Songs of Love & Death (44 page)

Serri fired again, taking the guard center mass this time. The big Breffan landed on his back, pistol and transcomm clattering beside him.

Nic lunged to his feet, swearing silently. “We have to assume he set off an emergency signal,” he said as Serri appeared next to him. “Tell me where Quin—”

“No time.” She pushed ahead of him and ran up the rampway.

He caught up with her at the airlock.

“Stand clear.” Her fingers tapped a pattern into the lockpad’s small screen.

“Filar’s got a Bruiser with him.”

“Then he’s coming for a ride too.”

The airlock doors groaned shut behind him. He grabbed her arm. “We could end up with a hostage standoff.” Just like Scout-and-Snipe. “They’ve got Quin.” And the Nalshinian and the Breffan were both much larger than the Skoggi—probably the sole reason, other than greed, that they’d agreed to come onboard. “I know how to handle this,” he continued tersely. “You don’t. Where are they?”

She hesitated for half a breath. “Either his quarters—lower deck, starboard forward—or Cargo Two, starboard aft. I vote for the latter. It has a null-field generator for hazardous cargo. Kills transcomm signals so Filar can’t call for help.”

Quin’s signal had ended abruptly. He hoped that it was because of the null-field. He moved past her for the ladderway. Then she was right beside him, damn it, reaching the small compartment at the base of the ladderway before he did. She poked at a control panel set into the bulkhead and motioned him forward. She kept her voice low. “Cargo holds have a refrigeration option.”

And freezing temperatures put Breffans into hibernation mode. “How long until—”

“Five minutes on temperature, thirty on cannons.”

He could hear tension in her whispered words; saw anxiety in the thin line of her lips. He held up one hand. “We go barreling down that corridor, we could both get killed. Wait.” He crouched down and edged around the corner. The corridor ran most of the length of the ship, with access to Cargo Four the closest to their location. He damned the fact that he hadn’t brought a thermal sensor or miniature spybots. But this was just supposed to be a preliminary mission to make sure the tagged cargo left the station. Amazing how many things could go wrong in so short a span of time.

And so right. He glanced back over his shoulder. Serri. He drew a quick breath. “Any noise, hit the deck. Understand?”

She nodded, though he doubted she’d comply. He soft-footed across the corridor, Serri at his back. He hesitated in the hatchway for Cargo Four, then, with a sharp wave of his hand to Serri, moved again. Ten, fifteen strides,
watching back and front. Closer now, he heard sounds. Hard sounds but definitely voices.

Which meant the hatchway to Cargo Two was open.

Which meant Serri’s hibernation ploy wouldn’t work. Oh, the cold would slow the Breffan down. But he wouldn’t be woozy on his feet and Nic wanted him woozy. Multilimbed Breffans had an obvious advantage in a firefight.

A sharp clank, like the top of a metal container slamming down, echoed. Nic hesitated.

“No more time,” a voice boomed. Filar’s. “We have not seen anything of value. Your ship—”

“A few more moments, Your Esteemedness.” That was Quin, definitely. “If I can’t find the matched set of thirty-ninth century Nonga vases—which I swear are in here somewhere—then I know I can find… Yes, here they are! Look!”

“Now,” Serri whispered urgently, but Nic was already moving forward. Quin was Skoggi so Quin knew they were there. And if he had Filar peering inside a cargo container, this was going to be the best—and possibly only—chance they’d get to make a surprise entrance.

Nic charged through the open hatchway, adrenaline spiking, pistol primed and ready as he took in the location of everyone and everything in the hold. Quin—hunkered down on a low set of servostairs to the right of a very large open cargo container. The orange-freckled Breffan guard on the left, on tiptoe, half leaning over the edge. In the middle were enormous buttocks draped in purple diaphanous trousers that ended in three booted feet firmly planted on the top of a second set of servostairs.

The Breffan jerked back from the edge of the container, eyes wide, one arm rising, but the rapidly chilling air made his movements sluggish.

“Freeze!” Nic bellowed, wishing it actually was freezing in the hold. “Or your boss won’t be sitting anytime soon.”

“It’s not like you could miss,” Serri intoned on his left.

A loud wheeze vibrated in the container as the purple trousers wriggled and Filar struggled to right himself. “We demand to know—”

Filar’s words ended in a shout of surprise as the servostairs under his feet collapsed. Nic caught lights flashings on Quin’s CI vest and a quick twitch of whiskers as Filar, legs flailing, pitched headfirst into the container.

