"You'll love it."
Hershie reached out and stroked the diamond-faceted coffins that his birth parents lay in, hoping for guidance. His warm fingers slicked with melted hoarfrost, and as they skated over the crypt, it sang a pure, high crystal note like a crippled flying saucer plummeting to the earth. "I'm sure I will, Thomas."
As usual, Thomas chose not to hear the sarcasm in his voice. "Check this out —
DefenseFest 33 is being held in Toronto in March. And the new keynote speaker is
the Patron Ik'Spir Pat! The fricken head fricken bugout! His address is
'Galactic History and Military Tactics: a Strategic Overview.'"
"And this is a good thing?"
"Ohfuckno. It's terrible, terrible, of course. The bugouts are selling us out.
Going over to the Other Side. Just awful. But think of the possibilities!"
"But think of the possibilities? Oy." Despite himself, Hershie was smiling.
Thomas always made him smile.
"You're smiling, aren't you?"
"Shut up, Thomas."
"Can you make a meeting at the Belquees for 18h?"
Hershie checked his comm. It was 1702h. "I can make it."