fi?ve years. Ever since his quad took a direct hit, his life support went down, and he suffered some brain damage. A civvie was using him as a shoeshine stand when I came along. So I saved the money to buy him. He’s overdue for a tune-up though—so a credit or two would help.”
Santana knew she could be lying but gave her a fi?ftycredit debit card anyway. “Take Quimby in now. Before you buy any booze.”
The woman grinned toothlessly as she accepted the piece of plastic. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Santana nodded, and was just about to leave, when a raspy voice issued forth from the beat-up brain box. Though not normally equipped with any sort of speaking apparatus, Quimby’s brain box had been modifi?ed for that purpose. And while far from functional, the creature within could still think and feel. “I’m sorry, sir,” Quimby said apologetically. “But there were just too many of them—and we lost Norley.”
Santana felt a lump form in the back of his throat.
“That’s okay, soldier,” he said kindly. “You did what you could. That’s all any of us can do.”
The crowd swallowed the offi?cer after that, the woman stood, and lifted Quimby off the sidewalk. “Come on, old buddy,” she said. “Once we get those toxins fl?ushed out of your system, we’ll charge your power supply and go out for a beer.”
“There were just too many of them,” Quimby insisted plaintively. “I ran out of ammunition.”
“Yeah,” the woman said soothingly, as she carried the cyborg down the hall. “But it’s like the man said. . . . You did everything you could.”
It was hunger, rather than a desire to see a fi?ght, that drew Santana to the Blue Moon Bar and Fight Club. A wellknown dive in which the patrons were free to eat, drink, and beat each other senseless. The interior of the club was about a third full when Santana entered. That meant there were plenty of seats to choose from. Especially among the outer ring of tables that circled the blood-splattered platform at the center of the room. It squatted below a crescent-shaped neon moon that threw a bluish glare down onto a pair of medics as they tugged an unconscious body out from under the lowest side-rope. That left the twelve-foot-by-twelvefoot square temporarily empty as those fortunate enough to survive the previous round took a much-deserved break. Santana chose a table well back from the platform, eyed the menu on the tabletop screen, and ordered a steak by placing an index fi?nger on top of the cut he wanted. A waitress appeared a few moments later. She was naked with the exception of a thong and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Most of her income came from tips generated by allowing patrons to paw her body. And even though the waitress did the best she could to produce a pouty comehither smile, there was no hiding the weariness that she felt. “So, soldier,” the woman said for what might have been the millionth time. “What will it be? A beer? A drink? Or me?” Her saline-fi?lled breasts rose slightly as her hands came up to cup them.
“Those look nice,” Santana allowed, as he eyed the giant orbs. “But I’ll take the beer.”
The waitress looked relieved as she wound her way between the tables and headed for the bar. She had a nice and presumably natural rear end, which Santana was in the process of ogling, when a commotion at the center of the room diverted his attention. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
the short man in the loud shirt said importantly. “The battle began with six brave sailors, and fi?ve legionnaires, who gave a good account of themselves until the last round, when all but one was eliminated. So, with a total of three sailors left to contend with, our remaining legionnaire is badly outnumbered. Of course you know the rules. . . . New recruits can join the combatants up to a maximum of six people per team, one Hudathan being equivalent to two humans.”
The short man raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare. “So who is going to join this brave legionnaire? Or would three additional sailors like to come up and help their comrades beat the crap out of her? She could surrender, of course. . . . Which might be a very good idea!”
The sailors, all male, had climbed up onto the platform by that time and were in the process of slipping between the ropes. The legionnaire, who was quite obviously female, was already there. She wore her hair short fl?attop style, and a black eye marred an otherwise attractive face. The woman stood about fi?ve-eight, and judging from the look of her arms and legs, was a part-time bodybuilder. Her olive drab singlet was dark with sweat, and a pair of black trunks completed the outfi?t. Her hands and feet were wrapped with tape, but the only other protective gear the legionnaire had was a mouthpiece that made her cheeks bulge. If the soldier was worried, there was certainly no sign of it as she threw punches at an imaginary opponent.
There were loud catcalls from the naval contingent, plus laughter from a sizable group of marines, but no one appeared ready to join the woman in the ring. That struck Santana as surprising, because in keeping with their motto Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country), legionnaires were notoriously loyal to each other. But by some stroke of bad luck it appeared the young woman and he were the only members of their branch present. And the last thing the offi?cer wanted to do was be part of a stupid brawl.
“Uh-oh,” the short man said, as his voice boomed over the bar’s PA system. “It looks like the odds are about to change!”
Santana saw that two additional sailors were climbing into the ring, both confi?dent of an easy victory. Suddenly the odds against the lone legionnaire had changed from three to one to fi?ve to one. But rather than leave the ring as she logically should have—the woman continued to jab the air in front of her.
Santana sensed movement and turned to fi?nd that the waitress with the large breasts had arrived with his steak. The huge slab of meat was still sizzling, and the smell made his stomach growl. “That looks good,” the offi? cer said as he got up from the table. “Keep it hot for me.”
The waitress glanced toward the ring and back again.
“Okay, hon, but you’ll have to pay now. Because if those sailors send you to the hospital, then the boss will take your dinner out of my pay.”
Santana sighed, paid for the steak, and threw in a substantial tip. “Like I said, keep my food warm.”
The waitress wondered why such a good-looking man would want to get his face messed up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, honey,” she said kindly. “Your steak will be waiting in the kitchen.”
“Wait a minute!” the short man proclaimed, as Santana began to make his way down the aisle. “What have we here? A legionnaire perhaps? A knight in shining armor?
Let’s hear it for our latest contestant!”
Everyone, the sailors included, wanted a real contest, so a cheer went up as the offi?cer removed his shirt and
