Wings of Pegasus Read online

  District mobsters were a strange lot, and some would readily deal with anyone who could further their interests, even representatives from the Union’s feared spy agency. Others exhibited a strange form of patriotism, even as they flagrantly violated the Confederation’s laws.

  Carmichael fell firmly in the first category, his moral ambiguity allowing him to do just about anything that seemed to be in his personal interest. And, that was about to pay dividends once again. Andi Lafarge had gotten the better of him twice now. But he’d scored a win of sorts against her, as well, one she knew nothing about.

  He knew all about Pegasus, the true history of her vessel, and how she got it. And he had no doubt, Sector Nine would be very interested in knowing that the old Nightrunner was still in operation, with a brand new name, and Jim Lorillard’s hand-picked successor at the helm.

  Yes, Brewer would find that information very interesting, and very likely of considerable value. Certainly, enough to throw some support Carmichael’s way until he could get back up to strength…and probably enough extra to leave him a sort of marker he could call in one day. Andi and her people had done serious damage to the Union’s spy organization, and killed a number of their agents.

  Sector Nine lived up to its reputation, for cruelty as well as efficiency…and as far as Carmichael knew, one of the agency’s central tenets was never to let a wrong against them go unpunished.

  It might even be a double win for him. He wanted Andi Lafarge dead so badly, it made his head pound. But he’d tried twice and failed. Just maybe, Sector Nine would get there first…and get rid of the troublesome Lafarge for him.

  I’d like to have my own people kill her…but I’m willing to drink a toast over her bullet-riddled corpse no matter who pulls the trigger…

  Chapter Nine

  Sector Nine Stealth Ship Phantasia

  Approaching Planet Aquellus

  Olystra System

  Year 302 AC

  “We’re picking up drive trails, Commander, but no sign of Vysaria or Celestra. Increasing active canners to maximum power.”

  “Very well. Report anything out of the ordinary, Drusus, even if you think it is of no account.” Aimee Boucher leaned back in her chair, her mind crisp, focused. Aquellus was going to be a tough nut to crack, she’d known that all along. At least three freelance crews, typical Dannith prospector trash she’d hired to have a go at the imperial facility suspected to lie under the planet’s oceans, had perished in the effort. But Vysaria and Celestra were Union ships, Sector Nine craft crewed entirely by agents. Boucher had been brought up in the ruthless political system of the Union, and she was prepared to sacrifice whomever she had to in order to complete her mission. But it still hurt to lose her own people, especially since it made her look bad.

  Bring us into orbit, Drusus, and I want all scanners on full. If there’s something in this system, someone else looking for what we seek, or even some ancient imperial defense system, I want to know the instant there’s a power spike large enough to brew a pot of coffee. Understood?”

  “Yes, Commander, of course.”

  Drusus Olivetti had been her choice to serve as her second. Indeed, she’d hand-picked everyone on Phantasia. Her responsibility for the casualties suffered to date, and of the potential loss of the two ships she’d come to check on, was at least arguable. She’d been following orders, and she’d been saddled with many of the agents who’d been sent out. But she was in charge on site now, given the job—and the responsibility for success—directly from Gaston Villieneuve. The head of Sector Nine, and member of the Presidium, had a reputation for rewarding success…and an even stronger one for punishing failure. She had imagined returning to Montmirail victorious, with the sought after artifacts in hand.

  She’d also considered the alternative…and she wondered if she wouldn’t be better off dying in the effort than returning empty handed. She’d sent her share of enemies and victims to Sector Nine’s fearsome cells, and she had no wish to join them, nor to hear the laughter of those ghosts that had come before her as she suffered the torment failure had earned her.

  “Put the Foudre Rouge on alert as well. I want a squad ready to go down on a moment’s notice. Full aquatic gear. And I want those drive trails tracked. If those ships entered the atmosphere, we should be able to tell where they went.” Not necessarily true, she realized. Trails in atmosphere dissipated far more quickly than they did in space. But she didn’t need much, just a basic entry course. Phantasia’s computers could take it from there and give her the two or three most likely points at which the two vessels had penetrated the ocean surface.

