Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2)

by Edward W. Robertson

  That same day, she came to him with word on the Blackwings. They were making a move on the Dragons' turf. Nothing violent, nothing overt, just letting their dealers wander a half block past their territory.

  "They're trying to provoke a fight," Ced said.

  "No shit," Kansas laughed. "But they've backed us into a corner. We can't show weakness. Any hint that we fear them, and our allies will start planning where to stick the knife."

  "So you take away the game. Get the poles to put a block on the trade."

  "And infuriate every crew on the station?"

  "Put it on the poles. Get them to say it's about preventing violence in this time of trouble. Do that, and it puts it on the Blackwings. They'll alienate everyone on their side."

  "We'll give it a shot," she said. "But if the poles don't bite, I won't back down."

  "I know."

  They bit. Two days later, the corners were a ghost town. Kansas' device started pinging nonstop. She had to make a lot of promises to a lot of crews, but the Dragons' war chest had grown fat after years of feeding off the jukes. The Blackwings pitched a fit, cementing Ced's conviction it had been the right move.

  That evening, with Kansas tied up in talks with other crews, Ced headed to the cafeteria for his first meal of the day. He took an empty seat in the midst of several other tables, getting a handle on the crew's mood. Their voices were upbeat. Confident. A lot of talk about what they were going to spend their new-found money on.

  "…like she told me?" To his right, an out-of-uniform security teamer laughed, leaning his elbows on the table. "She said to lock them up. So I locked them up. You gonna argue?"

  "I'd sooner stick my face behind a live engine," another man muttered. "Any idea who they were with?"

  "Official word is…" The voice grew too faint to hear. Ced stood, moving to bus his tray. "…heard one of them say the Hive."

  This drew surprised looks from the guard's coworkers. Ced confirmed the man's ID, dumped his tray, and headed to his room to dig through the security logs.

  She'd disguised it well. Buried it in a heap of street reports and made no official entry. But there was a hole in her schedule—it said she'd been in talks in her office when he knew for a fact she'd been upstairs in the penthouse—and this was followed by a security team taking a car to their building a few blocks away.

  The one where they kept detainees.

  He closed his device, headed outside, and walked to the detention center. There, he told the staff he'd been sent to follow up with the crew from the Hive. A man peeled from behind the counter and brought him to the windowless rear of the building.

  "Careful in there," the man said. "One of them's a local. Former marine."

  Ced thanked him and stepped inside a bright passage. Four cells lined it on each side, sealed with transparent plastic walls. Only three of the cells were occupied. He spotted the marine instantly—shaved head, goatee, muscles that looked like they produced their own anabolics. The second man had a far more reasonable build, but where the marine looked serene, this man looked pissed. The third cell held a dark-haired woman in her late twenties. Her face looked delicate. Her eyes looked anything but.

  "My name's Ced," he announced. They were being monitored; any lie would draw attention. "I'm here to follow up."

  "Glad to hear it," the angry-looking man said, his voice carrying clearly through the clear plastic separating him from Ced. "That admiral of yours doesn't seem to take threats to your continued existence too seriously. By which I mean 'at all.'"

  "What kind of threats?"

  The woman moved to the edge of her cell, eyeing him with naked suspicion. "Who are you?"

  "I'm the one person who knows Admiral Carruth better than anyone," he said. "You think she didn't take you seriously? Then I'm the one you have to convince."

  "How much do you know?"

  "Start from the top."

  The angry-looking man snorted. "Nothing, in other words? You sound like a real big wheel around here, all right."

  Ced turned to walk away.

  "Stop," the woman said. "Webber, if you don't shut up, the first thing I'm going to do once we're out of here is shove both my feet down your throat. Got me?" He said nothing. The woman turned to Ced. "Pull up a chair. There's a lot to tell."

