Ghost Pirate Gambit, page 2
“Lots of things out here are bigger than you are,” he says.
He’s teasing, not threatening. Lasadi’s been thinking of the pair of New Manila Liberation Front guerrillas as her guards, but they introduced themselves as her guides, and nothing about the barely twenty-year-olds is threatening. They’re both shorter than she is, with wiry muscles, sun-bronzed skin, and thick black hair, Qacha’s coiled in a military bun and Temu’s shorn to the scalp. Qacha’s laugh is infectious, Temu is disarmingly sincere about absolutely everything: the local flora and fauna, the mining operation, the unfamiliar food, NMLF doctrine, the fact she’s not a prisoner.
It’s not like she’s under lock and key, not even at night. Instead of a cell, she’s been given a hammock strung up in the common area of the school where children learn history during the day and the New Manila Liberation Front trains locals to fight in the evenings. Qacha and Temu sleep in hammocks nearby, as do a dozen other NMLF soldiers — but when she got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, no one even stirred.
In fact, she’s been given a hero’s welcome. She’s here as Anton Kato’s guest, after all, and rumor swept quick through the village: Lasadi Cazinho fought in Anton’s Coruscan Liberation Army, she was the captain of the elite Mercury Squadron of fighter pilots, she was Anton’s lover. His inspiration. Muse. The NMLF guerrillas have been treating Anton like a font of insurgent wisdom, and they’re hanging on her every word now, too. Like she and Anton will be the key to helping the NMLF’s fledgling movement succeed in driving out the Indiran Alliance where the CLA failed.
And Lasadi would have enjoyed helping them, if it weren’t for Anton tricking her into coming.
She’s not a prisoner, he’s told her. If Lasadi wasn’t a prisoner, though, Anton wouldn’t have hidden her shuttle away in the jungle and taken her comm so she can’t tell Jay where to find her.
A chorus of howls knocks her from her thoughts, and Lasadi glances over her shoulder, unable to pinpoint where the racket is coming from.
“What the hell is that?” she asks.
Qacha and Temu share a grin.
“Oyi howlers,” says Temu. He points into the jungle. “They’re similar to monkeys. A troop of them swings through the edge of the jungle every few days, but you don’t have to worry, because they never come up here.”
Lasadi shoots him a look; she hadn’t realized she needed to worry about monkeys, of all things. She’s seen nature vids, they always seem friendly. “Are they dangerous?”
“No, just annoying,” says Qacha. She turns and her face lights up. “Oh, hey!”
Lasadi follows her gaze; the other woman is reaching out a hand to a beetle the size of her palm, iridescent green and gold, a sharp horn protruding from what Lasadi assumes is its forehead. It gives a violent rattle of its wings, then reaches a tentative foreleg to step onto Qacha’s fingertips.
“These little guys are harmless,” she says. “The rattling noise is to warn you off — but it mimics the sound a golden drummer makes, so if you hear it, be careful until you know what you’re dealing with.”
“Golden drummer?”
“A type of viper,” says Temu. “They’re not so common.”
“What’s your definition of ‘not so common’?”
Temu laughs. “Don’t worry,” he reassures her. “Not everything in the jungle is dangerous — most things just want to be left alone.”
Sure. Like the enormous spider Las’d seen first thing when she opened her eyes this morning. She’d nearly screamed before realizing it was outside the fine layer of bug netting fitted to her hammock.
She peels the neck of her shirt away from her throat, a bead of sweat trickling down her ribs. Besides the towering trees, the enormous raptors, the constant cacophony of birds and monkeys and insects, the biggest difference between here and Corusca is that on Corusca, you’re always the right temperature. Lasadi wonders if she’ll ever stop itching. Or ditch the feeling something’s crawling on the back of her neck.
“Where does the river go?” Lasadi asks, peering over the edge of the bridge.
“The water falls so far it never touches the ground,” Temu says. “It vaporizes before then and waters the jungle in mist.”
