Songs of Love and Death: All-Original Tales of Star-crossed Love

A former news reporter and retired private detective, hot new author Linnea Sinclair is the author of eight butt-kicking action-adventure science fiction romance novels, including Finders Keepers, An Accidental Goddess, Games of Command, The Down Home Zombie Blues, and her Dock Five Universe series: Gabriel’s Ghost (RITA Award winner), Shades of Dark, and Hope’s Folly. Her most recent novel is Rebels and Lovers, the fourth book in the Dock Five Universe.

In the fast-paced, action-packed story that follows, she proves once again that trust between lovers, once lost, is a very hard thing to regain. In fact, attempting to regain it might just cost you your life…

Courting Trouble

Captain Serenity Beck knew the very moment things went horribly wrong. It happened right between the words “confiscate” and “impound,” which—thanks to the translator encircling her left ear—she heard twice: first in Nalshinian and the second time in Trade-Standard.

“We repeat. Refusal to pay grants us license to confiscate your cargo.” The bulbous orange triped that bore the title of Esteemed Dockmaster of Jabo Station reached forward to stroke the blue-tinged holoscreen hovering over his desk. An image of the Star of Pandea appeared in the lower left. “And, if necessary, place your ship under impound.”

“It’s not a matter of refusal.” Serri spoke slowly, hearing the echo of her cadence through the dockmaster’s lang-trans, which—since Nalshinian ears were under the jaw—dangled around his blubbery neck. “We’re a Dalvarr-licensed hauler under contract to Widestar. You have no authority to impose a tariff.”

“We have your ship in our bay.” Filar jabbed one stubby digit at the Pandea’s image, setting the metal rings on his billowing sleeves clanking. “Possession, Captain Beck. It is eleven points of all law. Therefore, we shall present ourselves at your airlock in thirty minutes to collect the cargo.”

Thirty minutes wasn’t even enough time to alert the Dalvarr Trade Collective or Widestar corporate legal division, and Filar knew that. Just as he knew there was no way the Pandea had the ability to pay a three-hundred-thousand credit “tariff.” This wasn’t lawful possession. This was thinly disguised piracy. Extortion.

Serri was out of options. All she had left was her anger—and nothing to lose by unleashing it. She fisted her hands at her sides. “You motherless son of a Garpion whore! It’ll be a cold day in hell before I’ll allow you or your people access to my ship!”

Too late she realized the translator’s vocabulary was limited to trade, technical, and legal terms. His Esteemedness looked genuinely puzzled. “We do not see what climactic conditions have to do with the fact that we have in our possession an order of procurement authorized by the Council of Jabo Station United.” He wheezed loudly. “And by the way, we have three maternal parents, none of whom reside in the Garpion Sector.” His four tiny eyes blinked rapidly. “Thirty minutes, Captain Beck.”

Serri strode from the office, hands still fisted. She had thirty minutes to collect her business partner, Quin, and try to figure out why Gop Filar so desperately wanted the forty-seven containers from Widestar that Rez Jonas assigned to them three shipdays ago. She should never have trusted Rez, but one of Quin’s favorite lectures was that personal grudges had no place at the trading table—especially grudges with ex-lovers and ex-employers. Rez and Widestar fit both categories. Quin’s Skoggi senses had picked up nothing duplicitous during the transaction, though admittedly Rez made only a brief appearance, his assistant handling the details.

Unless Quin lied about what he sensed.

No, she couldn’t believe that. Quintrek James of Daq’kyree’s detractors had many unkind names for the former High Council administrator, but liar wasn’t one of them. If anything, Quin could be brutally honest, and his empathic ability tended to keep others honest as well. The fact that Quin could read her emotions never bothered her—and had proved handy in more than one sticky trade negotiation. Business was growing, enough that after six years as the Pandea’s pilot, she’d been able to buy a thirty-percent share of Quin’s transport business two months ago. The Star of Pandea was now her ship too.

So were the Pandea’s troubles.

She spotted Quin’s felinoid form in a booth at the Wretched Beast, one of Jabo Station’s more popular multispecies bars. He was large even for a Skoggi, his head and shoulders clearly visible above the glossy blue tabletop. Black fur covered his pointed ears, wide side ruff, and back, all the way to his plumy tail, but he had a triangle of white over his eyes and muzzle that extended down his chest. In almost direct contrast to his fur and his bulk was the wraithlike silver-skinned Kor in bright yellow robes sitting across from him.

Damn. She didn’t need an audience to their troubles. Worse, the Kor were chronic meddlers and Thuk-Zik was no exception. If she even hinted something was wrong, the yellow-robed male would latch on to her like a high-security docking clamp.

But Thuk-Zik was rising even as she approached. “I must be on my way. Good trading, Nom Quintrek. Nomma Captain Beck.” He moved away, the hem of his robe fluttering as his clawed feet tapped against the metal decking.

“Good trading, Nom,” Serri called after him, keeping relief at his departure out of her voice. Thank you, saints and blessed Vakare. She slid into the booth.

Quin was nudging his bowl of meat tea with one wide furry paw, causing the gelatinous liquid to shimmer. “You should have been here five minutes ago,” he said, with that lilt his voice held when he spoke Trade-Standard. “We had quite a chin wag about who’s brassed off at whom at Widestar Trading.”

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one—especially another Kor—was within earshot, then lowered her voice. “Widestar is going to be brassed off at us. Filar has a grab order with our names on it—unless you have a spare three hundred thousand to make him go away. He knows damned well we don’t. He’ll be at our airlock in twenty minutes.”

The white muzzle raised out of the bowl. Golden eyes narrowed. “Tailless bastard!”

“Pay your tab. We need to get there before he does.”

THE VOICES IN Nicandro Talligar’s head were talking to him again. It came with the job.

“Status?” asked a familiar gravelly male voice.

Nic tucked himself into the recesses of a maintenance alcove in the corridor outside the Wretched Beast and flexed his left wrist, activating the tympanic implant’s transmitter. “Filar took the bait.”

“Any reason to believe he suspects?”

I’m not Brackton, he almost told Leonoso, but held back. His case agent didn’t need to be reminded of the mission failure at Able-Trade. But Nic wasn’t Depvar Brackton. He’d never blown his cover, not in five years, not even when threatened with death. After what happened at Widestar, the job was everything to him. The agency knew that and—he suspected—used that.

“Everything’s clean.”

“Keep it that way. Next contact in thirty-eight.” The transmission cut off with the usual sharp click.

He was about to move out of the alcove when a woman in a dark green flightsuit jogged by, her long dark braid swinging across her back. The ship’s patch on her left sleeve was emblazoned with a silver star. A very large black-and-white Skoggi in a matching dark green CI—command-interface—vest bounded on all fours by her side. The patch on his vest showed an identical silver star.

