BOB's Bar (Tales From The Multiverse Book 2) Page 2

  Bethany Anne’s eyebrow raised just a tad. She was going to be the first murderer of wee folk in the bar if he kept up the attitude.

  “As you wish, sir,” BOB said, placing a Slurgian Thrungmasher and pink lemonade before the diminutive male. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  Artur regarded the glass, which was almost as tall as he was.

  “A straw. That’s somethin’ more I would be wantin’.” He snorted. “A straw—or d’ye expect me to dive into the feckin’ thing headfirst? Not that it’d be the first time, mind ye.”

  BOB placed a drinking straw in the glass.

  “Much obliged to ye,” said Artur.

  He turned and marched down the length of the bar to where the others were gathered.

  “Well, get a move on wiv yer big metal bollocks,” Artur called over his shoulder. “Me drink’s hardly goin’ to carry its feckin’ self.”

  BOB picked up the drink and carried it to the end of the bar where the humans were standing. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable moving to the table?” it asked. BOB’s mission would not change if the humans preferred to stand at the bar, but the seats at the table were designed for human comfort...and were filled with sensors that gathered a wealth of data while the stories were being told.

  Bethany Anne shrugged. “Why the hellfuck not?”

  “Fine, but I’m going to need another of these.” Ridge, his eyes round as he gazed at the diminutive Artur, pointed at his already-empty mug.

  “Sure, I’m dying o’ feckin’ thirst over here! Move yer arse!” Artur ordered.

  The group wandered over to the table, drinks in hand, and sat.

  “Eleven seats this time? It’s gonna be quite the gathering,” Amanda said.

  “The rest will be here soon,” BOB answered before retreating back to the bar to await the next subject. It didn’t have to wait long. The light flared, and the next human half-stumbled through the door. The arrival’s handcrafted leather shoes skidded to a stop with a squeak and the man’s hands half-shot out to his sides to steady his balance. His head swung from shoulder to shoulder, and he looked at the ceiling, the walls, and finally at the table where the others sat. They’d stopped talking when the new man arrived.

  Standish wiped his hands down a silk shirt embroidered with paisleys, then swiped his fingers through his thin, sandy colored hair. He cracked a smile with brilliantly white teeth and approached the bar with a swagger.

  BOB was well aware of this one’s past, so it gave silent thanks to the Collector that its bar didn’t have a cash register or anything worth stealing.

  Standish winked at the ladies and pointed double index fingers to the men as he walked up to the bar and onto a stool.

  “New model?” Standish raised an eyebrow and leaned over to look down at BOB’s legs. “Someone sprang for legs? Industry standard is for an upper body mounted on a rail. Who owns the place? I love doing business with people who spend too much.”

  “May I get you a drink, sir?” BOB asked.

  “My—Standish—special reserve.” He wagged a finger toward the wall of bottles behind BOB. “Relaxing Times Whiskey if you’ve got it...and you better believe I know my own brand. Your owner water my stuff down? Is that how he can afford top-end bots?”

  BOB was not programmed to judge subjects, but it was responsible for the bar construct. As it contemplated Standish, it wondered if the Collector should have designed the bar with a bouncer. It took out a bottle and poured two fingers over an ice ball. Standish took a sip, his eyes locked on the bartender.

  “It’s legit.” Standish held his glass up next to his face, an oversized gold watch swinging from his wrist.

  “This establishment has only the finest spirits,” BOB told him and reached for a towel to wipe down the bar. When it turned back, the bottle was gone, held aloft by Standish, who held the glass up to the lights. BOB’s inventory control programming blinked with an error as it re-ran sensor feeds, trying to detect just when Standish had swiped the bottle.

  “This glass is from my original distillery in Scotland,” Standish mused. “Vintage... Where’d you get it?”

  “Another drink?” BOB asked.

  Standish nodded, then turned to eye the group at the table. He seemed to take particular note of the weapon on Rika’s back and the sword Ridge carried.

  “Just...where the hell am I?” Standish asked. “This isn’t some freaky Qa’Resh place is it?”

  He froze when Artur slapped a palm on the table to get BOB’s attention.

