At Empire's Edge
At Empire's Edge
“It was raining, and had been for hours, which was why the troops wore water-slicked ponchos that hung down skirtlike around their knobby knees.
There wasn’t much foot traffic at that time of day, and what little bit there was seemed to fade away as the Procurator’s soldiers entered The Warrens and went straight to the pub called The Black Stocking. It wasn’t open yet. But when a burly Section Leader hammered on the door and ordered those within to, “Open up, or be shut down,” the saloon’s proprietor hurried to comply. He had shaggy gray hair, a bulbous nose, and a potbelly that strained the fabric of his long nightshirt. “Yes?” he said suspiciously, as he eyed the militiamen arrayed in front of him. “What can I do for you?”
“You can get the hell out of the way,” Centurion Pasayo answered arrogantly, as he pushed past and entered the great room beyond. It was about 6:00 AM, which meant the pub had been closed for three hours, and wasn’t scheduled to reopen until midafternoon.
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