Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2)

by Edward W. Robertson

  The alien swooped upon the next drone, faster than expected. Again, as it came up on the drone's tail, it slowed. The drone launched everything it had. A garden of yellow flowers opened in the space between the two vessels. Red lines zapped at incoming missiles. Once these were toast, the UFO turned its lasers on the drone. The beam pulsed several times without effect—they were flying through the smoke and gas of the burst rockets, which appeared to be giving the laser some trouble. As soon as they cleared the debris, the laser flicked again and the drone winked off the tactical screen.

  It had barely taken two minutes for the enemy to knock out the first two drones. It was moving faster than Rada had banked on. Killing quicker, too. It was already moving on the third drone. Based on its course, the Tine would be the logical next target. After that…

  Rada powered down the main engines and diverted everything to the lateral thrusters. Fore, they fired to port. Aft, to starboard. Still careering forward, the Tine began to spin like a pinwheel, faster and faster.

  Webber glanced across the bridge. "What are you doing? Hoping they'll get so dizzy watching us that they can't shoot straight?"

  Dry-mouthed, Rada sipped water from the tube in her console. "What's the first rule of space defense?"

  "Never get in a fight with the guy with the lasers?"

  MacAdams' brow creased. "It's space."

  "I'm betting the same rule applies on the ground, too!"

  "Your first resource in space defense is space."

  "Right," Rada said. "The more space you have between you and your opponent, the more time you have to react. To maneuver, or to put counters between his missiles and your ship. A calculated use of space is the key to winning every battle. It's no different for the Swimmers." She called up video of the UFO taking down the previous drone. "See? As space compresses between them and their target, they slow down. Even with their laser, they have to give themselves time to react to any surprises."

  "So their ship's not invincible," Webber said. "Now if only we had a dreadnought or fifty."

  "We're cutting down its reaction time. See?"

  "By spinning around like a dog with a bee up its ass?"

  On the screens, the enemy looped after the third drone. Rada sent a photon burst to the other two drones, recalling them.

  "You're running down a street. You've got a rock in your hand. You drop the rock straight down. What happens?"

  Webber shrugged broadly. "It falls. In an arc. Depending on how fast you're running."

  She jogged from the bridge, drawing surprised looks, speaking into the microphone embedded in her suit's collar. "Now imagine you're still running forward, but you start spinning. As fast as you can. And when you release the rock, you release it behind you."

  "It sails," MacAdams said through her suit's speaker. "Oh, Frodo's ghost. You're going to kill yourself, aren't you?"

  "There's no other way to do this. Someone has to be the rock, and someone has to be the thrower."

  She weaved down the cramped hallways to the much smaller port-side cockpit. On its tactical display, the UFO was making its final approach on the third drone. As crimson lasers licked between the vessels, Rada sealed off her third of the ship. What she hadn't mentioned was that a good throw required a long lever. Praying she understood the Motion Arrestors well enough for this to work, she began to separate her third from the other two parts of the Tine, extending to the side on a long, sturdy arm—but stopping before the separation was complete.

  She was now distanced from the Tine's center mass by three times as much distance as when the ship had been a seamless whole. Without the MA, the strain of the acceleration would have ripped the connecting arm to splinters. The ship continued to whirl around its Y-axis, building more and more speed.

  "Got the picture?" she said through the ship's internal comms. "We're going to need to dump all our missiles at them, too. Choke their lasers' firing planes with dust. And keep their missiles off me."

  The third drone died soundlessly. With the Tine's main engines off, the Swimmers would be on them fast. Rada had tactical up, running a countdown on the UFO's ETA. When it crossed the outer boundary of a faint green sphere, she gave one last command to the two surviving drones, which were still inbound. They launched everything they had toward the estimated convergence.

  Rada sealed her helmet to the neck of her suit. Her breathing was the loudest thing in her ears. On tactical, the Swimmers, the Tine, the missiles, and the drones all shrank on the same point in space. The console beeped as the UFO neared the Tine's effective engagement range.

  "If this fails, you know the worst part?" Webber said through comms. "Nobody's going to know how awesome it was."

