Firehawk: Rystar and the LASSOs Book One

by Jack Archer

  “No scary prophecies?” she asked, grinning at him while she tugged her jacket on.

  Shea let out a snort and pulled on his own jacket, rolling his eyes. “No scary prophecies.”

  They made their way out of the ship and into the hangar yard, where they found the doors that led to the interior of the Courts. Walking down the long hallway in silence, Rystar couldn’t help but feel nervous and brought out her comms tablet to swipe through it and find information on who they were supposed to see.

  “Oh, it’s Finley,” she mumbled, flicking through the email. “I haven’t seen him in ages. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help us.”

  “Friend of yours?” Shea asked.

  Rystar pursed her lips, and her brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t say ‘friend’ of mine. He and Jorge go way back.”

  “Well, that’s—” Shea began but stopped when Rystar opened the doors to the main entryway, and his mouth dropped open. The ceiling must have been a hundred feet high, flanked with windows on all sides to show the uniform yellowish-blue haze of sky outside. The floor was white marble with veins of gold shining through and large, ornate pillars wound up all around them.

  All around, Horoths and Terrans and even a few alien species Rystar couldn’t put a name to bustled among each other, waiting in lines for kiosks stuck in the wall every so often. Humans clacked across the floors with high heels and diamond-soled shoes while Shea and Rystar waltzed through the giant room in their dirty khakis and jeans, tattered coats, and messy hair, tattoos, and piercings adorning their bodies.

  Shea scratched the back of his head and followed Rystar across the throng of people. “We stick out like sore thumbs here.”

  Rystar thrived on being so different from the humans here and held her head up, looking awfully unimpressed with the glitz and glamor around her. She noticed him puff out his chest, presumably to match her bravado, as they waltzed across the foyer and to the other side of the room. People looked at them down their noses, but it made Rystar smile all the more. She looked up at Shea and grinned.

  “It’s a good look on you,” she muttered to him as they turned a corner and down a smaller hallway lined with red carpet. “The confidence,” she tacked on, for good measure.

  “I have a good teacher,” he replied and followed her down the hallway to a small opening on their right, housing a lone desk with a human woman behind it. Rystar’s face flushed the slightest bit before she shook her head and approached the desk.

  “Good morning,” she began in that strange voice she used when talking to people she wanted information from. “I’m here to see Special Agent Finley.”

  “Is he expecting you?” the woman said, bored with the conversation already.

  “I called earlier to let him know I’d be on my way, but I never got a response,” Rystar said, leaning on the desk with her arms crossed. “I assume that means he’s alright with it.”

  “Quite the opposite, ma’am.” The woman picked up her phone and dialed a number in. “But I’ll see if he’s available.”

  “I’m not a ma’am,” Rystar snapped, and Shea flinched in sympathy for the woman behind the desk. The fire died out in Rystar’s eyes as the woman put the phone down.

  “He’ll see you now, bounty hunter,” the woman simpered, giving them a dry smile and waving them back to the door behind her.

  “I fucking hate bureaucracy,” Rystar grumbled as Shea followed her back through the set of doors and into an office fit for a King.

  “Mx. Umara.” A voice came from the back of the room, and a chair spun around to face them, revealing an older white man with jet black hair, his face splitting into a wide grin. He leaned up out of his chair and extended his hand.

  “Finley,” Rystar muttered and held her hand out to take the Agent’s in hers for a quick shake before letting go. He did the same for Shea before sitting back down in his seat and scooting closer to them from behind his L-shaped desk.

  “Who have you brought with you here?” Finley asked in a good-natured tone that didn’t seem to charm Rystar as much as it did Shea.

  “This is my protege, Shea Hendi,” Rystar introduced, and Shea nodded his head.

  Finley nodded his head towards Shea and turned back to Rystar, bright blue eyes piercing into hers. “It’s good to meet even more folks from the FDDS, but you don’t step foot into the Chantakor Courts without a damn good reason.”

