Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2)

by Edward W. Robertson

  "My name is Kansas Carruth." She gazed across the array of faces. "Most of you don't know me. But here's why you want me in charge: as of this moment, all of your debts are erased." She thrust her device over her head and tapped the screen. Figures flashed. "And the care debt is abolished. Permanently."

  The crowd went as silent as video shot in vacuum. Devices lit up like the skyline at night as people checked their balances in disbelief. A great cheer rolled from the roof, drowning out all noise of the city below them.

  Kansas stepped down into a swarm of officers and crewmen. Ced smiled. A hand landed on his shoulder. Heddy stood beside him, smiling in wonder. He'd only seen her a smattering of times since the days of the jukes and he couldn't believe how adult she looked.

  "What is happening?" she said. "How is she doing this?"

  Ced shrugged. "At a guess, sheer balls."

  "She reached out to us. The former CEOs. Let us know that if we backed her, she'd change everything. I didn't think she meant everything."

  He felt stung by this—he'd been a CEO, however briefly, and Kansas hadn't said a word to him—but it was starting to make sense. The jukes had seen over twenty CEOs between them, and Kansas had known most of them before transferring to the flight teams. Those CEOs, in turn, knew scores of people, many of whom had graduated to the full crews. Among the crewman she had no personal connection to, many still carried a sizable care debt.

  And she'd just radicalized them all.

  "We've been looking for you," Heddy said. "Come with me."

  She weaved through the crowd, bearing him in her wake. They were headed away from the flow toward Kansas and the people thinned quickly. Heddy came to a stop, presenting a host of familiar faces: Donner, Marly, Jole, Niki, Flesco, and virtually the entire team from the early days of the Fightin' Iguanas.

  "Look who finally escaped the desk," Niki said.

  Ced laughed out loud. It was the first time they'd been back together since the strike. They soon drifted to the tables that had been set at the other end of the roof, encamping across two of them, fortifying themselves with food and grog. Most of the others had wild tales of their last few years on the streets, but Ced had little to offer besides office gossip, most of which had been obsoleted by the death of Garnes. He was able to drop a little knowledge about Kansas' recent activities, as well as what she'd been like back when the two of them had been a team, which the others seemed hungry to hear even though they'd been there too.

  After a few hours, he felt like he'd be able to leap off the side of the building and take flight. It was easy to credit that to the company, or (more likely) the multiple glasses of grog currently navigating his bloodstream, but it went beyond that. He had escaped the desk. All this time, he'd been chained to it, under the watch of the admiral, weighted down by the debt that would ride him long after his first contract expired. There had been nothing to try for, and he hadn't.

  Compare that to the early years of the jukes. When the only bounds to what they could achieve—and be rewarded for—were the limits of their own imagination, boldness, and willingness to work. Back then, he'd been a different person. Bigger. Better. Give a person freedom, and they blossomed. Take it away, and they withered.

  Soon, he rose, only a little unsteadily, and circulated around the roof. No one had seen Kansas. He pinged her device. Minutes later, with no response, he moved to a quiet part of the roof and pulled up his personnel map. The one he'd been trusted with to help him locate crewmen who, for whatever reason, weren't replying to their messages. At the moment, Kansas' icon was down in Garnes' office. Her office.

  She hadn't said a word about what had happened between them at Furley's house. A few days earlier in his life, he would have kept quiet, letting things play out on their own. After seeing the others, and remembering how he used to feel every day? He knew that, if he let this thing slip away, he'd never forgive himself.

  He jogged down the stairs. Reception was dimly lit. As he neared the admiral's door, his device booped. The admiral's room was whited out. All noise canceled by the walls, leaving it impossible to snoop. It was also a de facto "Do Not Disturb" sign.

  Which was probably the reason—along with a small dose of drunken paranoia that she was using it as cover for a tryst—that he pulled up his connection to the room. It was supposed to have been a way for him to interrupt Garnes in case of emergencies, but after spending enough time with the system, he'd learned he could use it to listen in, too.