  "Yeah," MacAdams said. "But if we die, what a view we'll have."

  Rada pulled her eyes off tactical for a look at the view of physical space. It was spinning so fast the stars were no more than white and blue streaks, like an endless meteor shower, or rain made of light. Her breath caught in her throat.

  "Launching missiles," Webber said.

  Rockets whisked from the Tine. The Swimmer vessel unleashed a storm of its own.

  "Good luck," MacAdams murmured.

  "Am I doing this?" Rada said. She laughed. "I'm doing this."

  With no chance in hell of getting the timing on her own, she left it to the computer. A red light flashed. At the instant she was pointed directly at the UFO, her third of the ship separated from the Tine. She tried to swear, but her engines kicked in at full burn; suddenly free of the MA's influence, the acceleration shoved her into her chair with brutal strength. Her ship still had a lot of forward momentum to overcome, but the Tine's spin flung her backwards much, much faster than should have been possible. The space between her and the aliens compressed immediately.

  She wished more than anything she could hear the conversation on their bridge.

  The enemy was coming on hard. The vanguard of missiles slammed into each other, exploding like dying stars. Twirling straight toward the mess, Rada's heart was going even faster than her ship.

  The Swimmers vectored upward to bypass the worst of the smoke. Rada sprayed missiles to hem them in. The enemy braked, meaning to buy itself more space. She punched the thrusters. Spinning as hard as she was, they flickered on and off, engaging only when she was pointed toward the intercept. Lasers chewed through the clouds of missiles. The UFO tipped up, as if considering breaking off and giving itself more room to work with. Then it straightened out and plunged toward Rada.

  Forced to pull a 180 loop like a normal ship, the other two-thirds of the Tine was well behind her. Chains of missiles exploded all around her, embedded in tiny dogfights of their own. She rushed toward the spike of the enemy ship. And crossed within laser range.

  A flash and a klaxon—they'd hit her with the laser, but she was still spinning so fast the weapon hadn't had time to do more than scorch her hull. She fired the last of her missiles. And opened up with her kinetics.

  The laser struck her a second time, then a third. Every time she revolved, her guns spat gobs of bullets, pulsing like a neutron star, a deathball buzzsaw careening toward her foe. A large flock of missiles was gathering to the enemy's port and upwards side. Rada raked fire across its starboard and lower edges, then fired at the ship itself. The UFO jerked away from the incoming rounds, moving up and to port. There, its swarming missiles—unable to communicate with it due to the jamming—exploded in a series of defensive bursts, meaning to take out the human rockets.

  The enemy vessel was engulfed in flames.

  Rada pumped rounds ahead of the explosion. The UFO rushed free, trailing smoke behind it. A laser flashed, stymied by the clouds of gas. Bullets shredded the cup-like aft of the ship. It turned away, boosting sluggishly. The laser pulsed again, little more than a diffuse glow. An incoming missile slammed into the side of the Swimmer ship.

  A spherical cloud of flame consumed it whole. Rada threw her hands up and whooped. Cheers rang through the comm.

&nbs
p; "Webber?" she said. "MacAdams?"

  "Rada?" Webber sounded highly surprised. "Hey, Rada! The comms are back up!"

  "Quit wasting bandwidth on me and send out a Needle!"

  A moment of silence. "Done. Video of the entire fight is on its way to Toman." Webber broke into adrenaline-fueled giggles. "Holy shit! Why didn't they break off?"

  "Came at them too fast." Rada pulled off her helmet, sucking down the relatively fresh air of the cockpit. "Cut down their space before they knew what was happening. For all I know, they wanted me to get close enough for them to turn their lasers on me. But if any of their friends saw that, it won't work a second time."

  "You hurt?" MacAdams said. "Looked like they landed a few shots on your hide."

  "Toman's paint shop is going to be busy, but the hull seems fine. Let's link back up and bring in the surviving drones. We have to get out of here."