“Your Esteemedness!” The Breffan angled one arm over the edge.

“Don’t move.” Serri took a few steps closer, pistol grasped securely in both hands.

“If he’s hurt—”

“Piffle. It’s mostly quilts and draperies in there,” Quin said. “A short kip would do him good.”

A roar of unintelligible Nalshinian served as Filar’s contribution to the conversation.

Quin clambered down the stairs, tail flicking.

“On your knees.” Nic aimed his pistol at the guard’s head. “Then on your stomach, arms out.”

“You’re crazy,” the Breffan said, switching a threatening look between Nic and Serri.

“And you and your boss are in a shitload of trouble,” Nic continued. “Down. Now.”

The Breffan charged, a hulking multiarmed form, one hand snagging Serri’s arm. She stumbled but there was no clear shot—and no choice. Nic fired his stunner. The guard fell, taking Serri with him, arms and legs tangled, thrashing.

“Serri!” Nic’s heart felt as if it were in his throat. He grabbed a handful of red fabric and yanked the Breffan backward. The guard rolled on the decking with a soft gurgle and flailing of limp arms.

“Shit.” Serri angled up on one elbow, coughing, as Nic holstered his pistol. He dropped to his knees by her side. “Guess he played Scout-and-Snipe too. ‘Guard takes agent as hostage’ is level seven, Crystal Flame.”

And in level seven, the hostage often died. But Nic didn’t give a damn about sim-games right now. “You all right?”

“I’ll have some interesting bruises tomorrow.” She swung her legs around, but Nic had her arms, lifting her easily. He wanted to hold her tightly against him so that he could feel her heartbeat.

“Nic, eighteen minutes.”

He released her with undisguised reluctance. “Bridge. Get moving. Quin and I will be right behind you.”

She holstered her pistol and darted out into the corridor. As her bootsteps faded, Nic pulled handcuffs from his belt and secured the Breffan’s upper arms. Quin trotted over with a packing strap to bind the lower ones. Nic pulled two pistols and a laserblade from the guard’s weapons belt, stuffing them into his own.

Thumping, thudding, and wheezing noises sounded from inside the large container. Filar, jumping, but unable to reach the top.

“A cargo net should keep him secure.” A small light flashed on Quin’s vest. A grinding noise from above heralded a suspended sheet of metallic mesh dropping over the container.

And the chill temperatures would keep the cuffed Breffan from waking too soon.

The ship rumbled under Nic’s boots. Serri, bringing the engines online. Quin bounded for the corridor. Nic followed, keeping pace.

“So. You intend to tell her?” Quin asked as they neared the ladderway to the bridge deck.

Nic slowed. “Tell… ?”

“A heartfelt, Talligar. She needs to know. Unless you want to wait another six years.”

He shot a suspicious glance at Quin. Mind reader? Maybe Nic wasn’t the only one with voices in his head. “I don’t think she wants to know.”

“Piffle.” Quin leaped up the stairs two at a time, leaving Nic wondering—and running to keep up.

Quin was already at communications when Nic slipped into the seat at the nav console. The Skoggi’s CI vest blinked rapidly, sending and receiving commands. Noisy chatter sounded in spurts from the speakers, mostly perfunctory warnings from station traffic control. Then Quin pulled on a headset and the voices quieted.

“Strap in,” Serri called out over her shoulder. “This is going to be rough.”

Through the forward viewports, lights flashed. The bay doors parted, revealing blackness dotted with lights from other ships. Somewhere out there was the agency’s stealth ship. It would be so easy to contact it for assistance.

And he’d spend the rest of his career chained to a desk—in the remotest sector in the Dalvarr System, where no sane sentient would ever want to be.

“Quin, broadcast an emergency get-clear on the freighter channels,” Serri was saying without turning from her console. “We need to get as far away as we can in ten minutes. I don’t want to plow through anyone in the process.”

“Sending,” Quin said.

Nic did a quick mental calculation as Quin’s vest flickered. “Will we be out of range of the cannons in ten minutes?”

“It’ll be close.” Serri fired the lifting thrusters. The ship vibrated. Plumes of dust and debris swirled past the viewscreens.

Close could be fatal, and Nic again damned the fact that his hands were tied by his undercover status. It looked as if this plan could fail as miserably as the one six years ago that was meant to keep Serri in his life.

