Saachi rolled her back across the soft lawn and smiled; Artun and Jazz talked animatedly beside her, but she wasn't paying attention. Instead, her mind was on the grass; the grass smelled like happiness, and she was drunk on that fragrance, drunk on the atmosphere and intoxicated by the moment. Bold, rhythmic music was swaying across the terrace, hand in hand with the lazy Chalice breeze and the world was coloured by the honey glow of the false sun setting, like the colour of beer. Meanwhile, as sights and emotions melded together in a perfect slow dance, Jazz took a sip of her icy cocktail. Then, almost spat it out when Artun said something wholesomely crude, Saachi hesitated and then laughed without knowing what the joke was about. Jazz grinned at her.
"How's the lawn, Saach" Jazz's blue face held the most perfect set of dimples Saachi had yet seen. Framed by her ocean-coloured skin, her orange irises danced in the twilight, and her eyes glistened with laughter.
"Fucking incredible", Saachi moaned. She made her torso undulate like a slow wave, savouring the feeling of the cool grass on her back.
Artun giggled at the two of them. "So, when are you guys gonna smooch again?”
Jazz gave him a sly smile. "All in good time"
Artun winked, and Saachi pointed at him with squinting eyes. Then, whilst rolling back the other way, she encountered her beverage and took the cold glass in her alabaster hand. She sat up slightly, blinking away rays of the weakening sun and took a sip of the drink. She had discovered rose water and gin on her first day in Chalice and hadn't been drinking much else since. The crisp, icy liquid slid into her belly, and she relished the sensation, closing her eyes again.
Once the sun set, hundreds of minuscule fairy lights winked into life. They illuminated the terrace garden in blue and lavender hues, transforming the sun-drenched balcony into a pixie’s lair. The lights were tiny and so well disguised amongst the foliage that it seemed the plants themselves were providing the illumination.
The three friends left the garden bar soon after, searching for new sensations and novel pharmaceuticals. They stopped briefly in the Vicerbon Tower's hanging bar suspended within the building’s six-story atrium from the lofty ceiling, a hundred meters above. There were ten platforms connected by narrow bridges, all hanging from silk threads stretching to the distant ceiling. Saachi bought a round of Dreamers, which they all swallowed eagerly, and then Artun purchased three Pearl Divers, a dark-coloured cocktail that tasted of cinnamon and orange peel.
They enjoyed conversation in seats poised above the two-hundred-meter drop and spent some time trying to guess when the dreamers would kick in. Saachi wasn't in any rush to feel the ecstasy the Angel's product was known for, but she welcomed the softening focus that heralded its subtle approach.
Before they left, they bumped into a couple from Earth with skin-like obsidian and big brown eyes full of kindness and wonder. Artun did his best to provide tourist-appropriate information while Saachi and Jazz eyed the female earthborn hungrily.
Their next stop was the block party to end all block parties. The Amor Building had transformed twenty levels of its considerable height into an unrestrained drug and liquor-saturated dance festival, with six different sound environments dispersed across the levels and more pop-up bars and drug kiosks than one could try and stay standing. Or sane.
The Amor Building housed Chalice’s most extensive indoor garden; every level encouraged flora and architecture to intertwine and mesh until steel, stone, lignin, and foliage were inseparable. Grasses and ferns bordered rooms and huddled in corners; creepers and vines, some with bright flowers, covered the irregular ceilings, and either mosses or meadows softened the floor. Stones occasionally emerged from the greenery to create a sitting spot or mark a path through the larger rooms. Several areas housed even larger trees. Giant, graceful oaks and maples, or others more suited to a rainforest, laden with their own vines and opportunistic ferns sprouting from their lofty vantage points, inhabited the spaces with higher ceilings; in these areas, one could immerse themselves within the trees and lose all sight of the building around them.
Markus Bordeaux, a Conglomerate renowned architect and the pioneer of the ‘living spaces’ movement, had designed the building after Fred had been born. The man had refused numerous and lucrative offers from the Conglomerate Pioneering and Colony Building division during Chalice’s construction; however, he had raced to Chalice as soon as Fred had called.
The Armor Building had transformed its innards into a paradise for the drunk and the musically titillated for one week. Saachi and her friends were heading there on the second night of its operation to avoid the lines of the opening night. They began at the bottom floor by the lake and pine forest, where house music and the scent of pine needles saturated the air. Groups had dispersed throughout the area, dancing and fraternising on the grass or within the forest. Fragrance-laden smoke machines, hidden in bushes or rocks, perfused the area with wisps and eddies of fog, which then acted as a canvas for coloured lighting fixtures equally as inconspicuous.
The group bought more drinks by the lake and then headed upwards, climbing a stony path to the circular level above, which bordered the forest and lake below. They danced with strangers by a waterfall and felt the Dreamers take hold, simultaneously thinning out and broadening their perception, enhancing the sweetness of becoming intimate with the surplus of flesh around them.