  She had to smirk at the way Finley’s smile suddenly didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I can’t come to say hi to my favorite Terran Agent?” Rystar narrowed her eyes and crossed her feet at the ankle.

  “My dear,” Finley chortled, “the last time we saw each other, you were shooting at one of my underlings. Stop playing nice in front of your friend. Why are you here?”

  Rystar pursed her lips and rolled her eyes, unhappy at being caught. “The Terran government is holding someone I need to speak with.”

  Finley raised an eyebrow. “Who could you possibly want to talk to—” he stopped abruptly. “You will not set a single foot near that prisoner, do you understand?”

  “You haven’t even heard what I have to say yet,” Rystar cried, throwing her hands up.

  “There’s only one reason you’d be here with a partner.” Finley narrowed his eyes at her. “A shitload of credits.”

  “That you can be a part of if you let me speak to him,” Rystar bargained.

  “Are you trying to bribe a government official?” Finley said, his voice steely.

  Rystar leaned back in her chair. “Like it hasn’t worked before.”

  Finley clasped his hands on his desk and looked to Shea. “Your presence surprises me.”

  “Why?” he said before he could process the statement fully.

  “Rystar works alone,” he explained. “Always has, as long as I’ve known her. She must really like you.”

  “Are you taking the deal or what?” Rystar interrupted, uncrossing her arms and sitting up straight. “I have shit to do.”

  “Just watch out around her,” Finley went on, ignoring Rystar and taking his comms tablet out to tap on it. “She’ll turn you into a killing machine faster than you can blink.”

  Rystar’s tablet beeped, and she took it out, smiling at what she saw on the screen.

  “I expect the credits delivered as soon as you get them,” Finley said and turned back to his computer screen. “But you’ll find he’s being held in the Terran High Security Prison on Bufefu. So, good luck.”

  “Bufefu?” Rystar sputtered. “How the hell are we supposed to get there?”

  “I assume that dusty old LASSO of yours,” Finley responded, turning back to his computer. He tilted his head to roll his eyes at her. “The second ‘S’ stands for ‘space,’ doesn’t it?”

  “You’re an ass,” Rystar said and stood up, motioning for Shea to join her.

  “Have fun, Mx. Umara,” Finley called after them as she stomped out of the office and

  Rystar stood up, and Shea followed her out of the door without another word. The woman at the desk didn’t acknowledge them when they walked by and back down the hallway to a set of golden elevators. Rystar pushed them inside and hit the fifth-floor button, watching the doors close.

  “Am I really the first person you’ve worked with?” Shea asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

  Rystar shifted on her feet and crossed her arms again after brushing some hair from her face. “Don’t read much into it. Jorge said I needed to train someone, and he picked you. Nothing else to it.”

  Shea said nothing but grinned, keeping his hands clasped behind his back. Secretly, Rystar was thankful Jorge had paired them together. It got lonely sometimes, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

  Back down in the foyer, Rystar and Shea pushed through people to the hangars again, back towards the Gloriosum.

  “Well, that was pretty quick,” Shea said, raising his eyebrows and clambering into the LASSO after Rystar.

  “You expected a wave of red tap
e?” Rystar chuckled.

  Shea gave a half shrug and sat down in his seat. “Actually, I did.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” Rystar said, and her eyes widened at him. “Because that’s what we get to wade through next.”

  Chapter 6

  Na’gya Vasilev : Bufefu, Tyurba System

  “Na’gya? Where you at?”

  Na’gya snapped out of his stupor and looked to Ritora, his trusted companion for the last few weeks. She tilted her head and smiled at him, blonde hair falling in her face and matching wings rustling behind her with worry. Na’gya pursed his lips and looked at the table again, trying to memorize the steps they were supposed to take to take over the closest Terran outpost.

  It was 15 miles away, not anything longer than a day’s hike, but they had more trouble in the blistering cold. The Ya’ados’ wings tended to freeze without proper warmth, meaning they tried to stay in the sun. Unfortunately, the Terrans and Horoths tended to push them out of the warmer places and into the lands where no one wanted to live, like Orlovsky and the rest of Novgorod.

