“What is this about?” Stone pounded the desk again, and the towers of paperwork and binders teetered back and forth. “What is this about? I’ll tell you what it’s about!”

  “Then get on it with already,” muttered Miranda, her buzzing voice so low Devon assumed only he could hear it.

  He assumed wrong. Stone turned his hot-blooded glare on Miranda, who stared back impassively. One didn’t intimidate a Velox of Miranda’s stature. At nearly three meters in height, Miranda was tall even for her species. Stone was tall and broad, but he wasn’t Miranda’s level of tall and broad.

  Stone turned to his computer. “Take a look at this, geniuses.” He punched in a few commands, then rotated the monitor. “Recognize him?”

  It was the Elowan from the Backroom, the one who’d asked if Devon was sure he and the other gamblers could leave despite being criminals. “I remember him in the casino, but not anywhere else.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating, because you should’ve known him from before that.” Stone punched in another command, and the image changed to a profile photo of the Elowan. “Graslen Supox. Known to be affiliated with Azazel Black’s gang, as well as a number of other mob lords on various planets within our jurisdiction. He’s to be brought in under suspicion of capital software piracy.”

  Devon’s stomach clenched. Capital software piracy? It didn’t reach that level of an offense with distributing illegal copies of video games and movies. A capital crime meant one of the big corporations was involved, or maybe even Interstel itself. “When did this go out?”

  “Eight hours ago.”

  Devon did the math. “We were already inside the casino. We wouldn’t have received the notification then.”

  “You and Detectives Bugsley and Chrome-Dome, maybe.” Stone jabbed a finger at Miranda and Copperhead in turn, then wagged that same finger between Ela and Thassor. “They could’ve alerted you to a change in circumstances, surely.”

  “We were busy securing the cryogenically frozen alien maidens at the time,” Ela objected.

  “She’s right, sssir,” Thassor hissed. “Did the blotter indicate this Grassslen was aboard the Ssstarport?”

  Stone glared at them a moment, then rotated the monitor around to look at the notification more closely. “Regardless, you let a suspect in a Class Triple-A Felony get away, and you need to get him back.”

  “What did he steal?” Devon asked.

  “Some top-secret program from the Cartography Department. Way above our pay grades.” Stone waved a hand in dismissal. “Whatever it is, Interstel’s top brass are breathing on the necks of our top brass to get it back.” He jabbed his finger at Devon. “That makes this royal screw-up of yours a real pain my backside.”

  Devon really wanted to break that finger of his. “We’re on it, sir. You can count on us.”

  Stone snorted. “Better than this last time, I trust.”

  “Code has been confirmed.” Devon disabled the handheld projector showing the updated Security Access Code Wheel and tucked it into a pocket. “Thank you for your cooperation, Captain Nu’Bee, but do make sure your comms officer understands the difference between Nice Thing and Bladed Toy. It may not seem like much, but it leads to situations like this.”

  “What if I think bladed toys are nice things?” Miranda murmured.

  He stood on the bridge of the police cruiser Black Maria. Thassor sat at the comms station to his left, and Copperhead leaned his metal frame over the weapons console to the right. Miranda crouched over her navigation controls, two hands on the wheel and two more on the maneuvering pedals. On the viewscreen, an Elowan merchant wrung his twiggy hands. “My apologies, Officer. It will not happen again, I assure you.”

  “Glad to hear it, Captain. Copperhead, power down our weapons.”

  “A pity,” Copperhead grumbled, but he complied.

  Captain Nu’Bee released an audible sigh of relief before the connection was severed.

  “Well, that went well,” Devon muttered as he sat in his command chair. The furniture’s smart-fabric molded around his back and thighs, making it feel like he was floating in midair. “All that effort to chase this ship down, and it’s the wrong merchant.”

