The Cyborg of Bergerac

Chapter Six

Christian arrived at the Bolt and Sabre by seven thirty in his dress uniform, pressed and perfect, and whistling off tune. It looked as if he'd found time for a haircut and whoever he passed commented not unkindly on the scent of his cologne. Many of the girls drinking turned to look approvingly but he had eyes for none of them. He walked directly to the bar where Cyrano was talking with Rags.

"There was no need to dress, you do realize she won't know the difference? You can load whatever wardrobe you want, tuxedo to sultan, she'll only see your avatar," Cyrano commented. "And she won't smell anything beyond her own bedroom I'd wager; whatever small fortune you spent on that scent is wasted on this encounter."

"I'm not coming to this date with anything less than my best," Christian said firmly. "I thought you of all people could respect that."

"Him? He's lazy. He gets by on charm and cheap drinks. Usually my cheap drinks," Rags said, and his sad face brightened a moment as he chuckled at his own joke before falling again. "I can only get by with drinking whiskey myself, my charms have all been wasted."

"Things can't be that bad?" Cyrano asked, tapping the bar. "Surely Lise has come home again?"

"She has, but now things are worse than before," Rags said. "I think she's cheating on me. She's back from her trip but still stays out to all hours, and if I press the matter of where she's been, she flies into a fit and says that I don't trust her."

Rags sighed. "The truth of it is; I don't. Not now."

"Now this is something," Cyrano said with a wicked grin looking from Rags to Christian and back again. "Here we have two stages of relationship. Christian who has not yet launched his ship, he stands on the dock awaiting the boarding call and can only think of the excitement of fresh love, unsullied by anything even resembling sorrow. Now, over here, we have Rags who has long ago clambered aboard his vessel and travelled here and there, weathering storms and putting in at all the ports of call. He has secret knowledge of women, that they are not delicate flowers and can, in fact, be the opposite; hard and bitter and cold. Let's not let one too close to the other so that their present states can be preserved."

"Keep your pretty words, Cyrano, or I'll show you the door and you can get your cheap drinks someone else," Rags said, rolling back the sleeve of his shirt to show the budging muscles beneath; a life of service first in the military and now as a barkeep for unruly soldiers had given him uncommon strength. There was a Special Forces tattoo stamped on his bicep, faded but still legible. Cyrano held up his hands in surrender.

"Of course, of course."

"I'll need a VR berth, if you can," Christian surveyed the corner where several of the booths were empty and wrinkled his nose, unconsciously patting the front of his jacket. "The cleanest one maybe. I just had this cleaned."

Rags nodded, "we'll get you sorted out, not to worry. I'm happy to help a man along on his road to happiness and won't hold it against him. Bitterness is a poison for the soul."

"Just don't let him give you advice. Be good to her, Christian, I have a feeling she deserves it!" Cyrano called after them as Rags led Christian away. After they were out of earshot his smile fell and he stared into his drink, pensive. He had hardly touched the mug, sipping conservatively and it had nothing to do with fear of the headache that had plagued him earlier that morning. His face foreshadowed the turmoil in his thoughts.

"You're too hard on him, one day he really will throw you out," a voice said from over his shoulder. Warm, strong hands reached around underneath his pilot jacket and hugged him with the scent of fresh oranges. Soft lips pressed delicately against his cheek and teeth playfully nipped at his ear while the mouth withdrew. "It would serve you right. Then again, you rarely get what you deserve."