The clothes store is selling coats of all kinds: great coats, trench coats, frock coats and so on. The dummies in the window are blank masked servitors that cycle through poses like macabre puppets.

There is not a single staff member in sight.

“Do you think they have a tailoring service, Dad?” says Alpia.

“Typically, stores like this, especially those selling salvaged clothing, are a what you see is what you get type of deal,” I say.

Luan says, “I didn’t realise they were used clothes.”

“There’s traces of blood on the auspex, and many have discrete repairs,” says Fial. “They’ve been well cleaned and some have been re-dyed, so it’s not something you’d notice with a standard Human eye.”

“I guess these people don’t have a lot of money,” says Alpia.

Fial shakes his head, “It won’t be that simplistic. I don’t think there are many factories here, or a ready supply of anything. It might just be the culture too. The entire economy here is based on salvage and repair. The idea that you wouldn’t take something, fix it up, and sell or use it, is probably completely alien to them. We’re unusual in that we tend to recycle and refabricate a lot of our consumer goods. It’s a consequence of our temporary currency, as people like to spend their bytes on new goods, but don’t have space to store things they no longer want or need.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Luan.

“Spending habits affect our industrial output,” I say. “There was a big report on our productivity because we needed to know how to split the Fleet. We have so much planned that we needed to reassess how we use our resources. It was also the start of Brigid’s campaign in changing perceptions as we move to a longer lasting, possibly permanent currency.”

Alpia says, “That’s cool, Dad.”

“Oh check out the walls,” says Dareaca.

Coats by type and region are hung upon the walls with little notes next to them, saying who they were last worn by, that person’s achievements, and where they came from.

Luan says, “I wonder if that one really came from Hydraphur on the other side of the galaxy. Can you tell Dad?”

“The best I can tell is that the age is fairly accurate.”

“Yeah, this place is more interesting than I thought it would be,” says Dareaca. “I don’t really need another coat though and I can always come back later. “Do you want any of these, Alpia.”

“Nah, I like to wear the stuff Mum picked out for me. Her fashion sense hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”

“I can’t believe you still let Mum dress you!” says Luan.

“I like it because it’s something we can do together,” says Alpia. “Mum and I don’t share much in common, so if modelling for her from time to time means that she wants to spend time with me, I’ll take it.”

Luan chuckles, “That’s both sad and brutal. I kinda get what you mean though. Could she really not take a day off, Dad?”

We leave the store and continue down the rather empty street.

“She’s really stressed about getting everything sorted. You know Brigid hates the idea of not doing her best at every task she attempts. She could be walking about with us, but her mind would be elsewhere. I’m not sure that would be much better.”

“We should come up with something else then!” says Alpia. “I can kinda see why Mum didn’t want to bother with visiting the Receiving Yards. I don’t think it’s worth it to keep looking for shops to visit.”

“Shall we at least try a local restaurant before we go back then?” I say. “Or how about a pub. Taking one’s kids to the pub to get outrageously drunk for the first time is an important and complex ritual of acknowledgement for a parent that demonstrates you’ve all grown up and are trusted to be responsible.”

Dareaca laughs, “Dad, that makes, like, zero sense. Especially as we all have toxiphages. Still, I’m up for that.”

“You seriously want to take us to a dive bar, Dad?” says Luan.

Fial says, “In a hive of scum and villainy?”

“Yeah, let’s go! If this trip is going to end in a shipwreck, it needs to be epic,” says Alpia.

“I doubt anything unusual will happen,” I say. “How would these places function if there was a shoot out or bar brawl every couple of hours?”

“I’ve located a suitable bar,” says Fial. “I traced their records and their rotgut comes from industrial ethanol distilled from promethium. They add artificial sweeteners and xeno fauna venoms as flavour additives at the bar. You can literally pick your poison.”

“Seriously?” I say.

“You’re not going to back down now are you, Dad?” says Luan.

