by Kelly Gay
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PART ONE
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* * *
INTO THE FIRE
ONE
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* * *
New Tyne, Venezia,Qab system, January 2557
Today, she sold weapons to a hinge-head.
The small lot of spikers and carbines would keep her crew happy, her ship operational, and her informants eager for a piece of the pie.
It was a lovely little circle of profit she’d created for herself.
And Rion loved it. She was good at it. She’d forged her way to success and never hesitated to fight bare-knuckled to stay there. She was proud to call herself one of New Tyne’s most notable salvagers.
But success wasn’t all golden.
There were some sales, some transactions that left dark smudges somewhere deep inside her, where things like honor and integrity and loyalty lurked. Dark karmic tally marks that put a few kinks in that lovely little circle.
Every time one of her lots sold to ex-Covenant, the nagging sense of betrayal didn’t let up until she hiked herself down to Stavros’s and had a few drinks. Her crew thought it was simply a ritual, a small way to celebrate yet another payday, another sign that their jobs were secure and going strong. But inside, behind the jokes and the smiles and the laughter, a sour taste lingered in Rion’s throat.
She wondered what he’d say if he knew, if he could see her now. Daddy’s little girl all grown up and on the wrong side of the law.
Though, these days, there wasn’t much law to be found.
And sides? In postwar, there were plenty of those to go around.
Rion’s side, or lack thereof, was neutrality. Her business depended on it. She stayed out of politics, religions, and rebellions. There was a time her family would have said that staying neutral was just as bad as choosing the wrong side. But times had changed and family was just a memory.
“All set,” she said as the bank confirmation appeared on her commpad.
“Always a pleasure, Captain. Not as good as last month, but respectable.”
The prior month had been one of Rion’s best paydays ever, a four-way bidding war for a small piece of Forerunner nav tech that she’d come across by chance in a small bazaar on Komoya, one of Vitalyevna’s moons. The databoard was damaged and the crystal chip smashed, but it hadn’t seemed to matter. Forerunner tech and relics were always a hot commodity. Intel was hard to come by, so Rion spent much of her downtime digging in files and researching in places she shouldn’t be just to learn more about the ancient race.
And then she’d found intel on her ticket to retirement—a device called a luminary, which would supposedly point the way to all sorts of interesting Forerunner salvage. . . .
Rion reached into her pocket, grabbed the flex card she’d put there, broke it in half, and placed the bright orange equivalent of two hundred fifty credits on the desk.
Nor Fel glanced at the amount stamped on the surface, then lifted her large avian head. Clear membranes swept horizontally across her yellow eyes, the Kig-Yar version of a blink. She cocked her head, the tendons and muscles above her eyes pulling together into consideration.
Nor placed the tip of her claw on the card, holding it there while she gazed at Rion, and then cackled. “I knew you’d bite.”
Despite their obvious differences, Rion and Nor understood each other and enjoyed a mutually beneficial relationship. Devious and cunning, Nor possessed a greed that was only exceeded by the high regard in which she held herself and her T’vaoan lineage. She was an excellent strategist and knew that relations and good business were the key to keeping the money flowing. And the money was always flowing.
After Nor’s mate, Sav Fel, disappeared four years ago, Nor had created an empire on Venezia, a clearinghouse of postwar scrap and surplus. Salvagers brought in their goods; the clearinghouse catalogued them and took a percentage; and come the first day of every Venezian month, the items went up for auction—everything from Titanium-A plating and molecular memory circuits to small arms and transport vessels. Nor ruled over her house with an iron claw and a set of craftily devised rules that everyone—salvager and buyer alike—abided by.
Her clients included those from the industrial, tech, medical, and manufacturing sectors, along with ex-Covenant, fringe and religious groups, rebels of one faction or another, and independent government militias. She was on the radar of every military group out there—Rion figured she was on a few herself—but mostly Nor’s clearinghouse was left alone. One, because this was Venezia, and Venezia played by its own rules. And two, because Nor refused to move heavy ordnance of any kind. Rumor had it that her mate had gotten mixed up in trafficking something big and it had cost him.
“They will not be happy, your crew.” Nor nodded toward the window, where Lessa and the new hire, Kip, waited outside by the truck, talking. “With the payday you just made, one would think a break is in order. I hear Sundown is nice this time of year.”
“Sundown is nice any time of year.” Which Nor knew full well. “Breaks aren’t really my thing, Nor. Just ask my crew.” And they also wouldn’t be happy to learn that Rion was about to use a good portion of their payday on the next operation. “Word’s floating around about big scrap in one of the border systems.” Rion gestured to the flex card on the desk. “Haven’t sold my info away, have you?”
Nor’s high-pitched squawk grated over Rion’s eardrums, making her wince.
“You know I keep my word,” Nor said. “Me and you, we have an agreement, yes? Have I ever broken it?”
“Nope, can’t say that you have.”
The small downy feathers on the back of Nor’s head ruffled, indicating she was incredibly proud and satisfied by the admission.
