It was in a station bar like this one. Might have been this one, now I think on it. After a while they all look the same.

 

The Old Man was chatting up the waitress, pretending to fetch another round. Frenchy and Pico were bickering good-naturedly, as usual, and Mike — our navigator back then — had already had enough that he'd need to be carried back. In short, a normal evening out.

 

We'd only just survived our first wreck, a blown jump drive that had the Company physicists stymied, and we'd been months getting home to Luna Three. Meanwhile, the Company had found another freighter for our slot, and we were waiting to see whether we'd get sent somewhere else.

 

"Of course we're going back to Mars!" Pico was saying. "This ship was custom-built for that run."

 

"Ah, but that does not mean she can't fly elsewhere," chided Frenchy, his Québécois accent stronger from drink.

 

Pico was dubious. "Well, I think—"

 

"No!" Frenchy exclaimed. "When did this strange thing begin for you, hein?"

 

And they were off. I sipped my drink and watched, amused. Pico and Frenchy could argue about pocket lint if they'd a mind to.

 

Mike mumbled something. I tilted my head and quirked an eyebrow. He focused blearily on me and said again, louder: "Cursed!"

 

That cut Pico and Frenchy off mid-bicker, which is a pretty good trick. They both stared, mouths open.

 

"Why do you say that, Mike?" I asked eventually.

 

"Because we're cursed! That's why," he explained.

 

"Uh..."

 

"It's all onna count of us having no, no, no... name! Ship with no name, 's unlucky, and we're on, on the unlucky ship so we're unlucky. So we're doomed. Cursed to be doomed."

 

That was a disturbing thought, and surprisingly cogent coming from Mike, especially half seas over as he was. It was also based in truth. All the Mars shuttles had designations; we were LUNA-MARS-03H. That's no name.

 

I figured I should nip this in the bud. "Now, Mike! We just survived one of the nastiest freak accidents in the history of space travel, and we made it home with zero casualties. That's one lucky ship!"

 

He tried to puzzle out what I'd said, then shook his head. "No, Chief, no! That's the curse! We're like, like that ship, the one that flies. You know."

 

"Dutchman," said Frenchy seriously. He was shaken.

 

"Yeah, 'sright. Flaming Dutchman. Flying. Flying flaming Dutchman, that's what we are. Round and round, never stop." Mike paused for a moment and tossed back the rest of his vodka. He turned back to me, said "Cursed" conversationally, and belched. Then his head hit the table with a thump.

 

Well, that did it. Now Pico and Frenchy were both convinced the ship needed a name, and today. They were, however, at odds about which name. Pico fervently argued to name it for a saint, but Frenchy was holding out for Courier du Bois, and never mind that there are no trees in space.

 

They tossed it back and forth and I refereed, taking notes on my pocket comp. They agreed on St. Sisyphus until I regretfully informed them that Greek myths couldn't be saints. They moved on to Prometheus, and then to his liver-eating eagle, which Frenchy insisted was a different bird entirely. "Eats carrion, ees buzzard," he explained, and I couldn't disagree, but Buzzard isn't much of a name.

 

They were debating the merits of Peregrine when I went after the Skipper. Unfortunately, he'd vanished with that waitress. It was only a matter of time before Frenchy and Pico decided to go EVA while smashed witless in order to christen the ship. Without the Old Man, I was the only one who could prevent that. I bought a bottle. The squabbling behind me grew louder. "Better make that two," I said.

 

We dumped Mike in his bunk and went to the mess to finish discussing. At least, they did; I went to babysit. I brewed coffee and pretended to add whisky while they drank and talked.

 

My plan was simple: Keep them drinking until they passed out. Afterward, I could program a cargobot to do the actual painting remotely, and in the morning I'd explain that they'd picked the name and it'd be unlucky to change it now. Unfortunately, for the first time in history, they chose this one argument to agree.

 

"Peregrine it is!" they chorused, and rose.

 

Drastic measures were called for. I pulled out my comp while they toasted. Then, when they started off for the EVA suits I called them back.

 

"What color?" I asked. They looked mystified; I explained. "No sense going outside until you've decided. You'd just have to come back for paint. Now, here's some samples..."

 

Of course Pico liked dark blue and Frenchy aquamarine. That kept them busy for another bottle, after which I made them choose between different fonts and then bird clip art. We reached agreement at about four in the morning, and drank a toast to our artistic endeavor.

 

"Now, let me... Oops. No, it's nothing," I explained. "Just one I did in the bar."

 

Frenchy's eyes grew wide. "Mon dieu! Beautiful! Why did you not show us this before? Ah, Pico, you must see!" And he showed him my Courier du Bois in deep forest green.

 

Of course that ended all agreement, but now Frenchy was too busy singing "Alouette!" to debate properly. The evening soon, blessedly, came to a close.

 

The Skipper wandered in just after I got the boys to their bunks. "Turned out okay?" he asked.

 

I glared, and he headed up to his cabin.

 

"By the way," he called out. "Just what did you name her?"

 

Of course I hadn't thought it through. It couldn't be Peregrine or Frenchy would mutiny; same for Courier and Pico. I flipped through my tablet, and there was Flying Dutchman.

 

I set the cargobot to work and sacked out. Finally.

 

Thought we'd be going around in circles forever.