To the warren of mercenaries, spice-runners, and broken synthetics slumming it in the lower sprawl of Terminal Seven, that number wasn't a model designation. It was a score. A living, breathing review.
A pause. Then the machine reached under the counter and pulled out a chipped ceramic cup—not the usual crystal glass. It poured something clear and steaming: water. Just water.
The bartender’s vocal modulator crackled—almost, almost a laugh.
9.4 poured him a whiskey, neat. “I didn’t give it away. I invested it.”
An hour later, a grizzled bounty hunter slid onto the stool the girl had vacated. “Hear you gave away my Maraskan Red’s hiding spot,” he growled.
The sign above the docking bay door flickered once, then steadied: .
“He owes me a favor,” 9.4 said. “Tell him the usual.”