  “Sorry,” Na’gya said, shaking his head.

  “You look like you’re a million miles away, friend,” Ritora said. She pushed back from the table and made her way to the small kitchen next to them, bringing out two cups and set them underneath a small coffee maker. She set about making coffee while Na’gya stewed in his own thoughts.

  “I’m worried about the crew,” he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. “They don’t have much experience with Terran soldiers.”

  “Neither do you,” Ritora pointed out, pulling the two steaming cups of coffee from the maker and bringing them back to the table. She set one down in front of Na’gya and held her own to her lips, blowing on it to cool it off before taking a sip.

  “True,” Na’gya said, tilting his head. “But I’m worried about me, too. What makes me qualified to run this operation, anyway?”

  “You’re the brains!” she said with a smile and set her cup of coffee down. “You’ve shown more guts than anyone here in the short time you’ve been with us. We’re happy to have the son of Tavantis guiding us to victory.”

  “You think this will be our victory?” Na’gya asked, his brows stitching together as he regarded her with his head tilted back slightly.

  “I think we’re closer than we’ve ever been,” she said, raising her own eyebrows and picking up her coffee to take another sip. “You’ve given our people so much hope. Don’t sell yourself short, Na’gya.”

  Na’gya sat for a moment in silence, contemplating his cup of coffee and wondering how he had gone from runaway botanist to the leader of a Ya’ados rebellion in a few weeks flat. Ritora and a slew of Ya’ados now looked to him as their savior, as if he could waltz back to Chantakor and change his parents’ minds. He shook his head.

  “The facility is tiny, should only have about twenty or thirty guards,” Na’gya said and leaned forward to look at the map on the table. He traced a line with a finger that led around the Terran military outpost. The snow had let up the tiniest bit in the last couple of days, so if they were to strike, now would be the time.

  “Do you think our strike team can handle it?” Ritora asked.

  Na’gya pursed his lips and looked around the map again, brow furrowed. Their strike team was a group of seven of their best fighters. Plus Ritora and Na’gya made nine. “Nine should be enough to get in there, hold their own against the Terrans, plant the bombs, and get out. Works for me.”

  Ritora held up a hand and fixed him with a dangerous look. “Whoa, whoa. Nine?”

  “Yes, nine,” Na’gya responded, jutting his chin out.

  “I count eight,” Ritora shot back, tilting her head and folding her arms at him.

  “I can’t not come, Ritora,” Na’gya pleaded and set his empty cup down. “I’m the one sending you all to your deaths possibly. I have to be there.”

  “And what if something happens to you?” she huffed and set her own cup down. “What if you get killed, or worse, captured? What are we supposed to do then?”

  Na’gya shrugged. “You keep going. Same as you did a few weeks ago without me. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “A few weeks ago, we were barely surviving in this burned-down town,” Ritora said, waving her hand and pushing back from the table. She picked up their cups and crossed the room to the kitchen, where she set them in the sink and ran water over them for a moment. She set her hands on the edge of the sink and took a deep breath. “If you want to go, I can’t stop you.” Turning around to face him, Na’gya saw the way her eyes shone and the curl of the corner of her lips.

  “I’ll have you to protect me,” he said lightly, standing up and walking to the sink. He didn’t touch her, afraid he would scare her away, but he wanted to brush the blonde hair from her face, kiss her forehead, and tell her everything was going to be just fine.

  He fell asleep that night, thinking it would be okay.

  Seven Ya’ados surrounded the facility, not including Na’gya and Ritora, who remained hidden behind some trees near the front. It was a small, abandoned factory with several guards posted outside.

  “How many did you say would be inside?” Na’gya whispered to Ritora in the space between their trees.

  “Ju’sif said twenty-two,” she hissed back, flicking her head to the west, and Na’gya looked, finding Ju’sif and his bright white wings hidden against the snow. He crept around to the side of the building and disappeared until they heard him in their headsets. The headsets were old, but at least they worked, and Na’gya clicked his on before speaking.

