Dee's imagination, or were a significant number of them lined up on the tender?
Dee wiped the sweat from her forehead and wished that she'd allowed for some sort of escape route.
Another hour passed. Then two. Cap had started to doze. Both of them were startled when a maintenance bot appeared, whirred into the module, took a coupling from one of the bins, and left. It seemed completely unaware of their existence.
Dee forced herself to relax. It made sense. The maintenance bot had the single-minded programming of a Terran ant. Go there, do that, and ignore everything else.
The sun started to set. The air inside the cargo module began to cool. The technicians disappeared and were replaced by a sentry and a tired-looking surveillance bot. It made endless paths around the destroyer's landing jacks sniffing the air for smells that shouldn't be there, monitoring the ground for signs of tunneling, and listening for suspicious sounds. All useful things to do on some rim world but more than a little silly in the middle of a major spaceport.
Still, regulations are regulations, and sniffers are SOP for a class three alert. Dee had been a marine and knew all about class three alerts. It reinforced her earlier impression. The destroyer was there for a reason.
The Imperial consul came to mind. A personage with more than enough power to move destroyers around and the motive to do so. The drifter, and the technology it contained, would serve as a powerful incentive. Besides, the consul had no way to know that Lando was innocent, so he saw himself as performing a public service as well.
Then, as if to erase any possible doubt, a pair of robo-cams appeared. They swooped out of the twilight like bats and circled the tender. Dee couldn't hear the dialogue but could imagine what it would be like.
"And so here it is⦠the ship that the killer's heading for. No one thinks that he'll make it as far as Brisco City, but they aren't taking any chances and have a destroyer in position just in caseâ¦"
Dee saw the sniffer point an antenna toward the robo-cams, saw the sentry become agitated, and knew some vidcasters were catching hell from the navy. The air between the spaceport and the vid station would be red-hot. She could imagine a hurried close.
"Well, folks, that's it for right now. We'll bring you more when there's more to bring. This is so and so, for news such and such, see you at ten."
The cameras zoomed away and vanished into the gathering darkness.
Dee walked to the rear of the cargo module, fumbled around in the darkness, and found what she was looking for. Two rumpled grease-stained coveralls. She threw one to Sorenson. "Here, put that on."
Cap started to say something, started to object, but one look at Dee froze the words in his throat. Any authority he had was aboard Junk. Sorenson stepped into the overalls and pulled them up around his shoulders.
"Stand still."
Cap obeyed as Dee smeared number-four grease on his face and hands. She did the same thing to herself.
"There⦠now grab some tools and follow me." Dee slipped out the door and Cap followed. Sorenson felt his heart skip a beat as Dee waved to the sentry and he waved back.
Then they were walking along together, marching toward the distant lights, two techs on their way home. The air was cooler now and rumbled with the sound of a distant lift-off.
Sorenson felt a terrible thirst but knew he wouldn't get any sympathy from Dee. He asked a question instead. "What now?"
Dee had appropriated a rather heavy toolbox. She shifted it from one hand to the other. "That's simple. We find ourselves a ship, intercept Melissa and Pik, and take off."
Sorenson shook his head doubtfully. "That doesn't sound easy to me."
Dee's eyes were on the lights up ahead. "I never said it would be 'easy.' I said it would be 'simple.'"
Sorenson nodded agreeably but couldn't see the difference.
5
There was no way to tell what the compartment had originally been used for. It was
Dee wiped the sweat from her forehead and wished that she'd allowed for some sort of escape route.
Another hour passed. Then two. Cap had started to doze. Both of them were startled when a maintenance bot appeared, whirred into the module, took a coupling from one of the bins, and left. It seemed completely unaware of their existence.
Dee forced herself to relax. It made sense. The maintenance bot had the single-minded programming of a Terran ant. Go there, do that, and ignore everything else.
The sun started to set. The air inside the cargo module began to cool. The technicians disappeared and were replaced by a sentry and a tired-looking surveillance bot. It made endless paths around the destroyer's landing jacks sniffing the air for smells that shouldn't be there, monitoring the ground for signs of tunneling, and listening for suspicious sounds. All useful things to do on some rim world but more than a little silly in the middle of a major spaceport.
Still, regulations are regulations, and sniffers are SOP for a class three alert. Dee had been a marine and knew all about class three alerts. It reinforced her earlier impression. The destroyer was there for a reason.
The Imperial consul came to mind. A personage with more than enough power to move destroyers around and the motive to do so. The drifter, and the technology it contained, would serve as a powerful incentive. Besides, the consul had no way to know that Lando was innocent, so he saw himself as performing a public service as well.
Then, as if to erase any possible doubt, a pair of robo-cams appeared. They swooped out of the twilight like bats and circled the tender. Dee couldn't hear the dialogue but could imagine what it would be like.
"And so here it is⦠the ship that the killer's heading for. No one thinks that he'll make it as far as Brisco City, but they aren't taking any chances and have a destroyer in position just in caseâ¦"
Dee saw the sniffer point an antenna toward the robo-cams, saw the sentry become agitated, and knew some vidcasters were catching hell from the navy. The air between the spaceport and the vid station would be red-hot. She could imagine a hurried close.
"Well, folks, that's it for right now. We'll bring you more when there's more to bring. This is so and so, for news such and such, see you at ten."
The cameras zoomed away and vanished into the gathering darkness.
Dee walked to the rear of the cargo module, fumbled around in the darkness, and found what she was looking for. Two rumpled grease-stained coveralls. She threw one to Sorenson. "Here, put that on."
Cap started to say something, started to object, but one look at Dee froze the words in his throat. Any authority he had was aboard Junk. Sorenson stepped into the overalls and pulled them up around his shoulders.
"Stand still."
Cap obeyed as Dee smeared number-four grease on his face and hands. She did the same thing to herself.
"There⦠now grab some tools and follow me." Dee slipped out the door and Cap followed. Sorenson felt his heart skip a beat as Dee waved to the sentry and he waved back.
Then they were walking along together, marching toward the distant lights, two techs on their way home. The air was cooler now and rumbled with the sound of a distant lift-off.
Sorenson felt a terrible thirst but knew he wouldn't get any sympathy from Dee. He asked a question instead. "What now?"
Dee had appropriated a rather heavy toolbox. She shifted it from one hand to the other. "That's simple. We find ourselves a ship, intercept Melissa and Pik, and take off."
Sorenson shook his head doubtfully. "That doesn't sound easy to me."
Dee's eyes were on the lights up ahead. "I never said it would be 'easy.' I said it would be 'simple.'"
Sorenson nodded agreeably but couldn't see the difference.
5
There was no way to tell what the compartment had originally been used for. It was
Similar Books
Welcome to the Neighborhood
Mary Abshire
Secrets and High Spirits: Secrets, Book 4
Lou Harper
The Fires
Rene Steinke
Wild Blood
Kate Thompson
Vodka On The Rocks (The Uncertain Saints Book 3)
Lani Lynn Vale
Weeping Angel
Stef Ann Holm
Stung: Winter Special
K.A. Merikan
The Watcher
Charlotte Link
Bad Boy Billionaire: F#cking Jerk 3
Tawny Taylor
Going in Circles
Pamela Ribon