Smoke wafted lazily through the Sputtering Turbine, stopping at shafts of light to show motes of dust and grime covered upholstery. A gaudily dressed whore played out the rhythm to Mrs. Robinson perpetually just under the murmur of bar talk and faint clanking of glasses and the hum of burning engines outside.
Mat slouched in the corner booth, looking as roguish as possible. His drink was something called Junebug, his grandfather's favorite drink. Though the newly minted Captain Zimmer downed his drink with relish, the taste reminded him of the oil smell coming from the leaky pipes in the cargo hold of his Zenetan Junk.
Zenetan Junk, it couldn't be called that forever. It needed something sentimental and daring at the same time. He'd overheard a few veteran spacers talking over drinks his first night in Three Hills. One of them, presumably a captain, had commented that a good ship name was earned after her maiden voyage. You didn't really know who a ship could be until you tested her. He said that forcing an unwanted name on a ship was bad luck. The other had replied that taking off with a nameless ship was worst luck still. From there the discussion had turned to rumors of an antique dreadnought from before any war in recent memory had been seen lurking around Juxta's savanna moon.
"Elmo," Matt called to the barkeep,"Send me a platter of those fried clam-things, dong ma?"
Elmo nodded and turned to face his grill, he reached into a pail beside the bar and pulled out a handful of smelly something. He dropped into the fryer without much ado.
A good captain needs a gun, Mat thought to himself. Something flashy that let others know it was there. He'd have to think on that. If someone didn't show up soon he might go and purchase one tonight.
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