  They were four days out of Arth, in pursuit of a merchant ship that failed its automated security clearance when it left port. Somehow the Starport’s security system overlooked it, and no alert was sent until hours later. The techs were still tearing through the computer in order to figure out what happened, but Devon assumed it was likely operator error. The alerts went to a bureaucrats’ desk somewhere deep inside Interstel HQ, and if that bureaucrat was on vacation or taking a crap, no alerts. Since all they knew was that Graslen was an Elowan merchant who was affiliated with a few different gangs, they didn’t have much to go by. The obvious course of action would be to check every ship with Elowans onboard, but that was both impractical and in violation of anti-discrimination laws.

  “Look on the bright ssside, Devon,” Thassor said, an earphone held against the side of his head, over his tympanic membrane. “At least the Trisa system has a warm sssun, and Trisa III is known for both its beachesss and its trading port.”

  “I do not care for the beach,” Copperhead said.

  “Because the sand and humidity are bad for your joints?” Devon asked.

  “There is very little cover on the beach. It is not conducive to a shoot-out.”

  “But, if there is no cover for you, there is also no cover for your enemiesss,” Thassor countered.

  Copperhead studied Thassor a moment. “I never considered that. Maybe I do like the beach, then.”

  Devon shook his head. Copperhead had interesting priorities. “Miranda, set course for Trisa III.” While they were here, they might as well question the locals. Last anyone had seen of Graslen, he’d boarded a skiff that quickly disappeared off Starport’s scanners. Interstel had narrowed the list down to around twenty ships that all left port that day, including Captain Nu’Bee’s vessel, which had been red-flagged due to the screw-up with the security wheel clearance. BOLO—Be On the Look Out—notices had been distributed for the other ships, and so far five of the remaining nineteen had been inspected with no sign of Graslen or this mysterious bit of software he’d absconded with.

  Several hours at full speed found them nearing Trisa III. It drew closer by the minute, glowing like a blue jewel against a dark backdrop. They encountered dozens of ships either parked in orbit or traveling away from the trade and tourist hub, bound for Arth or a half-dozen other worlds. Thassor fielded a number of complaints and questions from the passing vessels. Other ships attempted to skirt along under the police cruiser’s scanners, a suspicious act that, in most cases, was probable cause to initiate an interaction, if not detain the ship outright. Thassor hailed most of these and spoke with their respective comm officers or captains. While he reminded them that smuggling was a crime alongside other offenses, he carefully inquired about Graslen’s whereabouts. Devon didn’t know how the Thrynn officer could manage that without naming names or stating the alleged crime, but he wasn’t the Black Maria’s communications officer for nothing.

  One ship stood out from the rest. Miranda pointed it out on the monitor. “Every time we enter scanner range, it accelerates enough to nudge itself beyond the sweep.”

  “Ssshe’s refusing our hailsss, too.” Thassor tapped his claws along the edge of his console. “Claimsss communication problemsss.”

  “Interesting.” Devon pulled up a preliminary scan of the ship. Unbeknownst to most, Interstel PD cruisers were equipped with scanners capable of penetrating most hulls. This was especially important with interdiction efforts. Smuggling was highly likely when areas of a ship appeared opaque on the deep scan. That’s what happened with this particular ship, the Arthian Dream.

  “Pull alongside them,” Devon ordered.

  “On it.” Miranda pushed the engines to full burn, and they soon outpaced the Arthian Dream’s efforts to outrun them. When it became obvious they’d catch up, the suspect ship slowed down, its captain not wishing to provoke the police cruiser any further.

  “They’re hailing usss,” Thassor said.

  “So much for communications problems,” Devon muttered. “Bring up their video feed on the main screen, but wait a moment before sending them ours.”

  “Roger.” Thassor activated the viewscreen. What Devon assumed was Arthian Dream’s bridge appeared. Oak railings, plush seats, and rich tapestries adorned the bridge of what, on the outside, appeared to be a modest merchant’s vessel. An Elowan sat in the captain’s seat, his suit from the casino replaced with silk robes meant for lounging in luxury.

  “There he is, the bastard,” Devon muttered. To Thassor he said, “Only show him your face and voice. I don’t want him recognizing Miranda and me.”

  “It’s not like he’d be able to tell the difference,” Ela said from her medical office. “Velox and Humans all look alike.”

  “We do not!” Miranda and Devon answered simultaneously.

