Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [12]
He cracked a small smile. Rodo liked her, though he’d never made a move on her, and she knew he never would. “Imperial Intelligence ops.”
She frowned, surprised. What would a couple of Eyes be doing in her place? She ran a workingbeing’s bar, and there wasn’t much likelihood of any high-level skulduggery or spying being done here. This was the Southern Underground, after all; most underdwellers couldn’t even spell espionage, much less engage in it.
“You sure?”
“Pretty much. They got the look. You want, I can poke around some, check ’em out.”
She shook her head. “No. Don’t stir up trouble we don’t need. Just keep an eye on them.”
Rodo settled back. “That’s what you pay me for, Boss Lady.”
5
OFFICERS’ BARRACKS, ISD STEEL TALON, HORUZ SYSTEM
Master Chief Petty Officer Tenn Graneet rolled out of his sleep rack and put his bare feet onto the cold metal deck. That woke him up fast enough. Really ought to get a rug to put down there. He’d been meaning to do it since he’d been assigned to the ship, eight weeks ago, but other things kept taking priority, and neither S’ran Droot nor Velvalee, the other CPOs who shared the cabin, seemed bothered by it. Of course Droot’s feet were more like hooves, and Velvalee was used to temperatures a lot colder—the blasted floor might feel warm to his feet, for all Tenn knew. Those two were on graveyard shift this week, so they’d be heading back to the cabin about the time he got to his post.
Tenn mentally shrugged. Someday he’d get around to it. Maybe cozy up to that Alderaan woman who did knitting when off duty, get her to make him enough of a synthwool carpet to cover the deck—it wouldn’t take all that much. He always could sweet-talk a fem into doing all kinds of things for him.
He padded down the hall to the refresher, took a quick sonic shower, splashed depil on his stubble, and wiped it clean. Then, wrapped in a towel, he went back to don the uniform of the day.
Tenn Graneet was past fifty, but he was in very good shape for a man his age. He had a few unrevised scars from various battles when his station had been hit by enemy fire, or from when something had gone wrong and blown up, and a couple from cantina rumbles when he’d been slow to get out of the way of a broken bottle or vibroblade. Still, he was lean and muscular, and he could keep up with grunts half his age, though not as easily as he used to. The days when he could party all night and then work a full shift the next day were past, true, but on the obstacle course even the newbies knew enough to not get in front of him unless they wanted to get run over. It was a point of pride that, even after more than thirty years in the navy, nobody in Tenn Graneet’s gunnery crew could outdrink, outfight, or outwomanize him.
He picked out his oldest uniform clothes, the light gray faded to the color of ash, and slipped into them. They were going to get dirty and smelly anyway today, so no point in messing up new ones. Word from uplevels was there was going to be another surprise battle drill around midshift. The Port Heavy Blaster Station CO, Captain Nast Hoberd, was a drinking buddy with Lieutenant Colonel Luah, who was the admiral’s assistant, and as a result the PHBS always got the heads-up when a drill or inspection was about to be sprung. The captain wanted his unit to look good, and since they always knew in advance when it counted, they always did look good. White-glove a surface in any of the six turbolaser turrets or two heavy ion cannon turrets, and there wouldn’t be a speck of dirt. You could eat off the floor in Fire Control on inspection days. Light the battle alarms, and the port battery was the first to report battle-ready. Every time.
Rumor was that Hoberd was up for major, and his unit’s pretty-much-spotless performance during every drill and inspection didn’t hurt his chances any. Not that the blaster crew had any slouches on it. You didn’t get to shoot the big guns unless you had plenty of practice shooting the little ones,