“…and to conclude this lengthy and long-winded account, I, Richard Stern, do hereby apologize for the rude and uncoo – unclo – whatever word that is – thing I said to my wife.”

I toss aside the pad I’m reading from and point my finger at the station technician responsible for broadcasting my apology. He’s trying and failing to keep his chortles to himself. “Listen, buddy, keep a lid on it. Or else I’ll have you blacklisted from watching spaceball games for the rest of your life.”

The technician turns red and gulps air, his eyes doing a sort of dance while watering. He fails to keep from giggling. He jumps to his feet and bolts from the room. I can hear him laughing through the wall. I suppose I should be lucky he didn’t do it while I was groveling live to the entire fucking station.

I look over at Kissy and Laura, who are both sitting near the door. “Am I done now?” I ask. “It’s been a long day and I still have to talk to the clans.”

Kissy had been watching me the entire time without blinking. I’d never noticed it before, but she didn’t blink. You’d think that if you were given eyelids to increase the illusion of humanity, you’d use them to blink. But then again, that argument also supports the mimicry of farting, burping, and making ridiculous expressions during sex. Maybe no blinking isn’t such a bad thing. Come to think of it, I wish I didn’t have to blink. All those punches I would’ve seen coming.

Kissy nods. “The apology was sufficient.”

“Yeah, that was okay,” Laura adds. “Barely.”

I caught an ever so slight twitch around Laura's eyes. If I hadn’t been studying their faces while ruminating about the ability to blink, I might've missed it. I’d seen that twitch before – often. It showed up whenever she was fucking with me. I noticed it after we first met, back when our interactions started with light conversation, progressed to teasing, and ended with extreme heavy petting. Laura’s sense of humor is a bit obscure, and she takes great joy in making me dance to her tune. I used to like it, especially when I got sex out of it. Not so much at the moment.

So how is she screwing with my head now? It occurred to me that I wouldn’t have apologized under normal circumstances. I’ve always been the sort who gives incoming blitzes the finger, so why was I letting these two push me around? Did somebody slip something in my drink? Drugs could – aha!

“Your behavior was unacceptable,” Kissy goes on. “From now on, we will expect you to – ”

Laura puts a hand on Kissy’s arm. “There’s no sense in continuing.”

“How do you know?” Kissy asks.

“His jaw drops and he inhales when he figures something out.”

“That’s right!” I say, standing up. “You know all my secrets, especially medical ones that are restricted except to my spouse! Like, say, which drugs I’m administered while undergoing surgery to remove a fucking kinetic round!” I access my hospital records through my ‘Net implant. The smorgasbord of medications used during the operation scroll across my retinal optics. I filter out everything except those with mental and emotional side effects. Yep, there they are, two drugs that require five tongues to pronounce correctly – separately they’re benign, but when combined can produce enhanced empathic reactions. Basically, I turn into an emotional rollercoaster for a few hours after surgery. I was an aggressive maniac when I almost crushed Janine’s face. Then I turned into a spineless wimp when confronted by my wife and her goddamn robot sidekick.

“Out of curiosity, how far were you going to push it?” I ask. I try to keep my voice level. I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing exactly how pissed I am.

Laura arches an eyebrow and grins. “Well, we’ll just have to see next time, won’t we?” She and Kissy left.

Could I get away with killing them both? I stand there for a long time, arguing with myself while waiting for the side effect duration to elapse. I need my spine and my brass balls for where I’m going next.

***

An hour later I’m eighteen levels down into the guts of Freehaven, to visit the KornerStone. I have Bucky in tow, sans girlfriend. It’s not that I don’t think Janine can’t handle herself – I know she can’t – it’s that I only want to keep track of two people down here. I include myself in that number since I have a gift for fucking my way into embarrassing situations.

The word “KornerStone” is scrawled across the wall above an old hull breach. Jagged metal points in all directions from a ten-foot-wide diagonal rupture in the hull plating. The Station has since expanded to 26 levels, but the 19th ring must have been in a hurry because nobody ever repaired this crack in Freehaven’s ass. I make my own skin crawl trying to imagine what it must have been like for those caught in this compartment. The howling gale of escaping atmosphere, vacuum sucking at your limbs like a voracious monster, the knowledge that you’re about to die – yeesh. I have the luxury of living in the era of mandatory emergency shielding, so breaches like this aren’t as scary. Back in the day, though, this hole led straight to Hell.

The thump of bass and the muted cacophony of techno music seeps through the walls. As with all bars of this one’s repute, two men without necks stand outside.

