Star Wars - Rebel Bass by Kathy Tyers

Author:Kathy Tyers [Tyers, Kathy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2001-07-17T00:51:15+00:00

One day later, Far Cry boarded a transport for Beltrix. Standing inside an echoing hangar, Hannis glared as Onjo Fegel hoisted his kloo horn case onto the boarding conveyor. Until this morning, Ry hadn’t known that Onjo Fegel graduated from the Imperial Service Academy… in Intelligence. For the duration of this trip, Far Cry had been burdened with the services of a musically gifted - but completely out of place - kloo horn player.

They were a dusk band, not b’ssa nuuvu! If Governor Etison was still trying to win Ry to his own musical taste, he’d just lost several parsecs of whatever ground he’d gained. They had rehearsed once before riding out to the spaceport. They sounded sick.

When Ry thought about Keth Beamis, he felt even sicker. And what about his old friend Tet Tramys?

He had to warn them to dump all suspicious files and send away anyone who might be recognized. But all day, Onjo had stuck to him like a mynock on a power cable, keeping him from talking to Hannis or Erik about sending a coded message ahead. And they would have only one day on board to figure out how to make Far-Cry-with-a-Kloo-Horn sound less like a herd of giddies in heat.

He strapped down on a frayed, padded seat in the transport’s passenger compartment. There were no viewports. Only a series of clangs, then a garbled voice over the cabin speakers, confirmed takeoff was imminent. Shortly, the transport started shaking. It rattled for several minutes, followed by a series of lurches that made Ry glad he’d skipped lunch.

A flashing light signaled the end of strap-down. Onjo got up, stretched left and right, then straightened his flight suit. Ry had never noticed how subtly comical his slightly rounded cheeks and small nose made his face look. His stubby hands stuck out at the ends of too-short sleeves. “We must have a Chadra-fan pilot,” he said dryly. “You kids hungry?”

Ry wasn’t, not at all, but he followed Onjo downship to a mess cabin. Like the passenger compartment, it had no viewports, no external screens - nothing to give him a glimpse of the light years they were crossing. One more dirty trick from the universe.

Long tables were filling rapidly, and the transport’s crew was handing out a one-menu-suits-all tray lunch. Onjo steered them from the pickup line to a spot near one bulkhead. He touched the heat control on his lunch tray, then raised the lid with a dramatic gesture. “Wonderful,” he exclaimed. “Mystery meat number twelve.”

Hannis smiled wanly. Ry didn’t find Onjo particularly funny either. He picked at the meal.

After eating silently for ten or twelve minutes, Onjo sliced off a bite of meat and waved it at Erik. “What you need,” he pronounced, “is a brighter riff on those crashers. You’re putting people to sleep back there.”

“It’s dusk, not b’ssa nuuvu.” Erik, normally one of the most patient people Ry knew, rolled his eyes. “Look, Onjo, we understand this isn’t a real gig, not any more. But don’t try to make Far Cry sound like something it isn’t.

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