Within an hour, they had laughed and danced their way through mossy caves, head-high grasses and a fog-laden jungle dripping with moisture. Halfway up the festival, Saachi found herself running after Jazz as the blue woman skipped down a small hillock covered in soft grass and clovers before emerging from an ivy-carpeted tunnel into a succulent garden where rich orange sand shifted underfoot and large red boulders emerged like chocolate chips in caramel ice cream. They panted and giggled, avoiding the cacti as they journeyed onwards, passing smiling bartenders serving mescal and tubes of cocaine.
Soon, they reached the second pine forest, which had a carpet of some kind of creeper vine that rendered every inch of the forest floor into a leafy bed of cool, spongey vegetation. Indietronica and electric lounge seemed to be coming from somewhere or everywhere, and smoke drifted through blue floodlights filtered by the trunks, low branches and flower-laden vines. Jazz and Artun rolled together and didn’t separate. Saachi watched them, partially obscured by the foot-deep bed of leaves they had sunk into. She smiled and then lay back, letting her surroundings consume her attenuated consciousness and languid concentration.
For some time, she watched tendrils of smoke drift above her while the music guided her thoughts like a patient dog walker. Meanwhile, her emotions travelled a parallel path, swinging and sweeping around her as if in orbit. She rose, allowing Jazz and Artun privacy, and drifted off through the forest. Here and there, figures drifted through shadow and light, feet obscured by the vegetation and bodies painted blue like Jazz’s skin by the light works. She found herself walking towards a lone man with long dark hair and an absentminded smile. Neither individual faltered, and they brushed past each other slowly and gently as if the action had wished to be a hug instead. The man smelt like the forest floor and captured Saachi like a butterfly caught in a springtime afternoon breeze. She followed him as he approached a clearing where a large group were lolling on the thick grass, invariably engaging in intimate behaviours. She took his hand as he found a place to sit in the middle of the group. For nearly an hour, they regarded each other curiously and openly whilst others around them enjoyed a far more physical brand of communication. After some time, he sighed and stood up. She did the same, and a message appeared in her mind’s eye.
Yarnu was his name, and he regrettably informed her he had taken a drug called In Silence, something which stopped the user from wanting or being physically able to speak. He wished she would join him for a drink in Godwin’s Bar in an hour so they could talk once the drug had worn off.
She nodded, and he smiled. Then he was gone, disappearing into the soup of smoke, leaves and music.
Saachi found Jazz and Artun giggling next to a tree trunk and let herself fall into their laps, savouring their closeness and the musk of their sweat. Jazz and Artun left for home an hour later; it was one am, and Saachi was due at Godwin’s. The Dreamer was wearing off as she re-entered the cityscape with all its angles and sharpness, taking a flyer to the Forbidden City tower in search of a conversation with the silent Yarnu, who smelt like the forest.
____
Godwin’s was quiet. Only about half of the rich wooden tables were occupied; even some booths were free. The bartenders responded accordingly, dimming the lights and moving slowly and deliberately. They cleaned and polished glassware between customers and prepared extra garnish for the few cocktails they served. With fewer bartenders, the view of the twinkling neon city was less frequently obscured, and Maxwell found himself staring blankly out those crystal-clear windows for minutes on end.
The first three ales had been sublime, only mildly fruity and balanced superbly with a heady bitterness that hesitated in his mouth well after he swallowed, only to be swept away temporarily by the next sip. The process would repeat, and sips quickly became glasses. By the fourth half-litre, he began to crave the warm embrace of Steel’s Five Year. There was a hole inside him that only deliciously malty rum could fill or perhaps just temporarily plug until anxiety and melancholy melted it away again with the tenacity of a plasma torch.
On his second glass of Steel’s, the blonde bartender began polishing tumblers in front of him. She said nothing, only smiling her lemonade smile whenever she caught him looking. She was just ruining the view. God, he was much too old for her.
Like any experienced drinker, Maxwell knew he was drunk; accepting your drunkenness was an integral part of being in control. Maxwell understood when he had been drunk for long enough, the sensation of intoxication, the fuzzy isolation in your own head, the slowed head movements became the new norm, and then the brain slowly adapted to this new state. That's why you had to keep drinking more. That's just how you stayed in control.
Thoughts of Hanis were never too far away. On the second ale, he figured out which department the technician had worked in. Hanis worked under the coordinator, Martin Fax, in the Microfactory Design and Materials department. Martin’s team was responsible for modifying and improving the autonomous collection and refinement spheres out in the belt. Their department had been one of the many Advanced Engineering subgroups. The others ranged from starship design to zero-gee manufacture and processing. Maxwell had collected a large number of scientists and engineers over the years from Forrest Steel’s feeble beginnings to its rise to export dominance.
