“Ahem…” muttered Roxana, noticing the enthralled Xenophon and Glaucon, both busily watching the new party. Xenophon turned back sheepishly.
“Don’t you have better things to do right now?”
He said nothing but looked over to Glaucon who grinned, the tension of their conversation already starting to fade.
“Have you ever seen anything like them? You don’t see women on Attica like that now, do you?”
Roxana shook her head.
“You know I am still here?” she asked, feigning being insulted.
Glaucon looked back, but Xenophon continued to watch them. Roxana was about to speak again but noticed his body language. Something was up. She leaned towards him and whispered in his ear.
“What is it?”
“There’s something going on over there, near the doorway.” he replied quietly.
Roxana started to turn, but he grabbed her arm and held her still.
“Slowly, don’t draw any attention, something is about to happen.”
She tried to relax and looked past the group of women and to the bar. From the corner of her peripheral vision, she picked out the shadows Xenophon had been referring to.
“I see them. Who are they?” she whispered.
Xenophon watched them and managed to isolate two men in the shadows plus another two who looked like they were watching the entrance.
An ambush, it has to be.
He turned to Glaucon and Roxana and spoke as quietly as he could, yet still loud enough for them to hear him over the music.
“There’s going to be trouble. Four men, two at the side and two more at the entrance.”
Roxana nodded and waved her hand to control the computer display in front of her. She moved a number of news stories about to hide as much of the communication screen and log as possible before contacting the security desk on the ground floor of the mercenary recruitment centre.
“Yeah?” said the man on the display. He wore a dark uniform and armoured shoulder pads. He gave a rather poor impression of the security, but it was his job to help keep the place secure.
“There’s trouble in the high level bar, four intruders, possibly armed.”
“Armed?” answered the man. There was something about the word that forced him upright. He looked to his right and waved at somebody out of view. A moment later another man appeared. This one looked much more competent and wore the insignia of the station security on his chest.
“A team is on the way, but what is happening up there?”
Roxana tried to speak, but the display and a dozen similar ones instantly deactivated. It must have been one of the men that had just arrived. She looked to Xenophon and Glaucon who were already bracing themselves for trouble. The music cut abruptly, and in the brief moment of quiet, she whispered to them both.
“Stall for time, security is on the way.”
The lights flashed brightly and turned the bar from a dark and drab space to a bright place where nobody could hide. It was as though a great floodlight had been activated, causing instantaneous discomfort. As they tried to adjust their eyes, the group of men moved in. All wore civilian clothing and carried a rough looking firearm. It was larger than a pistol but looked crude and unsophisticated. One turned it towards Xenophon’s table and flicked it, indicating for them to move.
“Hands on the table,” he then moved into the centre of the room and raised his weapon to the ceiling. “Everybody cooperates and nobody gets hurt!” shouted the man.
From behind the bar emerged a tough, tattooed man brandishing a metal bat. It wasn’t the most sophisticated of weapons, and probably all he was allowed to carry in case of emergencies. One of the men threw back his hood to reveal the face of a Median civilian. He had the normal slender body and soft skin of his race, but his face was scarred; one of his eyes looked different, perhaps mechanical.
“Old man. Get back and drop your bat. We won’t tell you again,” he snapped.
He then clicked a button on his firearm and pointed it directly at the face of the barman. Even then he refused to drop it.
“What the hell is a Median mercenary doing making trouble in my bar? You know the penalty, right?”
Without a moment’s hesitation the man pulled the trigger. The blast was nothing like the pulse weapons used by the military. In fact, Xenophon was certain it was a simple projectile weapon, powered by a chemical process. It hurled a cloud of shot that slammed the man back two metres and into a stack of glasses and bottles. He crumpled to the floor, presumably dead. Several women at the fringe of the bar started to scream, but by simply pointing their weapons at them, the criminals soon quietened them down.
The largest of the group also threw back his hood, revealing a rough, almost reptilian face. He was of a similar build to a human but with a broader chest and substantially greater muscle mass. He wore some kind of respirator device built into a crude metal facemask.
“Mulacs,” whispered Xenophon.
The creature heard the sound but could not work out who had spoken.
“No more mistakes. Keep your hands where we can…see them,” he said, a slight pause mid-sentence at he hissed through his respirator.
Mulacs? What are they doing here? They’re nothing but petty criminals and slavers, thought Xenophon.
The creature moved to the group of newly arrived women. He seemed interested in them alone. The closer he moved the more they recoiled, as if they had been expecting trouble. From his position it was impossible to hear what he was saying, but it was clearly aggressive in tone. One of the women stood up, only to be struck in the face by the Mulac.
“Bastards!” swore Glaucon, his control starting to waver. Xenophon glanced towards his friend and tried to dissuade him from action. It was to no avail, the young man’s blood pressure seemed about to boil. One of the thugs spotted him and moved closer, his weapon aimed squarely at Glaucon’s chest.
“Don’t try and be a hero, Alliance boy,” he laughed.
Xenophon watched what was happening and could only pray that Glaucon didn’t do something stupid. Although they had much in common, there was a big difference when it came to situations like this. Where Xenophon was calm and also dispassionate, Glaucon was easily excited and prone to rushing in without thinking. When Xenophon had been reading or translating old texts, Glaucon had been playing at sports or hosting yet more parties. It was incredible they had become such good friends with them being so far apart.
“Hey!” shouted one of the men as he spotted a young woman entering the bar. She must have been in a side room as she stumbled in, half drunk and almost crashed into the bar. She wore old-fashioned denim trousers with a light blue top. Over the top was a rough but sturdy black leather jacket. Her hair was dyed a vivid blue colour.
“Uh, what’s going on?” she muttered and then flipped down onto the bar. One of the guards started to move towards her but stopped when it was clear she was either unconscious or asleep. Roxana tilted her head slightly and looked to the girl’s left leg. Xenophon followed her glance and spotted the item on her thigh. It looked like a black holster, and the young woman’s hand was moving towards it.
“That’s enough surprises, everybody show us those hands. You three are coming with us!” snarled the Median. One of his henchmen approached the three women and lifted them up, one at a time. He carried sets of manacles that he expertly placed on their forearms. One started to move, and in a flash the Mulac henchman struck her across the face, knocking her down but not hard enough to hurt her. It was then that Xenophon spotted her skin and face. He realised they weren’t women, not by the standards of the Terrans anyway. They were the androgynous automatons, the manufactured slaves of the Empire, and almost certainly from one of the many pleasure ships that ploughed the shipping lanes.