Rebel Stars 1: Outlaw

by Edward W. Robertson

  He hopped on the dais and began to pace. "Appropriate venue, considering you just delivered me the Holy Grail. For that same reason, I'd like to offer you three wishes. There's only one problem."

  "All I want is to kill the UFO."

  "Just so," he nodded. "Rada, I'm so sorry about Simm. I have never found that words make much difference to my feelings. Especially grief. But I hope you know what he's given us."

  "I know," she said. "The potential to change everything. But that's your job now, isn't it?"

  "And what's yours? To avenge his death? Rada, I think you have a more positive role to play."

  "That being?"

  He glanced away. "I don't know yet. It's a feeling."

  "Then it's beside the point."

  "If feelings won't work, here's the rational reasons against. First, going after the UFO could endanger the larger mission of bringing down FinnTech. Second, when we bring them down, the UFO pilot will crash and burn with them."

  "Do you honestly believe that? Back with the Rebel, IRP killed hundreds of people. What happened to them? Some bad PR?"

  "Along with a civil war that replaced the entire government. And a complete collapse of new immigration. And system-wide sanctions that have left them crippled."

  "We don't have court-worthy evidence that our ghost has killed anyone. Even if we did, who's going to arrest him? The Space Police? We don't even know who he is."

  He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Then how about this: I don't want to lose you."

  "Then let me use the Tine. It's either that or I go rent the first bucket of rust I can strap a gun to."

  "I could bar you from leaving."

  "You don't want to do that," she said softly. "Or you'll lose me worse than death."

  Toman sighed and sat at the edge of the dais. "This is the problem with surrounding yourself with talented people. Soon enough, they start thinking they ought to have a will of their own."

  "Help me not interfere with your plans for FinnTech."

  "That won't be hard. Whoever this guy is, he's a mop. When somebody breaks something, they send him in to clean it up—Jain, the Specter. You want to bag your ghost? All you have to do is make a mess."

  "We've got more than enough eggs in Jain's files. If we drop one, he'll come running." She rubbed her hands together, realized what she was doing, and stopped. "We've got another problem, though. Simm barely held his own against the UFO after it had already spent itself in a fight with a Titan. No way can I take it solo. But if we show up with a fleet, he'll vanish. And he's too fast to chase down."

  "Yes, that would be a problem, wouldn't it? Except for one small thing." He nudged her knee with his elbow. "Haven't you ever wondered why I called it the Tine?"

  20

  By any objective standard, the Hive was incredible. All the amenities of an up-to-the-minute modern station combined with a tiny little planet you could circumnavigate in an hour's walk yet spend days exploring.

  But it was hard to be happy after they'd taken his device away.

  Webber spent time tromping around the grass. Poking around the ponds. People claimed spending time in nature was good for the soul, but since leaving Earth, he had come to believe that mostly all it was good for was getting you dirty, sweaty, and covered in bug bites. Escaping from it with tunnels and habitats was not a new development. People had been building homes to segregate themselves from nature for thousands of years.

  After a day of wandering around, he understood he was still angry with his mother. She couldn't have known she'd stumble onto proof the Swimmers were still out there, manipulating humanity from the darkness beyond the planets. Pursuing that meant she had, in effect, sacrificed him to care for his sister.

  Yet what aspect of him had been so special that it deserved saving? He'd lived a quiet, perfectly normal life. No part of it had been as grand as Jain's drive to find the truth. Even after he'd escaped that normality, what had he done with himself? Stolen stuff? It paid better than fixing bikes or swabbing holds, but it didn't exactly qualify him for sainthood.

  Hard to blame her for that decision, then. Her life had been worth more than his. Simple math. He didn't know if she'd intended to bury this lesson in her message. All he knew was that he had to make more of himself.

  Right now, it looked like the best way to do that was to carry on his mom's work. He didn't know what he could do directly—Benez had a team of eggheads working on the FinnTech/aliens angle—but right then, he had something far more personal in mind.

  Killing the son of a bitch who'd murdered her.

