Space Inc (anthology)

I Knew a Guy Once by Tanya Huff

Although there were only two people in the passenger compartment of the supply shuttle, the cramped quarters had them practically in each other’s laps. The company had no intention of wasting shipping space on privacy; nearly every square millimeter of the four-by-eight-meter compartment they weren’t actually occupying had been filled with labeled containers.

As the shuttle left Io, they were a study in contrasts.

The young man, his environmental suit still so new it crinkled softly when he moved, gripped his helmet tightly in both gloved hands. He wore his dark hair at the Company’s regulation length, but it looked to have been styled rather than cut. His face was tanned with high spots of color on both cheeks, and he was trying too hard to appear unafraid.

The older woman’s short gray hair seemed to have been hacked off during a power shortage, when lights, as unessential, were the first thing to be shut down. Her skin had the almost translucent paleness of someone who’d spent her entire life protecting it from high UV, and her environmental suit was so old it had digital readouts in the cuff. As soon as the main engines cut off, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

Tried to go to sleep.

“They say that this last bit from Io to the station isn’t as dangerous as it used to be.”

She opened her eyes and turned her head enough to see him smiling at her, his teeth very white, his lips pulled back just a little too far. “They’re right,” she said at last.

His smile relaxed a little although the rest of him remained visibly tense. “I’m Simon Porter. Dr. Simon Porter. I’m the new station psychologist.”

“What happened to the old one?”

“What? Oh. Well, actually, there wasn’t one. The Company only brings a psychologist out to the mining stations when there’s a problem they can’t solve through the usual channels.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep you on staff?”

“Too expensive.” He seemed proud of it.

“So, what’s me problem?”

“I’m afraid that’s privileged information.” He seemed proud of that, too. “But I can tell you that things seem very shaky on the station right now. Stress levels rising. You know…”

“Yeah.” And something in that single syllable suggested she did. Probably better than he did.

“I specialize in isolation psychosis. This is sort of a dream job for me.”

The following pause lengthened into expectation.

“Able Harris. I’m the new bartender for downside.”

“So we’re in the same line of work. You listen, I listen.”

“You pour drinks?”

“No, but…”

“Well, there’s your difference. I’m a bartender.”

“Okay.” His tone touched patronizing. “I’ve never been in a downside bar.”

Able turned just enough to look him full in the face.

“I’ve never actually been downside,” he admitted. “Or on a mining station at all.” He cleared his throat, as though confused by his confession. “So what happened to the old bartender?”

“He died.”

Dr. Porter nodded sympathetically. Everyone knew death and downside were intimately acquainted. “Of what?”

“Well, they said it was the sucking chest wound, but I suspect it was actually the wrench to the back of the head.”

“He was killed?”

Able shrugged philosophically. “Might’ve been an accident.”

“He was accidentally hit on the back of the head with a wrench?”

“It happens.”

He studied her face, dark brows knit together so tightly they met over the bridge of his nose. After a long moment, he nodded and relaxed. “I may be fresh out of the gravity well, but I’m not totally gullible. You’re making fun of the new guy. I’m onto you, Able… may I call you Able?”

“Everybody does,” she told him, unaffected by his accusation.

“It’s an unusual name. I assume it’s not the one you were born with?”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just… unusual.”

She stretched as far as the straps allowed. “I knew a guy once named Strawberry Cho.”

“He had a birthmark?”

“No, he had a mother who was so homesick she didn’t consider the consequences.”

“Consequences?”

“You name your boy Strawberry and there’s going to be consequences.”

Dr. Potter opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you, Able? You’re pulling my…”

The klaxon’s sudden bellow clamped his hands to the arms of his seat, his helmet floating out to the end of its tether.

Able glanced down at her cuff, then reached out, hooked a gloved finger around the cable, and tugged it back. “They’re warning us they’re about to hit the brakes, start decelerating.”

His ears scarlet, Dr. Porter clutched the helmet so tightly his gloves squeaked against the plastic.

“Pilot knows it’s your first time out. Knows people have been feeding you bullshit stories since you blew off Earth. Probably hit the klaxon trying to get you to piss yourself.”

