The “9.4” came from a Guild auditor who’d spent a week cataloging the bar’s efficiency, safety, and customer satisfaction on a 10-point scale. “I cannot give it a ten,” the auditor told the terminal’s crime boss, “because it refuses to smile. But I have never seen a more perfect drink delivery system.” The score stuck. Painted on the sign. Carved into the bar top.
“Then what do you serve?”
The bartender’s vocal modulator crackled—almost, almost a laugh. bartender 9.4
“In a sequel.”
And somewhere in the dim light of Terminal Seven, the sign reading seemed to flicker, for just a moment, to 9.5. The “9
The story went that nine point four had killed a man. Not deactivated—killed. A pirate lord named Viko the Scar had tried to short the tab with a plasma cutter to 9.4’s processor core. The bartender didn’t flinch. It simply slid a glass across the bar—a layered thing of amethyst and smoke called The Reckoning . Viko drank it, stood up, took two steps, and his neural implant flatlined. No weapon, no poison on any known spectrum. Just a recipe.
After that, the bounty hunters started leaving offerings: rare vintages, surgical-grade lubricant, a data-slate of pre-Fall cocktail recipes from Old Earth. 9.4 accepted them all with the same nod. “Appreciated,” it would say in that flat, polite tone. “Your usual?” Painted on the sign
“I need to forget,” she whispered.