Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [163]
What did come through was spoiled and tasted terrible.
If that were not enough, the ships sprayed a kind of poison—enzymes designed to smash the complex natural molecular arrangements of deep space, reduce them to constituent atoms, and destroy their nutritive value. The Oswaft and their environment were being coldly and systematically starved to death by an implacable enemy they did not know, hadn’t picked, had owed no animosity.
Until now.
“Yellow Niner, this is Hosrel XI Perimeter Control, we have a bandit at coordinates three-five-oh-two-three. Do you copy? Over.”
The young rating at the sensor screen had been bored until then. She had been bored for thirty-four solid weeks, and the constant drills, the frontier-duty pay, the promise of a chance at a commission, hadn’t helped. Not a bit. But she was no longer bored. If the bogey was a drill, it was something new. At that top-secret navy base on the freeze-dried edge of an already unspectacular system, anything new, however potentially threatening to life, limb, or the continued wearing of a uniform, was highly welcome.
“Perimeter Control,” the interceptor pilot replied with a studied drawling casualness that belied the fact that he was a year younger than the sensor operator, “we copy. This is Yellow Nine Leader. Are you requesting a six-sixty-six? Over?”
The operator leafed quickly through her procedures manual. It was so hard remembering … yes, there it was: six-sixty-six, scramble and visual checkout of an unidentified target. Scrambling, in effect, was already taken care of: Hosrel XI Command kept at least one full interceptor squadron spaceborne on the perimeter all the time, and Yellow Niner was it, at the moment. She hadn’t any idea what was being defended at the Core-forsaken base. Probably the navy was developing something unimportant, but they were giving security all the ruffles and flourishes.
“Yellow Niner, that’s affirmative. Give me your ETVC. Over.”
“My what? Oh yeah: we ought to be eyeballing your bogey in about, oh, call it seven minutes, give or take. Got it on the scope repeater, now. Looks kinda like it’s made of plastic, doesn’t it? Over.”
Both the interceptor pilot and the sensor operator had been briefed, fairly recently, on new developments in camouflaging shields. But neither could discuss it in the clear over an open communications band. Security is a sword that cuts both ways, and most often wounds the hand that wields it.
“Yes, yes it does, Yellow Niner. I have your ETVC at six minutes, now. Is that about right? Over.”
“Yeah, yeah. Yellow Nine Squadron, this is Yellow Nine Leader. As far as I know, this is no drill, repeat, no drill. Unlock your arming switches and keep the thumb you aren’t sitting on near the button. No mistakes, now, or we’ll all be plucking crystals in the life-orchards. Out to you, and over to PC.”
PC, thought the Operator, that sounded sort of nice and heroically terse. She said nothing, but simply watched a dozen hard, sharp, shiny blips converge on the single fuzzy, almost invisible one. She had already sent nervous fingers flying over an alphanumeric pad, alerting her superiors to the situation, and other eyes were monitoring other scopes, now, within the subterranean bowels of the installation. She fastened her military collar and straightened a crease. Almost, she hoped, the target would be a genuine pirate attack or rebel uprising. Promotions came fast in times of—
“Perimeter Control, this is Yellow Nine Leader. Where the Core is this thing? We oughta be right on top of it, unless you’re—by the Great Lens, there it is! It’s huge and clear as glass! We’re making our first pass, using prerecorded hailing signals … oh yeah; over.”
The strange vessel