When you’re on the run, any spaceport bar is a home. This one, however, felt more like a recently inherited home from a long dead relative who never fixed their leaky roof.
“Hey! Can’t you read?” the bartender slapped a meaty hand on the rusted sign hanging behind him, the many bottles on the bar underneath rattling ominously from the shockwave. The man looked up from his book. He sniffed, took a swig from his mug and lowered his eyes again.
“I asked you a question, human.” The bartender leaned in close, his large, grey face so near that the long blue lines that scarred his cheeks could be seen with unnecessarily excruciating detail. His breath was hot and smelt of mushrooms. The man wrinkled his nose but carried on reading. After a few more steamy snorts, the man sighed and looked up.
“Yes, you did,” he said, giving a brief glance up and down of the bartender, “… not human.”
The bartender snorted. “Offworlder,” he grumbled, “Can’t even recognise a pure-grown Oo’tmor when he sees one.” A puff of spores emerged angrily from the blue slits surrounding the bartender’s neck and cheeks. The man flipped his page. He knew exactly what a pure-grown Oo’tmor looked like, and this self-proclaimed one was not. Judging from the brown cap and grey skin, this was likely a cross between an Oo’tmor and a Sh’oorg, similar fungal based lifeforms but oh so different in social class. The biggest tell-tale sign was the fact this one was running a dilapidated bar on hell-knows-what planet, and not on their homeworld living the high life. As high a life that mushroom creatures can live at least.
“Is it that obvious I’m not from here?” the man took another swig of his drink, wiping away the spillage from his unkempt beard.
“Don’t get humans here. Air too thin for ‘em.” The half-Oo’tmor waved a three fingered hand lazily around, before it rested back on the sign. “Probably why you A’INT FOLLOWIN’ THE RULES!” he slammed it again, one bottle falling from the table and hurtling towards the ground. A root whipped out and wrapped around it, lifting it gently and placing it back on the table. The root retreated back into the half-Oo’tmor’s body.
“Rules?” The man gave a short cough, slowly closing his book. “If its the one that says, ‘no shirt no shoes no service’ then the Tembullox over there is, and correct me if I’m wrong but, not not wearing any of those items at all.”
“No Z’s!” the hand gave a third slam onto the dilapidated sign, this being the final straw as the top buckled and bent. It was now quite difficult to read.
“Ah.” The man removed the long white roll from his mouth. “But this isn’t a Z. It’s a C.” He smiled, handing it over and placing it in the large grey palm. Lifting it up to its elongated, pupil-less eyes, it squinted and turned it over and over.
“A C? Never heard of that. Hey…” He brought the roll even closer. “This is just a piece of paper… with leaves inside?” He took a sniff with a blue slit before recoiling back. “Urgh! Smells terrible! And you’re injecting this?”
“Smoking.” The man held out a tattered, woollen-gloved hand and his cigarette was passed back, “Smoking it’s called.” He took a long draw before blowing it out through his nose.
“Well, C, Z whatever letter you want to use there is still a ban in my bar.”
“Ah so this is your bar? You are indeed the famous Cap, of ‘Cap’s Growth’?”
“Sure am!” The mushroom looked very proud, before a new yet similar voice washed the look from its grey face.
“No he’s not. I’m Cap.”
The man turned and saw around the corner of the circular bar there was an identical mushroom creature cleaning a mug with a dirty rag.
“Don’t listen to that sporehead, he grew twelve nanocycles after me so he ain’t the original,” the second mushroom grumbled.
“And you were four after me, so quit your blabbering,” another new yet eerily similar voice sounded from the other side of the bar. There was a third identical mushroom, only this one was busy mixing a cocktail.
“What you guys talking about?” came a fourth Cap-like voice from the far side of the bar.
“Nothing,” the other three replied in unison, before returning to their own duties. The first mushroom that the man spoke to shook his head.
“Interesting family you have,” the man raised a scarred eyebrow.
“Nah, I’m an only child.”
The other eyebrow raised. He leant over the bar, noticing now two large roots spreading from the Oo’tmor’s base that weaved around and into the floor before joining up to the other mushroom men.
“I see,” he said, leaning back. “Me too.”