Nic’s chest suddenly went tight. He recognized and expected to see the Skoggi. Quintrek James—a familiar name in political circles—was owner of record of the Star of Pandea, a jump-rated short-hauler working the ass end of the Dalvarr System along with the usual assortment of pirates, mercenaries, and con artists. Which was the reason Nic Talligar was here—tracking cargo that the Dalvarr Intelligence Agency had, three days ago, deliberately placed on board Quintrek James’s ship.

But what in hell was Serenity Beck doing here? The answer was in her green uniform with its silver star emblem on the sleeve. She was ship’s crew, very likely ship’s pilot.

Death threats he could handle. But Serri Beck was trouble—a seriously unexpected complication. And one that made his chest go tight and his breath hitch.

If Nic thought Serri disliked him six years ago, there was no doubt in his mind that she was really going to hate him now! Damned shame he couldn’t return the favor. But six seconds of watching her sprint past him just destroyed six years of his hard-won sanity. And might well destroy his career.

He almost flexed his wrist to contact Leonoso. But he couldn’t—not for thirty-eight hours. Mission rules. Cursing himself silently, he waited for a boxy anti-grav cargo auto-pallet to whirr by before slipping out of the shadows to follow her. Some rules were about to be broken.

SERRI QUICKLY TAPPED in the codes to open the freighter bay’s airlock. Quin bounded through ahead of her, tail flicking as if to propel him forward. The Skoggi raced across the metal decking for the hulking deltoid-shaped ship that nearly filled the bay. Rampway lights, triggered by the thought-receptors in Quin’s vest, winked on as he approached.

“Try scrambling the airlock codes to give us time,” he called out. “I’ll bring main systems online.”

“They’ll fire the ion cannons at us before we even hit the lanes,” she called back as the airlock door wheezed closed. Not many stations packed a full complement of ion cannons. But Jabo had a reputation for using them to prevent captains skipping out on dockage fees.

Quin hesitated in the ship’s hatchway. “I’m not looking to escape but to obfuscate. If they can’t get in our cargo holds, they can’t rob us of our cargo.”

There was that. Serri programmed in a second override to the corridor airlock pad, then bolted for the rampway. If the manifests were accurate, Filar’s interest in their cargo made no sense: forty-seven containers of Tillithian fermentation essence. A small winery operating out of a hydroponics outpost was the documented recipient. Partial payment was in account on Jabo. It wasn’t the usual setup, but they needed to stop for fuel and water anyway. Even full payment wouldn’t cover Filar’s bogus importation tariff.

“Anything?” she asked Quinn as she jogged onto the bridge.

The Skoggi was hunkered down in the command sling, lights on his CI vest blinking in syncopation with lights on the ship’s consoles as the vest translated his thoughts into actions on a ship made for humanoid hands, not Skoggi paws. “I’ve jammed the access doors to bays two and three. One and four, however, are being enthusiastically uncooperative.”

“And Filar won’t find it unusual that we can’t get into our own cargo holds?” Her partner’s perfect plan suddenly held huge flaws.

“Not when we tell him the winery has the only unlock codes. To prevent us from selling the essence elsewhere, of course. Considering that we took prepayment.”

Yeah, with an invoice for unpaid tariffs served on her as soon as she left the bank. Serri hated coincidence. She just wished coincidence didn’t like her so much.

She leaned her arms on the back of the command sling. “Let me take a look.” Quin knew his ship, but Serri had learned a few tricks from a—onetime—friend who’d worked security at Widestar and had a talent for things less than legal. But if it kept the Pandea’s cargo in her holds, it was worth the heartache of resurrecting Nic Talligar’s memory. She still didn’t know what hurt more: the fact that Rez Jonas—her almost-husband—was having an affair with his sultry-but-stupid administrative assistant at Widestar, or that her closest friend since her university days provided excuses for her almost-husband and Sultry-but-Stupid.

She’d been in love with Rez for over two years. But she’d been friends with Nic for seven. All Rez gave her was heartache and shame. At least from Nic, she’d learned something useful.

Like whom she could trust. And whom she couldn’t.

With a frustrated sigh, she brought up ship’s schematics. Losing cargo would not only hamper their ability to get future hauling contracts, but it would damage the reputation that Quin had worked so hard to rebuild the past ten years. If Serri could have, she’d make Quin dump the containers on Jabo’s decking and bolt. But Jabo Station packed ion cannons. And she had no reason to believe leaving their cargo behind would ensure their safety.

She had Cargo One jammed when the ramp alarms beeped. “Shit! The motherless son of a Garpion whore is early.”

“Not Filar or his guards,” Quin told her as she tapped on the ship’s exterior vidcams. “Human male. No intention of violence.”

She glanced at Quin. He was using his Skoggi senses to take a reading. Their visitor might not intend violence, but… “I double-locked the corridor hatchway. How in hell—?”

She swung back to the monitors. It was as if her illegal tinkering resurrected a ghost. The scars on her heart suddenly felt fresh and raw. Her onetime close friend hadn’t changed much in six years, though his short dark hair looked a bit shaggier and he was definitely in need of a shave. But instead of a light green Widestar security uniform, he was in a black spacer jacket and dark pants. She’d bet, however, that his infamous charm hadn’t changed one bit. His lock-picking skills certainly hadn’t lapsed.

“You know him?”

She could tell by Quin’s concerned tone that he’d felt her surge of emotions. “He was friends with Rez Jonas when we all worked for Widestar.”

“Perhaps Rez sent him. Or he needs a job. Let him in.”

She hesitated, her mind seizing on something so bizarre she couldn’t discount it. She couldn’t believe—well, yeah, she could—that six years after she walked out on Rez, he’d still hold a grudge.

But if Rez Jonas wanted to get revenge, using his new position as Widestar’s director of Sector Three exports was a terrific way to do it. Sector Three—the Outrim region of the Dalvarr System—was the Pandea’s main territory. “Quin, has it occurred to you that Rez might have set us up?”

“All the more reason I wish to speak with this friend of yours.”

She shoved herself out of the command sling. If Quin was hurt because of some juvenile plan of Rez’s to get back at her, she swore she’d hunt the man down and pummel him out of existence.

“We have only ten minutes. See if you can’t jam Cargo Four.” She grabbed her Z9 laser rifle from the bridge’s weapons locker, then headed quickly down the corridor to find out just what Nic Talligar was doing on her rampway—and back in her life.

“IF YOU’RE HERE for a job, we’re not hiring.”

Nic studied Captain Serri Beck, standing in the Pandea’s airlock, and knew without a doubt that he was courting trouble. It wasn’t just her tone. It was the lethal Z9 in her hands. Best to get right to the point.

