“No, but we could pass as Orions. You did it before, on Amonash.”
“And nearly got my ass shot off—thanks for reminding me.” She handed the binoculars back to Quinn. “What’re you thinking? Posing as the ship’s officers?”
He shrugged. “It’s worth a shot. Judging by the uniform markings on the troops closest to the ship, sentry duty’s been left to the grunts. Talk fast enough and rough enough, and we might be able to get aboard.”
“Sounds like a long shot to me. For starters, we don’t know the names of any of the ship’s officers or crew, and the Gorn probably have a complete manifest.”
“Okay, then that’s our first objective: get a copy of the manifest.”
Bridy shook her head. “Forget it, that could take all week.” She pursed her lips. “We’re overthinking this. How about a simple distraction?”
“Such as . . . ?”
She pointed out details of the hangar. “Exposed coolant tubing—snipe that and the entire hangar fills with smoke and toxic vapor in fifteen seconds, tops.”
“Making it the last place I’d want to be.”
“It would only be dangerous for people on the ground.” She pointed at the top of the ship. “One of us could use the leak as cover to rappel down from above and enter the ship through its dorsal maintenance hatch.”
“And get shot by the sentries posted outside the hangar, who’d have a perfect angle to see over the commotion.”
Bridy folded her arms. “Good catch.” Then her mood brightened. “What if we cut the power at the same time? Plant a charge on the underground relay from the city’s mains, and set it off at the same time we snipe the coolant line?”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t be suspicious at all.”
“Who cares if it is? Once I’m in, I can hack the memory banks from the engine room and be out in under two minutes.”
Quinn conveyed his doubts with an arched eyebrow. “Let’s say you’re right. What’s your exit strategy? You’ll be inside a ship teeming with Gorn military, above a hangar filled with poison gas, in the dark.”
“If I sabotage the transporter scrambler mounted at the top of the hangar, I can use my rubindium transponder to activate the Dulcinea’s remote transporter recall. As long as the merchantman’s shields stay down, I can beam out before anyone knows I was there.”
He gently slapped his forehead with his palm. “Right, the transporter. I keep forgetting we have it. I got so used to living without one on the Rocinante.” Lifting his chin toward the hangar, he said, “Now all we need to do is wait eight hours until nightfall, find a way to put you on top of that hangar, and make our play.”
“First, we’ll have to get you a silenced projectile weapon,” Bridy said. “One you can use to snipe the coolant line without giving away your position.”
“I have one on the ship. What else?”
“Just a deck of cards to help us pass—”
An explosion tore through the hangar, a radiant orange fireball rending metal and scattering bodies. The shock front lifted the Gorn troops off the street below and hurled them across the avenue into traffic, which was halted half a second later by the blast wave rolling vehicles like dice. Searing heat slammed against the building beneath Quinn and Bridy as they flattened themselves on the roof, letting the brunt of the blast roar past overhead. The thunder of detonation faded, leaving behind the groaning of metal and the moaning of the wounded.
Quinn peeked over the crumbling edge of the roof at the devastation beyond while Bridy fished out her tricorder and powered it up. Inside the hangar, the Orion ship was ablaze, its hull fractured and collapsing. Beyond the crackling of flames, Quinn heard disruptor shots echo from the hangar’s far side. “We’ve been aced.”
Bridy adjusted the tricorder’s settings. “One Klingon life sign, male and hauling ass, leaving the hangar’s rear entrance and moving east.”
“Give you three guesses who has the intel we came for.”
She drew her phaser. “Time for Plan B.”
Bridy threw herself flat against one of the alley’s rough limestone walls and went from a full run to a dead stop without turning the corner. Half a second later, Quinn slammed into her and nearly knocked her into the street.
He disentangled himself from her. “Why the hell’re we stopping?”
She thrust her elbow backward and knocked him free. “Our Klingon pal’s less than twenty meters away.” She tilted her head to her right. “We need to catch him before he spots us.” She pulled her hood forward to better hide her face, stepped into the street, and beckoned Quinn to follow. “C’mon. Stay close to me.”
They merged into the thick, fast-moving crowd. Bridy slipped and dodged her way forward, edging through narrow gaps in the river of bodies, closing the distance to the fleeing Klingon with each step. She used the folds of her cloak to hide her hands: she held her phaser in one and her tricorder in the other. Every few seconds she glanced at the tricorder, which was still locked onto the Klingon’s bio-signature. “He’s crossing the street,” she said, lifting her chin toward the target. Leaning slightly to her left, she got her first clear look at their quarry.
The Klingon seemed short for his species—Bridy estimated his height was no more than 170 centimeters—and he was slight of build. He wore drab civilian clothes and carried a disruptor in a hip holster. His swarthy, sinewy arms were bare, and a peculiar, metallic-looking wraparound sunshade concealed his eyes. He had close-cropped black hair with matching sideburns and a goatee.
Quinn nudged Bridy’s arm. “We should split up and cut him off.”
“Good idea. You go left and cut through that alley. I’ll stay on his six.”
“Copy that.” Quinn fell back a stride, stepped into the street, and darted through a break in the traffic. A few vehicles blared their horns at him, but no one—including their target—seemed to pay the commotion any mind. Then Quinn slipped into an alley that ran behind a row of buildings on the next block.
Bridy waited for the next break in traffic. The sun beat down like a hammer of fire, and she sleeved sweat from her brow. At last, she crossed and continued closing the distance to the Klingon agent. Street vendors made aggressive efforts to waylay Bridy with samples of their wares, which ranged from fruit and vegetables to exotic textiles and bizarre gadgets whose purposes she couldn’t begin to imagine. She sidestepped the overzealous hawkers or shoved them aside and sustained her pace until she was within a dozen strides of the Klingon.
Twenty meters ahead, Quinn emerged from an alleyway and set himself in position to intercept the target. The intersection was an ideal spot for them to take down the Klingon, because he had only one obvious escape route, and Bridy knew it would lead him down a dead end. They had him.
She quickened her pace and nodded at Quinn, who drew his stun pistol.
A pulse of charged plasma streaked overhead with a piercing screech and blasted away a chunk of the alley wall above Quinn’s head.
He cursed as he leaped to cover behind some empty barrels, trailed every step of the way by a furious volley of plasma bolts.
The crowd in the street scattered in multiple directions, all of them moving away from Quinn, the apparent target of a crazed sniper. A dozen panicked aliens collided with Bridy, the only person other than Quinn who didn’t seem to be running for her life. She was too busy trying not to get run over while scanning the fleeing throng simultaneously with her eyes and her tricorder for the escaping Klingon. As she feared, he was retreating in the midst of a dozen other bystanders—and as he looked back, he saw Bridy staring directly at him. She tried to hide the tricorder, but it was too late. Her cover had been blown.
Crap.
Quinn leaned out from behind cover just long enough to return fire in the general direction of his attacker, and then he ducked to avoid another barrage.
Bridy turned and followed the incoming fire back to its source: a Nausicaan on a rooftop with a scope-enhanced rifle. She lifted her phaser and fired at him, but struck the front of the building half a meter beneath his perch. The sniper recoiled momentarily, then trained his sights on her. Bridy ducked into a doorway just in time to avoid having her head shot off.