The bar’s sign was a holographic projection – The Fountainhead – shifting through the most common dialects and languages in bright, pulsing colours. Instead of a bouncer, there was just a wide doorway, a green veil shimmering across it. Briggon hesitated, not because he was armed – he wasn’t and didn’t need to be – but because often bars had security screenings advanced enough to pick up fake ID chips. Stepping through was like entering a heavier gravity. He felt a mild tingle as his body was swept, his modifications noted and accepted, and then he was inside without any alarms going off.

  This was his third bar, and he’d yet to find any whispers hinting at Valentina Roth’s presence. It was still early. These bars catered specifically for crewzers on port leave, ringing the docking bay designed for smaller vessels like his own and hopefully Roth’s. Maybe he’d get lucky and either run into the pirate or at least find someone who knew where she’d docked.

  The narrow entrance hallway opened onto a wide, circular room: bar along one edge, private booths around the other, and the dance floor a writhing mass of bodies under an exposed ceiling of cables and pipes pulsing a toxic mess of colours almost, but not quite, in sync with the thudding music. The music reminded Briggon of being locked in a ship’s engine room, the vocalist shouting wordlessly over the hypnotic beat of percussion. There was an auction at one of the larger booths, most likely illegal especially with the bruiser standing sentinel. Bruisers came in sets, so Briggon’s gaze wandered until he spotted the second standing by the bar. Not where he’d have chosen. While the bruiser had direct line of sight of both the entrance and the auction, there were far too many people for the bruiser to do much more than shout a warning. A warning that would be drowned out by the grinding music and crowd.

  The bruiser by the bar was looking right at Briggon as he lingered by the entrance, so he lowered his head and turned, disguising his skin colour in his jacket hood. He grunted a terse apology when his shoulder bumped into someone.

  “Watch it, devo,” the woman hissed the slur for someone with a genetic deviation – pure human if the height and core accent were anything to go by – and Briggon ignored her, stepping out of the way so she and her date could pass him by. He was getting used to the rampant discrimination in the outer edges of known space.

  Besides the heated auction, Briggon scanned the crowd for people who may be able to shed some light on where he could locate Roth. One booth appeared to be shielded, leaving the two occupants unbothered by the crushing crowds despite the empty seats around them.

  Of the two people, he couldn’t take his eyes off the young woman gleefully stealing sips from her companion’s drink. It was the barista from the coffeeshop earlier. She was a strange creature. Her flower print dress and bright blue apron were not something you’d expect on a spaceport in the middle of nowhere but rather on a planet with an actual summer. Her hair was a messy knot tied on top of her head and she rolled a few loose strands between her fingers while her other hand drew the tall glass closer. She was even more out of place beside the elegant, silk-clad woman, all curves and hot sensuality. The older woman glimmered as if she was a mirage, and the girl beside her was a dull dab of paint in comparison.

  He doubted he’d get anything useful from them, at least not the younger woman. Her companion, on the other hand, looked like she was part viper, though when the light shimmered off her skin like moonlight across fur, he reconsidered. There was a feline grace about her, reminding him of some of the G-mod agents he’d met when he was still a soldier. She was someone who knew things, but from his spot across the room he could tell she was making motions to leave. As a wanted man, it was probably best he steered clear from any form of authority anyway.

  He continued to peruse the crowd, trying to decide if he should call it quits for the night or stick it out a bit longer, when he spotted an old techie at the bar. The human had a dozen empty shot glasses lined up neatly in front of him and yet he observed the crowd with sharp eyes. Briggon had found in the past the quiet, watchful ones were usually the ones who had plenty to say.

  A drink could only help a conversation so, keeping his head down, he pressed his way through the dancing crowd, doing his best to avoid the flailing double-jointed arms of a Revelian (he spared a brief thought hoping Trella was okay) and the drunk Seledovian whose throat pipes was managing a surprisingly harmonic accompaniment to the heavy, electronic music. He’d almost reached the bar, hand already lifted to flag down the bartender when he sensed rather than felt light fingers move with intent against his jacket.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Without thinking, he grabbed the thief’s wrist, too surprised to do much else when he realised it was the young barista he’d been watching earlier, her sleeves dotted with dried cake batter and flour dusted across one collarbone. For one moment, their eyes locked, her eyes the swirling grey of a storm, and his hand subconsciously tightened around her thin wrist. The skin on his palm tingled, the bones in his hand itched and then she was gone, leaving him grasping air.

