The closest of the crowd, Terry Mishka, Lee Halston, and Pavel Tomashev, backed away, as did Mac Hanson and Frank Freund, the gunsmith. All were grinning, calling things like, “Yeah, we’re with you.” “Sure thing, Tal.” “Whatever.” And “We know the drill.”

Talina led the way to her stool on the bar’s far right. There, she hoisted herself up into the worn seat and propped her rifle in its usual place, butt on the floor, barrel resting within reach. As Shig climbed onto the stool next to hers, Talina placed her hands on the battered and dented chabacho-wood bar.

Inga Lock was a big woman, late forties, with silver-blond hair, a big bust, and thick arms. Most people called her formidable. She ran her tavern like a well-oiled machine, dispensing drinks and keeping accounts on the large chalkboard on the bar’s far end. In the two-story stone-and-timber building behind the tavern, she brewed, distilled, and fermented the finest spirits, wines, and beer on the planet. Which—given that the only other drink was fermented in bathtubs or jugs—made Inga’s product outstanding.

Now she looked Tal’s way, calling, “You and Shig? The usual?”

Tal gave her the high sign, shouting back, “And two plates of whatever the special is tonight.”

“Crest chili,” Inga answered before turning toward the kitchen and bellowing, “Two specials!”

“On it!” came the answer.

Shig lifted a shaggy eyebrow. “We take this for granted. Wonder how these bigwigs that Captain Abibi refers to are going to adapt to our little world?”

Talina tipped her hat back and let it hang from the strings. She stared at her reflection in the backbar mirror: The too-triangular face, her dark eyes larger than normal for a human and alien-looking. The point of her chin was too pronounced, as were the diamond-shaped cheekbones. Her nose had a sharper look to it as well. Dek had been the one to place it. He said she looked like an exotic cartoon princess, with her too-large eyes and angular features. All of it genetic remodeling of her body orchestrated by the quetzal TriNA in her blood. And that was just her facial features.

Over at the hospital, Dr. Raya Turnienko was still cataloging the augmented senses, musculature, immune response, and brain remodeling.

When Turalon arrived, she’d have to endure that awkward staring as the soft meat and Skulls gaped.

“Bigwigs?” she wondered. “What do you think that means?”