  He listened, arms folded over his chest, as she laid out a convoluted, decades-long history of a rock called Quarantine, a parallel program on the Locker, and the much more recent activities of FinnTech Industries and Valiant Enterprises. Ced had heard some noise about FinnTech doing business with the aliens—hard to ignore that, considering the Swimmers hadn't been seen in a thousand years. But he'd been so wrapped up in other business—first, his waiting-out-the-clock numbness serving Garnes; then, Kansas' shocking revolution—that he'd never truly absorbed the news' impact.

  He stopped the woman, Rada, several times, either to clarify points or interrogate her on things that didn't fit. Soon, the only things he didn't understand were the parts they hadn't yet untangled for themselves.

  Rada finished, silent for the first time in minutes. Ced lowered his eyes and tapped a search into his device. Iggi Daniels' face was meaningless to him, but he recognized her voice on the spot.

  The same voice he'd heard giving orders to Kansas.

  Seeing his expression, Rada drew her face six inches back from the plastic wall. "What is it?"

  "You're wrong about one thing." Ced's voice felt like it was coming from another body. "The inoculation isn't some Swimmer plot to exterminate us. Valiant Enterprises is using it to track children so they can't be hidden from the crews."

  "Why is that such a big deal?"

  "The crews have always taken on orphans and kids whose parents didn't have the means to provide for them. A few years before I was born, the crews adopted the care debt—meaning that, once the kid hit eighteen, he either had to stick with the crew and pay them back a lot, or leave and pay them a fortune. So people started hiding their kids away. Keeping them away from the crews—until the crews found a foolproof way to track them down and drag them back into the system."

  Webber, the smaller of the two men, was looking annoyed again. "Why couldn't they just hire adults like normal people?"

  "Out here, people die every day," said MacAdams, the marine. "Always been like that. In the early days, the crews stepped up. Said they were your family. Promised you that, if you bought it in the line of duty, your children would always be taken care of." He rubbed his bald scalp. "It was the glue that held this place together. Then the crews found a way to turn a liability into a profit."

  "And you think it took the help of Valiant Enterprises," Rada said to Ced. "But what would they want with the Locker?"

  "Best guess?" Ced said. "None of the big companies had the balls to take on the Locker directly. They ran the numbers and saw it would be suicide. So Valiant found a way to gain control. They saved the crews from having to go back to the old ways. And now, they're ready to—"

  He cut himself off, resisting the urge to look up at the corners of the hallway between the cells.

  "Could be you're right about Valiant," Rada said. "That doesn't address the Swimmers. They didn't give H/K this tech out of the goodness of their multiple hearts."

  "You told all this to Kansas?"

  "Yep," Webber said. "She was so impressed she gave us an all-expenses-paid trip to prison."

  "I'll talk to her." Ced turned toward the door.

  "Hey." Behind him, Rada put her palm on the transparent wall. "That's it?"

  He gazed at her. "What would you do if you got out of here?"

  "If you're right, Valiant has enabled a de facto child slavery ring. We'll try everything we can to help."

  "'Try' isn't good enough."

  Her gaze was as steady as Kansas'. "We've put our lives on the line for this more times than I can count. If we get out of here, we'll see this through to the end."

  Ced nodded and walked out. If one of the guards informed Kansas
of his visit, the video would prove he knew everything. He had a play, though—he wouldn't try to hide it from Kansas.

  He just had to do one thing first.

  Gangsters tended to be creatures of the night, and the white rooms were open all hours. He headed to one and passed through their sanitation protocol. They brought him a clean device. Once he could trust his voice not to shake, he messaged Venner, the Orcs' admiral, and set up a meet. Venner wanted to do it on his home turf, but Ced insisted on the white room.

  "Bring as many people as you need to feel safe," Ced said. "I'll be alone."

  "Are you trying to insult me? How about you at least tell me what this is about?"

  "Not until you're here."

  On the device screen, the man swore, gazed at Ced, then swore again. "When?"

  "Right now. I guarantee you'll want to hear this."

  He hung up. It was an hour before Venner arrived and passed through the protocol. He'd brought three men and a woman with him. They were dressed in the plain white clothes provided by the cleanroom staff, but Ced recognized most of them from earlier encounters.

  Venner thunked down across the table. "Talk."

