Six there, a posse of thugs all in an array when Labbatu turns around. They come in variety-pack: bruiser twice her girth and a wiry martial-artist, a razor-thin chick with a gun that must have come off the nose of a fighter ship strapped across her back in a rig, thickset man running to fat and holding a spitting electric prod, angel-faced lad spinning a suture-thread garrote in one long-fingered hand. Last one’s worst: looks like a kid, but no kid’s got that many teeth, all in rows inside her mouth like a shark, an endless hole of nasty triangles, no tongue.
