The next day. I was sitting up in my hospital bed eating breakfast, which was a fantastic super helping of eggs and bacon. It was Saturday and the sun was streaming through the open window. A cool morning breeze was fighting with the steam over the top of the hot espresso that the nurse just brought in for me.

Then the dicks arrived, two of them: an oversized ape who was clearly submissive to the older bird, who walked in like she owned the place.

She removed her hat. "Peace be with you." She offered the standard greeting.

I replied, less than enthusiastically, "With an i-e" as was customary. I had no reason to be rude, after all.

"Miss Smith, I'm Detective Sergeant Chris Anthrax, and this is Detective Jack Quinn. We hope you're feeling up to answering a few questions about yesterday's incident?"

Oh, great. You could have at least waited for me to finish breakfast. They must have sensed my annoyance because the big one said, "That does look good. You don't have to stop eating."

I poured on some more corn syrup, spilling a bit on the overhang table. Everything was difficult with my left arm. "You know, he saved my life. That asshole was going to kill me, cruel style."

"Miss Smith, it's more complicated than that. Trixie's your name, right?"

"Call me Trix," I said.

"Do you mind if we sit?"

I gave them a nod, and they pulled up the visitor chairs.

"This man that you believe protected you, he's in a lot of trouble. Not only from the law, but he killed a discordant. Those freaks are going to want payback, and when they do, it's not going to be pretty. It won't be a one-on-one quick draw, and, no matter how big that gun is of his, it ain't going to protect him. We, on the other hand—"

"But I don't know who he is, or where he is. I don't even know his name. Believe me, I wish I did, he's the kind of guy a girl could fall for. And, I'm fussy as all hell." I frowned at the guy dick, who gave me a wounded look.

They apparently didn't believe me, as I could see them about to jump into a new line of questioning. "Look, he can't talk. I don't know whether he was born that way or he just chooses not to, but the guy's a mute."

They both looked stunned. Genuinely stunned, like they weren't expecting that. Neither was I, to be honest, when he wrote me a note.

I swallowed a juicy slice of bacon and took advantage of their confusion. "So, if this guy can't talk, how could he issue a DoD warning? If you ask me, he's a hero and it was a legal shooting; given the circumstances."

I stabbed my fork through an egg and watched as the golden-yellow yolk spread across the crisp toast. Picking up the slice, I took a bite. Oh my God, the sweet sauce made that taste sooo good.

The dicks huddled back to whisper between themselves (although I heard everything). "She's got a point. If he can't say the words?" said the one called Quinn, and Anthrax replied, "Yeah, I haven't heard of anything like it before, but the city's not going to buy it. There's zero tolerance where the Naz is concerned. No, they'll want his head over this whether or not it can talk."

"Ah, well," said Anthrax, standing slowly, "if that's the case and you don't know his identity, then we'll have to go back to our plan 'A'. We've got the statement you made last night, and you also provided a confident likeness for our sketch artist so I'm happy that we can go on that. Sorry for troubling you and I hope that your arm mends well. Good morning, Miss Smith."

With that, the dicks put their hats back on and tipped their rims just as the guy's wrist device started to dot'n'dash. They looked at each other and ran from the room.

I quickly stuffed as much breakfast and coffee as I could into my mouth, jumped out of bed, pulled on my denim and stuffed my Magic into my pocket (I had no hope in hell of getting my holster on with one hand). I looked down to the plaster cast around my arm and at the name on the underside. "Slinger." It was written in neat handwriting by the man who had saved my life. I ran out of the room, determined to follow those dicks. See, I knew morse code too, and they'd found him.

#

The ruby speedbird pulled up at the park entrance mounting the footpath. "Fuck, Quinn!" exclaimed Chris, reeling from the bump. "When are you going to learn to drive?"

"Sorry, Sarge. There they are." He pointed to a group of discordants gathered at the far end of the field, easily identifiable as such by their tan uniforms, a couple of them even bearing red and white discordant flags hanging from the end of eight-foot-long pikes.

The detectives weren't the first on the scene, with several uniformed squad cars having already landed at the park. Their blue and white lights flashing over the tops of their vehicles added to the sense of impending chaos. They'd been ordered by Anthrax, in a quick morse dispatch, to keep their distance. For once, they were doing as they were told.

The precinct's senior sergeant ran up to the detectives as they got out of their car. There was no question, this was their show. "Chris, he's there. The discordants have him cornered."

"Fuck. This is just great. How many are there?"

"Twenty-five."

Quinn squinted at the crowd. "Maybe, we just leave 'em sort it out, the discordants are sure to engage him, and if he takes a few of them out, well ..." He shrugged.

"Tempting. But we have orders to bring this guy in. City's insisting that we make a big deal of this one. Word is the major's made a deal with the press." Anthrax glanced over her shoulder at the sound of tires on gravel. "Talking about scum—" Chris thumbed to several civilian cars pulling up. A team of reporters with their photographers swarmed out.

Anthrax barked at the police sergeant. "Zhang, right now your main job is to keep those fuckers out." She jerked her head towards the reporters. "Then, I want your people on an out-of-range perimeter around the park. Don't worry about the riverside, just the street side boundary."

As the sergeant rushed off, Anthrax turned to Quinn. "Let's go, and make sure you've got your backup mag."