“Filar’s Bruisers are on the way here,” he told her as she stared at him, her dark eyes hard and cold. He remembered lights dancing in those same eyes, her demeanor playful, impish. That playfulness was gone, but her ability to spark his emotions wasn’t. He forced his focus from her to the shadowy airlock. “We don’t have much time. You can shoot me when this is finished.”

“Ammo’s pricey these days. Spacing you would be cheaper.” But she motioned him through the airlock with a hard jerk of the rifle’s tip.

He hesitated, a thousand things he wanted to say dying on his tongue. Things he should have said six years ago. Things he still couldn’t find a way to say now. He stepped past her into the freighter’s interior—the usual gray serviceable bulkheads with yellow-striped conduit crisscrossing overhead. His bootsteps clanked in time to hers on the decking gridwork. Something trilled and beeped farther down the corridor.

“I can help, but you need to trust me.” He knew that was asking a lot.

“That’s up to Quin, not me.”

He nodded, and moved on with the feeling that if it had been up to her, she would have shot him on the rampway.

It didn’t surprise him that Serenity Beck had hooked up with Quintrek James of Daq’kyree. Nic knew Quintrek’s history, and the rumors surrounding the former royal adviser’s resignation a decade ago. He couldn’t bring the details of the scandal to mind, only that Quintrek had walked away from a powerful and prestigious position on the Skoggi High Council.

Serri, like Quintrek, had a strong sense of justice. But, unlike Quintrek, she hadn’t waited to review all the evidence. If she had, her life might well have been different. Nic’s life… He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t change the past. The only thing he could do was to help her and Quintrek now—and try not to blow the mission in the process.

“Quin, this is Nicandro Talligar,” Serri said as they stepped over the hatch tread and onto the bridge.

Nic inclined his head in respect to the Skoggi perched in the command sling. “An honor, Esteemed of Pride Daq’kyree.”

A wide paw resplendent with furry white tufts waved dismissively. “Piffle. Little honor in being caught in Filar’s claws. Tell me what Rez Jonas should have, but didn’t.” Quin turned toward Serri. “Cargo Four won’t lock.”

“On it.” She swung away, pushing the rifle to one side as she dropped into a chair in front of a console.

“Wait. You have to let Filar take the cargo,” Nic said, as Serri angled back toward him. “I know that’s not what you want to hear. Think of it as a temporary inconvenience on the way to solving a larger problem.”

Dark narrowed eyes peered up at him. “The larger problem is Filar’s threatening to impound this ship, Talligar.”

“He won’t go that far. Trust me.”

“He will, and I don’t trust you. Neither does Quin.”

“Dumping cargo doesn’t engender client loyalty,” Quin intoned.

“There won’t be clients shipping anywhere in Sector Three if we don’t find out what Filar’s up to,” Nic countered. “You’re not the first to get hit with this scheme. But we tagged your cargo and can track it to whoever Filar sends it to—which is who we suspect is behind this.”

Quin’s whiskers twitched, but he was nodding. “I take it ‘we’ is more than you and Rez Jonas.”

Nic had briefly considered using that as cover, and probably could have convinced the empathic Skoggi that it was the truth. That was, after all, part of his job. But Nic’s lies to Serri—and the way Rez Jonas used her—always haunted him. She deserved honesty this time.

“Jonas has no idea I’m here. I’m a special agent with the DIA’s organized crime squad.” Cover blown. He could almost hear his boss roaring in anger from her plush offices at HQ, more than halfway across the Dalvarr System, adding his name next to Brackton’s on her list of incompetents.

He heard Serri’s snort of disbelief instead. “That’s a great pickup line, but we don’t have time for—”

“Trouble,” Quin said harshly, pointing to one of the screens on an opposite console where a line of hulking red-suited Breffans shoved through the freighter bay’s hatchlock, ram-cannons in hands. “Filar’s Bruisers have arrived.”

SERRI LISTENED AS Quin—being typically Quin—peppered the orange-freckled Bruiser chief with questions. But whether Quin was playing the part that Nic had asked him to, or whether he discounted Nic’s story and was actually trying to save their asses—and their cargo—Serri couldn’t tell.

Serri, being typically Serri, vacillated between righteous anger and an unexpected—and ridiculous—feeling of relief at Nic’s presence by her side. She didn’t know what to make of Nic’s story. But the fact that she didn’t trust him didn’t blind her to other facts: He was intelligent, resourceful, and had a definite talent for unorthodox solutions. They needed one of those—desperately—right now.

Quin’s arguments were changing nothing. The Breffans didn’t care about the legitimacy of the order they served. Not surprising, considering that the broad-bodied, leathery-skinned, freckled Breffans weren’t used in security for their empathy, but for their multilimbed dexterity. The purple-freckled female guard holding a rifle on Serri and Nic also held a pistol and a transcomm in two of her other three hands—if Serri as much as made a twitch for the rifle slung across her back, the guard could shoot her dead with two different weapons. The guard’s fourth hand scratched lazily at her left thigh.

The Breffan chief finally stalked away, clomping noisily up the Pandea’s rampway in counterpoint to the Pandea’s cargo flowing out of her holds.

With a shake of his head, Quin padded back over to where she and Nic stood, then sat on his haunches. Serri knew that he wouldn’t discuss anything in front of the guard. She glanced down at him. He mirrored her frown with a slight narrowing of his eyes. One ear twitched, flattening.

Quin was not happy.

Neither was Serri. For all the things she didn’t know, there was one thing she did: Nic Talligar knew more than he was saying about Filar and Rez Jonas.

Minutes later, noise from the Pandea’s airlock drew her attention. The orange-freckled Breffan chief clomped back down the rampway, cannon in one hand, datapad in another, his remaining two arms stiffly at his side.

With an annoyed grunt, he went down on one knee so that his face and Quin’s were almost level. “Paw print here.” He held out the datapad.

“I shall read it first.” Quin’s voice held a haughty tone that Serri knew went back to his council days. “If you’d like to sit—”

“I’ll wait,” the chief said. “It’s only the basic one-page transfer of ownership.”

Transfer of ownership? Not transfer. Impound. Shock roiled through her. They’d already given up the cargo as Nic told them to. And now… this. Serri felt sick. She’d trusted Nic again. And been betrayed. Again.

Quin’s whiskers quivered as his paw hovered over the screen. “This is beastly. We shall be filing a criminal complaint against this station.”

The chief shrugged. “Boss says since we got the cargo, he can be generous. For a mere hundred fifty thousand, he’ll drop impound charges and you can keep the ship.”

Quin’s paw jerked. “Bugger!”

Nic stepped forward. “Deal.”

