Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [57]
Now there was a power-hungry Emperor running things. Both history and personal experience had taught Atour that in as little as a few years, or as much as a few centuries, there would come evolution—or revolution—and this, too, would pass. The new rulers would start out full of promise and hope and good intentions, and gradually settle into mediocrity. A benevolent but inept king was as bad as a despot.
The warning bell chimed, and the pilot’s voxcast said,
“Attention all passengers, docking will be complete in five minutes. Please check and make sure you have all your belongings before debarkation.”
Atour Riten chuckled softly. There was a word you didn’t hear that often. Debark, from Old Low Frusoise, meaning “to leave a small sailing ship’s secondary boat.” Who on board knew that, save for himself and perhaps the pilot?
Probably no one. And probably no one cared in the least. When you got to be Atour’s age, you had to take your amusements where you could. Especially with a seatmate nattering on and on about hypermatter reactions.
MIDLEVEL CANTINA, DECK 69, SECTOR N-ONE, DEATH STAR
The size of the station was mind-boggling. Memah still couldn’t get her head around it. Her tiny part of it, which was to become a working cantina, was half again as large as the place that had burned to the pavement back in the Underground, and she had been given more or less a free hand to furnish and run it. At least, so far. She’d been assured that, as long as she didn’t go crazy and try to outfit the place with platinum draw taps or the like, the Empire would cover the cost.
If she kept getting news like that, she might just have to revise her opinion of the new regime.
Rodo drifted past the desk where she sat working up an order form for refreshments and intoxicants. If there was a fermented, brewed, or distilled spirit that wasn’t in stock, she had yet to learn of it. There were beers, ales, wines, liquors, malts, brandies … both generic and brand-named. The legally allowed chemicals that could be eaten, inhaled, dermed, or otherwise taken were likewise available across the board. All she had to do was tick it off on the complex Imperial order form and then wait for delivery. It was apparent that whoever had set this station up had planned ahead for such things.
She looked up from her chore at Rodo. “What?”
“Contractor’s on his way to install the tables and chairs. He says it’s a two-day job, tops.”
“Yeah, right. And the Emperor’s packin’ a lightsaber.”
“Apparently there was a recent visit from the Emperor’s favorite envoy.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and did a creditable impression of Darth Vader’s respirator sound. “Since he left, things have run very smoothly. I believe the contractor is sincere.”
The comm on the computer blipped. Memah answered it. “Yes?”
“Memah Roothes, please.”
“Speaking.”
“This is the scheduling droid for Sector Medical. When might it be convenient for you to meet with one of our doctors to complete your physical examination for preadmission to the station?”
“I hate to point this out, but I arrived here some days past. Besides, they gave me the standard once-over before I dusted Despayre.”
The droid politely acknowledged the error, citing short-handness and overscheduling problems; nevertheless, a physical was required SOP. Memah could see that she wasn’t going to get out of it; the droid was firm and nonyielding as only a machine could be. She acquiesced to the following day at eleven hundred hours.
“You are scheduled to see Captain Dr. Divini. Please bring any medical records you have with you. Do you need a reminder call on the morning shift?”
“No, I can remember that far in advance, thank you.”
She shut off the comm and looked at Rodo. He gave her another