#

Luckily the dicks were parked in the hospital's under-building carpark, so I was able to get the jump on them by avoiding the slow elevators and hailing a taxi from the street. The cab pulled up just as the detectives sped out of the building in their red, straight-eight special.

We followed from a fair distance, and I got the taxi driver to pull his cab up a short way before the park and all of the flashing lights. I really didn't know what I'd do when I got down there; perhaps plead like an idiot for them not to take Slinger away, or maybe just be there for him, like he was there for me. But, in any case, I was expecting a shitfight—and judging by all the commotion, something serious was going down. I just hoped that it didn't involve the discordants.

This was my part of the City and I knew all the back ways from since I was a kid. I asked the driver to pull around to a dirt walkway that wasn't visible from up in the park entrance. The track went all the way around on the bank. That was my way in.

Just as I had hoped, I strolled into the park by the river track and moved around to the bend where I heard voices. My plastered arm was throbbing and sweat was beading on my forehead, but I had to climb the steep bank for a look at a spot that was protected by small trees, shrubbery and a scattering of landscaped boulders. There, my fears were realized. The discordants had Slinger cornered at the bend, although he didn't look at all ruffled as he sat casually on top of a picnic table, polishing his gun with a handkerchief. Because his gun wasn't connected to the Naz, it wouldn't be legal for anyone to challenge him. I bet the fact was sending the discordants crazy.

The dicks from the hospital approached from behind the group. Their guns were holstered, but their hands hovered at the ready.

Anthrax led Quinn through the group of discordants, like they weren't even there. Not used to such disregard for their menace, the morons just parted in stunned surprise to allow the dicks through. They stopped at Slinger, who, impressed by their ballsy style, was now standing and looking slightly more serious than he did moments ago.

Anthrax walked up to Slinger. "Jonathan McCarthy, drop your weapon or we will kill you." It wasn't even worth the detective drawing her gun because she also wouldn't have been able to issue the DoD against a weapon not connected to the Naz. What's more, if she had a gun in her hand it would have made them a target for the discordants. But, gun or no gun, Slinger got the message. He holstered the big six-shooter and held his hands out to his sides in surrender. Anthrax continued, "You are hereby placed under arrest for the Murder of Clemence Anderson"—turns out the creep had a name—"and for the unlawful discharge and possession of an illegal sidearm."

Slinger tipped his hat in acknowledgment and placed his hands together, ready to be cuffed, while a fuss of anger rose from the nearby discordants. Quinn moved forward, removing a pair of handcuffs from his belt to complete the arrest. But Anthrax pulled him back and whispered (I could only just hear her), "No, we're going to need his cannon."

"But Sarge, there are twenty-five of 'em and only three of us."

"I know the numbers. I'm sorry, Jack."

"Fuck."

"You said it. All it's going to take is for the discordants to fake-draw amongst themselves and send their bullets this way. Better that we keep the upper hand." She looked to Slinger, who pulled the rim of his hat up and looked, in turn, over to the discordants. If they made it out of this, then Slinger would have to face the law, but for now, I bet the dicks were just glad they had a real full-western at their side.

I looked on as the sides entered what was known in battle circles as a stand-off, and played the likeliest scenario out in my head. Slinger would let loose first; then at least one of the discordants would draw in response, giving the dicks a chance to issue their DoD. Slinger would take out six discordants, just as the law started to empty their clips, serving out twenty-four bullets before any of the discordants could even shoot once.

That's how it could have played out. But the discordants must have also realized that there would be significant casualties if fighting broke out, so in a surprising twist, their brigade captain began a disciplined march forward, followed closely by the flag bearers. I guess that they were intending to negotiate with the dicks for custody of the prisoner. Or, maybe they were just going to go berserk with the pointy ends of their spears. Unfortunately, we'll never know, because this was when I fucked up.

From my vantage point, I could see and hear everything, being closer to the good guys than the others. My view of the discordants wasn't great, so I decided to move around the rock slightly. But one of the flag bearers must have seen the sunlight reflecting off my gun because they dropped their flag and drew their weapon at me. "Disarm or die!"

I heard Anthrax cuss just as my gun buzzed the countdown, and then, for the second time in two days, I was in a gunfight.

Slinger pulled his gun and fired six times. The mess it left on the other side was almost beyond belief. Casings tinked on the cement at his feet as he cleared the wheel of his gun, its barrel smoking as he reloaded.

It was the detectives' turn to let rip with ten seconds still to go before the discordants, who were standing firm, could shoot back. As Anthrax's and Quinn's magazines emptied, discordants died, but not all of them, despite Slinger being back in the fray. It was perhaps inevitable that the good guys would take hits too.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep ...

My gun had activated, and I was clear to shoot as best I could with my left hand steadied against the rock. I think I hit one of the discordants in the arm; unfortunately, it was one of them that was already dead.

The fight ended with a shot from Slinger's silver six-shooter and the last of the discordants falling into the bloodbath.

The police descended onto the scene. I looked back. Slinger had dropped his gun and had his arms raised awkwardly as he'd been shot in the shoulder. Both of the detectives were down, fallen together in a heap on the ground.

"Disarm or die!"

I was stunned and didn't, at first, realize that the police were yelling at me. I quickly tossed my gun and stood with my good hand in the air, unable to move the other one; it was in too much pain.