[Rebel Stars 01.0] Outlaw

by Edward W. Robertson

  "What do you care?"

  Past her faceplate, a genuine smile lit her eyes. "You're on, cowboy. See you in hell."

  She got MacAdams under her arm. Keeping low enough to stay behind the safety of the boxes, she crawled along the floor toward the airlock.

  "Oh hey." Over the comm, Taz's voice was infuriatingly calm. "In case you haven't picked this up, this ship has gone totally GAP."

  "GAP?"

  "Genocide Against Pirates."

  "So you're saying all I have to do is tell it I'm a viking. Or the health inspector." Webber eyed the wall of boxes. "How do I shut it down?"

  "At this point, only Cooper's people can do that. You're going to have to blow it up. As it blasts anything it perceives as a threat."

  "Which includes?"

  "Don't ask me," Taz said. "Every outfit's protocols are unique. You only need to remember one thing: never get in a firefight with an autogun. They're faster and more accurate than you can dream."

  He rifled through his bag of materiel. "I'm starting to regret this decision."

  "I'm in the shuttle, but we haven't launched yet. There's still time to come with."

  "I got this," he said. "Get MacAdams out of here."

  "Roger. Remember, it's a robot. Don't get out-thought."

  She fell silent. His device was linked up to the shuttle and a notice popped up that it was being readied for launch. He couldn't see the far wall, but he had a mental snapshot of where the autogun had been—high up, able to command virtually the entire cargo deck. He couldn't get a straight bead on it without exposing himself.

  Not a worry. His bag of tricks included a three-pack of pinky-sized missiles. He got one out, linked it to his device, fed it a rough course, and ordered it to adjust to heat/motion (and also not to get confused and home in on him instead). He lobbed it upward. Its tiny engine engaged and it streaked across the hold.

  The camera in its nose fed back to his device. He watched as the autogun locked onto the missile and fired. The video feed went blank. With no atmo, he didn't hear or feel a thing from the explosion.

  Chatter over the comm. Taz explaining the situation to Gomes. He turned it down, paying just enough attention to hear if his name popped up.

  He prepped and launched a second missile. It too was shredded to bits within an instant of clearing the cargo. What was the gun keying on? The missile's heat, its engine sig? Well, he didn't need a guided missile, did he? They were in zero G. All he had to do was bank a grenade off the ceiling.

  He ran a few calculations on his device versus the map of the room it had assembled from the brief-lived missiles. Made a few practice throws. When the device agreed his angles were good, he got out a walnut-sized grenade, drew back, and flung it over the wall of crates.

  Light flashed through the hold, his visor darkening to compensate. Webber swore. It was locking in on all motion, then? What could he do about that, blast open one of the boxes and flick coffee beans at it until it ran out of ammo? For all he knew, it had a self-filling magazine and could print itself new bullets until it ran out of ship to draw from.

  He tipped back his head, searching for answers. And saw bright red globules of blood hanging in the non-air, completely undisturbed by the miniature bullets that were pulverizing everything else that emerged from cover.

  With a bit of work, he detached his water supply from his suit and palmed his way up the back of a tower of shipping cans, stopping below the rim. His water was nearly full at six quarts. More than enough to send a thick shield drifting toward the autogun. If it didn't fire on the water, he could spray a second batch and follow it up with a missile or grenade. With any luck, the gun would continue to view the liquid as nonthreatening, ignorant of the explosive hiding behind it.

  He poked the tip of the water tube past the top of the cargo cans and punched the ejection button. Water spewed out the end, its release pushing gently against him. No bullets seared through the vacuum. He stopped the flow. Holding his breath, he affixed his device to the top edge of the can and extended its camera.

  Shapeless globs of water sailed across the vacant space. The autogun was motionless, but it felt like a predator lying in wait. Some bits of liquid flew off in their own directions, but most was gathering in a super-glob. This headed straight toward the sentry gun. The glob's lower half enveloped the weapon; its upper half broke free and dashed against the wall, scattering in all directions.

  The gun flashed. Webber winced, but the weapon wasn't firing—it had caught on fire. Smoke drizzled from the autogun's base.