Rion couldn’t fault Nor for preening; her information was always good. The old bird had informants across the entire Via Casilina Trade Route that had arisen between the Qab, Cordoba, Shaps, Elduros, and Sverdlosk systems. In the past, Rion had been forced to wait for other salvagers to fail to deliver before Nor would then resell her precious intel at a more affordable price. When Rion kept returning successful when no one else was, her reputation and her bank account grew, and so had her business relationship with Nor.
Nor opened a desk drawer and pushed the flex card inside. “It’s not my information . . . but for this price, I send you to the one who possesses it. He is expecting you, I am sure. Get to it quick and you might end up rich as me. One day.” Her beak clicked together as she gave a raspy chuckle. “But remember my rules, yes? No trouble.”
Now that was interesting. The familiar zing of possibility ran through Rion’s veins. Had to be something controversial, something big. Military, probably. Trouble to Nor meant heavy ordnance. And where there was heavy ordnance, there was usually a wealth of tech and surplus.
Paranoid as usual, Nor didn’t say the name aloud, but rather legibly scratched it onto a piece of paper with her claw, then handed it over.
Rion read the scratch and lifted her brow. “Really?”
Nor shrugged.
“This’d better be worth it.”
* * *
A chilly breeze tossed Rion’s dark hair around her face as she headed for the truck. Gray clouds hovered over New Tyne’s center. The soft glow of city lights e
merging as day gave way to night was so warm and inviting that it almost made her long for a place with roots and a simpler life. Almost.
“So?” Lessa pushed away from the hood of the truck with a heavy shiver in her voice. “How was the old bird today?”
Rion shook her head at her young crewmember. “Next time, wear a jacket, Less. Or wait inside the truck. Long winter might be over, but those thin fatigues won’t cut it for a few more months yet.”
“I draw the line at six months of winter fatigues. Besides, we hardly stay long enough for the weather to matter much.” Lessa ducked into the passenger seat.
Lessa hadn’t met a human or an alien she couldn’t or wouldn’t talk to. She was blessed with a friendly face, a beguiling smile, and a mop of tight blonde curls that never stayed tucked into her braid for very long. Out of necessity, the young woman had learned early on how to read people and use her looks and personality to their fullest advantage. While Lessa was charming the pants off an unlucky target, her younger brother, Niko, was somewhere nearby hacking into the target’s commpad. They made quite a team. And when they’d targeted Rion two years ago in the mining slums of Aleria, rather than turn them over to the local authorities, Rion had offered them a job. One of the smarter decisions she’d made in recent years.
“So, payday was good then?” Lessa began fiddling with the heater as Kip squeezed his well-built frame into the backseat.
Rion started the truck. “Yeah, it was good. Just one more stop before we head back.” She pulled out of the lot and then eased into traffic, wondering how to break the news. They’d been out six weeks on their last job, only returning today. The guys back at the ship had just unloaded a very nice stasis field generator for Nor’s pickup crew. The last thing on their minds was jumping systems again.
In the silence, Rion could feel Lessa’s lengthy stare and knew what was coming.
“Please tell me you didn’t.” Rion’s wince affirmed Lessa’s suspicions. “Aw, great. Just great. You promised us some offship R and R.”
“It’s just intel, Less. It doesn’t mean we have to take off right away.”
Lessa folded her arms over her chest and slumped in her seat. She blew a strand of hair from her face with a huff, and then suddenly turned in her seat to face Kip. “When she says ‘just intel’ ”—she made air quotes with her fingers—“that’s captain-speak for we’re right back to hauling ass across the Via Casilina. Perfect. Just friggin’ perfect.”
“Well, I might as well pull the bandage off now,” Rion said drily, knowing Lessa was going to love this part: “We’re going to see Rouse.”
Rion tried not to laugh at the murderous glare that blazed from Lessa’s eyes, but sometimes Less was such an easy mark; swift to react, so full of young, passionate emotion. Having Lessa around was like having the little sister Rion had always wanted, complete with all the struggles that her childhood fantasies hadn’t quite considered.
In the rearview mirror, she caught Kip’s grinning reflection and smiled back.
Kip Silas was a decent guy with a calm, easygoing manner, and enough muscle to get the tougher jobs done. It also didn’t hurt that he was a walking data chip of seemingly every class of ship in the known universe, and as engineers went, he was a damn fine one, a definite step up. All in all, she was happy with the new recruit so far.
* * *
The worst dive bar in New Tyne was tucked behind a one-story retail mall on the southern outskirts of the city. Despite the aging exterior, spotty electricity, and grungy interior, there were always vehicles in the lot and patrons at the bar.
“Looks . . . promising,” Kip commented with a decided lack of enthusiasm as they left the truck.
When they approached the door, he paused at the sign nailed there—TINY BIRDS. “This is a joke, right?”
Unfortunately it wasn’t. In fact, it was quite literal. The smell of stale rum didn’t bother Rion so much as the distinct powdery musk that burned the insides of her nose and stuck in the back of her throat.
“Dear God,” Kip uttered as he got his first look at the cages hung from the ceiling rafters, inside them hundreds of small birds the color of the sun and blue sky. Rouse’s obsession had overtaken the building long ago, but no one here seemed to mind.
