mjrost

The bartender shot a look over at the booth every once in a while.  Sitting in the booth was a smallish, nondescript patron, scribbling with a stylus on a tablet.  The mug of beer on the table still sat just past a quarter-empty as it had for the last hour. One a tiny stage near the door was the "entertainment" – a middle-aged keyboard player, playing uninspired versions of somewhat-dated tunes with a look so disinterested and far away it was amazing his fingers hit anything close to the right keys.  But fact was that he had been doing this so long that the music was played entirely from muscle-memory with no brain, no heart and no sou

The old shuttle had seen better days.  Much of the paint had worn thin and in some places silvery metal showed through. Dents and dings pitted just about every surface of the ship interrupted every so often by a scorch mark.  It was a good ship and it had served several owners very well, considering that it was still intact far longer than the majority of ships its age.  Its mere existence told a story of survival. The current pilot of the ship did not own the ship – he had stolen it.   It was his way.   Ra’shid Veet, as was often the case, was on the run.  He had a long rap sheet.  Generally his crimes had been nonviolent, but