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“The white ship with the red stripe?,” Jack asked, “I was looking at her the other day. Beautiful ship. Never would have guessed she was a T2.”
Jevons shook his head and fished a cigar from his pocket, holding it to his eye to cut it before he went on. “No,” he said, “the rusty one in need of a paint. Damned if I know what the last comman, commad, co-man-ding occif- off- oh, fuck!” He placed the cigar in his mouth, succeeded in lighting it on the second try, pulled and let out a cloud of smoke. “Damned if I know what the last bastard was doing, but he wasn’t main - maintaining her.” He puffed on his cigar for a moment. “Simmond - Simmul - whasisname was probably exaggerating about the hulls, keels, and the rust will make us less of target for the Ircadians. Right? Right?”
Jack nodded solemnly.
“And seniority from two weeks ago. Wiltshire’s to be appointed to the Success, but his commizure, commission hasn’t been written yet and he’ll be junior to me and have to follow my orders. Right? Mine! Ha! The bastard. At least until he gets promoted to Captain. Then I’ll have to follow his. Bastard,” he said again, and emptied his glass, “Oh, dear,” he held his hands to his mouth.
“Don’t let it out!” cried Jack, putting his own hands over Jevon’s and somehow not burning them on the smoldering cigar. “Not when you’re wetting ‘em! It’s bad luck, you know, bad luck until your next promotion!”
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