"The New Rebellion (Kristine Rusch)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

the door panel," the Kloperian said, pointing with a seventh tentacle at a
small panel on the other side of the maintenance doors.
"Oh, dear, R2," 3PO said. "I told you not to touch anything." The
Kloperian's bulbous eyes narrowed. "All right, you two. Get inside. We're
going to check your hardware." It grabbed 3PO and R2 with four of its
tentacles and pulled them in the maintenance bay. The metal doors clanged shut
behind them. Fifty Kloperians stared at them. Dozens of droids stopped work to
watch. " "R2," 3PO whispered. "I have a very bad feeling about this."

SEVEN

Kueller stood on the sandstone streets of Pydyr, his legs spread,
hands clasped behind his back. The air was warm and dry with a touch of salt,
reminding him that an ocean loomed over the artificially created hills. In the
arid heat, the death's head felt like a mask. He was sweating beneath it,
destroying its delicate calibration with his skin.
He couldn't remain on Pydyr long. The mask, a finely tuned instrument,
only worked properly in certain environments.
This wasn't one of them.
He hated to think of what it was doing to his face.
But if he was uncomfortable, the troops were as well. The stormtrooper
uniforms, cleaned up and repaired, looked fine. Menacing. The memories of the
Empire were embodied in the white suits and the elaborate helmets, memories of
power he hoped to arouse.
Image was everything, as Pydyr once knew.
The empty streets spoke of wealth. The sandstone blocks wore down after
only a few days. The Pydyrians had a special droid designed specifically for
street care, another designed for building wash. Pydyr's wealth was the stuff
of legends, its aristocratic class the inspiration for stories told all over
this section of the galaxy.
Almania had envied Pydyr for generations.
But no more.
Pydyr was his.
The quiet was eerie. All he could hear was the sound of booted feet
brushing against sandstone. The troopers were investigating each building,
making certain no one remained.
He had half-expected the stench of bodies decaying in Pydyr's harsh sun,
but Hartzig, the officer in charge, had been thorough. Pydyr's aristocracy was
dead, its bodies disposed of within hours. But the moon's wealth remained.
And he needed it. His timing couldn't have been better. He tried to
smile, but his skin slid beneath the mask. The lips still adhered, though.
He whirled on a booted foot and walked into one of the buildings the
troopers had already investigated.
Pydyrian architecture was bold, with heavy brown columns and large,
square rooms. Each surface was covered with decoration, some hand-painted by
famous artists long dead, and others studded with tiny seafah jewels. In
addition to the wealth accumulated over centuries, Pydyr had its own source.
Seafah jewels were formed in the ocean in the shells of microscopic creatures.
Kueller had ordered the seafah jewelers spared; it took a trained eye to
locate most of the jewels on the seabed. A trained Pydyrian eye. The