Shades of Gray

"Hey, sweetheart. Buy you a drink?"

I picked up another mug from behind the counter and started polishing it. I leaned against the back of the bar and casually scanned the room with a warm, friendly, professionally calculated glance.

"Um, sure. How about a White Russian?"

"Bartender, give the lady what she asked for and get me a whiskey on the rocks."

I spotted the new customers, slid over on the rails set behind the bar and nodded deferentially. I do not need a lot of facial expressions to keep most of the customers happy – a short range from a commiserating frown to a cheerful smile, with a heavy dose of making the customer happy thrown in. It is just as well, since the bartending robot and AI package I come with is not very heavy on emotives. I look only vaguely human, but I can mix up about any drink you can name, listen sympathetically, make change and small talk, and generally keep an eye on things to call for help if someone makes trouble. These two looked like trouble.

"I am sorry, miss. I need to see some ID first."

The winsome redhead looked on the young side of legal in my professional opinion, especially in her tight shirt and fashionably skimpy skirt, but I would have had to card her even if she looked twice that. My programming had no room for shades of gray on that at all, since the biggest advantages to AI bartenders were incorruptibility and instant access to the public databases. Local laws were vicious about underage drinking.

"What's the problem? I'm buying, she's not. You wanna see my ID?" The big man leaning over the counter next to her was definitely trouble. "Here, take it. Now give us drinks." He was not quite drunk enough to drop his wallet when he pulled it out, but he fumbled the license which landed on the bar. I picked it up, glanced at the photo, and scanned the refractive code on the edges. David Cannon, thirty eight. Well past legal, and a bit old to be picking up near jailbait in a seedy bar, if I did say so myself. I would have shrugged if I were built for it – that may be a crime against good taste and common decency, but nothing I could refuse to serve him for.

"Thank you, sir. I can certainly get you your drink, if you like. However, I cannot legally serve this young lady unless she can show me a valid ID proving she is at least twenty one."

The redhead rolled her eyes and giggled while David wasted some more intimidating glower on me. "Oh, I get that all the time. It's okay! Really, I'm flattered." She dropped her oversized purse on the bar and fished out her license with a flourish, handing it over with another giggle.

I glanced at the photo, which did at least look like it could have been her older sister or maybe her mother, and scanned the refractive code. "Miss Dora Ash?"

"That would be me!" The repetitive giggle was annoying, even to me. David was clearly too busy appreciating her other features to notice. He leaned in closer and casually slid one arm around her waist, which she did not seem to mind.

I held the card up to the light, to be completely certain. It was a pretty good piece of work, but I had seen better. "Miss Ash, this says you are twenty five." I waited for her to nod and smile, tossing her hair over her shoulder and settling against her admirer.

"This is a fraudulent identification card, Miss Ash. I am required by law to destroy it, and to report you to the police. You may file a complaint, of course, but…" As I spoke, I held the laminated card by either end and tore it in half, directly through the photo. Mechanical strength has its uses.

This usually provokes a scene, and even those who run will not get away for long – I have all their ID information, after all, and you would be surprised at how many never bother to fake anything but the age.

What I did not expect was the horrified screech, or the way she launched herself over the counter at me, trying to grab the mutilated card and wailing that I had killed her.

I certainly never expected to see the lovely young girl decay in seconds into a wizened, age spotted crone and crumple across the bar top. I did not expect to look reflexively at the torn photo in my hand and see that it now showed a smiling young girl, either. David made a sound between a shriek and a croak and backed away so quickly he tripped over a stool, but as the old woman slid sobbing on the floor in her too young clothing, I looked at the photo again.

I swear the words she mouthed were "Thank you."

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