Текст книги "Reap the Whirlwind"

Автор книги: David Mack

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Mission accomplished, Niwara congratulated herself.

A shimmering blur barreled out of the forest behind them—a straggling tentacle in belated pursuit. It slammed them aside as it passed between them and sped away toward the horizon.

The impact hurled Niwara and Theriault off the cliff.

Niwara’s left paw shot out, seeking the cliff’s edge. Her right paw reached for Theriault. Catching the edge, she arrested her own fall, but she could only watch as her shipmate tumbled down the ravine. Vines snapped as the young science officer plummeted through them, desperately grasping for handholds. Then she splashed down into a muddy froth of fast-moving current and was swept away.

The Caitian scout pulled herself back on top of the cliff and looked down at the rushing waters. Overhead, the storm began to split apart. Something deep inside it unleashed another horn-like, groaning cry.

As she listened to its unearthly howl echo off the distant hillsides, Niwara felt as if it knew of her failure to protect Theriault…and that it was mocking her.

Razka let go of the decoy into the clearing full of stumps, and it zoomed on a long arc for the horizon. Lieutenant zh’Firro huddled close to him, the dampener humming softly in her hands. Crouched down at the tree line, they watched dozens of writhing coils blaze dark trails across the sky.

Looking up, he noted that the storm cloud was beginning to break apart. Pieces of it were heading in each direction, following the decoys. Watching the stormhead split itself and retreat, Razka grinned. Divide and conquer, he mused with satisfaction.

“We should head back to the rendezvous,” zh’Firro said.

“Yes, sir,” Razka answered. He took point and began retracing their steps through the jungle. It would be a roundabout route back, but it held the least likelihood of becoming lost.

As they walked, zh’Firro looked up at the clearing sky. Her focus seemed to be deep, as though she were looking into a great distance. “I wonder if Xiong’s okay up there,” she said. “He’s all alone on that Tholian ship. What’s he going to do when he runs out of air?”

“I’m sure he’ll think of something,” Razka said, pressing ahead to follow the trail. “He’s quite clever…for a human.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” zh’Firro asked.

Razka cocked his head in amusement. “I guess that depends on your opinion of humans,” he said.

11

The Apostate was correct, noted the Herald. The Telinaruul are elusive. Perhaps the Avenger’s slumber robbed her of skills.

His words bordered on heresy. Agitating the others—particularly the Nameless—had always been the Herald’s favored sport, and the Wanderer had long held him in contempt because of it. The Herald was a rogue, a dangerously random element; it was impossible for her to tell whether his loyalties belonged to the Maker or to the Apostate, or if he had any loyalty at all. Had the choice been hers, she would have expelled him from the Serrataal and forced him to be counted among the Nameless.

Alas, the choice was not hers, and the Maker suffered his insolence with aplomb.

Commanding the Colloquium’s attention with a brief harmonic vibration of her mind-line, the Maker reassured them, The intruders will be dealt with. They may have misdirected the Avenger, but their respite will be temporary.

Acceding to the Maker’s cautious optimism, the gathered Shedai cooled the colors flowing through their shared thought-space. The Adjudicator took advantage of the collective pause. The Telinaruul have sullied our world. We should make an example of one of theirs.

Other matters press upon us, the Wanderer interjected. First we must teach them to respect what is ours. She harnessed a sphere of violet fire from the First Conduit and illustrated her point: a remote star group, a precious world of life, a hidden Conduit…and a surface infested by Telinaruul. Even now they seek to unlock our secrets. They have come in numbers to Avainenoran and are searching for its Conduit. That world must be washed clean with their blood.

The Maker attuned herself to the First Conduit and tested its bond to the Conduit on Avainenoran. It is distant. There are many Telinaruul on the surface…and two starships in orbit. Her aura clouded with doubt. Such vessels did not exist when the foundation of our domain was laid. She went quiet, apparently considering the matter with great care. To act with sufficient force and celerity will be taxing and perilous.

Alarmed, the Wanderer responded with bitter indignation. The more they learn, she declared, the more dangerous they become. They must not capture another Conduit.

Brooding silence answered the Wanderer’s argument. Finally, the Maker’s mind-line resolved to a bright golden hue of determination, and she set the future in motion. We must gather strength to manage a great transit. When the next day-moment begins for the Telinaruul on Avainenoran, let them awaken to a battalion of the Nameless bearing our grim tidings.

