Rebel Stars 1: Outlaw (12 page)

The leader frowned, sniffed. "Know what? I think you're right." He turned to Rada. "We'll take all of it. Cards. Devices. Everything you got."

"You're one shitty fortuneteller," Rada said. "And I'm rescinding my offer. Here's my new one: walk away with nothing."

"Okay," the bearded man said. "Let's show them how we do in Neucali."

His crew advanced like they'd choreographed it. Rada's heart shrank. She lowered her stance and raised her hands. The bearded man jerked his chin at the short man, who shuffled toward Rada. The other three, including both of the guys with batons, headed for Simm.

Sadly for them, they would have been better off coming at him unarmed. Simm was every bit as nerdy for Rainese fighting as he was for his space empire simulation games.

A man came at him, swinging the baton down at a three-quarter angle. Simm shifted toward it and lazily whipped his forearms at the incoming weapon, keeping his arms so loose that he seemed to be trying to throw his fingertips across the room. The baton cracked into his arms a short ways above the elbow. He dropped his left palm, grabbing the arrested baton, and swung a right backfist at the man's face.

The punch landed with a thud. The man groaned. Something small and white tumbled through the air and clattered on the stone floor.

Then Rada stopped paying attention, because the little dude was coming at her, and he suddenly looked very serious.

He shuffled, feinted, and threw a left jab at her jaw. Rada sidestepped stiffly. She had practiced just enough with Simm to recognize the short man had some training. She was either going to have to hang on until Simm finished with the others, or put the guy down before his advantage in skill won out.

He jabbed again. She slapped at his fist, knocking it to the side of her head. He threw a right, stepping into the punch; she pulled the same trick, deflecting it with her right hand. As soon as she did so, opening a hole in her guard, he drove a left hook into her gut.

The wind left her in a whoosh. Beside her in the dim tunnel, a baton struck bone with a distinctive crack. The yelp that followed was not Simm's. Two men fell back and Simm followed them in.

The short man hit her a second time. Her stomach was clenched, but it still hurt. She dropped, gasping for air, unable to get more than a tiny swallow past her uncooperative throat.

Her opponent was wearing shorts. His shins were almost white, speckled with dark hairs. As he drew back his right leg to kick her in the head, she clamped her teeth down on his left calf.

He shrieked, jerked, and fell. Rada tasted warm iron. She released her jaw, spitting blood, and swayed to her feet. The short man clenched his leg and swore. Rada's diaphragm had finally quit squeezing her and she took deep gulps of air. Her opponent scrabbled away, finding his feet.

Behind him, Simm knocked his last foe to the ground, spun, and charged the short man. He jabbed the hood in the kidney. The man yelled and staggered. Simm grabbed his wrist and bent up his arm, forcing the man to point his face at the ground.

Simm shoved his baton across the man's elbow. "Who do you work for?"

"Pads," the man said. "Guy who's snoring behind you."

Simm bore down harder. "
Who?
"

"Sonny Marbles!" the short man gasped.

Rada pulled the name up on her pad. "He's local. Nobody chased us here, if that's what you're thinking."

"That's a relief." Simm released the man, then struck him in the gut, crumpling him. "Now where are those damn cops?"

~

It was another ten minutes before the authorities rolled in on their closed-roofed cart. They cuffed the thugs who were conscious and lifted those who weren't into the cart's back. A second vehicle carried Rada and Simm down to the station, which was blindingly bright after the dark tunnel. The cop who took their statement was overweight and had a habit of holding his elbows straight out to the side as if he were trying to balance plates on them.

"You said you're from the Hive," he said.

Rada nodded. "That's right."

"And that you were on your way to the Sanctuary."

"That's right."

"Problem," the cop said. "Only residents of Neucali are allowed in the Sanctuary."

"We have a resident's permission," Rada said. "Xixi Wells. Check with her."

"Think I'll do that." He reached for his device, called up Xixi, held a brief conversation, then clicked off and eyed Rada. "Why do you want to go to the Sanctuary?"

"We think one of your former residents may have left something in his shelter. Something his mom was asking for."

