A Crowded Bar on Assignment Day

This is a brand new short story featuring two of the main characters from “Dremiks”. I used to send out one exclusive short story with my monthly newsletter. This one is too long to stick in a newsletter, though! Please leave me a comment and tell me what you think.

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Ensign Johan Guttmann turned his body sideways, trying to take up less space in the crowd. Through the vagaries of staggered schedules in the engineering and pilot advanced-training schools, both schools’ recent graduates had received their new duty assignments that afternoon. As the closest bar to the International Space Agency’s compound east of Roswell, New Mexico, this dusty ramshackle structure was the obvious location for a celebration. That meant that “Last Port” was filled with uniformed bodies.

The two cohorts had naturally segregated with the pilots clustered to the left of the doors and the engineers to the right. Around the bar, located in the center of the room and staffed by three harried bartenders, everyone fought to get drinks. Every gender, skin tone, and hair color was represented in the room. They were all human—Dremikians didn’t drink and they didn’t attend ISA advanced schools.

Ensign Guttmann had started his evening on the engineers’ side of the bar. The crush of officers had pushed him along like a tidal wave until he was wedged firmly on the pilots’ side. He despaired of ever getting his ordered drink or returning to strike up a conversation with the pretty dark-haired Ensign Vaitea. Tall as he was, and the Swedish Ensign was over two meters tall, Johann couldn’t see over so many people to the corner where he’d left his friends.

He could see the three men moving slowly but purposefully through the crowd nearby. They weren’t looking around trying to find friends or potential dates. Their posture and focus stood out from the inebriated, celebrating people around them. They resembled a strike team moving toward their target.

That thought sounded an alarm bell in Johan’s head. He shifted his shoulders around, creating room between his body and the crowd. He forgot about the pretty girl. He forgot about his drink. He watched the wedge of three men knife through the crowd.

Against one bare wooden wall, with no traces of paint or stain left upon its rough surface, hung three dart boards. An impromptu tournament had broken out among the pilots. A semi-circle of humanity created a wall around the participants, but Johann could see over them. A tall woman with curly red hair starting to escape from her regulation up-do held court in front of the center board. She turned to taunt the opponent to her right, giving Johan a good look at her profile.

He knew, then, who the men were targeting.

Admiral O’Connell’s daughter, Lieutenant Maggie O’Connell, laughed loudly and without looking at the board, flicked her right wrist. The dart struck the board just outside of the center bullseye. The opponent she’d just taunted slumped his shoulders. Behind O’Connell, a dark-skinned man just slightly taller than her shrugged and shook his head. He leaned closer to say something to O’Connell. She nodded. Another man, lithe like a runner or a rower, gave the dark-skinned fellow a curt nod as if in acknowledgement.

Johan watched one of O’Connell’s friends move toward the bar. The three-man wedge he’d noted changed course slightly, moving so that two of them interposed their bodies between O’Connell and her escort.

Before the two wings of the three-man team could separate O’Connell’s remaining escort from the space near her, Johan started moving.

His long legs and equally long arms helped part the wall of bodies in his way. As he passed the first escort, Johan reached over and tapped the man on the side of the head. The aggressive gesture had the intended effect—the man turned, ready to throw a punch at the asshole who’d just flicked him in the temple.

The engineer didn’t stop.

O’Connell won her match. She jostled her defeated opponent with one shoulder. Still laughing, she turned to say something to the friend left behind with her.

She instead came face to face with the cold stare of a man she didn’t know.

Johan Guttmann reached Maggie O’Connell just as the leader of the strike team pulled an auto-injector from his pocket and flipped the cap off.

Maggie looked down. Her smile changed to a sneer. Her green eyes narrowed.

The man, stinking of adrenaline enough to register above the beer and sweat smell from the surrounding bodies, kept his arm low and swung it back as he stepped forward.

Johann grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted, carefully avoiding the auto-injector. He felt the tendons pop out of place. Then the bones broke.

A punch landed just above his left hip. He staggered but managed to keep his grasp on the opponent in front of him. O’Connell drew back her hand and delivered a sharp palm strike under the chin of her would-be-attacker. The man crumpled, choking and gasping for air. As he fell, Guttman let the man’s hand roll through his fingers, pulling the injector free.

The men and women around them noted the altercation. Most moved away, but a few stepped forward to help restrain the remaining members of the three-man strike team. O’Connell’s dark-skinned companion planted a gut punch and then a vicious uppercut on the man who’d followed him. He made eye contact with Johan. Johan jutted his head forward, indicating the back of the room and the dimly flickering emergency exit sign. They took up positions just behind and to the side of O’Connell.

She looked up at Guttmann, sighed, and rolled her eyes. He briefly thought she’d refuse to leave before she pivoted on her heels and marched ahead of him to the back exit.

The dry, oppressive heat of New Mexico in August slapped them in the face. All three jerked and squinted in the bright light from the sun setting directly in front of them.

O’Connell ceased walking. She crossed her arms over her chest. “The hell, Rodine?” Her alto voice’s tone resembled her features—all sharp edges.

Rodine held out one large hand to Guttmann. “Lieutenant Georges Rodine.”

“Ensign Johann Guttmann.”

“I’m—” O’Connell started to say.

“Everyone knows who you are,” Rodine interrupted her. He nodded his head, covered in dark, close-cropped hair, at Johan. “Thanks for that back there. Good eyes.”

“For an engineer,” O’Connell quipped.

Johan looked down at her. His blue eyes locked with her green eyes. He didn’t say anything for a minute, simply looked at her. “We’re trained to notice miniscule details, ma’am.”

She ducked her head, breaking the stare. “Sorry, that was bitchy of me.”

“It was.” Rodine took the edge off his comment by chuckling. “Now that we have everyone’s name, let’s get somewhere less exposed.”

“Wait, where’s Wendan?” Maggie turned her body and took one step toward the door.

“He’s on clean-up. Come on, O’Connell. I’m not taking chances there’s another team out hunting tonight.” Rodine didn’t touch her but still managed to herd the female pilot forward. Johan followed.

They stopped in the side parking lot in front of a sleek four-seater land vehicle. O’Connell slid into the interior. Rodine scanned the perimeter until his eyes rested on Guttmann standing on the other side of the vehicle.

“Who were those guys and why do you think there might be more?”

Rodine frowned. “That’s a complicated answer and I need to get her away from here. Join us?”

Johan didn’t make snap, instinctual decisions. He analyzed data, recognized patterns, and then acted. That he could do that quicker than the majority of other people, including other engineers, was a testament to his quick mind rather than an indicator of impulsiveness. He should politely decline and return to his classmates. He definitely did not need the chaos and controversy that followed Maggie O’Connell. The previous five minutes had conclusively proven that being in her orbit wasn’t safe.

Maggie opened the door and looked up at him. Green eyes sparkled with challenge. Her lips twitched toward a smile. “Well, you coming?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Johan Guttmann folded himself into the seat behind O’Connell.

She turned around as Rodine fired up the engine and pointed them toward Roswell. “People who save my life get to call me Mags.”

The playfulness in her voice didn’t reach her eyes, and that made Johan sad.

“What do your friends call you, ma’am?”

She looked away. “Pretty much the same group of people, really.”

He leaned forward against the automatic restraints and extended his hand to her.

“My friends call me Swede.”