by Jay Allan
BOB’s Bar
Tales From the Multiverse Volume Two
Michael Anderle
Jonathan P. Brazee
M.D. Cooper
Craig Martelle
Barry J. Hutchison
Andrew Dobell
Richard Fox
Kevin McLaughlin
Lindsay Buroker
Terry Mixon
Jay Allan
BOB’s Bar (this book) is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2018 Jonathan P. Brazee, M.D. Cooper, Craig Martelle, Barry J. Hutchison, Andrew Dobell, Richard Fox, Kevin McLaughlin, Lindsay Buroker, Terry Mixon, Jay Allan, & Michael Anderle
Cover by Andrew Dobell, www.creativeedgestudios.co.uk
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First US edition, December 2018
Contents
BOB's Bar
Cain is Able
Interlude
The Goddess of Retribution
Interlude
Ladies’ Night
Interlude
Blackhawk at BOB’s Bar
Interlude
Artur’s First Case
Interlude
Rika Reposed
Interlude
Bethany Anne’s Sea Story
Interlude
Standish’s Story
Interlude
Dragon Race
Interlude
The Pumpkin Ace
Interlude
The Galaxy’s Biggest Fish Story
Closing Time
About the Authors and Their Other Tales
Kevin McLaughlin
Andrew Dobell
Richard Fox
Michael Anderle
M. D. Cooper
Barry J. Hutchison
Jay Allan
Lindsay Buroker
Terry Mixon
Craig Martelle
Jonathan P. Brazee
The Bob’s Bar Team
JIT Readers
Nicole Emens
Mary Morris
Daniel Weigert
Diane L. Smith
James Caplan
Kelly Ethan
Paul Westman
Misty Roa
John Ashmore
Peter Manis
Editor
Jonathan Brazee
BOB's Bar
Tales From The Multiverse Book 2
BOB was a construct—a Binary Operated Being—and as such, did not have emotions as organic beings had, but what was life, after all, but electric impulses? It might have been manufactured, but it was programmed with an artificial construct that simulated emotion, and it felt, for all practical purposes, excitement, as it waited for the subjects to arrive.
The Collector rarely kept BOB in the same location in time, space, and dimension for an additional mission, but this was one of those times. Humans were an odd lot, when compared with the other life forms whose stories BOB had collected, and they had evidently piqued the Collector’s interest. It wanted more data, and so BOB remained in place, slowly polishing the same one hundred and forty-four spotless glasses behind the bar, just as it had been doing since Colonel Walton and Bethany Anne had left the bar a minute, a year, or an eon ago (time had no meaning in the bubble of nothingness in which the bar was located).
The ultraviolet light over the bar door flared, and BOB put down its rag and looked up as a tall human female entered. She had a lethal-looking weapon in place of her right arm. BOB had collected data from many species, and more than a few had weapons, either biological or manufactured, but this human, if she qualified as such, took it to the extreme. The weapon looked extremely lethal. BOB was merely a facilitator—the bar itself was the collection device—but BOB still had scanning capabilities. This human was tall at two meters, but what was remarkable about her was that she had skin only on her face. The rest of her body’s epidermis blocked BOB’s scans from discerning what it knew from the briefing data to be carbon-laced bones and musculature. This human was a cyborg, and there was only one in this batch of subjects: Rika. No second name as with most humans, just Rika.
Rika looked around the bar warily, but when her eyes locked on BOB, she visibly relaxed. BOB had presented many visages in its service to the Collector, but each one was designed to make the subjects feel at ease. Rika strode up to the bar and glanced over the hundreds of bottles on the shelves, bottles that were there merely for ambience. BOB had the ability to serve any beverage known to humanity—or at least it could convince any human that it was drinking the beverage of its choice.
First things first, however. BOB was programmed as a bartender and a facilitator to the gathering of information, but it was also there for security.
“Welcome, Rika. This is a weapons-free space, however, so if you could remove your weapon?”
BOB did not fear for itself, although it wasn’t sure if “fear” was the correct word. It had no sense of self, only knew that if it was damaged, it could inhibit the gathering of data. But after an unfortunate incident with the Pytharinx, where the subjects had erupted in a killing spree, wiping out all but one of them, the Collector had banned all weapons other than blades.
Rika took a long look at BOB, then shrugged and flipped a lever on her right arm before twisting the meter-long barrel off and sliding it into a slot on her back.
“Good enough?”
BOB nodded.
“Then, if you’ve got a good brown ale?”
“May I suggest a Jaynson? I believe it will be to your liking.”
“Fill me up,” Rika agreed, leaning on the polished bar.
