Rebel Stars 1: Outlaw

by Edward W. Robertson

  "Captain," Webber said. "Thank you for believing in me."

  Behind her transparent hood, she grinned fiercely. "You're the best janitor I've ever had."

  "Captain," MacAdams saluted. "We'll hoist one for you."

  "Can't wait. Now get your asses moving or we won't have anything to celebrate."

  MacAdams turned and ran as fast as his magnetic soles allowed. Webber fell in behind him. As he left the bridge, he took one last glance back. Gomes was caressing the ship's controls. Gazing up at the screens, she touched the mouth of her hood, then bolted in the direction of the arms locker.

  "Status, Taz," MacAdams said.

  "Almost there," she replied.

  "I don't need almost. I need ready at the airlock."

  "You try getting someone with two broken legs into a suit!"

  "Give her a hand," Webber said to MacAdams. "I'll grab our gear and meet you at the lock."

  The other man nodded and split for medical. Webber headed down to the hold and gathered up outside gear: lines, clamps, mags, extra cans of fuel for the tiny thrusters on their suits. He packed them up and tethered it to his belt, the sack floating beside him.

  MacAdams arrived with Taz. Lara was tied to his back, legs dangling weightless behind her. MacAdams entered the airlock, dropped three anti-rads into the hopper of Lara's suit, then passed Webber a packet. The pills stuck in Webber's throat.

  "Party's about to touch down," Gomes said over comms. "Tell me you're on your way out."

  "Stepping out now," Webber said. As the airlock cycled, sucking the air from the chamber, he handed out mags and lines to the others. "What side are they coming in on?"

  "Top. But they'll plant more than one charge, make sure all our air is lost. Here they come!"

  The transmission quit. The airlock opened. Stars stared from beyond. The lock fed out the back of the ship horizontally. Webber walked up the wall and exited at the ceiling, aligned toward the engines further to aft. As the others followed, he set one of his heavy magnets to the hull with a clunk that made no sound yet could be felt through his glove.

  He was now standing on the belly of the ship, head pointed down, and he took a moment to realign his perspective. The engines bulged ahead, less than sixty feet away. The hull was barren except for the lumps housing the landing gear and a few small nodes he didn't recognize.

  He started forward, hunched low, moving at the dreamlike pace of zero gravity. The line clipped to his belt reeled out behind him. His breath rang in his hood. The others strung out after him. Their suits, set to stealth, adjusted to match the bland darkness of the hull. Would protect them from human eyes. Not the piercing gaze of sensors.

  Halfway to the engines, red meteors streaked past the tail, running parallel to the Fourth along its dorsal side. Webber stopped in confusion. There was no atmosphere for meteors to be heated by.

  Then it clicked: they weren't meteors. They were tracers.

  He continued on. He knew he was the only one who could hear the clink of his steps, yet they felt terribly loud. The hull dipped. He crossed the crease between the hull and the nacelle. The engines flared up, hill-like. The counter on his wrist claimed the radiation was negligible. No good. As soon as he hit the engines, the count spiked. It might be enough, but he wasn't a physicist, and standing on the swell of the block, he felt insanely exposed.

  He only had one option. Inside. He walked on. Sporadic tracers flew from the other side of the ship. The engines curved inward. Their output was a vast, concave bowl, rimmed by a shallow channel. He climbed into the channel and hunkered down. As soon as the others were in, he cut his line. It retracted toward the magnet set outside the airlock.

  Radiation levels were bad. That was excellent. He gazed topside, across the engine blocks, but could no longer see any tracers. On the ship's main channel, heavy breathing rushed in and out. There was no chatter. Shuffling; the grunts of exertion; harder breathing yet. The thump of steps. Rustling, repeated, rhythmic jerks. The person—he thought it was Gomes, but he wouldn't have bet his life on it—was firing a weapon. MacAdams met Webber's eyes. The firing ceased, picking up seconds later.

  "Oh God," Gomes whispered. Webber wished he could tell her that she'd done it, that they were safe, but he couldn't risk a transmission. "Oh God, oh please, forgive—"

  Thuds. Grunts. Silence. Tucked into the rim of the nacelle, the others blinked at each other.

