[ASC 923.7.14]

  193 cycles since the Xolarii Purge.

  Xaryk leant back in his seat with a groan. The worn furniture mirrored his bodily protest.

  “—Ya see? That’s how they getcha!” Jakov exclaimed, flinging his drink-laden hand skyward. The other gamblers recoiled with curses, leaning away to dodge the spray.

  The barmaid had been right about Jakov. The old storekeep hadn’t shut up about trade taxes since Xaryk had prompted him—four hands ago. Whatever wariness the others had reserved for the newcomer had long since shifted toward Ol’ Jakov and his raving.

  Xaryk tuned out the noise and focused on his cards.

  Two Red Dwarfs—not bad. Either twenty-six, or a Deadstar. He might just edge out the others, though only by a hair.

  Across the table, Malvus wore a smug grin over a stacked pair.

  Xaryk figured he could call Deadstar and take the stack, throwing Malvus off and flipping the tide. He was far enough from thirty-one that a ten wouldn’t burn him out—especially after trading in the Red Dwarfs he needed for the Deadstar.

  But it wasn’t time.

  Malvus had to feel untouchable first. Overconfident. That only came with winning.

  So Xaryk drew, despite the weight of his hand.

  A Protostar. That bumped him from twenty-six to thirty-eight.

  “Burnout,” he muttered, tossing his cards down in mock disgust.

  “I hope your aim is better than your luck,” Malvus sneered. The dirty cattleman swept up the tariffs with grime-caked hands, grinning wide enough to flash his tobacco-stained teeth.

  Xaryk had been throwing games all night—feeding the man’s ego, lowering his guard, loosening his tongue. He made sure to win just enough hands to keep the bait believable.

  Losing the tariffs stung, sure—but it was an equivalent exchange: information for coin. And still cheaper than a bribe—men talked more freely when they were winning than when they were selling.

  “And here I thought I was famous,” Xaryk chuckled, letting just a trace of irritation bleed through. Let him think I’m a sore loser.

  “Pfft—what, Breakbones? That big oaf?” Malvus barked a laugh. “If I were blind, deaf, and dumb, I still could’ve taken him!”

  The table howled with laughter.

  “Not like his uncle, then?” Xaryk asked, sidestepping the name like a pile of manure on the footpath.

  “You’sa damned fool if you think you can get ten clicks within Horseshoe Gulley ‘fore you’re filled with just as many holes,” huffed Tommick, the weaselly prospector.

  Jakov, the designated dealer, slid him three cards as a fresh round commenced: a Protostar, a Void Ten, and a Dust Three.

  Twenty-five. Not bad.

  No stacked pairs this time, which meant the odds were murky. Anything over a six and he’d burn out.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He already held a three. With four suits, that left about twenty low cards still in play—give or take the ones already in his hand.

  Not good odds. But not hopeless, either.

  He let his expression stay neutral. Deadstar wasn’t about the hand—it was about the player.

  “And why’s that?” Xaryk asked.

  The bounty hunter had them confident—now he needed them angry.

  “Besides the obvious?” Malvus grinned, mock-shooting him with a finger gun, peering smugly over his cards.

  “Now, now, boys,” Ol’ Jakov jumped in, clearly uncomfortable with the rising hostility at the table. “Let’s keep it civil, like.”

  “I’m in,” Xaryk said, ignoring them both. He tossed a fistful of tariffs into the pot.

  “You heard what I did to Breakbones’ boys? Must have been at least a dozen. Well-armed. Killers, all of them. Head out to their little clubhouse now, and all you’ll find are a dozen well-armed corpses.”

  The table went quiet for a beat—then each gambler met his raise in turn.

  The game had changed.

  “You’sa definitely a fool,” Tommick guffawed, flashing a gap-toothed grin. “Redmark’s got at least double the numbers.”

  Xaryk caught it—a twitch in the man’s droopy eye, a glance down at his cards.

