Thrawn Ascendancy Book 3: Lesser Evil
- Автор: Зан Тимоти
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Random House
- ISBN: 9781473596580
- Жанр: Боевая фантастика
Электронная книга - «Thrawn Ascendancy Book 3: Lesser Evil». Краткое содержание книги:
Roscu looked at Rupiov, got a puzzled shrug in reply. “How did I know what?” she asked.
“That the threat is indeed represented by a war exercise,” Jixtus said. “How did you know of your enemies’ ships’ practice attack?”
“Wait a minute,” Roscu said. “What practice attack? What are you talking about?”
“You have a depth of knowledge and wisdom we did not expect to find among the Chiss,” Jixtus said. “But I cannot say more when others may hear. If I may not visit your world and your Patriarch, perhaps you can send a representative aboard the Whetstone for a more secure conversation.”
Roscu chewed at the inside of her cheek. But really, why not? There wasn’t anything to lose—surely Jixtus wouldn’t try to harm her or hold her hostage, not with a group of Chiss warships holding the Whetstone in their targeting sights.
On the contrary, there was a lot to be gained by accepting such an offer. The Mitth Patriarch had sent Jixtus away without trying to get a closer look at the Whetstone or even to learn more about Jixtus and the Kiljis. Now the Clarr family was being offered the chance to do both.
“Very well, I accept,” she said. “I’m sending you orbit information. Reposition yourself as instructed, and I’ll be there shortly.”
“We shall eagerly await your arrival.”
Roscu keyed off the comm. “Feed him a mid-altitude orbit,” she told Rupiov. “Make it a polar loop.”
“A bit tricky to get to one of those from their current vector,” Rupiov pointed out.
“That’s the point,” Roscu told him. “Let’s see how much trouble they’re willing to go through to talk to us. And make sure the orbit never puts them directly over the homestead.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rupiov said hesitantly. “You’re really going up there?”
“Why not?” Roscu asked, watching the orbital data flow across the comm display as it was transmitted to the Whetstone. She couldn’t decipher the numbers as quickly as a trained nav officer could, but it all seemed correct.
“Alone?” Rupiov pressed. “They’re aliens, you know. We don’t know what they’re capable of.”
“That’s all right,” Roscu assured him. “They don’t know what I’m capable of, either. More to the point, this is my chance to get a close look at that ship, inside and out, and to actually meet these people. Neither of which the Mitth bothered to do.”
Rupiov’s lips puckered in a smile. “No, they didn’t,” he said. “That should make for some interesting conversations in the Syndicure.”
“And possibly some good leverage points,” Roscu agreed. “Get me a shuttle and pilot. I want them ready to fly as soon as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rupiov said. “They’ll be outside the main entrance in fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes. Just enough time for Roscu to tie back her hair, change into her dress uniform, and get to the main entrance to meet the shuttle. Whatever these aliens were really here for, she wanted to make her best impression on them.
Especially since the Clarr family dress uniform went so well with a holstered charric. And since it also had a nice little concealed pocket that was perfect for a two-shot backup weapon.
If Jixtus was planning trouble, he would indeed not know what she was capable of. Not until it was far too late.
From the outside, the Whetstone looked like any other mid-class warship, with heavy nyix-alloy hull plating, weapons blisters scattered around its hull that housed lasers and missile launchers, and an ordered array of nodes marking the presence of an electrostatic barrier system.
The peace-sealing that Rupiov and the Mitth report had both mentioned consisted of heavy metal plates bolted over the missile tubes and spectrum laser openings. They looked sturdy enough, but Roscu suspected that they could be removed quickly if Jixtus decided he needed to fight. Still, whether the release mechanism consisted of explosive bolts or fracture metal, opening the weapons to combat status would still give the planetary defenders a few seconds’ warning.
For the Clarr family warships, at least, that would be more than enough. She couldn’t speak for Patrol Command’s competence.
Two bipedal aliens were waiting for her inside the docking vestibule when the shuttle door opened. One was tall with dark-brown hair and wrinkled, rubbery-looking orange skin, wearing an outfit made up of half a dozen different shades of blue. The other was much shorter, a bit shorter than Roscu herself, dressed in a black robe, hood, gloves, and face veil that completely obscured everything except his basic body shape.
“I am Jixtus,” the shorter alien identified himself. Here, in person, his voice sounded slightly less melodious and slightly more raspy than it had from the defense center speaker. “I greet you, Captain Roscu, and welcome you aboard the Whetstone. This is Generalirius Nakirre, ruler of the Kilji Illumine and master of this vessel. We appreciate your promptness. Allow us to show you to a place of comfort and refreshment where we may speak together at ease.”
“Never mind the refreshment,” Roscu said. The Venturous was blasting its way toward them in hyperspace, and she wanted the aliens gone before Admiral Dy’lothe got here and tried to take over. “You spoke of a threat and a practice attack. I’d like to hear the details.”
“A being of direction and focus,” Nakirre said. His voice was far less melodious than Jixtus’s, the Taarja words delivered in a grating monotone. But there was an intensity beneath the voice that sent a chill up Roscu’s back. “I approve.”
“I’m so glad,” Roscu said, regretfully aware that the sarcasm was probably wasted. “If one of you will lead the way …?”
“Of course,” Jixtus said. “Follow.” Turning, he walked through a hatchway at the side of the vestibule, Nakirre striding along close behind. Brushing her forearm against the charric belted at her right side, feeling the additional reassuring pressure of the hidden backup weapon, Roscu followed.
The corridor was as utilitarian as the Whetstone’s exterior. Thirty meters ahead was an open hatchway with soft light spilling out onto the gray metal passageway deck and wall. Jixtus and Nakirre turned and disappeared through the opening; again touching her forearm to her holstered charric, Roscu followed.
She’d assumed the compartment would be more of the same cold metal and ceramic as the corridor and the Whetstone’s exterior. To her surprise, she found herself in something that looked more like a child’s playhouse. The walls were patterned with the pinpricks of colored chase-pattern lights, while floating light globes hovered in each of the compartment’s upper corners. The carpet was thick and brush-topped, and the round table and six chairs that dominated the room were made of contrast-carved wood.
But at least the multiscreen set into the center of the desk was modern and efficient. The image on the displays showed five ships of various sizes and configurations set against a starry background.
“Please; be seated,” Jixtus said, gesturing to the table as he and Nakirre headed for the two chairs closest to the hatch.
“Thank you,” Roscu said. She circled Nakirre as he settled into his chosen seat, picking the chair to the tall alien’s right where she would have clear views of both the hatch and the display on that side. As an extra bonus, sitting there also put her charric and gun hand out of Nakirre’s reach. Even paranoids, the old saying whispered through her mind, have enemies.