1. A Spy on the Job

Aliens: Rivans, Humans

Location: Babel Par, Free Station Pharos

It’s not a secret. Bartenders find out a lot about their patrons. Even brief encounters, the time it takes to pour a drink, can be an avenue to information. It’s a double-edged sword, cutting backwards more often than not. You get those customers that make it so you may as well do everything right in front of them, ‘cause they’ll find some reason to get you to come back. Over and over. Regardless of what planet they come from or where in the cosmos they’re going, everyone needs a sympathetic ear. And I guess I got one of those faces. The kind that makes people want to spill their guts.

People think just because I have a Hegemony-mandated inhibitor band around my head, I can be trusted, and I don’t correct them. The great irony, I don’t even need my Rivan abilities to get them talking. It doesn’t hurt that I have special allowance to use psychic suggestions of friendliness and comfort. They’re necessary for running Babel Bar, I argued with the court. Lots of Rivans find work as ambassadors and negotiators because of these micro-suggestions. Harmless. Even helpful, I argued, in brokering peace one interaction at a time. Peace isn’t easy to come by these days, even in a free port station like Pharos. So they agreed to let me use some powers. But not too much, of course.

Honestly, I could be a bubbling Gurglan or a sharp-toothed Richen. I’m behind the bar, and that’s all these wanderers need to get their mouths (or mouth-like structures) moving. These lost souls, adrift in the stars, they hold you ransom with what might be a decent tip. But even if I get stiffed, they might just let something slip. Something they beckon me to lean close with a gnarled claw or a curled tentacle in order to hear. Something The Hegemony or The Confederation might find useful. If I’m lucky, it suits them both and I get double the pay out. Does that make me a double agent? Even if it does, would anyone expect any different?

I’m thinking this to myself when the human I’m serving looks up from the bottom of his glass. I’ve been giving him little nods and grunts while I clean glasses. He’s the only one around. “You’ll tell them won’t you?” he asks. He hasn’t said much of use, but had lots of gripes about flying a Hegemony rustbucket. He finishes his drink and his face cinches together before he relaxes and leans back in his chair. “I don’t care,” he says, crossing his arms and laying his head on them. “Go ahead and tell ‘em,” he slurs into the little pocket of darkness he’s created.

“Don’t do much talking,” I say, placing a glass in among a row of others. “I just like to listen.”