“Deal?” Serri’s voice rasped as she swung toward him. What kind of game was this now? Or maybe not a game at all, but the truth coming out. Nic wasn’t trying to help them, he wasn’t a DIA agent trying to stop Filar. He was working for Filar, extorting as much as he could out of Quin.

“But we need time,” Nic was saying, “to transfer the funds.”

The Breffan tapped his datapad. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Two hours.”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Hour and a half.”

“Hour.”

“Deal.”

More taps on the datapad. “Paw print here confirming payment at the dockmaster’s office in one hour,” the chief said to Quin.

Quin glanced at Nic, then, with the slightest of nods, slapped his paw down.

“Don’t even think about trying to leave without paying,” the chief said, shoving the datapad back into his utility belt. “Cannons’ll pick you off before you’re even halfway to the outer beacon.”

“Understood,” Quinn said.

The chief nodded and, with purple-freckles in tow and the rest of his team filing out behind them, headed for the corridor.

Serri waited until the airlock door groaned closed. “What in hell’s going on? We don’t have a hundred fifty thousand credits!” She glanced from Nic to Quinn then back to Nic again. “They took the cargo. Deed done. Now go arrest them or whatever it is you do. And get us our ship back.”

Discomfort colored Nic’s features, his brows angling down. “I can’t do that. I’ll catch hell as it is because you know who I am. But it would jeopardize the entire mission if station admin finds out.”

“I take it that means the DIA isn’t giving us a loan.”

“I don’t have the authority—”

“Then what in hell are Quin and I supposed to do? Rob a bank?” She didn’t try to keep the sarcasm out of her words.

“Don’t have to,” Nic said. “Filar can’t extort money from you if you’re not on station.”

Abandon the Pandea? “You’re asking us to walk away—”

“Not walk. Climb. Six levels up to the auxiliary maintenance grid so I can disable the station’s weapons’ system.”

This was beyond unorthodox. The man was insane. “You’re going to dismantle an entire bank of ion cannons?”

“Nope.” He pulled out a thin microcomp from an inside pocket of his jacket. “I just have to shut down the station’s ability to fire them.”

Serri’s mind whirled. “Not you.” She pointed to herself then to Nic. “Us.”

“I can’t. You’re not trained—”

“Weapons systems, computers? Sure as hell am, Talligar. Or are you forgetting who was your study and sim partner in the university?”

“Serri, this is dangerous.”

“And this is my ship, and Quin’s my partner. I’m not stupid enough to let you stroll out of here with only your word as guarantee. I had a taste of your trustworthiness six years ago, thank you very much.” She tugged her rifle forward. “I’m going with you or you’re going nowhere.”

He looked hurt. “Quin trusts me.”

“I feel your plan has merit,” Quin admitted. “And empathically I sense no duplicity from you. But I agree with Captain Beck. We have far more to lose than you do.” He nodded. “I trust you will do all you can to keep her safe. And I trust she will do all she can to keep you honest.”

Serri raised her chin and looked at Nic in triumph. It meant something that Quin believed him. She wasn’t ready yet to grant him that luxury though.

“FILAR MAY HAVE watchers out,” Nic told Serri as they strode for the stairwell. He kept his voice low and even. Which was more than he could do for his emotions. He was annoyed. He was angry. His own career be damned, the one thing he did not want to do was put Serri in further danger, and now he had. It didn’t make him feel any better that he was armed and so was she—though she’d left the larger rifle with Quin, opting for a more easily concealable pistol. “We need to let them see us enter the bank as if we’re securing a loan. Then we slip out the side door and use the maintenance core catwalks from there.”

“Just like Scout-and-Snipe.”

He huffed out a hard laugh at her comment. “A bit more dangerous, but yeah.” He’d met Serri playing the holosim game while at the university. Impressed with her skills, he recruited her to his team—the best decision he ever made. A year later, he recruited Rez Jonas. The worst decision he ever made.

“Why does the DIA care about Filar? Okay, he’s dirty, but Jabo Station’s had that reputation for decades. What are you really doing here?”

Definitely not what he’d been sent to do—including blowing his cover. He waited until two human dockworkers and a Kortish male in garish yellow robes clambered down the stairs and out of earshot. “It’s one thing when pirates get into pissing contests with rival factions. It’s another when legit haulers get hit with an extortion scam. And yes, I really do work for the DIA. They recruited me a few months after you left.” Serri never even said good-bye, never gave him a chance to explain why he’d kept her busy and away from Jonas all those months. He glanced over at her as they climbed, chancing a bit of honesty, as painful as he knew it was going to be. “There was no reason for me to stay at Widestar. You were gone.”

Something flashed in her eyes. “I’m sure Rez had other infidelities you could have helped him cover up.”

They’d reached the next level—one more and they’d exit into the corridor then head for the bank. Nic kept his senses tuned to anyone coming up behind them. It was in Filar’s best interest to let them retrieve the supposed funds, but this was Jabo Station. Filar wasn’t the only thug. Just one of the bigger ones.

Given that, he’d picked one hell of a time to initiate this discussion. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Well, you did.” She pushed ahead of him.

He kept to the right side of the heavily trafficked passageway, tucking them as much as possible between larger groups as they headed for the bank’s main entrance off Corridor Supreme. If Filar had his Bruisers following them, Nic didn’t see any.

That Filar could be following them on security vidcams was a definite possibility. It was the reason Nic chose Sector United. The vidcams in Corridor Supreme were the least effective and not just because of the crowds, but because two popular pleasure houses there paid good money not to be recorded.

Sector United was crowded—it was the only bank on-station that was multi-species-friendly, including a private office for methane breathers and decking-level teller terminals for four-legged patrons like Skoggi. He guided Serri past the currency-exchange kiosk, then spotted a vacant space along a side wall. He nudged her quickly in that direction. They needed to look as if they waited for a loan officer.

“Serri, I’m sorry,” he said as she wedged herself between a fake redsprout tree on her right and a tall blinking advert pillar on her left.

She brushed a synth-frond off her head. “I’m okay.”

“No. About Rez and his affair with Janna. It was Rez I wanted to hurt. Not you. Never you.” He didn’t know why it was so important to tell her that now, but it was. He suddenly had a bad feeling about this mission, and about what exactly he’d have to do to make sure Serri and Quin got off station alive and in possession of their ship.

Emotions played over her face, her eyes darkening, her mouth parting slightly. He had to force himself to look away from all that, from what it made him want to do, because they now had forty-three minutes to get up four more levels, pull the plug on station defenses, and get back down to the Pandea before alarms started wailing. And before Filar’s Breffan Bruisers figured out just what he’d wanted that extra hour for.

Suddenly, she grasped his forearms, pulling him closer. Nic was very aware that he had three minutes to spare, and that three minutes wasn’t nearly time enough to kiss Serri like he wanted to. People in hell want ice water, his grandfather always used to say. He’d take what he could get.