  "I need your help getting a ship out of the Locker."

  The rival admiral was in his late thirties, with a receding hairline cut close to the scalp, a crescent moon branded on his forehead, and a series of thin metallic plates tattooed or grafted onto his left forearm. It was intended to make him look tough. On most days, it worked. That night, though, he wore a brittle, irritated expression, like a guy who'd passed out in his Crash Day costume and been woken too early the next morning.

  "Let me guess," Venner said. "It's the one your teenage admiral has ordered glued to the runway."

  Ced nodded. "They came to help us. They must be allowed to leave."

  "Why are you coming to me with this?"

  "I can't trust anyone from my crew not to report me. If you want to try, we're in a white room. You won't have a single record. It'll be your word against mine—and you've had a grudge against the Dragons for years."

  The man snorted, casting an amused glance at his bodyguards. "Cunning. Let me know if you're ever in the market for a new job. In the meantime, care to explain why Kansas is so keen to keep the ship grounded?"

  Ced mashed his lips together, gesturing in a broad sweep. "This place, do you give any shits about it? Or is it just a way to make your pockets clink?"

  "I can trace my lineage back to when the Outcast first touched down on this rock. Do I smile every time I hear the daily financials? Unashamedly. But don't mistake me—I would lose it all in defense of this place."

  "Outsiders have been tampering with the Locker for years. And it just got a whole lot worse."

  Venner drew back like he'd just discovered the back half of a beetle in his sandwich. "That's how she did it?"

  "I can't go into details. All I can tell you is that if you want to stay independent, we have to get that ship out of here."

  "The passengers are one thing. But there's no way you get that ship out. Even if we get it launched, they'll shoot it down with everything they've got. We have to leave it behind."

  "The passengers will never go for that. But I've got a solution. Six, seven years ago, we moved on your corners. Ever wonder how we did that?"

  Venner's eyes flashed with anger. "Rubbing my nose in it is not an effective negotiation strategy."

  "Grapefruit," Ced said. He explained quickly.

  Venner laughed raspily. "That could work. And I'd be delighted to toss a giant wrench into Kansas' plans. So what do you want out of this?"

  "For you to do your job."

  "If this is a setup, it's the most ham-handed one I've ever heard." The admiral's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Hang on there. I've seen you with her. Finally figure out you're just a toy?"

  Ced stiffened. "How do you mean?"

  "You must really love her to want to hurt her like this." Venner stuck out his hand. "You've got a deal."

  He couldn't pull the trigger yet, though. Not until he talked to Kansas. He messaged her on his way back. She was still up. And sounded eager to speak.

  She was in the penthouse. Alone at the windows. From her vantage, you could look down on all the people on the street and they'd never know you were watching.

  "Do you have something to tell me?" she said.

  "I spoke to the crew," he said. "From the Hive."

  "And?"

  "We have to let them go."

  "They told you we're being manipulated?" Halfway across the room, she began to walk toward him, bare feet moving soundlessly. "They don't know anything. I own this place. I've torn down the debts."

  He made himself meet her eyes. "You're working for the people who helped create the debts!"

  "And I have them under control." She stopped three feet away, the lower half of her face lit by a ray of light from the building opposite. "Don't do anything stupid."

  "Or what?"

  She reached for his arm. He knocked her hand away. She thrust her jaw forward and grabbed his wrist. "Or you're gone."

  Ced smiled faintly. "I knew you'd say that. You're right. This place is yours now."

  He headed back to the white room. Paranoid, probably, but this was no time to take chances. He put in the call to Venner.

  The Orcs needed two days. The next day, the three captives were moved to the main office, probably so Kansas could keep a closer watch. That was fine with Ced. He had access to the entire building.

  On the night the Orcs were ready, Ced headed up to where the Hive's people were being confined on the sixteenth floor. The doors were sealed, but a guard was posted outside. Ced flashed his ID. The guard consulted his device and let him into a foyer, then through another locked door.

  Inside, there were just two cells, with MacAdams and Webber sharing one. Ced turned his device on the locks. The doors slid open.

