Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [65]
The same dream.
This was the fourth time he’d had it since he’d transferred onto the battle station. There were slight variations in it—sometimes he was fighting alone; sometimes there were more guards, sometimes fewer. The last time he’d had it he’d been crisped by the laser’s energy beam and “died.” That had been bad.
Maybe I should have the medics check me out, he thought.
Yeah. Right. And wouldn’t that look good on his record? Bad dreams? What kind of tough-guy martial arts expert are you, Stihl, going to see the doctor because of a dream?
He shook his head. No. He wouldn’t be doing that anytime soon.
Besides, it didn’t happen that often. He was usually able to go back to sleep, and he never had a repeat of the dream on the same night. Nova shrugged. Most likely it was something that the filters would eventually strain out of the air. Nothing to get all in a lather about. He’d start practicing one of the mind-clearing meditations he knew before he went to bed. That might help.
If not, well, he could learn to live with it. But that sure wasn’t his first choice.
30
CANTINA, DECK 69, DEATH STAR
“Come up with a name yet?” Rodo asked as they looked around the inside of the finished cantina.
“I think so.” Officially it was going to be given a deck, area, and room number, but unofficially people liked descriptive names. Her Southern Underground establishment that had burned had been “the Soft Heart.” This new one, while she didn’t own it, was hers to run, and given where it was and the patrons who’d frequent it, Memah thought a variation on the old name would fit.
“I’m calling it the Hard Heart.”
Rodo nodded. “Works for me.”
The construction droids and a couple of Wookiee supervisors had worked quickly, but as far as she could tell they’d done a good job. Rodo had inspected bits and pieces and seemed satisfied. The basic layout was the standard military pub/cantina model she’d seen in dozens of places throughout what was now Imperial Space. The main room was more or less square, with the bar running nearly the length of the east wall. In the northeast corner was a small stage, just in case they were lucky enough to get live talent for skits or music, or in case some of the drunker patrons felt moved to render heartfelt versions of their favorite songs. Unisex/unispecies refreshers were sited off the northwest wall, and a manager’s office next to those. There were three entrances—one each on the south and north walls, plus an emergency exit on the west wall behind the bar.
Twenty tables filled the room, bolted to slides inset into the deck, each with half a dozen low-backed stools adjustable for height. If a large party came in, as many as five tables in any row could be scooted together into a larger module. The stools could be also moved, but normally were held in place with electric locks controlled by the tender from behind the bar. People could adjust seating as necessary for their size or number, but once all was in place the tender could flip a switch and lock the stools. That way, if the crowd got rowdy, they wouldn’t be using the furniture on one another. Not that such a scenario was likely with Rodo on the job, but better safe than trashed.
The consumables were all behind the bar, on shelves running up the wall or underneath the counter—liquor, puffs, eats. Food was generally pull-tab heated modmeals; you could live on them, but that was about all. A cantina was not the place for fine dining.
The ceiling and tabletops had blowers and vacuums built in, and the table’s units could be controlled either at the table or by tenders or servers at the bar. If the boys at table six were smoking pickled rankweed and producing billowing clouds of fragrant, intoxicating blue smoke, they could adjust the vacuums so it didn’t drift like fog over the girls at table seven, who were licking up spirals of kik-dust, or the drinkers at table five chugging down steins of Andoan ale. The air scrubbers weren’t 100 percent, of course, but effective enough.
The serving