I run my hand down my face, “Fine. You’ll all need to stay close enough that my nanites can immediately bind to the toxins. Just because it’s not killing their customers, doesn’t mean you can’t have an allergic reaction or something. Oh, and don’t touch any free bar snacks. Everyone puts their fingers in those.”

“We’ll be fine, Dad,” says Alpia. “I doubt they give out free snacks anyway.”

“Fial, does it have another shitty joke for a name?” says Dareaca.

“Asp-purgers,” says Fial.

Luan, “You’re messing with us. There’s no way it’s called that.”

“Yeah, I’m messing with you. Now let me concentrate while I navigate. This place is a bit of a maze.”

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

I say, “How are you feeling about your upcoming apprenticeship, boys?”

“We still have a year left in the Herald’s, Dad,” says Luan. “That’s ages away.”

“Not for an old fogey like him. That’s like an afternoon snooze, or something.”

I say, “Thank’s, Dareaca. So kind of you to offer to buy us all a round at the bar.”

“Ha!” says Alipa.

“Whatever,” says Dareaca. “In all seriousness, I don’t really know. The idea of working for Eire, Maeve, Owen, and Rósín for a year each, then heading off for the navy officer academy at Port Wander if you can swing us all a commission, is kinda abstract. I know what everyone does, but I don’t know what it’s like doing it, nor do I know if I will enjoy the work. I get that finding out is the point of this arrangement, but that doesn’t make the answers appear any sooner.”

“Fair enough. I’ve never been exactly sure of what I want to do, and I am an old fogey.”

Dareaca smirks, “You said it, Dad. It’s kinda obvious you’re hoping all your kids will eventually fill Fleet Command. I’m not sure that’s the best idea. You know perfectly well loyalty comes from more than just blood. You’re friends with everyone in Command as it is.”

“Once Blessings and Castigations are fully functional, we’ll be putting a time limit on how long anyone can hold a single role,” I say. “I don’t want anyone burning out like Thorfin did and would rather stick to a proper replacement schedule. I’d be delighted if one of you can find enjoyment in a command position, but it isn’t an absolute necessity. I do need you to stand by your own merits though, even if our House will look bad if none of its scions hold a role of importance.”

“We know, Dad!” All four children chorus.

“I suppose I do bang on about nepotism a bit too much!”

Luan says, “It’s not about looking bad though, is it? It’s: ‘For the Unity!’”

“If you’re done teasing me about my cult and you're actually talking about projecting a strong image, our prestige, then yes. I do need family members to rotate into Fleet Command.”

“You shouldn’t poke fun at other people’s beliefs,” says Alpia.

Luan lightly punches Alpia’s arm, “The Imperium does far more than just ‘poke fun’.”

Alpia blushes and looks to the side, “Yeah, whatever. Bro.”

“We’ll it’s not like we need to decide in a hurry,” says Dareaca.

I say, “I suppose we will all just have to wait to see how it shakes out. I’m feeling a bit anxious to get the details of exactly what you want before I depart for the Imperium proper, but that isn’t practical and I’m pleased you have actually thought about this and didn’t give me a trite answer, even if it leaves me worrying about you all.”

“Aw, Dad. You’re supposed to get all mushy after drinking. Not before!” says Luan.

“We nearly there yet, Fial?” says Alpia.

“Yep,” Fial points to the right. “I present to you, ‘The Last Post’.”

“Ah, ‘cause a musical salute is what you can expect after drinking there,” says Luan. “Classy.”

Fial says, “I knew you’d like it.”

“Alright, kids. Let’s go do some daytime drinking.”

“Dad, I can’t decide if this makes you awesome or shamefully irresponsible,” says Fial.

“Well, so long as the jury never returns to session, we won’t have to find out,” I say.

The Last Post is at the top a set of crudely welded steps. The windows are barred with no glass and heavy shutters. The whole front is covered in some impressive street art showing dozens of people labouring over rusted machines. Large bins, most filled with refuse, line the wall, covering much of the art. A golden, jewelled goblet is the centrepiece, covering the whole door. A single green drop hovers above a clear, rippling liquid within the goblet.

