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."
Jons wiped his nose. "The payload being?"
"Tech. A machine of some kind. Ikita wouldn't even tell me what it is. Just the payment: twelve million."
The bridge went dead silent except for the vibration of the engines.
"I'm sorry," Webber said, "but did you say twelve million? Like the one with all the zeros at the end?"
Gomes nodded. "And a twelve at the front."
The conversation continued, but Webber had entered a state of shock. Even after subtracting expenses, his cut would come in at right under a million. Enough to wipe his debt in one swoop. To put him in the black. To relocate him to a more profound terra incognita than even the Locker: a world where he'd be able to do what he wished without the constant worry of where the next dollar was going to come from.
The others were arguing about something. The lack of intel. The narrow timeframe. The fuzziness of the cargo. Doubt hung in the air. Fear. He had made enough bad decisions to know how these became self-fulfilling prophecies. Weights you cuffed to your ankles before you tried to leap across a ravine.
"Do you know what we're talking about?" Webber said. "We're talking about changing each and every one of our lives. For some of us, this means getting out of debt for the very first time. For others, it's early retirement. For the rest, it's somewhere in the middle—you may have a ways to go, but the skids will be greased. The weights will lift. You'll have the option, if you want, to give this up. To quit risking your freedom and your life every time you step out into the void."
As he'd spoken, the others had quit arguing. Every eye was now on him. He tried not to meet any of them. "What we all have in common is that this will give us choice. Including the choice to never do this again. Moments like this—where everything can change—they don't come along often." He gazed between them. "We're a team. We've done this before. And we can do it now."
"Fuck yeah," Jons said. "No more naysaying. How long until the action, Captain?"
Gomes glanced at her device. "Eleven-plus hours."
"That gives us eleven-plus hours to figure out how to kick this ship's ass. So let's lace up our boots and go to work, people!"
They shot to their feet and whooped.
As it turned out, there wasn't much they could do to prepare—mostly, this involved close analysis of the Specter's visible components to extrapolate what it was capable of—but the sourness in the air, the heaviness of impending defeat, that had been sucked out like the atmo from a hulled skiff. By the time they neared the action horizon, the crew had provided Taz and MacAdams with enough additional intelligence for them to add three contingency approaches to the two they'd already brought to the table.
In the middle of this, Webber snuck in a brief nap. He was back in the bridge when the monitors warbled.
"There it is," Gomes murmured. Lara pulled it up onscreen: a dark tube plowing through the field of stars.
"Hold up," Lara said. "The scans. There are people onboard."
"Bullshit," Gomes said. "This is just like the others. Pure drone."
Lara punched it up on the screen. Bio-sigs appeared beside the ship's outline. Eight, human-sized.
Webber grimaced. "In fairness, that could be a crew of chimpanzees."
Lara fixed Gomes with a look. "Did you know about this? Is that why you were in such a hurry to take off?"
"You think I'm happy about this?" Gomes said. "Their flight plan was for a drone. That ship is not supposed to be manned."
"Does this change anything?" Taz said. "We weren't gonna blow the ship up. Not unless we were planning to collect the cargo with a broom and a vacuum."
Warning messages popped up on the screens. MacAdams rubbed his jaw. "They've spotted us. Decide now. Before they decide to strike first."
Gomes gripped the arms of her chair. "We're committed. Anyone who wants out, state it for the record and recuse yourself to quarters."
The crew met eyes. No one spoke up.
"Noted," Gomes said. "Move in. Initial protocol."
Stone-faced, Lara went to work on her device. The Fourth swayed forward, closing. Messages flooded the screen. The last was a simple text warning: "DISENGAGE OR BE DESTROYED."
"Sounds like my ex-wife," Jons said.
Taz's hands flew over her device. A spread of missiles raced from the fore of the Fourth. On the screens, orange dots marked their presence. They closed on the Specter, spreading out. The translucent green sphere denoting the missiles' effective range expanded from the enemy ship.
