Death Cultivator by eden Hudson (knowledgeable books to read .txt) 📗

stiff neck that just wouldn’t pop. “Honestly, I’m really glad you guys have coffee here.”

Apek blinked his flat eyes at me. “Course we have coffee! Think just because we in backwater-no water, Apek not carry essentials?”

“He’s new in town,” Kest told the reptile, forking over her last coin. “Two out of the ice chest, please.”

My forehead wrinkled up at that, because lukewarm coffee is nasty, even when it’s a million degrees outside, so I figured cold must be the worst thing ever. But caffeine was caffeine.

The general store owner walked down behind the counter a ways, dragging a big crocodile tail behind him, and dug into a bulky wood-and-metal chest that looked like it should be holding the payroll on an old stagecoach. When he opened it, icy fog drifted over the sides. Like old iceboxes on Earth, a big block of ice sat inside, keeping everything cold. He pulled out a pair of sweating dark brown energy drink cans with COFFEE DRANK down the side in jagged yellow font.

Understanding dawned on me. I’d thought Kest was just saying “drink” weird, like with an accent or something, but Coffee Drank was the brand name.

“Here,” Apek grunted, coming back and shoving the cans across the counter.

Kest popped the tabs on them, then handed me mine. I braced myself not to make a nasty face and took a drink. Instead of being lukewarm and gross, it was freezing cold with a little sweetness. Kind of like drinking iced tea, but with a smoky coffee taste instead.

My eyebrows shot up. “This is actually pretty good.”

“They’re my favorite,” Kest said.

Apek pointed a claw at me. “You, new drop-off. You looking for work? Go see Cagua at saloon. He get you straight with OSS in no time. Say Apek send you.”

“Thanks.” I definitely wasn’t going to do that.

Rali grabbed his purchases, and with my free hand, I hauled Kest’s bag back up onto my shoulder, then we headed back out into the slightly less stifling street drinking icy-cold coffee from a can.

Out Back of the Saloon

KEST SAID HER SMUGGLING contact was waiting for us out back of the saloon, so I figured the meeting would go down like some back-alley deal, with the three of us skulking around in the dark, keeping a lookout for the law. When we came around the corner of the saloon, though, it was the exact opposite of dark and secluded. A huge crowd of aliens were gathered around a big chainlink cage, yelling and drinking and gambling.

I strained up on my tiptoes and craned my neck to try to see around a ripped green alien. No luck. The dude was as tall and wide as a truck.

“What is this?” I couldn’t see anything until a slimy-looking blue alien slammed into the roof of the cage, spewing blood and teeth out the side of his face. The crowd went nuts.

“The OSS runs the fighting in Ghost Town,” Kest explained. “They have little miniature tourmanents every month or so to settle internal disputes and make money. It’s a good spot to meet without drawing attention.”

“They’re the gang Apek wanted me to get in with,” I said.

“That’s the way things usually work.” Kest took my empty and tucked it into a pocket of her bag.

Rali shrugged. “New arrivals want to get in with a gang as fast as possible. It keeps them safe—well, safer than they would be unaffiliated—and earns them cash. Makes serving out their sentence a little more luxurious.” He leaned his cheek on his walking stick. “Everybody thinks something can save them.”

“There’s Naph,” Kest said, looking at the spectators on the opposite side of the cage. “Come on.”

I shrugged the billion-pound bag back onto my shoulder and followed her around the crowd.

When I saw Kest’s smuggler friend, I realized why Apek had called him a space moth. A pair of fuzzy antennae stuck out of the guy’s head, and he had these huge black mothwings dotted with eyes and specks of color that looked like distant stars and planets. The dude attached to the wings wasn’t as impressive. He looked like some college douchebag, especially with the longneck in his hand and soul patch on his chin.

“Irakest, as I live and respire,” he said, saluting her with the beer. His arms were so bony that his veins stood out in the backs of his hands and wrists. “Well met, pretty gal. What wonders of invention hast thou banked since I last laid eyes on thee?”

It was the douchiest of douche greetings, but black lace filtered over Kest’s cheeks where a blush would go in a human, and she smiled at him.

“It’s just the usual junk, Naph. I don’t have any special builds this time around,” she said, tucking some stray hair behind her ear. But talking about the bagful of junk seemed to remind her I was there, too. She turned to me. “Thanks for lugging that all the way out here, Hake.”

The polite way to say, “I’m done with your services, packhorse. Hand over the goods and skedaddle.”

“No problem.” I slung the bag off my shoulder and handed it over like it didn’t weigh a ton.

I was hoping the space moth would grunt like it was heavy or lose his balance a little when he took it, but Naph didn’t even strain to hold it up. He gave the bag a shake to open the drawstring, then started digging through it.

“Why, these are above the accustomed grade.” He hefted out the machete. “Even in haste, thy art is quality.”

Kest tucked some stray hairs behind her ear. “It’s just some old junk I threw together.”

Rali whispered to me, “Maketh thee want to vomit, doest it not?”

“Yea, verily,” I said.

“Hake and I are going to watch the violence up close so we can disapprove of it better,” Rali told his sister. He raised his walking stick to the douche. “Well met, Naph.”

“May riches follow thee, Akarali,” Naph said, nodding. “And all the same to thee, Hake.”

“And also with