’s orders. We’ll have our first bird on the ground tomorrow morning 07:30 your time, Colonel.”

He wouldn’t beg. Nope. Absofragginglutely not.

“Roger that.”

Taking another glance up and down the gravel-packed street, he turned his steps to The Jewel. He sure as hell wouldn’t ask Aguila for a bunk.

When he stepped into the place, it was plain to see just what kind of establishment it was. The joint—mildly abuzz with conversation and laughter—turned instantly silent. All eyes on him in his combat armor. Made him feel silly and out of place.

But the long-legged blonde in a silky and close-fitted dress stepped out from behind the roulette table, striding up and taking his measure. “Can I help you?”

Creamer chuckled under his breath. Damn, she’d be a sight on any world. “Well, I’m kind of stuck here for a day. Colonel Stanley Creamer, ma’am. That Perez woman pointed me this direction.”

The blonde arched a golden eyebrow. Creamer wondered if every woman on this accursed planet was tough as sialon.

“Tal did, huh?” she asked. “That’s about as much imprimatur as you can get in PA. Come on, have a seat.” She arched the eyebrow again. “Okay, maybe shed that heavy armor first. Enough of the furniture gets broken in here as it is. You got cash?”

“Well, I just got here. Perez said I could trade? Is that right?”

A man dressed in quetzal leather had stood from one of the back tables where a card game was in full swing. “Colonel, come on back. I’ll set you up for a round.”

“He’s all yours, Dek,” the blonde called. “Just keep him out of trouble.”

“Oh,” the man called Dek returned, “You can bet on that, Ali.”

God! The guy called Dek was another freak. He brought to mind Perez, with his too-large yellow eyes, long hair framing a diamond-shaped face, and full beard, and like Aguila, the Cretan had a glaring scar under his left eye. Something about the man—a primal kind of intensity—was coiled in his movements. Hard and unbending. But, hey, any port in a storm, as the old saying went.

Five minutes later, his armor piled in the corner, Stanley Creamer lifted a glass of whiskey to his lips and sipped. “Wow. I expected rocket fuel. This is good.”

“Not everything on Donovan is without its refinements, Colonel,” Dek told him.