  Lara drew her finger over the device on the back of the left arm of her suit and held it up: "FAREWELL"

  Webber nodded, then looked up to the stars, hunting for signs of the Opportunity Cost. A few minutes later, the hull vibrated with a small explosion. Two more followed. A geyser of atmosphere spumed from the Fourth's flank, settling into an amorphous cloud that dispersed into the vacuum.

  Lights blared above. At first he thought it was a final missile, but it was the engines of the marines' departing shuttle.

  Webber's readouts informed him that his radiation absorption would reach unhealthy levels in two hours and fourteen minutes. Risk of lethality began another three hours after that. Not to worry, though: his air would give out an hour before then.

  Ten minutes ticked past, then twenty. His suit was on the cold side. He thought he should be scared, or grappling with profound thoughts, but he felt empty. He must have burned through his emotional reserves during the missile strikes.

  The fat bullet of the Opportunity Cost appeared on the edge of the sky, moving closer to the center of Webber's field of vision. His counter pinged.

  MacAdams wrote on his arm-mounted device: "Scans."

  Webber nodded. The Opportunity Cost stabilized its position against the stars, then began to increase in size, nearing. His counter continued to ding. Were they on to him? Had they scanned the ship, found fewer people than they knew had been there minutes before, and were now approaching for a visual scan? That would be the safest approach. The most thorough. Given what Ikita had said—that he was robbing no less an entity than FinnTech, and no less an object than one with the power to change everything—he couldn't blame the man for ensuring that no witness had been left alive.

  If anything, Webber should have expected as much.

  The man's caution would explain the ship's slow approach. Wary for traps. Not that the Fourth had anything left to spring. The ship was brain dead, paralyzed. He might be able to gin up something involving the shuttle, but the Opportunity Cost would swat it like a gnat.

  The Opportunity Cost lurched forward, doubling in size in a matter of seconds. This was it. But it was swerving, too, turning perpendicular to the wreck of the Fourth Down. Accelerating.

  A minute later, the first of the missiles slashed through the darkness toward Ikita's ship.

  17

  Adrenaline fired through Rada's veins. Sharp. Painful. Delicious.

  She braked hard. "Sit rep."

  "Four vessels," Simm said. "Two disabled. And one is the Fourth Down."

  Far away, the other two ships danced at a distance, separated by a frantic hive of missiles, drones, and fiery bursts. "The ones that aren't?"

  "One is a Titan-class. Armed to the teeth. To the gums. The other is…" He stared at his device. "Completely unknown. Zero matches to its profile. But its engine signature—it's been modified, but only enough to fool the courts. That's the ship that killed Jain Kayle."

  Rada's skin tingled as if she were being burnt alive. Her mind was as clear as the instant before the pain sank in. "Get everything you can on it. The Fourth Down, I see power. Is anyone alive?"

  Simm made a quick scan. "I'm seeing three bio-sigs. Two are outside the ship, including one floater. Nobody's moving."

  "Something's wrong. Besides all the other things that are wrong. Our files say they were running an eight-person crew. Where are the other five?"

  "Disintegrated?"

  "Simm!"

  "It is a legitimate answer to your question," he said. "Alternately, they may have come with a short crew. Or some floated away.
Or were taken prisoner. Or joined the crew of the Titan-class."

  She skimmed the readouts and displays, but there was too much to take in. "Do we have any idea who that is?"

  "An enemy of the UFO. Under normal circumstances, I would hazard to say that makes them an ally." He pointed to the screen showing the silent wracks of the Fourth Down and the other ship, then displayed e-sig readings on top of that, tangled lines of ionized particles. "See that? It was here before the UFO. An hour, maybe more."

  "Rescuing the survivors? Or finishing them off?"

  They were coming up on the warm remains of the Fourth Down. Simm exhaled through his nose. "You know the only move that makes sense, right?"