Embarrassment rose off the psychologist in nearly visible waves.

“Don’t worry, the suit’ll take care of it. I knew a guy once, had the shits all the way from L5 Alpha to Darkside. Suit took care of it.” Able closed her eyes and didn’t open them again until the shuttle kissed its assigned nipple on the docking ring and the “all clear” sounded.

By the time Dr. Porter had fumbled free of his straps, the hatch was open and the dockers were barely controlling their anger as they waited to start unloading. Able snagged her carryall from behind her seat and followed him to the bottom of the ramp, arriving just in time to keep him from being flattened by a wagon piled high with containers from the aft compartment.

“They’re on tracks,” she yelled, leaning closer to make herself heard over the noise. “You get in front of them, they’ll squash you flat. I knew a guy once, lost a foot under one. Crashed too bad to be reattached.”

The doctor’s cheeks paled, his embarrassment forgotten. “What happened to him?”

“Got himself a whole bunch of prosthetics. Got one with a full entertainment unit in it.”

“In his foot?”

Able shrugged. “Takes all kinds.”

She slipped between two wagons and headed for a set of metal stairs against the starboard wall. The doctor trailed behind.

“There should be someone here to meet me,” he shouted as they climbed.

“There is, back behind that glass.”

At the top of the stairs was a wire-enclosed catwalk. At the end of the catwalk, a platform. In the wall overlooking the platform, two hatches. Between the hatches was a mirrored window.

“There’s no way you can know who’s back there, Able.” Safely above the wagons, he regained his professional voice.

“Presence of suits kept the dockers from hauling your ass out of the shuttle. Only place the suits could be is behind that glass. They’re not going to be out here in the nipple risking a seal rupture. I knew a guy once, got sucked through a seal rupture and ended up in a low Mars orbit.” When no question prodded her to continue, she grinned. “Bounce satellite signals off him now. This is your exit.” She nodded toward the right as they clanged out onto the platform.

Dr. Porter stared at the hatches. Aside from the varying wear and tear, they were identical. “How can you tell?”

“Company policy; suits are always right. We’re what’s left.”

He stared at her for a long moment, he glanced toward the mirrored glass, then he held out his hand. “I appreciate you making the effort to distract me, Able. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“Could happen. It’s a small station in a big universe.” His grip was a little too emphatic. A young man with something to prove.

Don’t need to prove it to me. Her grip matched his exactly.

EVS in a temporary locker, Able took a moment to watch the Company news on the small vid in lock. Possible layoffs. Cutbacks. Accidents. Price freezes. One hundred percent bad. She sighed, scanned her chip into the station’s database, stepped through the inner hatch, and went looking for the Quartermaster’s Office. QMO was never far from the docks so she expected to have no trouble finding it. And the yelling was pretty much a dead giveaway.

“I don’t freakin’ care what the invoice says, my people unloaded sixteen crates of seven dash seven three two not seventeen.” Hands planted firmly on the desk, the quartermaster leaned closer to the pickup and went for volume. “You short-shipped us, you bastard! For the second goddamned time!” Then she straightened, flipped pale blonde hair back from her face, and smiled across the room at Able. “Jesus, Able, what’d you do? Hijack a military transport?”

Able stepped over the threshold and shrugged. “Just made all the right connections.”

“Just? You broke the freakin’ Phoebus to GaMO speed record. And who told you lot to god-damned stop working?” she snapped, as the four clerks along one side of the room turned to look. “I can’t say I’m not glad to see you, though, situation’s been going to freakin’ hell in a handcart since Rich Webster died. Asshole. I close the place down, the riggers riot. I open the place up, the riggers get drunk and riot. The fitters are talking freakin’ union again and that’s got the suits on my ass. Whole god-damned place is falling a…” The desk receiver chimed. “Hang on a nano, Able. I need to get this.”

“I’m sorry, Quartermaster Nasjonal, but our packing orders clearly show that all seventeen crates were loaded. I suggest that you take the matter up with the transfer supervisor on Io.”

