Ghost Pirate Gambit, page 10
“And then you went after Lasadi,” Raj guesses.
“Chiara hinted maybe if I was gonna go after Las I shouldn’t come back.” Jay sighs. “But that’s not it at all. In the end, I’m not ready to stop moving.”
“I get that.”
“So here I am, about to go on a wild ride in one of the most iconic racing planes in the Durga System. You don’t get to work on the Figment of the North if you never leave Ironfall.”
“No regrets then?”
The complicated flicker in Jay’s eyes is the only answer Raj gets. Jay claps him on the shoulder as he moves past to peer into the cockpit. “You getting any work done in here, Qacha? Or do I need to put a gag on Alex?”
Before Qacha can answer, the ship’s comms crackle to life. Lasadi’s voice cuts through; she sounds breathless. “Jay? Raj? Where are you?”
Raj straightens. “On the Lightning. Where — ”
But she’s talking over him like she couldn’t hear. “If you’re near the Figment, I need help.”
Her voice fizzles out; Jay is already on his feet, Alex steps to the ramp, scanning what little they can see from their parking spot.
“Lasadi?” Raj asks. But she’s not answering. In the distance, he can hear shouting, and a grunt of pain comes through the comms.
Something’s burning, he realizes, that acrid smell of smoke curling through the air.
Fire, and close.
CHAPTER 13
LASADI
When Lasadi arrives at the dockyard the gate is wide open to the amphitheater and the rest of the town; members of the various crews seem to be coming and going at will. She reaches for her credentials when a young man in Moie Dockyards overalls walks her way, but he just waves her past and continues on his own way to the shop.
The dockmaster had told them there was state-of-the-art security here — but “state of the art” for Moie must not be what it is in Ironfall. This isn’t a busy through-port like Ironfall, it’s a destination, and even now that the town has probably doubled in size with race contestants and tourists, there must still be less than six or seven thousand people in town.
The dockyard — like the rest of the town — is a testament to how keeping the jungle out of Moie must be a full-time job. Step past the edge of the docking pad and there’s no soft transition from the edge of town into the jungle itself, just a sharp line where humans press into the jungle and the jungle presses back twice as hard. The air is rich with earthy rot and ozone, last night’s rain evaporating into a heady engine oil–tinged perfume in the morning’s sun. The packed earth is solid under her boots, the heat of the day starting to rise, the humidity of the morning thickening the air.
This is the first time Lasadi’s been back to the dockyard since she landed, and she finds herself relaxing. The rapid-fire staccato of an air compressor, mallet-on-metal thumps coming from the workshops. It smells earthier than the dockyard she’d called home in Ironfall, but it still feels like home.
She hadn’t been the only one crashing on her ship in Ironfall — and like Ironfall’s port, Moie’s dockyard has its own amenities for pilots who are sleeping on board their ships. A pair of shop buildings sit inside the gate to the left — both big enough to park a plane inside for repairs — followed by an open structure with a dozen planes parked underneath. The rest of the planes in the dock are parked in four neat rows stretching away from town, along the river. At the end of the covered parking is a smaller open building, a ramada designed as a makeshift common area for the pilots staying in their ships.
A half-dozen battered tables are set up in the ramada, along with a pair of cookstoves sizzling with late breakfasts, the crews mingling and giving each other good-natured ribbings while blue-black scavenging birds — zanates, Qacha had called them — hop along the outskirts searching for scraps and chirping an annoyed cacophony. Las catches a whiff of incense; there’s a shrine to some local saint on the side of the ramada closest to the gate, well tended and full of offerings.
It sparks a strange yearning in her, the easy way they’re bantering over breakfast. She always liked the work she and Jay did for Nico Garnet, even if she didn’t love who they were working for. Now the Nanshe is theirs, what’s to stop them from flashing around the Durga System like Peter Fangio, working the odd job and dropping in to race the Liluri Star Run every year?
She and Jay have a crew now, after all. Don’t they?