  Their second day at the Hive, Rada found him in the fields chasing a mouse through the grass.

  "You have any experience piloting a ship?" she said.

  "About a billion hours of sims," he said. "Sounds more like Lara's gig, though."

  "She's in, too."

  "What, are we taking a fleet?"

  "Covering our bases. If you're not comfortable with the role, I'm sure the autopilot will do fine. But I always prefer a real human behind the device."

  He ran his hand through his hair. "Why not bring in a more experienced pilot?"

  "Right now, bulletproof trust is far more important than a third pilot." She smiled wryly. "Besides, these days, 'combat pilot' is synonymous with 'drone nanny.' I don't see much difference between that and the sims."

  "You're the only one with as much skin in finding him as I've got," Webber said. "If you think I can help, I'm all yours."

  "Then come this way." She nodded across the field. "It's time for you to enter the castle."

  The building was stunning. Yet it was nothing compared to the sim they had waiting for him.

  ~

  Four days later, his device buzzed. They were on the move.

  At the terminal window, he drew up short. Out on the pad, the vessel awaiting them was bulkier, more of a wedge than a needle. "New ship?"

  "Kind of," Rada said. "This time out, we thought we needed something a little heavier."

  Its bridge looked the same. The crew was identical, too: Rada, Lara, MacAdams, himself. They took off, Outer-bound.

  "You know," Webber said, "at some point, we're going to need to know what's going on."

  "We're headed to the Locker," Rada said. "There, you will make it known that you survived the battle with the Specter—and that you took something back with you."

  "The alien tech?"

  "No. They'd know that's a lie. Instead, you took one of the ship's devices. On it, you found a schematic."

  "Let me guess," MacAdams said. "You want that FinnTech's people should find out about this."

  "You are in possession of a great secret. You figure they would like it back. In exchange for a reasonable fee."

  Webber squinted. "You're sure they'll send the UFO? And not just pay us off?"

  "Since we got here, the LOTR have done nothing but dig. They've gotten as deep as they can safely go. In something like a month—maybe three weeks, maybe six—FinnTech is scheduled to make a huge announcement. One guess what it's about."

  "And until then, they're going to do everything they can to keep it silent."

  Rada nodded. "Not only that, it was the UFO's job to mop up the spill. He failed. He'll be back to finish the job."

  They had a few days to arrival at the Locker. To Webber's delight, Rada had packed a new sim with her. One that included the Lords' best approximation of the UFO.

  To his annoyance, then his dread, then his sense of doom, the ship was unbeatable.

  One on one, anyway. It was too fast, too agile. There were times it could out-turn the missiles. Even if you came at it fully loaded, keeping it under constant fire, it could dart in and out, carve you up piece by piece. If you somehow got lucky enough to hit it, unless it lost its engines, it could simply turn tail and run away. After a day of practice, he brought these concerns to Rada.

  She smirked. "Took you that long to figure it out? Come on over here. Lara and I have something to show you."


  Together, the three of them still couldn't beat the UFO, and it was only a simulation, the equivalent of a drone. By the end of the third sim, though, Webber no longer thought it was impossible. And by the time they docked at the Locker, they had beaten it—not once, but three times.

  "Yeah, but out of how many tries?" Webber said. "A hundred?"

  "Ninety-seven," Rada said. "We're getting better, though. Would you rather back off?"

  "Not unless it's to try a better approach."

  "If I had one, I'd take it."

  "Then we stick with the plan."

  He and MacAdams took the elevator down to the interior. Rada and Lara would stay with the ship—FinnTech would have her on file as a Benez employee, and if she was seen in Webber's company, the enemy might see through the entire plan.

  Before, the tight streets and solid blocks of the Locker's housing had struck Webber as signs of possibility, the promise of endless space to explore. Now, the gray buildings with their out-thrust balconies felt like a foreign jungle of hidden caves and deadfall traps.

