No Shelter Among the Stars

Chapter 10 - Alban's Tavern

Tasla shrugged.

"I'm not feeding any more pilots to you and your crew," said Alban. "You're going to give me a bad name."

"Maybe if they were better pilots they wouldn't keep getting slagged," muttered Tasla.

Alban gave him a look and pulled out a metal pitcher. In quick, efficient movements he began mixing an array of military grade tranquilizers and surgical antiseptics. Some of the liquids were bottled and measured out, some were dripped from opened paralytic darts. The final ingredient was in a needle kept in a cooling vault beneath the bar. Pushing a protective mask against his face, Alban pressed the plunger and drained the clear fluid right into the pitcher with everything else. He didn't stir it in, but once it had made contact with the other fluids he took the mask from his face.

Turning his head, he handed the pitcher to Tasla, who picked it up and sniffed. The chemical scent made him light headed for a moment. He smiled and carried it to his table in the far left corner of the tavern.

"Don't spill any," said Alban.

* * *

Gypsy pulled open the hatch to Alban's Tavern. Taking a breath to control her nerves, she climbed down the rusted ladder and stepped into the dim yellow light. The hatch closed above her by itself and the sound almost made her jump. She kicked back the tail of her long coat and planted her feet on the ground. A handful of drunks were slumped here and there, she ignored them and headed straight for the bar.

Alban gave her a little smile, his black teeth glinting in the dim yellow light. She nodded to him and took a seat on a barstool. He placed a greasy glass in front of her and filled it with orange liquid. She lifted it as he stowed the bottle on a shelf behind him.

"I assume they're not here yet?" she asked, glancing at the sprawled out drunks.

"They're on their way," said Alban, adjusting his rumpled Syndicate Navy coat.

"Who's that?" she asked, glancing at a large man in the far corner sipping from a pitcher.

"Nobody," said Alban, pouring himself a shot glass of something pungent and white. He downed it in a gulp.

Gypsy brushed a violet tinged strand of hair from her eyes and said, "Well, he's sitting in my seat."

"There's no one here you need to worry about," said Alban. "You'll have a quiet meeting just like you asked. Now, how about my fee?"

She took a drink; it bubbled on her tongue and burned down her throat. "Digital credits," she croaked, setting the glass down and letting the drink settle, "Three thousand."

"Digital?" said Alban, frowning. "What happened to silver?"

"I don't have numbers like that in silver," she said, taking a sip and coughing. "What is this?" she asked, setting the cup back down.

"Something alcoholic," said Alban. "If all you have is digital, it's going to cost you."

"Three thousand is costing me," said Gypsy. "When are they coming?"

"Five thousand," said Alban.

"Three," said Gypsy. She slid the cup towards him. "And something else to drink."

"Four and a half," said Alban, taking the cup and carefully pouring its contents back into the bottle with a funnel. "These are digital credits we are talking about," he added.