12

Commodore Reyes stood next to Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn at the hub. On the other side of the octagonal console were Commander Cooper and Ambassador Jetanien. Reyes had been in his office when Cooper, as the officer of the watch, had received the distress signal from the Sagittarius. Within seconds of hearing Cooper’s summons, Reyes had been at the XO’s side on the supervisor’s deck. Less than two minutes later, both T’Prynn and Jetanien had arrived in the operations center at Reyes’s request.

T’Prynn and Jetanien listened closely as they finished their second replay of the downed ship’s last transmission. “Repeat, we need antimatter! Stand by for final coordinates.”

Reyes asked Cooper, “Did we get the coordinates?”

“Yes, sir,” Cooper said. “In a compressed data burst.”

Jetanien made nervous clicking noises with his beaklike proboscis. “Do we know who or what attacked them?”

“Most likely they were fired on by the weapons emplacements we detected previously,” T’Prynn said. “An earlier report from the Sagittarius indicated the Tholian vessel was derelict, and long-range sensors have detected no other ships in the system.”

“See how long that lasts,” Reyes said with a worried frown. “It’s a good bet the Klingons got this message before we did.”

Cooper shook his head. “Wouldn’t do ’em much good. It was sent on a secure channel.”

“Son,” Reyes said with weary cynicism, “how many Klingon codes have we broken in the last three months?”

Grasping the gist of Reyes’s rhetorical query, Cooper lowered his eyes and lifted his eyebrows. “Point taken.”

Reyes leaned forward and planted both his broad hands on the console. Studying the star chart on the screen in the middle of the hub, he asked the group, “What do the Klingons have in that area right now?”

“One heavy battle cruiser,” T’Prynn said, pointing out a star system very close to Jinoteur. “The Zin’za, currently finishing repairs after its last mission to Jinoteur.” Indicating another star system, one far away in Klingon space, she added, “Three more cruisers have been assigned as its combat escorts, but they shipped out of Ogat less than three days ago. They will not reach the Zin’za for another eleven days.”

The commodore sighed heavily. “The Zin’za’s less than twelve hours from Jinoteur at maximum warp.” He looked across the hub at Jetanien. “If they reach the Sagittarius before we can, this ball might wind up in your court.” He looked at T’Prynn. “How soon do you expect the Zin’za to ship out?”

“In less than five hours,” T’Prynn said.

Cooper called up a Starfleet deployment grid and superimposed it over the star chart. “The Endeavour and the Lovell are at least twelve days from Jinoteur,” he said. “We have plenty of antimatter fuel pods here on Vanguard, but the fastest ship that could haul one would still take almost a week to get out there.”

“Thank you for apprising us of the staggeringly obvious, Commander,” Jetanien said gruffly. He clicked his beak three times in quick succession. “If we require a remedial primer on the difference between hot and cold, we will be sure to enlist your sage counsel once again.”

Reyes eyed Jetanien warily. “Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the rock today.” He knew that he was letting Jetanien off easily. Ever since the collapse of the Chelon’s diplomatic summit with the Klingons and the Tholians seven weeks earlier, the inscrutable diplomat had fluctuated between bursts of grouchiness and long intervals of sullen withdrawal. Reyes was concerned that more had been at stake in those negotiations for Jetanien personally than he had been willing to admit.

“What I was going to say, before I was interrupted,” Cooper continued after the passage of an awkward silence, “is that we might be able to track down a few friendlies in the systems around Jinoteur and have one of them haul out a fuel pod.”

“Civilians,” Reyes mumbled, hoping that another option would suddenly appear but knowing that it probably wouldn’t. “I can’t believe we’d even think of sending civilians in there.”

T’Prynn said, “There might be an alternative, Commodore. However, it might necessitate a few…compromises.”

Her choice of words raised Reyes’s hackles. The last few months had taught him the hard way that T’Prynn’s idea of what constituted a “compromise” often proved to be more ruthless than he found palatable. “What are you suggesting, Commander?”

“Even with the help of local parties, delivering antimatter to the Sagittarius will take at least twenty-two hours. Because that timetable cannot be shortened, our only option is to ensure that the Klingons’ timetable is extended.”

Furtive glances were volleyed among Reyes, Cooper, and Jetanien. Cooper looked askance at T’Prynn. “Are you talking about delaying the Zin’za’s deployment from Borzha II?”

“I am,” T’Prynn said.

Jetanien made a deep rumbling noise before he asked with grave suspicion, “And how, exactly, do you propose to do that?”

She turned and fixed her cold, calculating stare on Reyes. “That,” she said, “is where the compromise comes into play.”

