“Yeah, I don’t think these guys quite get the concept of a ‘bar’,” leaning against a dense, alloy-framed wall panel, Gravel spoke.

  G’geggo was half-full when they entered. It was one of the finer establishments on the edge of Bor’tho, serving mainly intergalactic travellers stopping by for a quick refuel. That might have been the reason why its owner opted for the sleek look that was out-of-fashion since the 2600s, when the Republic was pushing for its new brand of corporate vogue.

  The five of them passed the tables and chairs that were far too big for an Earthly bar. Crafted from a gravimetric alloy, their legs radiated outward in precise, angular formations. They looked more like geometric sculptures than indoor furniture. Their surfaces were nippy and reflected the levitating crystalline orbs that refracted the ambient glow into shifting patterns. These very orbs cast dancing reflections on walls constructed from weathered metal and a type of composite glass that was a combination of self-healing polymer layers and nanolaminated crystalline arrays.

  “No need for anti-grav fields when you have this kind of density,” Priest commented as he stepped in, lagging behind.

  “Not sure why you’re complaining, Gravvy,” Hunter tapped on the surface of a table. “This bar is as solid as it comes.”

  At the center of the main floor stood a sprawling liquor bar unlike any Earthly counterpart. Rather than a static counter, a translucent, spherical bar, forged from the same dense alloy, dominated the space. Within its core, streams of exotic liquors glowed with internal luminescence, swirling in patterns dictated by an AI bartender whose voice was as smooth as it was calculated. Holographic menus and interactive tables—each projecting 3D displays of the night’s specials—were interwoven with digital murals cycling through images of cosmic vistas and abstract art. Today’s specials were Amzarani Anguish and Void Devourer.

  “Come to your seats. Pop-up holograms will show up and you can order from there if you feel introverted,” Xaxx flashed a spiffy smile at the Black Fang crew before he and Nastija headed to the bar.

  “This setup looks a lot more like a restaurant than a bar,” Gravel shrugged. “But oh well. I’m not ordering from an AI bartender. How is it any different from scrolling through a pop-up holo at your table?”

  “You go,” Hunter nodded once. “I’ll go ask the bartender if they serve anything in a can.” She’d already walked ahead as she spoke.

  “Of course she is.” He muttered, turning to Priest and Sloan. “Vying for the world record for the highest number of trash cans collected from different planets. Guess it’s just us three. Who wants to see if their holo-menu looks anything like McDonald’s?” McDonald’s had been running for nearly a millennium, and had become one of the longest-running chains on Earth, and was the first Earthly food brand to appear on the Republic Space Station. It received stellar reviews.

  They made their way to an empty table, sitting an equal distance from each other. As the octagonal holo-menu showed up, they flipped the pages around. Gravel swiped the menu and it gyrated, landing on Ironfang Stout.

  “A thick, dark drink with a metallic aftertaste, brewed from the Bara’gaard grain,” he read aloud. “I’ve never heard of Bara’gaard. Let’s try it.”

  “If it’s a local grain, it’s probably high-density grain. You will feel heavy,” Priest warned as he ordered a Singularity Shot. His menu screen read ‘DO NOT TRY MORE THAN ONE SIP’. His drink would come in a tiny black vial, brought to him by a waiter robot hovering inches above the floor using a combination of magnetic tethers and microthrusters.

  “I like it when drinks sit in my stomach like a rock,” Gravel replied.

  He did not enjoy the Ironfang Stout.

  Sloan stared blankly at the screen, lazily flipping the pages and finally settled on Water.

  “C’mon, Sloan. Nobody orders water in a bar.” Gravel leaned closer to her.

  Sloan didn’t look up as she tapped the confirmation button. “I just did.”

  Gravel groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”

  Sloan’s personal holo-phone flickered to life with a discreet notification. The message was from Priest.

  “Redshift Rush? You used to order that back in Kestris.”

  She blinked at the message, momentarily caught off guard. Then she remembered—she’d actually given him her personal contact not that long ago.

  She responded, her neural interface picking up the thought as smoothly as if she had typed it herself. Newest McPherson tech had allowed neural transmission of texts without needing a finger.

  “My tastes have matured. I’m not into drinks that are more sugar than alcohol anymore.”

