Space, Inc

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Able shrugged. “I knew a guy once, got killed by an apron. He lost his job and got so hungry he tried to eat it. Managed fine until he got to the ties and then he got one wrapped around that dangly thing at the back of his mouth and choked to death.”

  “Was that a threat?” Toby wondered as their new boss walked over to Bob and hauled a length of hose off him then hauled Bob back to his feet.

  “I have no fucking idea,” Spike admitted.

  Even with the pressurized steam, it took the seven of them three hours to get the bar clean.

  “Who the fuck washes the bottom of tables?”

  “I’d guess nobody in living memory.” Tasha swiped on more solvent and grimaced at the dissolving grime. “This is disgusting.”

  Helen nodded and sat back on her heels. “Well, at least we won’t have to do it again …”

  “We’ll do it after every shift.”

  The two women glanced over at Able, working the steam against the upper wall.

  “Why?” Helen demanded. “Hell, with only the drinking lights on, nobody can even see the dirt.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

  “Are you fucking obsessive or something?”

  “Keeping the bar clean’s part of the job.”

  “But nobody cares!”

  “That doesn’t change the definition of clean. I knew a guy once, tried to change the definition of Tuesday. Ended up with a fish up his nose.”

  “That makes no fucking sense …”

  “And that’s what I said to him at the time. How long has the big vid not worked?”

  Discussion narrowed it down to a couple of months.

  “Bar’s not making enough of a profit for the Company to send maintenance in.”

  Everyone turned to stare at Bob, who dropped his sponge, hugged himself, and announced that he needed a drink.

  “Downside maintenance never drinks here?” Able asked after a moment.

  “Well, yeah,” Toby snorted. “But they can’t shit without a Company work order.”

  “Okay, bar opens in half an hour. First shift go home, get cleaned up. Second shift, your time’s your own.” Standing by the light panel, Able looked around and nodded. “Good work, people.”

  Spike poked Toby hard in the side. “Why the fuck are you looking so pleased?”

  He shook his head. “I dunno. It just sounded like she meant it.”

  “Meant what?”

  “When she said, good work. When was the last time you heard somebody say that, and mean it? Webster never said it.”

  “And when was the last time you did good work for Webster?” Tasha snorted as they left.

  With only the drinking lights on, Able went back behind the bar, put a new sponge in a shallow bowl, filled the bowl with beer, and kept filling it until the sponge was soaked through. She looked up to see Bob leaning on the end of the bar, his eyes wide.

  Able pried the cover off the main air vent, set the bowl inside, and put the cover back on. “No one wants to drink in a bar that smells like disinfectant. It’s annoying. They start out annoyed, they end up as nasty drunks. On the flip side, no one wants to drink in a bar that smells like old piss and stale sweat. They start out disgusted, they end up as nasty drunks. You don’t want nasty drunks, you start your drinkers out in a good mood.”

  Bob opened his mourn and closed it again.

  Carrying a box of textured protein patties in from the storeroom, she dropped a stack out on the counter and began cutting them into strips. “I knew a guy once lived on these things for twelve years. What he didn’t know about making them edible you could write on the ass end of a flea. Lots of chili, a little oil, bake ’em until they’re crisp and they’re almost food. Works with garlic and onion, too,”

  “They won’t pay for it,” Bob muttered, staring longingly at the taps.

  “I’m not expecting them to.”

  “Company won’t like it.”

  “Company expects me to turn a profit. You give the drinkers something to eat, they can drink more and it affects them less.” She slid the first tray into the tiny oven on the back wall. The bar had a kitchen unit, so her quarters didn’t. “You make this stuff right and it’s got a bite. The more they drink, the less they feel it, the more they can eat. Since the patties are enriched, the serious drinkers are getting fed. Which makes them less shaky, which means fewer accidents on the pipes. Fewer accidents puts everyone in a better mood. With everyone in a better mood, fewer nasty drunks. Fewer nasty drunks, fewer fights, fewer things get broken and need to be replaced, less drinking gets interrupted, the bar turns a profit. The Company’s happy.” The oven chimed and she slid the tray out, juggling a strip from hand to hand, finally passing it to Bob.