BOB reached for one of the spotless glasses, but Rika shook her head. “It takes a bit more for me to enjoy a drink.” She pointed at a jug of beer in a cooler behind BOB. “Do you have it in that size?”
“Of course.” BOB inclined his head, pulled a two-liter jug of beer out from under the bar, and handed it to her. He was about to proffer a glass when she twisted off the top, took a sip, and nodded appreciatively.
The door flared again, and a familiar figure strode in.
“Fuck, back again,” Bethany Anne exclaimed, standing in the entry. BOB had been surprised to see that the human was on the list again. The Collector tended to prefer new sources, but this human was well beyond the norm.
Bethany Anne gave her head a half-shake and marched up to the bar. “I’d say it’s good to see you again, BOB, but I don’t know if it is. How about you hit me with that Swine Sweat shit you gave me last time?
“With pleasure,” BOB replied, pouring a glass of the blue D’Shalah Tusteron. Humans still amazed him with their ability...no, desire, to drink poison, an
d while the ale it had served Rika was bad enough, the D’Shalah Tusteron would even harm BOB if left on its pyroceramic skin long enough. With programmed interest, it watched Bethany Anne down the drink in one gulp. Her face turned red and she gasped, slamming both hands on the bar to keep upright.
Rika appeared concerned but didn’t say anything as she took another swig of her Jaynson.
“Fuck yeah, that’s what I remember,” Bethany Anne finally managed to choke out. She put up two fingers. “Give me two more, barkeep.”
Bethany Anne seemed to be weathering the blue poison relatively well, and since the drink didn’t look to be getting in the way of her providing her data, BOB complied.
The warning light of a new arrival should not have been visible to a human (or a human cyborg), but Bethany Anne turned to look at the doorway when another human female with red hair who was wearing a shiny white and gray shipsuit arrived. The new arrival looked confused for a moment before recognition appeared in her eyes.
“Shite, yeh feckin’ scared the bejaysus out of me, so yeh did, BOB,” she said.
“Apologies, ma’am,” BOB replied. Along with Bethany Anne, Amanda-Jane Page was a repeat subject, something even more unusual than repeating the same mission location.
“Fair play to yeh, BOB,” Amanda continued, walking toward the bar, giving the other two a quick look. “How yeh been? It’s good to see yeh again.”
As before, its Zeta-B band sensor had spiked well into the black when Amanda entered. On the last mission, this had surprised it, but now it was expected. BOB didn’t understand what that meant, but it had to assume the Collector did. It was the Collector, after all, not a mere data-gathering tool like BOB.
“I am operating at peak performance. What would be your pleasure?” BOB asked.
“Give us another glass of that red I had last time, please. Might as well go on the lash if I’m going to be here for a while.”
“Certainly, Amanda, the Châteauneuf-du-Pape Grenache.” It opened the bottle, poured it through an aerator, and handed her the glass.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Amanda commented, picking up the wine and taking a sip.
BOB looked around at the bar. It was the same construct, down to the last miniscule detail. “I have not changed anything here.”
“I know, and that’s why I like it,” she answered with a cheeky smile, apparently enjoying the quizzical tilt of BOB’s head before she looked to her left, toward the other people at the bar, some of whom were looking at her.
“Amanda,” Bethany Anne called.
“Oh hi, what’s the craic?” Amanda answered. “Good to see you again. Got pulled back here as well, did you?”
“Fucking seems that way. Not sure why, though,” Bethany Anne answered, looking around.
“So, you two have been here before?” Rika asked the other two. “Rika, by the way.”
“Hi, nice to meet you. To be sure. Second time for me,” Amanda replied.
“Same here,” Bethany Anne agreed
“Like pale-and-interesting here said, I’m not entirely sure why we’re here. It seems to be some kind of Multiverse thing, or a between-universes thing, anyway. At first I thought it was a dream last time,” Amanda explained.
“Or a fucking nightmare,” Bethany Anne added, downing another glass and slamming it on the bar for a refill as she squinted. “Damn, that’s good the second time too.”
Rika only nodded in silence and took another swig from her growler, far less at ease than the other two women, whom she watched from under a lowered brow.
BOB had been designed with the imperative to make the guests feel comfortable, and it could see that Bethany Anne and Amanda were disquieted by being back again. Since BOB had wondered the same thing when it received the guest list, it had no answer. It was considering flooding the bar with pheromones designed to calm humans when the next subject strode in. A man in his forties walked through the door wearing boots, a brown leather flight jacket with wings pinned to the front, and...were those pajama bottoms? He had the look of a military man who was off-duty—but never truly off-duty. Oddly, he carried a sword scabbard in one hand, the pommel glowing a faint blue. The weapon appeared to be from a century far earlier than the one that had spawned the flight jacket and pajamas. In his other hand, he carried a food jar whose label read, Krothker’s Spiced Cumin Pickles. A staple on his world, perhaps?