  Standish let out a brief, effeminate screech, snatched a tiny cocktail sword from the bar, and brandished it at Artur.

  “What the hell is that!” Standish wagged the cocktail sword from side to side.

  “That is Mr. Artur, your fellow patron,” BOB informed him.

  “Does it eat faces?” Standish asked. He downed a quick sip of his drink as he went progressively paler.

  “He does not,” BOB replied levelly.

  “You sure? Have you seen him not eat anyone’s face the entire time? Aliens are weird like that.”

  “Your face will be fine.” BOB moved away.

  “You say that now, but do you have a face to eat? No. That gremlin will be munching my cheeks, and you’ll be all ‘I’ll note that down for next time.’ Who won’t have a face? Me. How can I be the face of my company without said face? Eh? Eh?”

  BOB hoped the Collector would understand the need for a bouncer if and when another human mission was created.

  “If you will join the others, sir, I’m sure you will see there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  “I’m putting my good looks in your hands, BOB, just so we’re clear,” Standish warned as he started to make his way to the table.

  BOB ran another inventory as Standish joined the rest. Only the one bottle had been taken.

  The next subject, a short blonde woman in a gray shipsuit, walked confidently into the bar, only to pause two steps later and scan the room with a confused expression. Kelsey Bandar looked back toward the entrance and shrugged, heading for the table with the others.

  “I don’t suppose any of you saw a carrier lying around?” She held her hands about a foot apart. “It’s a little bigger than this and has thousands of crewmembers and lots of fighters. I seem to have misplaced mine.”

  “I’m in a similar position,” Rika told her with a shrug. “Although if they can’t take care of themselves while I have a beer, I’m in worse trouble than ending up in a strange bar.”

  “Now, they sound like wee folk,” said Artur, shooting Amanda a very deliberate look.

  Amanda winked at Artur. “BOB gets that a lot,” she told Kelsey with a smile. “Come and have a drink and get gee-eyed with us.’

  Kelsey’s eyes widened when she saw the short being with the green beard. An alien. One that spoke Standard.

  Tearing her eyes away from the man, she looked around with a smile. “Huh. I’d think I’d remember a place like this if I’d been here before. It’s like a bar from one of the old vids. Very cool. Tell me you have good beer. Something with heft?”

  “We have any beer you want, ma’am. What is your preference?” BOB asked from the bar, focusing the sound waves so it didn’t have to shout, but they all could hear it.

  Kelsey looked at BOB, disbelief evident in her eyes, and after a long moment, she shrugged. “How about you pick, then? Something I haven’t had before.”

  BOB did not have her past drinking history in his files, but it did a quick probability check and poured a lager from the single tap. Hesitantly, she took a sip, then arched her eyebrows and nodded, lifting the glass in appreciation before she downed the rest and held it out for a refill.

  “Nice tech,” she said, pointing to the tap. “If I could get Carl to reverse-engineer that I’d have some very happy Marines.”

  BOB said nothing. The construct was far beyond anything humans could create, and that included the selection of beverages.

  Kelsey t
urned to look at the others, then with another lift of the glass in a toast to BOB, settled back in her chair. Before introducing herself, she looked expectantly at the table, seeming disappointed that there was nothing on it.

  She turned back to BOB and shouted, “I don’t suppose we could get some nachos, could we? I’m starving. A big plate for everyone, and another one the same size for me.”

  With that, she turned back to the table with a wry shrug. “I apologize in advance if I seem piggish. My Marine Raider enhancements and artificial muscles require a lot of calories. I have to eat like an Imperial athlete just to keep up. I’ve gotten used to it, but it always makes people who don’t know me stare.”

  “I would have simply assumed you were a shape-shifted dragon,” Ridge said with a smile. “They like cheese, you know.”

  “No need to apologize,” Amanda replied to Kelsey. “I like a girl with an appetite. What’s your name?”

  “Kelsey. Kelsey Bandar.”

  “Amanda-Jane Page, nice teh meet yeh,” she answered, and the others followed suit.

  “Ye all right there, darlin’?” asked Artur, giving the newcomer a long, appraising look. “Me name’s Artur. ‘Tis a pleasure to meet ye.”

