An untitled SF piece

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The pub was a small, unassuming place, dark and quiet, no different from any other small pub in any other city on any other world in the Fringe. Richard Clayton Greymane liked it that way. The place held a handful of locals, drowning their sorrows or unwinding after a long workday, and no one paid him any mind. His credchip was good, and he drank quietly, so that was good enough for them. Greymane liked it that way as well.
He sat at a corner table with a good view of the entrance, sipping slowly from a mug of dark ale. His clothing was of the local style, but the flight jacket, old and faded save in places where patches had been removed, along with the holstered pulsar pistol at his hip, marked him as an offworlder. He kept his head lowered, but at regular intervals, his eyes scanned the room in a pattern bred by years of experience.
A young man across the room caught his attention. He was dressed in the local style as well, but he had the look of one who had spent time off-world. This individual seemed, in the last few minutes, to have been paying more than a passing attention to Greymane’s corner table. At that moment, the man got up and walked over, and Greymane saw the blaster at the man’s hip.
“Richard Clayton Greymane?” asked the stranger upon reaching the table.
Greymane’s head came up, his gray eyes meeting the younger man’s blue ones. “Do I know you, boy? I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
“Nice try,” sneered the “boy”, tossing a handcomp on the table. On the ‘comp’s small screen appeared Greymane’s face, with a monetary amount across the bottom edge.
Nice to know I’m worth so little, he thought. Maybe that’s why I’m still alive.
“I, Jeren Fraser, challenge you, Richard Clayton Greymane!”
“Jeren!” shouted the bartender. “Hunt him if you like, but not in my place!”
“Shut it, old man! I’ll deal with you after I’ve done with him.”
Greymane looked blandly at Fraser. His smile was gone, and his voice sounded tired. “Don’t waste your life, youngster. I’m not worth it.”
Unnoticed by the young man, a full-body shudder raced through Greymane as he activated his reflex booster.
“Stand and face me, scum!” barked Fraser, backing up two paces, gun hand dropping to his side.
Greymane stood, his chair scraping backwards to bang into the wall. Time as he perceived it slowed to a crawl. The movements of the locals as they dived for cover were glacially slow.
Fraser’s hand darted to his blaster. Greymane reacted. The bass thump of his pulsar was eclipsed by the screaming hiss of the other’s blaster. On the table, the mug exploded, the ale within vaporizing into acrid steam. Fraser was dead before he hit the floor, a fist-sized hole where his heart used to be.
Greymane holstered his weapon and turned to the barman. “Was he well known here?”
The old man grunted an affirmative. “Grew up here, then went offworld and became a hunter. Came back once in a while to see his ma. Not anymore, I guess—.” He stopped abruptly as something arced through the smoky air and landed on the bar with a “click”.
“A round for the house in his memory, then bury him properly and give the rest to his mother.”
The old man peered in disbelief at the credchip that lay on the bar. The color of the striping indicated an amount of fifty kilocredits. His eyes widened when he saw the Imperial Seal on the chip. He looked up, mouth open to speak, but Greymane had already walked out into the night.
* * *
"I hope that hunter’s the last one for a while. A man gets tired of shooting youngsters who should know better."
Richard Greymane tore off the foil cover of the mealpak and stared at the brown mess within, like an ancient oracle attempting to augur the future in an animal’s entrails. His stomach rumbled, reminding him what a mealpak was supposed to be for. He sighed, dipped his spoon, and began to eat.
As he ate, Greymane reflected on the events of the past year. His twenty-year career in covert operations had been rewarded with a well-deserved retirement. Then the old Emperor had died (assassinated, some said), his son (the assassin, some said) had assumed the throne, and the political winds had shifted. As the new Emperor purged the “old guard”, retirement suddenly took on a different, more deadly aspect. He fled the Core Worlds, dodging arrest warrants and bounty hunters, calling in markers and favors as he traveled. He headed for the Spinward Fringe, hoping to eventually lose his pursuers in the many client-states, petty dictatorships, and independent worlds that flourished at the fringes of Empire.
A week ago, after his meeting with Jeren Fraser, he made planetfall on a world designated by Inperial charts as Ayanima Alpha Trey. It was a desert world, with human settlements built around clusters of crashed and grounded starships, leftovers from some forgotten, pre-Imperial war.
His ship concealed in the shifting desert sands, Greymane traveled by jetbike to a nearby town. There he had taken a room at a run-down hotel, inappropriately named the Star Palace, paying for a long-term stay. From there, he hoped he would have time to consider his options.
His meal finished, Greymane stood and stretched. Today was the anniversary of his self-imposed exile. "I believe a celebratory drink is in order," he murmured. He walked out into the hall, locked the door behind him, and went to find that drink.

 

Very nice. If you write another installment, a bit more information on the world/universe it is based in would be good as it sounds quite interesting

 

Thanks, Crusader. Glad you liked it. This piece was originally intended to be a character bio for Finch's "Cantina" scenario, but I'm working on another Greymane story. Hope to have it up soon.