  He took a cautious bite and sneezed. “It’s good.”

  “I know what I’m doing.” She drew a 500 of beer and handed it to him.

  After emptying it, he blinked at her a few times, his eyes the clearest they’d been. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m the new bartender.”

  When she opened the hatch, half a dozen riggers and fitters stood in the corridor; weight shifting back and forth from foot to foot, hands curled into fists, a fight waiting to happen. They knew who she was. The only thing that got processed faster than the gas pumped up off Jupiter was gossip.

  “What happened to Webster’s rules?” one of them growled.

  “You guys do the most dangerous work on the station, you don’t need someone to tell you how to act like adults.”

  “So there ain’t no rules?”

  Able stepped back out of the way. “I didn’t say that.”

  The big rigger leaned across the bar, grabbed a bottle in one scarred hand, and grinned at Able as he settled back on his stool. “Webster let us serve ourselves.”

  “Webster’s dead. Put it back.”

  He cracked the seal and took a long messy swallow. “Make me, old woman.”

  A heartbeat later, he was lying on the floor and everyone in the immediate vicinity stood openmouthed, blinking away the afterimages of an electrical discharge.

  “I knew a guy once took a second hit from one of these things.” Able bounced the rod against the palm of her other hand. “He’s still striking sparks when he takes a shit. I’m charging the bottle against your chip. Oh, and by the way,” she raised her voice so that it filled all the listening spaces in the Hole, “it’s coded to my DNA. Anyone else touches it, and …” A nod toward the rigger blinking stupidly up at her from the floor. “I knew a guy once who designed weapons systems for the military.”

  “Fuck,” someone sneered, “you knew a lot of guys.”

  Able grinned. “Would you believe I used to be a raven-haired beauty?”

  “Not without a few more drinks!”

  “You’re lucky his friends didn’t rush you,” Nick muttered under the laughter.

  “First guy who tries something never has friends.” Able drew a beer and set it on his tray. “That’s why he’s trying something. Second guy who tries something’s always a little trickier.”

  She drew some beer, poured some shots, and scanned the crowd for maintenance overalls. They weren’t hard to spot. Two women sitting alone in a booth; one of them had a bandage wrapped around her right hand, both of them were drinking boilermakers. Two beers, two shots, basket of chili strips on a tray and Able slid out from behind the bar.

  They watched her approach and when she paused at their booth, the uninjured woman snarled, “We didn’t order those.”

  “On the house.” Able set the drinks down and picked up the empties. “My big vid’s busted.”

  “So?”

  “I’d like one of you to fix it.”

  “No.” The injured woman downed the whiskey and took a long pull on the beer. “Crew boss’d stuff us naked out an air lock if we did shit without a work order. And the Company won’t approve a work order until this place turns a profit.”

  “Your crew boss says anything to you
, you tell him I knew a guy once, used to work maintenance on L5Beta. He knew a seal was fucked but waited for a Company work order before he’d fix it. Six people died.”

  “You knew a guy?”

  Able shrugged. “Haven’t you heard? I know a lot of guys.”

  “Yeah, but …”

  The uninjured woman raised her hand. “What’s in it for us?”

  “Repairs go on your tab. You drink free until it’s cleared.”

  “You do know that the Company expects you to make a profit here, right?”

  “Vid’s fixed, people are happy and stay longer, they drink more, the bar profits. Excuse me.” She slid the empties back on the table, took a long step to the right, pivoted on one heel and slammed the edge of the tray down on a fitter’s wrist. He howled and dropped back into his seat.

  “I was way over there and I distinctly heard her tell you to keep your hands to yourself. You want to grope my servers, you make damned sure they’re into it first or you find someplace else to drink.”