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Boucher held back a sigh, and she sat still, appearing calm on the outside, even as her tensions built inside. She didn’t like the ghostly region of space the Confeds called the Badlands. It seemed like a haunted graveyard to her, filled with world after world devoid of human habitation, where untold billions had once lived.

  She didn’t like the lack of knowledge she suffered from either. She knew there was something valuable on Aquellus, at least analysis of reams of intel and data suggested there was. But she didn’t know what she was looking for, and while Villieneuve must have known, he hadn’t deigned to share that information with her.

  She didn’t need to know, of course. Any imperial artifact was exceedingly valuable and worth taking, and if she found whatever had caused all the fuss, she suspected she’d realize it. Still, it made her edgy. Worse, perhaps, the fact that reports suggested the Confeds had the same intel meant Confederation Intelligence would show up at some point.

  Or, at the very least, they would send someone.

  Boucher was ready for a fight. Phantasia was larger and more powerful than the converted freighters and other ships Badlands adventurers tended to use. There was almost a full platoon of Foudre Rouge soldiers onboard, plus a carefully gathered crew of technical experts. If the Confeds did send some ship out to Aquellus, and if it arrived before she had finished her work, she would simply destroy it. She’d dropped scanner buoys at all the transit points, and she intended to keep Phantasia in orbit, and on full alert, throughout the mission. She had enough landing sleds to ferry her people down, all of them custom-outfitted for submersible operation. So, her people could search for…whatever they were looking for…and her ship could blast any interlopers into plasma before they even got near the planet.

  She’d considered any possibility, and her confidence held firm. Success would propel her to the very highest ranks of Sector Nine, even to the deputy director’s position. Many had long assumed Ricard Lille would claim that spot, that Villieneuve’s only real friend was an unbeatable candidate. But Boucher knew Lille, she knew him well. Sector Nine’s preeminent assassin had no interest at all in power, an oddity among those in the Union’s espionage and political sectors. Ricard Lille was a dissolute, almost emotionless machine. He indulged in all manner of debauchery, women, drink, mind-altering substances…but only when he was off the job. When he was in the field, Lille was the most focused person she’d ever seen. And he only truly enjoyed one thing.

  Killing.

  Boucher would never challenge Lille in any way, nor was she naïve enough to imagine their yearlong stint as lovers would delay the assassin from killing her, even for an instant, if circumstance pitted them against each other. But she couldn’t take from Lille what he didn’t want, and if she managed to reach the deputy’s seat, she would make certain to show the killer the proper respect. And give him what he truly wanted. More people to terminate.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. There’s a whole planet down there, and almost every square meter of it is under water. You’re a long way from success…and there are a lot of dangers between here and there.

  She almost shivered as she sat in her chair. She wasn’t afraid of any Confeds that might come blundering into the system. She could handle them. But old imperial installations made her skin crawl, and one sitting thousands of meters under the
ocean was even worse.

  “I want those scanning reports, Drusus. What the hell is taking so long?” A pause. “I want to know where those ships went. Now.”

  * * *

  “How do you feel?” Andi’s voice was soft, almost sympathetic, completely unlike the tone she’d used every time she’d previously spoken to Righter. The engineer had suffered badly for days, banging on the locked hold doors incessantly, and screaming piteously. Fortunately, the doors were nearly soundproof, and Andi had just turned off the comm and left her passenger to his own miseries. It was the only way, at least to her mind. Righter had to overcome his demons to be worth anything—to her, or to himself—and the first step toward that was getting him clean.

  That had taken two weeks, during which time she’d given him nothing but water and some basic ration biscuits…and had the hold powerwashed at least half a dozen times. She had to get a new engineer out of all the effort, and a damned good one at that. Nothing else would be worth the final cleaning job the hold was going to need.

