"He is right Taya," Junebug said quietly taking a sip of her own drink. It was a locally brewed ale, heady and with a slightly oily aftertaste that she suspected might be an unpleasant companion after a night of heavy drinking but all Neil had the right of it. The drink had the virtue of being cold and refreshing, which she could appreciate even if this world lacked the oven like temperatures of Hahn.

"Do we even need to work I mean we have..." Junebug stomped on Taya's boot cutting her off with a yelp. When interest in the outburst waned she spoke quietly to her friend.

"Taya if people though they had a thousand credits we wouldn't get thirty feet from here before the gunned us down," she explained taking another judicious sip of her beer. The place certainly had a down on its luck feel. Tables of shaped stone that were set into the ground so they could be hosed off rather than wiped, cheap electrical wiring taped to the wall with cargo tape where it didn't just hang from the ceilings. A large high bar that would be difficult for a drunk patron to lunge over. Now and again a serving girl came out carrying plates of fried foods to various tables, setting them down quickly and retreating deftly to avoid gropes and pats on the rump. This was evidently a service you had to order at the bar because there were no menus and the serving girl didn't stop to ask.

"Rough place," Junebug observed as a pair of men dragged Neil's victims out the narrow back door and into an alley. This clearly wasn't a humanitarian gesture but just the desire to pillage the dead in private.

"You have been in rougher I suspect," Taya said trying to sound confident. Junebug grinned wolfishly.

"Yes but those times I had a dozen troopers with me and we weren't likely to run into anything half as bad as us," she said with a smirk. The Armored like most mercenary units tended to drink in packs, and the cohesion of a military unit was as devastating in bar fights as it was on the battle field, usually the only thing to worry about were other groups of mercenaries. 

The sipped beer and watched the crowd for a few minutes as the interest in the shootings died away. They were a mixed bunch, farmers of a rough sort, a few spacers, evidently from the freighter at the space port and townspeople, mechanics, and small trades people. Everyone Junebug looked at was either openly armed, or more frequently seemed to be concealing a weapon in a pocket or tucked into a waistband. They were nervous also, not just about what had just happened, but in general. They ordered some food and more drinks as the afternoon wore on and Junebug began to think that Warner's dire warnings were just the line of nonsense a crooked spaceport operator might spin to keep the credits in his own hands, but as sundown approached there was a marked change in behavior. People began paying their tabs and leaving and the streets seemed to empty almost as though by magic. Junebug turned her head suddenly.

"What," Neil and Taya both asked at once.

"Engines, diesel maybe light trucks," Junebug stated her practiced ear picking out the sound a few moments before the rumble was evident to the others. The locals who hand't vacated the bar hunched their shoulders as though in anticipation of a rainstorm. Ten minutes later the reason why became evident. A parade of light trucks pulled onto the main street each one loaded with hooting gunmen. The were dressed much like the farmers save that everyone of these was obviously armed. They were festooned with weapons knives and bandoleers and each of them wore gold fabric prominently, some had bandannas, others sashes or coats, but every single one of them was marked. Warner's gangs she supposed. A moment later a second such convoy pulled into the street from the other side of town and disgorged an equally disreputable looking group, these were indistinguishable from the first save they wore green. The two groups began to shout insults at each other and hurl bottles and other bits of debris at their opponents. Some men, not directly involved in the shouting and cat calling, swarmed into the bars, swaggering and shouting.

"What is going on here," Junebug asked catching the wrist of the serving girl as she hurried past.

"Mistress," she hissed, gaging her chances of breaking Sayeeda's wire snare grip and judging against it.

"The gangs, they spend the days forcing the farmers to labor in the fields and they come back to town at night," she said, casting increasingly nervous glances at the gold clad thugs. Sayeeda let her go and the woman turned and fled.

"Well I guess that explains that," Junebug observed. Outside a hurled brick brained a man outside the tavern sending him tumbling to the dirt in the door way, blood pouring from his nose.

"I can see this getting interesting once they all get drunk," Junebug observed a moment before a knot of gold clad gunmen shoved their way into the bar and began shouting for drinks.