Four pairs of eyes seated at the table snapped to Roman, then slid toward a man whose face was half-hidden beneath a wide-brimmed black hat.

  At his own pace, the man tipped the brim back, revealing a surprisingly handsome face, with a hoop through one nostril. Roman noticed this man’s clothes were cleaner than the others, and the pinky ring he wore above the knuckle seemed out of place for Quay.

  Roman met the man’s green eyes, caustic as acid. In that instant, without knowing how, Roman knew he wasn’t Martian.

  “The table's full,” said another man on Roman’s left. He was small, but when he made a shooing motion Roman noticed how long his arms were, almost spiderlike. .

  “Beat it,” came the next voice beside Longlimbs—not a man’s voice at all. Roman squinted. Thick-jowled, scalp buzzed, it was a woman.

  Roman set a hand on Longlimbs’ shoulder, “awe, come on. How much to play?”

  Longlimbs looked more surprised than angry at the touch, so Roman lingered, made a show of counting the players, then counted again.

  “Five,” he said at last, “what about a sixth?”

  “Game’s full.”

  The words slid across the table in a slithery whisper from behind a dusty black veil. Their eyes burned a feverish orange in the saloon’s lamplight.

  Roman stared, taking in every detail he could, hoping his drunken act would explain his behavior. He crouched and tapped the woman, Jowls, and Longlimbs on the arm, then nodded toward Veil.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”

  Veil’s orange eyes narrowed but she didn’t answer. Controlled. Dangerous.

  Blackhat leaned back, lifting his chair’s front feet off the floor. “You’re mouthy, aren’t you. Whatcha looking for, friend? May be we can help you find it.”

  The volume in the bar dropped a notch and chairs scraped as those who sat in them pushed themselves away from Blackhat’s voice.

  Roman would’ve been a fool not to notice. He turned, squirting at the rest of the bar, noting how two tables aimed their attention right at him while the rest studiously looked away. In the mirror behind the tap, he caught the bartender’s wary eyes, and off to the side, Val tried to hide that she was alone by sitting at an already occupied table.

  “Weird,” Roman muttered, shaking his head and turning back to Blackhat, “felt like it got quieter for a second.”

  Blackhat nodded, but it was the last gambler at the table who spoke. A man with shoulders as big as bowling balls.

  “Games. Full. Can’t you hear?”

  Roman pursed his lips, shrugged, and pointed at the barren table top in front of Bowlingball.

  “Have you been playing a different game than your friends? Or is the point of the game to give all your bits away…”

  The man screwed up his face while the whole saloon held a breath but it was the sputtering laughter of Jowls and Longlimbs that dispelled the tension. Roman felt Blackhat's stare, but avoided looking in his direction just yet.

  “He’s got you there, Bluke,” Jowls said.

  Bowlingball—Bluke—looked around the table, saw he wouldn’t be receiving any support, then folded his arms and glared at Roman. “You think you can buy in? Take my place?”

  That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Roman shrugged and lifted up his shot glasses.

  “So long as I can use some of Quay’s finest as collateral. What do you say?”

  The group smiled conspiratorially, save Bluke of course.

  Keats called moments like this ‘the flip’, when the mark considered your story true. The tension was highest at the very moment before. At worst they’d see him as a swindler, at best someone to toy with. The twice crossed holsters each of them wore on their hips, and the chest bandoliers armed with beamfoils, were enough to remind Roman of the stakes.

  Blackhat laughed an easy laugh and said, “get us a round, Bluke.”

  Jowls and Longlimbs snickered behind their cards. Bluke, without a hand to play or drink to barter grew ten inches in his chair as he stared Roman down.

  “But Mac—” Bluke started.

  Blackhat—Mac—picked up his own cards and leaned his elbows on the table, “you know the rules. No chips, no drink, no game. Now get on.”

  The command was cordial, yet Bluke didn’t argue. Roman involuntarily leaned forward to make space for the man to pass.

  Mac called Roman’s attention back to the table with a sing-song lilt. “Change your mind? Bluke wouldn’t mind if you had.”

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  Roman blew out his cheeks, and grinned his fool’s grin. “Nope.”

  “There you go.” Mac tilted his hat back onto his head proper, eyes locking with Roman’s. Up close, it felt like sitting next to a live power line. “And here we go. You need an explanation on the rules, or did you bring enough luck with ya to learn as we go.”

  “I was watching, and I think I know enough to be dangerous.” Roman raised his brows, questing for approval as he slid his shot glass into the center. “Little blind, right?”

  The rest of the gang watched their boss for a cue.

  “For your sake, I hope not, friend.”

  The table laughed, all except Veil.

  “So,” Mac wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, “what do we call you?”

  Roman hesitated for a requisite moment, “just call me Ace because that’s what you’ll be seeing all game.”

  It was a clumsy joke, perfect for letting suspicion slip. Mac clapped his shoulder, “I like you already, Ace. Rips, deal him in.”

