Toward the back, he spotted her and stopped dead. She sat unconcernedly, a stoop to her posture, as she gazed at a wilted and wrinkled menu. Her left hand strayed to her mouth and she bit absentmindedly at a nail and casually spit it out the side of her mouth. Her swarthy skin blended into her short, hacked-off hair, and with a side profile, her bulbous nose appeared to swell out like the snout of an ice hellion; would she be as whiny and backbiting as that dead Clan? Her stocky body and shabby clothing (a mix of several shapes and colors Petr felt sure she stripped off some street itinerate) plunged a spike of physical loathing through his rage.

Such an abomination would’ve been terminated by the scientist caste overseeing the birth before the mother carried it to term. He didn’t even think of the trueborn possibilities, confident such a creature could never have flowed from the Clan’s iron womb program. On the verge of turning away, he remembered the data cube tucked into his pocket. The image of those smoky eyes. She managed to place it on his ship; he must give her credit for such a feat. He could stomach her presence long enough to find out if her message held merit, or whether he could give in to his desire to wrap that stump of a neck with his hands.

He moved to the booth and slid in.

“Took you long enough. Get lost?” Her voice came out deep and husky, not completely unattractive. “Haven’t had somebody staring that hard at me since Jack Rilley used to peek in at me when I took a shower.” She casually chewed off another nail, spit it out and then glanced up; the merriment they held almost redded out Petr’s vision and he gripped his thighs to keep from reaching across the table. “’Course, I looked a whole lot better back then, so don’t know why you’re staring. But hey, if you’re in to me, you are. Nothing I can do about it. Right?”

She is trying to provoke me. The voice came as though stretched and thinned by an endless haze of gore and shimmering heat. He breathed in deeply, hunting for scents, trying to regain his focus. He expected a foul miasma to match the reek of this place and instead detected the scent of flowers. A soft, herbal scent totally incongruous with her appearance. She is playing with you. The voice gained strength and his vision began to clear. It is a facade. If she is good enough to seed a message on your ship, she is good enough to play you like a harp.

“Waiter,” he abruptly called in a loud voice.

She quirked her mouth and leaned back.

His eyes began to pick out details he missed the first time, and the rage began to return, but this time directed inward. She may have been on-world this entire time and simply waited in order to throw you off balance. The first move perhaps went her way, but no more. She slouched against the back of her chair, but did so a little too carefully. As though to keep her right shoulder at just the right angle—for what? Was she carrying? Did it matter? She did not bring him all this way to kill him.

“So, with those steaming eyes of yours, I think I’ll call you sweetness. Practically got engaged.” She smiled, and her almost-too-white teeth gleamed in the dim light like the dials of his ’Mech’s cockpit console glowed at night.

His normal response to any such advances would have been vehement revulsion, but he could not afford that luxury here. It put him off balance. Off guard. He gripped his thighs hard as he tried to roll with it.

“Got something going on under the table, do you?” she said, her voice dropping to a sultry timbre; she leaned forward and tapped her hand on the table several times, her index finger pointing toward his arms. “Those biceps are filling your suit real nice and, well, can’t help but wonder if we shouldn’t be moving right to the wedding day.” The smoky gray eyes almost gleamed in the darkness, her soft voice and words at total contrast with her repellent physicality. He couldn’t seem to pull himself together.

The waiter arrived. A scrawny teenage boy with a runny nose, peach fuzz on his lip that he no doubt doted over, and a greasy apron. “What ya ordering?” He didn’t look up; he’d learned to not get involved.

Snow leaned back again, still with the stiffness around her shoulders, and waved a hand in his direction. “You’re the one who thinks we’re on a date, so you can order for me.”

“I am not hungry,” he responded gracelessly and berated himself again. How did she manage to keep him off his guard? He was surprised in the street by the hag and yet responded instantly with his usual zeal and effectiveness in negotiations. This encounter was quickly shaping up to be a disaster.

“Oh, straight to bed, then?”

He couldn’t help but stare. Was she actually coming on to him? The silence stretched and he could see the skinny brat actually glance up and begin to turn away.

“Twin beers. Anything.” He looked a question at her.

“Fine. Sure. If you want to get me drunk, I’m all for it.” She laughed out loud and several people from two and three tables away glanced in their direction.

He spoke immediately once the waiter departed. “You should not be so loud. Do you wish to draw others’ attention?”

“Why not? Only if we skulk and hide in the corner could we possibly be doing something we shouldn’t. Even if it is exceptionally strange for an offworlder—much less a Sea Fox—to come, at night, to such a seedy bar in his uniform [ no doubt of the sarcasm there ], if she’s loudmouthed and it looks like he’s simply got strange taste on local women, why should they care?” She smiled, and for the first time, he caught a glimpse of her real smile; the warmth surprised him, but the wariness remained.

He savagely dug his fingers into his thighs one last time, for the final point he gave up, and moved his hands to the tabletop.

“That’s better,” she said immediately and chewed on another nail. “This may be a little seedy, but it’s a family establishment after all.”

“Must you always speak with sarcasm?”

“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “I’m not sure I could complete a sentence without it.”

“Perhaps you should try. Explain why you brought me here.”

“Did I bring you here?” The laughing tone of voice fired his ire once more.

The skinny waiter thumped down two beers and Petr gaped as, before the waiter took five steps, Snow slammed back the beer, draining the bottle quicker than the collapse of a compartment to decompression.

“Keep ’em coming!” she bellowed, and the waiter partially raised a hand, but continued away.

“Hey, I’m a thirsty gal. Work’s been hard of late,” she said when she noticed Petr’s surprise.

“You did bring me here.” He took out the data cube and carefully placed it on the table. He almost winced when he saw how much his constant rubbing, the nervous tick of his anger, had worn it down.

“My, my, my,” she said, looking at the cube and then turning those searchlight eyes on him once more. “Seems I should’ve brought a bouquet. You were anxious, weren’t you?”

Petr ignored the comment. “Why?”

“Ah, left at the altar again. Well, I’ve come to expect it. You’ve got some pretty Foxer you’re bedding, right? No place in your life for little ol’ Snow.”

He slapped his hand on the table and ignored the curious looks from around the room at the gunshot sound. “Snow,” he ground out, trying to keep a rein on his temper, “I do not have time for this. You managed to get this cube on my ship, which I am sure you know is the only reason I’m here.”

She placed her hand gently on the table, as though to mock his own brutal impact, and laughed quietly. “Ah, now you’re starting to use vulgarity with me. If you’re going to leave me at the altar, the least you could do is not argue with me. That’s for married folks.”

Petr trembled and his eyes flashed red. He closed them; he would not react. Would not!