By Darby Gallagher
Copyright 2012 Darby Gallagher
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June 1, 2051
Tom Flack lifted the torpedo-shaped bottle of Bismarck Bavarian Bier to his lips and transferred a consignment of its contents from its neck to his. Verdammt! That was good, though gassy. ‘Sink a Bismarck, the Big Gun of The Bar Room Battlefleet,’ was the legend on a sign behind the bar. ‘A Depth Charge for your Digestive System,’ it could have added, thought Tom, wincing as a salvo of small internal explosions buffeted him amidships.
He was sitting on a stool in Das Boot, a smart bar on October Bridge, one of the 12 new inhabited bridges on the River Thames. And he now caught sight of himself in a mirror. His straggly beard, overlong hair and crumpled, soggy clothes did not fit in with the swanky surroundings. He had flown into the country only a few hours ago and still had Nepalese mud on his boots.