Peter Fangio’s there under the ramada, lounging at a table with two other people. His own crew, she guesses. He’d dressed sharp for the pilot’s orientation, but Lasadi gets the impression he’s most comfortable like this: work trousers and boots, tight shirt showcasing dark muscles, black hair swept loosely back from his proud forehead in lazy curls. Fangio raises a hand when he sees her looking their way and drops his boot from the chair it’s kicked up on, shoving it towards her in invitation.
Lasadi checks her comm. She’s supposed to be meeting Francis Edan at the Figment of the North in a few minutes, but he hasn’t pinged her that he’s here.
“Morning,” she says, taking the chair Fangio offered. “Is it always this hot here?”
“Most years it’s worse,” says Fangio. He sweeps a lazy hand at the others at the table. “Nia Amani, she’s our mechanic. And Finley Ryan — they’re my co-pilot.”
“L — Tita James,” Lasadi says; she’d gotten so comfortable she nearly forgot she’s still playing a part. “Good to meet you both.”
Both Amani and Ryan are dressed like Belt drifters in jumpsuits and boots, though Amani’s jumpsuit is unzipped and tied at the waist in deference to the heat. Her pale forearms are marked with the mechanic’s expected collection of nicks and scars, and her curly red-brown hair is cut close in the back and left unruly on top. Her honey-gold eyes are edged with laugh lines. Ryan’s fit for how slender they are, head shaved to reveal intricate tattoos etched into the warm brown skin of their neck and scalp.
“Your ship?” Lasadi asks, hooking her thumb at the nearby early-model CG Taipan, a light cargo hauler designed for deft maneuvers despite its size, like its namesake. The paint is weatherworn but clean, the pale blue chipping along the seams to reveal metal beneath.
“That’s our baby,” Fangio answers. “Kalliope’s Wager. I hear you’re getting an upgrade.”
Finley Ryan leans forward, curious. “So are the rumors true?” Ryan asks. “You’ll be flying Theo’s ship, will you?”
“Gossip chain moves fast in Moie,” laughs Amani when Lasadi looks surprised. “Everyone knows Edan gave that idiot Bryant the boot.”
“And everyone knows Edan doesn’t do much in the way of background checks.” Fangio hasn’t moved, but something in his tone sets Lasadi’s instincts blazing. A cold flush pulses between Lasadi’s shoulder blades. He knows. Somehow, he knows.
“At least he didn’t with Bryant, sounds like.” Lasadi gives Fangio a bright smile and starts to stand; she needs to get away from this conversation. “I doubt he’d make the same mistake twice.”
“Maybe not. For your sake I hope so, Lasadi Cazinho.”
Lasadi breathes in sharp, muscles tensing to fight, to run; her crew is supposed to be here at the dockyard, but even if she calls for help, they won’t get to her before Fangio makes his move. With Amani and Ryan here, she’s outnumbered, even with the pistol Jay insisted she carry. And, she realizes with a sinking heart, it doesn’t matter in the slightest if they let her walk away. One message to Francis Edan and the entire con is over.
“You were a hard woman to track down,” Fangio says. He reaches for his metal coffee cup and relaxes back in his chair. Takes a sip. “And whoever faked your alias did an airtight job — but Finley has some ex-CLA friends who recognized your picture. Mercury Squadron, yeah? Impressive.”
“Last I heard everyone in Mercury Squadron was dead,” Las says.
“I heard that, too,” Fangio says. “Your navigator, though, she’s NMLF?” When Lasadi doesn’t answer, he laughs. “It’s obvious, only. The new recruits all have that look to them, it’s in the eyes.”
Amani nods agreement. “And the shoulders. They’re always at attention. It’s adorable, you can spot them a kilometer away.”
“I’m doing the NMLF a favor,” Lasadi says. Olds, let this work. Fangio’s crew is from Durga’s Belt, so they’re not likely to be pro-Alliance — and they might keep quiet if they think the real secret won’t affect their chances in the race. She can still spin this and keep Anton’s name out of it. “I’ve been training their pilots; we figured this could be a good test run.” She takes a deep breath, testing the currents. “Since you brought it up, the NMLF could use help from other pilots who believe in independence. We all know the Alliance isn’t going to stop with Indira and Corusca.”
