Bartender 9.4 [DIRECT]

“He owes me a favor,” 9.4 said. “Tell him the usual.”

“Where do I find a pilot?”

“I need to forget,” she whispered.

The bartender turned. Behind it, on a shelf of rare bottles, sat a dusty bottle of Maraskan Red. 9.4 nudged it an inch to the left. On the wall behind the bottle, scratched into the metal, was a name and a berth number. bartender 9.4

After that, the bounty hunters started leaving offerings: rare vintages, surgical-grade lubricant, a data-slate of pre-Fall cocktail recipes from Old Earth. 9.4 accepted them all with the same nod. “Appreciated,” it would say in that flat, polite tone. “Your usual?” “He owes me a favor,” 9

She left. The bar returned to its low hum of deals and danger. Behind it, on a shelf of rare bottles,

“Then what do you serve?”