Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [88]
Hence, the primping.
At the end of the bar, a pair of CPOs were talking about a rumored prison break in the detention area. Memah overheard one of them say, “Way I heard it, nine guys broke out, one of them a Jedi.”
The other petty officer laughed. “Hate to point it out, but Jedi are real scarce these days.”
“Just telling the story, Tenn.”
“Yeah, I heard it, too. Only I heard it was fifty guys, all captured Rebels, led by five Jedi. And they took over the superlaser and started blasting Star Destroyers. ’Course, the big gun isn’t even operational yet. Anyone knows that, it’s me. But hey, why let facts get in the way of a good story?”
The first chief laughed and sipped at his ale. “Sounds almost like a sim run, don’t it? A really wacky sim run.”
The second CPO said, “Time this war’s over, want to bet that story’ll have a Rebel army nearly destroying the station? Every action I ever been in, stories like that pop up. One floob spits on the slidewalk, by the end of the cycle it’s turned into a crack unit of Rebels knocking over a fortress.”
The first one laughed again. “Yeah. Next they’ll be saying it took the Five Hundred and First to put ’em down.”
Both men laughed.
Memah smiled. She had heard some of those stories, too. Why people felt the need to embellish the truth, or even fabricate something completely different, when reality was all too often quite fantastic enough, was light-years beyond her.
She happened to be looking at the door when Ratua came ambling in as if he owned the place. He caught her glance, smiled, and headed for the bar. Once there, he looked her up and down in frank appreciation.
“You,” he said to her, “look like the reason the riot started.”
She realized to her astonishment that she was blushing. “Well,” she replied, “you look like you could use a drink. What’ll it be?”
He laughed. “I’ll have the unusual.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“Surprise me. Something exotic. Expensive enough to justify me sitting here and occupying your bar and attention.”
“I don’t think we have anything worth that much.”
“You wound me. Right here.” He put a hand over his heart, or at least where a human’s heart would be. “Here I am, seeking sanctuary, trying to stay out of trouble—”
Memah said, “I think you are trouble, Ratua. It would probably be much better for me if I stayed as far away from you as I could.”
“Probably,” he agreed, in a more serious tone. “But where’s the fun in that?”
She built him a drink, a simple one, with a lot of alcohol and some sweeteners and colors. It was potent stuff. So far she’d never seen him drunk—at least, not so she could tell. Must have a hyperdrive metabolism, she thought.
She put down his glass, then planted both hands on the pleekwood bar and leaned toward him. “Fun starts with the truth. Who are you?”
He sighed, and didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. “I’ve always found truth to be highly overrated.”
“Nevertheless …”
“Okay.” He took a fortifying swig of his drink, then said, “I’m Celot Ratua Dil, second son of the First Counselor Nagat Keris Ratua and his Tertiary Wife, Feelah Derin. Of late, I resided on the planet Despayre, where I was incarcerated for a crime I actually did not commit—though in balance, I can’t claim to be an upstanding citizen.”
“So you weren’t kidding before?”
“Nope.”
“What was the crime?”
“Guilt by association. Wrong place, wrong time.”
“And how did you come to be here?”
“I escaped.”
“Really. Just like that?”
“Well, I won’t bore you with the details—”
“Oh, please—bore me. I so seldom find myself bored these days.”
“It doesn’t bother you that I’m an escapee?”
Memah stood back and folded her arms. “You were pretty sure it wouldn’t, weren’t you? Or you wouldn’t have told me.”
“I was hoping. And you did demand the truth.”
“So I did. And I’m wondering when I’m going to get it.”
Ratua studied the drink for a moment, then looked up at her, and she had to physically tense up to resist the earnestness in those remarkable eyes.