“PJ’s got more freakin’ brains than to screw with me! Now get your thumb out of your ass, get Yuen on this thing, and stop wasting my god-damned time!” Shaking her head, she dropped down into the desk chair. “Freakin’ distance delays make it impossible to hold a conversation. You’ve got standard quarters behind the bar. You got six servers, burnouts for the most part—I think Webster was paying at least one of them in booze.”

“I won’t.”

“I know. I’m the one who asked you to drag your ass out to the armpit of the universe, remember? Usual drill. Company expects you to turn a profit and keep the workers happy. You should be fully stocked, I’ve kept supplies coming in during this whole freakin’ mess. And… Jonathon!”

One of the clerks jerked and peered over the top of his monitor.

“Where’s my freakin’ ass-Quart?”

“He’s at 07, Quartermaster. Supervising the loading…”

“Right. Okay, you take Able to the Hole.”

“But…”

“Quartermaster Nasjonal, Supervisor Yuen is not currently available. Would you be able to call back after 1700 hours?”

“Tell Yuen I’m about to start talking about what happened last December. And if that doesn’t haul his skinny ass to a pickup, nothing will,” she added, sitting back in the chair. “I’ll be down to see you as soon as I get this freakin’ short ship straightened out. Jonathon!”

He jerked again, the movement propelling him out from behind his terminal.

“Go!”

Able paused on the threshold, allowing Jonathon to proceed her into the corridor. “Always a pleasure talking to you, Quartermaster Nasjonal.”

The quartermaster grinned. “Suck up.”

Jonathon was waiting an arm’s length away, nervously clutching his hands together in front of his belt.

“Do you know where the Hole is?” Able’s tone made it clear she very much doubted it.

He flushed. “Yes, theoretically, but I’ve never… I mean…”

“It’s downside. You drink amid.” She slung her carryall over one shoulder, and started to walk.

“Not that I…” His protest trailed off as he hurried to catch up. “It’s just, it’s…”

“Downside?” When he nodded, Able snorted. “Tell you what, take me to lower amid and the nearest shaft, give me decent directions, and I’ll cover downside myself. We won’t mention it to the quartermaster.”

“She’ll find out.”

“Then tell her I didn’t have the time to waste escorting you back and there was no way I was letting you walk through downside alone. She’ll let it go if you tell her it was my idea.”

“You’ve known her for a long time?”

“Pretty much since she was born.”

Jonathon flattened against the bulkhead as Able and the approaching docker merely shifted their shoulders sideways and slid past each other. “She’s actually really good to work for,” he declared scrambling back to Able’s side. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”

“Most days.” Able paused at the hatch that would take them from dockside into the station proper. “I knew a guy once that she bit.”

Sucking chest wound or wrench to the back of the head, after a cursory inspection of the only bar in downside, Able was sure of one thing: that Richard Webster had gotten what he deserved. The place was everything people like Jonathon expected a downside bar to be. Dark and filthy and stinking of despair and rage about equally mixed—as well as a distinct miasma of odors less metaphorical.

She ripped a yellowing list of rules off the outside of the hatch—splash marks making the vector for the yellowing plain—and stepped over the threshold. The panel just inside the door responded to her chip and once she’d pried the cover off, she hit the overhead lights. The amount of grime that had sealed the cover shut suggested it had been a while since the overheads had been turned on.

A pile of rags in the far corner coughed, cursed, and turned into a skinny person of indeterminate gender.

“I didn’t do nothing,” it whined, squinting across the room.

“That’s obvious.” Able pushed a dented chair out of the way and moved close enough to see that the rags had covered a balding man who could have been anywhere from forty to seventy, his mottled scalp a clear indication that hair loss had been caused by other than genetic factors. Toxic spills were endemic to downside. “Who are you?”

“Bob.”

She’d be willing to bet that Bob was the guy Webster had been paying in booze. One way or another, and there were a number of ways, he’d gotten so far in debt to the Company that they’d written him off. He’d lost his access to the ship’s database, his quarters, and his food allotment, leaving him with two choices, the kindness of strangers—only people who’d burned off their friends fell quite so far—or the tubes. Clearing the tubes of blockages was usually a mecho’s job but the little robots were expensive and they didn’t last long. People like Bob didn’t last long in the tubes either, but they were cheap.