But her face didn’t hold a look of passion but concern. “A pair of Bruisers just came in.”

Nic shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Time to disappear. “Side exit. Go.”

She threaded her way through the crowd of bank patrons. He took one last look at guards—the Breffans hadn’t seen them, he was sure—and then followed on her heels, cursing silently. He should have demanded more time.

There was a maintenance storage room about fifty feet to the left of the bank. At least, there had been two years ago, which was the last time Nic was on Jabo Station. But when they came around the curve in the corridor, something else had been added: two more red-uniformed Bruisers. One leaned against the bulkhead, checking something on a transcomm in his upper left hand; the other watched the crowd through narrowed eyes.

He pulled Serri behind a pylon.

“They’re looking for us,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“They’re also blocking access to the maintenance core.” Where they would have been able to continue with much less chance of being seen.

“There must be others.”

“That’s the closest workable one on this level that I have the code for.”

“Since when do you need a code for a lock?”

“Since we only have forty minutes to do what we have to and get back.”

One of the Breffan guards raised his face, peering over the crowd of stationers. Spotting them? Nic couldn’t take the chance. The guard was already heading toward them. Nic put his arm around her shoulders, aware now of movement to their left. A deep voice, shouting. Then a sharp trill of high laughter.

“Looks like someone’s on his way to a party,” he told her, turning her quickly toward the group of drunken revelers. “Let’s go crash it.”

THEY STANK. SOMEONE—more than one someone, Serri guessed with fair accuracy, wrinkling her nose—had spilled sour ale on his clothes, and another someone standing far too close to her and Nic had pissed on himself. Or herself. Crammed into the small lift as they were—a nonstop to Level Ten—there was nowhere to get away from the stench and the harsh laughter and—

Vakare-be-damned, if that bastard behind her patted her ass one more time she was going to ignore Nic’s admonition to “blend in,” and clock the drunk right across his drooling face.

She inched closer to Nic, regretting that too because he smelled clean like soap and leather and, well, like the Nic Talligar she remembered.

It was Rez I wanted to hurt. Not you.

She played his words over in her mind as she listened to Nic ramble on in an unintelligible conversation with several of the drunks, his newfound friends. There was no escape, not from the drunken dockworkers headed for the Crimson Flask on Level Ten, and not from Nic Talligar who never wanted to hurt her.

So he said.

He never hurt you before. He was your best friend.

But how in hell was helping Rez cover his affair with Janna hurting Rez? If she lived through this, she was going to sit Nic down and demand an answer. And have Quin there to make sure Nic didn’t lie.

Though she might suffocate from the noxious fumes before that happened. She gave up and leaned her face against Nic’s jacket. And was surprised when his arms came tightly around her. And even more surprised to feel his mouth brush the side of her forehead.

He’s playacting. We’re just another pair of drunks headed for someone’s party.

But being held by Nic felt good. And it wasn’t just because he smelled good. It was because… he was Nic. Her onetime closest friend she never wanted to see again. Ever.

This was definitely not good.

The lift shimmied to a stop, doors opening. The whooping and laughing increased, along with general mayhem as the partygoers stumbled toward the bar’s entrance.

She and Nic stumbled along with them. Suddenly he yanked her sideways.

“Hey, party’s this way!” someone called out.

“Be righ’ there,” Nic called back, words slurred as he swayed against her. “Gotta puke.”

That elicited a chorus of groans and epithets as Nic bent over, one hand braced against the wall.

“Arm around my shoulder. Block their view.” His voice was low, urgent.

She steadied him and realized he didn’t want his new friends to see the tiny decoder in his hand. He was picking the lock on a door clearly marked “No Admittance.”

“I really don’t think they care,” she said quietly, meaning that he was accessing the door, not that he was pretending to be sick.

“Anyone watching?”

She turned slightly. The line of dockworkers in the corridor had dwindled. “Nope.”

He shoved the door open and pulled her inside. “They care,” he said, closing the door, extinguishing all light. Then light flared. Nic, with a small handbeam. They were in a storage closet.

“They care,” he repeated. “You ever know a Jabo dockworker who could afford drinks on the house for fifty people at the first bar, and now a second party here?”

“Someone’s rich relative died?”

He shook his head and played the beam around the room. “The woman with the long white braids on the lift with us is our hostess. Got paid good money for doing something interestingly illegal. And it involves filched cargo and bogus tariffs.”

“She works for Filar.”

“No. Rez Jonas.” He focused the beam on another door on the left wall. “This way.”

Her mind frantically processed the information and refused to let her feet move. “But why would he risk his own cargo? He’s working with you, isn’t he?”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward. “I don’t know, and no, he’s not,” he said, putting the decoder against the door. “Jonas had no idea we’re tracking his cargo. Yours is one of several shipments the DIA tagged at the source. Some ended up at Able-Trade, some went to Fortune Exports, and some to Widestar.” The door unlocked with a low pinging sound. “We didn’t know where the problem was. Now I think we do.”

“But why would he want his own cargo stolen?”

He ushered her through the door into a dimly lit room that wasn’t a room at all, but an open, hangarlike area crisscrossed with catwalks, ladders, maintenance tunnels, and accessways that comprised the station’s core.

“I can think of a dozen reasons ranging from kickbacks to idiotic corporate backstabbing,” Nic said, shoving his handbeam and decoder back onto his utility belt. “But what worries me more is whether Jonas knew you were piloting the Pandea.”

She followed him toward a descending catwalk that she hoped was sturdier than it looked. “He was at the depot when we took consignment. But he didn’t stay long. I thought he was still uncomfortable around me.”

“My guess is he was uncomfortable with your Skoggi partner, who might sense something was wrong. Like the fact Jonas was targeting you.”

Targeting? She grasped the handrail on the catwalk to steady herself. “Why would he target us?”

“We need to keep moving.” He touched her shoulder gently. “Again, I don’t know. It could be he’s still pissed because you walked out in the middle of his fancy engagement party.”

After she’d tossed photos around the party of Rez and Janna writhing on top of a Widestar boardroom conference table. She’d heard later he almost lost his job. And she never did figure out who to thank for sending her the damning images.

“And yours is the only ship under threat of impound,” Nic was saying.

“That could be Filar’s doing.”

“All our intelligence to date shows that Filar is just the front end. Rez wanted you and Quin to do the Jabo run. He wanted you here today.”

Serri saw that so clearly. “Filar had the seizure papers waiting for me.”

“My point. Rez knows you’d fight forfeiting your ship, and also knows you don’t have the money to pay Filar’s ransom. The banks were probably told to deny you a loan. Our mistake—and it was a big one—was that we didn’t even try to get the funds. Filar now knows you have no intention of paying. So he’s wondering if you’re going to break dock and take a chance the ion cannons just might miss.” He hesitated, then: “Or maybe that’s exactly what Jonas wants you to do.”

