Rebel Stars 1: Outlaw (15 page)

"Accepted," he said after a moment's hesitation. "Now do a little dance."

She scowled and flicked her fingers to the left, then to the right, twisting in her straps. "That's the best you get."

"Did you hear me complain?" His grin settled down. "What's the deal, though? Why are you giving me so much pushback on this? I thought you'd jump at the chance to keep going."

"I'd love nothing more," she said. "And that's why I've got to keep
your
enthusiasm in check."

"Oh. Well. Why didn't you say so?"

"I must have overestimated your intelligence."

Simm laughed. His device pinged. He picked it up and scrolled. "Told you. You bring up Lawson, and as soon as Tennymore clicks off, what does he do? Dives into Lawson's account. Makes sure it's still safe. Convinced I'm right yet?"

"I'd like to be," she smiled. "So Tennymore's handling the money. Where's the money coming from?"

His mirth did another disappearing act. "TransPhere. Security's going to be just a little tighter than Tennymore's. I don't suppose you've any military-grade cracking software?"

"Not on me. But we know someone who does."

~

Toman frowned at Simm's data, scrolling and scrolling. He reached the end, frowned even harder, then set down the device and stared at the flies dancing on the surface of the pond.

"TransPhere," he said at last. "You could work at TransPhere for thirty years without one good opportunity to dip into their data."

Simm shifted his feet, mud squelching beneath him. "I was sure we had a new trail. Are you saying it's impossible?"

"For mortals? Yes." Toman picked up his device and stood. "That's why I'm lending you the Lords of the True Realm."

"No. Fucking.
Way!
"

Rada examined Toman's face for hints of a joke. "The core team? Why?"

"Breathe, Simm," Toman said. "Breathe, buddy!" He turned to Rada. "As of this moment, I'm a believer. Something's rotten here. To break open the case, all you have to do is track that odor to Mr. Pip."

"And convince him to tell us what it means," Simm corrected.

Toman smiled like a crocodile. "Leave that to me. You will deliver your brief to the Lords at 0330. Do not be late."

He walked toward the dock, heading for the lighthouse/private office he kept on the island in the lake.

"Wow," Simm said. "The Lords of the True Realm. I might have to get drunk before I'm ready to hang out with them." His eyebrows shot up. "Sorry. Joking."

"If it helps, get shitfaced." Rada plucked a purple flower from a reed and flicked it at the water. "I've always told you it's fine if you want to drink around me."

"Maybe just one?" He hardened his face. "No. Too risky. If I said something foolish, I'd never forgive myself."

"Why? Don't tell me you want to join them."

"What would be wrong with that?"

"Nothing. They're total warriors. Virtual gods. I just thought you liked flying around in the
Tine
with me."

"Of course I do," he said. "Someday, though, we might want to settle down. If we do, there's nothing I'd want more than to apply to their ranks."

"Know what? I can see that." Rada reached for his hand. "Stick to the facts. Lay out what we need found. And everything will be fine."

She injected her voice with all the confidence she could dredge up. She checked the time on her device: 4:37 PM, Hive Standard. They had less than twelve hours to prepare.

It seemed like it would take less time than that, yet as with all such projects, it expanded to fill what was available. By the time they were finished, they had reams of reports, pie charts, graphs, video conversations, death certificates, highly incomplete financial records, and bullet-pointed summaries of key findings to date and the methods they hoped might prove Peregrine Lawson was still alive—or that he was, in fact, as dead as reported, and that someone else was paying Dinah's staggering bills.

The hour neared. Rada and Simm packed up their devices, got into a cart, and let it bear them to the other side of the mini-planet. As part of their agreement to live onsite at the Hive, where they could be in immediate contact with each other and Toman rather than on a minutes-long lag that would make multiple-party conversations impossible, the Lords of the True Realm had talked him into letting them reside in Hyrule Castle.

This was an actual, factual castle. A moat. Curtain walls. A keep. Each of its four corners bore a tower made not only of a different stone, but from a different world: cold gray basalt from the Moon; orange-red bricks of Martian clay; warm white limestone from Earth; and the shiny, silver-black pallasite of meteors. At the moment—the middle of the "night," with the dome ceiling devoid of artificial light—the drawbridge was raised.