  Webber unzipped his pocket, got out a pen light, and lobbed it over the cargo stacks. The light tumbled end over end. It hit the far wall and bounced off without drawing any fire.

  "Webber to Fourth," he said.

  "This is Gomes." The captain's voice was strained. "Everything okay in there, Webber?"

  "Defenses are down. Send back the shuttle and let's steal us some beans."

  ~

  There was a second unexplored hold below the first that contained nearly 20% of the anticipated coffee, but Gomes told him not to risk it. As it turned out, they barely had time to transfer the last batch from the main hold. With the interdiction threshold dwindling to ten minutes, they strapped in and booked out. MacAdams was being treated in medical, overseen by Taz and Vincent, who had some training for such things. He thought the marine would make it, but there were no guarantees.

  They accelerated hard, beelining for the Locker. Once they slowed, and it was more comfortable to speak, Gomes said, "How'd you know that thing wasn't hardened against water?"

  Webber explained the sequence of events. "I didn't have a damn clue. Electronics' mortal enemy since time immemorial."

  "Ships like that are built to operate in vacuum," Lara said. "No reason to waterproof the hardware."

  "Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good," Jons said.

  Gomes chuckled. "Saved us a couple hundred thou. Not to mention Ikita's goodwill."

  "You think he'd get nasty if we came back empty-handed?"

  "I'd rather not find out."

  Webber had only been in his suit three hours total, but he was filthy and exhausted. He asked for and was granted a shower. After, he collapsed into his bunk.

  They got back to the Locker and returned to their apartment in the treehouses, which no one had decided to leave despite the cost. MacAdams was taken to the hospital, stable but unconscious. Vincent made arrangements to resupply the ship and alter its profile yet again. Gomes set up another Nude Room meet with Ikita. With MacAdams out, she took Jons in his stead.

  This time, Ikita didn't try to restructure the deal. He asked how things had gone. Gomes hemmed and hawed a little, then had Webber and Taz relay events.

  "Most amusing," Ikita said once they finished. "It sounds as if you may want to invest in some autoguns of your own."

  "We'll reinvest in boarding gear," Gomes said. "Even so, proof positive that there's no replacement for the human brain."

  "Not yet, anyway. Then again, if such things existed, I wouldn't need to hire you, would I?"

  "Until then, am I to assume we're still on your roster?"

  He leaned forward, fingertips pressed together. "Indeed. Nothing is official yet, but I may have another venture for you quite soon."

  "We'll stay frosty," Taz said.

  Once Gomes had the funds in hand, she called a crew meeting. In the hospital, MacAdams was awake and talkative; he attended via device.

  "We took a 20% hit to our expected haul," Gomes said. "With medical expenses on top of that. So I don't want to hear any complaints about shrimpy pay."

  "You kidding?" Jons laughed. "This could keep me rolling for six months."

  Lara rolled her eyes. "That wouldn't cover six days of your bar tab."

  "With a face like this, you think I need to pay for drinks?"

  It was a huge sum. Enough to make a man want to buy a ride in a horse-drawn carriage while sporting a new hat he'd never wear again.
Yet it was less than last time. And Webber had a long ways to go before he was out from UDS' thumb. He sent them another payment, reserving a third of his share against living expenses. Once everything was squared away, he felt a little better.

  He allowed himself a few nights out with Jons and the others, then resumed his workouts and training. Six days in, a message popped up on his device. It was from a man named Ko Vostok. He was captain of the Idle Hands, and he was interested in signing Webber on.

  They met at an open air cafe on a quiet side of the rock. The restaurant fronted an artificial beach, complete with itty bitty waves and fiddler crabs. As Webber sipped his drink, he could smell salt water.

  "I'll be blunt," he said. "I'm not interested in jumping ship."

  Ko was as thick as one of the dwarves from the BOGA. He gestured with a beefy hand. "Yet here you are."

  "It seemed like the polite thing to do." Webber lifted his sweating glass. "Besides, what kind of idiot turns down free drinks?"

  "Because, of course, money remains money: the heart of every issue. Your captain, Gomes, what is she paying you now?"