  “Strange…I don’t think I’ve been truly sober—and not on something—for three years now.” Righter had already told her of his history, his days as a working engineer, and his fall from grace into utter degradation. He’d had bouts with alcoholism more than once in his life, but the last one had been the worst.

  And it would have been the one that killed him if Andi hadn’t come along, something he had begun to realize.

  Andi had asked him what triggered the most recent fall, and it had taken everything she had to keep her eyes from rolling back when he told her it had been a girl. She’d almost felt it coming, and she’d hoped against hope it would be something better, a real reason, at least, to wallow in a filthy stupor for three years.

  Still, despite his weakness, and the revulsion she felt toward it, she had a feeling the man knew his engineering—another checkmark on the list of Durango’s reliable tips. And since Pegasus was almost to the Olystra system, and whatever awaited it there, it was time to put those skills to the test. She’d have preferred to give Righter another few weeks, maybe even some more time in the hold, wallowing in his own filth, just to impress on the now-sober man just how miserable his life as a morbid alcoholic had been. But she was out of time. Durango had been straight with her about the possibility of Sector Nine activity…and Andi took “possibility” to mean certainty. If Sector Nine showed up—or if they were already there, ahead of Pegasus—there would be a fight, no doubt. And Andi wasn’t going up against Union ships without someone down in engineering who really knew what they were doing.

  Barret had been a reasonable substitute, but he was also her best gunner, and in a fight, she needed him on the bridge.

  That left Righter, in whatever wobbly state of sobriety he’d managed to achieve. He would stay sober, that much she was sure. She’d locked up everything on Pegasus that could cause intoxication, including medications and two or three industrial chemicals. Righter wouldn’t get drunk, and he wouldn’t shoot up either.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t fall to pieces under the stress of combat.

  “So, you know why I brought you here, both for your own good, and also to serve our needs. That loan shark was going to finish you off. I got there just in time. You may feel that you were kidnapped, but if I hadn’t taken you, you’d be dead right now. So, consider that.”

  “I have, believe me.” His tone was soft, almost compliant. It was clear his initial resentment had faded, and some realization that Andi had indeed saved his life had set in. “But I still don’t know how you found me, or even knew who I was.”

  “Do you know a guy named Durango?”

  Righter let out a quasi-laugh, the first genuine sign of amusement she’d seen in him. “I should have known. Yes, of course I know Durango. I used to work for him. Before I screwed it all up.”

  “Well, whatever you did, it didn’t damage his opinion of your engineering skills. He told me you’re a wizard with spaceship engines and power plants. And it just so happens that we need someone with those exact skills. I won’t promise you more than this mission, Lex…” Andi had switched to his first name, hoping the more familiar tone would help integrate Righter into the crew. “If I did, you’d know I was lying anyway, and who the hell knows if you’d even want to stay longer. You’re going to have to stay sober for the long haul, that’s for sure, and that means back in port where there’s a bar on every corner as well as out here where I’ve locked everything up. But whether you stay or not, we’re looking at a healthy payday for this mission, and you’ll get your full share. Stash it away, or drink every millicredit, that’s your call. But if you keep it together, we’ll have a talk about what comes next. And if you don’t, you’re likely to end up dead out here with the rest of us.” A pause. “So, what say you? You’re stuck here anyway. Do you want to ply your trade, and make some coin?”

  Righter looked back at her, silent for a moment. Then he said, “Well, I could be angry about being dragged all the way out here, but I guess you did save my life. I’d pushed Mekel about as far as I was going to, I don’t have to believe you to know that. There’s not much point in sitting around being mad…and I’d wager we’ve got a better chance of getting back to Dannith if I help.” He paused, and a thin smile formed on his lips. “So, I guess you can count me in.”

