But Ky was willing to make the universe more hazardous for others, if it would save her own ship. She put a hold on the mines, too. If she took that defensive suite, she could just barely afford fifteen mines. You can’t ever have too much ammunition, one of her instructors had said. Maybe some of their cargo would bring premium prices.

She collected Martin, checked out of the catalog viewing area, and picked up her escort. He preceded her to the exit, and certainly seemed to be competent in his check of the passage outside. Unlike the hapless Jim, he would not be plucking puppies from waste cans. That thought reminded her of another errand.

“Do you know a shop near here, or on our way back to the interhub tram, that carries pet supplies?” she asked.

“Pet supplies?”

It was an unusual question, but he didn’t have to sound that amused.

“Pet supplies,” she said again. “We have acquired a… mmm… puppy. It’ll be released from quarantine tomorrow.”

“Let me check…” He looked momentarily blank, accessing his implant, then he nodded. “BioExotics, down this way,” he said, gesturing to a cross-passage ahead of them. Above the official numbered designation, someone had added a pink-and-green sign with WILLOW LANE in curly letters.

“It’s lunchtime,” Martin said quietly. “How about a stop for something to eat?” Ky glanced at him; he’d mentioned before the security risks of public eating places. Was this part of his assessment of their escort? Ky started to refuse, but her own stomach growled.

“There’s a café on the corner,” her escort said.

“Fine. A quick lunch, then.” Martin didn’t say anything, and when she looked at him, his face was impassive.

The café was not crowded, in the postlunch period, but the smells from the kitchen were all good. Mindful of Martin’s earlier lecture, she went to a table against a wall and placed herself with the wall at her back. Martin sat on her right, facing the door squarely; Turnish flanked her, sitting across from Martin—which put his back to the door, but facing the kitchen hatch. She offered Turnish a meal; he said he’d eaten before he came on duty. Even though she was paying for his time, Ky felt subtly pressured by his stolid demeanor, as if she were eating in front of an instructor. An escort shouldn’t involve himself in chitchat, true, but Turnish radiated patience at a level that felt impatient. Ky worked her way through a delicious soup and fresh-baked bread that made it clear how this café stayed in business. Martin, she noticed, had inhaled a thick sandwich while hardly taking his gaze off the door.

Out in Willow Lane, late first-shift meant almost no traffic. Turnish led the way past open shop doors in which no one appeared… a succession of small businesses: laundry and cleaners, bakery, used-clothing stores, hand-tool repair, sign studio. It could have been afternoon in a small town. Ky relaxed. Yes, it would be easy for an assassin to set up on a quiet street, but who knew she’d be coming down this way? Any rational assassin would assume she’d head straight back to her ship.

“Look out!” Turnish said suddenly and started to turn toward her.

Ky dove for the deck, shoving Turnish aside; he fell beside her. The first two shots missed all of them by a meter. Ky glanced back at Martin; he had his weapon out and squeezed off a shot as she watched. She braced herself on her elbows and looked for her target. There… peeking out of the doorway of Andy’s Tailor Shop ahead of them. She squeezed off one round of CPF; she saw the assailant’s body jerk, withdraw, then topple slowly out into the passage. The weapon fell with a clatter. A familiar surge of satisfaction pulsed through her. No time for that… Ky looked for cover, and the backup. There would be another; whoever was doing this would not have hired a single shooter. Nothing. No one came to the door of the shop—of any shop—to look. She could feel the hairs standing up on the back of her neck. A doorway to the right gaped empty only a meter or so away. She tapped Turnish’s leg with one hand, looking past him for more trouble.

“Move to cover,” she said. “Four o’clock. I’ll cover you.”

“I don’t think so,” Turnish said, rolling over. Her breath stopped as she stared down the bore of his weapon… That’s really big ran through her head in a soprano squeak. The man grinned. “Checkmate, Vatta. Game over.”

She could not move fast enough; her weapon was offline, aimed at where trouble had been, not where it was. She knew she could not move fast enough, and that knowledge made it impossible to move at all. He kept smiling, clearly aware of her thoughts, of her fear, of her weapon’s position. Her throat was dry; icy sweat trickled down her spine. Martin couldn’t possibly—but then noise blasted her ears, and the man’s head exploded in a spray of blood and brains before she even saw what it was Martin was doing.

Breath rushed back into her lungs in a gasp. Ky swiped at the mess on her face. “You—”

“I wasn’t sure until he turned on you,” Martin said. “Sorry. He could’ve been just careless, about the café. Get on into that doorway.” Still no alarm—the passage might have been empty. Perhaps it was. Perhaps everyone had been paid to go have a midshift snack or something.

The dead man’s weapon lay farther away than Ky expected… with his hand still on it. Martin must have fired two shots, then—that fast?

Not that it mattered now. What mattered now was getting some official help. Cautiously, she eased into the doorway she’d spotted and looked for a com port. The one in the red booth three shops down was far too exposed, but most stations had them in more discreet locations as well.

Before she located one, she heard the shrill whistle of approaching law enforcement.

Chapter Eight

Too bad,” Martin murmured. “I suppose we’re in for the traditional bad quarter hour.”

“I hope it’s only that,” Ky said. “We’ve already been a problem twice today.”

“Yes, you’ll have quite a reputation when we’re done here,” he said. It wasn’t quite a chuckle. “You’re… remarkably calm for someone who just killed someone and was nearly killed herself. Is it calm, or are you in shock?”

“I’m supposed to know?” Ky said. “I don’t feel panicky, if that’s what you mean. A little worried about the men with the uniforms.”

“I presume you’ve been told how to behave when arrested?”

“Oh, yes. But I’d just as soon not spend another hour facedown on the floor, like I did on Belinta.”

“On Belinta—but you were nearly killed on Belinta.”

“And one of the men who tried to kill me was thoroughly killed.”

“By—?”

“Me,” Ky said. “I thought you knew.”

“No; I heard about the mutineers on your ship. I knew this wasn’t your first.”

“The first for this weapon,” Ky said, tucking it back into its holster as the first guard came into view. Martin had already holstered his.

The Garda—another two had entered from the far end—were fully armored, weapons out. Someone out of sight had a loudhailer. “Anyone in this area, come out with your hands up!”

“That’s us,” Ky said. “Here we go.” She put her hands up, and stepped out of the doorway, Martin beside her, hoping that no other sniper remained. Her skin tightened, but no one shot her.

“Any more of you?” asked the loudhailer. Whoever had it must also have a view of the passage.

“No,” Ky said. “Not on our side.”

The armed guards moved in. “Armed?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” Ky said. “Automatic in waist holster; three rounds fired. Safety’s on.”

One of the guards plucked it out gingerly and put it in a safe hanging from his shoulder.

“Yes,” Martin said, with a glance at her. “Shoulder holster, Standard Arms 11 mm, and the safety is on.” The guard removed this weapon and dropped it into the safe as well.