"James Doohan - Flight Engineer Volume 2 - The Privateer-" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doohan James)

her velocity and boosted in the ship’s wake; it was a stern chase, but she had a lot more normal-space boost than a
craft burdened with interstellar capacity, even a compact and powerful one like the pirate corvette.
You took them down or you took them in, but you never left this scum to run free.
Firing solution, she thought. Too much in the way of fields and energetic particles for a beam attack, crawling up
their butts like this, but a missile . . .
“Bogie on your tail,” the computer announced with obscene calm.
With a gasp and a sharp stab of adrenaline Sarah’s hands moved in the gloves, wrenching acceleration slamming
the Speed into a random course. But she felt a hard impact and the craft was shaken like an old sock in a Doberman’s
mouth. The lights flared, went from green to red to overload as systems failed, lethal secondary radiation sleeted
through all shielding . . .
And her board blanked and the power went offline with a descending whine, leaving only a “YOU’RE DEAD”
signal blinking at her.
Sarah sat in the darkness and pouted.
Where the hell did that bogie come from? she wondered. Why didn’t the computer tell me that there were fresh
neutrino signals in that neighborhood?
“Simulation over,” the computer announced in a prim little voice. “Pilot and Speed both total casualties. Probable
outcome of exercise, loss of one merchant ship.”
Sarah winced, already assessing where her errors had lain. For one, I didn’t make sure that every merchant bridge
crew was familiar with the plan.
Wearily, Sarah pushed up her helmet and unclasped her harness. The door to the simulator opened and a tech
peeked in with a waft of cool, sterile station-side air. Sarah rose from her pilot’s couch and stepped out, bracing
herself for the inevitable techie good humor.
“You did really well in there, sir,” he said, smiling, but respectful. “Only person who’s ever had a higher score on
this run is Commander Raeder.”
Sarah’s brows went up. “Raeder’s run this sim?”
“Yes, sir. He’s here most every day. That new prosthesis that Lieutenant Robbins made up for him works like a
charm. He could fly rings around just about anybody on board. If they’d let him fly,” the tech finished with a shrug.
Sarah just said, “Huh!” and walked away to write her report on this simulation. It gave her a little lift though, to
know that Peter wasn’t giving up. Speed pilots as a group were hard to get down. But taking their wings away was
one of the few things that could do it. Raeder’s determination to get his back pleased her.
Though why it should, she thought with a shake of her head, is beyond me. Then she stopped, cocked her head
and turned back to the tech.
“So I’ve got the second-highest Speed test rating on board?” she asked.
“Yes, sir.” The tech grinned. “Unofficially, of course, since the captain is the one that’s s’posed to tell you.”
Sarah returned his grin and gave him a thumbs up. I’m in! she thought happily, as she walked away. Now all I
have to do is keep from overdosing on testosterone.
 Peter walked jauntily, returning the occasional salute; the corridors of the station felt a lot less drab and confining,
now that he knew he wasn’t staying here long. Even the recycled and carefully “scented” air felt better. . . .
On the other hand, he thought, I’m on my way to see His Arachnidness Marine General Scaragoglu. Even that
wasn’t quite enough to dampen his mood . . . but then he turned a corner to find Admiral Grettirson coming towards
him. When Grettirson noticed him the admiral’s lips jerked back from his teeth like a man stabbed in the backside by
poisoned mandibles.
Peter’s step slowed, but he continued walking. As they came closer to one another, he snapped off a salute and
stepped to the side.
The admiral slowed, then stopped, standing very close to Raeder. He did not return the salute. Raeder kept his
eyes stubbornly downcast, rightly afraid of the nervous laughter he knew would betray him. This was exactly the sort
of situation that brought it out in him.
How do you explain to a man this serious about himself that you’re not laughing at him? I’m not laughing at you,
sir, I’m laughing at the situation. I am the situation, Raeder. But I’m not laughing at you, sir. Then why, Raeder? I’m
laughing because, because . . . Because, sir, just because. Oh he’d had that conversation many, many times. But not