  MacAdams made a few calls, dropped by a few bars and clubs. At a joint called Balance, which featured what it claimed was the Locker's only null-friction dance floor, MacAdams spoke with a pale, brittle-looking man who arranged a meet later that night. MacAdams thanked him, exchanged a flowing, multi-part handshake, and walked back into the false daylight.

  "Good news," MacAdams said. "We're meeting with Pisa Flors. She's practically on FinnTech's payroll."

  Webber smiled. "So we can trust her to do the wrong thing."

  "Let me do the talking. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty."

  They returned after the lights had dimmed to approximate the night. Before, the scene outside Balance had been desolate, nothing but garbage and footprints. Now, people ringed the entrance six deep, waiting to ID themselves and see if they had enough social cachet to be allowed in. MacAdams muttered something and bulled his way up front. Webber followed in his wake, trying to look cool, which was almost impossible when you were scurrying behind the guy who was actually getting things done.

  For a bouncer, the guy manning the door was pint-sized. The motionless android behind him looked much meaner. The bouncer gave MacAdams a dubious look and barely offered Webber a glance. He scanned them, raised his eyebrows, and let them inside.

  Bass pulsed like war drums. Vapor swirled from the crowd, smelling of strawberries and orchids. MacAdams made his way to the back. Numbered doors lined the back wall. MacAdams counted down to the one they'd scheduled the meet in. The door opened to a small, mirrored foyer. As soon as he closed the door, the music blanked out.

  The foyer fed into a dark room with a couch, a table, and a bed. A young woman sat on the couch, arms spread across its back. She was pretty enough to be one of the club girls hustling drinks in the main room, but the tailored cling of her clothes implied she made more money than that.

  "Pisa," MacAdams said.

  "You brought a friend?" She smirked at Webber. "Looks like I'm in for more fun than I bargained."

  "If this goes down, well show you as much of the town—and ourselves—as you want." MacAdams rubbed his arm. "Although I expect you can do a lot better than us."

  "So what if I can?" She trailed her fingers over her neck. "What's the fun in jumping in the same pool every time you get hot?"

  "The certainty there won't be any sharks in the depths."

  "I am not a shark. Sharks don't let you bite back." She sat up, the archness fading from her expression. "Doesn't it ever get boring being all business, MacAdams?"

  "I'll let you know when I retire." He sat beside her, denting the couch cushion. "If I seem stiffer than normal, it's for good reason. A couple weeks back, we were on a job. Things went south. We didn't know what we were getting into. We lost the target. Along with some friends."

  "This sounds familiar."

  "Word's out, huh? Well, like I said, we didn't know the score. It was a setup."

  Pisa pursed her mouth, quirking it to the side. "Are you coming to me to apologize to them?"

  MacAdams lifted his palm and spread his fingers. "I'm trying to make things right. They sent a cleaner, but they didn't get everything. We've got a schematic. Straight from the Specter. It's the only copy. 200K, and it's theirs."

  "Did you ever speak this idea out loud to see how it sounded? Because, to me, it sounds like you want to apologize to FinnTech by selling them back something you stole from them."

  "They killed our crew. My friends. 200K is a low price to make things right."

  "MacAdams." She lowered her eyes, scowling at the fabric flowing over her lap. "They'll skin me just for bringing this to them."

  He scowled across the room. "Tell them I made you do it."

  "They know me too well to fall for that. This is a no-go, big guy. What you need to do is hand it over and walk away."

  "We don't have to do a god damn thing," Webber said. "We didn't knock out the Specter. That means we pulled our loot from a derelict ship. The Law of the Inky Void says it's ours."

  She laughed at him. "You think FinnTech will give a shit?"

  "If we'd left it, anyone could have come along and grabbed it. Or how about this: if we wanted, we could sell it to one of their competitors for millions. Enough to walk away and disappear beyond FT's grasp."

  Pisa drew back her head and gave him a long look. "Then why don't you?"

  He stared back. "Because disappearing costs more than money. It costs who you are. For some, that's a good thing. For me, right now, I don't want to be anyone else but me."

