by Various
The blast was deafening, the concussion wave so powerful that it sent the prep island tumbling over Veta’s head. Her reflexes now honed by ONI’s twice-weekly close-assault drills, she rolled against the suite’s forward wall.
A pair of grenades came flying out of the smoke where the suite’s door had once been, crossing in midair and dropping to the floor on opposite sides of the sunken seating area. Veta’s training kicked in and she realized the pattern probably meant a three-person squad—two throwing grenades and a third covering with automatic fire.
Sure enough, chunks of wall and balls of couch stuffing began to fly as suppression fire streamed into the room. Veta didn’t bother wondering how Gallo and her people had smuggled weapons into the facility. There were a hundred ways, and the Ferrets knew most of them. And the next time they went on a training exercise, Veta intended to use them.
But now it was time to move, before the shooters could step into the suite and start raking fire along the perimeter. She grabbed a broken stool leg and gathered her feet beneath her, duck-walking forward.
The first shooter stepped through the door, his M7 submachine gun spitting bursts as his gaze swept the foyer. Veta hurled the stool leg at his head and saw him flinch as it tumbled past. She sprang forward, diving for his legs, twisting around to keep an eye on his weapon. The M7 swung her way, orange flashes erupting from the muzzle, chips of broken tile dancing across the floor ahead.
Mark appeared from the far side of the doorway, slipping a hand in front of the shooter to clasp the barrel and force it down so abruptly that the man’s suede loafers erupted in a spray of blood, bone, and leather. By then, Mark had his other hand clamped on the shooter’s throat, and he was swinging the fellow around to serve as a shield. The shooter’s body began to shake and jump as his companions sprayed him with fire.
Ash reached in from the opposite side of the doorway, grabbing the second shooter by the forearm and jerking him into the foyer. The Gamma landed a quick trio of rabbit-punches to the base of the skull, and the man collapsed to the floor.
Veta found herself unarmed and staring through the twisted remnants of the door into the little elevator lobby outside the suite, where Ota Gallo stood with an M6 sidearm in one hand and a grenade in the other. She locked eyes with Veta, then smiled and used her thumb to flick the pin free.
“Grenade!” Veta’s ears were still ringing so hard from the earlier explosion that she couldn’t hear herself scream—much less be certain anyone else did. She tried again, then rolled away from the door and saw Olivia standing ahead. The Gamma’s uniform was scorched and she was bleeding from about a dozen places, including both ears and the nose. But her throwing arm was outstretched and her gaze was fixed on the door, and there was a knife missing from the block in her free hand.
Olivia’s mouth opened and formed the word grenade, then she tossed the knife-block aside and threw herself on top of Veta.
The Ferret Team did not attempt to sanitize the site. With Ota Gallo sprayed all over the lobby and the suite door blasted open, and blood and bullet holes everywhere they looked, there didn’t seem much point.
Besides, the team had more important things to worry about. They needed to remove what remained of Hume’s commpad and possessions to a secure location. And despite what Olivia claimed, she was in need of an infirmary. Veta grabbed a field kit and took a couple of minutes to patch her up, then ordered her Ferret Team to evacuate. They would worry about the surveillance feeds and the AI later.
Or not.
They didn’t get very far. When the elevator opened, Admiral Osman was inside, standing behind four large ONI security officers in helmets and body armor. The officers were carrying shotguns and submachines and weren’t being shy about where they pointed them.
Veta motioned her team to stand aside, then turned back to Osman. “You’re a little late to the party, Admiral.”
“So I see.” Osman waited for her security escort to clear the area, then stepped out of the elevator and looked around wide-eyed at the little lobby. “Is this what you call keeping a low profile, Lopis?”
“Considering the alternative.” Veta gestured to Olivia, who, despite her injuries, was standing at attention. “You saw Olivia’s message?”
Osman’s expression softened. “I did.” She nodded to Olivia. “Good work.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said. “But it was all of us.”
“I’m sure.” Osman pointed at the charred packet in Ash’s hands. “Are those Hume’s effects?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ash said. “What’s left of them.”
“Let me have them, son.”
Ash passed her the packet. “The breaching blast did a job on the electronics, Admiral. I don’t think they’ll be much help.”
“And they won’t be much harm either. That’s half the battle.” Osman stepped over to the suite, then peered through the empty doorway. “This isn’t good, Lopis.”
“Not our choice, Admiral.” Veta stepped away from the door. “All we did was clean up ONI’s mess.”
“Really? And what about Spencer Hume?” Osman spun on Veta. “Was he part of the mess too?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Veta said. “Hume was going to name Gallo as his source. She killed him to prevent that.”
Osman’s eyebrows shot up. The lie was an obvious one, but believable. She studied Veta for a long time. Finally, she suppressed a smile and turned to Mark.
“Is that what happened, Spartan?”
Mark looked Osman straight in the eye. “Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what happened.” He waited a beat, then declared: “And, Admiral, just to be clear . . . I’m a Ferret now.”
INTO THE FIRE
* * *
* * *
KELLY GAY
This story takes place four years after the end of the Covenant’s brutal and costly rampage across human-occupied space (Halo 3 era) and Kilo-Five’s brief mission on Venezia, culminating in the destruction of the highly-sought-after Covenant battle cruiser Pious Inquisitor (Halo: Mortal Dictata).
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 mont
h 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 cataloged 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 Clearing House 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 emerging 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.” 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 blond 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 Lessa 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 drama 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 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 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 barstool, 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.”