I have to duck to get inside and my shoulders brush the side of the doorframe. It’s fairly spacious inside, with the pub going back much further than it looked like from the outside. I have to dip my head each time I pass a bare I-beam. There are seventy eight patrons, many of them lined up and lounging against a ten metre bar, where three scarred, tattooed, and mostly naked women rush back and forth.

Almost everyone has a crude cybernetic of some kind, usually a replacement limb, foot, or hand. A single Tech-Apprentice sits in one corner, doing a brisk business, tinkering and blessing the cybernetics of the seven people surrounding him, a long line of empty glasses on his table, mixed among the scattered parts, oils, and incense.

The pub doesn’t go silent as we enter, but the volume sure drops as we approach the bar. The bar leaners part before me and the oldest looking waitress, a woman in her fifties, rushes to face me.

“I don’t think the Last Post can host someone of your stature, My Lord.” She does her best to put on a service smile, but her hands are trembling, and I detect a few patrons making for the exit.

I chuckle, “Sir will do, or Aldrich if you’re feeling bold. We’re here to get drunk. Ask your questions if you wish, of me or my children. So long as everyone remains polite, no trouble will come from me and mine. Does that put your concerns to rest?”

“As best as I could hope for, sir.”

“Good enough,” I place a stack of thrones on the bar. “A free drink for everyone as an apology for disrupting everyone’s afternoon. Just don’t try to cheat me, eh? I can read the prices on the board above the bar just fine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

“Good. Dareaca. You’re up. You owe us the four of us a drink after your cheeky comment earlier.”

“If you insist, Dad. I don’t see the difference when it’s all your money anyway.”

One of the patrons coughs, then draws heavily on his lho-stick and scowls. He turns around and says, “It’s an important moment in a father’s life when their kid buys them their first drink in a bar like this.”

“See! This guy gets it!” I say, pointing a mechadendrite at him. “Sure, all the money comes from me, but you still earned it.”

“How could he possibly guess that!” says Alpia.

“Cause we stick out like a loyalist marine in a cultists’ den,” says Luan. “No implication intended.”

“Hmm, I blame Dad for that,” says Fial.

I rub my chin and try to look as contemplative as possible, “That’s fair.”

“Didn’t you just say it was about learning to drink responsibly?” says Dareaca. “I knew you were talking grox shit, Dad. Don’t you just want a free drink?”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “Free stuff is awesome and almost no one ever gives me any. People always expect favours or to buzz my sensors about some bit of vital data. There’s all sorts of reasons why I wanted to come here.”

Alpia says, “You’re being embarrassing again, Dad. Weird too.”

“Yeah, OK. Whatever.” Dareaca approaches the bar. “I’ll have the four cheapest drinks you have and one of your best tasting, more expensive ones.”

That gets a few laughs, but the barmaid still looks up at me nervously.

“No need to double check with me,” I say. “I have four kids. My skin is denser than battleship armour.”

“Ain't that the truth,” mutters the smoker.

“Yes, sir.”

The barmaid puts down four shot glasses and fills them with a clear liquid that’s twenty percent alcohol and eighty percent water. Next she fills a glass highball with crushed ice, syrup, and a much stronger sixty percent alcohol mix. She finishes it off with a few drops of bitters that spread through the drink like smoke.

“Here,” says the barmaid, “four plain shots and a Black Ice. Seventeen thrones.”

A throne gelt is the primary currency of the Koronus Expanse and Calixis sector. A single throne is, on average, the cost of a single, poor meal, like a bowl of soylent viridans, or one of those corn based ration biscuits. Dareaca’s ‘Black Ice’ was sixteen of those.

Dareaca pulls out a few coins from a zipped pocket and counts out four coins, then places them on the bar. He passes out the shots then grabs the expensive drink for himself, then holds his drink out.

We clink glasses, “Cheers!”