James Gardner - Space Inc (collection)

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.”