Tiny B’s held the usual mix of patrons: a collection of humans, mostly at the bar; Kig-Yar who had taken up several tables along the far wall; and two Sangheili, in the far corner.
Rion headed for the table by the backroom door where Rouse conducted business. As she came into the light of the bar, recognition passed between her and one of the guys seated there.
Cottrell slipped off his bar stool, his eyes gleaming with drink and appreciation as they swept down Rion’s body and back up again. “Baby. You’re back.”
For the hundredth time— “Not your baby, Cottrell.”
A leer stretched his mouth. “Man, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Damn, girl. Never seen fatigues look so fine. And to think I almost forgot what a hot piece of tail you—”
The gurgle that came from Cottrell’s throat was intensely satisfying. Rion’s grip on his scruffy neck tightened, the pressure making his bloodshot eyes bulge. Anger had ignited so fast that she’d reacted before her brain had a chance to catch up.
Should have walked on by.
Usually she did. But that particular phrase . . .
She squeezed harder. “Anything else you want to say to me, Cottrell?” He shook his head. “I think the next time I walk in here . . . I dunno . . . a ‘Hey, Captain, how ya doing?’ will work just fine.”
“Sure, sure. Works fine,” he rasped, clearly stunned by her reaction.
Cottrell was all bark and no bite. Rion knew that, but . . .
Reckless, volatile, lashing out . . . Rion had been accused of those things in the past, and rightly so. It had been a long time since she’d gotten this rattled, and it certainly wasn’t her usual routine to play the badass. But Cottrell had said the wrong set of words, words that instantly revived memories of another bar, another time, into her mind quicker than a flashbang grenade.
Dinner with Dad.
Mom refused to take her, as usual. But Jillian stepped up and offered. Jillian was fun and gorgeous and always game for anything, and Rion adored her. Her five-year-old heart was beating so fast when they entered the lounge, so excited and nervous to see her father again . . .
But it wasn’t her dad who met them—it was that horrible lieutenant, drunk, eyes gleaming as he leered at Jillian and made those foul comments. Rion wasn’t sure what it all meant, but she knew it was bad. And when he turned his eyes on her and said she’d grow up to be a fine piece of tail . . . Jillian had lost it and struck the guy. Rion never knew fear like that before, when the lieutenant shoved her aunt against the wall, his forearm on her throat, pressing hard.
Too hard.
Then her father appeared like some avenging angel out of the ether. And—like her granddaddy was fond of saying—all hell broke loose.
“Cap,” Lessa said sharply under her breath, poking Rion in the rib. “Rion.”
Rion blinked, realizing she’d moved on from the bar and was now standing in front of Rouse’s table. And, of course, Rouse was watching her with his typical knowing, almost sagelike gaze. It was a look Rion knew well and one she found highly disconcerting.
Clearing her throat and giving the old man a tight smile, she slid into the booth as Rouse pulled his datapad over and made a few swipes before pushing it across the table. With a practiced eye, Rion examined the screen. “This the only image you have?”
He nodded. “It’s clearly a ship. What kind”—Rouse shrugged and sat back with a twinkle in his eye—“remains to be seen. Your job to find out, salvager, not mine. My price is forty thousand credits for the location and twenty-five percent of sale.”
Rouse tried, but he was a horrible negotiator.
Rion’s attention returned to the blurry image on the screen. It could have easily been mistaken for one of the many jagged gray rocks jutting up from the snow, but to a trained eye, the lines were unmistakable. “Ten thousand and ten percent.”
Rouse held her gaze for a long moment, and Rion had to bite her tongue to keep from smiling. “Thirty and twenty,” he said, obviously enjoying himself.
She slid the datapad back. “The wreck is old, probably picked clean two decades ago. And depending on the location, it could cost more to get there than it’s worth, which means I need my credits. Offer stands at ten.” She rubbed her cheek and took some time to think, time she didn’t really need. “I would, however, be willing to cut you a deal on the sale end though . . . say fifteen?”
“Ten thousand credits and fifteen percent.” He thought it over for a minute, then nodded slowly. “I do see your point. The location is quite a hike. . . . all right, Captain, we have a deal.”
* * *
Rion parked in the lot near the hangar bay where the Ace of Spades was docked, then hiked up a flight of stairs to catch the elevator to E-Level.
Ace was a gorgeous ship. Seven years in the making, she was a sleek Mariner-class transport ship refitted with so many bells and whistles that it made her one of a kind. Rion had no idea what the crew did with their own credits, but everything she made went back into the next job and from there into Ace. Her pride and joy had an advanced passive-sensor array, a military-grade slipspace drive, two pivoting fusion engines on each wing, six thrusters, a sensor-baffling suite, and already souped-up nav and comm systems that Niko had worked his tech magic upon. There wasn’t much the ship needed anymore. Though, a smart AI would be nice. . . .
“You guys are never going to believe where we’re going!” Lessa called as she jogged up the ramp and into the cargo hold.
