Chalmun’s was as lovely little hole in the wall cantina. Well, if you ignored the fact that Os Eisley was a shithole that catered to what some would call the most wretched hive of scum and villainy in the galaxy, and Atooine was a backwater desert planet that was known mostly for being near one of the 16 Gateways in Known Space (and one of five in Imperial space). So it was less ‘charming hole in the wall’ and more ‘semi-neutral ground’.
At any rate, the Cantina was normally full of people thanks to the fact that it had the magic combination of having liquor and being near the commercial spaceport, and today was no exception. About thirty men and women (all human, because this WAS Imperial space) were sitting at the various tables, drinking and enjoying themselves when the harsh desert sun coming through the doorway alerted everyone to new arrivals. Everything stopped as all heads turned towards the newcomers, who were briefly silhouetted against the doorway before it shut, leaving them adjusting to the darker room while those already present got a good look at them.
They were four in number. A human male, average sized, wearing all black including a long coat over what looked like some personal armor, stood in the center, and appeared to be the leader of this bunch. A well-muscled human female, wearing similar clothes, and carrying a big ass halberd like it was a walking stick, stepped in next to him, her eyes scanning the room like a bodyguard. A slender knelfi woman was slightly behind them, in what most were now putting together as this group’s ‘ops uniform’, but she had a tool belt on her hips, rather than a gun belt, though she was sporting a small shoulder holster for a pistol. The final member of the group was a catgirl. Not a Felisan, but a knelfi woman who had been extensively modified to have a catgirl appearance, including fur and a tail! She was hot as hell, and also dressed in the ‘ops uniform’.
The bartender scowled at them as they entered, and said, “We don’t serve their kind here!”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the fat man behind the bar. “What?”
“Your xenos! We don’t want their kind here!”
The man smirked, and said, “Well, you’re not serving them, you’re serving me. And since they’re my slaves, they’re staying with me.” With that said, he began walking into the bar, ignoring the bartender as he looked for someone.
One of the men at the bar, a regular who was friends with the owner (and one of the reasons for the ‘no xenos’ rule), growled, and got up from his seat, with three of his buddies joining him. He was a big, strong man, clearly capable of violence and more than willing to use it to get what he wanted. And what he wanted at the moment was to kick the xeno-lover out of ‘his’ bar so everything would be right with his universe again. “Perhaps ya didn’t hear the man, xeno-humper. He said get y’er floozies outta the bar.”
The man turned to look at the slab of beef masquerading as an idiot, and said, “Or what? You’ll stand near me? When was the last time you bathed in anything other than your own shit? Or does your buddy like the aroma when you’re blowing his horn, so he can call you a filthy animal, and mean it?”
This was not the response the regular was hoping for, and it certainly wasn’t one that was going to go over well with him. Those closest to the potential action took hold of their drinks, to make sure they kept them when the fight started. Place like this, there was rarely a day when someone didn’t get into a fight. Further back from the two groups, wagers were placed on who would be walking out of here and who was going to be carried out.
The regular growled, and pulled his large, ham-like fist back to throw the first punch. Unfortunately for him, size and ‘liquid courage’ might make all the difference in a normal bar brawl, but training and sobriety (for the moment, anyways) was a far more potent combination. The man moved as the punch went through where his head was moments before, and a snap of light and a buzzing sound filled the air, followed by the screams of the regular, who was now sprawled on the floor, looking in pain and shock at where his right leg used to be. Only now, everything below the knee was a couple feet away from where he now was.
The regular’s three friends took a half-step forward, about to educate this punk on why you didn’t introduce weapons into a ‘friendly’ bar brawl, when they all came up short. The point of the redhead’s halberd was in the center one’s face, right between the eyes. The other two also had the lovely experience of seeing more traditional weapons up close and personal, a heavy pistol in the knelfi girl’s hand, and a shotgun in the catgirl’s. They quickly decided that there was a difference between sticking up for their friend and being put down like dogs.
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Said friend was lying on the ground, trying very hard not to move as the energy saber was just a centimeter from his throat. The man just held it there, while he calmly accessed the regular’s bracer, and transferred a large sum from the man’s account to the bartender. Looking up at the bartender, he said, “To pay for the mess, and three rounds for the bar, on this guy!” He said the last part loud, because everyone knew that free booze tasted better than that you had to pay for. The fact that there was a substantial bit left over would provide the bartender with an ample tip.
The man turned back to the three stooges looking nervously at the business end of the weapons pointed their way. “You three are going to be good boys and take your friend home so he can sober up, yes?” They nodded. “Good, because I don’t think he’s in any fit state to be walking on home on his own. Too many beers for his own good. Now get!” Weapons were pulled aside, and the three stooges got, taking their friend with them, while money changed hands in the background, and the band got back to playing.
