"William C. Dietz - For More Than Glory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dietz William)

There was no reply. Either the com was down, something that occurred with disturbing regularity, or the
C&C crew were screwing off. A punishable offense in the real navyтАФbut a joke in the so-called
Syndicate. Just one of the many problems that plagued the organization.

Propelled more by the bone-deep sense of duty the navy had instilled in him rather than any particular
loyalty to the organization he was now part of, Moy turned toward the hatch. There were no uniforms,
not since the тАЬmembersтАЭ had voted them out, so it didnтАЩt matter what he wore.

Moy entered the main corridor, turned right, and followed the B ring in toward the stationтАЩs core. Having
been constructed during the early days of the rebellion, immediately after Earth Governor Patricia Pardo
and Legion Colonel Leon Harco had usurped EarthтАЩs government, the outlaw habitat was well put
together. And a good thing, too, because discipline had slipped a lot since then, and maintenance was
abysmal.

All manner of graffiti covered the bulkheads to either side, trash littered the deck, and it seemed as if
every third or fourth light fixture was burned out. The life-support systems continued to receive a fair
amount of attention but even that was starting to slip. So much so that Moy had given serious thought to
leaving. But for what? The Confederacy wanted to put him on trial for mutiny, murder, and miscellaneous
тАЬcrimes against sentient beings,тАЭ life out on the Rim was hard, and nobody wants to hire an alcoholic.

Moy palmed a lock, waited for the hatch to hiss open, and entered the stationтАЩs control room. It smelled
of sweat, alcohol, and ozone. Screens flickered, air whispered through vents, and the computer
nicknamed тАЬBitching Betty,тАЭ spoke via the overhead speakers. тАЬIncoming targets, one, three, and four
are continuing to close. Target two is stationary, repeat, stationary, but well within range. Recommend
that all station personnel don space armor, report to assigned battle stations, and prepare for combat.
Screens, ready. Electronic countermeasures, ready. Weapons systems, ready. Downloading firing
solutions now.тАЭ

Moy swore, stormed up onto the command platform, and looked for someone to kick. ExтАУNaval
Lieutenant Tosko had passed out in the command chair, the com tech was facedown on the deck, and
the weapons officer sat with her forehead resting on the control panel. The injector tube, which was still
clutched in her hand, told the officer everything he needed to know.

Back during the rebellion the Syndicate had тАЬliberatedтАЭ any number of naval vessels, not the least of
which were the Ibutho and the Guerrero, both of which had taken on stores and departed roughly six
hours earlier. In spite of specific prohibitions against taking part in the typical bon voyage celebration, it
appeared that the control room crew had ignored regulations and partied anyway. Now they were going
to pay for their laxity, for his laxity, because the navy had taught him that the responsibilities of command
reach everywhere even into oneтАЩs sleep.

Tosko felt something hard connect with his leg, jerked in response, and opened his eyes. тАЬWhat the hell?
Who kicked me?тАЭ

Moy looked grim. тАЬI did . . . and IтАЩd kick your ass if you werenтАЩt sitting on it. Look at those screens.тАЭ

Tosco looked, swore, and slapped the general alarm button. Klaxons sounded, weapons came on line,
and groggy crew members stumbled down corridors.

Betty, oblivious to what her owners did, continued to chant. тАЬTargets one, three, and four are launching
what appear to be short-range in-system spacecraft having target profiles consistent with CF Dagger