[two]
"Where the hell did you learn how to play moons so well, Keyes?"
Raydee shakes his head in amazement as I shoot a five and eight ball into a side-corner pocket to win the game.
I grinned at my peer coyly, but I attribute my sudden adeptness at this variation of pool to the slight buzz that mingles in my head. Because only through inebriation would I understand how to properly play this game; repulser bars on the table make light hits move balls fast and strong hits move balls slower.
The Hilbert's communications officer knows I'm horrible at Moons. He knows this because we're the two amigos; Lt. Junior Grade Quijano's mother also taught at Luna OCS, and he's like my little brother more than anything (something I would never tell him without fear of a punch to the arm).
And so, the Two Amigos play moons in a bar on Reach after graduating from OSC together, earning top honors that got us handpicked by Bert's Commander Morgan to serve on his ship.
"Raydee, I've always been good at moons," I crack at him, which, coincidentally earns me a playful punch on the arm.
"You wish, Rand. I've beat your ass everytime we play," Raydee corrects me, which earns him a punch from Sinjin.
"And that's the last time you'll be punching Keyes, Quijano," she jokes, and Raydee massages his sore arm. For good reason, too; more than anything, at six feet and built like a tank, Sinjin looks like she should be in a HEV plummeting to a planet's surface and ripping methane tanks off grunts than sitting at the Bert's Operations station.
I always thought the Australian blonde was better suited for the battlefield, but we all fight the Covies in our own way, I suppose, whether it's with a gun in our hands or ship controls at our fingertips. With Sinjin though, I can hear the console keys screaming as she punches in commands; literally.
I took another swig from my glass, and Ryan comes up behind me, surprising me with yet another swat to my back (and causing me to dribble some alcohol down my chin). I swear, there's going to be a bruise tomorrow, and the Bert's standard-issue seating doesn't provide the best lumbar support to its bridge officers.
"Keyes, we're not buying your drinks anymore," he points to my half filled mug, "if you drink a measely half of a pint. I don't care if you get promoted to Captain of the Bert next time."
"Alright, alright," I held my hands up in defeat and gulped the rest of my drink, ignoring the burn in the back of my throat, and slammed the empty glass down. "Second promotion, second pint," I concede.
"Only two?" Sinjin asks. "Hell, order a round of shots."
Another glass filled to the brim finds its way to me and I shake my head. "You guys will have me drunk as hell by the time we leave."
"Good thing we're not doing first shift tomorrow, huh?"
Yeah, good thing, I think, because the entire first-shift bridge crew was here (minus Chief Engineer Lt. Delaney currently over-seeing the Bert's repairs) to celebrate my promotion. Ryan was weapons, Sinjin tackled Operations, Raydee on Communications, and me on navigation (no surprise there).
It wasn't quantum physics that I would excel in navigation. Father taught navigation, Daughter would know navigation.
It seems like I can never get out of his shadow. To prove my point, someone at the bar changes the channel on the vid-moniter to a soccer match; HellJumpers vs. the Galaxies, and by the look of the score, 2-0, it looks like Dad's team will win.