  "…already sent them away once." The voice was female. Bouncy, almost sing-songy, but the unmistakable tone of someone used to having their commands obeyed. "Think you should have checked in first?"

  "I had no choice." Kansas' voice was tight. Defensive in a way that Ced had never heard. "I barely have a grip on this place. I'll be putting out fires for weeks. Shutting down the station was the only way to make sure none of my rivals would have the chance to bring in outside help."

  "You know what, you've convinced me. You have ten days. Then you're reopen for business."

  "I need more time. You have no idea how delicate the situation on the ground is."

  "Then here's a suggestion, Miss Carruth: make it less delicate."

  "What does it matter? If they can't come in, how can they threaten you?"

  "Check me on something. You are human, right?"

  "Yes," Kansas said, clearly biting down a more acidic response. Ced wanted badly to record a scrap of the conversation—if he had a recording of the other woman's voice, he could run it through the net and spit out an identity—but the line was output-only. Start recording, and it would alert Kansas.

  "Then you should know that telling a human to keep out is the best way to make sure they come in," the woman said. "So what do you do instead? You welcome them. Learn what they want. And then I decide whether they need to join your departed admiral."

  The connection went dead. Ced shut down his link and hurried out into the hallway. He had no idea who the woman on the other end had been, but he knew now where all Kansas' help was coming from.

  And it wasn't from inside the Locker.

  13

  Rada shook hands with Kansas. She looked young. Not "well-preserved" young, but like she still needed the signature of a legal guardian.

  Yet she commanded the entire Locker.

  "Rada Pence," she said. "I'm with the Hive."

  "Call me Kansas." The woman's light eyes moved to the men at either side of Rada. "Who's the meat?"

  "MacAdams and—"

  "Mazzy Webber." Webber stepped toward the girl, hand extended.

  Her face went stony. "I know you. You're the ones who took down Ikita."

  "Turns out we have an aversion to being betrayed and murdered. Think we were out of line?"

  "I'm trying to thank you. Ikita was too arrogant to do business with. His replacement has been much more reasonable."

  "How did you do it?" MacAdams said softly. "No offense, but you look like you should be encouraging your classmates to reach for their dreams."

  "Does that excite you?"

  His face darkened. "It makes me wonder how many new coffins you've put in orbit."

  "How dare I sully the Locker's shining moral tradition."

  "Everyone else in the System wants us dead. We're supposed to watch each other's backs, not plant knives in them."

  MacAdams had a foot in height and well over a hundred pounds on her, but during the ensuing staredown, Rada wasn't sure who she'd have put her money on.

  "That's exactly why we're here." Rada put a hand on MacAdams' arm. "If we don't work together, the Locker will be destroyed."

  He nodded grudgingly. "Pardon my dudgeon. The Locker's my home, too."

  Kansas smiled thinly. "If you're half as noble as you front, it's no wonder you had to leave. Grab a chair. Let's talk."

  They followed her across the expansive marble-tiled room. She slung herself into a low, spindly-legged seat in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, which had a fine
view of the offices across the street.

  Kansas looped a leg over the arm of the chair. "So you think the Locker's gonna be destroyed, huh? Aliens? Terrorists? Or is the year approaching a big round number?"

  "Motion Arrestors," Rada said.

  "Come again?"

  "The newest advance from FinnTech—the one provided by the Swimmers. Surely you've heard about it."

  "Word is you can snap your ship around like a whip and, on the inside, you'll never know you're moving." Kansas swung her foot to the floor and scooted to the edge of her chair. "Know what else they say? That you've got one."

  "It's not us you need to worry about. It's everyone else."

  "Feel free to start making a point."

  Rada drew a circle in the air with her finger. "Every government and corporation in the System wants to see this place done in. They've been unable to do it themselves. At first, it was too remote. By the time travel durations shrank from weeks to days, the Locker was too big. Scores of ships had made a fortune pillaging the outer reaches. Their success drew hundreds more. Any company who tried to fight you would risk their entire fleet. They'd be left ruined and the others would reap the spoils. Instead, they built the Lanes. Safe passage for themselves, and they could charge the smaller outfits for protection. Things got a little tougher here, but nothing the Locker couldn't handle."

