Night Shining

The third shot of caffeine really does me in. It zings through me, brains to balls, until my nerves hum on the brink of overload. The pleasant sting arcs through my jaw like a current. I open my eyes and grit my teeth together like that will keep the feeling from fading. It doesn't of course, but a man's got to try. The music pounds my back like a hand.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Impossible not to." I wipe sweat off my face.

Angie's pink mouth hooks up at the corners. Her dark skin reflects all her fluorescing hair and makeup. She shimmers like a mirage. A mirage with exquisite taste in contraband.

"That's the business.

"And I'm glad."

Her gaze suddenly shifts. "Look at this fuck."

I follow the direction of her stare. The bar has an arched ceiling that fits snugly into the station's bulkhead. Long neon tubes crisscross overhead and cast thick indigo shadows. Small tables shaped like flower stems become progressively thinner the higher they go. The ceiling itself isn't very decorative, but it still has little alcoves for customers to lean into or leave their drinks inside when in nil-grav.

In half-grav, the crowd undulates like a wave. People aren't weightless, but they glide like they're underwater and feel no drag. Lawbreakers of all kinds hang near the walls, sit by the bar, or indulge in slow acrobatics needed to cross the room. It's something that takes practice. New arrivals always look like they're about to fall over. The aforementioned fuck cleaves through couples with a rigidness that betrays unsteady feet. A badge. I can spot one just about anywhere. Light spears across his face and all the hairs on my neck stand on end.

Angie leans on the bar top. "I haven't seen an alleler in 80 years."

"People aren't supposed to look like that."

"Like what?"

"Like a mannequin that knows it's a mannequin."

She glances at my cup. Some of her braids are drawn up into two buns. Gold spreads through them like a double sunrise.

"No uniform," she says. "Must be covert."

"Shame. I've always liked the uniforms."

Angie gives me a look. If I didn't move her product so well, she would vent me into space.

The badge sits one pod down. He's all Earth proportions so striding around in station gravity doesn't look too comfortable. He's blond and pink-skinned, of course. Not very imaginative, but still one of the classics. His eyes are something else, though. Not 'I can trace my ancestors back to Earth' blue. Ion blue. Star blue. 'The last hours of your life are going to be spent throwing up your innards' blue.

Someone ordered him to spec. You'd think he was an android or tactile sim until you looked him in the eye. Then you'd know. Something's really alive in there.

He taps his wrist. "Kepler Reg."

His voice has just the right among of depth and roughness to tick my skin. I bet he looks perfect while taking a shit, too.

He suddenly faces me. "You?"

"What?"

"You want something or are you going to keep on glaring at me?"

Angie smirks. Her braids shift between shades of purple. I stare back at him for a lot longer than is considered healthy, but he doesn't flinch. He's got something to prove. My skin is a quilt of scars that come in different shades of whites, reds, and purples. My left eye oozes tears all the time and irritates the lid. Half my nose is gone. Without a prosthetic, I wouldn't even taste Angie's glow.