Bo Grizzleback's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

Bo ran the first batch that night. He crushed two pods, mashed the pulp with sugar and yeast, and sealed it in his smallest fermenter. By morning the airlock had blown off the lid. Blue foam ran down the side of the tank and pooled on the floor. The mash smelled sharp and wrong, like burnt anise. Bo dipped a spoon in and tasted. The kick was gone. The heat was gone. Two pods, wasted. Ten left. One shot at a batch that would carry his name off-world, and his rig couldn't hold the pressure. Aiden showed up at the back door with two coffees and took one look at the mess. "Bro. Your tank's too small. Those pods are throwing off gas like a rocket." Bo wiped blue sludge off his boots. Three weeks until the traders docked. No time to order a proper pressure tank from off-world, and no local shop stocked one. Aiden sipped his coffee. "You know who keeps a cold-pressure rig in his back room? For the film reels he says he don't have?" Bo did know. He didn't love it. "Fat Tony." They found Fat Tony behind his shop, feet up, watching an old western on a cracked screen. He waved without looking. "Grizzleback. Spice. What a man owe a man today?" Bo laid it out plain. He needed the pressure rig for one week. Fat Tony's tail flicked. "That rig is my baby, mon. I use it for delicate things." Bo leaned on the doorframe. "Tony. The port run last spring. The customs officer. Who talked him down?" Fat Tony's ears twitched flat. He sighed a long sigh and rubbed his face with one paw. "You a cruel man, Bo. Bringing up old debts on a fine morning." He led them into the back. The rig sat under a tarp, squat and heavy, with brass valves and a thick glass window. Aiden whistled. Fat Tony patted it like a dog. "One week. You bring it back clean, or I tell your mama what really happen to her truck." Bo laughed his big laugh, real this time, and shook the mouse's paw. They loaded the rig into Bo's cart and hauled it back to the bar under the orange glass front. By sundown the rig was hooked up in the back room. Bo crushed two more pods, mixed the mash, and sealed the tank. The pressure gauge climbed and held. Through the glass window the mash churned slow and blue. Bo let out a breath he'd been holding since morning. Eight pods left. One rig that could take the kick. One batch to get right, and no room to botch another. He pulled up a stool and watched the gauge, and started thinking about what he'd flavor it with.