  She chewed the inside of her lip. "I'll make the call. But if I were you? I'd cash out and disappear. I don't think you understand how deep this runs."

  "That's our risk to take," MacAdams said. "Thanks, Pisa."

  "Good luck."

  They exited the room. On their way out, Webber's device pulsed. It was Pisa's contact info.

  Outside the Balance, MacAdams strode down the street. He didn't say a word until he got to a white building. On top of providing Nude Rooms, its services also included latest-gen bug sweeps for anyone who felt that might have been compromised.

  MacAdams made sure they were clean, then let out a breath. "That was pushing it."

  "If I hadn't, we were dead in the water."

  "Do you hear me complaining? All I'm saying is it was a gamble. If you hit, you look like a genius. If you bust? You're a maroon."

  "I don't think there's any confusion over whether I'm an idiot," Webber said. "But if you don't like having to gamble, that means we need to plan better next time."

  "Agreed," he laughed. "I only like gambling with money. Not my hide."

  The building included a small number of rentable apartments that were considerably more secure than your run-of-the-mill Locker walkup. MacAdams had reserved one for the next few days. They headed up to it and settled in. Webber fired off a message to Rada about how they intended to see the glowing forest tomorrow—code that they'd had their meet and were waiting to hear back.

  Just two hours later, MacAdams' device pinged. He picked it up and scowled. "I told you, Pisa, you can do better. Now ain't the time."

  "That offer's long gone," she said. "But I thought you'd want to know they agreed to a meet. Three days from now."

  MacAdams snorted. "Boy, three days, huh? If they think I'm such a VIP, I better go hat shopping."

  "You don't understand. They're not sending over some local from Saffer Street. They're flying someone in."

  His eyebrows shot up. "Flying someone in? Maybe I ought to buy two hats."

  She had attached the details to her call. The meet would be in empty space further out and anti-spin from the Locker. Hours from the nearest help.

  Good place to get killed.

  With no more need to move about the Locker, they returned to the Tine. Rada plotted in the course. It would take them seven hours to get there under non-stressful acceleration and braking. With no intention of arr
iving early, they remained in port.

  Webber resumed simming with Rada and Lara. Rada was right: they were better than before. Still dreadful, but better. Soon, it became clear that almost everything depended on the opening gambit. If they could damage the UFO in the first pass, they had even odds of eventual victory. If it made it through that first pass unscathed, however, and was able to adjust to what it was up against, their odds dropped to worse than one in ten.

  "Don't worry," Rada told him after a particularly frustrating sim in which the crippled UFO had taken them down one by one anyway. "You got lucky blood in you."

  Webber rolled his eyes. "You can't walk down the street without bumping into a Lawson. It's like how after the American slaves were freed and named themselves after Washington or Jefferson."

  "Who's Washington?" Lara said.

  "History." Rada booted up another round. "Now let's get back to work."

  One day went by, another. They got a little better as they continued to learn to work together, but there was only so much they could do to counter the UFO's tech. A low but steady panic stole over his nerves.

  And then it was time.

  The Tine launched. Webber managed to grab some sleep, but wanting to be sharp for the meet, he was up three hours beforehand. He went to the tertiary cockpit and sat down.

  He wasn't alone long; MacAdams walked up beside his chair. "Mind if I stick with you on this one?"

  Webber laughed. "Do you want to call it quits on life? I'm the only one who's never been behind the wheel before."

  "Yeah, but you've got the luck. If I had to bet on one person making it out of this thing, my money's on you."

  "I thought you didn't like gambling with your life."

  "I've thought more than once I should have stayed at the Locker," MacAdams said. "But I've never been the type to duck out on his people. Some things are more important than scrimping by to the next day. Like what you see in the mirror."

  The Tine streamed on, crossing the nothing that made up almost all of the universe. Rada couldn't let herself be known to the UFO—there was a chance he might recognize her—so Webber had been designated as the speaker. He killed the remaining hours going over the script devised by themselves and the Lords of the True Realm.