Author: Alastair Millar
Mixology’s not my scene, but you go where the job takes you, right?
The multispecies crowd in the Spacefarers’ Lounge, which bills itself as the premier bar in the Sagittarius Arm, is young, wealthy and out for a good time. There’s loud music, the lights pulsing, and up on the main stage Mixers Mikey Marx from Terra and Hazalal G’tok from Marchioness Prime are battling it out for the title of this rotation’s Cocktail King – drinks assigned by the judges, marks awarded for artistic flair, speed of production and original touches.
With big money prizes on the line, there’s always plenty of illegal gambling on the result. Some people really don’t like to lose, which is where I come in, providing a discreet service to terminally remove the clots from life’s smooth flow. I’ve already done my thing to make sure the Earthling doesn’t leave alive; a slow neurotoxin, delivered by impregnated gloves as he did his handshakes with the crowd on the way in, and absorbed through his skin. But I’m a professional, I’ll wait to make sure more direct means aren’t needed after all.
Edging closer to the action I squeeze through skin and scaly, twisting bodies. The big board says they’re making Sphinxian Swirls, a complicated concoction using ingredients from several different worlds. G’tok’s using haptics on his tentacles to manoeuvre a globe of iridescent gases into a neographene glass. Mikey’s dropping golden cryptid wings into a green solution of three types of refined alcohol; he’s ahead in the process, but losing style points. My pulse is getting faster; it’s like a seduction, waiting for the moment when I know everything’s going to work out.
I’m breaking out into a sweat. Maybe it’s excitement, or maybe it’s just hot in here. Or maybe the antidote didn’t take, and I’ll be the first one to go. By now I don’t care, it’s a rush, the not knowing adds a thrill that I can’t get anywhere else. I wouldn’t stop it even if I could. The music changes to something slower, rolling up and down my spine. I should stay focused, but slip into the vibe, vaguely aware of drug scents in the air around me. Yeah, that would explain a lot. My hands aren’t steady, they’re vibrating not quite in time to Mikey’s cocktail shaker as he mixes up the foam that’ll top his creation.
He pours it out, and holds up the completed drink in both hands like a trophy. The crowd roars; G’tok doesn’t even glance at him, finishing up his own. Mikey steps forward, basking in the public’s approval… and stumbles. The drink hits the ground, and as people gasp he gently folds up onto the floor, taken in his moment of triumph. My breath’s coming in short gasps now, but they’re getting deeper and I’m coming down; looks like I won’t be going with him after all.
Time to get out of here, and collect my payment. Who says work’s no fun?