  "I don't need a lecture on how this works. I spent the last five years sharking the Lanes."

  "I'm setting up the pieces—and now I knock them down. Every ship you've got here, it became obsolete the moment FinnTech unveiled the Arrestors."

  Kansas' eyes grew hooded. "You think they'll come for us."

  "It's already started. On our way here, we got reports of a corporate ambush of a Locker fleet. They were using MAs. The Locker ships were massacred."

  "I heard about that one. People have been taking shots at our ships for years. Doesn't mean they have any designs on the station."

  "Are you willing to bank your existence on that?" Rada straightened her back. "Maybe FinnTech is just out to make a buck—or maybe they're part of a Swimmer plot to eradicate humanity, starting with its peskiest outposts. If so, my employer has every intention of going down swinging. He'd like your help. Mutual defense pact. If FinnTech comes after one of us, he'll have to deal with both of us."

  Kansas reclined in her chair, elbow propped on its back. "This is all you've got?"

  "What more do you need? A notarized declaration of war from Thor Finn?"

  "I'll tell you what I don't need. To entangle my business with a bunch of do-gooders hellbent on turning Finn into their enemy. So here's my counteroffer. You want my help? I want your Motion Arrestors."

  "We're working to deconstruct them. I'm sure Toman would be willing to share."

  The girl shook her head in slow sweeps. "I don't want your charity. I want your factories."

  Rada fought to keep her expression neutral. "That's a big ask."

  "If you're right about FinnTech, you'll lose them anyway."

  "I'd rather see them vaped than in the hands of someone like you," MacAdams rumbled.

  "MacAdams!" Rada clenched her jaw. "Admiral, my friend may be overly judgmental for a former pirate, but I'm a friend. And I think you're making a mistake."

  Kansas waved a hand. "Your boss has three days until my offer expires. After that, you're on your own."

  The security officers who'd escorted them to the building chaperoned them into the elevator. Once they were outside, Webber brushed dust from his jacket, watching the guards depart.

  "Think Toman will go for it?" he said.

  Rada opened her device. "Not a chance. He's pragmatic, but when he senses someone is squeezing him, he gets more righteous than MacAdams."

  "I prefer to think of it as having standards," MacAdams said.

  Webber turned on him. "You joined us on the Fourth Down as a merc. Since when did you have standards?"

  "Since the battle with Ikita." He stood there in the street, pedestrians flowing around him, a tree parting the floodwaters. "We lost a lot of people then. If not for Rada, you and I would have eaten vacuum, too. I figure that means my life is hers to spend." He grinned at her. "As long as she's putting it toward a good cause."

  Webber shifted, visibly uncomfortable. "If Admiral Shortpants is squeezing us, we should squeeze back. Why not tell her about the vaccines? Valiant's ties to the Locker?"

  "Right now, that's only a theory," Rada said. "She would have brushed it off just like the stuff with the MAs. We're too late. We don't have a play here."

  "What are you talking about? We've got three days. I say we follow up on Valiant. If we can prove they've got their tendrils in the Locker, she'll have to reconsider."

  "And if she doesn't?"

  "Then we'll go public," MacAdams said. "The big corps are the pirates' mortal enemy. If the crews learn they're being played, they'll go ballistic. If Kansas won't fight back, they'll stuff her down the nearest recycler."

  Rada got to work on a slew of messages. One to Toman, catching him up. One to LOTR, requesting information on Horton/Kolt and its subsequent purchase by Valiant Enterprises. And a third to Fannah Michals, chairman of Brightward Path, the foundation established on the Locker by Henry Aikens, H/K's former attorney.

  Rada wrangled a meet with Michals for that same day. Hints of a sizable donation from the Hive might have been involved. They checked into a hotel to clean up—no matter how tidy you kept your ship, after traveling on it for a week, you tended to pick up its smell.