The human male’s brow crinkled as he gazed around the establishment. The pommel of the sword glowed brighter briefly, and BOB detected that the tool had sentience and it was communicating with the man. He was General Ridgewalker Zirkander, BOB recognized from his list. A pilot and war hero from his world.
“Ah?” Zirkander raised his eyebrows, his telepathic communication—or perhaps instructions—having been completed. “Huh.”
He approached the bar, lifting neither sword nor pickles in a hostile gesture—a good sign.
“You’re the bartender?”
“I am BOB. Welcome to the Multiverse Bar.”
“Thanks. You can call me Ridge. It’s short for Ridgewalker.” The general waited expectantly. When BOB did not question him, he added, “Most people ask me how I got such a kooky name.”
“I am not a “people,” and I am not programmed to request data. You may tell me if you wish, but allow me to pour you a beverage. What would you like?”
“I’ll take a Gold Dragon Stout. Er...do they have dragons here?” He lifted the hand with the jar in it and waved vaguely toward the walls.
“Dragons exist in many dimensions of the multiverse, as do stouts. Allow me to pour your preferred beverage while you join the others.”
“The others?” Zirkander—Ridge—took in the three females who were standing at the end of the bar watching him. “They don’t look Cofah. I guess that’s promising.”
“Yes. You are welcome to consume your staple or share it with the group.”
“My what?”
BOB pointed to the jar.
“Oh, these aren’t a staple so much as… I was sent on an errand, you see. My wife is pregnant.”
BOB tilted its head, wondering if its logic programming was malfunctioning. It did a quick diagnostic test, but it was fully functional. It still didn’t understand the human’s meaning.
“You’re definitely not a people, are you? Never mind. I’ll be happy to share if anyone is desperate. Or pregnant.” He looked curiously at those assembled. “The latter seems unlikely.”
“Yes, sir.” It seemed a safe answer.
BOB poured the stout, and as the door-light flared again, handed it to Ridge, who accepted it and moved to join the others.
BOB turned to see who’d arrived and saw...nothing. First his logic programming, and now the warning flare? Was the construct breaking down with a second use?
“Ye gonna just stand there or are ye gonna get yer finger out yer shoiny metal arse and pour me a drink?” demanded a voice from somewhere near the bar. BOB ran a dialect detection protocol, and settled on a variant of “Irish,” although there was a question mark at the end which suggested that might not be entirely accurate.
BOB leaned over the bar and looked down.
And down.
And there was the next subject, standing on the floor in front of the bar, his blue face upturned so he could gaze up at BOB. A wiry green beard sprouted messily from his chin, while his eyes peered out from beneath two extremely thick eyebrows.
The figure wore a long red ballgown with quite a fetching black trim across the front. The word ‘long’ was relative in this instance, however, as the dress was less than six inches from top to bottom. The man wearing it wasn’t much taller.
The tiny human male scrambled up one of the barstools and onto the bar, where he stood, hands on his hips. “And still ye’re starin’,” the little figure said. “With yer big feckin’ robot eyes or what have ye. Are ye the man to talk to about a drink or are ye not?”
BOB’s logic programming had to be
glitching, no matter what the diagnostics read. It knew this was Artur, though.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered—it’s one of the wee folk,” Amanda commented from a short way up the bar.
Ridge gazed at the newcomer, blinking slowly a few times but not saying anything.
“Less o’ the ‘wee’ there, sweetheart. Sure, I’m big where it counts. Me name’s Artur.”
“Amanda.”
“The pleasure’s all yours,” Artur informed her. He curtseyed slightly before turning back to BOB. “Drink. Now. Chop chop. I don’t care what it is, just make sure it’s as rough as a sludger’s arse and I’ll be a happy man.”
“What is your preference, sir?”
“Drink!”
“Yes. Of course,” replied BOB, swinging into action. “You may call me BOB.”
“No offense, like, but I couldn’t give a shoite,” Artur remarked. “Ye’ve got alcohol ‘n an assortment o’ fine-lookin’ women. Just keep me glass filled, and ye can call yerself whatever the feck ye like.”
“Okay, now I know this is a dream,” Rika commented with a quirk of her lips as she leaned on the bar. “Tiny people and being called a ‘fine-looking woman.’” She paused and looked down at her growler. “Either that or there’s something in here my nanos can’t detect.”
