Free Double Share by Nathan Lowell Page B

sar. Mr. Wang is ashore for approximately one stan.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Betts,” I said and slipped out onto the docks.
    The bite of the dock air was like ambrosia. I found myself breathing deeply, pressing the exhalations as if trying to empty my lungs of the residual smell of the ship. The mechanical and electronic aromas that permeated every dock I’d ever visited seemed somehow sweet and familiar and I drank deep.
    The Oh-two Deck was always redolent with the smells of brew, booze, wine, and food. Throngs of spacers were almost always here, although midmorning wasn’t a peak time. In spite of that, the nature of the spacer’s life meant that somebody was always on liberty. Someone was always looking for something, and almost always that search lead to the Oh-two Deck.
    I turned to starboard and found a hole in the bulkhead place with a smeared plexidoor lettered with “Over Easy” and a stylized picture of a cartoon woman holding a plate with a pair of fried eggs in a strategic position over her chest. Arletta was right. It looked like a pit.
    I pressed through the door and inhaled the aroma of fresh coffee, layered with the scent of fried potatoes, onions, and bacon. My mouth exploded in saliva as I stood there blocking the door and bathing in the fragrance.
    The place wasn’t full, but it was far from empty. One long counter stretched almost all the way across the back. A pass-through window opened to what looked like the kitchen. I saw someone moving back there, head down and back to the opening. A couple of wait staff covered the busy counter and another pair circulated around the herd of square tables between the counter and the door. It was a small place. It felt like a closet, but nobody seemed to mind. A guy in civvies carrying a rack with six cups of coffee elbowed me out of the way with a venomous look as he left, and I stepped out of the traffic pattern and found myself a seat at the counter.
    A young man wearing a spotless white tee shirt, white apron, and denim pants came over immediately. He slapped a coffee cup and napkin wrapped silver onto the counter in front of me.
    “Ya know what ya want?” he asked with a slight tilt of his chin. His name tag read, “Seth.”
    “Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Home fries,” I answered.
    With each word, Seth nodded. He reached under the counter and pulled out the pot, pouring before I even finished ordering.
    “How? How many? What kind?” he asked when I finished.
    “Over easy. Three. Wheat,” I answered.
    He grinned at me then. “You’ve never been here before?” he asked as he scribbled something on a lined slip of paper and ripped it from the tablet.
    “First time,” I said. “New to the quadrant.”
    “Welcome.” He turned and slipped the paper into a spinning contraption of clips and metal, then shouted, “Order, Frank.”
    He moved down the counter, filling cups as he went.
    I picked up the crisply clean, heavy china mug and looked into it. Coffee. Real, rich, dark coffee. No swirl of oil on the surface. I stuck my nose into the mug and took a deep breath. I put the cup down, added a dollop of milk from the pitcher on the counter and threw a couple of sugars into it. A swirl with the spoon and the coffee was heavenly. Dark, rich. It tasted like one of the Arabastis. Not Djartmo, but it had the signature after taste of a perfectly brewed Arabasti. Perhaps it was one of the local variants—Djartmo beans grown in a local setting.
    As I sat there savoring the coffee, plates clattered onto the pass-through every few ticks, and a man’s voice shouted a name and the phrase “Order up!” In a surprisingly short time the call, “Seth! Order Up!” came and my breakfast slipped onto the counter in front of me.
    Seth called back, “Thanks, Frank.”
    The eggs steamed. The bacon glistened. The aroma of potato fried with onions and bacon drippings wafted up and grabbed me. The toast was perfect, crisp, buttered, with just the right texture for