No Guns, No Meat, No Trouble (Pirates of Drinax)

Port Blacksand, Theev, The Trojan Reach

The sun over Port Blacksand was doing its best to look majestic, which was difficult when most of the city seemed built from salvage, spite, and last-minute planning permission.

Up in the Upper City, things pretended to be civilised. Buildings were clean, streets were wide, and the general mood was “respectable conference centre with knives under the tablecloths.” Every corner had the sort of quiet you only get when expensive deals are being made or someone’s paid a lot to keep the screaming indoors.

Then things went downhill. Literally.

The Lower City began where good taste ended. Grand architecture gave up, made a noise like “you know what, never mind,” and was replaced by buildings that looked like they'd been mugged for bricks and reassembled by enthusiastic drunks. Streets narrowed into suggestion, alleys turned into mazes, and the air changed from breathable to experienced.

Caitlin took the lead, boots crunching on the dusty streets. She moved like someone daring the place to get interesting.

Morwen and Scarred-Snout flanked her. Neither said a word. They didn’t have to. Their weapons weren’t drawn, but their attitudes were enough. Most of the passers-by took one look and decided this was not the bunch to hassle before breakfast. Or after.

Quinn and Maltz brought up the rear. Quinn catalogued species, tech, and biohazards with the quiet efficiency of someone who would bring a medikit to a funeral. Maltz, by contrast, looked like a tourist on parole. He eyed vendors, jury-rigged machinery, and black market drone parts with a kind of reverent hunger. Somewhere inside that furry head, a mental list was already being drawn up, labelled: Things To Steal, Modify, or Possibly Date.

Red flags began to appear.

Not metaphorical ones. Actual red flags, fluttering over buildings like haphazard declarations of temporary civilisation. The Law of the Lords applied inside those. Outside? The Law of the Streets. The difference was mainly paperwork and how soon you were likely to get shot.

High above them, perched on balconies, rooftops, and architectural mistakes, stood the Widows. The city's cloned enforcers. Slim, robed, utterly silent. They didn’t need to move. The idea of them moved enough.

Caitlin looked up. And kept looking.

One Widow stood alone on a narrow beam, elegantly poised. Her coat hung sharp over polycarapace armour, matte-black and seamless. Her red hair was braided with precision. Her pale face was calm in that faintly terrifying way only professional killers and museum statues ever managed.

Caitlin squinted. “Alright. That’s just unfair.”

Morwen didn’t glance up. “They kill people, Cait.”

“She’s got excellent balance. And cheekbones that should be licensed.”

“They kill a lot of people.”

“I’m just saying, if I ever go missing, check the lady with the nice coat first.”

Morwen said nothing. The silence had edges.

---

Eventually, the street widened just enough to allow in something resembling light, and there it was: Tuk’s.

The sign above the door flickered like it was having second thoughts. The door itself was reinforced, re-welded, and repainted by someone with more enthusiasm than style. The smell from within was unmistakable: incense, spice, heat, and something else. Something herbal, confident, and not the tinies bit interested in your allergies.

Quinn paused. “I detect trace elements of turmeric, basil, and a non-toxic compound I can’t identify. Yet.”

Maltz sniffed. “It’s safe. Probably.”

Caitlin eyed the bar like a challenge. “Nothing that smells that good ever ends well. Let’s try it anyway.”

And with that, they approached the door.

An absolutely massive alien blocked their path. Two metres long and two-and-a-half metres tall, it looked like a centaur that had been reassembled by someone working from vague mythological descriptions and bad lighting. The creature had the long-limbed grace of something built to outrun danger or cause it, and the steady, level stare of someone who had outlasted their enemies, their creditors, and at least one imperial census.

This was a K’kree. Not just rare in these parts, legendary. The Two Thousand Worlds didn’t export citizens; they exported war. K’kree were known for three things: militant vegetarianism, aggressive herd behaviour, and a long-standing policy of exterminating anyone who so much as glanced at a cheeseburger.

This one, however, appeared to own a bar.

The K’kree raised one forelimb. Her hand looked almost human at first glance, until you noticed the ‘fingers’ were smooth cartilage tubes, not bones. Only the large hoof-like thumb was solid. The fingers could fold away completely, turning the whole thing into a surprisingly efficient blunt instrument.

“Welcome to Tuk’s,” the K’kree said. The voice was deep, clipped, and perfectly serious. “No guns. No meat. No trouble.”

The hand did not lower.

“You touch weapons, you leave in box. You sit, you eat, you drink. This place safe, but only because Tuk says so.”

Then, apparently satisfied, the K’kree turned and walked behind the bar with the ponderous grace of a landslide. Her mane was braided and weighed down with gold rings, her massive frame wrapped in an apron that had once been white and now looked like it remembered wars.

