She let Ednund lead the way down the worn wooden stairs to the lower level, the place being perhaps a quarter full. All eyes were on her and her people as Ednund picked a table on the far side, opposite the kitchen and against the curve of the wall.

Benches. Fucking alien-wood benches. That’s what she was supposed to sit on? And the battered table—hewn from the same curious wood—might have been left over from the Middle Ages. At least it looked like someone had dragged a wet rag over it sometime in the past month.

“Can you believe this place?” Ednund asked, glancing around, taking in the stares, the obvious interest as the other occupants discussed their arrival.

A young man, dressed in the local hand-woven fabric, but still wearing boots, came trotting up. Falise wasn’t sure if his smile was amused or just falsely friendly as he asked, “What will you have?”

“How does this work?” Ednund asked, producing some of the coins Aguila had left for them.

“Got crest chili with green peppers, crest steak with potatoes, fresh fruits from Mundo, and oatmeal now that Terry Mishka’s harvest is in.”

Ednund gave Falise a questioning glance.

“We’ll take one of each for each of us. Coffee for all.”

The young man shrugged. “That’s a lot of food, but you got it.” And wheeling, he left at a trot.

Falise was studying the place, inspecting the bar in the back, the kitchen excavated into the earth on the far side. And, of course, the locals with their outlandish prismatic quetzal hide, the weapons they’d laid nonchalantly on the tables beside them.

“It’s like we’ve stepped into another universe,” Clarice noted.

“Here comes Bartolome,” Ednund noted with a tilt of his head toward the stairs.

The Radcek agent hit the bottom step, glanced around, and, catching Falise’s eye, headed in her direction. If there was anything reassuring about his arrival, it was that the locals followed him with every bit as much attention, talking in low voices as they did.

“May I join you?” Bartolome asked, his yellow eyes—with a floating gaze—taking in the room.

“Have a seat,” Falise indicated. “You’ve heard about Chad, I suppose?”

“Your work?” Bartolome asked as he grimaced at the bench, then carefully lowered himself. As he did, he rearranged his silk trousers and slipped the neon suit jacket from his narrow shoulders before carefully folding it. Wiping the seat beside him first, he laid it on the wood as tidily as he could. “Ghastly place, this.”

“Sorry,” Falise told him. “Given that they found Chad’s body behind a foundry, I had him figured for your doing. If I’d killed him, I would have hung him from the shuttle field gate, prominently, so as to cast suspicion on Talina Perez.”