Something in the way we looked perhaps, the pasty face on Noss, gave us away. Or maybe it was Blest’s challenging scowl.
The officer held up his firearm and blurted out a deep-throated order. “Hold it! Identification.”
I blinked. “Is there a problem, officer?”
“Not yet, but you might have one. Pass me your ID, and don’t try anything stupid.”
“Why us?” blurted Blest. “Those people up there are going through.” He pointed to the couple ahead of us.
“We’re not running an equal opportunity checkout here, wiseass,” the guard grumbled.
Turning to flash a reassuring smile at the officer, I felt the first beads of sweat running down my neck while warning bells went off in my brain. I glared at Blest. My hiss of warning did not reach him or Noss in time.
Noss made a move for something at his hip. The officer whipped out his weapon and tagged Noss in the wrist, shattering it. Noss squealed in anguish as a bright red smear appeared from knuckles to wrist joint.
“Down!” the officer roared. “On the ground, all of you!”
I knelt slowly, my hand reaching for the tiny disc I had smuggled in. I pressed the arm button and I made as if to put my hands to my head. I released the disc at the same time and it hit the hand railing and flared up. The guard, momentarily blinded by the bright orange ball, gave a howling cry. Blest charged him. They wrestled, each with their hands on the gun with Blest gnashing and cursing. The weapon boomed yet again, clipping the officer low under the chin. He slumped, gave a gurgle of anguish and fell to the floor as a bright blotch blossomed on his throat. A glazed look appeared in his eyes.
Blest grimaced in a daze. He threw the weapon down on the guard’s chest.
I raised my hands to my hair and clutched at it. A moment of despair passed. I shook my head in resignation. “That’ll do it, Blest. Drag the corpse behind the kiosk!” I hissed at him. “We’ve got exactly one minute to get the fuck out of here. This heist is going sour. It was all sewn up.”
“Sewn up, Rusco? Not really.”
We booted it to Bantam, wasting no time to scramble to the bridge and get the engines fired up. All the time klaxon bells shrilled at our ears. Nobody was supposed to get wasted.
Wren came running out of the corridor, blinking in perplexity. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“All’s not well, Wren.” I fiddled with the nav thrusters. “Get us the hell out of here, Noss. Move! Program the Varwol! And for fuck’s sake, Blest, don’t do anything more to fuck up the day.”
Noss moaned, holding his shattered wrist. Wren hopped to it while Blest glared at me.
I shook my head in sad acknowledgement. We pulled away from the berthing arms. Impulse power took us up from Gistron on to the stars.
I took Bantam on an opposite course to Alastar, our runaway yacht speeding to Deneb, my finger ready on the Varwol.
“Ignore the pain,” I rasped at Noss. “Keep an eye on Alastar’s progress. For Mary’s sake, pitch Alastar into warp if shots come at her, or some SOB comes too close to tractoring her in. She’ll lead Gistron’s security bozos a merry chase.” I hated to be hard on Noss, but the poor fuck need direction and these desperate times demanded desperate measures.
The first ship came roaring up on our tail. But it wasn’t who I thought it would be. Wren pulled up the holo feed and zoomed in. A cigar-shaped fast-runner appeared, tapered on the ends, wider in the middle where the bridge lay. No security logo on her side. Odd.
The message came crackling over the com, on a general hailing frequency. “Jorry Rambo, Jorry Rambo, cut your engines! We’ve weapons locked on your hull. RSA and Gistron security are aboard with orders to kill, regarding the murder of a security agent.”
I scowled. On a whim, I paused, my fingers fluttering over the Varwol slider. To find out what they knew could be expedient.
“Seems as if we have some uneasy people on our back,” I murmured at Wren.” I spoke into the com. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, captain. Must have the wrong guy.”
A fat face appeared on the visual—Halley’s—and his angry face spewing invective rattled the line. “Rambo! We’ve got your number and we know you’re keeping a bimbo accomplice aboard. Turn her in. We might go easy on you.”
“What bimbo? Are you mad?” Odd that Detran’d go after me instead of Alastar. The word ‘bimbo’ clued me into the fact that Detran and his cronies had no RSA or security team aboard. “Who am I talking to?” I croaked.
“Name’s Halley Detran, you fucknut—organizer of the auction, a name you know well enough, unless you’re the most clued out SOB in the universe! Turn that hunk of shit around—”
I killed the channel. “Rude bastard.” I never took well to insults. I nodded at Wren. “Okay, let’s make hay.” I kicked in Bantam’s hyperdrive while she engaged Alastar’s Varwol. But Halley took a shot at us from behind. A deafening boom hit our hull. The shields held but I watched as the red light flickered on the structural overload gauge. The warp sequence failed.
“What kind of bombs is that fucker carrying?” I murmured. “You want to play, Hal? Okay.” I swung Bantam about and grunted at Wren. “Fire at that bastard’s ass.”
Wren loosed a fareon beam. A jagged streak of ionized light flared from our port and shook Halley’s craft till it was an ugly shade of dusky