He frowned. "And if I call Ms. Wells back, she'll confirm this?"

"The resident in question is her ex-boyfriend."

"This sounds about a hundred times more convoluted than I'm obliged to care about." The man breathed out, deflating. "Officer Barres will escort you down. For your safety."

"What about the hoods?" Simm said. "Will you need us for the trial?"

"Trial?" The cop hooted. "You already beat them to hell and gone. You think we're gonna waste space boarding those idiots?"

Simm frowned. Officer Barres showed them out, loaded them into a cart, and brought them to the elevators down to the Sanctuary. At the bottom, an open airlock fed them into blank tunnels gritty with dust. He led them to Xixi's auxiliary apartment and Rada keyed open the lock.

The shelter consisted of three rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, and a combined kitchenette/lounge. Sheets and linens waited in vacuum-sealed bags. So did the food. Rada made a quick sweep, turning up nothing else, then reconvened in the lounge with Simm.

She brushed dust from her pants. "See anything?"

"Nope."

"Check the computer."

"That was the first place I looked."

"Well, look again."

He rolled his eyes, stooped over the terminal, and swept his fingers across the controls. A minute later, he stood up, shaking his head. "Nothing but an operating system. Mailer hasn't sent a single message."

"That can't be true. It has to be here."

"No, it doesn't. This shelter, the warren, it's just a coincidence. Doesn't have anything to do with Jain Kayle's message."

"I mean that it has to be here." Rada lowered herself to a chair. "Because if it isn't, I don't know where else to look."

She made a second pass, then a third, then Officer Barnes informed her their time was up. She wanted to argue, but there was no point.

They spent two more days in Neucali interviewing Peregrine's friends. This turned up nothing of obvious interest, but Simm filed away the conversations anyway. With no other leads, they hopped a shuttle back to orbit, then launched the
Tine
.

"Do we have anything left at all?" Rada said once they were underway.

"I think we've exhausted our end of things. According to Toman, they haven't turned up anything with regards to the
Piper
, either. I'm thinking that's a dead end."

"Then we're done, aren't we?" She leaned back, gazing at the stars on the screen. "Nothing else to do but file it away, leave a few spiders on the net to be watchful for references, and see what other jobs Toman has for us."

"I hate this," Simm said. "There is nothing worse than feeling like the answer's slipped through your fingers."

"It's only a dead end for now." The words were far more optimistic than she felt. "Maybe we can pass it off to someone smarter at the Hive and they'll bring it back to life."

Simm frowned, staring at the screen as well. "We should turn this off. All those stars make me believe anything is possible if you hunt hard enough."

"What would you rather look at?"

"A big black box," he said. "That would be closer to the truth."

She snorted. "You're cute when you pout."

He smiled, but a distracted look had entered his eye. He bent over his device and resumed work. Dead tired, Rada closed her eyes and napped. She didn't wake until hours later, when the ship quit accelerating and she began to float up from her reclined chair.

The cabin was dark except the instrument lights and the glow of Simm's device. He was still hunched over it, tapping and scrolling. Seeing her stir, he blinked, returning to the physical world. An odd grin took control of his mouth.

"Oh no," she said. "You have a new idea."

He cleared his throat. "I think we've been going about this all wrong. Why tear around the system chasing down friends and relatives for answers? Why not just find Pip Lawson?"

"So your grand idea is we retire as bug-hunters and start hunting ghosts instead."

"You are making the worst assumption of them all: that what we understand to be true is actually true."

Rada raised the back of her chair to get a better look at him. "What have you got?"

"A whopper of a question," Simm said. "What if Pip isn't really dead?"

Webber slowly raised his hands. "Hey, there's no need for this. I thought Ikita and I were cool."

The gunman gawked in equal parts outrage and scorn. "Webber, you idiot. Don't tell me you did something to piss off Ikita, too."

"What would you care?"

"Because it would be significantly more difficult to collect our money if he puts you in cement shoes and flings you into Uranus' gravity well."

Webber lowered his hands. "You're with collections. You're here for money."

"Aren't we all?"

"Something wrong with mail?"

