Page 9 of Needed in the Night
At precisely 1400 hours,I switched the bar’s setting fromAutotoStaffed, activated all the lights that illuminated the rows of bottles, casks, and other assorted beverages behind me, took off my shirt, and tossed a bar towel over one shoulder, careful not to snag it on any of my spines.
Out of habit, I checked my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the shelves and smoothed my thick, black hair. Like my back and shoulder spines, my hair tended to bristle when I was angry or irritated—or tired.
I scanned the room, noting the patrons and what they were drinking. After three straight days working double shifts, I was fatigued and in even less of a mood to deal with bullshit than usual. Thankfully, none of the current customers had a history of causing problems. Maybe today would be smooth sailing.
My earpiece beeped. “Turn on the hologram,” the bar’s owner, Nubo Wex, snapped in my ear. “If you want wages, that holo had better be on.”
He could have activated the holo from his office, but myemployer took particular satisfaction in making me do it myself.
Without comment, I activated the hologram of myself outside the bar’s front doors that beckoned passersby to come inside for live bar service.
Even in a resort city like Onat’ras, an old-fashioned bartender was a novelty. To keep costs down and reduce the number of employees on payroll, most bars preferred patrons to order at their tables or via kiosks. Drinks were picked up from serving stations or delivered by service ’bots. During off-peak hours, when I was not working, Zaa’ga operated the same way.
But with several interplanetary luxury cruisers currently in orbit, the city had filled with wealthy tourists. Nubo wanted their money. Offering a live bartender ensured he would get a generous share of it. He would force me to work day and night if labor laws did not prevent it.
I wanted tourists’ money too, if I were to be honest, which was why I had taken off my shirt and donned form-fitting pants. The more blue-green scaly skin I showed and the more I flashed my fangs and bristled my spines, the more I earned in tips.
Many visitors to Fortusia wanted to marvel at our genetically engineered bodies, which combined humanoid DNA with genetic material from nonhumans, animals, and even plant life from across the galaxy. My creators had used DNA of the reptilian Pallasian bosor, as well as several mammalian species from J’Nora.
Showing skin did not bother me; I had never suffered from self-consciousness or modesty about my body. And any such feelings I had ever experienced disappeared during my years of military service, where privacy was virtually nonexistent.
I did not, however, enjoy seeing myself in larger-than-life holographic form—especially since Nubo had manipulated my image to exaggerate the size of mymuscles and groin. If nothing else, it amounted to deceptive business practices. I also found it insulting, as if my natural attributes and my efforts to maintain my physique were somehow insufficient.
As always, Nubo had met my objections with a derisive snort and a dismissive wave. I made good money here, so I had let the matter go. At least I did not have to see the hologram unless I stepped outside, which typically only occurred when I had to remove a troublesome patron from the premises.
Despite the crowded streets, in the middle of the afternoon only a dozen customers sat at tables with drinks. All were locals. Clear skies, sunshine, and the lure of endless entertainments on the main boulevard meant tourists were occupied elsewhere. Zaa’ga would get busier later in the day. This was the calm before the storm.
Bartending was good, easy work for a weary former soldier with a head full of bad memories, a bum leg, few other marketable skills, and no interest in fighting anymore.
As I refilled a pipe of Engareni wine for one of the regulars—an amphibious Prylothian who sat in a small pool next to the bar—my earpiece beeped again.
“Workers will be coming later today to update the stage area,” Nubo said, as usual without bothering with any pleasantries. “They told me the disruption should be minimal.”
The small, dark stage had seldom been used in the nearly two years I had worked at Zaa’ga. Whenever the bar offered entertainment, it typically took the form of holos or vidscreen, which were the norm in clubs of this size.
“Thank you for informing me,” I said, returning to the bar as the Prylothian gurgled contentedly on the pipe of wine. “How do you plan to use the stage?”
Nubo huffed as if my questions annoyed him. “I have posted a job notice seeking a singer.”
“A live singer, rather than holos?” My eyebrows raised. “That will be novel.”
“Some of the bars on the boulevard have added them. If a live bartender brings in customers, so will a singer.” Another huff. “And it will be less costly than replacing the holo system and vidscreens with new models.”
I might have guessed. Nubo’s primary concern always boiled down to profit.
“So we may expect performers to come in for auditions, beginning today,” Nubo continued. “With any luck, we will find someone with at leastsometalent willing to work for reasonable compensation.”
Inwardly, I snorted. Nubo’s definition ofreasonable compensationwas markedly different than most employers and the wage guidelines set by the province.
“And speaking of pay,” Nubo said, “if someone comes in looking like they expect the same wages as clubs pay on the boulevard or aboard the cruisers, tell them the position has been filled. If they look desperate for a job, I will speak to them myself.”
Gods, my employer was scum. It was at moments like this I felt most compelled to march directly to his office and strangle him with my bare hands. I would be doing myself and all the good citizens of Onat’ras a favor.
“Understood,” I said instead.
My earpiece went blessedly silent. I resisted the urge to take it out and drop it into the Prylothian’s wading pool, but only just.
The thought of having a singer in the bar had been interesting, even appealing, for only as long as it had taken Nubo to reveal his plan to exploit whoever he might hire.