Arms curled around his chest, he rubbed his hands up and down filthy sleeves. “I need a drink.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“‘s cheaper than paying me. Keeps your profits up.”

“Who told you that?”

“Webster. Lets me sleep here, too.”

“Webster’s dead.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I don’t care.”

If Bob was sleeping in the bar during the eight in twenty-four it was closed, he was using the bathroom sinks to keep clean. And not very often.

“I knew a guy once who smelled like you. Somebody kicked his skinny ass out of an air lock and nobody missed him.”

Without waiting for a response, she ducked behind the bar. The door on the right led to the storeroom, to the left, her quarters. Both smelled strongly of disinfectant. The QMO. If they’d been attempting to run the Hole, the only thing they’d care about was the stock. Wiping Webster out of her quarters had probably been a personal courtesy from Nasjonal. Able’d thank her later.

“I need a drink.”

The whine came from directly behind her left shoulder. Up close the smell was nearly overpowering.

Fortunately, disinfectant was cheap.

Grabbing the back of Bob’s overalls, she frog-marched him through her quarters, ignoring his struggles and incoherent protests, carefully touching him to as few surfaces as possible. The showers on downside all had the same two settings. Hard clean. Soft clean. Hard clean for when the riggers and the fitters came off shift. Soft clean for the rest of the time. The Company saved money by keeping the pressure and temperature consistent.

Bob went in, as he was, on Hard.

When the cycle finished, Able checked to see he hadn’t drowned, efficiently stripped him of overalls and ragged cloth slippers, and hit the button again.

By the time the second cycle finished, his clothes were dry, the industrial solvents in the Hard clean having taken care of most of the grime.

She dressed him, ran a depilatory pad over his head, and marched him back to the bar.

The whole thing had taken just under twenty minutes.

“I assume you sold your shoes?”

Bob stared at her, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Then the slippers will do for now. Here’s the deal… you work for me, I pay you like everybody else. You can decide what you do with it. You can start paying down your debt to the Company, or you can drink it away—after you pay me what you owe me for the two showers. Until you’re clear and can get quarters again, you can keep sleeping in the bar but not on that crap. I’ll pull a couple of shipping pads out of stores. You don’t do your job—well, a smart man will keep in mind that I’m the only thing between him and the tubes. Oh, and you will shower every two days. You can use a communal cleanup off the hives.”

He was panting now. “I need a drink.”

“You need to haul the big steam cleaner out of the storeroom. Or you need to let the Company know they’ve got a new tube man. I knew a guy once, survived four trips down the tubes. His record still stands.”

By the time Bob had dragged the cleaner out into the bar, the five other servers were standing, blinking in the light. None of them looked too pleased about being summoned.

“I didn’t even know this place had overheads,” one muttered.

“Then how did you see to get it clean?” Able asked, coming out from behind the bar, wiping her hands on a dark green apron.

“Fuck that, how clean do you need to get a place like this?” one of the others snorted. “Nobody who drinks here gives a crap.”

“What difference does that make? My name’s Able Harris and I’m the new bartender. You’re Helen, Tasha, Toby, Nick…” With each name, she nodded toward an incredulous server. “… and Spike.” She studied the last woman curiously. “Spike?”

Spike folded heavy arms over an ample chest. “Able?”

“Good point. So…” Her attention switched back to the group. “Is that what you wear to work?”

The four women and two men looked down at their overalls and exchanged amused glances.

Able waited.

Toby finally shrugged and muttered, “Yeah.”

“It’ll do for now, but when the first shift’s back for opening, I want the overalls to be clean. There’s a dozen or so aprons like this one in stores. You’re in them while you’re working.” When the protests died down, Able nodded. “Okay. You don’t have to wear them if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you work for me, you wear the aprons, but you don’t have to work for me.”

“And if we could get other jobs on this fucking station, we’d be fucking working at them.”

Toby moved up behind Spike’s shoulder. “Webster didn’t care what we wore.”

“Webster’s dead.”

Bob jerked up from behind the steam cleaner. “I didn’t do it.”

After the snickering died down, Spike growled, “He wasn’t killed because he wasn’t wearing a fucking apron, was he?”

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.”

“Congratulations.”

“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.