From the Bookshelf of Club Drunk But Not Too Drunk To Read The Book…

Her face momentarily showed disgust. “But those clothes. And the skel. Just skel, all the time, very carefully measured out. I didn’t think I’d mind. I mean, I don’t mind skel, but I could hardly choke it down.” I could guess the mood she’d been in, when she’d gotten into that fight.

The proprietor of the shop Inspector Supervisor Skaaiat had recommended was on the verge of throwing me out when my bank balance flashed onto her console, unbidden I suspected, Station sparing her embarrassment— and simultaneously telling me how closely it was watching me.

Seivarden leaned forward, took the box. “I’m well aware,” said Anaander Mianaai, “that you weren’t speaking metaphorically when you said your anger had to be armed to mean anything. I wasn’t either, when I said my conscience should be. Just so you know I mean what I’m saying. And just so you don’t do anything foolish out of ignorance, I need to explain just what it is you have.” “You know how it works?” But she’d had the others for a thousand years. More than enough time to figure it out.

The omen Stillness had flipped, become Movement. And Justice was about to land before me, clear and unambiguous.

said someone else, a comment that might be taken two ways, but I was fairly sure I knew which way was meant. “But that’s not a safe topic.”