Page 31 of Taken By the Alien Killer
“Cyn,” I murmur without moving my lips, “we’ve got sticky.”
“Already?” she asks, then follows my flick of attention. “Relax. He looks like he’s judging everyone’s hair. And yours is objectively perfect.”
“He’s staring at the shape of my skull,” I say, swallowing foam that tastes like citrus and battery. “Cyn?—”
“You’re on a rest station wearing a hood like a celebrity,” she says, bumping the rim of her cup to mine. “People stare. It’s a hobby. Drink.”
A Kilgari vendor with glitter-dusted horns shoulder-checks us with friendly malice. “Ladies,” she purrs, displaying four hands of bracelets. “You look like trouble and I’m thirsty. Drinking game?”
CynJyn lights up. “Yes. Rules?”
“Simple. We flip, we sip, we bluff. Loser buys a trinket. Winner gets to name the trinket something rude.”
“Gods,” I say. “That’s my religion.”
“Star,” CynJyn orders, already perched on a stool. “You relax. I’ll make a friend and a mistake.”
“I’m both,” the vendor promises, slapping down a stack of coin-flats. “Name’s Shash. What are we toasting?”
“Poor life choices,” CynJyn says.
“Bless,” Shash says. “Begin.”
They dive in, coins clacking, cups clinking, insults flying in two dialects. CynJyn cheats with the grace of a saint; Shash pretends not to notice and cheats harder. The bar laughs around them, a warm roil of noise that smells like frying and cheap cologne and old victories. I take my drink and retreat toward the stairs, because my heart won’t stop tapping out a Morse code for run.
The upper deck is a metal balcony bolted to the wall, lined with rickety tables and a view down into the chaos. A cracked viewport looks out on the docking ring and the star-prick black beyond. I slide into a shadow where the light decides not to try and breathe until my shoulders stop trying to kiss my ears.
A server in a velvet jacket that’s seen better decades drops a dish of salty nuts and a water bulb onto my table without asking. “You look like you need these,” they say.
“I must have that face,” I say, sipping. The water tastes like it learned math in a pipe, but it’s cold.
“You’ve got the face of a girl doing calculus in a bar,” they say. “It’s ugly math. Ditch it. Look at the pretty sky.”
“I’m looking,” I lie, and then I actually look because the stars on this side of the dome are crisp, and far out a tug drifts past with a string of cargo like a slow dragon. “Thanks.”
They tip a finger-gun, already gone to scold a table of gamblers for staining the felt with someone’s sangria. Below, CynJyn throws her head back and laughs; Shash slams her last coin down and howls accusation; the crowd hoots like it’s a moon festival. I loosen a fraction. Maybe I’m being ridiculous. Maybe the trader with the chewing-gum gaze was just bored. Maybe the ping in the cruiser was a weather balloon with a law degree.
A couple slips into the seats two tables over, whispering in the language of people who’ve just decided to forgive each other. The music slouches into something slower. My drink warms.CynJyn catches my eye, salutes with a lime wedge, and bellows, “She’s finally smiling; someone memorialize it!”
“Delete it,” I mouth, but I’m grinning now and it feels like a stretch I needed.
The lights hiccup.
Just a twitch, a brown-out blink the station shrugs off twice a day, but my neck tightens anyway. The music stutters and resumes. Below, a bartender slaps the side of a flickering sign and it straightens like a child caught misbehaving.
“See?” I mutter to myself. “Paranoid.”
The lights hiccup again, bigger. A line of fixtures along the ceiling flutter like a flock deciding to turn. The bass in the speakers gutters; the cantina does that thing crowds do when a vibe changes: a collective inhale.
A low-frequency throb rolls through the floor. It’s not sound at first; it’s physical, a pulse in the bones, in the teeth, in the joints. The loose screws in the railing buzz. The water in my bulb shivers a tiny, perfect circle.
“What is that?” someone asks, too loud, too chipper.
“Generator test,” a voice calls optimistically.
“Generator my ass,” Shash growls, all four hands gone still. “That’s external.”
Another throb, stronger, and the old neon over the bar gives up the ghost in a crackle. The music dies trying to apologize. Somewhere down the corridor, a siren coughs and catches.