  Andi felt a wave of relief. His decision only made sense, of course, but she was honest enough with herself to question whether she could so quickly overcome the anger at being abducted…and treated as roughly as Righter had been.

  And she knew one thing for sure. She needed someone down in that engineering space. Someone damned good.

  Righter stared at her, the barest grin still on his face. “I’ve seen enough of that cargo hold of yours, so maybe now you can show me what kind of engine room this ship’s got.”

  Chapter Ten

  Union Landing Craft G72-X111

  Upper Atmosphere

  Planet Aquellus, Olystra III

  Year 302 AC

  “We’re on course, Commander. Scanners on maximum. We’re hanging onto that last trail, but barely. The AI’s been crunching it, and we’ve got four possible routes down, with a combined probability estimate of ninety-six percent.” Nicolas Caron was strapped in the pilot’s seat, as much because it was a vacant chair as anything else. He was technically flying the ship, of course, but he had the AI fully engaged, and he was mostly just watching. He could fly the thing himself, if he had to, though he was by no means an expert. But with no enemy, no incoming fire, no detectable malfunctions, there wasn’t much reason to take over.

  And it was taking all he had to follow the rapidly dissipating drive trail. He was going to lose it any second, but each passing instant tightened his course and narrowed the range of choices. With any luck, he’d hang on long enough for the AI to single out one course as a clear favorite. That wouldn’t be a guarantee, of course, but it would be better than chasing after four disparate vectors.

  “Very well, Agent Caron. You are to proceed in accordance with the operation plan. Deploy floating relay stations before you submerge, and depth-neutral boosters wherever necessary. I want you to remain in contact, no matter how deep you go. We’ve had far too many unexplained disappearances here, and that stops now.”

  “Yes, Commander Boucher.” That all sounded good to Caron, but he was a damned sight less certain about it than Boucher sounded, back up on Phantasia’s dry and well-protected bridge. The landing craft was durable, built to endure combat landings and the g-forces common in such operations. But they could only take so much pressure, and that limited how deep they could go, safely at least. How much farther they would press things if the need arose would be Boucher’s decision, of course, and that made Caron sweat a little. He wasn’t so sure about the utility of the comm buoys either. They’d extended communications range down a kilometer under the surface, maybe more. But if his people had to go deeper than that, they’d almost certainly be cut off and on
their own. That would put him entirely in charge, and as much as he relished the idea of getting Boucher off his back for a while, the prospect made his stomach flop a bit, too.

  That wasn’t all that was eating away at his composure. He glanced at the small screen showing the rear cabin. The Foudre Rouge were back there, strapped into their seats. The clone soldiers always gave him the shakes. Something about the way they sat there, seemingly without any emotion at all, as they descended toward some alien ocean that had swallowed up every previous expedition. They didn’t seem quite…human.

  He knew they were clones, but that didn’t explain everything. He’d heard stories about the training programs, about the harsh discipline and difficult conditions the Union’s soldiers endured. It was supposed to make them the ultimate soldiers, utterly invincible. They were effective in combat, there was no question about that, though their archenemies, the Confederation Marines, had gone against them toe to toe in three wars, and they’d matched them every step of the way, perhaps even gained a slight upper hand.

  Still, he was glad to have the muscle. Sector Nine agents got combat training, too, but it was intended for a different kind of use. If there were imperial security systems still active down there—and that was the only way he could explain the disappearance of the previous expeditions—he’d need the kind of raw firepower a squad of Foudre Rouge could deploy.

  The landing craft shook as it skipped on the thickening atmosphere. Aquellus was a habitable world, its atmosphere eminently breathable, if its pressure was a little heavier than most humans found comfortable. The people who’d lived there, before they’d all died in the Cataclysm, had no doubt adapted over the years and generations of life there, but Caron had ordered all his people equipped with breathing gear. It wasn’t terribly likely they’d end up exploring any of the handful of small landmasses on the surface, but there was no harm in being prepared.