"Aaron Allston "Iron Fist" (STARWARS. X-Wing #6)" - читать интересную книгу автора

they're doing it to me again."



3
"I think it's all wrapped up in the symbolism of the Iron Fist," Face said.
The Wraiths were in the officers' lounge of Sivantlie Base, their temporary station on Coruscant. Once a hotel catering to mid-level Imperial bureaucrats from offworld, it now housed units of the armed forces that were in transition: soldiers awaiting transport to their assignments, squadrons in rotation between bases, new units being assembled. Two stories down, where the base's tower just began to extend above the sur-rounding buildings, there were hangar accesses large enough for small cargo vessels. The lounge itself had vast viewports that gave the Wraiths and other officers present a clear view of the limitless sea of Coruscant's building tops, as well as storm clouds concentrating only a few kilometers away. Tiny dots like insects, actually shuttles and other craft, buzzed above the cityscape and beneath the clouds.
Face was at the viewports, staring down into the dark depths of Coruscant's streets, trying to shift his tastes around, trying to become the sort of man who would look upon this world as a thing of beauty. Trying to become a loyal Imperial officer, if only temporarily, to understand how they thought, reacted.
"You're saying the Iron Fist is his hammer, symbolically as well as effectively?" That was Janson, stretched out on one of the lounge sofas, a tumbler of brandy on the table at his head.
Face nodded absently. "He uses it for strikes against high-profile targets. Not targets that are easier than the others, nor harder, just more visible. Such as the assault on Noquivzor, de-signed to destroy Rogue Squadron-what a coup that would have been. He named Iron Fist after his first command, an el-derly wreck of a Victory-class Star Destroyer. It's a symbol to him, of his rise from obscurity to power. It's the key to him, I think." He glanced over at Runt, who leaned lazily against a support pillar on the other side of the main viewport. "What do you think?"
The brown-furred nonhuman turned toward him. Face felt his own spine stiffen. This wasn't Runt's usual body language, and the long-faced pilot's eyes drooped almost closed. Runt said, "Did I give you leave to speak?" His voice was rich and deep, without his usual melodious tones and odd inflections.
"Your pardon," Face said. He felt oddly formal. "Iron Fist? Zsinj's primary and most important act of symbolism?"
Runt shook his head, sending his long, glossy ponytail swaying. His smile showed his large teeth but did not seem in the least friendly. "You don't understand Zsinj," he said. "To Zsinj, symbols are for others. Zsinj uses them as simple con-trols. Knobs and buttons by which he can cause his lessers to do their duty. Dials and gauges by which he can measure their fear. No, Zsinj's tool is that fear itself, fear and respect. Zsinj smashes with one hand and feeds with the other. One act im-presses the unaligned governors who used to support the Em-pire. The other hand beckons them. As more and more feed from that hand, still more will be forced to." Runt finally looked fully at Face. "It is the governors. It must be. Zsinj will do whatever it takes to draw them into his camp, one by one or ten by ten. Smash them, entice them, seduce them, terrify them."
Face glanced back at Janson. The squadron's second-in-command grinned at him, obviously amused by Runt's performance, then cocked his head to one side and froze-
near-universal pantomime of a droid whose power has just



been shut off, pilot's shorthand for someone whose brain is re-ceiving no power.
One of the 1ounge's simulators hissed as its canopy opened. The new Twi'lek pilot, Dia Passik, bounded out as though she were partially made of springs. She had a smile on her face, nearly a smirk, and she headed straight for the bar. Face watched her closely; there was something odd about the way she moved ....
That was it. Hers was the strut of a Corellian pilot. A male Corellian pilot, to the extent that her build would allow her such motion. She, too, knew something about body language and simulated manners.
The adjoining simulator opened and Phanan climbed out more sedately. He came over to Face. "Well, she dropped the heavy end of the hammer on me," he said. "Vaped you?"
"Three times out of three. I don't think she's up to Kell's level, and certainly not up to the commander's, but she's deadly." Phanan added, a hopeful note in his voice, "Perhaps she'd show me some mercy on account of my physical appeal and personal charm."
"I'm sure she would if you had any."
They joined Dia at the bar, flanking her, and ordered a
nonalcoholic fruit fizz to match hers. Squeaky, the 3PO unit
with mismatched gold and silver component~, drew their
drinks, uttered a sigh, and murmured something about the
scarcity of fresh fruit in the Coruscant market.
"Ton says you're a pretty hot shooter," Face said.
"It won't work," she said.
"Eh?" Face glanced across her at Phanan, who returned
his confused expression. "What won't work?"
"You wouldn't have said that to a male pilot unless it had been a real run. Which means you only said it to ingratiate yourself with me. You want to provoke an emotional response, gratitude, that a lowly flight officer might find worth under the eyes of the famous Garik Loran. At some point I'm supposed to swoon into your arms, aren't I?"
Face blinked. "That actually hadn't occurred to me."
"I didn't see your holos, Face. When you were acting your heart out as a child star, I was a slave dancer in training, not permitted choice rewards like seeing entertainment holos. You don't occupy a place in the adolescent quadrant of my heart the way you do with most females my age. I am immune to your alleged charms."
Face glanced at Phanan again. The other pilot was turning red with the effort not to laugh. Face modulated his voice to low, resonant, romantic tones. "I am so glad I met you," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life."
"You have?" Her expression turned to confusion.
"Why?"
"The one woman in all the galaxy immune to my charms? Do you know how often I've said, 'Where is she, does she truly exist?'"
Phanan got himself under control. "It's true. I raised Face from the time he was a cub, and since almost the day he could talk, he's been saying, 'Find me the one woman who can with-stand me. Who can loathe me for who I really am.' He's had a long, lonely life until today. Now you can abuse him and give me a rest."
Face nodded sagely.
Dia's face twitched into a smile, which she quickly sup-pressed. "Now you're making fun of me."
Face let his expression and voice return to normal. "Oh, we've barely gotten started. Anyway, after a casual remark about your skills to open up the conversation, my plan actually was to ask you how you fouled up."
"Fouled up." She looked between the two men. "I don't recall fouling up."
"Then what brings you to Wraith Squadron?"
"I volunteered. After the story broke on your destruction of the Implacable, I wanted to join a unit as savage as that. Why? Are you supposed to be screwups?"
Phanan whistled. "She doesn't even know. We didn't even have time for our true reputation to circulate before another reputation swam up and swallowed it."
Face gave Dia a stern look. "I'm sorry, you appear to have