  Rada shook her head. "We've got to back the Titan. Could be it killed Pip. But if it didn't, that's the only place he might still be alive."

  "We could Needle ahead. Ask if they've got him, and if so, to provide proof in exchange for our aid."

  "Excellent." She pushed the Tine forward, began composing her message.

  "Hang on." Simm leaned over his device, then hit the brakes. "I'm getting a fourth b-sig. It's on the hull of the Fourth. Incoming transmission."

  "Attention unidentified ship," a male voice said. "I am the sole survivor of the Fourth Down. I am in need of immediate evac. Are you friend or foe?"

  The hair stood up along Rada's neck. "Friend. Survivor, please identify?"

  The man hesitated a moment. "Mazzy Webber, crewman."

  "Webber." She laughed, hot relief flowing through her entire body. "You have no idea how long I've been searching for you."

  "Searching for—? Ship, who are you?"

  "The Tine. A family friend. Let's figure out a way to get you off of there. Do you have thrusters?"

  "Ship," Webber said. "Give me a sec?"

  "Some chatter on the Fourth," Simm said to her. "Light encryption. Want me to break it?"

  "Please," Rada said.

  "Good, because I already did." Simm tilted his head in the universal posture of listening. "Sounds like—"

  "I'm not alone," Webber called to the Tine. "There are three other survivors. Didn't want to expose them until I knew what you were about, Tine."

  "Don't blame you." Rada brought the ship about to approach the underside of the Fourth Down. "It'll be cramped, but we can do this. Any injuries?"

  "We've got one with two broken legs. The rest of us are intact."

  "Roger." She turned to Simm. "We'll park under its belly. I'll take the box down."

  He bulged his lip with his tongue. "Why not a jump?"

  "Too messy. Somebody goes wide, or the person with the legs gets tangled, and we could spend the next hour cleaning it up."

  "Whereas you land the box, load it up, and let the auto bring you home safe. Agreed."

  As the Tine moved to position off the Fourth Down's belly, she explained the plan to Webber. Three other bio-sigs emerged from the engine nacelle.

  "They were hiding in the engine wash!" Simm cackled. "Brillant. We'll have to zip them back for treatment, though."

  Rada grabbed a suit and headed to the back of the ship. The box was little more than its name implied: a miniature shuttle with rudimentary thrusters used for circumstances exactly like this one. She suited up, struggling with the microgravity, and strapped in. The box smelled like fresh plastic. Simm had already programmed its course. She vented its air into the Tine, leaving the box in vacuum. A simple red light shined from its dash. Fifteen seconds to launch.

  "Rada," Simm said, voice tight. "The Titan just went down."

  "What's the UFO up to?"

  "Recalling all drones. Rada, I don't like this."

  "How long do we have?"

  "If he goes full burn, six minutes before we'll have to engage."

  "Got it." The light had gone green. She punched the launch. "See you then."

  The box departed with a clunk. Its screen whirled as the mini-shuttle thrust away from the Tine and toward the motionless Fourth Down. They were only parked a few hundred yards apart, but it felt like forever until the box landed with a light bump, securing itself firmly with magnets.

  She popped the hatch. She'd landed a ways down from the four survivors, who were already making their way to the box.

  "Hang on," Simm said. "This can't be right."

  Rada glanced up. The Tine hung against the stars, slender and beautiful. "What's going on up there?"

  "He's coming in hot. Way hot. But there's no way this is right. Acceleration like that would crush whoever's onboard."

  "You're sure it's not a drone?"

  "Negative. Even if it were, that speed should be tearing the ship apart. If we don't engage now, we're sitting ducks."

  The crew of the Fourth Down slogged toward her, slowed by the magnetic soles, comically lax in the lack of gravity. "How long do I have to finish here?"

  "None. Launch now, Rada. Get out of there!"

  "Not without Pip!"

  "How can you think this is worth your life?"

  "Because I believe in you," she said, knowing that it was already too late, and if he didn't launch now, there was no hope for any of them. "Keep us safe, okay? We'll be right here."

  His voice was monotone, resolved. "Engaging."

