"Serrano Legacy - 01 - Hunting Party" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moon Elizabeth)

planet-bound admiral from one of the minor principalities, all because of the
whims of a rich old woman with more money than sense. They had to be laughing
behind her back, those merchanter officers and crewmen who didn't meet her
eyes, who went about their business as if purple and scarlet were normal
uniform colors, as if two sleeves covered with gold rings didn't look
ridiculous, as if the rim of gold and green striped cord around collar,
lapels, and cuffs didn't tell everyone that an R.S.S. officer had descended to
the level of carting wealthy eccentrics on pleasure jaunts in something far
more like a mansion than a spacefaring ship.
Commercial dockside ended abruptly at a scarred gray wall with a lockgate in
it. Heris inserted her card; the barred gate slid aside, then closed behind
her, leaving her caged between the bars behind and a steel door with a thick
window. Another keyslot; this time her card produced a human door-opener, who
swung the door aside and held out his hand for her papers. She handed over the
neat packet civilian life required. Master's license, certifications in five
specialties, Imperial ID, military record (abbreviated; only the unclassified
bones), letters of recommendation, and -- what mattered most here -- Lady
Cecelia de Marktos's seal of employment. The human -- Station Security or
Garond Family, Heris did not know which -- ran a handscanner over this last,
and replaced the entire pile in its file cover before handing it back to her.
"Welcome to North, Captain Serrano," the man said, with no inflection of
sarcasm. "May I be of assistance?"
Her throat closed a moment, remembering the words she would have heard if she
had gone through a similar lockgate on the other side of the commercial docks,
where sleek gray R.S.S. cruisers nuzzled the Station side by side. Where her
gray uniform with its glowing insignia would have received crisp salutes, and
the welcome due a comrade in arms. "Welcome to the Fleet," she would have
heard, a greeting used anywhere, anytime, they came together away from
civilians. But she could not go back there, back where her entire past would
wrap around her. She had resigned her commission. She would never hear those
words again.
"No, thank you," she said quietly. "I know where the ship is." She would not
say its name yet, though it was her new command.... She had grown up with
ships named for battles, for monsters, for older ships with long histories.
She could not yet say she commanded Sweet Delight.
North, on all Stations, defined the environs of aristocracy. Wealth and
privilege could be found anywhere, in the R.S.S. as well as the commercial
docks, but always near something else. Here was nothing but wealth, and its
servants. This deck had carpeted walkways, not extruded plastic sheeting; the
shops had no signs, only house emblems. Each docking bay had its own lockgate,
enclosing two large rooms: one marked "Service Entrance," lined with racks and
shelving for provisions delivered, and the other furnished luxuriously as a
reception salon for going-away parties. Heris's card in the slot produced
another human door-opener, this time a servant in livery, who ushered her into
the salon. Heris made her way between overstuffed sofas and chairs covered in
lavender plush and piled with pillows in garish colors, between low black
tables and pedestals supporting what were probably priceless works of art,
though to her eye they looked like globs of melted space debris after a
battle.
The actual docking tube lay unguarded. Heris frowned Surely even civilians had