The man stared at him. "We tried that. You ignored them."

"That's because I didn't have any money."

"You think I don't know that?" The man gestured down the street. "Time to figure out some other way to settle your debt."

"That won't be a problem," Webber said. "I just got paid. I mean ten minutes ago. Right before you pulled a gun on me."

The man located an expression even less impressed than his previous one. "How convenient."

"It really is, because I feel like it's about to save me from a broken leg. Which would have been a counterproductive move, by the way. How am I supposed to pay you back when you add a hospital bill to my debt?"

The gunman sighed. "If this is a put-on, it's not going to make any difference."

"What's your goal here? To extract money? Or a pound of flesh?"

"Cash. Unlike flesh, it never goes bad." He gestured down the street. "Let's find somewhere quiet, shall we?"

"Why bother?" Webber said. "This is the Locker. If you rob me in the street, someone will probably offer you a job."

The gunman brought him two blocks to a plain apartment building. The collections agent swiped his key and tromped up the stairs to a third floor apartment that sported a few chairs, two tables, two devices, and a whole lot of nothing. Webber sat at a table and logged into his account.

His balance showed a smidge under two hundred. Enough to get by for a couple weeks in most places, so long as you had a place to stay. He was used to being financially embarrassed, however, and under normal circumstances, the numbers wouldn't have fazed him.

"Funny story," he said. "It isn't here."

The gunman leaned in for a look. "That isn't enough to pay the interest on your interest."

"My captain hasn't had time to make the transfer. Know what, she probably hasn't finished tallying expenses. I'm working for a percent of net."

He meant this to be impressive, but the agent didn't bat an eye. "Or you are a weasel in a human body. Know what farmers do with weasels?"

"Feed them cookies?" Webber spread his hands. "Hey, I'm as mad as you are. I should be out getting drunk and convincing women I'm rich, not sitting around a hovel having a gun pointed at me by somebody who wants to take all my money."

"This isn't a hovel."

"Call my captain. Kiri Gomes. She'll confirm everything I've told you."

The man gritted his teeth, paged through Webber's contacts, and transferred the number to his device. Staring daggers, he called up Gomes, setting the device on speaker.

"This better be an emergency," she said.

The gunman leaned over it. "That all depends on how much you like Mazzy Webber."

"My ex-janitor?" Gomes laughed into the camera. "He can't seem to keep himself out of trouble, can he?"

"Much to my disappointment. My name is Winslowe. I'm with Universal Debt Services. I'm here with Mr. Webber right now. I'm calling to confirm that he is indeed to be the recipient of a pending payment."

Gomes leaned forward, staring into his eyes. "Are you intending to hurt him?"

Winslowe looked aghast. "Well, not if he's got our money!"

"He doesn't. But he's telling the truth. Webber?"

Webber leaned into view. "Yes, Captain?"

"Just ensuring your head and your body are still attached. Will 20K cover your present difficulties?"

He smiled tightly; now Winslowe would know exactly how much he could take. He supposed it was all UDS' anyway. "That'll do just fine."

"Wonderful. We'll handle the rest once I've nailed down final expenses. Anything else, Mr. Winslowe?"

The company man waved at the screen. "Thanks for your time, ma'am." He clicked off, holding his smile until the connection died. Then he snapped his eyes to Webber, snarling. "You better pray the transfer comes through soon. You're cutting into my evening, dick."

"Then let's make the most of our time together," Webber said. "Want to play
BombZone
?"

Winslowe scowled. A half hour later, with his balance unchanged, Webber called his bank. They informed him a transfer was pending but could take a while longer to confirm. Winslowe sighed, got out his device, and sent Webber a friend request.

Two hours and seventeen games of
BombZone
later, the transfer cleared. Webber stared at the numbers as if they were revealing the secrets of the universe to him. "How's 10K sound?"

Winslowe stared him down. "Like you need to respect the man who just kicked your ass up and down the sector."

"15K," he said. Winslowe didn't budge. Webber sat back and folded his arms. "Eighteen. You saw what I'm working with. You want anything more, and you're going to have to make me another loan."