The Four Baristas: Double Shot

Chapter 3

Chek Wandoo peeled his body off the alcohol-soaked carpet, spat a cocktail umbrella out of his mouth, licked his lips with a tongue that felt and tasted like a sock that had been lightly sauteed in rocket fuel, and after struggling to what a quick visual inspection suggested were his feet, made a mental note that the next time a seven-foot-tall Algolal comet-wrangler called Bottomless Mokmok challenged him to a shot-drinking contest, he probably shouldn't wear suede shoes.

It had been, he reflected, a big night. For that matter, it had been a big week. In all likelihood it had been a big month, but he found his memory grew a little hazy that far back. Making his unsteady way into the living room of his beachfront penthouse, he flopped into an armchair and, with slow bleary blinks took in the stunning vista of ocean stretched out before him, dazzling in the light of Alpha Centauri's twin suns.

"Hey, House-babe?"

The state-of-the-art AI servicing Chek's penthouse was technically known as Domco System 9000 Mark 3—Dommie for short—but names had never been one of Chek's strong points. Even when not hungover. With perfect modulation, its feminine tones cultured and crystal-clear, the AI's disembodied voice replied. "Yes, Mr Wandoo?"

"What have we got to drink? I'm way too sober."

There was a pause. "Sir, analysis of the alcohol content of your exhalations indicates that by most legal, biological and/or social measures, you still qualify as drunk."

Chek considered this. "Huh, measures-shmeasures. I'm the best drunk of whether I'm judge. Er, the drunk judge of what's best. I mean, I judge the best drunk. Um." His two biological eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, blinked owlishly, while the artificial one fitted into his forehead—designed and built to cope with even the most extreme of hangovers and therefore still clear and sparkling—scanned the room in a relentless, precisely calculated search for the welcome telltale glimmer of a bottle, decanter, cocktail-shaker or shot-glass.

But to no avail. There wasn't even so much as the suggestion of a promising puddle on the floorboards.

Where was all the booze? The delivery shuttle had dropped off a load just the previous day—surely it couldn't all be gone? How was a dude supposed to break the galactic record for the longest party when he didn't even have any booze? The word 'party' troubled Chek for some reason. On top of the lack of alcohol, something else was wrong. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it was something important. Something fundamental. Some key ingredient that was missing from his record attempt.

He looked around the deserted building. If only there were some people he could ask. Ideally, some people less hungover than him. Hang on a minute—people! That was the missing ingredient. How the hell was he going to party without people? Without party-goers? Without peers? Without fellow revelers? Without people he barely knew, would in all likelihood never see again and whom he suspected only associated with him for the free alcohol? People he increasingly found he didn't even enjoy being around all that much?

Hmm.

Heir to the Wandoo armament empire, former Flame Monk acolyte, recent co-saviour of the Earth, fashion icon, playboy and renowned partier, Chek wasn't much of a one for self-reflection. Or at least, he assumed he wasn't—he couldn't recall ever giving it a try. But now, sitting alone in his penthouse—hungover, dehydrated, dishevelled and somewhat sticky—he was surprised and not a little disturbed to find himself feeling a bit reflective. And in the absence of anybody else to reflect on, his inner-self found itself squarely in the spotlight.

Where it squinted in resentment, hunched its shoulders, kicked at an imaginary piece of dirt, slipped on a pair of disreputable sunglasses and, in general, did not make for a flattering picture.