I

It was rare to walk alone on the street of a space station, but the drone quietly sweeping the floor was the only other here tonight. I wandered past the empty stores and forgotten developments, headed for the end of the road. There through the armoured glass was a fine view of Earth itself, the maiden-home, slowly spinning beneath us. Possibly the best view on the entire station, and I was savouring it alone. An entire arm of one of the grandest space stations ever built, dedicated just to us. The 'Spacer's Reward'. Never paid for, always maintained, and always empty.

I delayed for a while longer, before finally turning and heading towards my goal. As I closed, the music from within got louder - guitar and vocals, something simple, a clear sign that my generation was not the majority tonight. The entrance was as non-descript as ever, designed in such a way that only those who knew where to find it, could. Which may have worked, if it wasn't the only thing with the faintest hint of life in this entire station arm.

As I pushed open the door to the bar and let the sound out into the empty street, I missed the soothing harsh beats and synth of my youth. How long ago was that now? Such thoughts were quickly forgotten as the familiar riot of clothes, accents and styles washed over me. To my left was a sight I recognised, the leather clad Kami's Reach, their rockabilly get-up something of a normality compared to what other spacers preferred.

I headed right instead, unbuckling my holster as I did. Behind the bar stood Tender, his metal hand already out-stretched and waiting for my gun, "Greetings Yuri, you are thirty-four days ahead of schedule."

The same greeting, every time, the only variation being the adjustment of the days. Tender was an old model, with a basic AI somewhere in his brain-bucket. Last time I made port, I had heard there were AI leading research divisions now, one had even been elected to rule one of the outer colonies, and yet we stuck with Tender, whose most impressive skill was learning a new joke every few decades.

He tucked my gun away beneath the bar, turning around to find a clean glass to fill. There were piles of guns of all sorts, from companies long since bankrupt to brand new gyro-guns that were all the rage according to the space port billboards.

The bar worked under a strict rule of leaving your grievances at the door, but switched to a more practical method after the son of a Valconi terrorist came back from a supply run to find his father's revolution failed, and his world under the boot of the ColVal Corporation. The son took his fury out on a spacer who hadn't seen his boss at ColVal in over 40 years. The story goes that the boss, the commander of the occupation and the father were all long dead and buried by the time the son put a bullet in the spacer's head, but it's not like any of us could prove that legend right or wrong.

I rested against the bar, next to someone clad in reflective gear, head to toe, their helmet still on. Maybe they'd be caught in a de-comp, and hadn't gotten over the fear, but they weren't going to be a good drinking partner. As soon as Tender returned, I scooped up my drink and headed for the long table that dominated the centre of the bar. While many clustered the side tables in their crew's groups, the centre was the place where those who wanted to actually enjoy themselves went.

A woman with a cybernetic arm was telling the tale of how she'd gotten it, using the two robotic tendrils appearing from her upper-back to act out the fight in which she claimed to have lost her arm. Across from her was an old friend of mine, the stout James of Bulla, a world with what I'd call crushing gravity, resulting in the short, stocky man that was currently downing a bright green drink with a floral umbrella dancing in it. Even he could break tradition.

His crew, that of the Unbreakable II, sat next to him, so I took a seat between the robo-freaks and a group I'd considered joining a few months ago – the crew of the Rover. Tricorn hats and clothes considered ancient even among spacers, these crazy bastards were the ones making blind runs out to stars for no other reason than to see what awaited them, pushing their drive to its limits out to the furthest reaches, before coming back again.

Of course, there was no pay in it. The colonies needed supply runs, data couriers and technological updates, not news of new worlds that the leaders of each would never live to see. What finally turned me off from joining them was their constant talk of the cure. 'One day', they say, 'we'll find it. Aliens, or a new element, a better drive! We'll save us all!'

It was a fast track to the rest of the bar turning sour and ignoring the Rover crew until the next night-cycle. Anyone who had been a spacer for more than a few months knew it was a hopeless voyage destined for disappointment. Better to live as we do than to suffer their blind optimism. Despite these cruel words, I greeted the leader with a lift of my glass and a smile, "New hat, I see."

And the ritualistic reply, "I found it."

Our dance complete, I turned to James of Bulla, who had stolen one of his crew-mate's drinks in the time I'd been distracted. Not that it mattered – every one of us in this bar was richer than we had any right to be, or perhaps because we had every right to be. Ships were a cost that only corporations or full crews could afford, but if there was anything down on the maiden-home I wanted, it could be mine. The hardest part was wanting something.

"Alone again Yuri, has your crew decided they'd prefer the brothel over real human contact?" James of Bulla grinned, his face partially hidden by a mug that a vengeful crew-mate was currently attempting to take back.

"You're one to speak, half-human," a reply that drew a laugh from James of Bulla as the mug was finally reclaimed.