Thomas Blair’s gut was telling him this might be something else.
“Let’s revisit those reports,” Blair said, “and prep a report for transmission back to Vanguard. Admiral Nogura’s going to want to know about this.”
5
Cervantes Quinn turned from the bar in time to see the fist coming right at his face. In his mind’s eye he visualized his opponent’s stance in an instant, determining from the arc of the swing and the way he carried his body that the other man was an experienced bar fighter, but woefully lacking in any sort of refined unarmed combat skills. Countering his attack would be child’s play.
It was a good theory, Quinn decided. His instincts were sharp—no mean feat considering his present condition. On the other hand, his reflexes were deplorable. In attempting to step into the other man’s attack, Quinn instead succeeded only in moving his face into a position better suited to receiving the full force of the punch. He took the strike along the left side of his jaw, the impact of bone against bone snapping his head back. Stars danced before his eyes as he stumbled, his back slamming into the bar behind him.
“Hey!”
The voice was distant and dulled by the bourbon currently doing its best to marinate his brain, and Quinn ignored it, just as he gave little regard to other nearby patrons of Tom Walker’s place as they scattered away from the escalating fight. Quinn registered movement in his peripheral vision and raised his left arm in time to block a second attack by his opponent. This time, instincts kicked in and he adjusted his stance as he brought up his right fist, driving it into the other man’s abdomen. He was rewarded with a satisfactory grunt of pain, which was repeated when he again slammed his fist into the man’s midsection.
“Knock it off! No fighting in here!”
His opponent went limp in his grasp, and Quinn let him fall away just as he sensed someone else closing on him. He looked up in time to see a big, brawny giant lunging at him with arm raised and fist clenched. Like the first man, the newcomer wore a set of worn, dirty beige coveralls. He likely was a shipmate, Quinn figured, and looking none too happy that his friend seemed to be getting his ass kicked by a drunk.
“You should learn to keep your mouth shut, old man,” the giant said, his boots thumping along the bar’s simulated wooden floor. Quinn, his jaw still smarting, shook his head. Blinking did nothing to bring his eyes back into focus, and instead they split the big man into three as he barreled forward.
Shit.
The muscled freight hauler—all three of him—started to swing his fist. Without any shred of grace, Quinn dropped to one knee and threw a punch straight into the figure dancing in the center of his blurred vision, catching his opponent square in the groin. The result was immediate, with the other man crying out in pain as his legs gave out and he staggered backward before colliding with another of the bar’s patrons, who, Quinn saw, was also wearing beige coveralls.
“How many of you are there, anyway?” he grumbled, reaching up to rub his aching jaw.
The new guy scowled. “Just me, boss.” Though smaller than his friend, this freighter jockey was stockier, as well as being bald and possessing no neck that Quinn could see. He looked as though he might bench-press cargo containers just to pass the time while enduring the boredom of low-warp transport.
A few drinks earlier, Quinn would have found a way to avoid turning a verbal exchange born of alcohol-induced bravado into a physical altercation. A few drinks before that, he might even have laughed off the antics of the freight haulers, who as far as he could recall were merely enjoying their first night in port after being cooped up inside their ship for weeks or even months.
And a few weeks before that, I wouldn’t even be in here.
That was then, Quinn conceded, and this was now, and now he could not care less how the verbal joust had started, or why it had escalated. The fight was all that remained, and for Quinn, that was good enough.
Gesturing toward the newcomer, he made a show of bringing up his hands and assuming a defensive stance. “Okay, big boy. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Quinn jerked his head around to find himself staring into the none-too-pleased expression of Marshall Watts, a member of the kitchen staff who also doubled as one of the bar’s unofficial bouncers.
“Sorry, Quinn,” Marshall said, his tone one of warning. “Can’t let you do that.”
The freight hauler did not seem worried by the bouncer’s presence. “You saw what he did to my friends.” To emphasize his point, he waved one beefy hand to where one of his shipmates still sat on the floor with his hands pressed to his groin. His other friend, the one who had thrown the first punch at Quinn, was leaning against the bar while holding his midsection.
“It’s not my fault they fight worse than they dress,” Quinn said, pausing to run his tongue along his teeth. None of them felt as though they had been knocked loose. Well, that’s nice.
His comment got the expected response as the brawny freighter crewman growled something unintelligible before stepping forward.
“Whoa, ace!” Marshall said, holding up his free hand, but the hauler paid no heed.
Quinn jerked his arm free of the bouncer’s grip. “Let go of me!” he snapped, keeping his eyes on the other guy as he closed the distance. If there was going to be a fight, there was no way he was giving this idiot a free shot at him. The instant the hauler was close enough, Quinn slammed an uppercut into his jaw, snapping back the other man’s head and sending a bolt of pain down the length of Quinn’s arm.
What the hell’s he got in his mouth?The question screamed in Quinn’s mind as he winced and pulled back his hand. Duranium?
It was still a good punch, halting his opponent’s advance and giving him pause as he staggered to retain his balance. That was enough time for Marshall to move in and grab the other man’s right arm and begin the arduous process of dragging the hauler’s muscled bulk away from the bar. Quinn was still trying to shake off the ache in his hand when he felt a hand on his collar before he was jerked backward.
“Hey!”
“You’re out of here, Quinn,” said a female voice, one Quinn recognized as belonging to Allie, one of Tom Walker’s lead bartenders.
Twisting himself around, Quinn could not help but smile in appreciation at the bartender, who was wearing maroon leather pants and a matching vest. She wore no shirt beneath the vest so her arms were left bare, and so far as he was concerned, the form-fitting ensemble was doing a fine job of accentuating the curves of her trim, athletic figure.
“Stop staring at my ass,” Allie warned, her tone possessing not a hint of her usual humor as she pulled him along through the crowd of onlookers on her way toward the bar’s front door.
Doing his best to dredge up some lingering vestige of charm, Quinn replied, “But, it’s …”
Allie turned to glare at him, holding up her free hand and aiming her forefinger at him. “Finish that sentence and I’ll carve out your liver. Whatever’s left of it, anyway.”
“Come on, babe,” Quinn said as she resumed directing him toward the door. “You know I never mean any of the stuff I say. Even the stuff I say when I’m drunk.” Frowning, he added, “Which I know is a lot, lately.”
“Too much, in fact,” Allie replied. “I can’t have you in here riling my customers anymore, Quinn.” She stopped when she got within arm’s reach of the door, and turned to face him. “It seems like all you do anymore is come in here looking to pick a fight.”