Fantastic — that means no landmark to be had there. Las was blindfolded when they left her shuttle, and the faint cleared patch she’d been instructed to land in had been difficult enough to spot when she had the coordinates and was directly above it, let alone from this angle. But she can see where the road that snakes down the face of the bluff enters the edge of the jungle. If she can follow it out — and can steal back her comm — she’ll be able to find the shuttle.
“How do you navigate?”
Temu smiles. “It’s easy once you learn.”
“And you won’t have to worry about it,” adds Qacha. “One of us will always be with you.”
“Of course.” Lasadi smiles easy, but that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?
Qacha seems about to speak again when her expression shifts to serious, her spine straightening as though listening to someone through her earpiece. “Yes, Commander,” she says. “We’ll be right there.”
“Vasavada?” Lasadi asks. Commander Vasavada, the commanding officer of this local NMLF column, had hinted this morning she wanted them to stay close. Of course, “Stay close” is a bit of a joke in this tiny town. There are two restaurants and one bar, three stores. The NMLF-run clinic marks this end of town, the school building bookends the other side. It’s a five-minute walk between them.
“Vasavada’s ready for us,” Qacha says. She’s going for a stiff, serious, military aura, but youthful excitement is tugging at the corners of her mouth. Lasadi can’t help but see herself in that expression — she’d been twenty, a touch older than Qacha, when she’d joined her own country’s fight for independence. It was a heady time, full of passion for the cause, for the nation of Corusca. For Anton.
Though there’s something more than patriotic passion in the glance Qacha and Temu exchange with each other — there’s genuine excitement. Whatever Anton tricked her into coming to New Manila for, Lasadi can’t help but be reluctantly intrigued.
Bitter resentment curls under her ribcage; olds, how different things would be if she were here under any other circumstances.
The twins shepherd Lasadi the few hundred yards back into Icaba proper, to the small shack outside the NMLF clinic that serves as Commander Vasavada’s office. Except for a brief audience when she arrived in camp, Lasadi hasn’t had much contact with the woman. She seems levelheaded and pragmatic, with none of the visionary mystique Anton had worn around his shoulders like a mantle. But, of course, having vision isn’t Vasavada’s role; she’s only the commander of the Icaba column. The true leaders of the NMLF keep a low profile, unlike Anton.
“Speak a devil’s name and sharpen your knife,” Lasadi’s grandmother always said — and before Temu even opens the door to the office, Lasadi can hear Anton’s voice. Lasadi forces her shoulders to relax, ignores the numbness spreading below her sternum. Forces herself to soften her expression when she follows Qacha and Temu through the door.
Anton Kato is perched on a stool to one side of Vasavada’s office; Commander Vasavada appears to have been pacing. The office is simply furnished: two stools and a table in the corner with a portable desk rolled out, schematics for a new community hall hovering above, the remains of Vasavada’s lunch pushed to the side. Running an NMLF column seems mostly to consist of overseeing public works projects.
Commander Vasavada is dressed neat in military fatigues, wearing an NMLF armband with no visible rank. Her sleeves are rolled up over dark, muscled forearms, black hair in a series of braids coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Anton, on the other hand, is dressed in a lightweight suit that’s open at the collar, a nod to Icaba’s scorching heat.
“Lasadi.” Anton gives her his most winning smile — the one that used to melt her heart. “How’s the tour going? I trust Qacha and Temu are giving you the lay of the land? I can’t think of anyone better for the job.”
Qacha beams at Anton like stars are born in his footsteps, and Lasadi can understand why. He’s easy to like, and the intense focus of his pale blue eyes makes you feel like you’re the most important thing in the world. Once you’ve felt that attention, his approval is gold; it gets addicting. And Anton knows full well how to use it.
“Qacha and Temu have been great,” Lasadi says. Railing against Anton on the first few days didn’t get her anywhere, so she’s experimenting with getting along. She smiles at Vasavada. “Thank you for your hospitality, Commander.”
Vasavada nods, curt. “And we appreciate your patience. Take a seat.”
The only other chair is a second stool next to Anton’s; Lasadi tugs it as far away as she dares in the guise of leveling it. Vasavada props a hip on the corner of her desk.
