Free The Lazarus War: Legion by Jamie Sawyer Page B

plastic, a vid-monitor for a face.
    “Vodka,” I said. “I need vodka.”
    “We’ve got a good range of vodka-based spirits. Just had some decent-quality Tau Ceti import delivered. Or, if you’d prefer something a little fruitier, we have several flavoured vodkas—”
    “Any vodka, neat.”
    “You want a double?” he asked, rubbing a dishcloth over a glass: some bizarre programming affectation. “I can wire your unicard.”
    “Give me the bottle,” I answered, slumping over the bar.
    The money didn’t matter: I’d accrued a decent credit balance while I’d been in the freezer.
    “You sure?”
    “Just the one for starters.”
    “You want to talk about it?”
    “I’m done talking to robots.”
    The plain glass bottle and clean shot glass sat in front of me. I poured myself a drink and downed it.
    “This is the first drink I’ve had since I died.”
    An electronic face formed on the vid-monitor and the robot gave me a sad, almost disapproving look.
    “I get it: Sim Ops?”
    I nodded, and downed another shot.
      
     
    “You know the worst part?” I asked, slurring my words.
    “Yes,” the robot said. “I’m pretty sure that you’ve told me this already.”
    “The worst part,” I continued, regardless of the response, “is that there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. Command has the Key. They call the shots.”
    “I’ll bet,” the robot said. Just one of the programmed responses I’d heard a hundred times already, but was too drunk to recognise.
    It must’ve been early morning, although I’d lost track of time. The bar was almost empty: just me and a couple of shadowy stragglers over a corner table. A tired-looking hooker – naked, blonde, and equipped with the most perfect rack I’d ever seen: nipples flashing with psychedelic patterns – cruised past. The robot gave her a vague nod; face shifting into a reproachful frown that told the girl she was best off giving me a wide berth.
    I slammed my shot glass down on the bar, maybe a little harder than I had intended. Looked to the vodka bottle: empty.
    “Give me another bottle.”
    “Don’t you have a girl to go home to?”
    “Haven’t you been listening to me?”
    The robot paused, gave me another of those sympathetic looks. “You could be President Francis himself, and I wouldn’t be able to serve you. Sorry, chump, but you’ve had enough.”
    I exhaled and glared at the machine.
    “I said: get me another bottle of vodka. I fought the Directorate on Helios. I killed an enemy agent. I brought back evidence of another alien species. And I want another drink!”
    The robot gesticulated with its metal shoulders. “I can’t serve you. Go home. It’ll be kicking out time soon, anyway.”
    Anger spiked in my blood. I reared up from the stool, brushed aside the vodka bottle and glass. Both slid off the bar top. Smashed noisily on the floor somewhere.
    “This place never closes!”
    “We do for you, pal.”
    “I’m not your pal. I’m a goddamned major in the Alliance Army!”
    The room spun a little. I was more drunk than I’d realised. No matter: I still wasn’t drunk enough—
    “We’ll take it from here.”
    I whipped about, fists up.
    The stragglers from the corner table stood beside me. Up close, in a moment of drunken clarity, I recognised them. The tails from the dry dock, from outside. I immediately flagged them as military, but an entirely different breed to me. Dressed in pristine khaki uniforms, officer caps held tightly under their arms. Holstered pistols that looked like crude children’s toys next to the hardware we’d been throwing around back at Maru Prime.
    “Having a good night, Major?” the lead asked. “I’m Captain Ostrow. This is Lieutenant Pieter.”
    “You’re MI?” I asked.
    They had to be Military Intelligence. Spooks: the age-old interior intelligence service. Neither even tried to deny it. I’d been expecting this, but that didn’t mean I wanted to go through it. Or go through it