You’d swear you were dead. No one could move that fast, or fast enough to stop them.
Still, somehow, her blade never enters your skin.
You look up, heart racing and lungs straining.
The cyborg’s arm is inches from your face, held by a massive fist. You hear metal crumpling underneath the vice grip. Sparks drift from the broken arm, settling
gently to the floor and your jeans. Still, the woman does not flinch, never breaks her death glare on you.
“Ice,” the bartender growls, “you know I don’t allow fights in here.”
You sink back to the waiting arms of Lindsay, herself watching in rapt fascination.
The cyborg nods. “My apologies, Cuss. May I have my cyber arm back now?”
Cuss nods, and slowly releases his grip on the metallic arm. “Go walk that piss and vinegar off. Come back when you can play nice.”
The cyborg stands quickly, her eyes bright pinpoints of red. You make out a thin beam of infrared light, painting your forehead with a hovering red dot.
“There will be a next time,” she scowls, disengaging the beam. Her eyes narrow. “Human.” You’ve never heard such frozen venom in that word before. You’re still
shaking as she smoothly turns and exits the cantina.
“Damn,” Lindsay whispers. “You all right?”
“Jesus,” you gasp, holding your pounding chest. “I didn’t say anything bad to her! She…she was…”
“A few quasars short of a solar system? Yep, happens with them robo-psychos. Ice-3 went a little loopier than usual when they stuck the brainware in.” Cuss
flexes his strained hand and slides a drink before you with a free hand. The glass looks like a large mutated beaker from someone’s chemistry class. A smoking
froth tops a bubbling neon blue liquid inside.
You glance quizzically at the beverage. “What’s this?”
He smiles proudly and points a thumb to his chest while he wipes two glasses clean. “Homebrewed specialty of mine. I call it the Gattaca Smasher.”
“No offense, thanks, for helping me, I mean. I didn’t remember ordering this, though.”
Cuss shakes his head and laughs. “That’s ‘cause you didn’t. It’s on the house. Every newbie gets one.” He motions to Lindsay. “Your friend seems to like hers.”
You look to your friend, and see Lindsay polishing off the last of her Gattaca Smasher. She slams the glass onto the bar and licks her lips. “Damn straight. Great
stuff, Cuss!” She doesn’t appear drunk, but you can’t help but notice her sway a bit and tug at a strap of her dress. She leans over the bar, being sure to show
Cuss a generous amount of cleavage. “How ‘bout another, big guy? Maybe with your holocom code?”
You blink. “With his what? Lindsay, what’re you talking about?”
Cuss smiles wide as he hands her another neon-blue concoction. “Finish that first. Then we’ll see.” He nods to you. “Ma’am.”
Lindsay leans further over the bar, checking him out. “Man, nothing beats firm Cordonian ass.” She settles back into her seat, drinking in large swigs.
You blink. You didn’t remember her talking about the bartender’s race. Even now, she looks like she’s in a daze, as she idly scratches at her back and forehead
while she drinks.
“Lindsay, something’s not right here. You’re not making any sense, and these people are getting creepy. I think we’d better go.”
“No way! I’m not missing out on that hunk of stud.” She pushes your untouched drink toward your hand. “C’mon, drink up before it evaporates.”
She raises the drink toward her mouth, then stops. Two large bumps appear on her forehead, near her temples. You watch, stunned, as they swell and discolor to
a mottled teal. A dark horizontal mark appears along the center of each bump, and then bloodlessly splits into a seam. The seam opens with a wet slurping sound
to reveal a dark purple mouth, circular and ringed on the inner lips with sharp needles. The mouths stretch themselves from the sore, flexing into foot-long
tentacle-like stalks that curl in the air around her head as the sores close themselves around the stem of the stalks. One of the mouths dips itself into her drink, and
she sighs as it swallows the liquid down its length. You hear two more slurps, and watch in amazement as two thicker and longer tentacles slide from below her
shoulder blades and curl around to her torso. A tripod-like arrangement of taloned digits grows from the three-foot long appendages; one clamps around her drink
as she lets go with her human hand.
You stare at your friend in amazement, then at your own bubbling concoction.
Lindsay sighs in enjoyment of her drink before looking at you. Her green eyes fade slowly to a deep purple, speckled with luminescent flecks of teal that reflect the
cantina light. Her pupils disappear amidst the spreading pool, and she blinks with eyelids that shift to move sideways. “Now what’s wrong?”