Simm tipped back his head to take in the towers. "So cool."

"So impractical," Rada said.

"Who goes there?" a deep voice bellowed from above. It had a kooky accent. One that no longer existed, and perhaps never had: the media's stereotype of pre-plague, pre-industrial England. And since there were no silhouettes on the rampart, this voice was in all likelihood being broadcast through a speaker.

Even so, she gazed up in its direction. "Rada Pence and Simmon Andrels."

"And what is your purpose?"

She frowned up at the merlons. "Didn't Toman tell you?"

"Our purpose," Simm said, balling his fists and holding his arms straight down his sides, "is to entreat the lords of this fortress—and of the virtual plane itself—to assist us in a quest of unknown portent."

The voice considered this. "And you claim you were sent by our friend and ally?"

"Sir Toman Benez," Rada affirmed. "Wealthier than a dragon. And twice as clever."

Beside her, Simm mimed applause.

"I see that this is so," the voice replied. "Then enter Hyrule, and step before the LOTR."

Metal clanked overhead. Rada flinched, but it was just the drawbridge lowering into place, revealing the courtyard beyond.

The port in the wall flashed, silent, the noise of its fire lost to the vacuum. MacAdams grunted into his radio, leaping backwards. Check that, he hadn't leapt: he had been propelled backwards by the impact of the shots hitting his chest.

Taz yelled out, grabbing for his arm as he spun past. She snagged him and pulled him behind the crates. Small rounds shredded into the wall behind them. MacAdams appeared to be unconscious. Little spheres of blood floated from the wounds in his chest. The lights on his wrist indicated he was alive but maybe wasn't too happy about it. His suit claimed it had sealed shut where possible and that his oxygen was fine.

"What do we do?" Webber yelled.

Taz didn't look up from her examination. "What do you mean, what do we do? He's been shot, numbnuts! We get him on the shuttle and back to the
Fourth
."

Webber gazed at the boxes of cargo. "What about the goods?"

"We're too close to the Lane. No way can we get MacAdams out of here, come back for the defenses, and still have time to load up the shuttle."

"Take him home," Webber said. "I'll take out the defenses."

Taz snorted. "Right, asshole. And what if something happens to you?"

"What do you care?"

Past her faceplate, a genuine smile lit her eyes. "You're on, cowboy. See you in hell."

She got MacAdams under her arm. Keeping low enough to stay behind the safety of the boxes, she crawled along the floor toward the airlock.

"Oh hey." Over the comm, Taz's voice was infuriatingly calm. "In case you haven't picked this up, this ship has gone totally GAP."

"GAP?"

"Genocide Against Pirates."

"So you're saying all I have to do is tell it I'm a viking. Or the health inspector." Webber eyed the wall of boxes. "How do I shut it down?"

"At this point, only Cooper's people can do that. You're going to have to blow it up. As it blasts anything it perceives as a threat."

"Which includes?"

"Don't ask me," Taz said. "Every outfit's protocols are unique. You only need to remember one thing: never get in a firefight with an autogun. They're faster and more accurate than you can dream."

He rifled through his bag of materiel. "I'm starting to regret this decision."

"I'm in the shuttle, but we haven't launched yet. There's still time to come with."

"I got this," he said. "Get MacAdams out of here."

"Roger. Remember, it's a robot. Don't get out-thought."

She fell silent. His device was linked up to the shuttle and a notice popped up that it was being readied for launch. He couldn't see the far wall, but he had a mental snapshot of where the autogun had been—high up, able to command virtually the entire cargo deck. He couldn't get a straight bead on it without exposing himself.

Not a worry. His bag of tricks included a three-pack of pinky-sized missiles. He got one out, linked it to his device, fed it a rough course, and ordered it to adjust to heat/motion (and also not to get confused and home in on him instead). He lobbed it upward. Its tiny engine engaged and it streaked across the hold.

The camera in its nose fed back to his device. He watched as the autogun locked onto the missile and fired. The video feed went blank. With no atmo, he didn't hear or feel a thing from the explosion.