“We could always tell the chuffers that Filar’s onboard. Without mentioning you, of course,” Quin added, with a quick nod to Nic.

“Then we’d be dealing with pursuit craft,” Serri pointed out. “I’d rather take my chance dodging the cannons. They have a finite range.”

Serri redirected the thrusters, easing the freighter out of the bay. Nic silently lauded Serri’s skill as she wove her way around bulky tankers that didn’t have the
Pandea’
s maneuverability.

Then three shrill bleats erupted from her console.

“Short range. Incoming.” Her voice was tense. “Not cannons. Security drones. Could be standard procedure,” she continued. “Or they’re realizing that the cannons don’t work and this is their second-best.”

Nic hoped that was it. Unmanned security drones weren’t difficult to evade with someone of Serri’s expertise at the controls. Plus, drone’s lasers had limited range.

“Increasing aft shields to counter,” Serri said.

“Those chuffers at traffic control are getting quite vitriolic.” Quin sounded amused.

The
Pandea
shuddered. Another alarm trilled. Serri slapped the disconnect as she checked ship’s status. “Drone just bit us in the ass. Shields are holding.”

She had the ship dodging and darting, trying to avoid any more hits from the drones, but they were persistent.

“Shield down to seventy-two percent. Three minutes to outer beacon.”

Suddenly the bridge filled with a rapid high-pitched series of tones. “Shit!” Serri’s fingers moved with new intensity over her console. “Targeting sensor warning. They’ve got a lock on us. It’s the cannons.”

Nic’s heart hammered against his ribs. They’d misjudged or someone had overridden Serri’s program. Why and how no longer mattered. Staying alive did.

“Hang on.” Serri dropped the freighter into a roll and, after that, into a curving dive. Nic could feel artificial gravity straining to maintain stability; little pockets of weightlessness making his ass rise off the seat as the shields’ power draw drained ship’s systems.

Serri’s screens—and the wailing of alarms—confirmed two near-misses but the second was close enough to damage the shields. “Shields down to sixty-one percent.”

“Quin, patch me in to the comm,” Nic said suddenly, angling the console’s mic toward him.

Serri shot him a quick glance. “You tell them Filar’s onboard, they’re going to send pursuit ships. I can’t outrun those and avoid the cannons.”

“They won’t send ships when I tell them he’s in DIA custody.”

“But you said your mission—”

“Screw the mission.” He meant that. This was about choices—and not just life-and-death ones. He made his. “Quin, patch me in.”

“Mic and speakers are live,” Quin said.

“Jabo Station, hold fire. This is Special Agent Nicandro Talligar, Dalvarr Intelligence Agency, onboard the
Star of Pandea
. Cease fire or we’ll put your station under full lockdown.”

“Talligar, this is Jabo. We have no proof—”

Nic was already working the console. “Transmitting identification now.”

His console clicked and beeped. His heart pounded. He could hear Quin breathing heavily, and though she tried to hide it by dropping her hand into her lap, he could see Serri’s fist clench.

“Talligar, this is Jabo. Ident confirmed. We’re holding fire. However, we should have been informed of your presence and any investigation.”

“You can take it up with the agency. In the meantime, be advised that I have your stationmaster, Gop Filar, onboard and under arrest. A DIA enforcement ship is at your outer beacon and will counter any moves against this ship. Talligar out.”

The alarms cut off in mid-wail. Jabo had stopped firing. Nic leaned back in his seat and scrubbed at his face with his hands. When he opened his eyes, Serri had swiveled her seat partway around and was looking at him.

“You’re going to be in real trouble over this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, and flexed his left wrist. Time to talk to those voices in his head again. They were not going to be happy.

S
ERRI SWIVELED THE
high-backed chair around in the ready room, very glad that the room was now empty. She hadn’t been through a debriefing since she left Widestar, but that had been the corporate version. The DIA version was frightening—almost as frightening as their shadowy stealth ship.

She swiveled back. The room’s viewports were small. She couldn’t tell where she was—disconcerting for a pilot. But she knew they were headed back to Jabo Station with the
Pandea
in tow. She and Quin had permission to retrieve their cargo—minus whatever tracking gizmos the DIA had added—and deliver the forty-seven cartons to the winery. And get the rest of their payment.

She should be overjoyed. She wasn’t. Nic was in trouble. More than trouble—he’d sacrificed his career for them. For
her
.