  Thassor grinned as he activated his microphone. “Attention, Arthian Dream. This is Interssstel PD Cruiser Black Maria. Power down your enginesss and prepare for cargo inspection.”

  “On what grounds?” Graslen demanded. “We’ve done nothing illegal.”

  “Nor do we sssuspect you of anything illegal. We are sssearching for a runaway, a Human male of about eleven cyclesss.”

  “We’ve no such runaway aboard our ship.”

  “Ssso you claim. Thisss boy is adept at hiding in the smallest compartmentsss. Sssuch as the compartmentsss we sssee on our ssscanners. Power down, and prepare for inssspection.”

  Graslen put a hand to his smooth chin, as if considering. He whispered something to one of his bridge officers, but the ship’s microphones didn’t pick it up.

  “Their weapons are coming online!” Copperhead warned.

  “You have my answer,” Graslen said, a smug expression on his face right before the connection went dead. Arthian Dream then filled the viewscreen, its energy cannons glowing and its missile pods now exposed.

  “Miranda, evasives!” Devon shouted. “Copperhead, light ‘em up!”

  “On it!” Miranda barked.

  “Roger,” intoned Copperhead.

  Miranda fired Black Maria’s maneuvering thrusters, and they banked hard to starboard, then to port, then again to starboard. Devon’s chair absorbed most of the gee-forces, but it still put a strain on his neck and chest. On the viewscreen, laser beams lit up the darkness of space as they shot past the ship. One impacted the shields and the beam refracted into a multi-hued pattern of lights, blinding but otherwise harmless.

  “Firing missiles,” Copperhead pushed the array of red buttons on his console, each slaved to one of Black Maria’s four missile tubes. “Missiles headed our way, too,” he added.

  “Countermeasures!” Devon grunted. Miranda’s crazy maneuvers were pushing the blood out of his head.

  Behind his snarling mask, Copperhead’s two ocular sensors rolled independently of one another, allowing him to take in the full measure of his console with little head movement. “Flares launched. Firing lasers.”

  The viewscreen’s many camera feeds lit up with an answering barrage of laser fire from Black Maria. Most missed the fleeing garbage scow, but one scored a direct hit on the number two engine. “Excellent!” Devon said. “Take out the remaining—”

  An explosion rocked the ship. Alarms wailed, the ceiling lights flickered, and red indicators lit up on Devon’s command console. “Hull breach on Deck Three!” he reported to the others. “Sealing it off. Everyone, damage report!”

  “Weapons systems fine,” Copperhead stated. “Shields at half-strength.”

  “Engine power lost.” Miranda pounded the navigation console. “They got a lucky shot in through the shields.”

  “Target isss getting away,” Thassor reported. “Looksss like they’re heading for Trisa III.”

  “They’ll need repairs if they’re going to get her back in the sky again,” Copperhead noted.

  “So will we.” Miranda pointed at her navigation console, which was locked out. “We’re adrift.”

  “Miranda, continue to track where they’re headed,” Devon instructed. “Ela, repair and inspect the sealed compartment.”

  Ela’s face appeared on the monitor in the command chair’s armrest. “I’m a doctor, not an engineer!”

  “You’re a medical examiner, not a doctor.” Thassor grinned. “I can join you, if you like.”

  Ela frowned as she gathered up her helmet and tools. “Great, just what I wanted. A Thrynn for company. No, I’ll be fine on my own, thank you very much.”

  “Good,” Thassor said when he cut the signal. “I need to worry about the enginesss. We’re not going anywhere until we repair them.” He looked over the damage assessment Miranda had sent to his station and cursed. “It’ll take us several hours, at least.”

  Several hours? Damn. Graslen and his ilk could jump ship in that amount of time, or meet with whoever they’d stolen the software for. They needed to pursue them now.

  “It is a good thing we have plenty of CAMoTP onboard,” Copperhead rumbled. The acronym—pronounced “Camo Tip”—referred to the materials most often used in ship repairs: cobalt, aluminum, molybdenum, titanium, and promethium. He brought up Black Maria’s cargo manifest and pointed. “We have everything we need.”