  She thrust against the spin of her ship, slowly coming about sunward. After weeks of flying with the MA, working without it felt sluggish, punishing. It seemed to take forever to get on course, match pace with the Tine, and wait for the computer to guide the two pieces back together. They combined with a series of heavy metal clunks. Rada unbuckled and opened the door to the main section.

  She bumped right into Webber. He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her, grinning like a loon. "Do you understand what just happened? You're probably the first human to kill a Swimmer since Walt Lawson!"

  "I have no idea how to feel about that."

  "Okay, then I'll feel it for you." He flung his hands above his head. "Woo! I'm the greatest!"

  MacAdams appeared in the hall, his grin so sharky he looked ready to swallow a seal. He swept her up in a hug, lifting her feet from the ground. He smelled like fresh sweat.

  "You're still here," he said. "Okay, now I believe."

  "Mmf," Rada said into his collarbone. Her feet touched the floor. He stepped back, knuckling the corner of his eye. She stuttered with laughter. "MacAdams, are you crying?"

  "That would only be about the tenth-most unbelievable thing to happen today." He ran his hand down his face, sniffing. "We did it, people! Full footage of an unprovoked Swimmer attack. Let's see what the govs think about FinnTech being in bed with a species that's conspired to stop us from ever leaving our own star."

  "You really think it'll make a difference?" Webber said. "The return of the Swimmers should have been the biggest news since…well, the first time they crashed the party. But everyone just shrugged."

  "They didn't want to face what the Swimmers' return could mean for us," Rada said. "But now that we have hard proof of hostile intent—"

  A klaxon blared through the ship—the alert, stressed warble of an unidentified vessel. Rada flinched. "Incoming!"

  She bolted for the bridge. Behind her, Webber said, "Please tell me this one's human. If that's another Swimmer, I'm registering a complaint with the Department of Totally Unfair Shit."

  Rada hit the bridge. She ordered a defensive posture into the computer, then flicked her gaze across the screens. The vessel was a ways out of combat range, but it was moving on an inbound course. A string of profanity rattled through her mind. They were down to two drones and had expended all but 12% of their munitions. Even if it was a human ship, their only chance would be to outrun it. If it was another Swimmer fighter, they'd have a better chance of surviving by ejecting themselves from the airlock and backstroking toward Neptune.

  Visual cohered on the main screen. The ship they'd destroyed had been a long spike protruding from a bowl rimmed with other spikes, like the flower of a desert plant. This new ship was far sturdier, oblong and segmented like a squat caterpillar.

  Webber tilted back his head. "That looks nothing like the one we just KO'd."

  "That look human to you, though?" MacAdams said.

  Rada's chest tightened. "I've seen a ship like that before. It's—"

  The comm, which was still working, pinged. Rada opened the line. On the screen, a long, tapered head rose above an insectoid body and a mass of tentacles and legs.

  "Greetings," a voice said. "And congratulations."

  18

  "Hey!" Ced waved his arms above his head, turning in a circle, face upturned to the ceiling. "Hey, I'm still in here! Is there anybody there? Help!"

  He shouted until his dry throat began to hurt. Tired out, he sat on the bed. The explosions had stopped, but he was certain he was right. The Tine had gotten word out that Kansas—and the entire Locker—was under the sway of Valiant Enterprises.

  And that revelation had sparked a war.

  In the ensuing chaos, the Dragons had either forgotten about him, or decided he wasn't worth their time. For Ced, it was no longer about pride, then. It wasn't about holding out against a cruel attempt to break him. If he was on his own, it was about survival. He'd heard a person could go two or three weeks without food. No water, though, and you'd die within a week. He'd already been without it for two days. Whatever kind of fight was going on outside, he couldn't trust it to wrap up quickly.

  His only source of water was the toilet. The bowl was dry, but when it closed to vacuum-flush, a hose inside it pressure-sprayed the interior free of stubborn remnants. If he could get inside the tank, he could detach the hose, open the valve, and drink all the clean water he wanted. But the tank was encased in a plastic shell, deliberately unaccessible to prisoners.