  "A percentage."

  Ko retained a blank look. "I should hope so. What is your exact share?"

  "Eight. There's been talk of a bump now that I'm a can opener."

  "Talk," the stout man said. "Well, here is another word for you: twelve."

  "Twelve?"

  "I run a tighter ship. Fewer mouths to feed."

  Webber set down his glass. "How did you hear about me?"

  Ko waved to the buildings. "Gossip is a hardy creature. Thrives in all environments. Talent, however, is a much rarer beast. When you spot it, you must trap it fast."

  "That's a generous offer. What have your last hauls been like?"

  "Some good, some underwhelming. On the whole, I am pleased."

  "How often do you make runs?"

  "For a while, we averaged a new mission every 54 days. Recently, however, we have faced some attrition—two retirements, not deaths—but I plan to resume operations as soon as I've mended our holes."

  "No offense, but I'd like to see hard numbers," Webber said. "It's nice to be wanted, but my captain treats me pretty well."

  The captain laughed. "And so you see the problem people in my position face. Not only must I beat your current terms, but by enough to convince you to leave a team that you might see as family." He stood and extended his hand. "I will transfer the details. They will be lighter than you might wish, but I am open to questions. I appreciate you taking the time to see me."

  "No problem." Webber shook hands. "Like I said, it's just nice to be asked."

  He finished his drink. On the tube home, Ko's followup appeared on his device. Webber ran a program to compare the numbers. If Ko was able to get back to his old productivity, Webber would come out ahead by as much as 10% while exposing himself to fewer runs. He got home, gave it some thought, then called Ko Vostok.

  "It's tempting," Webber said. "If money were all that mattered, I'd be yours."

  "Understood." Ko smiled. "If you change your mind, or find yourself in need of fresh scenery, don't hesitate to call."

  Webber assured him he would. He signed off, feeling like an insane person. A year ago, he would have killed for an offer like that. Maybe literally. Well, punched someone, certainly. Committed low-grade assault without a second thought, if that's what it took. How had everything changed so fast?

  Later that day, as he was fixing himself up for a rare night out, Gomes knocked on his door.

  "You talked to Vostok?" she said.

  Webber met her eyes in the mirror. "Have you been bugging me?"

  "Your device is routed through the ship. Don't worry, I'm not listening to your calls. I recognized his ID, that's all. So what'd he offer?"

  "Twelve."

  "And? Don't make me drag this out of you."

  "I turned him down," he said. "It was a good offer. But I don't know him. I don't know his people. He'd have to go a lot bigger to turn my coat."

  "Twelve," Gomes muttered. "Well, I'm glad you said no. Otherwise, I would've had to promote Jons. We'd never get his stink out of the suits."

  It was a pleasant time. Easy. He'd go out to lunch by himself and order food that was grown rather than printed; after years of sludges, pastes, and smoothies, his mouth rebelled at the texture of discrete pieces of food. At the gym, he found himself talking to women. He hadn't been doing much of that lately. Even stranger, he wasn't particularly invested in the outcome. They seemed to respond to that. He began to consider moving out of the treehouse, getting his own place.

  That would isolate him more thoroughly than he'd like, though. Easier to pay for the occasional hotel room.

  A few days after his meet with Ko Vostok, he was in the common room with most of the others, lounging around, fiddling with devices. There was some talk of going out later, but no one had set a definite course. During one of the frequent lapses in conversation, Harry walked into the room and stopped in its middle.

  "What's up?" Jons said. "You look like you just learned your girlfriend was separated from you at birth."

  "I'm…" Harry shook his head, gazing out the window at the trees, the fruit-studded boughs, the smudgy glow of the atmo-scrubbing bacteria colonies. "I've been furloughed."

  "Huh? For how long?"

  "Indefinitely."

  Webber swung his gaze up from his device. Jons looked skeptical, Lara angry. Vincent was the only one who didn't look surprised.

  Harry drifted forward another step. "Captain said that, given our present line of work, a fixer was no longer necessary. She offered me a retainer in the event our—your—circumstances change. But it wouldn't be enough by itself."

  "This was out of the blue?" Webber said.

