Sabre received accolades in the common room. The men showed him new respect, and several bought him drinks, introducing him to the novelty of alcohol. The strong ale soon made him light-headed, and he enjoyed the relaxed feeling it bestowed. Cyber training had honed his mind to a constantly vigilant, ever guarded cesspit of reflexes and situational mandates, which he wished he did not have. They dictated many of his reactions, so much so that it was hard to find a normal response to some situations. More than anything, he wanted to be human, and swilling down copious amounts of this bitter brew was plainly something men did. Therefore, it stood to reason that he should, too.
The men took turns to slap him on the back and buy him a fresh drink whenever his tankard ran dry. It seemed that even if they had lost money on him, they liked a good fighter, and it was always prudent to be friends with one, Sabre mused. At first, the back slapping had evoked a hostile response, but he soon realised that it was a form of friendly mannerism, and curtailed his unnatural reaction. One of the primary responses of a cyber-trained mind was to defend against any potential or perceived attack, and, although he overrode his initial reflex, it still made him uncomfortable. The men regaled him with tales of past fights between the local brawlers, praising his abilities.
After an hour or so, Sabre had consumed a great deal of ale, and his head spun. He blearily eyed the new man who sat at his table, bringing him a fresh drink. The man was blurry, and the room swayed.
The stranger smiled and leant close to mutter, “I know who she is.”
Sabre tried to focus on the man, but the room slid away to the right, taking the man with it. “Really.” His tongue was numb, and the word was barely intelligible.
“Yes, I work in the palace, and Torrian’s messenger has already been there.”
Sabre quaffed his ale, pawing at the beer that spilt down his chin. His hands seemed to have turned into bunches of bananas, and he studied one, amazed.
“Torrian has offered a reward for her,” the stranger said, “and I think the King will be glad to take it.”
“’Owdoyouknow... oosheis?” Sabre enquired as clearly as he could.
“The description was very good, and you give her away. There are no other men with a... thing stuck on their foreheads.”
Sabre raised a hand to finger the cyber’s crystals. “Showhat?”
“I just thought to warn you, is all. Do not let her go to the palace.”
Sabre scowled. “Thalilbitch... hic!... cangotohell.” His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he drank some more ale to loosen it. The strange, periodic convulsions that gripped his chest preoccupied him. The sensation was novel, and annoying. Then again, it must be part of being human, unless it was some sort of covert cyber attack. He shook his head. Surely not. It was not very effective, if it was.
The man laughed and stood up, thumping Sabre on the back. “A good fight, my friend.” He wandered off.
Sabre drained his tankard, then tried to stand up. Another tiny, irritating convulsion made his breath catch. The room tilted, and he staggered into a table, grabbed it and hung on. Several men laughed and joked about his current ability to fight, but Sabre ignored them, for he had a sudden and inexplicable urge to vomit. The innkeeper must have had a good eye for green men about to hurl all over his floor, because he appeared at Sabre’s side and helped him to the door.
Outside, Sabre emptied his stomach, and the innkeeper left with a grunt of disgust. Sabre had never experienced nausea before, and found it singularly unpleasant. Of all the new sensations his freedom had brought, this was by far the worst. The cool night air made the nausea worse, and he discovered that he could not walk. The ground refused to stay still, and he clung to the wall. When he tried to take a step, he found himself flat on his back, wondering how he had ended up there.
The irritating convulsions continued, accompanied by strange noises that echoed down the street. Just around the corner were the stables, and he levered himself to his feet with a great deal of aid from the inn’s wall. He worked his way along it, leaning against it, then stumbled across the stable yard. The straw’s sweet smell made him ill again, and he retched before crawling into the nearest pile, cursing the tiny spasms that gripped his chest with annoying regularity. The paroxysms kept him awake for a while, but when they stopped he fell asleep.