The Privateers

The worst callsign ever

Senior Master Sergeant Martin "Gimlet" Courtois dutifully polished a shotglass as he stood in his favorite spot on the ship: behind his bar. He'd had his fill of flying for the Coalition, and was more than happy to serve duty in what was, on paper, a mess hall aboard the SLCN Sword Beach. The sign just outside the starboard door, though, read The Jetwash. The brass, someone had said years ago, would shut the place down in a heartbeat if they learned he was serving alcohol. The brass aboard the Sword Beach, though, were his best customers.

The first of the evening was one such customer. Lieutenant Colonel Finella "Digby" Greer, second-in-command on the bridge, took one of the leather-padded bar stools and tapped the counter. "Buying in volume tonight, Gimlet," she announced. "Colonel's coming, and he plans on buying the first round for the new fish."

"Yeah, I heard we got some newbies," said Gimlet through his non-regulation mustache, as he slotted the shotglass back into its overhead storage. "Didn't catch how many."

"Three passed inspections to be on the scramble team, seven joining patrol groups 4 and 5. Ten in all. None of them picked callsigns yet." Digby adjusted her officers' ballcap over the unruly scruff of dirty-tan hair that she still had. "As for me, gimme a seven-and-seven."

Gimlet skillfully poured the right amount of Seagram's into a lowball while simultaneously spraying in the lemon-lime soda from the tap. Sliding the result down the bar was largely unnecessary, given Digby was the only person at the bar so far, but she'd once said she liked the whole "cowboy thing" years ago, and Gimlet made a point of humoring her every time.

The halls outside of the Jetwash gradually began to echo with the sound of at least ten sets of boots in lockstep. Out of reflex, Digby hopped out of her stool, slapped a flat hand to the side of her head, and yelled, "TEN HUT!" Gimlet only half-heartedly followed suit. The rest of the bar - at least, all of the empty air molecules and mites of dust - presumably also stood at attention, until at last, Colonel Marshal "Lasagna" Garfield appeared in the doorway on the opposite side of the room, ten fresh-faced pilots right behind him.

The colonel came all the way up to the bar, recruits in tow, before telling Gimlet, "At ease."

"Boss," Gimlet greeted. "Usual?"

"Your namesake, if you would," replied Colonel Lasagna, and watched as Gimlet skillfully mixed two parts gin, one part lime juice, and a splash of elderflower. One French gimlet. "The rest of you, first round's on me, as is tradition for the commanding officer," he said, addressing the ten pilots behind him. Each one in turn called out their drink, receiving it after Gimlet had his fun with the theatrics and flourishes (a number of which he'd learned from a Turkish ice cream vendor, back on Earth).

The last one was a young-looking guy who was so uncannily clean that he had probably only enlisted yesterday. Gimlet couldn't help but ask. "Now, what's your name, pilot?"

"Second Lieutenant Virgil Heidegger," said the young man, sticking a hand out.

"SMS Courtois. Call me Gimlet." He shook the hand in front of him. "What'll you have?"

"Not feeling like booze, if I'm honest, sir."

"Drop the sir, boy. I don't hold any power over you unless it's to cut you off."

"Won't be any danger of that tonight, sir. I'll have a root beer."

"Whatever helps you relax." The root beer tap hadn't been used in a while, so it took a bit to get the air bubbles out of the line. What resulted was a glass that was less than half root beer, and about 70% foam. "I'll refill you as much as you want. It's on the boss's dime tonight, either way."

The Colonel was already sitting at the long table in the middle of the hall, right in the middle of the other nine recruits, like Odin in the halls of Valhalla. He was well out of earshot, regardless.

"Couldn't help but notice the killboard on my way up," Heidegger opened.

Digby pressed the bridge of her nose, as if to say, oh God, here we go.

Gimlet glanced at her, then back at Heidegger. "What about it?"

"Who's... Joey 'Joe Joe Junior' Shabadoo?"

"...Go take your seat. I don't wanna talk about it."