  "Ready to go?" he said.

  Webber grinned. "As fast as our legs can carry us."

  He'd brought three sets of magnetic cuffs that looked legit but would part with a good tug. Once the three of them were "shackled," he brought them back into the hall.

  The guard moved in front of him. "Whoa. Hey."

  "I'm taking them upstairs." Ced flashed his device. "Orders straight from Kansas."

  The man eyed the screen, then shook his head. "I got orders that no one goes out under any circumstances. If the admiral changed her mind, I need to hear it from her."

  He went for his device. Ced said, "I don't think you understand. She—"

  A great clenched fist drove into the back of the man's head. He flew forward; his device soared into the air. As MacAdams drove through him, scanning him for movement, a startled Webber caught the tumbling device. The guard lay facedown on the floor.

  "I had that!" Ced said. Webber was already dragging the unconscious man into the holding cell.

  MacAdams shook out the hand he'd punched the guard with. "Sure, kid. Do you want to argue about it, or do you want to get out of here?"

  Webber locked the door to the cells. Ced muttered something unkind and led them to the rear elevator. It was rarely used, but the descent was the longest of his life. On the ground floor, a few crewmen headed in and out. Ced walked through them like it was the most normal thing in the world. He led the three prisoners half a block to the car—he'd considered the tube, but there were too many cameras—and hopped in. As soon as the doors closed, the car swerved into the street.

  Rada glanced through the rear window. "What's the plan?"

  "Drive to the port," Ced said.

  "And?"

  "Hop ship."

  Webber furrowed his brow. "Are your plans normally this optimistic?"

  "Won't need much luck. I've been practicing for this my entire life."

  Within three blocks of leaving the office, the car slowed to a crawl, nosing cautiously through the swarming pedestrians. As with all stations, space was at a premium. Few streets were designe
d for car traffic. Heart racing, Ced kept one eye on the way ahead and one out the back window.

  "Tell me this is part of the plan, too," Webber said.

  "We don't got time for this," MacAdams said. "That prison guard I clocked could wake any second."

  "You're right." Ced flipped the locks. "We'll bolt. Take the tube."

  "Better idea." Rada unstrapped. "Shove over. I'm driving."

  They climbed over each other, changing places. She smelled like she'd been in lockup a few days. She shut down the autopilot and grabbed the steering sticks. She nudged forward, all but daring the throngs to get in the vehicle's path. A gap opened ahead and she surged to squeeze through. A moment later, it closed. She turned hard to the right, the tires bumping over the low curb, and rolled down the sidewalk, passing inches from the carts of vendors. Steam fogged the window.

  "Where did you learn how to drive?" Ced said. "Better Sands?"

  Rada smiled lopsidedly. "An empty rock."

  She emerged into a clear intersection and pulled in behind a sweeper churning dust and trash out of the road. Ahead, a small car with a flashing green light cleared the way. Rada looped in behind it, dogging it for several blocks, then broke right down a quiet street. Within minutes, they were at the port.

  Ced had her park near the main terminal. "You're going to Wing C. It's right over there. A man named Venner will take you to his ship."

  "His ship?" Rada said.

  "You're not coming with us?" Webber added, doing nothing to disguise his skepticism.

  "They can track me," Ced said. "Best I stay in the public terminal until you're out." He turned to Rada. "I got you this far. Trust me to take you this last step."

  She nodded. MacAdams clapped him on the shoulder. "What happens to you once they find out what you did?"

  "That's on them," Ced said. "Good luck."

  He got out and ambled toward the public terminal. Behind him, the car continued toward Wing C. There was no point in him trying to run. They could track him wherever he went. He moved to keep tabs on the outgoing flights. Though he knew they could come for him at any time, he felt as light as he had since before the crews, when he and Stefen had roamed through the whole Locker as if it was their back yard. Could be he felt that way because he knew it was over—Kansas would have him airlocked, or buried beneath the crypts—but he let himself float in that feeling, enjoying whatever time he had left.