“We’ve asked you here for a unique mission,” Vasavada says, and Lasadi keeps her expression pleasant. “Asked” is one way to put tricking her here under false pretenses and keeping her against her will. But Lasadi suspects that part was all Anton. Blaming it on the NMLF isn’t going to help her get back to the Nanshe any faster.
Vasavada lifts an eyebrow at Qacha. She hasn’t cracked a smile once since Lasadi arrived. Now, though, the commander doesn’t bother to hold back amusement at Qacha’s excitement. “Would you like to do the honors, Private?”
Qacha’s spine straightens. “We’re going to race in the Liluri Star Run,” she says; it comes out in an enthusiastic tumble. “You as captain, me as navigator — it’ll be a good community-building effort for the NMLF, and excellent publicity if we win.” She grins at Lasadi. “You know the Star Run, right?”
“The Star Run,” Lasadi repeats, numb. She’s lost track of the rhythm of Indira’s seasons while living the last three years out in Durga’s Belt, but it’s the right time of year, isn’t it? The Star Run is part of the Outland Tour, a rugged circuit of three extreme aerial races that take place in remote areas of Indira each year. The part of Lasadi who’s still a kid piling in front of the live feeds with her family every week during race season sits up in delight. “You’re serious?”
“We’re serious,” says Anton. He’s smiling at her, too, now, and it’s all Lasadi can do to keep from smiling back. He knows, of course. Watching the Liluri Star Run in person has been a wish since she was a child memorizing the stats of every plane, the histories of every pilot. Racing it would be a dream.
“Qacha will be an excellent navigator,” Temu says, earnest. Maybe he’s mistaking her shocked silence for disapproval of the choice in navigation partner. “We both grew up flying with our father, but Qacha caught the love of it. She’s amazing.”
“Surely the NMLF has pilots who know the region better than me,” Lasadi says. What she wants to say is, You didn’t have to trick me into this. You didn’t have to lie to get me to help the NMLF — and obviously not to enter the Liluri Star Run.
And yet. Even if she’d known about the plan, she still never would have come if Anton had contacted her under his own name.
“It sends a message of solidarity between our two countries to have a joint Coruscan and New Manilan team,” Anton says.
Lasadi lifts an eyebrow to him. “You know I’m supposed to be dead, right?” Not to mention the fact that he tore her name to shreds after the Battle of Tannis. The NMLF might still respect her, but they’ll be in the minority.
“You’ll use a pseudonym,” Anton says. “Though the race is only a small part of the mission.”
“Senator Kato will brief you on the rest while you’re flying to Moie for the race start,” Vasavada says. “And Private Batbayar will acquaint you with the terrain and your ship.”
“It’ll be tricky terrain,” says Qacha. “But I learned to navigate in my father’s rust heap with computer nav systems you couldn’t trust. These mountains are etched in my blood. It will be an honor to fly with you.”
“I’m — yes.” Lasadi shakes her head. “Likewise. When is the race?”
“Two days from now. You leave for Moie this afternoon.”
And they’re just telling her now? Lasadi bites back the objection — it’s irrelevant, and from another world entirely. She’s spent three years getting used to civilian life. Even when the Nanshe — and her time — belonged to Nico Garnet, she’d had a great deal of autonomy. Here, she’s just another soldier taking orders on a need-to-know basis. And Anton hadn’t trusted her to know before this moment.
Vasavada stands, dismissing the meeting. “Let Private Batbayar know what additional supplies you need.”
“Actually.” Lasadi turns to Anton, heart pounding in her throat; she knows full well how he can react to being crossed in public. It’s a risk she’s willing to take, though. Maybe the old Las was fine taking orders in the dark; that’s no longer how Lasadi Cazinho operates. “What I need is some more information. Why don’t you brief me on the rest of the mission now, so Qacha can focus on acquainting me with the ship and terrain once we’re in the air.”
Anton’s practiced politician’s smile sharpens, so fast the others won’t have caught it; they won’t know to watch for it.
“Of course,” Anton says, easy once more. He stands, tossing a salute to Vasavada and buttoning his suit jacket. “We’ll go grab a quick drink.”
Lasadi gives her best smile to Vasavada and the Batbayar twins. “Thank you,” she says again. “I’ll see you all in a few.”