  “She’s a flighty one,” a voice grumbled at his elbow and Briggon turned to the old techie who’d moved up the counter to settle beside him, abandoning his impressive row of empty shots. He nursed another in his hand, so strong the fumes wafted off the liquid in visible waves.

  “You know who she is?” Briggon checked his pockets but found all belongings accounted for.

  “She’s a newcomer, I can tell you that much. Been visiting the Fountainhead on and off for barely a quarter rotation, always to meet with that agent.”

  “An agent?” Briggon shifted uneasily, unhappy his guess was confirmed. He couldn’t have his cover blown this close to finding Airlie. “How can you tell?” Briggon eyed the techie more closely, wondering if the chatty man was a threat too. His scalp was hairless and lit up blue and gold in a complex maze of circuitry. His eyes were a dull orange, somewhat reassuring as it suggested the man wasn’t actively recording.

  “Been around enough ports and you recognise the types of people there are. Wanderers and watchers. Those running and those chasing. The driftless and the driven. She’s got more drive than most.”

  “The agent?”

  “No, the girl. Reckon she’s got almost as much drive as you do, lad. You’re both seekers. Now me, I’m a watcher. Always have been, both in the wires and in the real. So ask your questions, I can see them etched into your eyes. What are you seeking?” The techie raised an eyebrow as Briggon found himself momentarily speechless. Anticipation lit up along his nerves, sensing the collision of the right time, place and person.

  “Valentina Roth. She flies the Leviathan.”

  “Ah yes. A killer, a hunter, but most of all she’s a finder. Has she found something of yours?”

  Briggon hesitated. “Someone dear to me.”

  “People are her speciality.” The techie glanced over towards the auction, still showing no signs of wrapping up. “You just missed her actually.”

  “What?” Briggon’s plexi-glass shattered when he set it down a little too hard, the bartender not even batting an eye as he swept the fragments away. The cost would be added to his bill, but Briggon couldn’t have cared less. He searched the crowd, despite knowing it was too late. “When?”

  “Not long. Oversaw some product for the auction then picked up a companion for the night. Left soon after. You may remember the woman you ran into on your way in.”

  “That was her?” Frustrated, Briggon tried to remember all he could of that brief encounter. The woman’s accent had been Core bred, and she was tall. He vaguely recalled she had no visible body mods, but Briggon had been so intent on keeping his own face hidden he couldn’t recall anything else. “Do you know where she could’ve gone?”

  “Can’t help you with that, but I can tell you if she’s not shipping out in the next cycle, she’ll make an appearance at tomorrow’s Under Market. It’s where most go to offload unwanted cargo.” The techie offered his palm, a business card of a kind hovered above it with a location. “The Under Market is never in the same place twice, so you better make this one.”

  After memorising the location, Briggon flagged down the bartender.

  “Another round of whatever he’s having,” Briggon said. “And some tempura kielpa without the heads. A big serving please.” He caught the odd look the techie sent him. “What? That much alcohol on what I suspect is an empty stomach is not good for your health.”

  The techie snorted. “Of course you’re worried about my health, Bluie.”

  “It’s Briggon,” he growled then kicked himself for giving his real name.

  “Dae-jung.” The techie offered his fist for a standard greeting showing no sign he’d noticed Briggon’s slip. Briggon bumped his knuckles against Dae-jung’s and smiled.

  When Briggon finally called it a night, he paid for Dae-jung’s bill as well as his own, using a good portion of his remaining credits. His mind buzzed, excited and frustrated at being so close to Roth, relieved Airlie was finally within reach, and curious about the young thief who’d thankfully left his wallet untouched. He thanked Dae-jung and took his leave. Having a rough plan and knowing that Airlie was really here, in this port, unwound the tight ball of tension sitting in his chest.

  Back on his borrowed ship, feet propped up on the control panel, he rested a hand against his chest and exhaled. Airlie’s heartbeat was calm and steady, sleeping most likely, and he wished he could send her a message to let her know he was coming. But as he drifted off, another face flashed up in his mind, the little would be thief from the bar, stormy eyes intent and fierce, and his core heart skipped a beat.