"William C. Deets, Dean Williams Soldier for the Empire (STARWARS. DARK FORCES #1) (eng)" - читать интересную книгу автора

The hatch opened and everyone stepped out. In spite of the fact that Jan enjoyed the often awe-inspiring views available from the Star's many observation ports, the hangar deck was her favorite part of the ship. Not the hangar bay itself, but the endlessly fascinating ships parked therein.
Most were relatively small and belonged to passengers who preferred the liner's comfort to a long, monotonous trip aboard their own ships. That being the case, the Rebel agent saw all manner of vessels, including a work-worn lighter, a converted pinnace, numerous shuttles, and a barge equipped for long-distance cruising.
It was a joy to walk among them, to touch atmosphere-scorched metal, inhale the smell of ozone, and exchange greetings with sentient, who, like herself, enjoyed the kinesthetic feedback received while turning, pulling, bending, welding, connecting, bolting, and snapping parts into place.
Jan knew that her enjoyment of such things, like her ability to dance, was a gift from her parents. And while others might see them as two separate talents, she knew they stemmed from the same. impulse, a need to translate thoughts to motion. All of which had something to do with the fact that the agent had little to no interest in stationary machines.
Jan passed under a blunt-nosed bow, took note of a badly bent landing skid, and stopped in front of the aptly named Truly Sorry. Once classified as a speedster, the ship had outlived that description and was anything but fast. Beggars can't be choosers, however, not if they work for the credit-strapped Alliance, and the Sorry had been assigned to her. Until this mission was completed, that is. Then Jan would lobby for something better. Assuming the miserable pile of junk didn't kill her in the meantime.
Jan punched a string of numbers into the key pad located next to the belly hatch, winced as the badly worn actuator stuttered, and waited for the ramp to touch the lubricant-stained deck.
Her tools, the best money could buy, were stored in a high-quality self-propelled box located in the ship's tiny cargo compartment. She whistled, waited for the storage unit to trundle down the ramp, and thumbed the print lock. The lid whirred open, a tier of drawers popped free, and a power cable slithered toward an outlet.
The first and potentially most dangerous maintenance problem lay in the ship's hyperspace motivator, which had a tendency to produce false propulsion readings. That was a serious malady in light of the fact that the formula used to calculate hyperspace jumps required precise information regarding the ship's speed.
To access the motivator and run the necessary checks, Jan would have to free a belly plate, disconnect the wiring harness, and remove the lower half of the motivator housing. It was a long and not very stimulating job.
More than two hours passed before Jan backed the last bolt out of the motivator housing and heard it clatter on the deck. The agent realized her mistake the moment the casing dropped into her hands. The Sorry's ancient metal-heavy housing weighed in excess of a hundred kilos.
She should have used a hydraulic floor jack or, failing that, summoned a maintenance droid. The unit sagged, she struggled to support it, and wondered what to do.
She could holler for help. But it was unlikely that anyone would hear over the chatter of power tools and the beep, beep, beep of passing auto carts. Or, and this seemed more likely, she could jump out of the way and allow the housing to hit the deck.
Chances were that everything would be fine. But what if the casing developed a hair-thin crack? Or took a dent she couldn't pound out? The odds of finding a replacement aboard the Star were not good. All because she hadn't asked for help, a tendency her mother had first noticed when she was four years old.
The voice startled her. "That looks heavy. Can I lend a hand?"
Unable to speak, and shaking from the strain, Jan nodded her head. At least half the weight seemed to disappear as Kyle Katarn added his strength to the effort and they lowered the casing to the floor. "Should have used a floor jack, or called for a maintenance droid," he said maddeningly. "You could have hurt yourself."
Jan bit off the retort that threatened to launch itself from her lips. "Yeah - good thing you stopped by."
Kyle nodded absently. "Nice set of tools you have there. Must have cost a bundle. Need any help?" He looked hopeful and a little bit lost.
Jan wanted to say "No," wanted to chase Kyle away, but took pity on him instead. "Sure. Let's see if the Academy taught you anything useful. I'll work on the wiring harness - you tackle the diagnostics."
Kyle nodded. "Mind if I use your tools?"
"No, but thanks for asking."
The following hour passed in companionable silence. Though busy with her own tasks, Jan watched Kyle out of the corner of her eye. She was impressed by his knowledge and the surety of his hands. He knew his way around a hyperdrive and treated her tools with respect. Finally, after wiping his hands on an oily rag, Kyle delivered his diagnosis. "The sensor package is shot - and the power breaker needs adjusting."
Jan had arrived at the same conclusion. "Good, especially in light of the fact that the sensor package is one of the few things we have a replacement for. Back in a minute."
Jan was halfway to the ramp when Kyle spoke. "Jan. . . "
"Yeah?"
"I want to join. I want to do the kind of work you do."
She looked at him, saw the commitment in his eyes, and nodded. "I don't have the authority to recruit agents, Kyle. But I know the people who do. We're scheduled to part company with the Star two days from now, assuming our repairs hold. You're welcome to come along."
