Merit's app pulsed against his side:
TABLE 12 SEATING
He felt his eyes start to roll before the kitchen door swung open, two hands materialized first, gripping a pair of plastic cowboy boots the size of a small child. Each was filled to the brim with frozen margarita and garnished with a fruit spur and a Colt revolver-shaped shot glass loaded with extra tequila.
"Move," Pilar stopped short. "You on twelve?"
"Yeah."
"Lucky you. Founders' table."
She said that in the way you report a terminal diagnosis.
The Brimstone wrapped the crown of the Capital Brim in a ring of high-fidelity smart-glass. On clear days, it was transparent enough to see the streets outside, but the glass was programmatically sensitive to civil unrest and bad weather. At the first sign of either, the windows would switch on The Optic-Pure™ Filter, replacing the protesters with a shimmering, pre-recorded loop of the horizon from the last good day. In one direction, far off in the distance, a bright line cut through the last of the atmosphere. The ladder was always visible from this high, but at night it was particularly hard to ignore. Austin spread out below with Sixth Street legible even from up here. It was small and fairly unidentifiable if it wasn't for the Mothership's marquee that cut through:
ETERNAL TARA: ASCENSION
WATCH PARTY
SPONSORED BY NEW LIFE TECHNOLOGIES
LIMITED SEATING / VERIFIED CITIZENS ONLY
Pilar followed his look and smirked. "First shift at the Brimjob?"
Merit couldn't help but laugh. "The what?"
"The Brimjob," she nodded up at the forty-gallon hat that suspended above the dining room, oppressing the sky. "Nobody calls it the Brimstone after they've cleaned brisket drippings out of the hat vents. It smells like a wet leather boot dipped in barbecue sauce up there."
"Hat vents?"
"You'll find out."
The app vibrated harder:
TABLE 12 SERVICE CHECK: 00.29DELAY MAY IMPACT PAYOUT
Pilar shoved him lightly with her elbow. "Go charm the money tumors. Now move."
Merit picked up a tray.