Page 32 of Mongrels United
Grady caught her breath. The initial orientation twist always made her stomach drop, even though there was no actual physical sensation of turning over. There was no gravity along the spine of the drum, and the only thing keeping her on the bench of the boat was the boat’s own gravity generator, so it didn’t matter which way the boat was oriented—it could have its hull facing the dayside, or the nightside, or the daylight divide in between…all directions would feel like “up”.
But the spin of the drum around her as the boat flipped over always made herfeellike she was falling out of the boat.
The first twist-spin done, the boat chugged out to where it could begin its descent down to the Meadow. She leaned over the edge and saw the Meadow was just moving out of daylight. She tracked her gaze to the edge of the Meadow to where a new, sprawling building now sat.
The last time she had visited the Meadow had been the last time the ship had celebrated Endurance Day. That had been when she was a child, and she could remember the day being one of fun and food—for all the stalls set up around the Meadow for the day did not charge for their wares. She remembered running up to one stall and being offered an ice cream, one with cherries in it. Her father had made her say thank you, which she would have said, anyway.
Why had those Endurance Day celebrations stopped? There had been one every year since she was old enough to remember them and then…nothing.
Tomorrow, she would look into why they had stopped. She made a note on her pad as the boat began to drift down to the big building, then put her pad away and examined the building.
She had expected that a building housing a tavern which was open most hours of every night would be far more brightly lit. Perhaps even with flashing lights—but perhaps flashing lights irritated residents of the Palatine living directly overhead.
As the boat dropped lower, she was able to see the front side of the building, not just the roof. It looked to have two floors, and many large windows, but very few of those windows were lit with internal lights.
There was more than one front door, too. Grady counted four of them, all enormous double doors, with wide paths leading up to them. The paths were laid between a concrete boat dock and the building. The boat Grady was in was descending directly over the pad.
The doors were not well lit, either. And they weren’t open, the way she’d expected they would be.
Grady frowned. She’d heard others gossiping about the tavern on the Meadow, before, and she’d gained the impression from those conversations that the tavern was a loud, busy, boisterous bar that welcomed everyone and anyone. She’d heard that music played all night, that dancing was encouraged, and that there were even more semi-legal and flat-out illegal activities happening in the back rooms and side rooms.
None of her impressions matched this silent building.
Grady got out of the boat and walked along the most direct path to the building. She was glad of the sure footing the path provided, because there were no lights to show her the way. Just the pale gleam of the concrete beneath her feet, which contrasted with the dark lawn on either side.
She pushed against one side of the door when she reached it, but it didn’t budge. She tried the other side, which gave way slowly—it was heavy! She put her shoulder to it and got the door open enough to slip through.
The darkness continued on this side of the door. The air was warmer, for outside, it was early spring in the Palatine right now.
Grady halted and adjusted to solid darkness without any of the glow that came from the daylight side of the drum. The place was silent around her. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the dimness and she made out shadow-filled shapes. Tables with high benches around them. A large open area, and to one side of it, another open area, this one surrounded by clear walls, with cushions on the floor.
At the back of the room, half the wall was filled with banks of printers. The other half of the wall had a strange set up. A counter, nearly chest high, with stools in front of it for people to sit on. They could drink their drinks, there. But on the other side of the counter was a narrow space that ran the length of the counter. On the wall were shelves, holding objects that glittered.
Grady squinted to make out details. Glasses, she realized. Stacked on top of one another, or hanging from railings in a way that would let them slide out one at a time. And bottles, many of then. All fully or partially filled with liquid.
Alcohol.
It took Grady a while to understand the strange setup. Then she got it. Someone would stand in the space between the counter and the shelves. The people sitting on the stools must tell that person what they wanted, and the person would pull down a glass, then choose a bottle and fill the glass…
A word out of history books swam to the surface of her mind.
“Barman,” she whispered. “A bar,” she added.
A whisper of sound echoed back at her. But it wasn’t her voice.
“Hello?” she called out.
“We’re closed. Go home.” The words were slurred, the voice was low and deep…and familiar.
“Nash? It’s Grady Read. I have some news. About your father.”
Silence.
“Nash?” she tried again. “Where are you? I can hear you breathing, but I can’t see you.”
From one of the tables with the high-backed benches, a dark shape rose. He swayed, then stabilized himself with an arm thrust out against the back of the bench. He must be kneeling on it, Grady realized.
“Not in a state for conversation.” His voice wasn’t as slurred. But it wasn’t sober, either.