  Webber wandered from the bathroom, rubbing his hair with a towel. "Should I even bother to get dressed? Or can I go straight to my pajamas?"

  "Only if they're formal," Rada said. "You and MacAdams are coming with."

  He returned wearing seamless black pants and a matching shirt. It wasn't far from pajamas, but it was just elegant enough to work. MacAdams had conjured up a suit from somewhere. With his shaved head and oversized muscles, the suit could have made him look like a gangster trying to pretend his wealth was legit, but something had changed in him over the last few months. There was less swaggering, hull-cracking marine, and more of the quiet dedication of a convert.

  As for Rada, prior to her role with the Hive, she'd been a miner. Indie crew. Out there, the only use she'd had for a dress was swabbing the ice from the windshield of her ore cart. Since joining Toman, she'd been happy to run around in the unofficial pilots' uniform of loose pants and tight jackets with lots of zippers. In search of something appropriate to wear to meet the head of a charitable foundation, she hit up a women's clothing store on the same block as the hotel, but the dresses all seemed to show too much skin or not enough. As for the more conservative routes involving pants and things with sleeves, to Rada, they conjured up an image of a type of women who was as competent at her career as she was with her family. The type who pulled double duty on everything, doing crunches as her device read her the morning memos.

  That seemed to work fine for them. But she wasn't a mother or middle manager. She was a pilot. She left the store empty-handed, returned to the hotel, and put on her gear.

  The foundation was housed in the tenth floor of a decent but not upscale tower a few stops down the tube. There, they were met by Fannah Michals, a middle-aged woman with upswept hair and a lime green dress cut at diagonals, exposing one shoulder and one knee. She gave them a tour of the floor, introducing them to an interchangeable team of enthusiastic, cherubic volunteers.

  Webber looked as bored as Rada felt. Tour finished, Fannah ushered them into her office and closed the door. "As you can see, we do our best. But there are always more cases than resources."

  "I know the feeling," Rada said. "Well, Mr. Benez is interested in expanding those resources. But there's one catch."

  "Just one? Normally our donations come with more catches than a fishing trawler."

  Rada laughed appropriately. "We need to know why Henry Aikens founded Brightward Path."

  "Well, I've
told you. To assist children with health issues beyond their financial means."

  "We think it runs deeper than that. Way back to what happened on Quarantine."

  Fannah frowned, a pair of lines forming at the outer corners of her eyes. "I assure you, the foundation was established to fill in the cracks left by the Office of Health and Safety. No more and no less."

  Rada pressed her, but had to settle for an expansive file on the history of the Brightward Path, along with the reassurance that Fannah would answer any other questions she might have. Rada forwarded the transfer request to Toman's offices, thanked Fannah for her time, and left.

  The street smelled like steam and peanut oil, the byproduct of food carts. Webber got a sack of dumplings, munching them as they walked to the tube. "Think she was covering something up?"

  "She felt legit," MacAdams said. "A believer."

  "The Path's original chairman is dead," Rada said. "But we could try his friends. Or the Locker attorney who helped Aikens incorporate. It doesn't feel like Aikens was trying to keep his feelings about H/K a secret."

  "Maybe he didn't," Webber said around a mouthful of shredded gray meat. He had his device in his hand, scrolling through pictures and text. "Fannah said this was about making up for the Office of Health and Safety. Check it out. OHS was founded the same year shit went down on Quarantine."

  Rada yanked out her device. On the OHS landing swipe, a man and a woman grinned out at the camera. They wore black and red uniforms.

  "I've seen these people," she said. "They were grabbing a kid in the street. He didn't want to go with them, but nobody stopped to help."

  "Sure," MacAdams said. "Dragging a runaway into the office to be put up for bidding. Happens all the time."

  Webber wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Were they doing this before OHS was created?"

  "Couldn't say."

  "Whatever they're doing, Aikens felt guilty for it." Webber crumpled his empty dumpling bag and lobbed it toward a recycler. "They're messing with kids here, same as they were back on Quarry. Bank on it."