Pearl

Chapter 1 - Boozy Bob's

The south-central region of Alaska, USA

January 2120 A.D.

Another sucky day … typical …

The thought crossed an off-duty Sgt. Greg Muncie’s mind for the nth time as he stared down the empty bottom of his seventh mug of beer. It was one of the series of Mondo-Millennia brews put out by Budweiser to commemorate the twenty-second century. It’s relatively cheap and quite easy to find almost anywhere, even in the dinky little backwater town of Fulton.

Located far to the north and around a hundred and twenty miles from the bustling city of Anchorage, Fulton boasted two small inns that accommodated travelers from the US, as well as the occasional tourist or two from other countries or from one of the space colonies in the moon or in Mars. It also has a grand total of one not-so-supermarket, five to seven modest businesses of various types, an elementary school (all the older kids go to one of the many high schools in Anchorage via the maglev school train), a hospital that was barely one, a two-floor building which housed the mayor’s office and other government agencies, and two to three small diners grandly referred to as “restaurants”, including the lone watering hole, Boozy Bob’s.

It was officially the first day of the year 2120, but almost everyone in Fulton was either celebrating inside their homes or somewhere else. The former was true for its native inhabitants, while the latter was true for those whose folks lived elsewhere.

But Sgt. Muncie was neither of those. He was an orphan, raised from the age of five in one of the many orphanages that sprang up after the Great Intercontinental War of 2100 and recruited into the US Army when he was barely out of his teens. It was a smooth and easy, run-of-the-mill process that was free from the hassle of having to deal with family or distant relatives. But having no family usually makes for a pretty lonesome existence for someone who is already a loner, hence his regular presence at Boozy Bob’s.

Actually, it was barely more than that. Boozy Bob’s was a 400 square-foot metallic structure constructed out of a space-steel framework with the typical reinforced fiberglass material used to build almost any structure nowadays. Outside, there were a few small plexiglass windows that have become dulled by time, giving them a permanently frosted look. The outdoor 3-D hologram sign stopped functioning several years ago, so it was no surprise a letter or two doesn’t light up on any given night.

Inside, there were a few installed neon pin lights with fancy changing colors that supposedly gave “atmosphere” to the place. But like the sign outside, they no longer provided a steady illumination, giving it a dark and rather gloomy air. Which was probably a good thing, considering that the faux industrial-looking chairs, tables and bar stools won’t be noticed at all. Nearly every bit of furnishing was worn down and the cushions were almost nonexistent. Some of the furniture shockingly rusty in several places already - rusty! In a time when, thanks to advances in chemistry and metallurgy, all metals used are normally rustproof.

It also goes without saying that it wasn’t the cleanest of joints. Grime and grease, not to mention clouds of steam that puffed out from the hydraulic plumbing pipes meant a daily cleaning routine was an alien concept.

Another Bud and I’m gonna projectile-puke … not that I give a s**t …

Turning watery-blue and bleary eyes to Old Man Ollie, the lone, overworked bartender, Muncie lifted a finger to call his attention. Ollie (no one ever knew his exact age) ambled over, a mug in his hand and a shock of white hair that would make Einstein proud, bobbing up and down with each step. His face was tanned like old leather and was a network of deep lines and wrinkles.

“Another Bud, soldier?” Ollie rasped in his typically rough, gravelly voice.

“Serve me another Bud, Ollie, and I’ll kiss you on the lips,” Muncie replied with a grunt.

“Drunk again, arent’cha?” the old bartender asked while wiping down a just-washed mug.

“Bored outta my skull, really. And beer doesn’t do it for me anymore. You got anything else that’s gonna put hair on my chest?”

“You already got a hairy chest, soldier.”

“Ain’t gonna stop me from getting bored, Ollie. Or asking if you if you got anything else aside from more Bud.”

The aged bartender placed the clean glass on the drying rack at the back and turned to peer at him closely. Muncie, with his dull brown hair in its usual military buzz cut, a short nose with rather large nostrils and a wide mouth, looked just like any ordinary average joe. Even in uniform, he still looked - average. All the more so when he’s in civilian clothing.

“Hmph! Anything to keep you from kissing me on the lips.”

“Why? You don’t like me anymore, Ollie?”

“Ugh, just sit tight and lemme see if I can rustle up something from the back, willya?” Ollie disappeared into the backroom where some of the bar’s supplies, odds and ends, and never-used cleaning equipment were stored. After about a minute, he came out with an old-fashioned looking glass bottle in hand.

“Here you go,” he said, the bottle making a subdued crystal-like sound as he placed on the metal surface of the counter. “Glenfiddich single malt whisky.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding,” Ollie replied with a smile. From beneath the counter, he brought out 2 crystal glasses. They were much smaller than a typical beer mug, but were decorated with angular, star-like patterns.

Muncie had never seen such drinkware before, but he certainly liked the look of them.

“Lowballs. Back in the day, it was used for cocktails and distilled spirits. Like whiskey.”

“How the damn blue blazes did you get them?”

“Never you mind that, soldier. Care for a shot? It is New Year’s Day after all.”

Muncie smiled, a genuine one. “Don’t mind if I do.”

A hush fell over Boozy Bob’s and the only sounds that were heard were of a metal cap being unscrewed, liquid being poured into glass, and the clinking of two tumblers in a toast.

“Thank you, Ollie.”

“Think nothing of it, soldier.”

---------------------

Intently keeping watch while hovering just outside the bar entrance, but noiseless and invisible, Anauel gave a start.

“Oh, I didn’t know you’d be here!”

“My apologies for that. This is also rather sudden for me, and I had no time to let you know beforehand.”

“Oh, I see. But it is an honor to be able to work with someone like you.”

“Likewise. I am Nahaliel, by the way. And you are?”

“Anauel, Greg Muncie’s guardian angel.”