![]() He liked to say they were acquired tastes, but of course nobody on board had ever acquired them.Īnd, well, maybe it was the drinks list or maybe it was the neighborhood, but after 1900 hours the bar was always empty. He just wanted a place where he could take rice or barley or potatoes and make drinks like they had back on Earth, drinks with names like uisghe and makgeolli and ouzo, drinks that didn’t taste much like synthanol and didn’t sell like it either. It was a terrible spot for a bar, anybody could see that! Jae-jin didn’t care, though. The whole quadrant smelled like seaweed from the algae synthesizers down-deck. The bar was squashed between a bot maintenance stall and a grey-water recycler, and across the ring was a shop that specialized in VR experiences of life planet-side, even though those were thirty-odd years out of fashion. This one we came up with the first time the five of us ever played together, on a Tenthday night down at that bar Lee Jae-jin ran on the lower deck of the Ship’s outer ring. We never asked Art where he’d gotten a real Earth tenor sax, but there must have been a doozy of a story there. Every note heavy with the weight of time. Oh, people said the three-d printers could make horns that sounded just as good, blew just as pure, and Mikaela said it was worth it to have anti-grav, so she could tow the piano behind her wheelchair-but still, there was something about knowing the horn had been on Earth, that there might be red clay or Terran bacteria gummed up under the keys. Art, the only one of us with a real instrument, a beat-up old brass thing with the spit of two hundred years of play in it-and, well, sometimes we thought you could hear the difference. That solo! Art blowing so hard and so hot, jumping out like a solar flare. Annotated Setlist of the Mikaela Cole Jazz Quintet by Catherine George
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