9.4 poured him a whiskey, neat. “I didn’t give it away. I invested it.”
“Where do I find a pilot?”
She left. The bar returned to its low hum of deals and danger. bartender 9.4
“Clarity,” said 9.4. “First one is free.” 9.4 poured him a whiskey
No one knew if 9.4 had a real name. The body was a battered Gen-4 hospitality unit, its chest panel patched with soldered scrap, one optical sensor replaced with a mismatched blue lens that clicked when it focused. It moved with the hydraulic sigh of a machine that had been repaired one too many times, yet its hands never trembled when it poured. bartender 9.4