  “There is no place else to fuckin’ drink!”

  “So if you’re going to keep drinking here, what are you going to do?” She met his glare with a steady gaze and waited.

  And kept waiting.

  Slowly, the room fell silent.

  Able kept waiting.

  He rubbed his wrist and sighed. “I’m gonna keep my hands to myself.”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless the person I’m gropin’s okay with it?”

  Able smiled. “Spike, give him his drink.”

  The large vid was showing zero G lacrosse from one of the L5s, the small vid behind the bar ran the station’s news channel.

  “Why the fuck is that on?” The rigger slid forward on his barstool and squinted at the screen. “News is all bad.”

  “Eighty percent bad.”

  “Bad enough.”

  “I like to know when it’s getting better.”

  “Yeah? Well, what I’d like to know is where you get off tellin’ us how to fuckin’ behave.”

  Able wiped up a spill and pushed the basket of garlic-seasoned protein strips down the bar, closer to the rigger’s reaching hand. “I don’t. I tell you what I won’t put up with. You choose how to behave.”

  “No choices on a Company station, you should know that.”

  “There’s choices in here.”

  He chewed, swallowed, and finished his beer. “What; you not gonna tell me that you knew a guy once who had no choices?”

  “I knew lots of guys like that.”

  “Yeah.” He tapped for a refill. “What happened to them?”

  “That depended on the choices they made.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  She threw her rag in the sink and held out a hand. “Able Harris. I’m the bartender.”

  “Took you three freakin’ weeks to make a profit. Able.”

  “Took you three weeks to fix that short ship, Quartermaster.”

  “I got busy. Freakin’ sue me.” She slid onto a barstool. “Jesus, you got coffee running. Let me have a mug. Too damned early for booze. You know, I don’t think Webster even knew what that pot was for.”

  “Webster’s dead.”

  The quartermaster started as half a dozen voices chorused, “Bob didn’t do it!”

  “What the hell was that?” she demanded as Able snickered.

  “Private joke.” The mug hit the bar along with two packets of creamer and three of sugar. “So, I make the news at about sixty-forty.”

  “Yeah, things are looking up. What happened over there?”

  Over there was a stack of chairs waiting repair and a table that had moved significantly past broken and into scrap.

  “Oh, one of the riggers told the ‘two fitters in a suction pipe joke.’”

  “Shit. What did you do?”

  “Cleaned up afterward. I like to make stupidity its own reward.”

  “Able, you better get out here.”

  She rubbed a hand through her hair so that it stuck straight up in pale gray spikes. “Shift just started, what’s wrong?”

  “There’s a table of supervisors out there.”

  “I knew a guy once, insisted on hanging out with the guys he supervised.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Able finished entering the top shelf and handed Toby her data pad. “Let’s just say hanging out became the definitive phrase.”

  There were five of them at one of the big round tables; two women, three men. The tables around them were empty. In the booths and at the bar, the regulars sat scowling over their drinks.

  Able walked over, drying her hands on her apron. “Evening. Don’t you lot usually drink in lower amid?”

  “We’ve been hearing good things about this place.” He folded his arms and managed to simultaneously look up at her and stare down his nose. “Thought we’d check it out.”

  One of the women smiled, showing recently repaired teeth. “Downside drudge like you ought to be happy we’re here. Might get the Company to put you someplace a little … better.”

  “Better?”

  “Than this … hole.”

  Able reached out and touched her chip to the table’s scanner, then transferred the screen to the big vid. “I’m an independent contractor. I’m here because I want to be. You want to be here, that’s fine. You’re trying to make a point—make it somewhere else.”

  “The Company…”

  “Doesn’t care how I do it as long as this bar makes a profit Now, what can I get you?”

  “How about a little respect?” His lip curled.

  “I knew a guy once, wanted respect he hadn’t earned.”

  The regulars sat up a little straighter.

  “What happened to him, Able?” a senior fitter called.

