Rebel Stars 1: Outlaw (16 page)

"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."

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.