Moments of genuine privacy were rare for Ganz. Surrounded daily by his retinue of henchmen and female companions, he was obliged to appear aloof, unassailable, and in control. Managing the public perception of his image was an ongoing concern. He could not afford to be witnessed in a moment of candor. To lose control of himself in front of others would be to lose control over those he employed and to lose face in front of those with whom he did business. A careless laugh, a display of temper, any sign of hesitation or regret could undermine everything that he had worked for so long to build. Keeping his moods in check was difficult for him. He was a passionate man, prone as often to anger as to levity. Playing the role of a cipher was the hardest skill he had ever mastered—and possibly the most vital.

Spending his days and most of his evenings on display made his daily few hours of solitude aboard the Omari-Ekon precious; he savored them for their simplicity. Crisp, cool, clean sheets. Relief from the driving noise and narcotic odors of the game floor. The passionate embrace of the only woman who ever saw the inside of his bedroom, even though no one ever saw them within five meters of each other outside of it.

Neera sat in front of the vanity on Ganz’s right, pulling a jade-handled brush through her thick sable hair. She worked the brush in long, seductive strokes that had an all but hypnotic effect on Ganz. Her skin was a slightly brighter shade of green than his own, and her eyes were a pale aqua—an unusual color for an Orion woman. Though he knew it was wrong to let himself love her, she was irresistible to him. Outside, managing the male and female companions who worked aboard the ship, she was savvy and subtle and cunning. When distracting the gamblers at the tables or screening new arrivals to see whether they harbored bad intentions, she could instinctively adapt to whatever they desired her to be: coy one moment, brazen the next; meek and innocent for one man, a salacious flirt for another, a warm and caring heart for the ones who needed confidants.

There was no denying the effect she had on him, and it unnerved him. On his upward climb to affluence and power he had learned that there was only one universal principle in business: fear. His goal had always been to instill fear in those below him, while managing his fear of those who sought to undermine him—and there were many individuals and groups that fell into the latter category. Superiors, rivals, competitors, governments. There was always a reason to be afraid when so much stood to be won or lost on every decision he made, but he had become a self-made merchant prince of Orion by obeying one simple rule: Never show fear to anyone. Especially, he thought with a self-deprecating grin, not to the woman you sleep with.

She noticed his stare in the mirror. Her reflection looked back at him with a soft, caring expression. “Finally awake?”

“I was having a dream,” he said. “Then I realized you weren’t in it, so I decided to wake up instead.”

Holding a lock of her hair in a firm grip, she worked the brush through some tangles at its end. “Ready for another night of impressing the masses?”

He rolled onto his side to face her more directly. “I’m just hoping the tables do better than break even tonight.”

“I spoke to Danac about that,” she said. “He understands that he’s supposed to finish the night with a profit.”

“Good. I’ll have Zett watch him, just in case.”

A sour look darkened Neera’s face. “I know Zett’s quite good at what he does,” she said, “but I don’t like him.”

“Neither do I,” Ganz admitted. “But we’re not supposed to like him. His job is to keep people in line, not win them over.”

Neera put down her brush and half-turned in his direction. “You need to keep a shorter leash on him,” she said. “He has an unhealthy obsession with that drunkard Quinn. I don’t want it disrupting business.”

Never show fear to the woman you’re sleeping with…especially when she’s your boss.

“Sure, Zett holds grudges, but he’s disciplined,” Ganz said. “He won’t act unless I tell him to. He knows Quinn is useful to me.”

“Quinn is a liability,” Neera replied. “Too angry to be an underling, too volatile to be a middleman, and not smart enough to stay bought. He could be trouble.”

Ganz sat up on the edge of the bed. “All true,” he said. “But like I said, he’s useful. He gets jobs done that other people can’t.”

“That’s no reason to trust him,” Neera said.

He got up. “I don’t trust anybody.” Walking over to her, he continued, “Someone with muscle’s pulling his strings from the other side. I don’t know who; maybe one of the other bosses, maybe Starfleet. I don’t care, really. Smuggling gets harder every day, but whoever’s backing him makes it possible.”

“The only reason smuggling is difficult for us is that we’re docked at a Federation starbase,” Neera said. “If we made port in one of the neutral star systems nearby, we could move much more freely.”

With a firm but tender grip, Ganz started massaging Neera’s shoulders. “You’re right…. But how long do you think we’d last without armed escorts? And how much do you think it’d cost to hire them?” She closed her eyes and relaxed into his kneading hands. “I’d rather deal with a few delays and do our business from here. As long as we’re docked at Vanguard, no one’ll come gunning for us.”

