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Huckle Brew Patio Café

Horace

—THE PRESENT—

Huckle Brew Patio Cafe

Certe City, Cerrous

A low rumbling reverberated as Horace Flywater started his LaNize small-batch roaster, sending greenish pods tumbling in slow death as the heat altered their composition preparing to be ground between diamond burrs and have a boiling liquid passed over their remains in order to re-enter the lifecycle.

Ah, to be a small bean with no cares in the world. You tumble on and on through your lot in the universe until you perish, changing color and form until you are ultimately reduced to dust and reincarnated into a latte. No stress. No taxes. No social credit system.

But would that be enough for you? To have no say in your existence. To tumble about from one bag to the next without exerting yourself, without ever really trying to be more than a bean?

A sudden clatter of ice cubes.

An over-scoop of Kendra Lane, the barista, who abandons the now-floor cubes, kicking them under the counter to be a later problem—one of those later problems that actually does resolve itself.

Horace faced a different kind of problem.

“How does anyone afford anything?” Horace considered a three-room home for four-point-three million credits on his display.

“Well that is a great question,” Kendra banged a plasteel pitcher on the poly-tri-faux-marble counter, “It’s one I may be able to help you with if I made more than twenty-three credits an hour.”

She smiled, tipping and wiggling the pitcher to form a foamy blue-white milk leaf pattern.

Stupid Alpha algorithm, thought Horace, the owner of the coffee shop—but not the man who controls payroll for his employees. That is set by the credit system.

“Blue Butter Latte for Sandrelle!” she called into the cafe, then softer, “Oh wow, that is a piece of shit.” Horace pulled up an image of the bathroom with the wrong mix of new and old fixtures. A shiny black tile backsplash with an automatic bowl sink—and no counter space—with one of those manual porcelain toilets from the Initial Immigration. 

“You should keep your apartment,” said Kendra, “You’d have to hire someone to retrofit that old thing. And the money you’ll save on toilet paper alone will be worth it.”

“I mean are you sure you need a house…all that space?” said Kendra.

Horace frowned, “Yes.”

Kendra showed her palms and shrugged, “Alright, but whenever you’re ready to process the death records—.”

“She’s not dead.” Said Horace, “The treasure hunters never found a plane.”

“Horace…” Kendra put a hand on his shoulder, “Where would she be for two years?” And she regretted it after saying so. Horace’s aura grew dismal.

Horace filtered for houses less than three million credits but only found empty lots, one-bedroom sublets, and 3D printed containers from the Mid-City Basin ‘affordable’ home program which he couldn’t apply for even if he wanted to live in one (which he didn’t).

Horace bounced his knee while his eyes evaluated the homes. five-point-two million, four million, three-point-seven million. His temple ached behind his eyes. He considered, not for the first time, moving a mattress into the shop to live out of. But a house had always been the goal for—

Beep. Beep. Beep, called the roaster, done with its cycle. Deep breath. Horace centered himself, spinning his ring absently:

Tomorrow will wait. For now, coffee.

Horace poured the newly browned seeds into a jar, their chance at plant-life now thoroughly extinguished.

“Brown butter cinn-atte for Aerith!” Kendra called out to the patio cafe. Then she hears a pulsing beeping sound and taps her ear.

“Huckle Brew Station, this is—Oh, Jet! Are you on the way, we—” 

Dog

Dog did not care. Dog cares about only one object at present. That greasy, perfect meat-filled pillow indented between the fingers of the Person holding his leash: a kolache.

Dog wagged his fluffy blue-gray tail, brown eyes salivating for this bounty of sfauxsage kolache. (Faux as in the sausage is not sausage, but what Dog doesn’t know won’t hurt him.)

Speaking of what Dog doesn’t know, Dog doesn’t realize there are a few easy solutions to his objective. If Dog simply tugged hard in one direction, he would jostle the hand which held the kolache with perhaps a sixty percent chance of raining sfauxsage. Or, you know, he could bite the hand that isn’t feeding him.

But Dog is a Good Boy, and Dog did not consider these options. Good Boys do not tug on leashes. Good Boys do not bite the hands that (eventually) feed them (no matter how much they are currently not feeding them). Good Boys sit and wait…and wag their tails and give paw and roll over.

So Dog waited. Person took a bite, oozing grease into the waxy paper wrapping. Dog whined, searching the floor, as if he could have missed it fall. (Which, of course, there’s no way he could have missed it.) But still, Dog looked expectantly at the floor—willing the grease drippings to simply materialize there.

They didn’t. This was torture.

But Good Boys wait, even through torture.