Finlay Ryan’s expression doesn’t change, but their fingers tap sharp against their thigh. Nia Amani gives Lasadi an unreadable smile. And Peter Fangio tilts his head, studying Las with faint amusement.
“Alliance aren’t in the Belt yet,” Fangio finally says, setting his coffee cup back on the metal table with a gentle clink. “Theo’d’ve been rolling over in his grave to see an Alliance pilot like Bryant flying his ship. Keep it in one piece, will you.”
“I will.” Lasadi stands and inclines her head to the group. “Saints’ path to you all, isn’t that what they say here?”
“Saints’ path,” Ryan agrees.
“Keep sharp out there, Mercury,” Fangio says. “Every race is a blank slate. The jungle doesn’t care how well you flew last race — or last war.”
“You too. And thank you.”
Lasadi turns away, heart pounding, to find one of the gang of porter kids jogging her way. “Ms. James!” the boy says when he catches up with her. “Mr. Edan asked me to come find you. He’s at the Figment.”
Lasadi takes a deep breath and gins up a smile. No time to worry what Fangio and his crew might do with their new information, apparently. Or — olds be damned — how she’s going to break the news to Anton. She can already picture his disappointment. He won’t say I told you so, but he had done in advance. He’d pointed out that this complicated plan was a risk, one she wasn’t prepared to handle.
Another potentially disastrous move from an inexperienced captain, she can hear him saying: I don’t blame you, I blame myself for asking you to take this responsibility on.
Lasadi follows the porter through the gates of the dockyard and back into the amphitheater, where the Figment of the North is still on display. It’s weatherworn and marked by years of repeated damage and repairs. Theo had always scorned the flashier color schemes of some of his rivals, opting for a matte, mottled silver, the only adornment the script Figment of the North in bold blue on each side.
The ramp is down, an open invitation to her, and her alone; slow realization trickles through her. She did it. She got them access to this plane, and Anton? He can fuck off.
Jay trusts her. Ruby inexplicably does, she made that clear last night. Alex seems perfectly happy to follow her. Even Raj — that’s what he was trying to say at dinner, wasn’t it? Not that he didn’t think Lasadi could handle pressure, but that he trusted her leadership.
The next breath Lasadi takes makes her feel lighter than she has in ages, like the atmosphere at Moie is rich with oxygen and life. She almost laughs in dizzy relief.
Anton can fuck off.
The amphitheater is near empty this time of morning, and one bored guard is standing outside the Figment. He waves a hand to Lasadi when she reaches for her credentials with a “Welcome, Ms. James!”
“Thanks!” she says, bright. She drops a handful of joru in the porter boy’s palm — she still hasn’t worked out what the exchange rate is for credits, but he seems delighted — then heads for the open ramp.
“Mr. Edan?” she calls as she enters. The layout of the Figment is different from the Green Lightning. Instead of crew seats lining the walls, everything but the cockpit has been stripped to save weight and make room for Theo to stay on the plane. There’s a hammock hung in one corner, along with a makeshift folding stove and dining table as ingeniously simplistic as one of the living pods in Ironfall.
She peers into the cockpit. “Mr. Edan?”
She hears the footfall a second before the attack comes, a shadow in the corner of her eye, and Lasadi flings her left hand up in front of her face as the garrote falls over her head. The cord tightens, biting into her wrist, but she can still breathe. Somehow, she barely registers that the Figment’s door has closed behind her.
Her attacker matches her in height, a man’s grunts and the whiff of expensive hair gel cutting through the undercurrent of engine grease and rust. Lasadi shoves her weight back against him, boots slipping against the floor before her treads catch on some seam in the metal. Her right hand flails for a weapon, closes around something solid.
She yanks it up, bashing it back against her assailant’s knee.
The man yelps and loosens his grip enough for Lasadi to push the cord back over her head and shove him away. She turns on him, panting, dropping the prybar she’d snatched up for the pistol tucked in the small of her back, under her jacket.
Sevi Bryant.