  He walked to it, prodded it. It felt solid. Wishing he had street boots rather than prison-issue slippers, he cocked his leg and drove his heel into the casing. Pain shot up his leg. In the dim light, the case looked unmarked. He kicked again and again, smashing his foot into the tank until his entire foot throbbed. He bent over the toilet, wincing. Still no damage. A part of him had hoped he was wrong about there being a fight outside, and that his vandalism would finally provoke a response from the guards, but after resting for five minutes, he hadn't heard a peep from them.

  Well, if they were out there, he'd sure find out during what he planned next.

  He needed something thin and strong. A piece of the bed would do—its slats were plastic, but the legs and sections of the frame were metal. It was secured with hard plastic bolts. The heads were round, with slots for a screwdriver. With nothing to grip, he tried his fingernail in a slot. The nail bent, then ripped along the white part. He bit it off and spit it out. His finger was lightly salty.

  He tried several different bolts, trying to find one loose enough to unscrew with his fingers. None budged. He was going to need a tool. He stepped back, surveying the barren cell. There was nothing but his bedding, the bed itself, the toilet, and his clothes. He peeled off his shirt and stuck his hand inside, using the fabric as a glove to reattack the bolts. His fingers found no purchase.

  Jaw tightening, he twisted the shirt into a rope, wrapped it around the leg of the bed, and yanked, tugging like a dog with a toy. The bed was bolted to the wall along one side, but the leg was free, and as he continued to yank in short, hard bursts, there was some play to it. He had to stop repeatedly to let the tension and tiredness wash from his arms, but fifteen minutes later, the leg was wiggling enough to give him better access to the bolts.

  He attacked them again. Digging his nails under their heads. Squeezing so tight his fingertips went white. One bolt budged a fraction of a turn. Maddened by possibility, he pinched and twisted, sweating, arm growing sore. A drop of liquid hit the floor. It was bright red. He sucked the blood away from his finger. It tasted good, like clean metal.

  He returned to the bolt. Sometimes he thought it had turned within his grasp, but when he checked the slot, it had barely moved. His fingers stung. His hands ached. Blood dribbled to the gray floor. The cell lightened, approximating a sunrise the Locker never saw. His limbs were quivering. His skin was as hot as fresh coffee. He couldn't.

  He flopped on his back, panting, the smooth floor icy against his feverish back. His fingertips burned like he'd tried to pick up a hot pan. He closed his eyes. They seemed to want to cry
, but no liquid came. He tucked his bloody hands against his bare chest. The bed leg wasn't even the point. It was just the tool he needed to pry open the toilet tank. He'd torn up his hands, exhausted himself, and he was no closer to the water than he'd been an hour ago.

  He didn't have the tools to deconstruct the bed. He was going to have to attack the tank with his own body. It had been designed to resist just that—the plastic was probably bulletproof—but he could either die forgotten in his cell, or die fighting a toilet. Felt like a metaphor for his entire life.

  It felt good to lie down, though. To do nothing. There was sense to it. The less he moved, the less energy he'd burn. The less energy he burned, the more time he'd have for someone to find him. The only way to win the game was to not play.

  The wall whirred. Hating himself for the hope in his chest, he dragged himself to his feet. An empty tray stared back at him. It was the same tray. Had to be. But he suddenly knew what to do with it.

  He removed it from the cubby and sat cross-legged. Using the blood from his raw fingertips, he traced a block-lettered word across the tray's surface: "HELP."

  They found him six hours later.

  * * *

  They hooked him to fluids, brought him a container of mush. It wasn't any better than what his captors had given him in his cell, but after three days of nothing, it was the finest meal he'd ever had.

  "They" were crewers from the Blackwings. Tightlipped to a fault, they wouldn't tell him anything except that they'd found him while running inventory of the facility's kitchen. That alone spoke volumes: you didn't assign manpower to count food unless you were scared you might need it soon.

  He was left by himself in a windowless hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and brownies, which he suspected was piped into the room to make injured people less pissed off. His hands were bandaged into gauzy clubs. He wanted to go find someone and yell at them until they told him what was going on outside, but he was beat to hell. He slept.