Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [69]
The cantina, which had a small glowing sign that read THE HARD HEART above the double portal, seemed fairly busy. He stepped in through the air and caught the smells of a working pub—fragrant smoke, warm beverages, some body odors from patrons who should have showered before they came in. Mostly navy guys, some contractors, more males than females, which was hardly surprising. Most of the customers were human, or humanoid stock close enough that it was hard to tell the difference. Lighting was low enough to afford a kind of privacy, but not so dim it didn’t offer a useful spectrum. His species could see a little deeper into the ultraviolet than some, but not as far into the infrared as others. Still, he wouldn’t be bumping into the walls here.
The tables were mostly full, but there were a few empty spaces at the bar, which ran most of the right-hand wall from where he’d entered. Ratua moved through the crowded tables, being careful, with an ease born of long practice, not to bump anybody or loom into anyone’s space unexpectedly. Surprise some folks and they’d shoot without a second thought, and military types were faster on the trigger than a lot of civilians.
But it looked like that wouldn’t be a problem here. He noticed a sigil over the mirror behind the bar: U. Stood for “unarmed.” That was a good idea. Navy guys seemed to enjoy wearing a sidearm everywhere they went; get them soused and angry, and stray blaster bolts could be a problem. Bad enough if you annoyed somebody to the point where he was ready to pull his weapon and cook you; even worse if you were minding your own business and you caught a bolt aimed at somebody else.
Ratua achieved the bar. There were a couple of droid servers working the floor, one behind the bar, and a most attractive Twi’lek woman with lovely teal-colored skin that showed wherever her short-sleeved coverall left her bare—places that added up to a satisfyingly large number.
“How may I serve you?” one of the droids said.
“House ale,” he said.
“Two credits. Your debit number?”
“Cash.” Ratua dropped two coins into the droid’s cash drawer, which extruded from its torso to receive them. After a moment, the droid tendered a mug of amber-colored ale with a centimeter of frothy foam for a head.
“Thanks,” Ratua said. The ale was cold, crisp, with a hint of something tart under the hops. Nice.
He turned slightly, mug in hand, and observed the room.
Next to the far wall, just to the right of the second entrance, stood a large human. He was watching the patrons without looking at anyone in particular. Ratua felt the man’s gaze touch him and move on. This would be in-house security and, from the looks of him, not a fellow with whom you’d want to argue. Ratua had seen many violent men on many planets, many of whom were just naturally mean, and some who had a certain competent look about them that bespoke training and ability. This guy was one of those. Step crooked here and you’d find yourself unceremoniously displaced to the outside corridor. Start a real fuss and you would, clearly, soon wish you hadn’t.
“That’s Rodo,” a female voice said from behind the bar. “He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t have to.”
Ratua looked. The Twi’lek woman stood there, smiling at him. He nodded, saluted her with his ale. “And I would guess that a sensible person would not care to become the object of Rodo’s irritation.”
“In that, you would be correct. I’m Memah Roothes. I run the place.”
Ratua nodded again. He considered giving her his fake identity, but for some reason he could not begin to understand, he went with his real name instead. “Celot Ratua Dil,” he said. “I liked the joint when I walked in, and I like it even better now that we’ve met.”
“Oh, a ladies’ man.” Her voice was amused, but there was also a hint of interest. At least,