Kyle nodded solemnly. "Count me in."
"Good," Jan said. "Help boost that motivator housing into place, and you fly first class."
Kyle laughed.
Neither noticed the tiny caterpillar like microdroid that crawled along the top surface of a support strut, or heard the high-frequency transmission it sent.
The cabin was almost dark and more than half filled with trophies, including an assassin droid's head, a con woman's four-barreled hold-out blaster, a spy's bionic arm, a bank robber's satchel, and much, much more.
Each trophy was precious to the cabin's sole occupant, and would occupy special niches in the home he would excavate one day. But that was then - and this was now. His name was Slyder, and he listened to the Rebels with the same attention a banker lavishes on her head accountant. Human languages and diction were tricky at times, and mistakes could be fatal. Not that any part of his profession was especially safe.
Like many Rodians, Slyder was a bounty hunter. And a very successful one. No thanks to his tracking skills, which were mediocre at best, or his expertise with weapons, which was average, but because of the way he did his job.
Most of Slyder's peers, Rodians and other species alike, practiced their profession in the same time-honored manner: Wait for someone or something to post a reward, pursue the being in question, and kill or capture the quarry. This was a strategy that Slyder regarded as reactive, dangerous, and work-intensive.
His approach, which was unique to him so far as he knew, was to identify subjects that should have a price on their heads, identify the client willing to pay for his services, and then consummate the deal. By doing so he eliminated most, if not all, of the competition and maintained greater control over the enterprise. The Star, and the sentients she carried, made an ideal hunting ground, and saved the time and energy involved in running all over the Empire. Which explained why Slyder had lived in the same cabin for the past three years.
And which also explained his interest in Jan Ors, Kyle Katarn, Rosco Ross, and Ris Waller. The Empire, which maintained a long list of real and fancied enemies, was one of Slyder's best customers, and there was nothing they liked better, or paid more for, than Rebel agents.
Slyder grabbed a tube of pol pollen, popped the cork, and inhaled the substance through his snoutlike nose. The stimulant, which had consumed more and more of his income of late, boosted his ability to reason. Or so it seemed whenever he took it. There were three Rebel agents, each profitable in their own right, plus a droid, which might or might not have value, and a fledgling officer, who for reasons not apparent, was ready to desert. A profitable trip indeed.
Not only that, but an Imperial official happened to be on board, which not only created the perfect market for his goods, but bypassed the need to negotiate with petty officialdom. Slyder found the thought so good, so pleasing, that he rewarded himself with another dose of pollen.
The Donar suite was large and spacious. Stasis-fresh flowers, compliments of old man Haj, filled every available vase. A case of wine accompanied by a note from the Bonadan ambassador sat unopened in a corner. Crates of Caridian glassware, secured against an unexpected loss of gravity, sat against the inner bulkhead. Carefully selected pieces of Empire-style furniture sat in front of a large but mostly empty viewport.
All the members of the Donar family, each lost in their own world, were silent except for the occasional cough or rustle of fabric. The Governor had lost far too many credits to Lando Calrissian, and Madame Donar was angry. That being the case, he struggled to find a reason, any reason to avoid her. Especially given the fact that the ring she had given him on their twentieth wedding anniversary was gracing Lando Calrissian's hand rather than his. Had she noticed? And if she hadn't, should he attempt to win the keepsake back? No matter how hard he stared at the computer screen, it was blank.
The Governor looked up as the family protocol droid entered the room. He wore a black cutaway coat and made a noise similar to that of a man clearing his throat. Donar was thankful for the diversion. "Yes? What is it?"
"A visitor, sir . . . His name is Slyder - he regrets the intrusion but insists on seeing you."
Madame Donar sat in a corner, pretending to work on her embroidery, while Nathan Donar, one leg hanging over the arm of his chair, looked up from a sports printout.
Governor Donar, aware of their interest, waved his approval. "Yes, yes, show the gentleman in."
The protocol droid bowed and backed away. Slyder, who wished the lights were dimmer, entered, searched for the Governor, and found him. He hated the fat human on sight - and wished there was a bounty on his head. "Greetings, Excellency. Stories of your wisdom, generosity, and strength are more numerous than the stars."
The Rodian's naturally foul body odor, overlaid by the scent of his cologne, penetrated every corner of the room. Nathan smirked, his mother covered her nose, and Donar looked annoyed. He made no attempt to rise, nor did he invite the alien to sit.
"May I be of assistance, citizen Slyder? A matter of some urgency, I believe?"
Slyder touched hand to forehead in what Donar assumed was a gesture of respect. It conveyed just the opposite. "Your Excellency steals the words straight from my snout. I, like many members of my species, make a living as a bounty hunter. Not from a desire to accumulate credits, but out of our love for the Empire."
"Yes, of course," the Governor said impatiently. "So what are you selling?"
Slyder touched his forehead once again. "Your Excellency cuts to the very heart of the matter. There are at least three Rebel agents aboard this ship, plus a droid who may or may not carry valuable data. And an imperial officer who seems ready to desert."