  “Raise,” he said, calling the bluff. “You don’t seem too adept at counting to me.”

  Tommick bristled and shoved more into the pot.

  “I’d wager he’s got a few more than Breakbones did... but not by much.”

  Ol’ Jakov had gone deathly silent. A bead of sweat slid down his weathered cheek.

  “Well now... this game’s lookin’ a bit rich for my blood,” he muttered, folding his hand. Jakov backed away from the table like it was a coiled rattlesnake—slow, cautious, and careful not to turn his back. “Best of luck to ya.”

  No one paid him any heed.

  “Numbers won’t matter,” Malvus hissed, ignoring the exit. “Redmark ain’t some fool like his cousin. He’s not sittin’ out in the open, half-pissed on bad takalan whiskey, waitin’ to be picked off.”

  He raised.

  “All takalan whiskey is bad whiskey in my experience,” Xaryk said dryly, meeting the raise—and flipping over a Supernova.

  The table groaned in unison. A chorus of curses followed as the remaining players surrendered their hands.

  Malvus reshuffled the deck himself and dealt three fresh cards to each player.

  The pot, however, remained unclaimed, as full as the moon on a clear summer night.

  Drawing a Supernova was always a gamble, but when it hit, it turned the board on its head.

  He was lucky Redmark’s bounty paid as well as it did. Otherwise, his dreams of leaving this wasteland behind would’ve long since dried up.

  “It won’t matter if he’s holed up in Horseshoe Gulley or rotting in some shack in the sands,” Xaryk said, reclining with arms behind his head. He didn’t even glance at the new cards as they were dealt. “His bounty’s as good as mine.”

  “You’sa know nothing!” Tommick growled.

  “He’s right,” Malvus cut in before Xaryk could reply. “The gulley drops forty feet easy. Natural formations all through it. Makes for good cover.”

  He grinned, then raised the pot again.

  Tommick, all mouth and no coin, was forced to fold. He slammed his cards down with a grunt of frustration.

  “You talk like a man who’s never seen a gunfight,” Xaryk said, shaking his head. He tossed more tariffs into the pot, calling for a card he didn’t even look at.

  Malvus’ face flushed a brilliant vermilion.

  “Sure, you’ve got plenty of hiding spots,” Xaryk continued, calm as ever. “But you’re giving up the high ground. One good marksman with a rifle and a sweet vantage point? Like shootin’ marley in a barrel.”

  “Arrogant, just like they say,” Malvus spat. “Horseshoe Gulley’s surrounded by rock spires and jagged peaks—perfect for scouts. They’ll spot a rube like you a mile off. And that’s before the trap-spiders, rattlers, or lurchers get you. If you’re lucky, you’ll just run into outlaws or native takalans—at least they’ll kill you quick before they take your boots.”

  The last card hit the table.

  Hands were revealed.

  Malvus laid down his cards: double Red Dwarfs left unstacked, and a Light Nine.

  A perfect hand.

  Xaryk flipped his own—untouched: Void Ten, Dust Ten, Space Nine, and a Light Protostar.

  Thirty-nine. Burnout.

  He’d overplayed it. But it hardly mattered.

  Malvus grinned, basking in the win.

  “Don’t take it too hard, xolus,” Malvus said, grinning as he pulled in the pot. “Could always be worse. One Heatflare, Redmark rolled into town with his boys. Some local got a little yappy while fiddlin’ at that there piano. Redmark put a hole in his eye without missin’ a note. Left-handed too.”

  “The man’s right-handed?” Xaryk asked aloud, filing the detail away. “Good to know.”

  Malvus froze—just a flicker. His grin faltered. His brow furrowed.

  Xaryk rose from the table, inclining his head politely toward the simmering Tommick and the now-silent Malvus.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” he drawled. “Now, Malvus... don’t go spending all that in one place.”

  He swept his coat from the back of the chair and swaggered toward the door.