  "I am blindsided. Devastated. Thank goodness I was allowed to stay for our first two ventures or I'd be out on the street."

  Lara met eyes with the others. "Was anyone aware of this?"

  Vincent frowned at the floor. "She came to me about trimming expenses. Emphasized that I should look at all options. But we didn't discuss anything like this."

  "Pretty low to be kicking people out the hatch just as we're getting a taste of the good life. How long have you been with the Fourth, Harry?"

  "Five years." He ran his hand down his face. "I'm sorry, I need some air."

  He turned and strode stiffly from the room.

  "Shit," Webber said.

  "Hate to say it," Jons said. "But I think Captain might be right."

  Lara arched an eyebrow. "How do you figure that?"

  "What does Harry know about pulling jobs in a place like the Locker? Isn't that why Captain picked up MacAdams? This ain't charity. It's business."

  "Putting him on furlough was a good hedge," Vincent said. "You never know. He could be back before we know it."

  Lara narrowed her eyes. "I don't think she goes this route unless she doesn't expect to use him for a long time."

  Jons rested his elbows on his knees. "Either way, it's more for us."

  Webber got up to go to the bathroom. After, he went to his bunk and thumbed up Harry's address on his device. Harry answered, looking wild-eyed, distracted. He was on the move, holding his device at waist height, leaving his head framed by the branches of the trees.

  "You okay?" Webber said.

  Harry gazed past the device, eyes on the path ahead. "I believe it is premature for me to say."

  "You saved, though, right? Didn't blow it all on French wine and Jovian androids?"

  The man chuckled reluctantly. "My splurges have been delicate. For now, my nest is well-feathered."

  "Good to hear." Webber sighed. "Well, if you need a hand, or you just want to talk, give me a call. Got it?"

  "I shall do so. I appreciate it, Mr. Webber."

  He signed off. Webber had barely set down his device when it chimed with an incoming call. He picked it up, expecting Harry had changed his mind about wanting to be alone, but it was from Gomes. He
clicked on. One by one, the rest of the crew—minus Harry—appeared in the participants.

  "Attention crew," Gomes said. "As of this instant, we're back on the job. Gather your things and meet at the Fourth immediately. We launch in one hour. You miss the boat, you miss your chance."

  "What's up?" Jons said.

  "You will be briefed en route. For now, if you have any other questions, you may stick them up your ass."

  The screen blanked. Webber returned to the common room, where the others were extracting themselves from their couches.

  "Anyone know what's happening?" Jons said. "Vincent?"

  The quartermaster shook his head. "Not a clue."

  Webber tossed together a bag of essentials and headed to the base of the tree. The others were right behind him. They rode the tube to the elevator and up to the port. Machines whirred around the Fourth, making last-second checkups. Inside, the ship was empty. Gomes showed up fifteen minutes later. Ten minutes before takeoff, Taz arrived with MacAdams, who was back on his feet, if a little fragile-looking.

  Gomes stayed on the horn until Lara began to count down. The Fourth lifted. The next few minutes were spent keeping an eye on its numbers and screens.

  The ship kicked into a hard burn. Rather than heading sunward, like normal, they were on a nearly straight path spinward, ripping through the fringes of the settled system.

  Gomes spun her chair around to face the crew. "I would apologize for the lack of notice, but this is how it has to be. At this very moment, our target is headed for a rendezvous with its escort. That escort is substantial. Our only chance is to catch it by its lonesome."

  "And what is it, exactly?" Webber said.

  "What I'm about to tell you is beyond secret. Ikita asked me not to tell you anything at all. I'm choosing to disobey him for two reasons: first, I trust you. Second, I believe that the more you know, the more likely we are to bring this home."

  She made them all swear to secrecy before going on. "The target is a ship known as the Specter. Unique design. About the size of a corvette or a light hauler." Two images appeared beside the main screen. One was a wireframe of a tube-like, clean-lined ship. The second appeared to be a live photo of the ship departing a large asteroid or small moon. "Very little intel on it. By appearances and context, it isn't a warship, but you can guarantee it won't be toothless, either. Not with its payload."