Pulsar Race (Starship’s Mage #9.5) - Glynn Stewart Page 0,20

clouds of radiation marking where multiple nuclear warheads had converged on the pirate.

“Who is she?” Charpentier demanded, staring at the ship now emerging from the cloud of the pulsar’s storm.

“Armored corvette, probably heavily shielded,” Ivan said absently. “Not a custom job, but perfect for this environment. Multiple launchers, probably fusion missiles, based off our racer friend, and a couple of real battle lasers.”

“What’s her accel? I do not want to be hanging around this place!” Charpentier snapped.

Ivan didn’t say anything. There was a pinging icon on his wrist-comp that told him everything he needed to know—as if he hadn’t already guessed.

That was Aquila’s ship and his people were here for their prize.

“She’s got your maneuver cone, Karl,” Ivan said quietly as he disconnected the injectors.

“What are you doing, Ivan?” his friend demanded.

Ivan looked through the camera, remembering the calculations he’d made earlier and making sure that nothing had moved significantly since he’d prepped the bridge during Karl’s visit with his son.

“I’m sorry, Karl; it was this or they killed us both,” Ivan told him—and then used a burst of magic to pull the pin on the gas grenade taped to the bottom of Karl Charpentier’s acceleration seat.

His friend had enough time to give him one utterly betrayed look before the expensive knockout gas took effect.

11

Ivan was waiting at the dock when the mob team arrived. The first people aboard were clad in heavy exosuits, two-meter-tall suits of ceramic and metal that weren’t supposed to be available to civilians.

Somehow, he doubted that had given Aquila’s people any particular difficulty. The two-hundred-thousand-ton heavily armored corvette hooked up to Restoya wasn’t supposed to be available to civilians, either, and would have been a lot harder to acquire.

“Mage Halloway?” a female voice emerged from the lead suit of armor. “The ship is under control?”

“It is,” Ivan confirmed. “I’ve moved Captain Charpentier off the bridge. Your pilot can take control whenever you wish.”

“Where is Charpentier?” she asked.

“On a stretcher just past here,” Ivan told her. “He and I are to be delivered back to the Xanth System. That was the deal.”

“I am aware of your deal with Maestro Aquila,” the woman said grimly. “Bravo team, secure Engineering; Charlie Team, the bridge.”

Six more troopers in form-concealing fatigues and safety helmets swarmed past Ivan. They split into groups of three, heading toward their destinations with the confidence of people who had schematics projected in their helmets.

“Il Maestro sends his regards, Mage Halloway,” the woman continued. “Lead us to Charpentier and you will receive your payment.”

A chill ran down Ivan’s spine. The deal was that Charpentier wasn’t going to be hurt, but the two exosuits were both carrying ugly-looking weapons. They weren’t the heavy penetrator rifles the Martian Marines carried, designed to take down other exosuits, but they were still big, nasty guns designed for augmented muscles.

“All right,” he said. He led the way back toward the bay he’d stored his friend in.

Ivan wasn’t expecting Charpentier to forgive him for this, but he’d done everything he could. All he had left was to hope that Aquila’s people respected the deal the mob boss had made.

The door slid open and Ivan shivered at the sight of his friend. Karl Charpentier looked calm, laid out on the gurney. He’d wake up in an hour or so if no one did anything, and he was otherwise unharmed. Ivan had spent a good chunk of his “advance” acquiring the military-grade knockout gas grenade.

“Confirm the ID,” the woman ordered the other exosuit. The armored figure advanced, slinging the big gun as they pulled out a medkit and took a blood sample.

The sample slid into the kit and silence filled the room for several seconds.

“Confirmed,” the man replied. “It’s definitely Charpentier.”

“Good. Kill him.”

“What?” Ivan demanded. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“Maestro Aquila promised you that Karl Charpentier would suffer no injury but that which he brought upon himself,” the woman told him. “He earned his death mark long ago by his own actions. Nothing has changed.”

The soldier unslung his shotgun and was moving across the room. Everything seemed to move in slow motion as Ivan faced the death of his oldest friend because of his actions.

Ivan knew he was a coward. He’d known that since he was a teenager, and every action he’d made in his entire life, in his entire military career, had been made with that in mind. To make certain that his flaws never compromised his work, never hurt anyone else.

And he’d failed. His fear, his concession to Aquila’s threats, was going to