HIT THE SPACE-BAR

The "Zero-G Lounge" was a dive. Not in the charming, scruffy way, but in the sticky-floored, questionable-lighting, and faintly ozone-scented way. It sat on the fringe of the Cygnus-3 jump gate, a place where freighter pilots, prospectors, and things that defied easy classification came to drown their cosmic sorrows in neon-blue synth-ale.

Behind the bar, a grizzled old Terran was polishing a glass that he’d long given up hope of truly cleaning. His current patrons were three green-skinned Xylosians sipping silently, obviously lost in thought their big brown eyes unfocussed. They had brought drumsticks and a five-string bass-guitar, seemingly not wanting to go to a place like this without an adequate set of weaponry. 

Then the door sighed open, and the air got weird.

It wasn't a sudden whoosh of displaced atmosphere, but a heavy, deliberate slide of the main pressure seal. Into the sudden, almost unsettling silence walked another three figures. They were impossibly tall, their limbs long and skeletal, sheathed in shimmering, obsidian-black exosuits. They moved with a fluid, unnatural grace, utterly silent save for the faint, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate the very floor tiles.

"Well," the barman muttered under his breath, leaning closer to the Xylosians, "ain't seen their kind around. Think they got a name?" The Xylosians just grunted, shrugged, eyes fixing on the newcomers.

The tallest of the trio, its helmet visor a featureless sheet of polished metal, glided to the center of the room. It raised a long, six-fingered hand and pointed a digit that was less a finger and more a stiletto-sharp antenna at the guests. The alien's voice, when it came, was a jarringly loud, digital monotone, echoing in the cramped space: "WE REQUIRE ACCESS TO THE CENTRALIZED DATA STREAM. IMMEDIATELY."

Gripping his polishing rag tighter the barman said, "look pal this is a bar. We got booze, we got synthe-nachos, we got maybe a jukebox. No 'centralized data stream' here, unless you count the bad holovids on channel three." The alien advanced one step, and the humming intensified, causing the glasses on the shelf to rattle. "ACCESS. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN AN ALTERATION OF YOUR ORGANIC STRUCTURE." It was then that something stirred in the dimly lit corner by the defunct holographic pool table.

It was a machine, roughly four feet long, made of mismatched chrome plating and high-grade titanium salvage. It had a head shaped like a blunt diamond and its body was segmented, each section connected by exposed, hissing pneumatics. It wasn't organic, but it looked like a predator. It was the bar's ancient security system. The machine uncoiled, the movement sounding like a grinding, mechanical whisper, and then it shook. The noise was immediate, deafening, and purely terrifying - a sound like a thousand ball bearings dropped onto a sheet of vibrating steel, combined with the dry, high-pitched warning rattle of a metal snake - built to ward off pests and doing its job.

The three obsidian figures froze. The jarring, analog, aggressive noise seemed to short-circuit their silent, digital threat. And the metal rattlesnake began to slide, the sound escalating, heading straight for the lead alien's boot. Meanwhile drumsticks and bass-guitar were pointed fairly at the rather bedazzled wannabe accessors of the centralized data stream. The third alien, who hadn't spoken, made a quick, jerky motion. It lifted its left hand toward a panel on its thigh and stabbed three buttons in rapid succession. The digital voice of the leader immediately cut in, overriding the mechanical shriek: "RETREAT! EXECUTE PROTOCOL: 'CONTROL SHIFT HOME'!" The three figures turned as one, their unnerving silence restored, and practically flew out the pressure seal. The door hissed shut behind them.

The barman lowered his polishing rag, his heart thumping against his ribs. The Xylosians took a sip of their drinks. The metal rattlesnake, satisfied, settled down on the bar, giving one final, low, menacing whirr. "Control Shift Home," the Xylosian with the drumsticks mused, "sounds like they wanted to bail out fast." He eyed the snake. "Good job, rusty old devil. You just scared away the first customers here who probably wouldn't have skipped out on their tab." And the reptile's crooning answer finally made them all have a laugh. "So, who's for another round?"