The bartender’s vocal modulator crackled—almost, almost a laugh.
“In a sequel.”
“In what?”
“Then what do you serve?”
The bartender turned. Behind it, on a shelf of rare bottles, sat a dusty bottle of Maraskan Red. 9.4 nudged it an inch to the left. On the wall behind the bottle, scratched into the metal, was a name and a berth number. bartender 9.4
The “9.4” came from a Guild auditor who’d spent a week cataloging the bar’s efficiency, safety, and customer satisfaction on a 10-point scale. “I cannot give it a ten,” the auditor told the terminal’s crime boss, “because it refuses to smile. But I have never seen a more perfect drink delivery system.” The score stuck. Painted on the sign. Carved into the bar top. “I cannot give it a ten,” the auditor
The mismatched optical sensors—one warm amber, one cold blue—fixed on her. “Because once, I was a 3.2. Unremarkable. Unwanted. Then someone gave me a chance. I earned my score. Now I pass it on.” I was a 3.2.