Tikad bowed. “Mister Mopuk may be busy, Elder Barnes.”
“Go get him,” Quentin said. “Right now.”
Tikad bowed lower, said something to the Ki guards, then walked through the door. Virak and Choto followed Tikad, Quentin only a step behind them. They walked through the door and onto a lighted floor that swayed with dancers of all species. He wondered how anybeing could dance to that crappy Tower Republic music, but it was all the rage in the clubs.
Floating flashbugs gracefully avoided the swirling dancers. The bugs emitted bright colors in time to the music’s beat. The floor shook with the song’s low bass tones, frequencies that seemed to vibrate every atom in Quentin’s body. Smells filled his nostrils — like most clubs, designer pheromones permeated the air, guaranteed to put an erotic edge on every patron regardless of their species. He kept his eyes on Virak and Choto, doing his best to ignore the sensory assault.
The crowd parted before the two Quyth Warriors. Quentin couldn’t help but feel important. The two of them moved like walking statues that radiated confidence mixed with lethality. They followed Tikad to a back wall that seemed to vibrate slightly, in time to the bass beat — a hologram. Two Quyth Warriors stood by the wall, not-so-gently pushing back any dancers that moved too close. Tikad walked between them and right through the holographic wall.
As soon as they were through, the music dropped off to a distant thud of bass and nothing more. Soft lighting seemed a direct contrast to the dance floor’s garish flashbugs. Thick couches, some for all species but mainly tailored for the small bodies of Quyth Leaders, lined the walls of the small room. A large oval table sat in the middle, a clear glass top revealing a tank of swarming insectlike creatures.
On a chair behind the table sat Mopuk. His Ki bodyguards flanked him, one on each side. Quentin recognized them — they’d beaten the crap out of him back on The Deuce, and had tried to rough him up on The Ace. That was when Virak the Mean told the bodyguards that if he faced them again, he’d kill them. Quentin wondered if the two guards remembered the threat.
Tikad stood nervously, his pedipalps repeatedly cleaning his eye, which glowed a neon pink. Mopuk’s eyes, of course, remained perfectly clear. Sobox, Mopuk’s Creterakian lieutenant, perched comfortably on Mopuk’s small shoulder.
Virak and Choto each took a small step to the side. Quentin walked between them and sat down on a Human chair, directly across the table from Mopuk.
“Quentin Barnes,” Mopuk said quietly. “You saved me the time of coming to find you again. You’ve cost me a lot of money this season, money you will have to repay.”
“I owe you nothing,” Quentin said. “But I am here about money. He pulled out a contract box and slid it across the table. As the box crossed the glass, the insect-like creatures swarmed towards it, pressing hungrily against the glass top’s underside.
Mopuk picked up the contract box. “What’s this?”
“Four-point-one million. Every penny that Donald Pine owes you.”
Mopuk’s eye instantly changed to translucent black. He slid the contract box back across the glass. The bugs vainly tried again to eat it.
“That’s not enough,” Sobox said. “Mopuk the Sneaky does not accept your offer.”
“He’d better,” Quentin said. “Pine’s debt to you is paid. Now you stay away from him, and everyone else on the Krakens.”
Mopuk’s eye shifted to an even deeper shade of black.
“You come in here and tell me what to do? I say that’s not enough money.” Mopuk gestured to the glass table. “Get out of here before I feed you to my pets.”
“You will accept this,” Quentin said, leaning forward. “You don’t have a choice.”
Mopuk leaned back, seemingly speechless, then looked to his left and gestured a pedipalp at one of the Ki. The two big creatures started to move forward, but hadn’t even managed two steps before Virak and Choto launched into action.
Virak moved forward at blinding linebacker speed. He touched his pedipalps together once — when he pulled them apart, a thin glowing silvery line ran from one to the other. He looped this line around the first surprised Ki and then yanked it tight — black blood exploded like a water balloon as the Ki’s upper torso fell away from the lower body.
Choto moved almost as fast, producing a fat blade from a hiding spot inside the carapace of his right arm. He jammed the blade into the second Ki’s hexagonal mouth, bent it downwards, and thrust it right down the Ki’s throat.
Sobox flew up in alarm and reached into his tiny vest. Quentin didn’t know if they made entropic accelerators that small, but he wasn’t waiting to find out. He threw the contract box like a missile. It smashed into Sobox, knocking the Creterakian backwards. Sobox hit the wall and fell to the floor, limp.
Just before Choto’s opponent hit the floor, Tikad pressed a button on his belt. The holographic wall vanished and an alarm screeched through the bar. The music kept playing, joined by noises of fear and surprise from the patrons. Flashbugs started filtering in, pre-programmed to diffuse evenly through any open space.
The two Ki bodyguards were not Mopuk’s only protection. Two Quyth Warriors sprinted towards the back room, each pulling a small pistol as they ran. Before the guns cleared their concealed holsters, flashes of black cloth hit them like phantasms. Both guards went down under the weight of a pair of Sklorno females: Hawick and Scarborough on one, Mezquitic and Denver on the other. As soon as the Quyth Warriors hit the ground, John Tweedy slid out of a booth, head down, hateful eyes up, moving like a silent tiger. DON’T MESS WITH DON PINE scrolled across his forehead. With a growling snarl, he put his fist clear through the first Quyth Warrior’s eye and deep into the brain. Clear liquid splashed up and out, covering Tweedy’s psychotic face.
The second Quyth Warrior kicked out, knocking Denver on her back. The Warrior’s pedipalps whipped like snakes, wrapping around Mezquitic’s slender neck. Tweedy flew through the air, dropping all his weight on the prone Warrior.
As John Tweedy and the Warrior grappled, deafening roars erupted, far louder than the bass-driven music. Five sets of waving, multi-jointed arms drew all eyes as the Krakens’ offensive line, who had been quietly dancing only moments earlier, stood tall on their rear legs, twelve-feet high and more imposing than a rabid Mullah Hills bull-cat. Bar patrons needed no further urging — they ran for the door, a stampede of every species moving as one panicked mass.
Tweedy rolled on top of the Quyth Warrior, grabbed his thick head in both hands and jerked to the right. A loud crack marked the end of the conflict as the Quyth Warrior quivered once, then fell still, motionless save for a quivering pedipalp.
“Touch my quarterbacks, you loser,” Tweedy said in a growl. “Losers don’t get to make that mistake twice.”
Black blood spread across the floor like a giant amoeba. Quentin had never imagined Ki had so much blood in their tubular body. He felt his lunch rising up in his stomach, but he steeled himself against the sickness. The game was on, and he’d stick with it.
Tikad cowered on the floor, his body already covered in black gore as he rolled about, quietly begging not to be killed. Mopuk was still in his chair, his eye now the pure blue of total fear. Streaks of black blood covered him, even on his eye — he was too stunned to clean it off. Virak and Choto stood rock still on either side of him, awaiting Quentin’s orders.
Quentin picked the contract box up off the ground. He walked back to his chair and sat, then slid the contract box across the table once again. The insects seemed angrier than ever, but the glass still held them at bay. The contract box slid off the glass and onto Mopuk’s lap.