Back at my quarters, I finish laying hanging up the print of the Grand Canyon. Eh, it doesn't really tie the room together, but it's better than bare bulkhead. I toss the clothes into the locker, and smooth out my uniform. I briefly consider pinging Brent and letting him know about the meeting. On second thought, the captain might get spooked if I show up with backup. Besides, it's not like someone's really going to knife me in a bar. I mean, if they try, I've got my stun-stick, and I make sure it's attached to my belt. I decide against the taser; it won't be much use confined spaces. Plus, it sends the wrong message.

I brush my hair back. Well, no sense in putting it off. I might as well find out what this captain knows. As I walk, I subvocally record a quick message to the Sergeant and set it if I don't check in. No sense in being stupid. Well, at least any more stupid than meeting an anonymous stranger in a bar to get a tip on a missing entity. It's not the start of endless low-budget horror holos.

There are only two bars on the station, so most of the station residents probably finds their way in at some point. The walk there doesn't take long. The bar sits along the main concourse, wedged between an administrative office and a fab shop. The sign advertises the name within a swimming sea of fractals: Stardew Galley. Well, at least they avoided any puns on this one. I open the door, ducking inside. Well, I didn't expect a high-class hopping nightclub, but it's not a total dive.

I see about two-dozen custom-fabbed tables and booths. The bar has laser-etched spiral patterns on the walls that loop in iridescent arcs. The pattern shifts with the light, rolling to give the impression of spirals unfolding and opening more space. No smart-pigments or nano-layers, just optics. A neat little trick. There’s too much mood lighting for my taste, though.

The music is a dull roar of Martian heavy metal, and it immediately sets my teeth on edge. I end up linking into the menu console to order; I don’t feel like shouting over the noise. It’s a bit loud, but at least it’s clean. The mixed drink menu looks interesting. Hmm, an Olympus Mons sounds good. Or maybe a Venusian Sunrise. Wait, what's this? A 'Puckered Uranus'? You've got to be kidding me. Can I get a cliche on ice?

I chuckle and order the Sunrise. Looking around, the crowd is pretty mixed. A bunch of tall spacers, clearly long-haul freighters accustomed to low gravity, laugh and pound a table. Two people huddle in a corner booth, keeping the wall to their backs. Miners or slingshot runners, if I had to guess by the signs of agoraphobia. One table is filled with admin staff babbling about something technical, another with a wirehead leading a mixed bunch in some holo-game, but using real dice. Guess you can't hack real dice to fudge your rolls.

I don't see any cops and I breathe a sigh of relief; I’m glad the Chimera’s captain avoided that bar. I don’t want to drink with my colleagues right now. Or have Brent ribbing me, even in a friendly way. I also don’t feel like answering all the probing questions I’m sure to get. Cops gossip like you'd never believe. Besides, the name of the cop bar makes me groan. The Little Dipper. Low hanging fruit there, for Ursa Miner station. I'm way funnier than whoever's naming these bars and drinks. Would the Captain be pissed if I moonlighted as a barback? I'm pretty sure it's not explicitly forbidden. I bet the tips are good.

As my Venusian Sunrise arrives, I nod to the server and take a sip. Say what you will about fruity drinks, I have a weak spot for the sweet stuff. My eyes wander the crowd as I nurse it, the music cycling through a few new synth-pop songs out of Luna. Not really my genre, but easy to bob your head to. I'm more a fan of the classics.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I'm expecting a grizzled and rough long-haul smuggler with a few felonies under his belt. I’m taken off-guard when a slim, short woman in her early thirties walks past and sits down at my table. She tugs her chair forward and gives me a polite smile. “Hello Melody.” Ugh, nobody uses my full name.

I blink, but no profile pops up for her; I’m simply staring into a pair of dark brown eyes, set in an amused face. Her hair is dyed bright blue, cropped close in a chin-length cut, and she’s wearing a chic black cocktail dress. The most obvious thing about her is the tattoo. One complete pattern of spirals, interlocking, runs from her ankles to her wrists and to her neck. Then the spirals unlock, spinning, and I realize it’s a smart-ink tattoo. A full-body one. Kinda neat!

“I’m Sparrow.” She says, leaning forward, and I realize I’m staring. “I own the Chimera. You pinged me about Lemming?”

It takes my brain a second to get some traction on that. “About who? Oh, wait, you’re the Captain who pinged me back? Sorry, I didn’t…”

She raises her hands and shakes her head quickly. “No no, I know, I don’t have a public profile. It’s fine, happens all the time. And Lemming was the Indy bot you asked about,” she explains, smiling.

“Ah, I didn’t know he had a handle,” I murmur, running a hand through my hair.

“No, I just nicknamed him that like three years ago. We go back a bit,” she explains, waving a hand.

An Indy AI and an Indy Ship Captain? “Is he part of your crew?”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t have a crew right now. I fly solo; just voices in the black, you know?”

“I… don’t.” I’m still on my back foot, playing catch-up.

She tilts her head, frowning. “From when I was doing survey runs. I thought that would be in my CI file.”

That takes me out of left field. “Wait, reload a moment. You’re a confidential informant?” I say, eyes bulging, before looking around and lowering my voice. “For third-precinct? Code Enforcement?”

“Oh!" It's her turn to look startled. "Sorry, I thought you knew, and that’s why you pinged me! I did some work for Codes as a CI for about a year. Actually, I kinda took a plea deal there…” She says, blushing a little. “It’s a long story.” As she blushes, the tattooed spirals unfold into waves. I watch them flow together, dancing along her skin, like rings of ripples down her collarbone and arms. Whoa. That's cool.

I tear my eyes back up, blushing a bit myself. Shit, how strong are theses drinks? “Ah, no, sheer coincidence then, Sparrow. And I understand why you wouldn’t display a profile, as a CI.”

The woman gnaws on her bottom lip a moment. “Well, former, technically. I just tend to be a private kind of person. Plus, I only have a basic temp augment. Another long story.” She shrugs, making the tattooed ripples dance on her skin, drawing my eye again. Alright, this is really distracting. Not that I'm complaining.

I blink at her words, though. “A temp augment? It can’t be modded to display a public profile?”

Those clear brown eyes narrow a little. “Like I said-“

“Long story, right.” I put my hands up in a mea culpa. “Sorry, I just got out of a long torpor, and I’m still shaking it off.”

Her eyes brighten at that, and the server drops a drink in front of her. “Well, now you’re speaking my language. A few of these are good for that.” The drink is a cocktail I don’t recognize, a swirl of yellow and green, but I can smell the sweetness from here. She tilts her glass. “To the journey, and the nice long break before the next one.”

I grin and hold up my glass, clinking it to hers. “I’ll drink to that, Captain,” I say, but she grimaces at that.

“Just Sparrow, please. I don’t really like titles. Sorry, it’s-“

“A long story?” I ask, arching an eyebrow.

Her laugh is light, almost musical, and I can’t help joining her. She gives me a wry grin and winks. “See, Melody, you’re catching on!” I feel a warmth in my belly. Alright, it’s not so bad when she says it. “So, came in on the Voidsailor, huh? That’s a geriatric old line-crawler…” She leans forward as she speaks.

Ok, I'm glad I didn't bring the Sergeant with me after all.