He ran, and they gave chase.
The rain on Terminus 9 wasn't water; it was a solvent that made the neon signs weep colours down the permacrete walls. Each one of Dan's ragged breaths was a cloud of steam in the acidic air, each thud of his boots an answer to the rhythmic, mechanical slam of the Enforcers' grav-plates behind him. He wasn't just running from them; he was running from the sound they made—the sound of a conclusion he refused to meet.
He ducked into the cone of light under a streetlamp, the fresh bullet wound in his thigh screaming in protest. He ripped open the rucksack, hands shaking as he thumbed through stacks of currency notes. A fortune. Enough to get his family off-world, enough to start over. If he lived through the next ten minutes.
"It's him, sir!" a voice yelled from the darkness behind him. "Down the avenue!"
Ignoring the fire in his leg, he flung the bag over his shoulder and forced himself into a limping run. He had to hide, now, or it was over. He rounded a corner, slamming his shoulder into the first door he saw. Locked. The next one, too. On his third try, a recessed door with a dead sign above it groaned open on a hiss of stale, cold air. He fell inside, slapping the panel to seal it shut.
Silence. The place was a tomb. A low hum vibrated up from the floor, and the air smelled of ozone and old dust. It was a bar, completely empty.
Except for the thing behind the long, black counter.
It was a chrome machine, a bartender-bot anchored to a rail on the floor. Its arms moved with a smooth, unnatural grace. For a head, it had a polished black orb that reflected the dusty room. In one of its three-fingered hands, it held a crystal glass, cleaning it with perfect, repeated motions.
Dan limped to the bar, leaning heavily against it and trying to stifle a groan. The wound in his side throbbed, hot and wet beneath his jacket. He knew this machine could be the end of him.
"Hey, can-head," he gasped, his voice hoarse. "I'm in trouble. Real trouble."
The bot continued its polishing, its black orb head giving no sign it had heard.
"Please," Dan urged, his voice cracking. He gestured with the rucksack. "I have to get this to my family. They're on a colony, waiting. Just… don't say anything. I'll hide, and I'll be gone as soon as they pass. Okay?"
The bot stopped its work. It turned its featureless head toward him. For a long moment, Dan felt like he was being scanned, analyzed not as a person, but as a collection of data. Then, the machine turned away and resumed its polishing.
"I am afraid I cannot clearly recognize your request," it said, its voice a deep, synthesized monotone. "Perhaps you would like to start with a low-white beer?"
Before Dan could argue, the heavy thud of boots sounded right outside. He cursed under his breath, swinging the bag over his shoulder and scrambling across the room. He found a deep, dark booth at the far end and squeezed himself into the shadows.
The door groaned open. Two Enforcers filled the doorway, huge in their black armor.
"Sergeant Konnes, Metropolitan Police," the lead one announced, his voice a rough crackle from a speaker. He strode to the bar. "A suspect may have entered this facility. Have you seen anyone?"
The bot raised its black orb toward the Sergeant. The other cop began to sweep the room, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dim light.
"Define 'seen'," the bot replied, its tone perfectly flat.
The Sergeant slammed his gloved hand on the counter. "Don't play games, you piece of trash. A man. About five-foot-ten. Did he come in here?"
"This is not my establishment, sir," the bot said. "I am a possession of the owner."
"Answer the question!"
The other cop was getting closer, his light now just feet from Dan's hiding spot. The beam sliced across the floor, stopping inches from the toe of Dan's worn-out boot.
"Nobody who entered this establishment," the bot stated calmly, "remained unregistered for longer than your arrival."
The Sergeant stared, his helmet hiding his confusion. "What the hell does that… Ah, forget it." He looked at his partner. "Anything?"
"Clear, I guess," the second cop said, his light moving away from Dan's booth. "This droid is freaking me out, though."
"Yeah, me too. Let's go. He must have taken the alley."
They left. The door closed, and their footsteps faded away.
After waiting until his heart stopped trying to beat its way out of his chest, Dan rose from his hiding spot. He walked to the counter, the rucksack feeling impossibly heavy. The bot was back to wiping a pair of shot glasses.
"Hey," Dan said quietly. "Mech-buddy. Thank you. For that."
The robot acted as though it heard nothing.
"You helped me out. Here." Dan pulled a thick stack of hundred-value bills from the bag and pushed it across the counter. "A tip. It's the only way I can repay you."
He gave a weak, exhausted smile, then turned and limped out of the bar.
When the door closed behind him, the robot stopped its work. It turned its head in the direction Dan had gone.
"Have a nice day, sir," it said to the empty room.
Then one of its chrome arms swept the money from the counter into a hidden slot. It glided down the rail and placed a single, perfectly clean glass on the bar where Dan had been standing. The payment had been accepted, and the service rendered. The logic was flawless.