“You lost?” one of them grunts. The goon has a long, angry scar running across an eye socket occupied by a cybernetic implant. Not the good kind that looks and acts like a real eyeball, but the cheap black-market kind that looks as if somebody stapled a camera to his face.

I lean back to look him in the eyes – eye – without cramping my neck. “I’m in the market for some spaceball players. Know any?”

Camera Head snorts. “Lots. Good ones, too, not the wimpy fuckers League teams are fieldin’ these days.” The other bouncer taps him on the shoulder, and Camera Head barks, “I know what yer gonna say, Josti, and I’ve told ya a fuckin’ billion times already. Martin Bosky spends too much time floatin’ in the pocket and lookin’ pretty, and not enough time connectin’ with his receivers. I really don’t know why you’ve got such a big fuckin’ hardon for that guy, I really don’t.”

Josti holds up a meaty finger as thick as my wrist. “Bosky’s only been in the League for a year,” he rumbles. “Once he settles down he’s going to demolish the opposition.”

“Yeah, if he don’t get hisself killed first. Or get someone else killed, and then earn hisself a blood feud and get killed that way. I hate fuckin’ prima donnas.” Camera Head turns back to me. “Go on in. This is a long-standin’ argument with no end in sight. Besides, I know who ya are and if yer lookin’ for players here, I think I’m gonna have to buy a season pass.” He winks at me with his good eye, though I can’t tell if it’s just a regular blink. “Good luck.”

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“Thanks.” I push Bucky in front of me and into the KornerStone.

The bar is a lot bigger than I’d envisioned. It spreads left and right before terminating thirty meters in both directions at huge metal slabs welded to the station’s pressure hull. The air is smoky, and I catch a heavy whiff of voopus. The hundred or so patrons in the room are mostly human. I pick out a couple of Andosian mercenaries sitting at the bar along the far wall, three Veeni, even a Nokkran. I’m surprised to see one here. It wasn’t too long ago that our races were trying to wipe each other out. It’s why I was in a sleeping tube two days ago.

A few eyes swivel in our direction, size us up, and then return to their drinks, stories, black-market deals, and job interviews. Bucky and I separate, and I find an open stool at the end of the bar. The seat is covered with vomit. I hook my foot around a leg and push it away. The metal feet scrapes against the plated flooring. The bartender, a grizzled old man who looks as if he traded most of his body parts for robot replacements, glances up from wiping a glass. He doesn’t move in my direction. I know what’s next and dip a hand into my pocket.

“That’s my seat,” a tinny voice says behind me, followed by the squawk of a mechanical translator that doesn’t understand most of what was said.

I look over my shoulder. The owner of the voice and translator doesn’t need a stool. Nokkrans don’t have legs, just seven-foot-tall blobs with coarse hair, bulbous red eyes, stumpy arms, and brains the size of my fist. Brains, plural. Twelve of them. Most Nokkrans don’t use all twelve at the same time, but the few who do are smarter than humans and have territorial aspirations. Nokkrans are weird. Just don’t get the average ones mad. Whatever their brains are lacking in intelligence, Nokkrans more than make up for in the production and focus of sheer rage. I turn around and raise my hand with the item from my pocket.

I shake it. It rattles.

The Nokkran’s eyes flare wide open.

“Super Pez?” I ask, offering one of the super-sweet sugar candies.

The Nokkran’s head bounces up and down in its version of a vigorous nod. Nokkrans don’t metabolize sugar like humans. Ingesting small amounts of sugar induce waves of pleasure for them. A Super Pez isn’t a small amount of sugar. To a Nokkran, a Super Pez is the equivalent of ten orgasms in a row. Lucky fucking them. I click the dispenser once. The plastic head – a Mall Security droid, I said they advertised everywhere – tips back and pops a small Super Pez tablet into the Nokkran’s greedy palm. The alien slurps it up and waddles off in glucose heaven.

The bartender is shaking his head when I turn around. “First time I’ve ever seen someone bribe a Nokkran.”

“It wasn’t a bribe. Payment for the stool.”

“What can I get you?”

“Spaceball players.”

I get a frown in response. “Are you sure you’re in the right place for that?”

“Yep, this is the spot the travel guide said.”

“This isn’t a tourist destination. Asking questions in here can get you killed. Or start a brawl. I don’t give a shit if you get killed but fighting in here is expensive on the furniture.”

I gesture at the bile-covered stool. “Yeah, ‘cuz you’re spending a fortune on the décor. You want to point out somebody to talk to, or am I going to have to wing it? No, don’t answer that. I don’t have time for you.” I put both hands on the bar, push down to test its strength, and then hop on up. I’m careful not to kick anybody’s glass as I straighten.