The Specter launched missiles of its own. The first met the Fourth's, detonating in pale blooms. One of the Fourth's passed through the net, lancing toward the green field.
The Specter turned hard. Harder than Webber had seen on any sim. The missile blew past. The Specter launched an array of counters. As the missile turned, a rocket plowed into its side. The Specter flew on.
"What the hell was that?" Gomes blurted.
"Umm," Taz said. "That's not possible. A maneuver like that should have turned their crew to goo. Are they still alive?"
Lara pulled up the screen. One of the bio-sigs was moving throughout the ship. "And kicking."
Webber's mouth dropped open. "That's the target, isn't it? We're not stealing meds or coffee. We're taking whatever's letting them do that."
Jons began to laugh. "We are so screwed."
13
Across the courtyard, the doors to the keep opened wide. A knight in full plate descended the steps, visor down, walking stiffly. A scabbard hung at its hip. It stopped before them and inclined its head.
"Greetings." Its voice was a robotic monotone—it was, in fact, a robot. "Please follow me."
It turned on its steely heel and led them up the steps. Simm grinned like a dog. The high-ceilinged antechamber smelled like fried chicken. The automaton clanked across the floor, its steps muffled by the carpeted pathway to the next set of doors.
These opened to a vast hall. A round table commanded its center, but the action was along the walls, where six constellations of screens flashed with readouts and video. Desks, chairs, and shelves sat in support of the screens, covered in devices, food wrappers, toys, and figurines. Behind each workstation, an alcove opened into the wall, hosting a snug-looking cot. A different banner hung over each of the six stations. Some of the heraldry was obvious (a dragon, crossed swords), but others made no obvious sense to Rada (a salmon, a frayed pair of boots).
Four of the stations were presently occupied by two men and two women. None turned to look at the knight. From the back of the room, a young man walked through a door, adjusting his pants. A black cape plunged from his shoulders.
Seeing Rada and Simm, his eyebrows shot up. "People! Our guests have arrived."
Only then did the others turn from their stations. The men were stubbled, the women wild-haired. They were universally bleary-eyed. As they made their way to the table, each carried at least one device. One woman appeared to have four. One of the men pushed a tall, vertical screen mounted on wheels. Its upper segment displayed an animated ASCII face. He set it before a gap in the chairs ringing the table.
"Uh," Rada said. "Hail and well met, my lords."
The red-haired woman snorted. "You can drop ye old-timey lingo."
The man with the cape gave her the eye, then smiled at Rada. His voice was the one she'd heard through the speakers, although not as deep. "I am Liam. Our fun-hating friend is Nora. And you, fair lady, are welcome to speak however you like."
Rada's smile wasn't exactly of the strength to forge le
gendary blades. "I'm Rada. This is Simm. Thanks for seeing us. I know how busy you guys are."
Liam gestured. "Be seated."
She pulled up a chair. It looked, felt, and sounded like wood, its feet scraping over the floor, echoing in the vaulted stone chamber. Rada winced and laid out her device.
"Here are our files to date," she said. "To summarize, several weeks back, Jain Kayle, an employee of Valiant Enterprises involved in extrasolar travel, arranged a meeting with us. The subject of that meeting was not divulged. When we attempted to rendezvous, we discovered that Kayle had died the day before. It looked accidental. After investigating, however, we believe it was murder.
"For the moment, that branch has dead-ended. What we are currently pursuing is Kayle's final message. We believe it is a code, decipherable only by her son, one Peregrine 'Pip' Lawson. Supposedly, he died in an accident more than three years ago. As our files indicate, however, we have reason to believe his death was staged. If you can help us pin down his new identity, it could be a huge win for the Hive."
Liam nodded over his device. "And so you ask us to play oracle."
"That would be our job," Nora said.
"Do I sound pissed off about it?"
"I am," said a forty-year-old man with a graying goatee. "I'm nipples deep in the Kettinger file."
