"Charles Ingrid - The Sand Wars 01 - Solar Kill" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ingrid Charles)

The man’s head swiveled and he squinted slightly, to look at the tiny view-screen in the galley’s wall, as it previewed
the upcoming planet. “So that’s the name of it. No, can’t say as I do.”
The two men eyed each other. Marciane rubbed his chin abruptly. He had a feeling there was a lot more to the youth
than showed—like the battle armor, for instance. He knew it couldn’t be Storm’s, but it was.
“How long were you out there? Where did you come from?”
“Let me have a look at your bulletin board, and I can give you a pretty good idea of how long I was drifting. As to
where I came from ... captain, I don’t want to hedge with you, right now. I’ve had a look at your setup. You don’t want
to be telling me too much of your business, either.”
Marciane reached out. His fingers drummed the tabletop. “I can’t have you sending messages through to Washington
Two.”
“That’s not my business—that’s yours.”
“All right then. Come with me.” The Montreal captain was never so aware that, as his visitor shadowed him, the image
of the battle armor shadowed him as well.
Tubs’ round eyes opened wider as he saw the two men shouldering into the narrow bay of his work station. He craned
his neck at them. “Yes, captain—what is it?”
“Storm wants to have a look at our bulletin board. Pull it up.”
Yes, sir.
He brought up the subspace messages. There were a few holos of wanted men, some odd news items here and there, a
few personals, and then the brief, startling news flash that the colony planet of Claron had been firestormed forty-eight
hours ago, and all survivors evacuated.
Storm’s face tightened. “That’s your answer, Captain. I’ve been out here forty-eight hours.”
“You’re from Claron? Impossible. And who would do a thing like that? Claron’s only been open a few years. It’s worth
next to nothing.”
“I don’t know. I was rangering there when we got hit. I got to my suit, put it on, and made it to the Gate that opened
Claron up. The energy backlash knocked me through.”
Marciane made an irritated whistling noise through the gap in his front teeth. “Nobody destroys a planet for nothing.”
“No,” said Storm softly. “And I intend to find out the real reason. Just set me down dirtside, and I’ll be on my way.”
Tubs cleared his throat, said nothing to his captain’s warning glare, and turned back to his board, shutting down the
bulletin board.
Marciane looked to his visitor. “It’s going to be a little more complicated than that, son. We’re going to be doing a
little destroying ourselves.”
“Doing what?”
“We’re strikebreakers.”
Marciane invited Storm back to the galley, where he poured out something a little stronger than water. Faded blue eyes
considered the whiskey label on the bottle.
“This is good stuff.”
“Tantalos prides itself on its breweries. I saved this for a rare occasion.” Marciane poured himself a drink and let it sit
while his guest sipped at the mellow amber.
Storm savored the drink, swallowed and then said, carefully, “Where I come from, people drink this kind of stuff over
deals.”
Marciane, for all his deepspace-toughened hide, flushed a little, then said, “Close.”
“What do you want from me?”
“What do you think I want? Your suit, and your expertise in operating it. If it’s yours.”
“It’s mine, all right. But I’m retired.”
“So am I ... into private enterprise. Now, down- there, we have Washington Two, in the clutches of strikers who’ve
shut down the spaceport and damn near everything else. I have people paying me who don’t want to be shut down.
They don’t want to be union. They don’t want to starve while the unions and the Dominion negotiate over this parcel
of space.”
“So you’re going to kick ass.”
“Damn right. I’ve been invited to the party.”