“I didn’t ask.” The mushroom rested his two massive arms onto the bar, tiny little roots springing out like grey tendrils and burrowing into the wooden top. “Listen, you gonna be trouble or what?”
The man looked offended.
“I’ve been buying drinks, haven’t I?”
“Drink. Singular. All you’ve been doing is reading that book,” the mushroom nudged the leather spine with the tip of his cap-hat. The man withdrew is slowly, his smile spreading even slower.
“There. Looks like we answered your first question.”
“My first...” the mushroom thought for a moment before a cloud of spores puffed from a blue slit, along with a short, gruff laugh, “Smart guy, huh?”
“Smart? Smart isn’t the best word. Smart people don’t hang out in a bar to read. Unless you have a brother who owns a mushroom-themed library?”
“I said I was an only child.”
“You sure did.” The man patted the mushroom’s arm, instantly regretting it as a thin layer of slime and dead spores coated his palm. He wiped it off onto his long brown jacket, leaving a sticky grey smear to add to the scorches and burns.
“Why are you here, just to be a smart-arse and read?”
“Was that not an option? Well, I also want to drink.”
“Then you could at least order some more then.”
“Perhaps I shall.” The man leant to the side to have a good view of the central stem of the bar where the drinks were held. It ran all the way to the ceiling, more tree than drinks-cabinet, where it spread out and merged into the wood. Bottles of all shapes and sizes slotted neatly into the trunk, some untouched and covered in spores, while the cheap, strong spirits remained relatively clean. “What’s your strongest stuff?”
“Claximium Red Whisky.” a tendril emerged from the ground and started searching the bottles.
“On the human level of strong please, I cannot drink hot lava.”
The tendril replaced the smoking metal cage that housed the whisky back onto its shelf, before whipping around to a lower section.
“Hmm, I would imagine Robert’s Spirit then,” the mushroom thought out loud, not looking as his tendril slithered amongst the shelves. “You humans sure can’t handle your booze.”
“If I was made of Vibrotanium I would happily drink as much Claxium Red as I could process. However, since I am mainly human, this will have to do.”
“Mainly human? You got something to show under those rags?”
This was a new voice, and finally one that wasn’t a variation of Cap’s. It was much smoother, though there was a hint of a humming current that dipped and weaved with each word. The man turned to his left, and a few stools down was mostly a woman. The nice parts of a woman it seemed, though the addition of several mechanical parts made her even more fascinating to look at. Neon pink hair covered half of her face, mingled with red and yellow wires that joined up to a shaved right side of her head. One arm was entirely robotic, pistons and hydraulics flexing mechanical muscle as it gripped a tall glass. The man dared to follow her body down further but, noticing the large and dangerously enhanced pistol strapped to her waist, he decided ogling wasn’t worth it. He instead focused on the one eye he could see.
“Nothing in comparison,” he paused, suddenly realising that she was likely meaning something else entirely and just made a very, very bad move. She smirked, which was usually a good sign, and shook her head. He pink hair bobbed with the movement, a flash of red light briefly visible as her other eye was momentarily exposed.
“You’ve no idea.”
He was now even less sure of himself of what she meant but again, thanks to the deadly weapon she possessed, he thought it wasn’t worth it. He smiled and turned back to his drink, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
“You just smoking that to be retro for the sake of it?” the woman asked in her electric voice.
“Pretty much, yeah.” The man took it out of his mouth and examined it lazily.
“You’re just going to run out.”
He softly chuckled, a knowing smile on his lips.
“I’ve got a dealer.”
“You have huh? Who is he? A museum curator?”
“No, that’s where I get my clothes.”
She snorted, lowering her glass away from her lips.
“Funny.” She took a long gulp from her drink.
“It’s odd, I’m being described as all the things I’m not today; funny, smart. All lies.” He rubbed his prickly chin. “Better than usual I suppose.”
“What do they usually call you?”
“An arse?” Cap chimed in.
“A meathead?” Second Cap added.
“A Larth slurper?” Third Cap finished.
The man squinted, before pointing to each Cap in turn.
“Yes, yes, and also yes. Good job. That and other things.” He turned back to the woman. “But you can call me Colton.”