Nora gave him an exasperated look. "If Toman thinks it's worth a look, I'm inclined to give it one."
"Did I say I wouldn't do it? All I said is I'm not happy about being dragged away from my real work."
"Jain Kayle was a real, living person," Rada said. "This isn't just about decoding her message. It's also about finding justice for her and her family. Unless you can help us, I'm not sure that will ever happen."
The goateed man drew back in his chair, gazing at the table. "The first step is going to be to feed everything into Merlin."
"Already on it," said the second woman, fingers dancing over her device. The back of her left hand was tattooed with three golden triangles. "But I got a bad gut about this one."
"Indeed." Liam turned to Rada. "Our task is perilous. Financial data is often contained within redoubts of terrible strength. The mere act of attempting to infiltrate them may betray the Hive to unacceptable risk."
"I'm not asking you to do anything to endanger us." Rada favored him with her archest look. "Only for the Lords of the True Realm of the Net to show me their moves."
"Shit," the goateed man laughed. "She knows how to throw down the gauntlet."
The six-foot-high screen beside the table began to fill with figures and abbreviations. The tattooed woman muttered to herself, tapping away. The others bent to their own devices.
"We really appreciate this," Simm said. "And if I may say so, I am supremely envious of your castle."
"It's pretty sweet, right?" Liam said without looking up. "Makes it a whole lot easier to be cooped up with these clowns."
A couple of the others laughed. Nora glanced up from her device. "For the next few hours—maybe the next few days—this is all we're going to be doing. Unless you get off on hardcore slack-jawed typing, you may want to find a better way to occupy yourselves."
"Just listen to those lusty clicks," Simm said. "The way you caress that pad."
Nora eyed him, decided he was joking, and laughed lightly. "That reminds me, I'm due for a trip over to the Ring. Before I forget that sex can involve another person."
"Don't leave the Hive," Liam said without looking up. "We may have questions."
"Will do." Rada stood. "Thanks for all your help."
A couple of them grunted. Rada walked from the table. Simm followed, gazing up at the stained glass windows and painted ceilings. Outside, a faint breeze stirred the grass surrounding the castle.
"Yeah," Simm said, blinking like he'd snapped out of a trance. "We definitely need to move here."
"I know, right? They get their own cot and everything."
"They have bedrooms, too. Or we could live in the ring and I could come here during the day. How does that sound? Pretty good, right?"
"That could work," she allowed, meaning it could work for him. As for herself, she couldn't see leaving the Tine behind. Not any time soon. She had far too much yet to see and to do. She was young: it wasn't impossible that, some day, she could see what lay beyond the Solar System. The thought of rooting herself to the Hive made her want to break into a sprint through the grass.
She supposed it didn't have to be like that. If Simm was that serious about trying to join the LOTR, or of otherwise becoming a permanent resident of the station, she doubted he would object if she told him she would continue to pilot the Tine for the time being. Well—he might object, but he wouldn't throw down ultimatums. He wasn't that kind of guy.
She wondered if that was part of why she was with him.
"Hey," she said. "I'm going to walk around. Do some thinking. See if anything new jars loose. Okay?"
Simm waved. "Let me know when you're on your way back?"
Rada smiled. "I will."
She started through the grass, checking the map on her device to make sure she wasn't about to enter forbidden land or stumble into an abyss. According to the reports, that's how Peregrine Lawson had bought it. Stumbled right down a Martian ravine and never came back.
He'd been out on a walkabout. On Earth, you'd call it "camping," but on Mars, the Moon, places like that, you could scratch out a few bucks by broadcasting the trip to piggybackers watching from the safety of their living rooms. It was far from a great living—there were so many videos out there you could spend your whole life experiencing virtual Mars for free—but some people would pay for new footage, or to have people explore areas specific to their interest.