Caitlin nodded politely at Tuk as they took their seats. “Something smells divine. What’s cooking?”

Tuk grinned. Her teeth were large, flat, and disconcertingly numerous. “Takeema soup. Grilled arrinhae. No meat. No exceptions. You want flavour, you get it. You want blood, you go elsewhere.”

She produced a vast pot from beneath the bar, steam rising like it had personal ambitions. Beside it, a tray of grilled vegetables sizzled with oil and spices so complex Quinn’s sensors went momentarily quiet in admiration.

“Eat,” Tuk said. “Then we talk. Maybe you join Tuk’s herd. Or maybe you leave with new thoughts.”

Scarred-Snout gave a low approving rumble. “She cooks like a war priest.”

“No,” said Tuk. “Tuk cook better. Priest food bland. Tuk know joy.”

She ladled out the soup with the precision of someone who considered portions a form of diplomacy. Five bowls hit the counter, followed by thick, crispy slices of arrinhae. The skin crackled with a sound like satisfaction, and the aroma was rich, complicated, and slightly smug about it.

Scarred-Snout didn’t bother with the spoon. He lifted the bowl with both hands, tilted it back, and drank like he’d been wandering the desert and just discovered divinity came with seasoning. A low growl rose in his throat, somewhere between pleasure and a battle cry.

He thumped the bowl back down, licked his muzzle, and stared at the others with wild intensity.

“This,” he said, “is the food of kings. I would conquer for this. I would trade land for this.”

Morwen cautiously sniffed her own bowl. “Good soup, ja?”

“Good?” Scarred-Snout looked scandalised. “This soup taught me things. This soup gave me opinions about my childhood.”

Caitlin took a slow sip and sighed. “Right. We’re definitely staying for dessert.”

Maltz paused mid-slurp, his ears flicking forward. “So how does a K’kree end up here, of all places? Seems a long way from herds and holy wars.”

Tuk smiled as the Vargr tucked into the food. “Old story. Maybe boring. Tuk not like other K’kree. Herds too loud. Always marching, always shouting. Everyone chasing meat-eaters like it make life better.”

She waved a thick-fingered hand at the bar. “Tuk said no. Came here instead.”

Her eyes swept the room. Half the patrons were drunk, the other half professionally suspicious. None of them looked like family, but Tuk’s expression softened anyway.

“Most K’kree hate humans. Tuk doesn’t. Well... some humans. But not all.” She tapped her temple. “They say Tuk crazy. Maybe true. Tuk doesn’t want war. Doesn’t want noise. Wants peace. Quiet. Good food. One place that stays.”

She looked back at Maltz, then Scarred-Snout.

“Humans, Vargr, Aslan. Doesn’t matter. If you eat here, you’re part of my herd. Tuk watches the herd. That’s enough.”

Then, almost to herself, but not softly: “Some find their place in the stars. Some in cities. Tuk found it here.”

“This bar. These misfits. Tuk’s place.”

 ---

The soup was mostly finished. Scarred-Snout was licking his third bowl with dangerous enthusiasm. Caitlin leaned forward like she was settling in for gossip rather than reconnaissance.

“Tuk,” she said, casually enough to raise alarms in anyone who knew her, “you ever hear of a woman called Miria Silverhand?”

Tuk didn’t answer right away. She kept drying a glass that had clearly given up years ago “Plenty people pass through here. Names come and go.”

Caitlin smiled, slow and polite. “We’ve heard the name. Loud enough to follow.”

Maltz’s ears twitched, just once.

Tuk leaned in slightly, not menacing, just weighty. “Smart one, Miria. Stays low. Keeps to the Scrapheap. Doesn’t trust bars, officials, or people who talk pretty.”

Morwen tilted her head. “How would one arrange a meeting?”

“You don’t. She finds you, if you’re interesting enough. But be careful. Scrapheap doesn’t forgive mistakes. And Miria forgives less.”

Caitlin raised her glass in a lazy toast. “Good to know. We’ll do our best to be interesting.”

Tuk gave her a long look. Then just nodded. “Dessert first. Hunt after.”

She turned to fetch something sweet and suspiciously steaming.

They didn’t linger long. A few bites later, with the taste of ginger and unexpected comfort still on their tongues, they stood, settled the bill, and stepped back into the smoke and menace of the Lower City.

At the back of the bar, someone stood up as well. He hadn’t touched his drink. He hadn’t blinked in a while either. Just watched the crew go with the calm focus of someone memorising faces. Then he tapped a small comm unit, dropped a few credits beside his untouched bowl, and slipped out the back door without a word.