“Tonic.” She nodded towards him. Colton paused for a moment.
“Is that your name or a drink you want to order?”
“Why can’t it be both?” said Tonic, adjusting a loose wire behind her ear.
“Why can’t it indeed. My good Cap, a fine tonic for a fine Tonic.” Two coins were dropped onto the bar, and a slim tendril flicked them out of sight. Cap nodded and produced a bottle and an oval glass from behind him. Additional tendrils unscrewed the lid and poured out an aquamarine liquid, suddenly shifting to a dull purple as it hit the glass.
“Fancy.” She reached out with a mechanical hand and grabbed her drink. Colton couldn’t help but notice the stained exterior lining her metal knuckles. She noticed him notice. “Scared?”
“It’s only that I feel that if you don’t worry about washing it off afterwards then you must get in on your hands quite often.”
“You’d be right. Cyborgs always starting fights, the superior beings yadda yadda,” she grumbled, downing her tonic in a single gulp.
“You’re a cyborg?” Colton mocked surprise. “I hardly noticed.”
Tonic waved away a cloud of steam that had just erupted from her left shoulder. Colton coughed awkwardly and continued.
“Well, now that you mention it, you do have a lot of augs. Who fixed you up?”
“Myself.”
“That explains it. Anyone with half a brain knows you don’t use Zimmian steel for a rivet joint. Which upon examination of your head could be a potential truth,” he dared, taking a nervous sip from his drink. Judging both from his apparent bravery and lack of liquid left, he was beginning to feel he’d had too much.
“Funnily enough I have my full mind still, despite what you can see.” She tapped a metal finger against her shiny skull-plate, reverberating a thick metallic ring throughout the bar. “And Zim’ steel packs a bigger punch.”
“Now that explains everything. Punch a lot of people?”
“I have a counter.” She held up her fist, a small plate opening to reveal an electronic display showing the number ‘479’. “I feel when I get to five-hundred I should celebrate.” The plate closed and she lowered her fist to the table, a slight twitch in her index finger.
“I imagine when you need to install a counter this must be something you regularly and deliberately get in to. I would be honoured to join you for such a celebration though, since it will most likely be me being the one punched.” He raised his glass to her, before setting it back down without taking a sip. As soon as the glass hit the table, there was a rumbling. Bottles clinked and jostled, patrons started looking about with drunken confusion. Tonic barely raised her head, the red light from her eye switching to a deep purple. Colton sniffed dismissively. He had hoped he could’ve finished his book today. An explosion rocked the inside of the bar as the front door was blown outwards. Smoke immediately filled the room and several beams of light frantically whipped about. Colton was already behind the bar, running a hand through his messy black hair while he waited for his wrist-communicator to respond. The outdated piece of technology blinked a steady yellow light, occasionally letting out a small spark.
“What are you doing behind the bar?” said an electronic voice from beside him. Colton jumped as Tonic was now sitting next to him, adjusting something in her arm.
“Hiding. One of my many talents.” He shook his wrist as a small fire had started from his communicator. He patted down the flames with a glove and tapped it vigorously. The light was still on and flashing yellow.
“You were pretty quick, almost like you were expecting this.” Tonic sat up and peered over the bar.
“Sooner or later they always catch up.” Colton sighed.
“Who are they?” As an answer to her question, three figures stepped into the bar. Or two of them stepped while the third scuttled, its crab-like body and seven appendages making an uncomfortable clicking noise with each quick step. The other two were more humanoid, though it was impossible to tell their species thanks to their fully-encompassing, yellow power-armour. All of them carried large, dangerous and highly illegal weapons, and the two armoured figure’s gauntlets were painted red.
“Are you serious?” Tonic ducked back behind the counter, “You have jettin’ Terovian Blood Fists after you?” her voice crackled.
“Oh the Terovians this time. Great. Let’s hope they took out the Viu who were originally following me.”
Even with the additional metal and wires hiding her face, her dumbfounder expression was unmistakeable.
“Viu? As in the Viu Alliance? What the hell did you do, man?”
“I wouldn’t say it was directly me.” Colton looked back to his wrist. The light was now green. “So you know the Empire, right? And by definition you know of the Emperor? Well, the thing is, he’s my son.”