Person took another bite, and dog wagged his tail again, expectant. A grease drop formed at the edge of the wrapper, and Dog’s eyes bulged. This Drop had to be it. It had to; the grease pooled right there, cresting the edges of the wax paper, ready to drip into range. But Drop held firm with the barest remembrance of the concept of surface tension.

“Fur warden!” Said a nasal, angry Voice, “What is wrong with you!?”

Person jerked in surprise, breaking Drop’s tension in wake of the new one. The last defense, when Drop fell nothing could stop the flood, and a tiny stream of grease splooched to the floor. Dog lapped it up in a state of bliss. It was perhaps the second best flavor Dog ever had, right behind bacon. (It had also been faux bacon.)

“Excuse you?” Said person.

“How could you even do this to a poor dog?” said Voice.

Dog ignored Voice, gazing between the meat pillow and the floor with increased intensity.

“Hey, don’t touch my dog.” Said Person, standing.

“Your dog? Your dog!” Voice’s voice incensed, nose wrinkled in disgust, “Are you insane? You can’t own a dog. What is wrong with you!?”

Voice unclasped Dog’s collar, “Be free, little one!”

“Hey!” Yelled Person. “What is wrong with you? You can’t just—” the arguing continued.

But Dog was free now, unleashed. And what did Dog do with this freedom? Well, nothing really. Dog still had a singular objective: Acquire sfauxsage. Besides, Dog is a Good Boy, so Dog sat and waited, wagging his tail.

Horace

Horace groaned internally. He looked at Kendra. She shrugged a ‘not my problem’. Horace wished he had her ability to ignore this. It wasn’t exactly his problem either, but it was his cafe, and what Horace really didn’t need was an argument between his patrons over a dog.

Ugh, a dog. They must be visiting from Earth.

He twisted his the ring on his middle finger. He could call over the authorities? They would be here within seconds and sort everything out—but then the arguers would get credits against them, possibly wages garnished or worst case detained. Well, maybe they’d get a pass if they are from Earth? No, it’s better to avoid that if possible, no reason to do that to someone. He could say something to de-escalate their issues, but what should he say? ‘Stop’? Well, somebody needs to do something…

Horace took a deep breath, then walked out from the safety of his counter with purpose.

He could handle this.

Then, the Person with the dog pushed Voice. Horace’s anxiety rose.

He wasn’t sure he could handle that. He hesitated.

But if you wait too long, the chance to choose is taken from you. Inaction itself is also an action with its own varied consequences.

“Alright you two that’s enough,” said Aerith, one of the regulars, placing herself directly between them. She sipped her cinnamon latte, “I’m no longer enjoying my cinn-atte.”

They glared at her. They glared at each other. They glared at the dog (not really though, they both loved the dog).

Voice leaned forward, fists clinched, opened his mouth and said—

“Not done?” Aerith asked, raising a brow. She took a step back and waved an open palm in invitation. “Would you like to see what happens next?”

The body language invited—the tone did not, a purring honey sprinkled with the sharp spice of a threat backed by diamond-tipped confidence. The collective patio café quieted, watching. (They did want to know what happens next.)

And the general café was surprised, because what happened next was sirens. Aerith looked annoyed. Someone else had called the authorities.

A droid officer dropped out of a drone.

The new level of quiet embarrassed the previous level of quiet. People walking by slowed to see what the commotion was. Patrons looked between each other, anxious. One woman quickly walked out of the patio and down the street.

If only I intervened sooner, thought Horace. Hopefully the off-planet visitor still have enough credits to get home to Earth after this.

“It’s fine officer, nothing to see here,” said Aerith.

Someone gasped, you should never talk so casually to one of the authorities. That’s a good way to turn someone else’s problem into you problem.

“Very good, Miss Aerith.” Said the droid, “Have a nice day.”

The authority bot left. It left. And called her by name!? Who was this woman who bought coffee every day?

“We can’t just let him keep a dog!” Argued Voice.

“We can’t?” Mused Aerith.

“It’s wrong! He should be free.” Said Voice. Aerith’s eyes narrowed on Voice, no longer playful.

“If you go just six stops in that direction,” said Aerith, pointing to the train station on the other side of the courtyard. “You can see where the free dogs on this planet live. This planet is ninety-five percent ocean. There is no nature for him, only bustling city or ocean.”

“It’s not right!” Said Voice.

Aerith snapped, “Rightness is irrelevant! Freeing oneself is all about timing. And now is not a good time.”

Aerith returned the collar to Person, and Horace just stood there, feeling uncomfortable, watching the story unfold without him.