Outpost

Facts are the enemy of Truth. Everyone knows that. What follows is the true story of the Outpost. I knew the moment he walked into the Outpost that he was a Herohe just had that look about him. He was a lot closer to seven feet tall than six, he had unblinking no-color eyes, golden hair that cascaded down to his shoulders, and the kind of body that you just knew chairs would bounce off of. His huge arms were too heavily muscled to be confined, so he'd cut the sleeves off his shirt. He wore a leather vest, matching leather trousers, a metal belt with a buckle made out of an alien skull, and fur-covered boots. And a bunch of alien necklaces and bracelets: you could hear him jingling from a couple of hundred yards away. He had a scar that began just above his ear and ended in the middle of his chin. His right arm had a tattoo of one of the more spectacularly endowed naked ladies I can remember seeing, and she constantly raced up to his shoulder and onto his chest beneath his shirt; his left arm had a tattoo of himself, scar and all, and it ran up to his left shoulder and (I assume) met the naked lady on his chest every few seconds in a pornographic embrace. The middle finger of his right hand boasted a diamond ring that must have been six, maybe seven carats, and his ring finger held a diamond that could eat the middle finger's diamond for breakfast. He wore a brace of pearl-handled burners, and the Spy Eye behind the bar told me he had another burner, two screechers, and a pair of knives hidden on his person. He ignored the men and women who were gathered at the tables and walked directly up to the bar. "Heard a lot about the Outpost," he said in his deep, booming voice. "Hard place to find." "You managed," I noted. "I usually find what I'm looking for," he answered. "Give me a Witch's Wart." I had Reggiethat's what I call the bartending machi≠ it kind of personalizes himmix it up. "First one's on the house." "I approve," he said, picking the glass up and downing it in a single swallow, oblivious to the flames and the vapor that rose from it. "Name's Baker," he continued, putting the empty back on the bar. He paused, as if about to deliver a punch line. "Catastrophe Baker." "I've heard of you." Of course, I've heard of almost everyone who finds his way to the Outpost. "I guess a lot of people have." "Not too many make it out here, though," I noted. "Maybe more than you'd like," said Baker. "You could be getting a little unwelcome company before long." "Oh?" He nodded his shaggy head. "War's getting close." News is always slow reaching us. After all, we're as far from what's happening as you can get. "Who are we at war with this time?" He shrugged. "I get the feeling they're more a bunch ofwhat's thanwho's." "Then they won't want to stop at the Outpost for a drink, will they?" I said, which was my only concern. Wars come and go; the Outpost stays. Before I go any further, I suppose I ought to tell you a little bit about the place, maybe starting with where it is. Easy enough. We're on Henry II, one of the Eight Henrys. We were named by Willie the Bard, who spent half a lifetime looking for just this configuration, and finally found it as deep into the Inner Frontier as anyone has ever gotten. We've got this biResnick, Mike is the author of 'Outpost' with ISBN 9780312875770 and ISBN 0312875770.