His eyes strayed blankly, and he soon found the blonde bartender smiling at him again. He looked away with sluggish eyes, pretending to re-adjust his coat. He still wasn't used to the coat’s extra weight. It also retained much more heat than his older version. Yet he definitely felt safer. Who knew when Fred finally decided to get someone to knock him off. He rubbed his well-furred jawline nervously. Fred wouldn't do that; he was just drunk and paranoid.
Even still, he almost fell off his bar stool when the bartender touched his right hand which had been resting on the bar top. Apparently, his drink was empty again.
She leant over the bar, his chest resting comfortably on the polished wood. “Would you like another, Mister Grant?”
Maxwell couldn't help but stare at her bulging upper body
“Yeah, thanks” he slurred. He could feel the barriers holding back his desire melting under the steady dribble of dark rum he was putting in his mouth. That was worrying.
She smiled and stood up straight to pour another glass. Maxwell watched as the silver labelled bottle tilted slowly, the rich molasses-coloured liquid cascading over the perfectly polished glass. She had given him a generous measure. He didn't complain.
“You never asked my name.” Blonde smiled again. She had such silly young eyes.
“What’s your name?” He sipped his rum and hid under the shade of his hat.
“Layone.”
Her delicate hands began caressing a new tumbler with a crisp white polishing cloth. Maxwell glanced around the dim bar, trying to see if people were watching him suffer under Layone’s obvious advances, yet it was decidedly hard to focus on anyone specifically.
“Do you like my name, Mister Grant?”
“Yes.” He grunted
She smiled again. “I knew you would, Maxwell.”
Layone giggled when his eyes widened briefly. How the hell did she know his real name? Twice in one day? He began taking a short inventory of his belongings, checking each weapon was safe in its holster and reaching inside his coat to touch his expenses slate.
“I finish in half an hour. Would you like to visit my apartment, Mister Grant?” She had lent over the bar again. None of the other bartenders were paying him or Layone any attention. They talked in a small group at the other end of the bar, fiddling with the beer taps. Maxwell felt like hauling one of them over and getting them to explain why no one ever talked to him, why they were meant to pour his drinks and leave him alone.
She must be new, he thought for the hundredth time.
Or one of Fred’s.
“I don't think that would be appropriate,” Maxwell started shifting on his stool to get a better view of his rear. Could she be distracting him for someone else? He almost tipped over twice and had to steady himself with a hand on the wet bar top. He regretted that almost as soon as his hand touched the wood, Layone’s hand rested gently on his.
“Why not, Mister Grant? It’ll be fun” She was biting her lip, not that he was watching. Her hand reached out, and she brushed his cheek, and he almost fell off the stool again. Why didn't he just leave? No, he couldn't. If this was a setup, he had to see it through, deal with it now and not worry about it later, even if he was drunk. He tried engaging his implant’s targeting program, and the system reported his current blood ethanol concentration was severely hampering his brain’s responses to the implant’s stimulus. Effectiveness was reduced by more than fifty per cent. Despite some of the galaxy’s most expensive neural nanocircuitry filling five per cent of his cranium, it couldn't help if you’d already poisoned the organic side of the interface. Maybe he should reconsider installing a suite of synthetic efferent neurons to bypass his fragile organic ones. He had always considered that a step too far in the android direction.
-Fred?
…
-Fred?
…
Fred wasn't responding to his link. Panic began gripping his sluggish brain in shaky hands, and sweat was gathering in a damp stain on his back.
“Hey, Mister Grant, what’s wrong?” Layone cooed from behind the bar. Maxwell managed to narrowly dodge her questing hand. She giggled again as he half stumbled off the stool. A lump was materialising in his warm belly, exuding a thoroughly uncomfortable sense of dread.
“Are you at least going to pay for your tab?” Layone was frowning at him, obviously disappointed with his response to her faux advances.
“Check it again” " he muttered, trying to rearrange the bulky coat. He never paid at Godwin’s.
“Yeah, you still need to pay Mister Grant.”
The dread spread instantly to his core, speeding his pulse within moments and squeezing a cascade of sweat from his pores. He never paid at Godwin’s.
-Fred? Please don't.
…
His gaze spun around the room, searching for the triggerman. The lubricated patrons were either oblivious to his plight or were pretending to ignore the drunk cowboy having a meltdown. No obvious suspects presented themselves. They would probably follow him out to a more secluded spot. Maybe the Matin Tower lobby just after the skybridge. That's where he would do it.
His eyes locked on the door - he had to get out of the bar and get on the move. He tried to initiate a neurocleansing, but his cranial implant reported minor malfunctions in the effector enzyme release. The process would only proceed at double the natural clearance rate, which was horribly slow.
