Copyright © 2005 Geoffrey Thorne
He watched them as they arrived– Breminsky, his second, a small retinue consisting of a couple of females, petty ‘ristos, a monkey and some sort of medical ‘bot to clean things up after. One of the females, the silver haired one with the champagne flute figure, tittered nervously, whispering something to the other in that weird dialect the young of this region used.
"Ookan nom tis plaz?" she said. The other female, smaller, duskier and with more inviting curves, shook her head and drew her wrap tighter around her shoulders.
Not surprising that she wouldn't know. There'd been no use for cemeteries in these parts for a good century. Baldwin's Rest had been pretty much forgotten. Cremation or burial in space were the current methods of corpse disposal.
He liked the bleak and dreary atmosphere that still hung on the place. It, more than any other locale on Mars, reminded him of home and of better times long ago.
It also made the ‘ristos nervous.
After another bit of waiting, Breminsky's wiry blond stick of a Second stepped forward and said, "Reevel thyself, o'forfeit.” The quaver in his voice was slight but it was there.
All right. All right. Enough preamble.
He stepped out from behind one of the larger tombs, his jacket and waistcoat a bright scarlet counter to his enemies' metallics and black. He bowed and stepped forward. A little breeze kicked up as he advanced, lifting his cloak like a sail behind him.