“Rez wants me dead?” Her voice sounded suddenly hollow.

He turned and looked back at her, his eyes dark. “I have no intention of letting that happen.”

She realized that she’d stopped again. She quickened her steps to catch up to him, her boots clanging dully on the metal gridwork. Saints help them. Quin. What if Filar or whoever Rez had here on station made a move against the Pandea? But Quin could sense anyone entering the bay, sense their intentions. Granted, only in a general capacity: He was Skoggi, not some magical, mystical creature. But Serri had to believe that someone intent on killing would be broadcasting very intense emotions. Still… “I need to warn Quin.”

“If they’re monitoring transmissions you might be endangering—”

A sudden clanking sounded above them. Serri’s heart rate spiked. Nic shoved her to her knees, then dropped down beside her, pistol out. She drew hers and stared up toward the sound, peripherally aware of Nic checking all around them.

He was right. This was far more dangerous than Scout-and-Snipe. And immeasurably more important. The security training Widestar put all their pilots through seemed woefully insufficient.

A few more clanks and pings, punctuated by bootsteps. Through the uneven lighting dotting the stairlike catwalks, Serri could discern a form moving on a platform about two levels above. She didn’t know whether to hunker down and make herself appear smaller, or tense her body and get ready to run.

After another series of pings, Nic leaned toward her, mouth against her ear, “Repair worker. Should leave—”

A loud clang.

“Now.” He rose, one hand on her arm, bringing her with him. “If you’re going to contact Quin, make it quick.”

She pulled out her transcomm as Nick trotted carefully back down the catwalk. She moved as he did, and kept her voice low. “Quintrek, Captain Beck here. Ran into Thuk-zik. I think you’ve locked up the market on gossip. You were dead-on right about those rumors.” She cut the transmission, praying Quin would pick out the keywords in her unlikely and uncharacteristic message.

Praying he was still alive and on board to even receive it.

THREE MINUTES. WELL, maybe five, but no more than that. Nic had five minutes to open the auxiliary maintenance compartment without setting off any alarms. He went down on one knee, running the small decoder over the door’s locking mechanism, which was housed about six inches below the palm pad and ident reader.

“Anything?” Serri asked softly behind him.

“It’s a Drammond Six-K-One.” He swept the decoder in an arc. “Good antipick deterrents, double-back code verifier. Nice.”

“Nic, we’ve got twenty minutes.”

“We have four. If I can’t get this open in four, the rest of those minutes won’t matter.” He brought up a sequence but the 6K-1 wasn’t interested. Damn it. He tried a second, then a third. He could feel Serri’s concern and impatience. She was worried about Quin.

He was worried because he was working blind, and not just because he couldn’t get a damned code fix on the damned 6K-1. It was because he had no clear concept of what Rez Jonas was up to. Only that it wasn’t what either he or his boss had expected. But without filing a sitrep, he couldn’t get answers from agency intel.

Of course, filing a sitrep now would set off more alarms than sloppily picking the damned lock would.

Pay attention, Nicandro.

“Reverse those two parameters.”

He glanced to his right and almost bumped noses with Serri. “What—”

“Those two.” She pointed to the small screen. “Have you forgotten what you taught me back at Widestar? That’s a loop created by an inaccessible exit command.”

He wasted another second to stare at her in amazement—and admiration—then reversed the two parameters and got to work.

“We’re in.” The snick-click of a well-picked lock never sounded so good. He would have kissed her, but there was no time. Plus, she was angry enough at him as it was. “Ten minutes, max.”

The room was little more than a dimly lit narrow closet, about twelve feet wide. It wasn’t the usual auxiliary control system, but an unmanned maintenance substation that serviced nonenvironmental systems. Newer stations no longer used them because of their potential overall vulnerability, but Jabo had been here for more than a half a century, and Filar and his predecessors were kept busy with rival pirate factions zapping each other in the corridors. The fact that someone might be able to compromise a few of the station’s nonenvironmental systems was farther down on the list of concerns.

Nic hoped.

Serri had already angled a console screen around that displayed system status. “Three intruder traps.”

“I see them. Can you—”

“First one’s already diverted.”

He realized then that she had a slim strafer pen in her fingers. Later, he’d ask her just what a nice girl like Serenity Beck was doing with such a delightfully illegal device. He prayed they had a “later.” For now, he let her work. Her record for unraveling code traps in Scout-and-Snipe had been damned near flawless.

“Shit!” She pulled the pen back abruptly, angling it away from the screen.

A searcher worm. Someone had upgraded the station’s security programs recently.

“I can create a subprogram to distract it,” she said, “if we have enough time.”

They didn’t. Frustration flooded him. “Options, Serri. Let the ship go. I’ll do everything I can to get you and Quin safely back in-system.”

Her lips thinned. “That’s no option. I could get another job, but Quin put everything he had into the Pandea.” She hesitated. “The bad guys must have the cargo by now. Case solved. Just go tell station admin who you are, make them give me my ship back.”

It sounded so easy. It would be so easy. There was a DIA stealth ship full of enforcement agents two hours out that could definitely provide the muscle, but that was something else he wasn’t permitted to reveal for at least another thirty-five hours. “Serri, if I could, I would. I can’t.”

“Please.”

The desperation in her voice tore at him. He wiped one hand over his face. “The best I could do is release some data so that you can prove a case against Jonas. You could get an attorney to file a civil case for damages—”

“When? A year? Two? Three? Didn’t you hear me? Quin has no resources left, financially and emotionally. I’ve worked with him for six years. He’s the kindest, most honorable, most decent being I’ve ever met. But since those death threats—”

“Death threats?” He knew the entire file on the Skoggi. It didn’t contain any threats, or the agency would have pulled the tagged cargo off the Pandea, knowing a secondary problem would muddy the investigation. “Because of—”

“Old news: his resignation from the council. He said it was probably just a sick joke, especially after all this time.”

“Damn it.” Nic spun for the door, angry at HQ for sloppy research, angry at Serri for not telling him sooner, and angry at himself for not asking all the questions he knew that he should have but didn’t. Finding Serri again restarted his heart but shut down his brain. “This could be the real reason Jonas assigned the cargo to your ship.”

“But why would Rez care about Skoggi politics?”

“Because Rez Jonas’s maternal grandfather was Manton Suthis.” The details on Quintrek James that eluded him earlier came back now with blinding clarity. “Suthis was the attorney for a Dalvarrian mining cooperative that allegedly funneled illegal political contributions to key Skoggi administrators ten years ago, in exchange for government contracts.”

She stared at him. “Quin never mentioned names. Just that he had proof, but the court refused to investigate.”

