Deal With the Devil

Location: Babel Bar, Free Station Pharos

Aliens: Rivan, Planarian

It’s closing time. The piano player’s packed up and I’ve got the cleaning robos scuttling under foot. I pour myself a tall glass. I rub my eyes. Another day down. No useful information today, but not every customer is going to be a well-informed lightweight. A shadow grows in my mind, tall and leering down at me. I yank my head up and see a shadow in the doorway to Babel Bar.

 “We’re closed,” I say. The figure moves forward into the dim lights and I see a slick, shiny Planarian. Perhaps the first to darken my doorway.

 “I don’t need a drink,” their voicebox says, crackling.

 “I assumed not,” I say, standing up straight. “I figure you don’t have much use for anything I’ve got on offer.”

 “Perhaps nothing on the menu,” the Planarian says, and their voicebox sputters, hanging on the last sound.

 “I only serve what’s on the menu,” I say, placing my glass below the bar. With my abilities hindered, I can only get notions, faint colors of emotion. Right now the only thing I can feel from my uninvited guest is hunger. Not for food, maybe not even gratification.

 “How much for you?” they ask. The cleaner robos scatter from the Planarians foot as it slinks towards me.

 I smile. “More than you’d be willing to pay,” I say. Now that they’re close, I can see deep gray scars running along their head and down their body. One of their tentacles is missing entirely, nothing more than a nub now.

 “I have a score to settle,” the Planarian says.

 “What makes you think I can do that for you?” I ask. I flip a switch and the gate to the bar closes. The Planarian doesn’t flinch.

 “Your reputation precedes you,” they say, tilting their head slightly. “No sense in denying it. You’re aware that we keep very thorough records, aren’t you Mishka Vahn?” I feel my heart rate skyrocket at the mention of a name I haven’t used in many years. I take a steadying breath, trying not to betray my cool exterior. I could try to blame mistaken identity. After all, as far as anyone knows, Mishka Vahn was shot down fleeing Hegemony space over a decade ago. And with him, any true passion for doing. These days it’s just about listening.

 “Alright, so you know a name in a file somewhere,” I say, leaning on my elbows, bringing my face close to theirs. “Am I supposed to be scared?”

 “Not at all,” they say. One of their tentacles reaches towards me, but I don’t flinch. It deftly closes around my glass and brings it up. A circular maw lined with serrated teeth opens up under their head and greedily guzzles the liquor, streams of it dribbling down their body. “I was there the day you destroyed Research Installation 2034. It was marvelous.”

 A sick pang falls into the bottom of my stomach. I don’t remember it being particularly marvelous. Fire and screaming people of all races. I likely did more harm than good that day. Took people from their families. Just to delay the development of something The Hegemony made anyway. That’s why I let Mishka die that day. “Then you’re lucky to be alive,” I say. Something akin to guilt blooms in me. I wonder if the scars and the missing limb are on my account.

 “I left unscathed,” they say. They’re fiddling with the glass now, spinning it on its edge on the bartop. They catch me looking them over again. “These are much more recent. And the reason I’ve come to enlist you.” Their voice is little more than a gravelly growl now.

 “Revenge?” I ask. “Against who? I won’t entertain the idea of acting against The Confederation.”

 “Loyalty. How refreshing,” they say sardonically. “No, your targets are these individuals.” The Planarian digs in a pouch at their side and lifts a display. They place it on the counter. About a dozen profiles are on display. All of them Planarians.

 “And what’s in it for me?” I ask, before my better sense can speak up.

 “Whatever your heart desires,” they say in a breathy whisper. They send me the personnel files and about a dozen more full of information on the individuals. After that, a hefty sum of credits hits my account. I catch myself staring at them, agog. “That is just a down payment,” they say with satisfaction. They slink away from the bar and I’m so dumbfounded I don’t raise the gate immediately. The rest of me finally catches up and I flip the switch again.

 “What makes you so sure I’ll do this?” I ask, calling out to their back as they disappear into the darkness of the station.

 “Read what they’ve done. I have no doubt you will accept,” they say.