  Able’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t know him long.”

  They didn’t stay long.

  Beckoning Bob forward to clean off the table, she started back for the stockroom.

  He caught at her arm as she passed. “Able?”

  When she turned, every eye in the house was on her.

  “You chose to be here?”

  “I did.”

  “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?”

  “Hole’s a downside bar, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but …”

  “I’m a bartender.” She swept an exasperated gaze around the room. “Not a hard concept, people. Bar. Bartender. Sorge, I just got that god-damned pool table. Get your beer off the felt or it’ll be the last beer you have that Bob hasn’t pissed in.”

  “More good news than bad these days.”

  “You want bad news, I’ll give you bad news.” The rigger downed his shot, and slapped the bar for another one. “Fuckin’ storms on Jupiter’s flinging the lines around. We lock it down, we risk losing the gas pocket. We let it ran, we got no control and we risk losing the whole fuckin’ line.”

  “Does sound bad.”

  “Yeah. I don’t suppose you knew a guy once who solved the problem?”

  “Nope.” Able polished another length of the bar, cloth moving in long, smooth sweeps. “But I expect to.”

  “You expect … Oh.” Frowning thoughtfully he tossed back his shot. He was still looking thoughtful nearly half an hour later as he headed out the hatch.

  Able polished her way down the bar—not so much because it needed it but because it was one of the things a good bartender did—and when she came back she smiled at the man sitting in the rigger’s place. “Dr. Porter.”

  “It’s a small station in a big universe, Able. How’ve you been?”

  “Good. What can I get you?”

  “Coffee’s fine.”

  She set the mug down, studied him for a moment, then slid over two sugars. No creamer.

  “Nice trick.” He stirred them in, his spoon chiming against the heavy porcelain sides of the mug. “You know that problem the Company brought me on board for? Seems to be solved.”

  “Cong
ratulations.”

  “I didn’t say I solved it, Able. Company thinks I did, though. Upside, they’re saying things started to change the moment I came on board. Except I wasn’t the only one who came on board that day.” He took a long drink and looked around. “So this is the Hole. It’s not so bad; why the Hole?”

  “Because this is downside, Dr. Porter. And they call this the asshole of the station.”

  “Do they, Able?”

  “They do, Dr. Porter. I knew a guy once, his asshole seized up on him. Eventually, his head exploded.” A sudden loud burst of music cut off the psychologist’s reply. “Strawberry! Tell Logan to turn his damned foot down!”

  The music dimmed.

  Dr. Porter smiled into his coffee. “You knew a guy once?”

  “I knew a lot of guys, Doc.”

  “And you say you’re just a bartender.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But …”

  Able drew a beer and set it on Spike’s tray. “I don’t believe I ever used the word just.”

  * * *

  Tanya Huff lives and writes in rural Ontario with her partner, four cats, and an unintentional chihuahua. After sixteen fantasies, she has written two space operas, Valor’s Choice and The Better Part of Valor, now out from DAW. Just published by DAW is Long Hot Summoning, the third novel in her Keeper series, which began with Summon the Keeper and The Second Summoning. In her spare time she gardens and complains about the weather.

  EDITOR’S BIO

  Julie E. Czerneda comes by her interest in space and work naturally. A former biologist turned educational writer, she has been writing and editing science and career books for almost two decades, contributing to more than 125 texts. She is also an internationally best-selling science fiction author, with six novels published by DAW Books Inc. (including two series: the Trade Pact Universe and the Webshifters), with more to come. Her short fiction and novels have been nominated for several awards, including the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, the Philip K. Dick Award for Distinguished Science Fiction, and the Prix Aurora Award, as well as being on the preliminary ballot for the Nebula. A strong proponent of using science fiction in classrooms, Julie is series editor for Tales from the Wonder Zone and author of the acclaimed No Limits: Developing Scientific Literacy Using Science Fiction. And, given any chance at all, she looks up into space and imagines how busy we’ll be there.