  Priest moved his fingers under the table.

  “I’ll pay for it. Do you really not want one?”

  Sloan blinked three more times. The words felt casual, but Priest never said anything without intent. Was he implying something?

  It was possible—likely, even—that he’d guessed. That all her credit accounts on Kestris had been frozen.

  “I’m fine with water.” She replied.

  Priest stopped texting.

  Gravel was already on his second drink, the even darker Void Devourer, whining about how Hunter left him to scour the trash for drink cans.

  It was a minute later that Nastija returned with a measured stride. She slid into the seat next to Sloan, glancing briefly at Gravel’s drink before shifting her gaze to the holo-menu.

  Gravel leaned back in his chair, tilting his glass. “Where’s Xaxx?”

  “Where do you think?” She flicked through the menu’s options.

  Gravel made a face. “Ugh, don’t make me guess.”

  “He’s at the bar,” she said, finally settling on a selection. “I think he’d stay there for a while. He took a bounty quest from the officer, talking trade routes with the bartender, then somehow segued into a theory about supply chain disruptions in the Outer Belts.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  “Didn’t think he would be the type . . . Wait, what did you say?” His eyes widened.

  “He’s cooking up some conspiracy theories about the Outer Belts.” Nastija’s lips curled ever so slightly as she rested her chin on her hand.

  “No; before that.”

  “He talked trade routes with the bartender?” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming.

  “Before that . . .”

  Her smirk widened. “He took a bounty quest from an officer?”

  Gravel sat up straighter. “Yeah, that. From an officer? You mean, one in this bar?”

  “Everything they do on Mendax is local. I mean everything. You’re gonna need a local carrier card to connect to their bounty network.” She tapped twice on her wristband, and a faint holo-interface flickered to life above her arm, displaying a bounty registry. The list scrolled in real-time, each entry updating with new contracts, fluctuating rewards, and status indicators showing whether a job was Open, Contested, or already Closed. Open jobs were up for grabs, while contested ones had multiple claimants, with payouts only going to those who met the mission’s completion requirements. Some jobs showed priority tags, meaning only select bounty hunters or teams that had certain qualifications. Others had quota-based completions, where a limited number of hunters could split the reward if they met certain objectives before the contract closed. Some listings were direct hires, while others were open calls that anyone with the right credentials could accept.

  Gravel was more than familiar with this. The interface of that bounty registry looked less than intuitive than cross-planetary posting sites if bounty hunters were to take on publicly-offered jobs, but it was effectively the same system.

  Nastija kept scrolling, and Gravel’s eyes scanned the bounty registry with bored indifference, until one listing caught his attention. Twenty-one million ducats. The reward wasn’t massive, but it was fair—medium risk, medium reward. The target: a poacher syndicate operating on the outer fringes of a protected wilderness on Mendax, an uncharted section of the planet. The syndicate had been illicitly harvesting rare fauna from a region known for its volatile terrain—forests interspersed with deep ravines and bioluminescent caverns. The natural environment was untamed, perfect for seeking shelter or setting traps, but deadly for anyone unprepared.

  The entry had a Contested tag, but there were no priority requirements or specialized qualifications that he could spot just yet. It was up to each hunter to handle their own logistics, but the reward still stood strong enough to attract competition.

  “Can we have a better look?” Gravel asked.

  “Yeah, as soon as you get your hands on the local carrier card.” Nastija’s smirk practically turned into a roguish grin.

  Gravel’s face softened into a grin, his eyes wide and filled with exaggerated pleading. He leaned slightly forward, hands clasped together. “C’mon, Nastija, just one scan? We’re practically best buds now after that drink! You can’t leave me hanging like this.”

  “Well, since you have asked so nicely,” she said, tapping her wristband again and making a show of considering it.

  Gravel’s grin grew wider, leaning even more in her direction, his expression like a puppy waiting for a treat. “You’re the best.”

  They turned on local transmission on their wristbands, and Nastija sent over the scan of the screen and all details.

  Gravel tapped the listing for more details. Something caught his eye near the bottom of the listing—“Proof of Qualification Needed: Prior Experience in Tactical Engagements with Dangerous Wildlife.” Gravel paused. No one in the crew had that on file.