After splitting up with Xixi, Pip had done a lot of those tours. Rada could understand the motivation: to clear his head and earn some cash in the process. If he truly had died, it was possible that he'd been thinking of Xixi and the wreckage of his life when he misstepped and slipped. Thirteen subscribers had received the footage of him skidding down the crack in a roostertail of orange dust. Then the camera went dark. There was a crunch. Heavy breathing. A dripping noise.
Then, silence and blackness.
Such things weren't rare on Mars, where people liked to think that all that open space was their communal back yard, and that if you didn't occasionally get out and take part in it, you weren't a real Martian. Yet in the context of examining Pip's death as fraud, she couldn't help wondering if the statistics were inflated. His was the perfect accident: in a desolate, hard-to-reach locale; more than a dozen witnesses; no damage to expensive vehicles or habitats. Neucali authorities had made a token effort to retrieve the body, but the ravine had proven too deep for recovery. A remote-operated probe had found a body and taken a DNA sample confirming it was Pip, but that wasn't conclusive. All it meant was Pip's handlers had grown some of his flesh in a vat and stuffed it down the hole.
Meanwhile, if Simm was right, he'd been whisked away as undeclared cargo on a ship bound for who knows where. Any one of the hundreds of moons, asteroids, habitats, and stations scattered around the system.
What must it be like to start over like that? Liberating, she supposed. You could become anyone you want. Step out of your fetters and into your ideal. That would come with a shadow, though; by removing yourself from all expectations and shame, you would be more willing to explore the darker fringes of yourself. She stayed straight and narrow, in part, because her failure would let down many others: Simm, Toman, the Hive, her grandma.
But if she had no eyes waiting for her to slip? She wasn't sure it would be long before she found herself seated at a bar. Three years into her own second life, she still wondered if it was worth it, being a responsible, upstanding human being. Why not do what made her happiest? Even if that meant living a degenerate, abbreviated life? What was best: the quantity of the years? Or the quality?
You only got one life, right? Was it really all that bad to be bad?
She wo
ndered how Pip was using his second chance. Nothing like she was contemplating, she imagined. He'd been a steady worker, sacrificing his money, his relationship, and his very identity for his sister. No doubt he was at that very moment finishing up a hard day of work. Cooking dinner for some lucky woman. By now, it wasn't impossible that he'd have kids, and was kissing their foreheads and tucking them in. She envied those who could be happy with such things.
Rada walked through the grass, trailing her fingers through its soft green tips. Did it know how far it was from Earth? Would it care?
36 hours later, the LOTR bade them return to the castle. The robot knight delivered Rada and Simm to the inner chamber. The room smelled like coffee and the sweet tang of W8KE. The data-hounds were scruffy-haired and bleary-eyed. Probably hadn't slept since the last time Rada had seen them. Except for Liam, who was rolling out of his cot at that very moment.
"Hail fellow and all that shit," he said, voice thick with sleep. He slumped toward the table. "I can't say we lived up to the standards of the Lords of the True Realm. Yet I refuse to call it a total defeat."
Rada seated herself. "Anything you've got is more than we walked in with."
He fiddled with his device. Numbers appeared on Merlin, the six-foot vertical screen who was parked beside the table. "We attacked this along multiple vectors. Everything you brought us. The subject. The mother. The sister. We found a trust. Cracking that trust was not easy."
"In fact," Nora said, "it wasn't possible."
"Okay, if you want to get technical, we didn't crack it. But we did…poke it. Pick it up and shake it. And a few grains fell loose." He gave them a bleary smile. "The trust was established six months prior to Lawson's 'death.'" Liam punctuated this with air quotes. "There was not one, but two sources of payments. We tracked one to Peregrine, the other to Jain. When Peregrine died, naturally, a large sum passed to the trust—his savings and life insurance."
"But it was smaller than it should have been." Nora called the figures up on Merlin. "More than can be explained by funeral costs and what have you. We believe the discrepancy is from the payments due to the organization who arranged his…" She sighed and air-quoted as well. "'Death.'"
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