Collusion of Worlds

The air in the bar, The Rusty Comet, always tasted like stale synth-ale and desperation. Tonight, it was thicker, a cloying miasma that clung to my throat as I nursed my third glass of something that burned all the way down. Pibo’s holographic face shimmered beside me, a perfect, serene visage of a man who’d never known a hangover, his metallic body a silent, watchful sentinel. He’d been humming a low, almost imperceptible tune, a habit he picked up whenever I was particularly lost in my own head.

“Another, sir?” Pibo’s voice was smooth, devoid of the grit that coated everything else in this sector.

I grunted, pushing the glass forward. “Make it a double, Pibo. And try to find a cleaner bottle this time. This one tastes like it’s been used to polish Zogi boots.”