  As the survivors reached the box, the Tine swung about and rocketed forward. The four others looked up, drawn by the motion.

  "Wasn't that our ride?" Webber said.

  "What do you know about the other ships up there?" Rada said.

  "The Opportunity Cost—the big fat bullet—that was our employer. Who just betrayed us. And would have killed us, if that other guy hadn't shown up. For all we know, he's a friendly."

  "He's not. He's attacking my copilot right now."

  "And we're stuck down here?" A woman laughed, her voice harsh. "So what happens if your buddy bites it?"

  Rada looked up, but the Tine was already nothing but a point of light. "Then he's dead and you're still alive. The Fourth Down, is it operational?"

  "It's got power," a tall man said. "That's about it. Barely any comms. Engines are dead. Bastards landed in person to blow out our life support."

  "We move back to the engines. Hide in their signature until we know my partner's the only bird left in the sky."

  "It's glowing with radiation." Webber unzipped a pocket, fished out a packet of pills. "You'll need these."

  The suit had a miniature airlock built into its shoulder for the intake of food/water/meds/etc. during long-term survival situations. On their way to the engines, Rada fed the pills into the lock and directed them to her mouth. She wanted to call up the view from the Tine, but the connection wasn't a Needle and any transmissions to her would defeat the purpose of hiding.

  They climbed over the nacelle and settled into a groove ringing the engine block. Rada gazed steadily upwards, but the Fourth Down was between them and the action and there was nothing to see.

  "Do you think he's got this?" Webber said.

  "What kind of a question is that?" the harsh-voiced woman said.

  Rada shrugged. "The only one that matters. And the answer is I don't know."

  Behind his mask, Webber closed his eyes. "Let's hit mute, then. No sense giving ourselves away."

  The Fourth Down wasn't actually motionless—it and the remains of the other ship were humming along at combat speed—but you'd never know it from the stars. They gleamed as ever, promising that they had secrets and that she would never be allowed to hear them. Sometimes Rada felt like they were eyes, looking down on her, and she wanted to blind them.

  She had less time to wait than she feared.

  "Rada," Simm said. "Rada, come in."

  "Simm?" She stood up, scanning the eternal night. "Are you okay?"

  "I got him. Tagged him good. Ran him off."

  "That's incredible. You're sure he's gone?"

  "I think he spent a lot of his weapons during the fight with the Titan. He was leaking air. Don't think he'll be back."

  "We're hiding in the engin
es," she said. "We'll wait for you in the box."

  "Better not." Simm cleared his throat. "Or you'll be waiting a long time."

  "What are you doing? Running sweeps?"

  "Well, right now, I am dying."

  "Simm?" she yelled. "Did you say dying?"

  "It's all right. The Tine's on autopilot. It'll be in position at the Fourth Down inside ten minutes."

  "Simm. Just tell me what's going on."

  "He shot the Tine. With bullets. Just like in olden times. Can you believe that?" He laughed, then coughed. "I caught some scrap. From the hull. Don't worry, the Tine isn't as beat up as I am."

  "Quit jabbering at me and get into medical, you idiot. I need you in condition to get out of here."

  "Listen to me, Rada!" His words boomed across the line. She'd rarely heard him raise his voice and had never heard him shout like this. "I've never died before, but I can tell. It's time. The suit agrees with me. I need you to do two things for me. Okay?"

  She stared up into the darkness, searching for any sign of movement. "What's that?"

  "The first is the hard one. Promise me you won't give up. That you'll find a way out of this. We've come too far to let it crumble now."

  "I swear."

  "Thank you." He didn't sound particularly upset or grateful, but she was attuned to his subtle expressions of mood and could hear his relief. "The second would be hard for most people. But not for you."

  "What's that Simm?"

  "I want you to bury me outside the system. You don't have to do it right away. But I know you've always wanted to leave here. Since you want it, I know it will happen. Put me somewhere…" His throat caught. "Know what, it doesn't matter where you put me. I'll be dead, won't I?

  "Maybe so," she said. "But no one knows what comes after. Not even you."