“There’s company,” the barkeep said, noting the draft. “Yours?”

“Perhaps,” Kayla said and downed the shot of liquid silver and lime. “Perhaps not.”

With one smooth motion, the barkeep poured her another shot and placed his gun wrapped in oily sailcloth next to it. A silent note of warning. Kayla nodded and made her way over to her usual corner. The candle flickered when she sat down to wait.

The bar was smoky, like you would expect from a saloon in the Old West. A guy had thrown her his cowboy hat, but otherwise she’d not changed out of the rover’s clothes. She was Kayla the Wanderer, your worst nightmare or your greatest ally. She didn’t do theme nights.

This place was hard to come by; stuck to the slab of rock that was  once the blue planet, swirled majestically through space; now an orbit this bar at the edge of life and space kept alive, far beyond its glory days of songs and revel, artists and brawls.

She watched the man as he dusted himself off, readjusting to the gravity with a slight frown. His clothes were worn but of the latest 34th century trend, his cloak adding a touch of mystery next to the fire in his eyes. Without meaning to, her heart quickened. It was him. Must be.

When he spotted her, with the tankard of mead untouched in front of her, Arman the Mech wiped his hands on his trousers, composed himself, and walked over.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Kayla scoffed. “I do not sell them so easily,” she said, and eyed the stranger up and down. He intrigued her. “You do not seem like the type who visits joints like these.”

“Neither do you. How did you find it?”

“Magic,” she replied. “You?”

He smiled. “The long way round. Not that it’s any of my business, but I’m pretty sure it’s called having a drink because you’re supposed to drink it,” he said, his voice pleasant with so much laughter in it. She sat back with a cocked eyebrow. He shrugged. “Staring at it just makes it liquid in a glass. Hardly worth the iron, and it’s not fair on the drink.”

The twinkle in his eye was mesmerizing Who was he? This man whose hands still wore oil stains; whose clothes were wrinkly yet overall well- groomed; whose stubble and hair smelled faintly of motor oil and flowers. Why was his name at the tip of her conscious?

“You seem rather concerned about that,” she observed. “You look like you’re sorting it out, though.”

Arman clutched his heart and fell into the booth next to her in mock surrender. It occurred to her that she should say something, but she didn’t want to. The barkeep moved closer to them, cutting some limes. When the stranger stopped laughing, he looked at her, straight at her, like she was the only person in the world and all her defenses crumbled.

“You look like you just lost your last friend in the whole wide world.”

“You look like you could use one,” she said without skipping a beat.

They stared at each other for a moment, as if there weren’t a dozen other people in the bar, or a noisy crap game happening in the corner. He gave her a brief smile, accepting the tall drink placed in front of him by the barkeep, who eyed him suspiciously.

“I’m sure you’re busy,” he said, eyes downcast, but still twinkling with a cautious hope. Once again, she found herself wanting to know more.

The truth of the matter was, he was right. She was feeling homesick and discarded. A girl she mentored to take over the Armada run caught a fever and died in the night. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Yet this man sat next to her, looking like the world was on his shoulders and somehow, he still laughed and cracked jokes.

She smiled. “Nah, I’m free. Had a date that didn’t bother to show.”

“Ouch. Sorry,” he grimaced.

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Arman turned to her and pointed at the tankard. “So, is a non-date all that drives you to make that drink lose its name?”

“No.”

Arman’s smile broadened and they eyed each other for a long moment. “Tell me about him.”

She fluttered her hand, as if saying he wasn’t of much concern. “There’s not much to tell. He’s a story. That’s all.”

“Yours or his?”

The way he said it gave her pause. “I... I don’t know.”

“You know what they say about stories,” he said. “They’re all just memories that time forgot.”

“Go on then. Tell me a story.”

Arman looked like he was going to laugh, but he took a sip from his drink and afterward seemed more solemn than she’d thought possible. There he went, quickening her heart again. His gaze caught on something far away, far beyond the walls of the bar.

“Here and there and everywhere, there is the legend of the travelers. Two lonely souls, as lonely as can be, wandering the stars. They were like fire, like ice. Dangerous. So vibrant and powerful, that if they had been allowed to continue, they would have fractured reality itself – a wound impossible to heal.” 

“What happened to them?”

He took care to not meet her gaze, his fingernail plucking at the edge of his glass. “They grew old, so very old. Saw galaxies born and turn to dust and they never met again. Not once. They were running. So fast, so far, never stopping. Until one day, one day they crashed into each other so hard they never let go.”

The air stilled until it vibrated. She cocked her head. “Because they found each other,” she said in a soft voice.

“They did. Time and time again. Everywhere and everywhen. They found each other.”

Finally, he looked up and met her gaze and in his eyes was fire, unfueled by the flames on the table.

“I hope that’s true,” she whispered it took everything she had to not reach out and grab him by the neck and pull him close.

“Of course it is,” he said, his voice thick and husky. A memory that time forgot. “Whether it’s in the past or the future, now, that’s a different matter and always different.”

“Last call!” the barkeep bellowed so loudly they jumped apart.

Kayla’s shook her head  a little to clear away the last of the fog. Arman rose and smoothed his jacket out. His cheeks were flushed and there were thin beads of sweat along his hairline.

“Pleased to meet you, Kayla,” he said, the laughter back in his eyes.

He was halfway across the room when it hit her. “I never told you my name!”

The stranger paused ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth curving upward. When the doors swung shut behind him, she could have sworn she heard him say;

“Until next time, love.”

And she smiled. “Oh darling, it’s just a matter of time.”