“That didn’t stop Suthis from committing suicide.” And Rez, Nic remembered, had always been devoted to his grandparents. His devotion might now have taken a deadly twist.

Serri stepped toward him. “Quin—”

“I’ll take care of Quin. I need you to skew that weapons program. When you’re on your way down to the ship, comm me. If I don’t give you the all-clear”—and he hesitated, then pulled out his transcomm, knowing that she wasn’t going to like this option, knowing that his boss would like it even less—“contact Director Jessamyn Emory at DIA headquarters.” He rattled off a private comm number, sending it to Serri’s transcomm at the same time. “She’ll get you off-station.”

Her lips parted, fear and something else flickering across her features. A concern, a compassion that reminded him of the old Serri, his closest friend, the woman he’d loved in secret for years. “Nic…”

His chest tightened. You’re still my best friend would make him deliriously happy. Maybe then he’d have a chance. But he’d settle for I don’t hate you as much as I used to.

“I… be careful.”

“Comm me. And keep the safety off your pistol.” He slipped out the door, then bolted for the catwalks.

SERRI HATED SEARCHER worm code. More than that, she hated that she’d left Quin alone and vulnerable. And that Nic might even now be too late.

She could lose them both. The thought came and went because she didn’t have time for pity, though her heart ached and her throat felt tight. She had a searcher worm to choke. And a weapons guidance program to screw up.

It took ten minutes before the worm choked, the program freezing up long enough for her to launch a worm of her own into the ion cannons’ guidance system. It wasn’t her best work; it would unravel in about an hour, leaving station techs swearing at yet another inexplicable program malfunction that suddenly restored itself. But it bought her, Quin, and Nic time.

She slipped out of the maintenance compartment into the shadowy cavernous core of catwalks and access tunnels. Twenty minutes had passed since Nic left. She sent Nic a brief “on my way,” then moved as quickly as she could down the rickety catwalk stairs, transcomm still in hand as she listened for a confirmation back from him. She needed to know that Quin was safe. And Nic… his reappearance after all this time set off emotions in her she wasn’t sure what to do with. Maybe he hadn’t been trying to hurt her when he’d covered up Rez’s infidelity. Maybe he was simply caught between two people he cared about, and didn’t know what to do. Or maybe—

Her transcomm pinged. Nic. But no, it showed Quin’s ident. Then the signal disconnected. If it was an error, he’d call back, but she didn’t for a moment think that’s what it was. She quickened her pace, abandoning her intention of using the main corridors. She’d stay in the relative safety of the maintenance rampways and tunnels until she was sure what was going on.

Why hadn’t Nic confirmed back to her?

Another ping. Quin again. This time the screen stayed lit. There were the low sounds of someone talking, many of the words distorted. Quin must have activated his transcomm through his CI vest, and was letting her know what was going on in the Pandea’s bay without others in the bay realizing that he’d done so.

Still moving quickly, she strained to catch snippets of conversation—no, threats—between Quin and Gop Filar. Then, heart pounding, she broke into a run.

Because there was one thing she didn’t hear along with the threats: Nic’s voice.

He should have reached Quin by now, and she didn’t know if she was more worried that he hadn’t—or that he had. Because Filar’s “You are out of options” went right to the pit of her stomach.

It sounded as if someone had tried and failed.

Nic couldn’t fail. He was a DIA agent. He was trained. He was someone she cared oh-so-deeply about—even if she didn’t want to admit that to herself.

She reached the first level of freighter bays. If she exited through the yellow-ringed maintenance panel on her right, she’d be about thirty feet from the Pandea’s airlock. Though the only voices she could hear through Quin’s open transcomm were his and Filar’s, Filar could have the bay full of his Bruisers. Barging in was a move she wouldn’t even do in Scout-and-Snipe, let alone in real life.

But she could take advantage of the way the freighter levels were structured, with maintenance pits underneath each bay. She bolted down half a level. Quin was still arguing. That gave her hope.

She found the pit for the Pandea’s bay, checked it for alarms and, finding none, pocketed her transcomm, then turned the manual lock. The panel was heavy, but she only needed it open far enough to slip through. She went into Scout-and-Snipe mode: listening, sensing. Nothing but the creak, groan, and whoosh of the station, and the lingering scent of grease. She stepped into the shadowed pit, her eyes picking out pinpoints of light from the various control consoles on the far bulkhead.

A slight exhalation of breath whispered behind her. She flinched, fear spiking, her fingers fumbling for her pistol just as a hand covered her mouth. An arm wrapped hard around her midsection, pinning her arms. Heart pounding, she twisted, trying to free one arm so she could—

“Serri.” Her name, hushed, in her ear.

Nic’s voice.

Nic?

The arm loosened, the hand pulled away. She spun, right hand fisted, her breath coming in hard gasps as she stared at the familiar lines of Nic’s face in the dim lighting. Relief poured through her. “Why didn’t you answer my message?”

“Your transcomm’s off line.” He kept his voice low.

Not off line. She yanked it out. “Quin,” she whispered, handing it to him.

He listened for a moment, nodding, then tugged her forward, his free hand on her wrist. “All right. We’ll come up underneath the ship. Use the rampway as partial cover. Did you get the targeting programs skewed?”

“We have about forty-five minutes before they’ll reset. What happened with Quin?”

“Filar and three guards were in the Pandea’s airlock when I got there,” he explained as they trotted toward the far side of the bay. “Quin refused to leave the ship until about five minutes ago.”

“That’s when he called me.”

“He should have stayed onboard.”

She heard worry and frustration in the tight tone of his voice. “He’s Skoggi. He can sense you. He doesn’t want us locked out of our own ship. If he’s on the ramp, then he’s telling us it’s time to break dock and leave.”

“I have every intention of granting his wish. He’d just better not mind an extra passenger.”

She didn’t want to know why his words made her heart beat faster. “I assumed you were coming.”

“Not just me. Filar.” He slowed as they neared a set of tall servostairs, then motioned her behind him. “I’m on point. Set your pistol to stun only. I want that bastard alive and spilling everything he knows about Rez Jonas.”

They were going to kidnap the Jabo Station dockmaster? “You can’t possibly be—”

“The Crystal Flame scenario, Scout-and-Snipe.”

She remembered. “Nic, we never got past level seven in that one.”

“This time, though, we’re going all the way.” His wry grin was confident even in the low lighting. “Trust me.”

She had to. They were out of options and almost out of time. The ion cannons would come back online in forty minutes.

THE SERVOSTAIRS WERE rickety and, once Nic reached the halfway point, no longer lit by the dim illumination of the pit’s emergency lights. Overhead a series of movable hatchways were crisscrossed by cables and pulleys and dangling things that—in spite of the narrow light offered by his handbeam—managed to gouge his shoulders and his back. Serri didn’t fare much better. More than once he heard her sharp intake of breath.