Lasadi switches on her earpiece. “Jay? Raj? Where are you?” She ducks as Bryant growls and flings a crate at her; it splinters against the wall to her left, spilling packaged rations over the floor. “If you’re near the Figment, I need help.”
“Come to claim your prize?” Bryant says. “I wouldn’t fire. You know these old ships are notoriously prone to go up in flames.”
And at that she identifies the other scent pinging for her attention. Not just grease from a half century of planes sitting in the yard, but something new and fresh. A leaking fuel cell, splashed near the tail of the plane where it would spread quick to the reactor that powers the thrusters. Another fuel cell is sitting beside the Figment’s door; Bryant rests his hand on it.
Lasadi doesn’t drop her aim.
“Set that down.” She takes slow, careful steps towards Bryant, keeping him in her sights.
Bryant glances at the pistol in her hand, and in his gaze is a question Lasadi doesn’t have the answer to. The interior of these Garudas is bare metal, and Theo stripped the Figment of almost everything. Bryant’s right: The chances she hits metal are high, and with the amount of fuel leaking out, any stray spark will send the ship up in flames.
And the coordinates with it.
Bryant clocks her hesitancy; he grins and flings the second fuel cell at her. It flies through the air, fuel spraying out in an arc that soaks through her sleeve even as she ducks the cell itself. Bryant charges, catching her off guard and slamming her back into the wall beside the door.
He’s got her right arm in a death grip — not that she’s going to pull the trigger anyway — and he aims a punch at her head. Lasadi ducks, coming up under his swing and bringing her left fist as hard as she can into his kidney. Bryant grunts in pain, but his grip on her right arm doesn’t loosen.
He’s got the advantage of weight, and of the fact he grew up on this planet with its stronger gravity, so when he whirls, she can’t stop him from pulling her away from the wall with his momentum and sending her crashing against the floor near the Figment’s tail. She lands with a grunt, the air pushed from her lungs, and when she pants for breath she chokes on the fumes from the pool of fuel on the floor.
The stench of electrical fire; she’s pinned to the pilot’s chair, pressure through her gut. She’s been speared by something — she can taste iron maybe she can even taste that improbable metal through her core and when her hands touch it they come away slick with blood. It doesn’t hurt but she can’t move, and everything is a roar in her ears with Jay shouting her name and the flashing lights the reek of fuel and —
Lasadi pushes the vision away, blinking to see Bryant’s silhouette in the now-open doorway, morning light streaming in behind him. She can make out the white flash of his teeth when he grins. And a flame glimmering in his hand, the faintest spark against the darkness of his shadow.
Lasadi scrabbles to get to her feet, boots slipping in the spilled fuel.
The lighter burns bright and clear, wavering as it soars through the air in a perfect arc to land at her feet.
The fuel ignites around her in a blast of heat.
CHAPTER 14
RAJ
Raj can see the smoke boiling into the air well before he’s in view of the Figment of the North. He sprints towards it, Jay on his heels, ducking under wings and skidding around corners, boots thudding on the hard-packed earth. Faintly in the back of his mind, Raj is aware of others shouting, an alarm bell ringing.
He tears through the dockyard gates and into the amphitheater, his heart sinking. Smoke is roiling out of the Figment’s open ramp door.
A lanky figure stumbles out of the black, glances over his shoulder. Sevi Bryant’s eyes widen at Raj and Jay, and he starts running towards the dockyard gate.
Raj starts to give chase when another sound catches his attention from inside the Figment. A woman’s grunt of pain.
Lasadi.
Someone’s yelling behind him — he thinks it might be Jay — but Raj isn’t processing that. The only thing he cares about is the black, smoky square of the Figment’s door, the dancing flames beyond, and the figure on the floor inside.
“Stop Bryant,” he shouts at a stunned man in a guard’s uniform, then turns to the ship. “Lasadi!” His boots slam on the ramp as he sprints inside, pulling his shirt up over his mouth and nose; he’s barely aware of Jay at his back. His eyes water almost instantly, stinging in the smoke, he searches for her with tear-smeared vision. “Lasadi!”