  Roman leaned back in his chair as Veil—Rips—shuffled and dealt the whole deck out evenly. He pointedly watched the rest of the group pick up their cards.

  Jowls grabbed her hand like a haunch of meat, elbows braced wide—Longlimbs lifted cards one by one, recalculating with every reveal, hesitant— And Mac… Mac swept his cards in one hand, tapped them even with two shakes, and took a long, unreadable look.

  After dealing everyone out, Rips slid her hand beneath the table, checking each card one by one with those fever-bright eyes, and checking the table in turn.

  A bubble of blood-red gum swelled and popped between Mac’s teeth as a quartet of tin cups clattered onto the table, liquor splashing over the rims.

  “Ah Bluke!” Longlimbs yelled, wiping some of the liquid off his face.

  “Afraid we’ve replaced you?” Jowls snorted behind her cards.

  Bluke said nothing, seating himself on a tall stool just behind Roman. His presence pressed like a sunbeam on Roman’s back. He let them think it made him squirm, but every Martian grew up betting their rations as well as mission stones on games of Nomad. Pressure wasn’t exactly the trick here, he just had to make his playing seem honest.

  “Right. So like this?”

  Roman placed a card face down in the center—the Nomad—then dropped a 2 in front of him to start the round.

  “He’s not an idiot,” Longlimbs muttered.

  “We’ll see,” Jowls said, laying down a 3.

  And around they went, playing cards higher and higher till someone had to lay doubles, then triples and so on till there was only one player left; Those who couldn’t beat the count pitched cards to the discard pile to keep on playing. He just had to finish each hand in second or third place to keep playing.

  He kept his questions to himself as he played, needing first to ensure his tenure in the game before anything else.

  Longlimbs was the first to run out of cards—which would make him ‘the glutton’ back in Roman’s playing days because that’s what you were if you were trying to survive and burned through your resources too quickly. But maybe they used a different name for it here…

  Jowls to his left had two cards left, Rips had three cards, and Mac somehow had 4 even after placing triple 4’s. Roman only had two cards.

  “So,” Roman said, crumpling his forehead, “this is where big-and-beautiful behind me got stuck, right?”

  Roman was rewarded by sharp grins at the table, and silence from Bluke behind.

  Jowls hovered a meaty hand above the cards, “that’s right. Now if you were smart, the card you laid down at the beginning might help you survive this turn.”

  “Be mighty lucky to have planned that your first go,” Longlimbs said.

  Roman opened his mouth, shut it, then leaned back with a sloppy grin, “sorry, who are you again? I keep forgetting.”

  Mac laughed once heartily then slapped the table, making Roman flinch. “The man’s right. Manners, people. That’s Etha to your left, and Kroy’s the one looking sore over there.”

  Longlimbs—Kroy—raised his cup in acknowledgment, then drained it.

  “Biggest cheaters this side of the Belt,” Mac said with pride.

  “Course you’ve met Bluke. And Rips here, though she don’t like no one calling her that, and prefer you use her full name Rapashni.”

  Prefers people to use her name…except you.

  Roman nodded to each, making a show of muttering the names.

  “Those are better than the names I was thinking.”

  Kroy squinted. “And what were those?”

  “Good-lookin’ and Smells-nice,” Roman grinned and carried on before they could decide if they’d been insulted, “so Etha, if I flip this card, it could save my ass?”

  “Thas right,” Jowls—Etha—said.

  Roman flipped the Nomad and slapped his two remaining cards on top, “read ’em and weep.”

  They peered in, disbelief thick. Kroy barked the first laugh.

  “What?” Roman looked down, appropriating confusion, then cursed, “thought I put a six down earlier.”

  The pair of sixes he laid down on top of it, were shy one more to beat the current count.

  “Now what?”

  “You’re out,” Kroy said.

  “That’s it? Just one game?” Roman knew that wasn’t the case, but waited for someone to explain it first. Etha jumped in.

  “Just the round. You’re not the big or small blind next hand and you still have another shot there to bet in—unless of course you’re all done playing.”

  Roman paused with his lips on the glass, then set it gently down.

  “One more sounds nice.”

  The next round played out. Mac won, pulling the pot toward him—Roman’s shot glass included—but he parceled a share to Rips for placing second, and Roman for third. Fourth and fifth placement got you nothing apparently.

  As the cards shuffled again, Rips leaned forward. Her voice thick with accusation.

  “You laid an eight to start, but played a pair of eights later.”

  Sharp.

  Roman spread his hands. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “He’s new, Rips. Be nice,” Mac said.

  Roman studied Mac, and decided to see what type of person he was. “What about you Mac? What would you have laid as the Nomad?”

  For the briefest instant, Mac’s warmth glitched. Then his smile returned, smooth as ever.

  “What would I have laid for the… nomad?” He ran his tongue across his teeth before answering. “Who could say, but I like you Ace, you and this game we're playing. I like it a lot.”

  The cards were dealt.

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