  “And I you, Artur. I’m not sure how I got here—or even where here is—but thank you for welcoming me to your table. All of you.”

  “Don’t thank us yet. Things could get a little crazy before long,” Amanda answered.

  “You mean crazier?” Ridge quirked an eyebrow at the eclectic gathering.

  “Hey, so long as no one saws any limbs off, I’m cool with whatever shit goes down around here,” Rika said, raising her mechanical left arm and wiggling her three fingers.

  “It’s interesting, if nothing else,” Bethany Anne explained. “But not that interesting.”

  BOB brought over two large platters of nachos covered with cheese and jalapenos. Rika looked dubious, but after Kelsey dug into hers with gusto, she tentatively took a small piece, sniffed it, and took a bite. A huge smile broke out on her face.

  “Stars shitting mass in the black, this is the best thing I’ve ever had!” Rika exclaimed, glancing back at the bar. “BOB, a plate for me too. I’m cashing in on the same excuse Kelsey used.”

  “Doesn’t look like you have enough body to eat a whole platter,” Ridge said.

  Rika lifted a cheese-covered chip and scooped up some sour cream before replying. “I can turn food into different types of energy. And I paid good money to get my face back, so I’m going to stuff it with food every chance I get.”

  “That’s it, they’re only crisps. Get ‘em down yeh,” Amanda said with a laugh, plucking a few from the platter for herself.

  Artur didn’t need to be told twice. He waded into one of the platters and cordoned off a sizeable section of the nachos. “These ‘er mine,” he announced, eyeing the others solemnly. “Try to take them and I’ll be forced to kill ye. I don’t want to, but that’s what’ll happen.”

  “Cheese,” Ridge remarked after sampling a nacho. “I thought I smelled it melting back there. Glad to find out it exists here.”

  “Cheese exists everywhere as far as I know,” Amanda told him solemnly.

  “These are great, BOB,” Kelsey called, using a napkin to wipe her mouth. “And the jalapenos are really spicy, just like I like them. Thanks!”

  “I may have to take some of these back to my...housemates,” Ridge said.

  “The pregnant wife?” Amanda asked, eyeing his pickles.

  “No, although it’s possible she might also enjoy them in her current state. The flavor combination is unique.” Ridge picked up a jalapeno slice and eyed it curiously.

  BOB set another plate down in front of Rika, and she nodded happily at Ridge before loading up another chip and washing it down with a swig from her growler.

  “God, it’s been centuries since I’ve tasted these.” Bethany Anne looked at BOB speculatively. “I wonder if he can make a five-layer chocolate cake appear.”

  Amanda laughed. “I’d love to know the answer to that as well! Oooh, or a vanilla cheesecake.”

  Talk died down as nachos, washed down with drinks, became the focus of everyone’s attention, so much so that they didn’t notice the next subject’s arrival. BOB did, however, and stepped up to greet her.

  “Welcome to the Multiverse Bar, Colonel Foster.”

  Charline Foster was in her third decade, twenty-eight Earth years old, and had shoulder-length blonde hair. She was wearing the ubiquitous working uniform of most human militaries, but it was dark gray instead of the more common camouflage pattern. She stood silently for a moment as she tried to grasp just where she was.

  This was a key moment for every new arrival. Occasionally during these sessions, the subjects rebelled against what they saw as reality clashed with the construct. It was BOB’s task to put the subjects at ease.

  “May I get you something to drink?” it asked, using a routine question to divert the human and convince her that everything was normal, nothing out of the ordinary.

  She hesitated for a moment, making BOB wonder if she’d be one of the few who had to be dropped with the last thirty seconds wiped from her mind, but she asked, “How about a cider?”

  “Any particular type?”

  “What do you have?”

  “You’d be surprised how wide the stock here is,” BOB replied.

  “Surprise me, then. Nothing too complex, and no additives. Just crisp and clear.”

  BOB reached over the bar, picked up a glass, and pulled a draft out of the same tap. “I think you’ll like this,” it said, handing it to her. “It’s an Unapologetic Orchard Green.”

