"Linnea Sinclair - Gambit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sinclair Linnea)

She lay in the dark, listening to their anger and confusion. And waited for their boots
to arrive.
A young woman's voice--and smaller boots--came first. An ensign in security, no
doubt. The woman let out a string of expletives in Jhenian before slapping at the
intercom on the wall. Emergency alarms blared throughout the ship.
More boots arrived. Four pair. The young woman apologized haltingly to the pair in
front of her. Ty tried to follow the exchange the best she could. She knew enough of
the language to secure a cold beer in a bar and make sure she wasn't overcharged on
dockage fees, but that wasn't much help here.
Within minutes she heard Jhen-Daray's voice and then Jhen-Aris's. Now, those
words she knew. Some didn't even need translation. And none were very flattering
comments about Captain Ty'mara Moran.
The two injured guards were borne away on anti-grav stretchers. They'd live though
they'd have nasty bruises for a few days.


Jhen-Daray and the man she assumed was Chief of Security organized several search
parties, rattling off deck numbers and locations. She understood and memorized
them. The chief ordered two guards posted in the Dreamweaver's bay.
Then a rapid conversation ensued that she couldn't follow. Jhen-Aris sounded terse,
his words clipped. The Gent'Duren's apparent dissatisfaction spared no one.
The chief asked a question she could barely hear. He stepped over to Jhen-Aris,
obviously intent on a private discussion. Ty caught her name several times, then a
chopped reply from Jhen- Aris.
"Mine," Jhen-Aris repeated and Ty translated. "Moran is mine." He stepped away,
Jhen- Daray and the chief following, and she lost the rest of his words.
Then all was silent, her door, unguarded. She waited another ten minutes before
slipping out from under the bed. She held one stunner in her right hand, the other
tucked into the pants of her dark blue flightsuit. Her clothes were not as dark as the
Jhens', but if she moved quickly enough, it might not matter.
There was a lift at the end of the corridor; a stairwell door to the left of it. It refused
to budge against her weight and she had no ID tag to place in its slot. Again she lay
aside her insecurities and opened her mind to the mechanical puzzle before her. The
door clicked open. She took the stairs two at a time, her knees shaking.
She moved as silently as she could. Already she felt the trembling of the huge
interstellar drive engines as the Abaris powered up. Time was critical. Fear
sharpened her mind, brought forth that part of Ty'mara that was Lifarian.
Two more locked stairwell doors opened easily. She "felt" a trip-alarm before she
saw it and convinced a mechanical eye she wasn't there. One deck below the shuttle
bays she exited out into the corridors. They would be waiting for her at the lifts, she
knew. She had to take another way.
It didn't matter that she'd never been on the Abaris before. She'd been on enough
long- haulers to guess at the huntership's layout. Down this far into the bowels of the
ship there had to be maintenance stairs and mechanic's accesses. The Grindley, she
remembered, had deep access pits above and below the shuttle deck. There were
always catwalks. And back stairways.
The Abaris was not all that different, though the narrow stairway she found was a bit
farther aft than on Sagar's ship. The stairs ended in the lower level of a hangar bay.
She did a quick mental scan, found the bay empty and slid the door open a few
inches. It wasn't the Dreamweaver's bay, but then, she'd never intended to return to