Five Five Eight Two

Five Five Eight Two is the name it is most known by. It has many others. The Drink of Gods. The Nectar of Finality. Sommelier’s Arrogance. Molten Hope. On every world, in every system, rumours of it circle. It is the most valuable substance known, by volume or by mass, and holds the prestigious title of the most death-dense drink in existence, averaging thousands of deaths for each tantalising drop.

The prices paid for it vary from market to market, and era to era. Initially, it courted merely an astronomical fee, but the vineyard that sourced it, out in deep space to mitigate external influence on the grapes, vanished millenia ago. That incident has had almost as many papers written about it as the correct way of consuming Five Five Eight Two, and many more conspiracy theories. Now, it demands not mere money, but favours and goods. Promises of dynasties, corporations, minerals, even planets. The Earl Stormeye was said to have sold a cryo rack with three unopened bottles of it, for a solar system, and is generally considered to have gotten the short end of the stick. This story is considered a fabrication now, not least because any claim to the possession of three bottles is nigh-impossible.

More often, however, Five Five Eight Two is taken by force. At the end of a gun, or more likely a fleet. Stolen away in the dead of night, while a small legion storm the gates and hold back the guards. As the prize for grand tournaments, galaxy wide contests decades long, where the combatants are kept alive in suspended animation between bouts.

The unsealing and subsequent drinking of a bottle is a momentous occasion. Generally, the preparation for such an event is done years in advance. Specialist vessels are designed, each boasting unique merits. Rooms are constructed on certain planets, some never before touched by human endeavours, to ensure the atmosphere and gravity are conducive to the experience. One of the leading causes of dispute in the Guild of Sommeliers is on what food to pair it with, whether the meat of genetically engineered game is sufficient, or whether a meal should be forgone altogether. What is about to happen here would appall them, and drive some of the more devoted ones to manic, lethal, rage.

In the back of grungy streets, in a mining slum on the moon of some unremarkable planet, a small figure squats on a roof with a bottle, white fabric stretched over their face. The air is thick with smog and dust, a choking, stinking taste. Higher up, it would be cleaner, the strong gravity keeping the particulate from tainting the wealthier layers for too long. They are hot and sweaty from a day’s work, and are resting for a moment before heading back to their pitiful excuse for a room. They do not know where the bottle came from, or even what it contains. With a shrug, they twist out the cork, and let it sit for a moment in the tepid air, unsealed and exposed, before taking a swig. It tastes surprisingly bitter, and not as good as the local ales. 

Then, the aftertaste kicks in. They fall for what seems like days. Nights pass, stars circle like sharks, closing ever inward. The planet rushes up towards and through them. They stroke every atom of dust, every quark, every note in the cosmic song. Reality unravels before them, and reassembles in impossible colours, shapes offset and distorted. Time crawls through their gut and out of their throat like bile. Every god swears homage before them, before each breaking apart into glass and melting. They are one with the universe and the universe with them.

Another heartbeat, and all is still again. They take another swig.