"Linnea Sinclair - Silent Run" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sinclair Linnea)

She wasn’t interested.
The pod shimmied. “Green Terminal,” a tinny autovoice announced.
“That’s me.” Donni squeezed Shandy’s hand. “Catch you here in two
months?”
“We’ll swap transmits before then. Stay out of trouble.”
“That should be your motto, not mine. And tell Cameron,” Donni said,
stressing the name as she headed for the exit door, “I send my warmest regards.”


III

Shandy tabbed on the console lights on the Lucy’s small bridge. Her inbox
icon flashed on her screen.
Two solicits from export agents, one on Q'uivera Station and one in Port Rumor,
recommending she register her ship with them. For a small advance fee, of course.
She cleared the words from the screen.
Next was a note from Nolan. Cargo Chief Nolan Ennis of the Jero Hagan, the
title officially read. He’d heard she was scheduled for a pickup at Q'uivera, the
Hagan’s home base. If she had time, the note continued, dinner would be nice.
“Long as I’m not dessert,” she commented absently, then corrected herself.
“Don’t transmit that, Lucy!”
“Acknowledged,” came the reply.
Then came the message she didn’t understand, its Transmitting Terminal
Designation skewed and incomplete. Shandy frowned at the cryptic words on her
screen.
IMPER..., it read. DALGRA FI... T... ES... S.R... CAM-T/V.
The easiest part was DALGRA FI. That could only be Dalgra Five, the mining
colony two jumps out from Port Tyber. Recent jump-jockey gossip stated the
reclusive Dalgrans were looking to offer lucrative transport contracts for their mining
production. Shandy knew, even before her conversation with Cam Talvarrin, that
several Conclave merchanter conglomerates were vying to meet on Deneb with
colony representatives.
There were no such things as trade secrets in Syar.
She took a stab at the remainder of the message. IMPER. Imperfect?
Impertinent? The latter she’d been called often enough. By the man whose initials
ended the message: CAM-T/V. Cameron Talvarrin of the Valiance.
 That was one more reason why she felt sure those kisses had been prompted by
alcohol rather than affection.
But what troubled her more than their spirited discussions were two other initials
in the transmit: S.R.. It was an old smuggler’s term, demanding stealth and speed in
an urgent matter. S.R.. Silent Run.
IMPER could well mean imperative. Urgent.
She put it all together; hoped she was wrong. It made no sense and only lodged
a tense, sick feeling in her stomach. A blind, muddied request, no; a plea for help.
From a man whose name alone could fund an entire rescue fleet.
For that very reason she knew it meant something more serious than she dared
consider. And S.R. meant she couldn’t contact him to ask what it was all about.
She leaned back in the pilot’s chair, plopped her scuffed boots on the edge of
the console. She owed him nothing. He was an arrogant scoundrel who was quite
capable, she was sure, of taking care of himself.