Джеймс Лучено: Cloak Of Deception

the droid updated.

Dofine turned to the navigator. "Enable defense systems!" "Central control computer reports continued blasterfire in the starboard hangar. Eight security droids destroyed." "Destroyed?" "Defense system has the Nebula Front starfighters in target lock. Deflector shields are raised-was "Starfighters firing!" Intense light exploded behind the rectangular viewports and shook the bridge hard enough to rattle a droid off its feet.

"Turbolasers responding!" Dofine swung to the viewports in time to see hyphens of pulsed, red light streak from the freighter's equatorially mounted batteries.

"Where is our closest reinforcement?" "One star system distant," the navigator said.

"The Acquisitor.

More heavily armed than the Revenue." "Send a distress call!" "Is that wise, Commander?" Dofine understood the implication. Rescue was always a belittling event. But Dofine was certain that he could offset the humiliation by protecting the Revenue's cargo.

"Just do as I say," he told the navigator.

"Starfighter elements are forming up for a second run," the Sullustan updated.

"Where are the starfighters? Why aren't they moving in to engage?" "You recalled them, Commander," the navigator reminded.

Dofine gestured wildly. "Well, relaunch them, relaunch them!" "Central control computer requests permission to isolate zone two of starboard hangar."

"Seal it!" Dofine sputtered. "Seal it now!" The masked group that had infiltrated the Revenue were a diverse lot-as varied as the starfighters that were flying support- humans and nonhumans, male and female, stocky and slender. Protected by camouflage suits and matte-black armorply, and sporting gripsole deckboots and combat goggles, they emerged from behind the battering ram that had afforded them an element of surprise, firing state-of-the-art assault rifles and shoulder-slung field disrupters.

The handful of security droids that were still standing collapsed to the deck, limbs splayed or hopelessly entwined.

The human OLR-4 had nearly gotten the drop on strode fearlessly to the center of the yawning hangar, checked a readout on his wrist comm, and tugged the rebreather and goggles from his face.

The firefight had left a vagrant tang in the air, the smell of ozone and scorched alloy.

"Atmosphere is ena4," he told the rest of his band. "But oxygen levels are equivalent to what you'd find at four thousand meters. Off your masks, but keep them handy-especially you t'bac addicts." With some muffled laughter, the team complied.

Beneath the apparatus, the human's dark-complexioned face was still a mask: thickly bearded with coarse black hair, and rashed from temple to temple with small diamond-shaped tattoos. His violet eyes surveyed the damage with obvious dispassion.

There wasn't a security droid in sight, but the deck was littered with their remains. Labor droids of several varieties continued to route a few pods to berthing spaces.

A human member of the team kicked aside the severed arm of a security droid. "These things could be dangerous if they ever learn to think straight."

"Shoot straight," the bearded man amended.

"Tell that to Rasper, Captain Cohl," another said-Boiny, a Rodian. "It was a droid that sent Rasper on his way." A green — skinned and round-eyed male, Boiny had a tapered snout and a crest of pliant yellow spines.

"A lucky droid, a luckier shot," a Rodian female remarked.

"That doesn't mean we treat this like an exercise," Cohl warned, eyeing everyone. "The central control computer will be deploying backup units soon enough, and we've got a kilometer to go before we hit the centersphere." The infiltrators glanced down the curved hangar toward a bulkhead that loomed in the distance. High overhead were massive box girders and I-beams, cranes, maintenance gantries, and hoists, a puzzle of atmosphere and vectoring ducts.

A human female-the only among them-whichistled softly. "Stars' end, you could hide an invasion force in here." As dark-complexioned as Cohl, she had short brown hair and an elegantly angular face. Even the mimetic suit could not camouflage her shapeliness.

"That would mean spending some of the profits, Rella," a male human said.

"And the Neimoidians don't do that unless they can spend it on new robes."

Boiny loosed a high-pitched laugh. "You grow up a half — starved Neimoidian grub, that's what happens." Cohl raised his bearded chin to two of his band.

"Stay with the pod. We'll make contact when we have the bridge." He swung to the others. "Team one, take the outer rim corridor. The rest of you are with me." The Revenue shuddered slightly. Muted explosions could be heard in the distance.

Cohl cocked an ear. "That'll be our ships." Sirens began to blare throughout the hangar. The labor droids stopped in their tracks, as a basso rumble gathered underfoot.

Rella gazed at the far-off bulkhead. "They're sealing off the hangar."

Cohl waved a gesture to the first team. "Move out.

We'll rendezvous at the starboard turbolifts.

Set your suits to pulse-that ought to confuse the droids-and use the concussion grenades sparingly. And remember to monitor your oxygen levels." He took a few steps, then stopped. "One more thing: You get blasted by a droid, bacta rehabilitation comes out of your pay." Daultay Dofine stood rigidly on the bridge's walkway, watching in arrant horror as the Nebula Front showed his ship no mercy.

The motley starfighters fell on the Revenue in full force, pick ing away at the freighter's fat arms and triple-thrustered hindquarters like ravenous birds of prey. Many of the unshielded droid ships were annihilated as soon as they emerged from the vessel's protective force field.

Emboldened by their effortless mastery, the enemy craft violated the embrace the hangar arms threw about the centersphere by strafing the command tower at close quarter. Ion cannon fire from the gunship sent waves of aggravation through the Revenue's deflector shield. Violent light washed against the bridge viewports.

It was all Define could do to keep himself rooted on the walkway, as he cursed the terrorists under his breath.

In return for having been awarded what amounted to exclusive rights to trade in the outlying star systems, the Trade Federation had pledged to the Galactic Senate on Coruscant that it would content itself with remaining a mercantile power, and refrain from becoming a naval power through the accumulation of war machines. However, the further the giant ships traveled from the Core, the more often they fell victim to attacks by pirates, privateers, and terrorist groups like the Nebula Front, whose broad membership had grievances not only with the Trade Federation, but also with distant Coruscant itself.

As a result, the senate had granted permission for the freighters to be equipped with weapons of defense, to safeguard them in the unpoliced systems strewn between the major trade routes and hyperlanes. But that had only forced the raiders to upgrade their armaments and, in turn, prepared the way for periodic strengthenings of Trade Federation defenses.

Skirmishes in the Mid and Outer Rims-throughout the so — called free trade zones-had since become commonplace. But Coruscant was a long way off, even by lightspeed, and it was not always easy to ascertain who was at fault and who had fired first. By the time matters reached the courts, it often came down to the word of one party against the word of another, without resolution.

Things might have gone differently for the Trade Federation but for the Neimoidians, who were as penurious as they were avaricious. When it had come to fortifying the giant ships, they had sought out the most cut-rate suppliers, and they had insisted that protecting the cargo was their paramount concern.

Against all sound judgment, it was the Neimoidians who had dictated the placement of quad laser batteries around the outer wall of the hangar arms.