He was leading a civilian into a potential firefight, violating a half-dozen DIA regs he could quote from memory, but his distinct uneasiness had nothing to do with those regs. It wasn’t that he doubted Serri. Serenity Beck could be tough when tough was needed. It was that she was Serri, and he would do everything he could to protect her.

Even if it meant his own life.

There was a reason the Crystal Flame scenario was so difficult to complete. It was because level eight set up a do-or-die situation: sacrifice a team member or go back to level one.

The top of the servostairs widened into a platform. He clambered up, then guided Serri next to him. She had the transcomm to her ear.

“Status?”

“Quin’s switching between Trade and Skoge. It’s making Filar’s trans-lang crazy. But it sounds like Quin’s trying to bribe him.”

“Keep listening. Some of what he’s saying is likely aimed at us.” He ran his fingers over the gritty, pitted metal panels inches over his head, feeling for a manual release. He found it, pulled, and was rewarded by a soft double click. It was open. His heart hammered. He took a deep breath. He had to forget for now that Serri was Serri. This was the mission; he was a professional. Personalities—hell, his heart’s desire—could not come into play.

“Quin’s telling Filar that he has a collection of Nonga vases he can show him onboard.”

Nic glanced at her. It was exactly where he wanted the Nalshinian dockmaster: locked in the Pandea’s brig. “You sure Quin’s not telepathic?”

“You know as much about the Skoggi as I do.”

“Is Filar going?”

She was silent. Then: “Sounds like it.”

“Here’s what we do. Crystal Flame, level seven. We stun whatever Bruisers are outside the ship. Then you watch in case backup arrives. I’ll take care of Filar and his escort.”

“Wrong, Talligar. It’s my ship. We take out the guards, then I’m on point. I think I know where Quin’s leading Filar so we can trap him.”

“You could tell me—”

“We’re wasting time. Thirty-five minutes before those cannons come back on line.”

Shit. He’d forgotten about that. He pointed to her transcomm. “Anything more?”

She was frowning. “Signal’s disconnected. I don’t like it.”

Neither did he, but rushing into this could be fatal. He carefully slid the portal panel to the left, pinpointing the locations of at least two guards by their noises. “Now,” he whispered, and shoved himself through.

The freighter bay seemed almost dirtside-daylight bright to his eyes, even with the large ship hulking above him. He assessed his position immediately, spotting the two guards about twenty-five feet from the end of the rampway, just inside the bay’s safe zone. Good. They’d be locked behind a blast wall when the ship powered up. He crouched quickly next to a landing strut, feeling Serri behind him. He motioned for her to take out the one on the left. A quick glance showed her pistol raised. He took aim. They had to fire at the same time or risk retaliation.

“Now,” he whispered again.

He fired, aware of the low hum from her pistol in tandem with his. He hit the guard on the right center mass, but Serri’s guard turned and her stun charge hit him in the shoulder. His guard dropped like a crate of unsecured cargo, but hers twisted, falling to one knee as one hand raised a pistol and another punched something on his transcomm.

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.

SERRI 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.

A soft chime signaled the door behind her opening. She swiveled again, expecting Quin, who’d gone in search of some meat tea for himself and coffee for her.

She saw Nic instead, hands shoved in pants pockets, mouth grim.

Her heart sank. But at least they hadn’t locked him in the brig. Yet. She rose. “I told them you saved our lives. But they”—she waved her hand toward the empty chairs as if the DIA officers were still there—“didn’t seem to care. There must be someone else I can talk to. Someone higher up. I’ll do anything I can, Nic. Just tell me what you need me to do. I’ll do it.”

He stepped up to her as the door closed behind him. “I need your ship. And I need you to lose your cargo again.”

“You what?”

“Jonas had Filar pulling cargo forfeitures so that when he hired Quin and sent him to Jabo, the Pandea’s ‘accident’ wouldn’t stand out. But Filar had no idea that Jonas’s plans involved murder. That’s why he’s cooperating so willingly with DIA interrogators right now.”

“But the station’s cannons—”

“Have never destroyed a ship. They’re set to disable, and the drones tow you back in.”

“Then how was Rez going to kill Quin?”

“There was a bomb in one of the containers Filar was supposed to leave onboard, but, Filar being Filar and being greedy, took them all. Jabo Station just informed us that one of the Bruisers found it while taking inventory. The bomb was set to detonate while you were trying to get a loan. Evidently Jonas never meant to kill you.”

Serri collapsed back into the chair. She realized her mouth was hanging open. She closed it. “But why do you need the Pandea?” They had Filar and his confession. They’d probably have Rez Jonas in custody very soon. The DIA was not something you could easily run from.

“Because someone’s still pulling cargo thefts on other stations and in some dirtside ports. We thought that Jabo Station was part of that larger crime ring. It’s not. So we need to do this all over again, but this time”—he eased down into the chair next to her and clasped his hands together, on his knees—“we don’t want to lie to the ship or her captain. It’s not worth the risk.”

“Quin—”

“Is calling it a ‘grand adventure.’ The director hasn’t been able to get more than a few words in edgewise.”

“So you’re not in trouble?”

Nic sighed. “Oh, I’m in deep trouble.” He splayed his hands. “The director, though, is willing to—eventually—forgive me. But you’re the one I’m really worried about. You’re the one who really matters.”

“Nic, I—”

“Serri.” He folded her hands in his, and she was surprised by how badly she needed his touch right now. “I made a huge mistake six years ago. I kept silent when I shouldn’t have, believing it was the right thing to do. And I almost made that same mistake again.” He shook his head. “I knew Jonas was cheating on you. But I was afraid that if I told you what was going on, you’d reconcile, because Jonas could always talk his way out of anything before. I needed for it to get to the point where you wouldn’t take him back. Ever. I just waited too long. Because by the time that happened, you hated me as much as you hated him. And I’d lost the chance to tell you how much you mean to me, how much I love you.”

Shock, confusion—and hope—swirled through Serri. “You… were in love with me?”

A wistful smile played over his mouth. “Still am.”

“But… we were friends.”

“I hope we still are.”

“Nic—”

“Tell me it’s impossible, that there can never be anything between us, and I’ll go away. I’ll get the director to assign another agent to the Pandea. But if it’s not impossible, I’d like that chance I wanted, and lost, six years ago.” His fingers tightened on hers.

Shock and confusion dissolved. There was only hope. And there was Nic. Her best friend. A man she could trust. A man she could love.

“Are you applying for the position as the captain’s lover, Special Agent Talligar?”

“I am.”

She leaned forward until their lips almost touched. “You’re hired.”