In a teasing voice she quipped, “You’d give up your liberty in the name of security?” She smirked. “Some might call that a foolish bargain.”

“No liberties when you’re dead,” he replied.

Her personal comm device, which had been sitting among her assortment of cosmetics containers on the vanity, beeped softly. She picked it up, flipped it open, and pressed it to her ear. “Go ahead,” she said to the person on the other end. After listening carefully for several seconds, she said simply, “I understand,” then flipped the device closed. Setting the device back on the vanity, she met Ganz’s questioning gaze in the mirror. “Get dressed,” she said.

Not wishing to comply too easily, Ganz asked, “Why?”

“Because there’s just one problem with relying on Starfleet’s protection,” Neera said, rising from the vanity. “Every now and then, they want something.” Turning to face him, she added, “Commodore Reyes would like to see you.”

The last time Ganz had met with Reyes, the Orion merchant prince had come away with a clear understanding: his ship could remain berthed at Vanguard only so long as its illicit trades remained confined to its interior and his clientele remained free of Starfleet personnel. Reyes’s terms had been reasonable, though the brusque manner in which he had detailed them had left Ganz wanting to separate the commodore’s head from his neck.

Ganz arrived at the rear service entrance of a building in Stars Landing, the crescent-shaped residential development inside Vanguard’s massive terrestrial enclosure. As the invitation had specified, the door was unlocked. The burly Orion opened the door and slipped inside.

A narrow hallway led past some storage rooms and a pantry before opening into a large professional kitchen. Waiting there for him was Manón, the establishment’s owner and namesake. “Right on time,” she said, offering Ganz a courteous nod. She was one of the few women whom Ganz considered comparable in beauty to his own beloved Neera, though the two women could not be more different. Neera was dark, athletic, and almost feral in her mien. Manón was pale, delicate, and refined; her elegantly shaped crest of multicolored hair and almond-shaped eyes were arresting, and as he neared within a meter of her, he sensed an aura of physical warmth emanating from her.

Manón’s tasteful turquoise-colored wrap billowed gently around her as she led him out of the kitchen into the main room of her club. The main room had an open floor plan, so that every seat had a clear line of sight to its stage. Despite the height of the ceiling, the room’s use of recessed lighting and strategically placed shadows contributed to a more intimate ambience. The opaque front doors were closed and, Ganz presumed, locked; there was no sign of any of the club’s staff.

Standing beside a table in the middle of the club was Commodore Reyes. The lanky human Starfleet officer regarded Ganz with a stern expression.

His hostess turned and said to him, “There are drinks on the table…. I’ll wait for you in the kitchen. Let me know when you’re ready to be shown out.” At that, she returned to the kitchen, leaving the Orion with the man who had summoned him.

Ganz crossed the room in casual strides and joined Reyes at the table. “Commodore,” he said in a neutral tone. “You called?”

With a downward nod of his chin, Reyes said, “Have a seat.” The commodore sat down.

Ganz settled into a chair but kept a cautious watch on the human. On the table were two glasses, both filled with the same bubbly, pale golden liquid. Neither man seemed interested in drinking, however.

Eager to get to business, Ganz asked, “What’s on your mind, Commodore?” He hoped that none of his people had done anything rash to violate the terms of his truce with Reyes.

“A business proposition,” Reyes said. “There’s a ticking clock on this deal, so let me tell you what I want first, and we can work out a price second.”

Masking his intense interest, Ganz said, “I’m listening.”

“There’s a Klingon heavy cruiser in port at Borzha II,” Reyes said. “The Zin’za. She’s making final repairs and getting ready to ship out ASAP. I want your people on Borzha II to keep that ship in port for another twenty-four hours.”

The Orion suppressed a single low chortle. “Tangling with the Klingons is bad for business,” he said. “If you want the ship destroyed, do it yourself.”

“I don’t want it destroyed,” Reyes shot back. “I just want it stuck in port for an extra day.”

Ganz didn’t like the sound of this. “My people aren’t proxy fighters, Commodore, they’re smugglers. Thieves, not soldiers.”

“That’s why they’re perfect for this,” Reyes said. “I don’t want them to fight the Klingons, just mess with them a little. Some light sabotage. Steal a few critical moving parts the Zin’za can’t go to warp without.”

The merchant prince scowled. “Sabotage is risky business. It took a long time to get my people jobs inside a Klingon starport. I don’t want to risk them just so you can beat the Klingons to a few more balls of rock at the ass end of space.”