As the foursome put their weapons away (or at least not actively threatening anyone in the case of the halberd), the man resumed looking around, and noticed one of the patrons in the rear of the bar signaling him discretely. With an easy gait, he led the way through the suddenly much more respectful crowd, until they reached the table in question. It was a large corner booth, designed for larger groups, and capable of seating ten comfortably, plus a couple more if they pulled up chairs. Four people were sitting there, the man (clearly a soldier by his bearing) they were there to meet sitting in the center.
“Impressive entrance. No hesitation on the fight either, even from the little one.”
The man in black nodded, and pointed out his pets as he named them. “I’ve trained Shearah as well as I could, but Cali and Sona have prior training. You’re ‘MajorTom’, yes?”
The soldier nodded, and extended a hand. “Chris Khan, here. Major Tom is who I was in the other world. And you’re the infamous Captain Mollen?”
The Captain laughed at that. “Infamous, am I? Must be doing something right, then.” He shook the offered hand, and said, “So, Chris, you mentioned you had a group of jarheads and ne’er do wells that were feeling the need for some action, but the sandpit wasn’t for them any more, for all kinds of reasons that I don’t need to know unless they become a problem, yes?”
The woman next to Chris looked like she was about to chew her leg off if she didn’t get something off her chest, so the Captain looked at her directly. “Let me guess, you’ve got something to say about me having a harem of beautiful slave girls, right?” He paused just long enough for her to start speaking, before cutting her off again. “I’m not going to blow smoke up your ass, so I’ll appreciate it if you didn’t make too many assumptions about me. The only people I’ve personally enslaved attacked me and bit off more than they could chew. I could have killed them, but instead I put them to use. Most of my slaves are that way because they got into debt, or ran afoul of someone with political power, and I bought them off the public markets. A few were guilty of being aliens in Imperial space, and one got tricked into signing up to be a slave.”
“Other than the people I could have shot instead of collared, all my slaves would have been slaves regardless of whether I owned them or not. And I yeah, I get benefits from this, but ask my slaves, especially the ones that have known other owners, and they’ll tell you that I’m a lot less of a bastard than most.”
“But you admit to being a bastard.”
“Damn straight I do. Would I be the kind of person looking for a group of badasses to introduce this world to new and creative methods of deploying field expedient mayhem if I wasn’t? But if it makes you feel any better, I’ll give you the basic HR spiel. I won’t throw any of my people into the meat grinder unless there’s a damn good reason for it, and they’ll know about it ahead of time. If it turns out things are nastier than we thought, then I’ll do my level best to get as many of my people out the other side alive and well, even if it means I have to personally tear someone a new asshole to get my people back.”
“And what about harassment?”
“The HR handbook is real simple on that. Comes down to one word, ‘DON’T’, all in big capital letters. I don’t tolerate people forcibly enslaving my people, or forcing my people to do those kinds of things against their will or as part of a quid pro quo. A slave’s duties to their master depends on the slave and the master, and I don’t get into that unless it hurts the company, or one of them is underage. And while I could compel any of my slaves to do anything I want to or for or with me, I already got a group of lovelies that take up all my free time on that front, and they’d be pissed as hell at me if I was too busy getting busy to give them any attention. That answer your question?”
The female soldier grumbled a bit, before Captain Mollen said with a grin, “Oh, but there’s nothing stopping you from getting a cute slave boy (or girl, I don’t judge) of your own, and having fun with them, so long as it doesn’t disrupt ops. You’re a free woman. Someone tries to do something to you that you don’t like, put them in the infirmary or the morgue, and let your CO know so they can get you some cover. You go and let someone slap a collar on you willingly, well, then you knew what you were signing up for.”
The woman still looked annoyed, but was no longer righteously pissed any more, so Chris simply shrugged, and said, “Meyers was involved in an ‘incident’ with a CO who didn’t appreciate her views on his offer to fast track her promotion in return for some ‘favors’. Your stream isn’t exactly the most PC viewing, you know.”
Mollen nodded. “If it were, I’d be doing something wrong. So, you interested in some mayhem?”
Chris grinned. “I’m a Marine. We’re ALWAYS interested in mayhem. I spread the word to some others that were out of the Corps in the other world. Think your Black Star Fleet could use a company of retired and discharged United States Marines?”
“Welcome to the Black Star Company, Major Khan. You’ll be commanding the First Company, Black Star Marines. Pick your own staff, and organize the platoons. You know that side better than I do. The Company will make sure you have the toys to play with, and the Fleet will get you to where you need to go. There’s a war on, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Let’s meet up with the rest of your men and get you geared up. I have a list of targets already that are dearly in need of the special care that only a Marine can give them.”
Chris nodded. “Hoorah.” The other marines called it back to him, smiles on all their faces. Well, only a small one on Meyers’s, but it was still there.