Star Wars_ The Adventures of Lando Calrissia - L. Neil Smith [182]
The sorcerer raised a hand and the scientist halted. “By what means did the Oswaft destroy the cruiser Courteous, Ottdefa? And how vulnerable do you suppose they are to the navy’s weapons?”
Whett hesitated before he began again: “Sir, as difficult as it may be to believe, it appears that simple microwaves were the method, but at incredible power levels. This is consistent with their ability to hypertravel, since it, too, is an energy-intensive phenomenon. There is also the fact to consider that the Courteous was unshielded—I believe the circumstances are referred to as ‘garrison discipline’? Shielded, I believe a ship would be quite safe. To answer your second question, there is no reason to believe that the Oswaft would be any more impervious to disintegrator beams, tractor-pressor beams, disruptors, and the like, than any other living thing.”
The sorcerer stood deep in thought, one hand where his chin should have been under his wrappings. Shanga sat, apparently relaxed and smoking his cigar, while Whett stood nearly at attention.
“One final question, Ottdefa: how many Oswaft are there?”
“Sir, there is no direct way of knowing. Estimates range from several hundred million to a few billion.”
Shanga laughed. “Since when do the words ‘few’ and ‘billion’ belong in the same sentence. Gepta, they could whittle down the fleet by sheer attrition, and—”
“Silence,” the sorcerer said with unusual gentleness, “I must think. Ottdefa, I will speak with you later, thank you for your report.” The door whooshed open and closed behind the grateful anthropologist.
Then Gepta addressed Shanga. “Admiral, you are no friend of mine, and, after this operation, will never again be an ally. But you have spoken the truth to me, and I am compelled to recognize it. Very well, we shall do as you have suggested. Your man—what was his name?—will remain confined until we reach the nebula, whereupon he will revert to your command. I trust you and your squadron will serve me as you have implicitly promised.”
The fighter pilot rose wearily and stubbed out his cigar. Rearranging his newly recovered blaster on his leg more comfortably, he walked toward the door, turned back to the sorcerer at the last moment.
“I haven’t any reason to want to send you flowers, either, old man, but we’ve got a common enemy. We’ll stick with you until that’s taken care of. Talk to you later.” He stepped through the door and was gone.
Scarcely noticing the man had left this time, Rokur Gepta paced awhile more, then, with a more determined stride than before, turned to his chair. He seated himself and activated several cameras. He pushed a button. “For immediate recording and beamcast to the fleet,” he directed unseen technicians:
“Upon my own unanswerable authority, I order you to cease all combat operations upon receipt of this transmission and to return to your positions on the original blockade perimeter.
“Evasion or failure, on the part of any officer, at any level, to comply swiftly with this direct order will be punishable by summary revocation of all rank and privileges, judiciary and ceremonial impoverishment and sale into bondage of all family members within five degrees of consanguinity, and for the perpetrator himself, slow mutilation and death upon public display.
“I, Rokur Gepta, Sorcerer of Tund, command it.”
The camera lights went out.
Gepta sat back in his chair, feeling much better. This would buy them all some time, and resolve part of the conflict between Klyn Shanga and himself. Odd, he hadn’t had a real adversary to stand up to him for thousands of years. No one dared oppose his ruthless exercise of power. Everywhere he went, people in their masses, and as individuals, feared, hated, and served him.
Except for Lando Calrissian.
And now, possibly even worse than the itinerant gambler—because the affront seemed deliberately calculated—there was Klyn Shanga.
The most peculiar aspect of