Songs of Love & Death

by George R. R. Martin; Gardner Dozois

  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 realiz
ing 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.”

  Mary Jo Putney

  New York Times and Wall Street Journal bestseller Mary Jo Putney is a graduate of Syracuse University with degrees in eighteenth-century literature and industrial design. She is the author of thirty-six books of historical romance and fantasy romance, including A Distant Magic, The Spiral Path, Dancing on the Wind, The Rake and the Reformer, Silk and Shadows, Lady of Fortune, and many others. She has won numerous awards for her writing, including two RITAs for best novel, four consecutive Golden Leaf Awards for best historical romance, and the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. Her most recent books are Loving a Lost Lord and Never Less Than a Lady.

  Here she conjures up a deadly confrontation with a creature so seductive that it’s almost impossible to resist. But one that you’d better resist, if you want to stay alive!

  The Demon Dancer

  I studied the homeless man’s corpse. He was the fifth I’d seen this day. Ragged clothes so dirty they’d clog a washing machine. A battered and long out-of-date Tennessee driver’s license giving the poor sod’s name and age. And a great big smile on his lined face.

  My partner, Jamal Johnson, shook his head. “I can’t believe how all these guys died smiling, Dave. I suppose it’s some new street drug.”

  “Maybe,” I said, but I didn’t believe it. Besides being a New York City detective, I’m a Guardian, from a family that has the kind of powers that used to be called magic. Witch burnings a few centuries back persuaded Guardians to live under the radar. Most of us lead normal lives, gravitating to work that suited our magical talents.