“This is bigger than that,” Reyes said. “One of my ships is down, in the Jinoteur system.” Ganz relaxed his posture as the commodore continued. “The Klingons picked up the Sagittarius’s mayday, and the Zin’za is being sent to neutralize them. We’re sending help to the Sagittarius, but the Zin’za is closer and faster. I need the Zin’za to have some major malfunctions R.F.N., understand? That ship needs to stay stuck in port for at least another twenty-four hours, or my people are dead.”

Ganz nodded. The rules of the game had just changed in his favor. “How much hurt do you want me to put on the Zin’za? I could arrange an accident that would take them out for good.”

“Don’t go that far,” Reyes said. “Just foul the machinery. I want a delay, not an interstellar incident. To use a cliché, make it look like an accident.”

“All right,” Ganz said. “I presume you don’t want to know the details.” Reyes shook his head, so Ganz continued, “That brings us to the matter of compensation.”

“You’ve heard what I want,” Reyes said. “What do you want?”

The Orion considered the matter carefully. He had many needs of varying degrees of importance, but he was capable of satisfying most of them without Starfleet’s help or knowledge. One pending project had been stymied several times in the past few weeks, however, and this seemed like an opportune time to set it right.

“Two weeks from now,” Ganz said, “I’ll need you to do me a favor. For a period of seventy-two hours, I’ll want all Starfleet sensor sweeps and patrols suspended in Sector Tango-4119. For three days that’ll be a blind spot. Do that, and we have a deal.”

Now it was Reyes’s turn to glare suspiciously across the table. “Two conditions will have to apply.”

“Your proposal didn’t mention conditions,” Ganz said.

“It didn’t rule them out, either,” Reyes said. “Condition one: no piracy. If even one ship, one person, or one piece of cargo gets hassled or goes missing from Tango-4119, I’ll have that big green head of yours on a plate.”

The burly Orion admired Reyes’s boldness. “Your second condition?”

“If I find out you helped an enemy act against Federation interests while we were turning a blind eye, your head won’t be the first body part I put on the plate.”

Ganz smirked at Reyes. “If you ever leave Starfleet, you’d be quite a businessman.” Turning serious, he added, “We won’t be helping your enemies, and there won’t be any piracy. My word is my contract: if Starfleet complies with my request, there won’t be any problems, and there won’t be any complaints.”

The commodore extended his hand across the table. Ganz took it and shook the human’s hand firmly. Reyes said, “Deal.”

“Deal,” echoed Ganz. He released Reyes’s hand and got up from the table. “If you’ll excuse me…” The commodore nodded, and Ganz left the table, moving quickly toward the kitchen to make his clandestine exit out the back of the building. He tried not to betray his profound satisfaction by grinning, but keeping a straight face was difficult.

This was the best deal he’d made in a very long time.

Reyes slumped into the comfort of his padded, high-backed chair, relieved to be once more in the privacy of his own office. His meeting with Ganz had left him edgy and irritable; treating the Orion as an equal had galled him. In terms of power and influence, Ganz was clearly a formidable political actor, but Reyes could not help but feel sullied at having brokered a deal with an unrepentant criminal.

The desk-mounted intercom buzzed. Thumbing the switch, Reyes asked gruffly, “What is it?”

His gamma-shift yeoman, Midshipman Finneran, answered over the comm, “Lieutenant Commander T’Prynn to see you, sir.”

“Fine,” he said wearily. He unlocked the office’s door.

T’Prynn entered from the operations center and stopped on the other side of Reyes’s desk. Matter-of-factly she said, “I trust your meeting with Mr. Ganz produced the desired result.”

The commodore let out a disgruntled sigh. “If by ‘desired result’ you mean a sick feeling in my gut, then yes.” He rubbed his eyes. “Has there been any further contact with the ship?”

“Not yet,” T’Prynn said. “However, I have procured an anti-matter fuel pod for the Sagittarius from a vendor on Nejev III. It’s a civilian component, but one that can easily be adapted to the Sagittarius’s systems.”

He let go of a deep breath. “Well, that’s something, at least. Who’s taking it to the ship?”

“I have left urgent instructions with a trusted asset known to be on the planet,” she said. “I am still awaiting his confirmation that the message has been received.”

The evasiveness of T’Prynn’s reply rankled him. It was not the first time she had given him a vague answer to a simple question, but the fate of one of his ships hinged on every detail. Half-truths and artful omissions would not be enough to satisfy his curiosity. “Commander,” he said, “exactly who is this asset? Whom are we trusting to save our ship?”

