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says.
    â€œFixative,” says Chance, speculatively.
    â€œYou’re a join doctor?” Apple asks.
    Chance Three raises his glass in acknowledgment and takes another sip.
    â€œHow would you get to someone like that, to test them?” asks Apple.
    â€œWell, you’d have to do it when he came in for something else. He probably has his own doctors, though. And, yeah, fixative does work. One prejoin personality gets a distinct advantage, but it’s not like the pulp vids and Civ News, and it doesn’t have a clear physical signature like, say, a meme virus. Fixative is more . . . flexible. He’d have good lawyers too, so you couldn’t prove it in court. But it’s very dangerous,” Chance says. “Why do you believe him?”
    Apple’s gaze is steady and unblinking. “That guy is an asshole,” he says. “A real asshole. Right now, he’s telling me how he’d like to kill me. Both of me. He’s telling me how .”
    Chance looks over his shoulder, and the guy glances up at them. The guy catches Chance’s eye and smiles, then refocuses his attention on the waitress, Apple One. The guy is starting to look pretty sloppy.
    Apple Two says, “A while ago, I saw him drink a drive to death. Over a couple of months. At first I didn’t know what he was doing. He flirted a little. He’s a big tipper. Anyway, it gets pretty clear pretty fast that he’s going to drink hard when he comes in. I felt like shit some nights, serving him. One night, he says, ‘Hey, don’t feel bad. This is what I do.’ ‘What?’ I ask. He says, ‘I kill drives.’ He says, ‘I do it in different ways. I’m drinking this one to death because it can be slow.’ He says, ‘I want to feel it.’”
    Apple shakes his head. “I should have cut him off.”
    Apple has a glass of water under the bar. He takes a drink. Chance can hear waitress Apple and the customer laughing.
    â€œI’ve seen solos try to drink themselves to death,” Apple Two continues. “And the thing is, it’s hard for them. They lose their nerve. That guy just drank right through, like it was a show. He passes out. I’m calling the ER. So I cut him off. Maybe a week later, he comes in with a different drive. Healthy, happy. Shows me a Civ News story. His other drive’s dead of alcohol poisoning. Says he owes me. Says he appreciates it must have been hard for me. That was years ago. Then maybe a week ago, that drive comes in.”
    â€œBut he sounds unstable. Killing drives . . . Why hasn’t the Directorate picked him up?”
    â€œExactly,” says Apple. He turns his back on Chance, lifts his bar rag, and drops it on a shelf. He says, “He hasn’t been picked up. That’s why I believe him.”
    Chance Three’s heart starts beating fast. Sweat starts on his upper lip. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and tries to calm his breathing. Chance’s mind is mostly clear, but the drive has been touched by panic. The alcohol doesn’t help.
    His drink is empty. He should get up and go home.
    Chance Three motions to Apple to refill his glass. He throws back his newly poured shot. A moment later, the bartender has gone somewhere. Chance stands, wobbling a bit.
    He walks to the other guy’s table. Bumps into a chair, overcompensates, and stumbles. Steadies himself. He sticks out his hand. “Chance,” he says.
    The guy doesn’t move. “Rope,” he says.
    Rope watches him for a moment, then asks, “You wan’ a last drink?”
    â€œLast drink?” Chance asks quickly.
    Rope gives him an odd look. Explains, “They’re gonna close.”
    â€œOh! No, no, I’ve really had plenty.” Chance feels stupid standing. He pulls out the chair opposite Rope and sits down.
    â€œI’ma haf one more.” Rope lifts a hand to signal Apple One.
    She walks over