Chatter over the comm. Taz explaining the situation to Gomes. He turned it down, paying just enough attention to hear if his name popped up.

He prepped and launched a second missile. It too was shredded to bits within an instant of clearing the cargo. What was the gun keying on? The missile's heat, its engine sig? Well, he didn't need a guided missile, did he? They were in zero G. All he had to do was bank a grenade off the ceiling.

He ran a few calculations on his device versus the map of the room it had assembled from the brief-lived missiles. Made a few practice throws. When the device agreed his angles were good, he got out a walnut-sized grenade, drew back, and flung it over the wall of crates.

Light flashed through the hold, his visor darkening to compensate. Webber swore. It was locking in on all motion, then? What could he do about that, blast open one of the boxes and flick coffee beans at it until it ran out of ammo? For all he knew, it had a self-filling magazine and could print itself new bullets until it ran out of ship to draw from.

He tipped back his head, searching for answers. And saw bright red globules of blood hanging in the non-air, completely undisturbed by the miniature bullets that were pulverizing everything else that emerged from cover.

With a bit of work, he detached his water supply from his suit and palmed his way up the back of a tower of shipping cans, stopping below the rim. His water was nearly full at six quarts. More than enough to send a thick shield drifting toward the autogun. If it didn't fire on the water, he could spray a second batch and follow it up with a missile or grenade. With any luck, the gun would continue to view the liquid as nonthreatening, ignorant of the explosive hiding behind it.

He poked the tip of the water tube past the top of the cargo cans and punched the ejection button. Water spewed out the end, its release pushing gently against him. No bullets seared through the vacuum. He stopped the flow. Holding his breath, he affixed his device to the top edge of the can and extended its camera.

Shapeless globs of water sailed across the vacant space. The autogun was motionless, but it felt like a predator lying in wait. Some bits of liquid flew off in their own directions, but most was gathering in a super-glob. This headed straight toward the sentry gun. The glob's lower half enveloped the weapon; its upper half broke free and dashed against the wall, scattering in all directions.

The gun flashed. Webber winced, but the weapon wasn't firing—it had caught on fire. Smoke drizzled from the autogun's base.

Webber unzipped his pocket, got out a pen light, and lobbed it over the cargo stacks. The light tumbled end over end. It hit the far wall and bounced off without drawing any fire.

"Webber to
Fourth
," he said.

"This is Gomes." The captain's voice was strained. "Everything okay in there, Webber?"

"Defenses are down. Send back the shuttle and let's steal us some beans."

~

There was a second unexplored hold below the first that contained nearly 20% of the anticipated coffee, but Gomes told him not to risk it. As it turned out, they barely had time to transfer the last batch from the main hold. With the interdiction threshold dwindling to ten minutes, they strapped in and booked out. MacAdams was being treated in medical, overseen by Taz and Vincent, who had some training for such things. He thought the marine would make it, but there were no guarantees.

They accelerated hard, beelining for the Locker. Once they slowed, and it was more comfortable to speak, Gomes said, "How'd you know that thing wasn't hardened against water?"

Webber explained the sequence of events. "I didn't have a damn clue. Electronics' mortal enemy since time immemorial."

"Ships like that are built to operate in vacuum," Lara said. "No reason to waterproof the hardware."

"Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good," Jons said.

Gomes chuckled. "Saved us a couple hundred thou. Not to mention Ikita's goodwill."

"You think he'd get nasty if we came back empty-handed?"

"I'd rather not find out."

Webber had only been in his suit three hours total, but he was filthy and exhausted. He asked for and was granted a shower. After, he collapsed into his bunk.

They got back to the Locker and returned to their apartment in the treehouses, which no one had decided to leave despite the cost. MacAdams was taken to the hospital, stable but unconscious. Vincent made arrangements to resupply the ship and alter its profile yet again. Gomes set up another Nude Room meet with Ikita. With MacAdams out, she took Jons in his stead.

This time, Ikita didn't try to restructure the deal. He asked how things had gone. Gomes hemmed and hawed a little, then had Webber and Taz relay events.