Andy Hawthorne

Mick’s arrived in Chiba City at some point in the future, and needs coffee…

The rain here didn’t fall, right? It sort of hissed. Hissed like a radiator needing bleeding.

Mick stood under an awning that was flashing blue, then pink, then a sort of angry green. Chiba City. The brochure said Neon Jewel of the East. Mick said it was a wet bloody headache with too many wires.

He needed a coffee. Not a stim-shot. Not a Caf-Pow! energy patch slapped on the jugular. He wanted a mug. Ceramic. Hot. Brown liquid that tasted like burnt beans and morning regret.

—Excuse me, pal, Mick said to a passing drone that looked like a floating toaster. The toaster ignored him.

His head was thumping. The jet lag—or the orbital lag, whatever they called it—felt like someone had taken a spanner to the back of his neck.

—Coffee, he muttered, stepping into the crowd.

The pavement was moving. Actually moving. He had to hop off it onto a static bit of grate to get his bearings. People were walking past with visors on, their eyes glowing white, muttering to people who weren’t there.

—Madness, Mick said. —Absolute state of it.

He saw a sign. THE ROAST.

—Result.

He pushed through a door that slid open with a sound like a sigh. Inside, it smelled of ozone and damp wool, not coffee. A robot with six arms was wiping the counter.

—Tea? The robot asked. Its voice was smooth, like velvet.

—Coffee, Mick said.

—Black. No sugar. And put it in a mug, yeah? None of that pouch rubbish.

—We have Nutri-Sludge Mocha, Star Dust Espresso, and Void Black Stim.

—Just coffee, for fuck sake!

He leaned on the counter. He was so tired he could have slept standing up.

—Just hot water and beans. You got beans?

—Beans are Class C restricted organic matter, the robot said brightly.

—Would you like a warm cup of grey nutrient paste?

Mick looked at the robot. The robot looked at Mick.

—Is it hot? Mick asked.

—Boiling!

—Go on then, Mick sighed.

—Give us the grey stuff. And don't skimp on the heat.