“What the fuck!” the bartender says.

I ignore him and activate my practice field implant. It amplifies my voice over the thumping bass and the small scuffle that’s breaking out in the corner.

“Listen up, everybody!” I shout. “I’ll keep this short! The name’s Stern and I’m putting together a spaceball team. I need the nastiest players I can find! Tryouts are in two days, at a mobile practice field I’m having brought in. Think you’re the best gladiators in the arena? Come out and prove it. Play for me and you’ll receive a hundred grand for your base pay, plus bonuses for fucking up the enemy. See you in two days!”

I jump down off the bar amid a growing buzz. Something pokes me in the chest. I look down and see a large finger, follow it back to a big fist, a thick arm, and finally to a very large man. By the way, a handlebar mustache on anyone taller than two meters and weighing over 250lbs pretty much equals eternally grumpy. The guy is wearing a bright pink shirt and khaki shorts, with a necklace of what looks a lot like human teeth. But smaller. Baby teeth? Oh, Jesus.

“I can’t believe they let you in here with that outfit,” I say.

The man smiles. “I own the joint,” he growls.

Pink should not growl. Unless pink is pussy and – well – that shouldn’t growl, either. It’s okay for a woman to growl, if she’s on top and working some primal sexual angle that has a big payday for me. That’s definitely okay. I guess what I’m saying is that guys wearing pink shouldn’t – fuck that! Guys shouldn’t wear pink, period!

The growing noise in the bar pulls my thoughts away from pink. Shouts. Angry shouts. I pick out several comments that typically start fights ending with the use of a firearm. It occurs to me that I have made a teensy mistake.

“Did you mean all this shit you just said?” Pink Shirt shouts in my ear.

“No, I came all the way down here to bullshit a bunch of clansmen,” I yell, “because I had nothing better to do and I really wanted to get my ass kicked. Of course, I meant it!”

The man grabs my head and pulls me close. Closer than I ever want to be to a pink shirt and human teeth on a string. “Then you do an ad blast!” he roars. “Advertise your shitty tryouts on the ‘Net! Why come here and start a whole shitload of blood feuds?”

From the angle my head has been bent, I have a terrific view of the bar. The two guys beside us start shoving each other. The group beyond them has already pulled out knives. The Andosians are trying to get out of the room before the real fighting starts. The Nokkran is in the corner, shaking in euphoria.

I’m trying to figure out how to salvage a truly unsalvageable situation when I hear a whooping from the other side of the bar. War cries? I jerk away from Pink Shirt and climb through the crowd to see what horror I’ve wrought. I’m ready to see blood spurting all over the walls.

No blood. No fighting. Even the knives are disappearing.

The bar has several pillars holding up the ceiling and Kissy is hanging upside down from one of them. She’s wearing sheer black panties and tall, black fuck-me boots. Her titanic blow-up boobs have found the nearest clansman and are vibrating any murderous thoughts he might be having right out of his skull.

One guy tries pawing at her. Emphasis on try. She hooks her ankle around the pillar, arches her back in such a way that qualifies her for the circus, and then reaches down with one hand and lifts the man off the floor. Everyone around him groans, and it’s not until the guy is two meters above the ground that I figure out why. Kissy’s grip is very strong and by the look on the guy’s face, she has more than just his belt clenched between her fingers. Ouch. Kissy drops him and nobody interferes with her after that.

I wonder what she’s doing here. It’s mighty convenient that she shows up right as things are getting out of hand. Maybe she can go only so long without swinging half-naked from a pole. Do female androids have body clocks, too? What little timers do they have in there, anyway?

I send Kissy, What are you doing down here?

Kissy lifts her chin and manages to look imperious while executing a spin maneuver that defies gravity. I followed you.

What for?

I knew you were planning on coming down here, and if you were annoying like all the other times you open your mouth, I figured you might need a diversion.

Annoying like all the other … I think you’ve been spending too much time with Laura, Kissy. When she didn’t answer, I ask, So, how much longer are you going to be? I’d like to get some sleep here at some point and don’t want to wait all night.

Unlike you, I can take care of myself. Don’t hang around on my account.

I decide that standing around and trying to figure out Kissy’s intentions is too much effort. I signal to Bucky and we make our way to the door. The crowd has turned from violent to horny, and can certainly go back to violent, but I agree that Kissy can take care of herself. Next time, I’ll take Pink Shirt’s advice and do an ad blast. I do, however, stop at the door and amplify my voice one last time.

“By the way, everybody, I’d like you to meet the quarterback.”