I  hated him the moment I saw him.

 

The man was huge, closer to seven feet than not and built like a planetoid monitor with legs. It wasn’t that everyone looked up when he came in as much it seemed he affected the gravitational pull of the building so that all eyes ended up on him. He wore two stunners on each hip and a laser pistol in a shoulder holster. I made out at least three knives on his person, and the man’s pants and jacket had pockets with various bulges in them that would give any other man pause for thought. His shaved head held an array of tattoos that seemed to shimmer in the smoky light.

 

Like I said, I hated him on sight.

 

He glanced around the room and heaved his bulk toward the bar. I sipped on my brandy and watched space kind of eddy around him as he moved. For a big man he was pretty light on his feet.

 

“Witch’s Wart,” he called out to the bartender. I winced. That brew is nasty. The tender plugged it into a machine and added a bit of something blue and smoky to the top. The man-mountain gulped down half of it, nodded once and slapped some credits on the counter. He leaned close but his voice could’ve been heard all the way to the core.

 

“I’m looking for the bastard who brought in Catastrophe Bakker.” The tender, not being an idiot, nodded in my direction. I sighed and adjusted my chair slightly to make for easier fight or flight, whichever came first. The man-mountain swiveled his head to glare at me, then made his way over. He loomed over my table for a few heartbeats. When he realized I wasn’t going to say anything he decided to start the conversation.

 

“You took out Catastrophe Bakker?” It was a question, a statement and an exclamation of surprise, all in one. I nodded. He snorted. “You don’t look like much,” he said. He had one of those clipped accents that could be from anywhere, or nowhere.

 

I knew what he saw. Human, average height. Stocky. Long hair in need of a cleaning tied back in a tail by a leather thong. Leather vest, no shirt, service and world tattoos, worn military pants and my favorite leather fur-lined boots. I had a revolver on one hip and a cutlass on the other. A normal man would simply go around me. This guy wasn’t that guy.

 

“I spent four months hunting Bakker through the whole damn Star Lane subsector and into Mora.” I shrugged. Wasn’t much else to say.

 

“That was my kill,” he rumbled. I shrugged again.

He leaned down, knuckles on the table, and said it again. "That. Was. My. Kill."

 

I tried not to yawn. “I must not have gotten that news flash.”

 

Brows the size of small mountain ranges furrowed. He was used to being the bully, the man in charge. I'm sure he'd get over it. “Just who the hell are you?” he asked.

 

I gave a slight shake of the head. “No one in particular.”

 

The man-mountain grumbled. You could almost hear the gears working in his head. “How’d you take him?” he asked at last.

 

I shrugged again. “Wasn’t hard. He picked a fight. He lost. Might’ve had something to do with the four bottles of Darrian rum he’d polished off right before, but…” I shrugged. I do that a lot, I know, but sometimes it’s the only thing to say.

 

The man-mountain thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough.” His whole demeanor changed and he plopped down into the chair across from me. I swear the chair flinched. The big man waved at the bartender and held up two fingers.

 

“I’m Malakov Gogovich,” he said by way of introduction. “But everyone calls me Magog.”

 

“Gunnar,” I said simply.

 

“Name or occupation?” he countered. I shrugged. He smiled and nodded. “I like you.”

 

“I’m glad,” I said. It had finally sunk in that I wasn’t about to get pummeled into space dust and I was already back to relaxing.

 

We shared a laugh--well, we shared his laugh--and got to talking over news, history and the usual drek Travellers get into in dive bars on backwater worlds.

 

My history wasn’t much to write home about. Which worked out well because I hadn’t written anyone at home in years. Home being Anduril in the Sword Worlds. I thought I’d made good my escape back in ’80, but that little false war we had drew me back. I’d lied to get into the Imperial Marines at the ancient age of fifteen. Two years later the Sword Worlds pissed somebody off—or maybe somebody pissed them off; it’s usually one or the other, there—and suddenly we were at war. I was young and idealistic back then, and crappy family or not I wasn’t about to turn my back on home. So back I went and into the Confederate Navy. Two years later I was well and truly screwed. The Imps didn’t want me back and the Confederacy was done with me. Not much to do in that situation but head for the stars.
 

Fast forward fifteen or so years and I’d managed to do a little bit of everything. Some trading, some piracy, mostly security and mercenary work. I’m a hitter, a gun for hire, and I’m not bad at it. It’s not that I like killing and maiming, mind you, it’s just that there’s not much I like better. Like I said, I’m good at it, and someone’s always willing to pay me for it, so there you go. That bit with Catastrophe Bakker, that was a fluke. I didn’t even know there was paper on him. He really did pick the fight and he really was about as drunk as a man could get and still breathe. It was only after the dust settled that someone told me I had a reward coming, so I took it, paid off some debts, hitched a ride back into the Marches, and ended up in a dive on Weiss.

Magog's history didn't interest me in the least.

 

Me and Magog downed a few more, then I staggered out into the night. I was staying at the TAS hostel and didn’t want to lose my bunk.

 

I snorted to no one in particular. That was my life thus far. One world to the next, one job after another, and the only thing I had to look forward to was a bunk in a hostel on a dirtwater dive planet. I was meeting a guy for a job tomorrow, security on a freighter. Pay sucked but it’d get me back into the Marches. That was about the extent of my ambition right now. One of these days I was going to have to do something about that.

 

But not today. I sighed and shook my head as I shuffled down the hard-pack street.