Layone tried calling him over, but he ignored her and made a beeline for the door. At some point between the second and third table he passed, someone put their foot out unexpectedly, and his heavy leather boot was halted mid-stride. Suddenly, he was crashing over an empty two-seater table in a graceless clutter of limbs.
____
As soon as she arrived, Saachi knew she didn't like Godwin’s; something about all the brown furniture irked her. It was like the brown dirt so ubiquitous at the festival, but it was also not. This was fake earth; it didn’t smell right. The brown leather, the brown wood panelling, the maroon carpet, the dusk-like filtered lighting: it was all so bland and false when compared with rich dirt and coarse tree bark. She liked the brass beer taps, but unfortunately, their dull metallic shine added to the sickeningly earthy colour palate she despised.
Saachi tried to ignore the surroundings and sipped her apple and cinnamon cocktail, savouring the sweet effervescence of the syrup soda and the freshly squeezed apple juice foam. At least the cocktails were good, not that she needed them. The embrace of the Dreamer was fading, but the alcohol she had consumed from the forest and lake had yet to leave her. She wondered when her silent Yarnu was going to turn up. She had desperately wanted to talk to the man in the forest, however somehow, in the presence of everyday society, that desire was wilting. She began to feel embarrassed, but she fought the emotion and tried to hold onto the mysterious lure of his silent presence for a while longer.
She surveyed the room with inky brown eyes, watching the other patrons enjoying their drinks and talking. They had their company, their friends, and all those other wonderful things. Her eyes then found a rather absurd-looking individual at the bar. The man was dressed like some kind of antique gunslinger, something from the old Westerns of humanity’s past. He even had a hat on, inside, a wide-brimmed thing which cast his face in perpetual shadow. His clothing was flawlessly stereotypical: a long brown overcoat, a matching waistcoat, trousers, and a sturdy leather belt. Saachi was fairly sure he had something in the holsters hanging at each hip. Probably fake guns, although who knew? It was Chalice, after all.
The poor man was suffering while the blonde bartender flirted with him openly, leaning over the bar and smiling a sweet, saccharine smile. He was handsome, from what she could make out from her table. Under the shady protection of his hat, the man possessed a classically masculine jaw, with sharp features softened slightly by the overgrown stubble he had neglected to shave. Maybe it was part of the costume.
It was ten past the time Yarnu had planned to meet her, and Saachi felt the night's fatigue begin to catch up with her.
The cowboy looked up sharply at something blondey said, and Saachi was suddenly infatuated by the stoniness in his eyes, as if he were riding the knife edge of madness or perhaps about to burst into tears. He looked momentarily confused when he checked his pockets and almost fell off his stool in the process.
Saachi had quickly forgotten about her date as she watched the exchange with overt curiosity. She was becoming increasingly fascinated by the strange man and his absurd costume; his previously steely demeanour was quickly disintegrating as he panicked in a ungraceful and drunken fashion. Cracks formed in the persona, and a frightened man peeked at the world. He looked damaged; that was a simple way of summing up all the cracks in the pieces worn thin.
After a brief exchange, which seemed to be about the bill, Mr gunslinger stood and straightened his coat unsteadily while eyeballing the room. Saachi stared openly as the man’s gaze tumbled briefly over her and her table before locking onto the door. He set off. The blonde bartender looked upset.
Saachi felt a flutter in her stomach as he approached. Her table was on his path to the door. She would come within centimetres of this strange man as he passed.
Two tables away from her, he abruptly tripped and crashed into the empty table in front of Saachi. He tumbled to the ground in a drunken sprawl, coming to rest half a meter away from Saachi’s chair.
For a sublime moment, the bar was silent as all watched to see how the strange drunk man would react. Was he hurt? Would he become enraged? Would he cry?
Saachi was enraptured by the broken man at her feet. She could feel a strange gravity drawing her towards him; for reasons she couldn't explain, she felt a fondness and sense of sympathy flow towards the broken figure. All she wanted was for this man to be happy. She wanted him to jump to his feet with a charming grin and bow sarcastically, to take the resulting laughter in his stride and stroll out the door, embarrassed yet buoyed by the room's warmth and its people.
The moment ended.
The man scrambled to stand up, tipping over the closest table as he levered himself upwards. Everyone was staring, and he was so close to her. He found his feet and his hands frantically dived to their opposite hips, and out came a pair of monstrous handguns. Someone screamed as he swung the weapons around in outstretched arms, trying to point them in every direction at once. His face was stretched taught in an ugly canvas of panic and frustration, his lips were drawn back as he sucked in quick breaths, and his wide eyes darted around the room.
Saachi stood up, and this terrifying man towered above her. Panic rattled through her as he took a step away from her and brought the barrel of one of his weapons to face her. His crazed eyes locked onto her. The only sound that ruptured the silence was his heavy breathing.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.