“As you know, when I was your age I was already out on the open sea fighting pirates and scoundrels.”
The cool night breezed through the candle-lit cabana. The captain of the mercenary ironclad People’s Hammer began to fill his pipe. He wore a silver medal on his civilian jacket. His hands we black with engine grease.
The heretic monastic who shared his table sipped at a piña colada. He was not much younger than his companion, but he had practiced naiveté in the cloisters. Silence bid the captain to continue.
“After the Navy of the Socialist International sold its soul to the Hype Regime,” he explained, “there was no place there for a man of principles and brilliance. Just a waste of fuel chasing radio meme hot spots. Can’t fight the Silent Revolution with your head up your ass. Might as well be a Demogarch lapdog.”
The heretic removed the cherry from his paper umbrella sagely in agreement.
“At least the merchants got two feet and walk loudly with them. Scoundrels ain’t bad blokes either, in comparison to the sellouts,” the captain coughed indignantly.
“How’s the ship?” The monk sucked the cherry and its juices from his fingers in a single motion.
“Some creaks and leaks but its mine.”
“Patches planned?”
“Better than planned. Merchants don’t care what happens to pirate boats as long as the route is clear. Towed two already to the Bay of Renegades. New guns, good lumber. Sold a chassis for enough bank to hire another shipmate.”
“Got someone?”
“Asking the veterans. And there’s some in the Navy that still got sense,” the captain muttered nostalgically.
The Brother nodded before standing. “I may know someone. I’ll ask around.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and melted into the night.