Anton gestures Lasadi to walk ahead of him, fingers brushing her arm as he guides her through the door. Her skin flushes cold in the heat of the day, but she’ll be damned if she lets him see her flinch.
CHAPTER 3
LASADI
She’d been in love with Anton Kato before she ever met him in person.
She’d collected his writings in secret for almost two years. She’d watched his illicit broadcasts late at night, imagination caught as much by his lofty calls for resistance as by the golden tones of his voice, the curve of his smile.
She might have stayed an admirer from afar were it not for that final fight with her grandmother. The Senate had narrowly agreed that Corusca should join the Indiran Alliance, and Lasadi’s grandmother had been one of the deciding votes. With the benefit of age and hindsight, Lasadi can understand her grandmother’s decision, but as a twenty-year-old, she’d been incensed. She’d called her grandmother a traitor and slipped out of the house that night to seek out the man with the golden voice and incendiary ideas.
When she found him, she’d met his eye with chin held high, met his hand with a firm shake, hid her nerves behind practiced confidence. She was accustomed to meeting famous people through her grandmother, but Anton Kato had been the first who’d knotted her gut with anticipation. The way he looked at her slid through her soul like a blade; as the world knocked sideways, she knew at the very core of her being she’d made the right decision.
There are two parts of her life Lasadi would do over, if given the chance. She would apologize to her grandmother before she left, and she would believe Anton when he told her the only thing he would ever truly love was the cause.
After the disastrous Battle of Tannis, Anton had managed to spin the CLA’s defeat into peace — and a political victory for himself. He won — and has held onto — a seat in the Senate because although not enough Coruscans had an appetite for the fighting, most are still wary of the Alliance. They support Anton to make a statement: We fought you once and we’ll do it again.
Is that why Anton is in New Manila, making plans with the local insurgent movement? To send the Alliance a message? She hasn’t been following Coruscan politics, but she has a vague sense they’re nearing an election cycle. Maybe Anton needs to build up some political clout. Or maybe he’s preparing for another round of warfare with the Alliance.
Lasadi tamps down the spark of hope. Whatever greater movement Anton’s planning, she wants no part of it.
“Lasadi.” Anton says her name soft as they walk; reverence and attention in every syllable. If the Batbayar twins appreciate the small rays of attention they’ve gotten from Anton, they have no idea what it’s like to stand in the full sun of his devotion. To be worshipped like a goddess by the man everyone else worships like a god.
It’s intoxicating, and Anton knows it.
Lasadi takes a deep breath, locking pieces of her armor in place with fierce determination. She holds up a finger when he starts to speak.
“I need a drink,” she says. “And I need some answers.”
He pauses, one foot on the raised wooden deck of the bar. She searches his face for the changes. He’s going prematurely gray, but the silver in his dark hair and dappling his rugged, light-tanned jawline suits him. Fine lines are etched around his blue eyes and the corners of his mouth, and a faint scar ghosts his chin; she wonders where that came from.
“Vasavada wasn’t sure we could trust you,” he finally says. “Especially after your reaction the first day. But she’s made her decision now, and it’s time you knew the real reason you’re here.” He smiles at her like it’s a favor he’s offering, rather than him acquiescing to her demand for information. “Come on, it’s quiet here.”
Icaba’s single bar is an open patio shielded from the sun and rain by a sloping metal roof on poles. A pair of hand-carved dice boards sit at the far end, and the rest of the patio is populated by wooden benches and rusted metal tables. The bar is a slab of polished wood set on a pair of barrels, the glassware and liquor kept in a storage unit behind the bar that padlocks shut when no one’s around to tend it.
Lasadi follows Anton to the bar, smoothing her hand over the satiny wood grain; a bartop like this on Corusca would cost a fortune. Anton orders a pair of beers from the bartender, a woman with a shaved head and well-muscled forearms, then picks a table far from the foot traffic on the road and hands Lasadi one of the beers, his fingers leaving prints in the frost on the glass that she tries not to touch. The beer tastes like slightly bitter, aromatic water, but it’s refreshing and cold in the heat of the day.
