A metal banging could be heard, one that thudded rhythmically from time to time, similar to metal on metal clanging. A dim candle lit a silhouette of a metallic arm and vaguely showed the figure of a hooded man. He banged his hand against the table from time to time, as if the weight of what he had going on in his mind was crushing him and he was waiting for the final blow. His meditation was interrupted by the voice of a nice girl asking him if he wanted anything else to eat or drink as she wanted to close down the kitchen for the night. A raspy voice came from under the hood, saying shortly that he wanted one more sandwich and two beers, while he reached in the pocket of his hood to pay the nice lady for her service. As she left to bring his order he sighed heavily, watching as the figure moved further away from him and the dim light emitted by the candle remained unable to fight the darkness that enveloped her body. His moment of silence came again, however it was short lived as the light-footed lady came back promptly with his beer.

"Captain, you do realize that this is your ship, your bar. You cannot act like we are in some planet side bar or tavern, so stop paying me" she said with a joking tone, while placing the beer on his table and disappearing into the back again.

She was right. He had his own ship, his own accommodations but his old habits seemed to follow him. He was so used to being in bars that it was the only place which he had ever called home. Maybe he just wanted to make this place his own home. The mighty "Pilgrim " Liner that was once a place of worship and study, where hundreds of like-minded people used to gather. The place that those exact people used to call home was now just a rusty bucket of junk that defied all expectations and kept flying. The crew, which was once in the triple digits, now reduced to just basic crew needs and the insanely dedicated that refused to go and try to find another ship. The pays were sometimes good, though the few chances the crew got them were to be crushed by some poorly loaded cargo that they were hauling for those extra little credits.

"You think I should try to change?"

he asked towards the darkness that filled the room. His voice, carrying a grave tone combined with a digitalized overlap that made it strangely soothing was one that sounded neither fully human nor robotic. In a sigh of relief, he reached out with his metallic hand towards one of the walls. With the press of his finger on a digital screen, the once pitch-black room turned into a brightly lit strange amalgamation of a mess hall and a strangely decorated budget bar. It had a few tables, some more rusted than others but all being usable.

In the northern part of the room, a small bar filled the place with a bit more color. All the bottles of alcohol that were neatly stacked coupled with the light that shone through them made it look like the place was a bit more alive and colorful then in reality. From under the bar the female figure rose, with a rag in her hand , cleaning thoroughly the rusted counter top. It was like she was trying to remove the rust but the rust kept returning in an instant.

"Yes. I think that you should stop your guilt trip and try to bring us back to where we were before, both in the form of our God and the way this ship used to be. It's a miracle we have lasted this long in this crap bucket"

said the female voice while she switched from the counter top to some glasses, trying to wash them. She was right. Back in the day, there were months on end when they never stayed for more then a day or two moored at a base. Even then, that was only where there were long queues for offloading, or the clients used to take their sweet time to collect the real cargo. They used to always build stuff; new machines, new inventions. There were always people praying that their creations managed to grab even the smallest slice of life and achieve perfection. They all believed that some machines were so good that even God bestows them the gift of evolution and that they, the builders, were wielders of that divine power. However, in recent times that glimmer of hope, that buzzing atmosphere was just a long forgotten past from time immemorable.

It was indeed crazy to think that just a couple of years ago, Hamilcar managed to gather quite the following of adepts and were able to turn a rust bucket into a state-of-the-art research lab, with all that they had while still having materials to spare. Every single little nook and cranny had either a discarded robot or some failed attempts at a body modification. People used to come and go; they had their own development jobs. Even if the ship had to fund herself, they were pulling so much cash in from all the customer orders both for modifications and for illegal cargo, that they could buy anything they wanted. And they lived accordingly for a long time, some people would even dare to say that their life style was more like a frat house, religious and science center. They all had their flaws which, in Hamilcar's eyes, made them special in their own unique way.