  Devon studied the manifest, then tapped a line item. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “If you are thinking that is the skiff we confiscated from the happy juice smugglers a few weeks ago, yes.” Copperhead brought up a page of details on the shuttle craft. “Many false bottoms and breakway panels for contraband.”

  Thassor wrinkled his nose. “That damn skiff had so much contraband stuffed aboard it smelled like a juicer’s den. Filthy stuff.”

  Devon tapped the screen again. “Thassor, load some of the CAMoTP aboard, along with any spare tools you won’t need for the job here.”

  “I’m not head engineer,” Thassor said. “Make Miranda do it.”

  “For the sake of our engine repairs, you’re head engineer today.” Devon pointed at Miranda and hiked his thumb toward the door. “You and I’ve got a date planetside.”

  “I’m not interested in Humans that way,” Miranda said with a wave of a hand.

  “Oh, don’t be like that. Not after I got you the right dress for the occasion.”

  That piqued Miranda’s interest. For an insect, she had a strange fascination with formalwear and garments most Human women would consider cute. Devon doubted if many of those same women would find the outfits cute on a Velox, but if Miranda enjoyed it, he wasn’t going to try and dissuade her. Not only would she not listen, she’d get angry. No good ending ever came to someone who pissed off Miranda.

  “Why do you need sssome of our repair materialsss?” Thassor asked.

  “Oh, nothing much.” Devon grinned. “Just thought I’d help out a stricken ship in the neighborhood, that’s all.”

  “Technicians, huh?” The male Velox looked Miranda over with approval, but his multifaceted gaze turned skeptical when he turned to Devon. “Both of you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Devon demanded. “Got something against Humans?”

  “Not at all. Some of my best friends and shipmates are Human. None of them are on the engineering or repair crews.”

  They stood in a crowded marketplace on Trisa III, amidst a group of freelance engineers and technicians. A blazing hot sun beat down on them, but the sea breeze made up for it. Less than a kilometer away, fancy resorts overlooked pristine beaches of purple sand. Devon wished he could be there now, sipping a deep blue and eyeing up any attractive women who happened to be about. Sadly, duty called.

  “He learned from the best,” Miranda assured the Velox male, whose name was Krox.

  “Oh, really?” Krox cocked his head to the side, his mandibles twitching. “And who is the best?”

  Miranda rested all four hands on the utility harness hanging over her jacket. “Me.”

  Krox let out a buzzing snort. “You’ve got confidence, I’ll give you that.” He pointed at the tablet in Devon’s hand. “You also have some of the materials we need for our repairs. Personally I’d rather buy it from you and be done with it, but my captain is in a hurry and three of our engineers were hurt in an...accident.”

  I bet, Devon thought.

  “Are accidents common on your ship?” Miranda asked.

  “Our ship is old, and accidents can happen anywhere. Don’t worry. You’ll be well-compensated, both for your skills and your hold of CAMoTP.”

  “How soon do you need us?” Miranda asked. “We have a job we’ll have finished in the next day or two, but we plan to be on Trisa III for at least another two weeks.”

  Krox let out a chirp, similar to a Human clicking his tongue. “Unfortunately, we can’t wait a day or two. We need our ship operational in the next Arth day. Can your other job wait?”

  “Well….”

  The two haggled for the next several minutes. Devon leaned against a nearby pillar, a bemused expression on his face. Here they were, doing everything they could to infiltrate Graslen’s ship, and Miranda was haggling over a fee he and Devon would never collect on, for inconveniencing a client they didn’t have. Many Velox were considered dull-witted or at least incapable of creative thought, a stigma from the hive-like consciousness of those in the Veloxi Empire. This view often served to help Miranda with her subterfuge, as many didn’t think her capable of it.

  “It is agreed, then,” Krox said. He and Miranda clacked a hand against one another’s carapaces to seal the deal. “Transfer your materials and equipment to my shuttle, and we will be on our way within the hour.” He turned back to the remaining engineers and technicians. “Your first job is to help these two with the transfer. Let’s be on it! We’re burning daylight.”