Deep Space Odysse Volume 1

Chapter 6 The Bar

The days of waiting were long and tiresome.

The Aphrodite was far from being fully repaired, and Reynolds found himself trapped in a state of utter boredom. He couldn't help but envy his soldiers, from whom he was separated by the detested officer-soldier policy. Only two others from the Aphrodite accompanied him at the sanatorium.

One was Alec Davier, the ship's artillery officer, known by his nickname, "Corkscrew," due to his uncanny accuracy. Every time his guns fired, it was as though the ships across from them uncorked, spilling crimson liquid like fine wine.

Not every nickname held such flair.

The other, Ibbie Faulkner, the ship's scientist, was called "Woodpecker." His moniker came not from his intellect but from the curious rhythm he created, knocking repeatedly at a piece of Aribia wood during an experiment.

These two quickly found their own amusements. Davier took to hunting, occasionally bringing Reynolds wild game to share, while Faulkner immersed himself in studying Earth's native plants.

Reynolds, with nothing else to occupy his time, resorted to video games to pass the days.

Clarisse would drop by occasionally for casual conversation, which often drifted into lighthearted inquiries about life aboard the Aphrodite. Once, she even brought a bottle of wine, and they drank until they were both utterly intoxicated. However, nothing transpired beyond that drunken stupor.

Claire was stationed 800 kilometers away, and though she called Reynolds daily, the absence of Russell Hill in recent days had given him a rare sense of relief.

Tonight, Reynolds decided to go for a drink.

The sanatorium sat about thirty kilometers outside New Darwin City. A short flight in his car brought him to Cantina Street, where a bar named Black Rose stood—Reynolds' usual haunt. The bar was fashioned from an old, discarded train car, its interior refurbished into something quaint and intriguing.

As Reynolds stepped inside, he was greeted by the scent of rich gardenia liquor. The bar was serene, its patrons quietly nursing their drinks, while a soft piano melody played in the background.

A small, blue-winged creature, no taller than a meter, flew towards him. Bowing graciously, she said, "Welcome back, Mr. Reynolds. It's a pleasure to serve you again."

"The pleasure is mine, dear little Millie," Reynolds replied, affectionately patting the antennae atop her head, the favorite form of contact for the Blue Spirits.

In the vast expanse of the universe, humanity was far from alone. As they ventured into the stars, more and more alien species entered their awareness. Since humanity's first contact with alien life in 4988, over four million species had been documented, with thirty thousand complex life forms and more than a thousand intelligent, civilized species. The Blue Spirits were among these—their physiology so similar to humans that they could even speak human languages without the need for voice modulators.

Pleased by his compliment, Millie twirled in the air before soaring to the bar, where she cheerfully called out, "One Scarlet Agate with an olive, Octavia!"

Sitting behind the bar was a young woman with brown hair and sun-kissed skin, casually smoking a thick cigar. Her gaze was fierce, untamed, like a wild animal impossible to domesticate.

This was Octavia Bissell, the owner of the Black Rose and the famed thorny rose herself. The bar was named in her honor.

Octavia glanced at Reynolds with a lazy eye, and in a voice laced with irritation, said, "He's no big spender, Milan. You needn't be so enthusiastic."

"But he's my favorite customer! And my name is Millie, not Milan," Millie huffed, clearly affronted by Octavia's teasing.

"I'll call you Milan if I like. Milan, Milan, Milan!" Octavia laughed, then turned to her bartender, "Barbor, get him his drink."

The bartender, Barbor, was a member of the Sixclavian species—a race with four arms, simple minds, and hot tempers. Once the rulers of their planet, they were now defeated and subjugated by humanity, their resentment towards their conquerors palpable.

Barbor glared at Reynolds with contempt as he poured the crimson liquid into a crystal glass, placing it on the counter with a forceful thud. He then muttered something in his native language, a curse, no doubt, aimed at Reynolds.

Reynolds, unfazed, merely raised his glass and replied, "Thanks for the warm welcome, Barbor. By the way, next time, remove your voice modulator before you start swearing."

Barbor looked down, realizing his mistake, and growled in frustration. The other patrons burst into laughter.

"Twelfth time this month, Barbor!" one man jeered. "Do all you Sixclavians make the same mistake over and over again?"

"Funny how they're classified as a 'higher intelligence,'" another quipped.

The bar erupted in laughter, and though Barbor's fists clenched in anger, he remained silent. Sixclavians might be volatile, but they were also surprisingly good at accepting their mistakes, even if they never learned from them.

Reynolds took his drink and found a seat by the window. For most people, drinking was a prelude to indulgence—seeking out women or diving into reckless abandon. But for Reynolds, the act of drinking was an end in itself.

He enjoyed the quiet solitude of sitting in the corner, watching the lights of the city, the aerial cars tracing patterns in the night sky. He observed the diverse array of beings wandering the streets and felt the alcohol's warmth spread through his mind, lifting him into a light, dizzying euphoria—a momentary escape, almost transcendental in its simplicity.

It was in these moments that Reynolds appeared most serene, a shy boy hidden beneath the mask of a man.

"Hey, look at this one! A little lady, ain't she?" A boisterous voice shattered the peace, followed by raucous laughter. Reynolds looked up to see a hulking, tattooed man with a bald head, his body covered in thick black hair. His left arm, an alloyed prosthetic, glinted in the dim light—a cheap piece, Reynolds deduced, judging by its stiff movements.

The man swaggered towards Reynolds, his voice slurred with intoxication. "Hey, pal, you drink like a girl! Or maybe you are one. Why don't you drop your pants and show us what's underneath?"

More laughter erupted from the group behind him—rowdy, mean-spirited thugs. One even had the audacity to whistle at Reynolds, calling him "sweetheart."

But before Reynolds could react, another voice intervened.

"You'd better leave him alone, Bork."

It was Octavia, her tone cool but firm. She swirled her drink lazily, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "You wouldn't want to tangle with him. He's out of your league."

Reynolds frowned. Octavia's words were more taunting than cautionary, stoking the fires of confrontation rather than quelling them.

This damned woman... Was she hoping to profit from the ensuing damage?

Every bar on Earth had an unwritten rule: guests could fight all they wanted, as long as they paid for any broken furniture afterward. Profits from such altercations were a vital source of revenue—what some called the "Pirate Code of Bars."

Realizing Octavia's intent, Reynolds considered leaving. But it was already too late.

Bork's eyes narrowed. "What the hell do you mean by that, Octavia, darling?"

"I mean, you're no match for him. He's a soldier—a Federation soldier. You wouldn't stand a chance."

Bork blinked, then burst into laughter. "Federation soldier? Those useless fools! They got slaughtered by the Divine Clan. Three million dead in a single battle! Even a pig could do better!"

Just as he was about to leave, Reynolds suddenly froze in place.