Richards grimaced. Although he was legitimately on leave, he had the feeling that being caught loafing about in such louche surroundings wouldn't put him in good stead with his superiors next time they were handing out honours. And of course, it wouldn't just be any senior officer walking in -who'd see him as a faceless libertine 'slumming it'- it would be Sir Stanley Nelson, the admiral who's Suffolk fleet Richards had been attached to since the day he enlisted, and who he was quite acquainted with after making rank under him.
"Admiral! What brings you here, and on duty at that?"
The words 'on duty' gently ease his gin-numbed reactions in to something approaching first gear, and he suddenly produces a somewhat thorough and flamboyant salute. A lack of response from the Admiral forces him to push onwards.
"Well sir, I got a long weekend through and all my acquaintances are fighting that bloody war or what-have-you. Really I could either go and see the family on Cambridge or come here and gamble. They have races here you know, and betting. And well, it doesn't really seem like the time to sit on a lawn chair on my estate and relax. This seemed a more fitting venue for the current climate. Plus Johnny Foreigner's gone and booked up all the spots on the Shetland this week."
Richards tips his highball to the admiral with a debonair smile, and takes a sip. He hoped he'd passed, but the alcohol had numbed his usual self-conscious panic.
Nelson looked hard at Richards for a moment, frowning slightly as if analysing the man. Beside him the Vanguard's Commander Cromwell wore a distinctly disapproving expression as Richards sipped his drink. Cromwell was a known tee-totaller and generally stern man who clearly did not feel gambling was a suitable diversion for an officer on leave. Fortunately for Richards, Nelson was slightly more accomodating.
"An enjoyable weekend's leave eh? Conditions on the Suffolk not comfortable enough for you already? Hah. You're a lucky man, Lieutenant Commander. And yes, I do know they have races here" Nelson passed a quick glance towards the slumped Colonial Officer who was still showing no response. "They attract all sorts of disreputable folk, it causes more than its fair share of trouble, let me tell you. I'd advise you to stay well out of it, not that you're not free to spend your leave as you wish, of course. Just a word of advice for your own safety. Don't bet against the molly leaders, particularly if you feel you might win. And stay well clear of the Colonials." He leaned across closer and added, quietly, "oh, and watch your back when you leave. You might want to depart at the same time as us, just to be safe. A few mollies are known to enjoy ambushing BAF or BMM pilots when they leave here."
Nelson leaned back, and sipped some more of his tea. Commander Cromwell now appeared to be locked in a fierce staring contest against a tough-looking molly seated on the opposite side of the room. The dozen crewmen seated around the large table meanwhile were happily drinking their half-pints and laughing whilst glancing eagerly at the two attractive female corporate executives seated at the next table, though a few of them kept casting furtive glances at some of the less-than-friendly faces scattered around the room. One or two mollies looked reckless enough to consider starting a fight, but most of the bar's regulars were happily downing their drinks, well used to the benign neutrality and safety that freeport bars provided to otherwise violent enemies.
Richards nods along as Nelson addresses him. Apparently finished, Nelson leans back in his chair. Richards takes the opportunity to look over his shoulder, offering a fatalistic shrug to Claude as an apology for the abrupt end to their conversation. Turning back to the Admiral, he decides to follow his advice, and takes the seat across from him as his entourage stands off to one side.
"Well you know how it is, Admiral - it does get claustrophobic on the Suffolk; same old scenery every day. Of course, the Hood is not exactly a change of pace in that department, although admittedly the crowd is certainly different. Like I said, the Shetland is always my first choice, but sometimes it is just pleasant to see people who are not in the forces."
Isaac observed the Admiral's entrance as he observed all the patrons entering from his carefully-chosen seat. Then he really observed the Admiral's entrance. 'Damn', he thought, 'what's he doing here?'
A Lieutenant Commander, he could ignore, especially a half-drunk one with obvious ego issues, but an Admiral was something else. Who knew how far word of his activities had spread, or how much fuss BMM had excited through...'quieter'...channels. The fact that the Admiral had also chosen to visit the Hood rather than the BAF's own battleship was more than suspicious to Isaac.
Ducking behind the corner before there was a chance for him to be noticed, he slipped through the door behind the bar, muttering to Ryan as he passed "If you see James, tell him I'm headed down to Freistadt. I can't hang around with him sitting out front."
Nelson glanced at his watch. Another hour at least until they have finished the repairs. He sighed and took another sip from his tea, looking around the room and starting to examine the bar's customers in more detail. He noticed that three of his men had wandered over to the table at which the two female BMM employees were seated and were engaging them in conversation. Noticing what Nelson was looking at, Commander Cromwell rose to his feet and made to stride across the room and tell them off. Nelson gestured for him to sit down.