  She took a sip, then another. “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  “If you would join the rest?” BOB prompted, tilting its head at the table. “I’ll get back behind the bar.”

  “Why not?” she asked as she walked over and slid into one of the four empty seats. She eyed the others around the table warily. “I’m Charline Foster.”

  “Evening, Charline.” Ridge offered her a cordial smile. “You look young for your rank. Wartime promotions?”

  “You might say that.”

  Rika looked up from her plate of nachos at Charline. “You look the same age as me—provided you’ve not gone in for rejuv.” The cyborg shifted her gaze to Ridge. “Colonel here too, you know.”

  “I’m Artur. This section of the food belongs to me. I want to make that clear up front.”

  Charline raised an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Bethany Anne was tempted to tweak the little guy once again. However, lack of bouncer or not, even she considered that a bit rude. However, she would keep her options open. “Bethany Anne.” She nodded from across the table.

  Kelsey wiped her greasy hand with her napkin and extended it to the woman. “Kelsey Bandar. Welcome. Have some nachos, but be warned: the jalapenos are hot.”

  BOB was interconnected with the array of scanners in the bar. It didn’t have access to each data stream, nor was it programmed to analyze the data, but one of its jobs was to ensure that each was recording. A small prompt caused BOB to focus on the Sierra-wave scanner. Three of the pickups were having difficulties, almost as if they were being jammed, but that was impossible. In a thousand-thousand missions, that had never happened.

  BOB examined the patrons. Some of the humans had capabilities well beyond the mean for the species. Was it possible that one of those more capable beings was interfering with the scans, even without understanding what they were? None of the eight seemed to be in distress. Well, this was simply one more piece of data for the Collector. An electronic thrill tickled its circuits. The Collector would be pleased.

  The entrance flare caught BOB’s attention as the ninth guest arrived. Arkarin Blackhawk was a tall human male, his long, brown hair pulled back and secured with a silver clasp. He was carrying a handgun and a well-used short sword. BOB considered asking him to disable the pistol, but after running a qui
ck calculation, decided that it did not pose the threat of Rika’s arm-cannon. Blackhawk looked far younger than his almost sixty Earth years.

  BOB did not need its guest files or its more advanced scanners to see that this human was different. He appeared to be without the social mores of the others, and this was not natural. Arkarin Blackhawk had been genetically manipulated to be something...different. BOB was not sure how this human would interact with the others. Whether he would open up to them or not. This human would put the construct’s capabilities to the test.

  The human male barely glanced at the others at the table before striding up to the bar, where BOB greeted him with, “Welcome to the Multiverse Bar, sir. May I get you a drink?”

  Blackhawk simply said, “Yes,” in the tone of someone who didn’t care one way or the other.

  BOB did not have the ability to read minds, and while it had been uploaded with human non-verbal communications, it did not know how to react next. “What would you like, sir?” it finally asked.

  “You decide.”

  BOB reached behind him for an aged decanter with a stag’s head embossed on it and poured the amber liquid into a glass. “This is the Dalmore 62, one of the rarest single malts in the galaxy.”

  “Wait a feckin’ moment!” Artur hollered. “How come he gets the good stuff and I’m stuck wi’...whatever the feck this thing is?”

  “You merely requested ‘a drink,’ sir,” BOB replied, “so I randomly selected one of the available—”

  “Fair enough. I don’t actually give a shoite,” Artur replied. He took a sip of his drink, burped loudly, and winked at all of the women in turn. “Ye all right there, ladies?”

  Kelsey shook her head and smiled. “What a hoot,” she murmured under her breath, low enough so that no one but BOB could hear. “Probably considers himself a ladies’ man, too. Might even be one. I’m not going to judge.”

  “Doing better every minute.”

  Blackhawk turned to look at the table, his face expressionless. BOB eyed the pistol, wondering if it should have insisted that the human give it to him for the duration. It needn’t have worried. The human male picked up the bottle and carried to the table. Standish emptied his glass with one gulp and held it up for Blackhawk to fill it half-way with the Dalmore. He took a seat but pushed it back half a meter, symbolically keeping his distance.