  It wasn’t that they didn’t have the skills—Gravel himself had been in a handful of skirmishes involving wildlife (Sabertooth Tigers, anyone?), Priest had run enough logistics to know how to get out of tricky situations, and Fang had once hacked her way out of a deadly ambush with nothing but quick wits and a piece of shrapnel. But none of them had sufficient official documentation—the Proof of Achievement Certificates or Combat Endorsement Reports that were required to validate their expertise. And this was one area where Fang couldn’t just waltz in, flaunt her PhD in Data Science, and get a stamp of approval.

  When Gravel was younger, he should’ve known better than to neglect securing those entry validations. He’d once even been advised by a fellow hunter to grease the palms of the registrar, but he hadn’t taken the hint. And the time he did try to submit a request for a certification was shot down when they demanded impossible proof—“Where are your battle scars?” the examiner had asked, before rejecting the application because of a single insignificant injury from a past skirmish that had already healed over. The worst part was that the data on half of their previous hunts had been wiped in a system error after a database corruption. It was never updated.

  The more he thought about it, the more it irritated him. Priest, with all his experience and sharp mind, could have easily racked up a mountain of endorsements and certificates, but he’d purposely avoided it. In fact, he’d kept a perfect clean slate in official registries.

  Hunter had the most official records, but they weren’t exactly impressive. A Republic army conscript, she had a few notable actions under her belt, like a successful evacuation operation during a border skirmish, but nothing that would really stand out. The army’s structure wasn’t the best for personal recognition.

  Gravel turned off the projection from his wristband. He’d need to discuss this with the team later.

  He said to Nastija, “So, since you’ve been such a good sport, what do I owe you for that little favor?”

  “Oh, you don’t owe me anything,” she replied, her voice smooth. “I just like helping out the lost and desperate.”

  “Lost. Debatable. Desperate? That’s a little bit of a strong word,” he replied.

  “But you wouldn’t say no to some guidance, would you, big guy?”

  Gravel raised an eyebrow, his lips parted into a small grin. “Guidance, huh? You’re playing the role of the wise, all-knowing guide now?” He leaned back in his chair, casually folding his arms. "I’ll admit, I’m intrigued. But you better be careful, because I don’t make it easy on people offering ‘guidance.’”

  Nastija’s voice dropped to a sweeter pitch. “Oh, I’m sure you’re a challenge. I like small, cute challenges.” She lingered in the moment, letting her gaze slide over him, a deliberate flash of amusement dancing in her expression before she straightened up and stepped back.

  Priest keyed a command into his wrist device and started reading the Intergalactic Daily.

  Nastija’s wristband pinged. With a sigh, she stood. “I will have to bring Xaxx here now, if you’d excuse me. He ran off to another bar across the street.” With a smirk, she stood up, giving Gravel a last lingering look. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

  “Not hard when I’m sitting between two rocks,” replied Gravel while smirking at Sloan.

  After Nastija left, Sloan spoke, her gaze at the central bar almost seemed too deliberate. “She looks like she’s humoring you.”

  Gravel’s grin hadn’t left him. “Oh yeah? You think you can tell?”

  “I have a good track record.”

  “Well? What can you tell from looking at her?”

  “Overly decorative.” Sloan’s finger tapped against the edge of her glass of water.

  Gravel raised an eyebrow. “I know you like to judge, corpo, but I didn’t know you do it out loud.”

  “You’re loud about liking it.” She took a sip of the water. “Aren’t you trying to find info on something? When are you starting?”

  “Well, we’re in a bar, for starters. Xaxx said it’s on him, so why should we refuse? Live a little, corpo.”

  She gave him a slow, unimpressed blink. “I live just fine, thanks. Just reminding you that you’ve got two days and a half at most on this planet.”

  “If I want to be micro-managed I’d work under an actual corpo, Sloan.” He smirked.

  Sloan’s fingers curled. She didn’t say anything for a couple seconds. Gravel held himself back from casually throwing ‘hit a nerve, corpo?’ at her, and just ordered her a drink from the holo-menu. “The bar said this one’s on the house. Fancy an Ironfang Stout?”

  Sloan rolled her eyes, but when the robot brought her her drink—a glass of Nebula Mist, neutral-tasting with hints of local herbs—she took it. It happened to be one of her favorites.