Akimvigr: переводы

→The farmer settled on a dull gold protocol unit, which jabbered at him in a tinny voice until the old man snapped at it to shut up. Typical. Farmers treated anything that didn’t look like them like bantha dung. Droids, Raiders, Jawas. All the same. Second-class. Lesser.

→The boy talked too much. If Reirin ever yapped with such disrespect at her elders, she’d be nursing a bruised bottom and milking banthas until her fingers turned blue for good.

→Slallen gave a shrug. “I don’t know, sir. The operation on Scarif is classified. I haven’t heard from him in four weeks.” She slumped, just a little, in her chair. “We were due to meet for shore leave, but I haven’t heard from him yet. I guess his operation has been extended.”

→Sublieutenant Slallen turned in her chair. “Naval architect, ma’am. We took starship design together as an elective at the Academy, but he was the one with the talent.” She turned and pointed back at the main display. “You don’t see many working examples of this older kind of ship. I’ll have to send him a data tape, once he’s out of operations.”

→Poul cocked her head as she looked at the display. “Ensign Toos said you have a brother on Scarif, Slallen? Ship designer?”

→Although quite what the Death Star was doing policing the hyperspace lanes was another question entirely.

→Poul didn’t know why the ship had been captured and dragged into the docking bay, but there was more than a fair chance it was smugglers, or pirates. That made sense. The ship was modified, customized, far beyond factory specs.

→But…there was something else about the ship. Poul had seen a couple of YT-series freighters in her time—both long past their service and certainly not operational—and while she couldn’t remember the exact models, this one looked…different. Wasn’t the sensor dish larger than standard? And the dorsal armament…it was a quad laser cannon. The YT-1300 had weapons, certainly, but a gun like that just had to be unlicensed.

→Poul nodded. He was right—the YT-1300 was an old ship, virtually a relic. And the example down in Docking Bay 327 was no exception, she thought as she gazed up at the screen. The vessel was battered, the hull carbon-scored in several places, the vector thrust plates that cradled the main drive ports in serious need of not just cleaning but replacing altogether.

→Ensign Toos swung back around to his console. He snapped a switch, and the view of the freighter in the docking bay shown on his console’s screen flashed up onto the main wall display. Toos and Slallen sat back and looked up at the image, while Poul took a step back and tapped a finger on the edge of her datapad.

→Sheard nodded as he listened, brushing one index finger along the underside of his thick mustache, then he tapped the back of Toos’s chair.

→Poul turned and gave Sheard a casual salute, which he returned before heading around the arc of the room toward her. Poul handed the datapad to her fellow officer and briefed him on the events of the last shift—in particular, on the status of the mystery freighter currently holding up the schedule down in Docking Bay 327.

→“A YT-1300 light freighter,” said Poul, resting one hand on the back of Slallen’s chair, “that is currently disrupting the docking bay schedule.”

→“Piece of junk? Sublieutenant Slallen, I despair, I really do. That piece of junk, as you call it, is—”

→Slallen cocked her head. “What I do recognize, Ensign, is a piece of junk when I see one. I’m amazed it didn’t break up as soon as the tractor beam got a lock.”

→Toos clicked his tongue and tapped the screen with an index finger. “Come on, you’re telling me you don’t recognize a classic when you see one?” He whistled softly between his teeth. “Just wait until I tell your brother when he gets back from Scarif.”

→Poul frowned and headed over to the monitor station beneath the display. Two crew were positioned at their control consoles, one—Ensign Toos—hunched across the controls as he stared at a small square display in front of him, while his companion, Sublieutenant Slallen, leaned back in her seat, arms folded, shaking her head. As Poul approached, neither seemed aware of her presence.

→Flight delays were not uncommon, an unavoidable consequence of the sheer volume of traffic and coordination this required—both automated and manually supervised—between the five hundred different hangars and docking bays that were buried all over the skin of the battle station. Having Docking Bay 327 out of action was, in reality, nothing more than a minor inconvenience, but it would remain an annoying status alert sullying her otherwise perfect shift report unless she could get the diversions cleared in the next—

→One of which had been causing something of a minor headache for the last thirty minutes. Poul stepped down from the command dais and folded her arms as she glanced up at the screen directly ahead. On it, a swarm of ever-moving, multicolored indicators representing traffic control for hangars 250 to 350 crawled like zess-flies, but Poul ignored the confusing mess, focusing instead on a red block that pulsed on the left-hand side.

→As she put her datapad to sleep, Poul glanced around the room. Station Control West—like its three counterparts—was a circular chamber, the circumference lined with monitor consoles, at which sat two dozen ensigns and junior officers, patiently staring at monitors, checking readings, the room filled with the constant sound of their murmuring as they quietly spoke into their headsets. Above the ring of consoles, four huge, trapezoidal display screens shone, one at each of the compass points, providing a continuous stream of status information. The data was almost too much to taken in, but Poul appreciated the at-a-glance updates for various systems she was responsible for.