After a brief but clearly conflicted hesitation, T’Prynn answered, “Cervantes Quinn, sir.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

She lifted her left eyebrow. “Mr. Quinn is on Nejev III conducting legitimate private business. His ship has a cargo hold large enough to carry the fuel pod and is fast enough to beat the Zin’za to Jinoteur—provided Mr. Ganz lives up to his end of the bargain.” Driving home her point, she added in an arch tone, “He is also our only ally close enough to reach the Sagittarius in time.”

And I thought dealing with the crime lord was the low point of this mess. Reyes massaged the ache from his brow. “Doesn’t Quinn travel with Pennington, the reporter?”

She lowered her eyes in a gesture of concession. “Yes,” she said. Looking up again, she continued, “His involvement is unavoidable. Under the circumstances, I think we should consider it a necessary risk.”

Reyes couldn’t help it; he laughed. It was the mirthless chortle of a condemned man. “After all we’ve done to keep a lid on this mission,” he said, still chuckling with grim amusement, “we’re sending a reporter to Jinoteur.” He laughed harder and barely managed to add, “That’s just great.”

“Hysteria is not a productive response, sir.”

His hilarity tapered off gradually, and the dire nature of the situation pressed in on him once more. “We’re sending a drunk and a reporter to save the Sagittarius,” he said, and shook his head with disappointment. “Why not tell Nassir to set his ship’s autodestruct sequence and save your boys the trip?”

“Despite his outward appearance, Quinn is a resourceful field operative,” T’Prynn said. “As for the risk of allowing Pennington to have access to Jinoteur…managing his perceptions of what he sees on the planet’s surface is a task that can be dealt with after the Sagittarius has been rescued.”

Reyes sighed. “I hope you’re right about them.”

“Sir, I assure you, there is no cause for concern. Quinn may not be Starfleet, but he knows what he’s doing.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Pennington shouted. He hoped Quinn could hear him over the whine of plasma bolts flying overhead and the violent shuddering of the dilapidated hover-craft in which they’d fled Quinn’s latest deal-gone-wrong.

Quinn snapped, “I’m driving, newsboy. Shoot back or shut up!”

A dark cityscape blurred past them. Nejev III was a heavily populated planet, the homeworld of a peculiar animal-vegetable hybrid species known as the Brassicans. Pennington had meant to learn more about them than that superficial detail, but everyone had started shooting before he’d had the chance.

Wind stung his face as Quinn banked the open-topped hovercar through a diving turn. The vehicle’s overtaxed engine screamed almost as loudly as Pennington himself when Quinn wrenched the craft out of its descent. They sped under a series of covered walkways that bridged the gap between two massive skyscrapers. In the distance, over the whine of the engine and the roar of the frigid wind, Pennington heard sirens.

“More company,” he shouted over the din.

“I hear ’em, newsboy,” Quinn growled. The scruffy, white-haired scoundrel threw a nervous look over his shoulder at their pursuers and dodged another fusillade of plasma shots. “If you get the urge to do something useful, feel free to give it a try!”

They cut through a dense artery of traffic, leaving a flurry of randomly scattered vehicles in their pursuers’ path. The obstacle only slowed the chasing hovercars, but it gave Quinn and Pennington enough of a lead that Quinn was able to accelerate through two quick right turns, double back through the open core of a large building, and make another right turn that merged them back into airway traffic.

Blending in with the flow of the hovercars around them, Quinn slowed down and settled into the middle of a thick pack of vehicles. Ahead of them, city patrol fliers raced across their path, lights flashing and sirens wailing, then vanished into the nighttime canyons of the city.

After a couple of minutes of coasting along with ordinary traffic, there was no sign of pursuit, by either the police or Quinn’s aggrieved clients. Pennington sat up and stretched his legs, which had been tucked anxiously against the edge of his seat. “Nicely done, mate.”

“Nothin’ to it,” Quinn said. “Like my pappy always said, two wrongs don’t make a right, but three rights do make a left.”

As they neared the coastline, Quinn veered north. It took a moment for Pennington to notice that they were heading away from the city’s spaceport. “Aren’t we going back to the ship?”

“What for?” Quinn said. “No point leaving without a cargo or a fare. Flying empty’s just a waste of fuel.”

Still paranoid that the men who had been shooting at them earlier might reappear, Pennington said, “After what happened, I figured you’d want to get off this rock as soon as possible.”