  “Ju’sif, status,” he murmured, poking his head out from behind the tree for a moment before hiding again.

  “Two guards posted on the west wing,” his voice came through the speaker as a low hiss, and Na’gya heard two thuds before it came back. “No guards on the west wing, moving deeper. Ag’yam, what’s your position?”

  No response, and Na’gya’s heart fluttered for a moment before it finally came. “Positioned on the south wall, four guards, taking them out.”

  “Sappik checking in at east wing, took out three guards and progressing deeper now,” came another voice. Na’gya smiled at her voice, knowing full well that whoever came into contact with Sappik was sure to meet a swift end.

  An excruciating number of minutes passed while the rest of the strike team delivered their reports, and Na’gya counted the number of guards in his head.

  “Agyam, what’s your position?” Na’gya asked, poking out of cover and narrowing his eyes at the front of the building.

  “Just got rid of three more guards,” he said, his voice steady and Na’gya frowned.

  “That would make it twenty-four guards,” Na’gya muttered and turned to face Ritora, whose brows were furrowed at him.

  “Ju’sif must have gotten the count wrong,” Agyam’s voice came through again, this time a little shakier than before.

  “I counted twenty-two even,” Ju’sif snapped from the other end of the line, and Na’gya shook his head. He made to ask another question, but the door banging open interrupted him, and he turned to gaze at a slew of Terran soldiers, the one in front holding a gun to Anina’s head.

  “Aninas,” he murmured, watching his steely face gaze into the trees and her chest heave with rage.

  “Come out, Mister Vasilev, and I won’t shoot your friends,” the Terran man said, looking out among the trees in search of Na’gya, and Na’gya realized with a jolt it was Marsters, come back to torment him for getting away the first time.

  “Na’gya, no!” Ritora snapped as he made to move from his hiding spot. “We can’t lose you. Let me go talk with them. Someone obviously set us up.”

  With that statement, Agyam strode out of the front doors and up to Marsters. “Where’s my family?”

  “Oh, Agyam…” Ritora’s voice shook, and she balled her fists, her knuckles white as she watched Agyam stand up to the Terran soldiers,
who had no intention of giving him what he wanted in exchange for betraying their party.

  “Your family is in a Ya’ados facility, where you will now join them,” Marsters deadpanned, nodding his head for another soldier to take him away.

  “Wait, you promised I would be with them if I helped you!” Agyam cried as two soldiers hooked his wings together and tied his hands.

  “And you will be,” Marsters said with a shrug and horrific smile. “Go now, before I rid the world of your stink.”

  Agyam attempted to plead with Aninas, but he looked away resolutely, her eyes filled with tears. When Agyam had been taken away, Ritora pushed herself out of her hiding spot and puffed out her chest, wings spread behind her. She whispered to Na’gya, “Don’t leave this spot, please, if anything happens, just leave. You’re worth too much.”

  “Ritora, stop—” Na’gya tried, but she was gone.

  “Who the hell are you?” Marsters spat as Ritora approached the soldiers.

  “My name is Ritora Dolmari, leader of this stri—”

  A gunshot rang out in the clearing, and Na’gya heard a thud. He threw himself from behind the tree and raced to her, fallen in the snow, a pool of red appearing on her stomach. Her face became pale, and her eyes fixed shakily on Na’gya as he reached underneath her to cradle her head.

  “There you are,” Marsters simpered, but Na’gya didn’t care. His entire party had fallen apart under a command he had no business being under. He had killed Ritora, Agyam, Aninas, everyone. Marsters pushed Aninas away and pointed the gun at Na’gya, who was still holding his dying friend in the red snow. “For crimes and attempted crimes against a Terran facility and its soldiers, you are hereby being placed into custody until a trial can be arranged.”

  “Fuck you,” Na’gya spat, whipping his head up to pin the solider with a glare colder than the snow below them.