Songs of Love & Death

“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.