"That went well," Hao said, stalking down from the loading dock. Jumping was the wrong word for it. She bent her legs and slid to the ground without touching anything. Me, I had to grab the dock's rough steel edge and half-flip so I wouldn't end up in a pile. The luxuries of being slightly smaller than everyone else.

  "I hope you mean that in the literal way," I said. "It could have gone a lot worse."

  "Could have gone a lot better," Hao said, walking back the way we'd come. "We sold two warded starship armor plates for the price of a few bowls of soup."

  "Two hundred bowls," I said, and stopped.

  No more orange-clad workers hurried along the street. Instead, there was a crew of four brawlers standing in the middle of it. Each had short, spiked hair, black on top, white on the sides. Some kind of gang sign. Shiny grey-and-white jackets over armor. The armor was bulky, a cheap civilian model, obviously not warded. Made you look bigger and stronger, though.

  Three of the brawlers hung back, toward the far walk-way. The fourth was standing in the middle of the street, peeling the wrap off a fat protein bar.

  Something wasn't right here.

  Protein bar-man kept unwrapping, slowly twisting away the orange polymer, tearing away small pieces and dropping them on the road. He was tense, like a hunter, or a dog staring at a hole, waiting for the rat to poke its head out.

  A small head poked out from the ruined, empty doorway next to Montar. The skinny kid.

  Getting hunted.

  A cold rage filled me, the kind of frozen hate that ended in somebody getting shot. The smart part of my mind tried telling me to walk away, that it wasn't my fight. The rest ignored it. My hands itched for a rifle.

  I started walking, reversing my course and following the road toward the brawlers, hoping my feelings weren't obvious.

  Two of the brawlers leaned on metal staffs, tall as themselves, polished to a bright shine. Aluminum spears. More for show than fighting. Too long, too unwieldy. You needed a lot of skill to use one.

  The third had a short rifle or long sub-machine gun poking out from beneath his jacket. That might be a problem. My wards would stop a blow or a punch, but would struggle with bullets. If it came to a firefight, I'd have to drop the rifleman fast. That left the man with the protein bar. He had an enclosed pistol holster hanging at the back, slapping his right butt as he twitched to a rhythm only he could hear.

  I kept walking toward them, my steps splashing in the puddles. The kid kept watching the protein bar. Orange shreds tumbled to the ground. I wanted to tell the kid to get away, but that wouldn't help. I'd gone hungry enough in my life to know.

  One of the staff-boys noticed me, elbowed his comrade. I gave them a friendly smile and angled my steps, aiming to walk behind them. Staff-boy one twisted, blocking my path.

  I moved a few more steps, then stopped, as if unsure what to do. Close enough for the staffs to reach me if they wanted, not close enough to pose a threat unarmed. Unless I moved first.

  Protein bar-man dropped the last of the wrapper, his fingers sticky with melted, dark brown protein bar. He held it to out the kid. I could see the kid's jaws chewing, but he didn't move from the doorway. Smart. The house was a maze behind him, clogged with steel walls, ladders, and piles of junk. I bet the kid knew every way through it. As long as he stayed put, he’d be safe.

  Protein bar-man realized the kid wouldn't come close. He waved the protein bar some more, just to be sure, then flung it in the direction of the doorway.

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  It landed half-way. The kid looked at the protein bar in the street. Don't, I thought, wishing for telepathic powers I didn't have. Don't. Be smart.

  Hunger and fear fought a battle in the kid's clenching jaws, in the way his hand gripped and released the edge of the doorway.

  Then he made a run for it.

  Pat-pat-pat, naked feet against cold, wet steel. My heart started pounding in time with the steps. Pat-pat-pat went the kid's feet. Any moment, protein bar-man would charge, grab the kid, beat him to a pulp. Pat-pat-pat, the steps splashed through puddles. Closer and closer.

  Protein-man wiped his hands against each other. Kid was almost to the bar. Maybe he would make it. Pat-pat-pat-slide. Kid bent down for the protein bar, grabbed it in a grubby hand, turned. Protein-bar-man hadn't moved. Kid started running back to the door. I let go of a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Kid would make it.

  Protein-man went for his gun.

  "Hey!" I yelled.

  Protein-man jerked, looked over his shoulder, his gun, an ugly-looking, silver automatic only halfway up. He started to twist my way, his gun wavering, then looked back at the kid, tried to get an aim at the retreating back. His gun arm straightened.

  "Hey!" I yelled again.

  The arm jerked, the aim spoiled. Kid disappeared into the steel maze behind the door. Protein-man turned on me.

  His face was twisted in rage, a small black goatee vibrating beneath his chin.

  "Crudmugger," he yelled, bringing his gun around. Six meters away, gun pointing low. Aiming for center of mass, right at my warded jacket. I tensed. He didn't fire. Protein-man had me in his sights, but he wasn't done shouting.

  Gunfighting rule number one. Never point a gun at someone. Just shoot them. Pointing gives them too much time to act.

  I acted, dodging into the staff boys. They hadn't expected that, and got tangled. I got to them, elbowing one in the groin and kicking the man fumbling with the rifle hidden beneath his jacket in the back of his knee.

  Everything devolved into chaos, shouting, and punching. I was full of rage, but rage only gets you so far. I got in two good kicks, disabling the rifleman, before a staff swept my legs out from under me.

  Brawlers were good. Crud.

  I hit the ground rolling, but the entire gang was on me, and fairly coordinated. Each punch and strike hit upon my wards, preventing serious damage, but the wards strained, buckled, shattered. I ended up on the wet street, my cheek pressed to the cold steel, my hands behind my back, a shiny staff pressing down in the middle of my chest, the other poised over my head. My holster dug uncomfortably into the small of my back. No chance to draw the M3 now.

  Everyone froze. Rifleman groaned next to me, clutching his bleeding nose. One of the staff boys stood leaning over, protecting his hurting groin. I'd gotten in a good punch.

  Protein-man stomped over. He wasn't done with me yet. I twisted, getting my legs toward him and pushing, raising my butt off the road.

  "Crudmunging bullhorn void-sucker," protein man screamed, aiming his gun at my face.

  I shot him in the knee.

  My M3 cracked like a breaking support beam, sending an eleven millimeter, twenty gram hyper-sonic bullet between my legs and into protein-man, spraying the street with muscle, blood and bone fragments.

  One of the staffs jerked. The other disappeared, its owner crumbling, a steel beam thick as my arm smashing down on his shoulder.

  Hao to the rescue. Together we finished off the remaining two gang members in three moves, leaving all four writhing or unconscious on the ground.

  "Thanks," I said, breathing hard and wiping dirt off my cheek.

  "Thought you were ready for the recycling vats," Hao said, breathing equally hard. "Munging stupid thing to do, getting into a fight." She bent down, setting a clamp across gun boy's spurting leg.

  "Leave him," I said. Man had tried to kill me. He deserved what he got.

  "Murder is frowned upon in civilized society," Hao said. She triggered the clamp, which contracted. The spurt of arterial blood turned to a seep.

  "I'm not civilized," I said.

  "The good guards of Rimont station are," Hao said. "Self-defense will only take you so far in court."

  She had a point, but I wasn't willing to concede it. My rage still flowed like an icy river through my gut. I tried forcing it away, failed, tried again. Hao had saved me. She didn't deserve crud for it.

  "Point taken." Forcing the words past my lips melting some of my rage. Hao nodded. It helped to melt some more. My hands started shaking, a typical after-combat reaction.

  "We'd better leave," she said and started walking.

  With one last backward glance at the now empty doorway, I followed her.

  Hey,

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