Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [133]
There were a couple of Alderaanians in one corner, and they just sat there, not saying much, not drinking much; just staring into some personal distance.
One of the pilots and his companion—an architect, Memah had learned—also sat at the bar, talking quietly but intensely. Apparently the pilot was one of Nova’s martial arts students, a double ace named Vil Dance. The woman was named Teela Kaarz.
An older man entered the cantina—Memah recognized him as having been in before, but she didn’t know who he was. He walked to where Stihl and Rodo and Ratua sat, and was greeted by the sergeant.
For herself, Memah tended the bar, made drinks, and when there was a lull, drifted over to talk to Green-Eyes. It felt like a memorial service, and, in its own way, it was.
A pair of troopers entered and moved to a table near the Alderaanians. They ordered ales and seemed oblivious to the generally hushed mood in the cantina. Memah was considering having Rodo throw them out, too, when one of the two said something loud enough to carry to the bar:
“Guess the Rebel scum won’t be giving us much trouble after Alderaan, hey?”
Rodo was already up and moving when one of the Alderaanians stood and stepped over to the soldiers’ table.
“Rodo,” Memah said.
He stopped, turned, and looked at her. She held up her hand in a wait-a-second gesture.
The soldier glanced up at the man standing next to him and probably wasn’t impressed. The Alderaanian was slightly built, short, and hardly seemed a threat. “What can I—”
That was as far as he got. The smaller man swung a fist that was driven by grief and rage, and the soldier fell out of his chair and hit the deck, hard.
“Go,” Memah said to Rodo.
Rodo was there before the second soldier could do more than get to his feet. He grabbed him by the neck. “Out,” he said.
“The frip you say! Nobody punches a trooper and—”
Rodo tightened his grip on the man’s neck. The trooper suddenly became very quiet.
“Out,” Rodo repeated. “On your own or with my help. Get your buddy and get gone.”
The second soldier was not a fool. He nodded, bent, and helped his dazed friend to his unsteady feet. They headed for the door.
The Alderaanian, fists still clenched in simmering rage, face red, stood there glaring at Rodo. Memah knew that even though he didn’t have a prayer against the big bouncer, he would still swing on him if Rodo tried to evict him.
Rodo knew it also. He glanced at her.
She shook her head: Leave him be.
Rodo nodded, said something too soft to hear to the smaller man, and returned to the bar. After a moment, the Alderaanian, as if in a dream-like trance, shuffled back to his seat. His motions were stiff, droid-like, and he sat down heavily.
Rodo returned to the bar, and Memah moved to meet him. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him I was sorry. That his table was comped, and that if anybody else said anything that stupid, to let me handle it—
I could hit harder than he could.”
Next to him, Nova said, “I dunno. That was as good a punch as I’ve ever seen.”
Nobody replied to that.
Nova indicated the older man and said, “This is Commander Riten. He runs the library.”
Memah nodded. “Commander.”
“Call me Atour,” he said. “I don’t much care for the rank or its associations right now.”
Memah nodded. “I hear that.”
She looked at the door and saw Dr. Divini come in. He came straight to the bar, where he was greeted by the group and introduced to the librarian and the young couple.
“Missing all the fun, Doc,” Nova said. “That little Alderaanian in the corner just decked a soldier twice his size.”
Uli nodded as Memah, unasked, put a stein of ale in front of him. “Rodo didn’t throw him out?”
“Our sympathies do not lie with the Imperial military tonight,” Memah said.
Uli nodded again. “Nor mine. I feel tainted just being on this station.”
That got a chorus of agreement.
“There ought to be something we can do about this,” Nova said.
Rodo said, “What’d you have in mind, Sarge? Challenging Darth Vader to a death match?”
“Maybe.”
“That wouldn’t help,