Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [11]
If they were wise, they’d smile and nod and hustle themselves to the door. If they were stupid, they’d argue with Rodo. If they were really stupid, one or both would decide that how they behaved wasn’t any of the peacekeeper’s business, and they’d be happy to demonstrate their Imperial combat training to him, thank-you-very-milking-much!
Rodo’s response was always based on their attitude. Play nice, and they could come back tomorrow and start fresh, with no hard feelings. It went on a sliding scale from there. In this case, the two must have decided that the enforcer wasn’t as tough as he looked, and worth at least a few choice words, probably concerning his parents or siblings and his immoral relationships with them.
Before either trooper could do or say anything else, Rodo grabbed each one by the shirtfront, moving incredibly fast for such a big man, and, in an amazing display of raw strength, lifted both clear of the floor and banged their heads together. If they weren’t unconscious after that, they were certainly stunned enough to cease hostilities. Holding them thus, Rodo walked toward the door, as if doing so was no more effort than carrying two large steins of ale.
It didn’t take him long to achieve the exit—everybody between him and the door moved with great alacrity, clearing a broad and empty path. The room went almost quiet as the door hissed open and Rodo tossed the two into the street.
When the door hissed shut, the noise level returned to normal, and Memah went back to her drink order. Nobody was hurt, and so there was no need to worry about the authorities. And if the troops were foolish enough to come back with others like them, seeking to exploit their Imperial status … well, there wasn’t an overabundance of support downlevels for such officiousness.
Memah sighed. When she’d first started in this line of work, waitressing in a dive deep in Gnarlytown called Villynay’s, most of the Imperial troops had still been clones, and every one of them had been uniformly polite and easygoing. It was true that, after a bit too much ferment, they could get a tad boisterous, but they’d never been a problem, and had also never been at all hesitant in helping to street anyone who was. She’d heard that they’d all been programmed, somehow, to only show hostility toward the enemy. Whatever the reason, the clones had been a pleasure to serve.
Well, that was then and this was now. Maybe she was looking at the past through rose-colored droptacs, but it seemed to her that a lot had changed. Now a night when Rodo didn’t have to eject a few obstreperous drunks was a night to remember.
As she put together a Bantha Blaster, stirring in the ingredients, Memah noticed another pair of customers. They weren’t causing any ruckus; if anything, they were too quiet. Humans, a male and a female, they were, like much of the crowd this time of the evening. Both were dressed in nondescript black coveralls. They nursed mugs of membrosia and sat facing each other at a two-seat table in the corner, from which they seemed, without being obvious about it, to be watching the room.
And even though she never caught them staring directly her way, Memah got the distinct feeling that they were particularly interested in her.
Rodo arrived back at the bar like a heavy-gravity crawler docking. He scanned the room, looking for more trouble. None seemed to be in the offing at the moment.
Memah finished the Blaster and put it on the bar. “Ell-Nine, order up!”
The new server droid, a trash-can-sized one on wheels whose model she never could remember, rolled to the bar. “Got it, boss,” it chirped. It grabbed the tray with extendible arms, anchored it to the magnetic plate atop its “head,” and took off to deliver the drinks.
Memah drifted down to the other end of the bar. “Rodo, you see the two in black in the corner?”
Rodo didn’t look at the pair, nor directly at her. “Yep.”
“Know who they are?”
“Not who. Haven’t seen ’em in here before. Got a good idea what, though.”
There was a long pause