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
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.”