"Leave them Commander. Let them talk, if they want to. So long as they don't do anything innapropriate they'll all be back onboard within the hour."
"Hmm." Cromwell sank back into his chair, his face clearly suggesting that he considered they were already acting innapropriately, "As you say Admiral. Personally the sooner we get off this ship, the better. Don't know how you can stand it sir. Bloody mollies, smugglers, Colonials and rif raff everywhere."
"Yes," said Nelson, smiling slightly, "interesting, isn't it? Not often one gets the chance to study such people face to face outside of a pitched battle or a prisoner cell. Consider it a valuable learning opportunity Commander."
He sat back, sipping his hot tea and looking at the faces around him.
The doors to the bar burst open and half a dozen young men walked in. One, well-built with long, red hair, obviously their leader, was finishing off some kind of story, complete with hand motions; "...and then neowww...bonk, straight into an asteroid. Man, did you see those sparks fly? Teach him to try and take that corner at four-fifty over seventy! Hey, good to see ya, Ryan, let's 'ave six pints over 'ere, mate! We're dry as space dust!"
Ryan grinned slightly as he pulled the drinks and set them on the bar. Then the youngsters headed over to the nearest table, still laughing and exchanging tall stories.
Wilson walked to the bar, shoved the drunk Molly out of his stool and ordered a drink. He'd had enough of the niobium for a good while. When the bartender asked how his health was, he replied,
"liver's a little healthy for my liking, double up that drink"
"whatever you say mate"
Dean Wilson grunted in accordance. He leaned over his drink and took a look over the bar. Nothing much was happening.
Josef's Marks' life had taken him many strange places before, but never Dublin. Ground zero of the much vaunted "Founder's Day Revolution," he had studied the place briefly as a student. A place unlike any other, shared by revolutionaries, capitalists, anarchists, and soldiers, Dublin allowed one to keep one's identity to oneself.
Having become a member of the Bundschuh, Dublin had once again become a place of interest for Marks. While the Bundschuh mainly kept to Rheinland, they sympathized with workers' revolutions all over, and the Mollys were no exception. Undoubtedly, there was much that the two organizations could share. Yet it was not the Mollys that Marks was here to see today.
Marks had recently been contacted by a private individual who had expressed support for the Bundschuh cause. Showing interest in Marks' work both as a professor and a writer for the Bundschuh, he indicated that he might enable Marks' words to travel farther that Rheinland alone. Intrigued, Marks had replied. With a recent quieting on the revolutionary front, he'd made arrangements to meet on the Battleship hood.
The journey had been brief. Possessing neither the confidence in his pilot skills, nor a ship capable of the journey, Marks had arrived on the Hood on a nondescript passenger ship. Docking his Scimitar at Vogtland, he'd chartered a Hessian transport to Freistadt, where he purchased a ticket for the journey to the Hood. The journey had taken a little over 2 weeks, and it had been time well spent. Long hours in his cabin enabled Marks to put the finishing touches on numerous pieces of Bundschuh literature that he'd been working on.
Sitting now in the grimy booth, Marks felt vulnerable. He held in his pocket years of musings, rants, and writings on the government of Rheinland and the revolution. Yet what gripped his heart was a desperate hope that greater public awareness might further his cause, enabling an advance on the front. For despite the very words he wrote, the Bundschuh movement was indeed in stagnation.
The Trailblazer slid gently into position next to the Hood, and a second later an Eagle flew out of it's docking bay, curving across the expanse to the Hood.
Syana swept into the bar a second later, and her elegant hand slid some credits onto the bartop.
"Something strong" she muttered, and then slowly looked around the room.
Andrew Fredericks, a scientist with Cryer, walked into the bar on the Battleship Hood alongside an old friend of his, Padraig McFadden. Walking past several miners, he finally arrived at the booth where Josef Marks sat.
"Oh, there you are, sir," Dr Fredericks said, as he offered a handshake to the Rheinlander. "I'd like to introduce you to my former associate, Mr McFadden. He used to work with Workers' Rights in the field of law."
As the two sat, Padraig said, "Obviously, the situation in Bretonia and Rheinland are very different, but I'd be interested in hearing about the struggles of you and your compatriots. I've run a bit afoul of the authorities myself so I can relate."
"Yes, yes," Fredericks said, "but let's hear about his trip from Rheinland. It's not all that often I've run into revolutionaries in the outskirts of Sirius. It must've been quite the trip in from Rheinland if you wanted to avoid suspicion."
***
Meanwhile, Claude Foster sat at the bar watching the three men speak at the booth when Syana walked to the bar and ordered a drink.
"Hello," he said, "How are things? You look a bit stressed?"