Star Wars_ Legacy of the Force 01_ Betrayal - Aaron Allston [93]
The leftmost board showed him the station’s external tracking sensors, indicating every ship, piece of debris, or asteroid larger than a groundspeeder within several thousand kilometers of the station’s position. On the screen, numerous green-for-friendly blips dotted space.
The next board showed a much closer view; only Toryaz Station appeared there. On it, a green blip moved with considerable delicacy among the spokes that connected the station to its satellite habitats.
The third screen on that bank showed an almost identical view, but did not show the green blip. It was this view that command crew on the bridge would be seeing, this view that was being recorded in the station’s files.
The rightmost screen showed a diagram of the station’s layout, each section colored by alert status. Everything was in the green except for one belt of yellow, Kallebarth Way, the yellow indicating its heightened state of security.
Tawaler felt rather than heard his companion lean over his shoulder, and was for once not startled when she spoke. Her voice was, as ever, quiet and silky: “I am always amazed at the initiative security officers show in ensuring that they can peer through every set of holocam lenses on a ship, pry into every confidential computer file, and access every ship’s function…even when they’re not supposed to.”
A comment like that would normally have made Tawaler feel defensive, but here it seemed soothing. Tawaler chanced a glance over his shoulder.
The woman who stood there was a beauty—tall, slender, and aristocratic, her dark eyes intelligent. She wore colorful but cumbersome robes in the latest Kuati style, and she did so with a grace that began with a lack of self-consciousness.
Tawaler shrugged, trying to appear unconcerned. “A security officer has to be able to provide security. Even when commanding officers are killed or subverted. He has to be able to see where everyone is, know what everyone is thinking. Otherwise things aren’t safe.”
“You’re right, of course.” There was amusement in the woman’s tone, and again Tawaler was surprised that he wasn’t even a little offended. The woman’s words sounded like condescension. But of course they weren’t.
Of course they weren’t. This woman had come to him with the news that he, Captain Siron Tawaler, was under consideration to be the telbun of a lady—to be the consort chosen to father her child in the ancient tradition of the great ruling merchant houses of Kuat. His intelligence, his personal strength, his determination had brought him to her attention…and somehow she had looked past the indifferent service reports that had been written about him, had dismissed the petty jealousy and backstabbing competition that had led superior officer after superior officer to label him as “unmotivated” and “adequate.” His personal and financial success, and those of his family, were now assured, despite the curiously low regard with which the people of other worlds viewed the role of telbun.
But first, he had to pass a test of loyalty. He had to help this grand lady preserve her house by eliminating the rogue Jedi assigned to kill her.
Why Jedi would want to kill a Kuat mercantile princess was beyond Tawaler. But that was all right. His specialty was point security, not anticipatory security. Besides, he didn’t like the Jedi. They strutted around without any respect for security or authority, they dressed like beggars or hermits when everyone knew they were rich—and the quality of their boots gave them away every time: the poor couldn’t afford high-grade footwear—and they lorded it over normal folk with their so-called mystical powers. Unacceptable, unacceptable.
Tawaler again felt a moment of unease. The woman leaning over his shoulder had presented documents proving her identity as a representative of a great house, but at this precise moment he couldn’t remember the