Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [77]
“You okay, friend?” Nova asked.
“No, I’m not milking okay! What did you trip me for?”
Nova shook his head. “I didn’t. You caught your foot on the stool right there.”
“You calling me a liar?”
“Just telling you what I saw.”
“You tripped me, then you shoved me!”
“Nope. I just kept you from landing on top of me. Sorry. It was a reflex.”
The man balled his hands into fists. His face, already red, got more so. Nova sighed. He knew the signs. Any second now …
The man stepped in and threw a hard, straight, right-lead punch at Nova’s face. Nova turned his head, brought his left hand up to deflect the fist a bit, and with the open palm of his right hand smacked the attacker on the left temple, staggering him. Before the guy could do more than blink, Nova switched hand positions and thumped the heel of his left hand into the man’s right temple. The man fell again, not unconscious, but not far from it.
“You about done, Sergeant?” came a soft voice from behind him.
Nova had felt, rather than seen, the big security man come up from his right side.
“I think so.” Nova turned to find the bouncer looming before him.
“Teräs käsi,” the bouncer said. It was not a question.
“Yep.”
The big man nodded. “Highline, mirror-tools. Nice. I’m Rodo.”
“Nova Stihl.”
A couple of heartbeats passed.
“You were a little slow getting here,” Nova said.
“Not really. I saw you come in. I didn’t think you’d need any help.” Rodo looked down at the dazed man.
“And you wanted to see.”
Rodo shrugged. “Sure. Wouldn’t you?”
Nova grinned. “Oh, yeah.”
Rodo’s grin matched his own. “Next ale is on me.”
“I think I’m done drinking.”
“Yeah, that’s why I offered.” He paused, then added, “There’s a guy teaches teräs käsi classes downlevels.”
“That would be me.”
“Maybe I might drop by?”
“I’d like that. You’re welcome anytime.”
Rodo bent and, with what looked like almost no effort, lifted the still-confused man to his feet. “What say we call it a night and head home, hey, friend?”
The man nodded. “Yeah. I’m very tired. What happened?”
“You tripped.”
“Oh, wow.”
Nova Stihl waited until Rodo had the drunk firmly in hand before he sat again. He noticed that the other troopers at the tables were looking at him with a certain amount of … something … in their faces. Wonder? Amazement? Respect? Fear?
All of the above, probably.
“Next round is on me,” Nova said. “To celebrate the union of Sergeant Dillwit here and his poor unlucky betrothed.”
The men laughed, and that was the end of that.
Memah Roothes was preparing a drink made up of ten different-colored layers of liquid, and it required some precision to keep the fluids from bleeding into one another. She had the first seven poured into a cylindrical crystal as long and as big around as Rodo’s forearm. The last three layers were the hardest, but as long as she kept a steady hand, she’d manage. It was a pain in the glutes manipulating the various densities, but the concoction, which would serve four, went for fifty credits, so it was worth the five minutes it took. When it was finished, Memah sat back and looked at it. Perfect.
Rodo appeared at the end of the bar as the server droid collected the drink, called, for some reason Roothes had never understood, “A Walk in the Phelopean Forest,” and wheeled away with it. “Nice work,” he said.
“Thanks. You, too. I noticed you didn’t kick the sergeant out?”
“Nah. Pure self-defense. I’d have done the same.”
“Went down pretty fast.”
“Yeah. Guy is really good—system-class fighter, easy. Didn’t expect to find somebody like that out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Why not? It’s a warship, right?”
“Yes, but the really good ones are either out in the killing fields using the stuff or back in civilization teaching it to recruits. First one is okay, second is a waste. Here, it’s just unusual.”
Memah shook her head. “Males. Always with the violence. You want to go a couple of rounds with this guy, don’t you?”
Rodo grinned. “I wouldn’t mind. You want to stay sharp, you got to hone yourself against the best you