In a Bar on Francis

No shit, there we were, stuck on this almost-backwater world of Francis, which, if you haven’t been there, is a damn well ocean-bound ball of liquid saline and the air…

That was just steam, sweat, and almost solid wall of atmosphere that masked the scenery of what solid land there was, which itself was just jungle and swamp. Yeah. A real pesthole of a world. It wasn’t that far off the beaten track, but right now, our ship was still the only one in port…and still the local traders weren't buying. That about summed up our luck up to that point: off the track and no one buying, and us with a cargo hold full of ballistic-grade but unwoven carella fiber and two dozen cases of refrigerated jinjute that would exceed expiration start to spoil if we didn't find a market fast.

It seemed as though there was no action anywhere on that drizzle-faced planet, none, at least, that wasn't controlled by a bigshot trader they called "The Toad". You know, "Well, gee, you'll have to talk to the Toad, man," or “No cash, no fuel, talk to the Toad, man,” were the only sort of answers we'd had after three days of making the rounds to the local factors. Only finding this, “The Toad” wasn't that easy.

So…anyway, no shit, there we were, frowning at our drinks bought with what petty cash we had and wondering if we'd ever have the credits free to replace that cross-patched fusor circuit, hell, that could still run, but we needed gas, and that’s when the bartender came over and said someone wanted to talk to us. "Who'd want to talk to us?" I asked belligerently, but the barkeep just jerked his head toward a booth in the back. We turned, and there was Tolan the Toad, all near 200 kilos of him, surrounded by his flunkies and giving us the most unpleasant smile I'd ever seen in my life.

I knew right then we were in trouble.

I was wrong.

That was the easy part.