Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [32]
It had been lucky for the loader that he’d been killed instantly; otherwise, those of the crew who weren’t already maimed or dead would have made it a point to see him die slowly.
When the medic had reconnected the tendon in Tenn’s upper body, he hadn’t liked the old attachment, which had gotten pretty banged up by the piece of hot metal. So he’d done an organic-screw embed and reattached the ligament a little lower. It looked fine, and eventually the screw was reabsorbed, leaving nothing more than a tiny bone nub. The result of this creative endeavor had been about a 25 or 30 percent improvement on the leverage in his right arm. With a little training, Tenn’s right pectoral was effectively almost half again as strong as his left. It didn’t look it, it wasn’t any larger, but the result was nonetheless impressive. It had won him a lot of bar bets on arm-wrestling contests over the years.
Numbers slid a little stack of credits under Tenn’s mug. “Your cut, Chief.”
“My elderly mother thanks you kindly, son.” He looked at Erne. “So, I buy the next round?”
“Works for me,” the bigger man said.
“No dishonor in being beaten by the best.”
The chief grinned. “Give me a couple of days to heal up, we can have a rematch.”
“Always happy to take a fellow navy man’s money.”
After the watchers had gone back to their own brews, Erne said, “So what’s the scut on the new battle station?”
“The Death Star?” Tenn lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level. “I hear that anybody who can hit a resiplex wall from a meter away can have a berth if he wants it. But if you can really shoot, they’ll let you run the big guns—including one that’ll make our biggest weapons look like pocket slugthrowers.”
“No kidding?”
“Guys like us, we got no problem,” Tenn continued. “All we have to do is ask.”
“You gonna go for it?”
“Now you’re kidding. I’m a lifer; why wouldn’t I? When this thing is finished, nothing anybody anywhere can field against it will even scratch the finish. Running a gun that will pop Star Destroyers like soap bubbles, maybe even knock a moon out of orbit—what kind of gunner would pass that up?” He grinned. “Bigger is better.”
“I hear security will be tight. No leaves once you sign on until after the station becomes operational.”
“And this is different from what we’re now doing how? Besides, look at the size of it. It’s gonna be like living on a moon—or in one. Thousands of decks. You can scan it and plug it so that everything a man could want will be somewhere in that sucker. Who needs shore leave when all you have to do is punch up the turbolift?”
Erne allowed as how Tenn’s evaluation of the Death Star’s prurient possibilities made much sense. Both men drank more of their ales.
“I’ve already told my exec I’m ready to sign on,” Tenn said. “Soon as they get a gun working, enough air to breathe, and enough gravity to tell which way’s up, I’m there.”
“Speaking of everything a man could want …,” Erne said. He nodded at the door.
Tenn turned. Ah. A pair of civilian workers from Supply—young, good-looking fems—stood there, having come, no doubt, to check out a place where real men drank.
“I like the blond,” Erne said.
“Fine by me,” Tenn said. “Hair’s all the same color in the dark.”
Erne stood. “Good evening, ladies. Might my father and I buy you both drinks?”
The two young women smiled. Tenn gave them his best grin in return, feeling the contentedness that only liquor and competitive victory could bring. A good job, the respect of people you worked with, and a nice-looking female sitting next to him, in a cantina full of excellent Ortolan blue ferment. How much better could life get?
13
PILOTS’ PUB, REC DECK, ISD STEEL TALON
Vil Dance