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."
"Eighteen will be just fine, Mr. Webber."
Webber set up the transfer, contemplated adding the code that indicated it had been made under duress, then sent it through.
Winslowe checked his device, stood, and put his hand on Webber's shoulder. "Don't make me see you again, okay? Not unless it's to stage a rematch."
"You'll need more practice."
Outside, the artificial light had faded, indicating the coming of night. Webber pulled up directions to the Hook and Claw and jogged toward the nearest tube station. He felt…he didn't even know what he felt. It didn't bother him that Winslowe had extracted eighteen grand from his wallet; Webber owed what he owed, and anyway, Gomes' payment hadn't lasted long enough to feel real.
Besides, he still had two Gs. Technically, that was also UDS', but that could wait for another day. Right now, for the first time in his adult life, he wasn't broke. And the craziest part of all? Gomes still owed him more. A small fortune. Granted, that small fortune would go toward paying the actual fortune he owed UDS—but he'd been expecting to labor under its weight for the rest of his life.
If Gomes was serious about their new occupation, however, and they were able to pull off three hauls a year, he could pay off his debt within five, six years. Double that pace, striking a new ship every other month, and he'd be down to three years. If they could pull a hit every month—he had no idea if this was plausible, but he just wanted to think about it, to rest the possibility in the bed of his mind—and he'd be free in a little over a year.
And after that? He'd be rich.
He didn't so much walk to the Hook and Claw as float there. His head didn't snap back to reality until he stepped inside. It was dark and crowded, people standing around tables stacked with bottles and glasses, the space between their heads and the ceiling swirling with a Venusian atmosphere of vapors. He stepped to the side of the entry, scanning the patronage. A laugh boomed through the crowd, hard but not unfriendly. He traced it to MacAdams and threaded his way to their table.
As he approached, MacAdams glanced up, assessing the threat, then registered it was him. "You're late."
Webber nodded. "Next round's on me."
"You're right on time," the big man smirked. "Order up and get over here. We got a lot to discuss. Like whose barge is providing our next paycheck."
~
The basics of piracy—"crackin' tubs," as MacAdams called it—was very simple. Most drones were automated, and as sophisticated as that automation was, it meant predictability. Exploitability. Plus, after the drone-initiated nuking of the Entonces and the Frequent Flyer, two civilian cruise vessels that had drifted within the proximity of an unmanned cargo ship, system-wide laws had been passed to restrict how aggressive drones could be toward nearby ships. As with all such laws, enforcing them should have been a challenge, but they were propped up by widespread distrust of corporations, along with cash-strapped governments happy for the excuse to appropriate any company that stepped out of line. Anyway, avoiding such problems was what the Lanes were for.
The point was, through careful use of spoofing, camouflage, and jamming, you could typically get close enough to a drone to blind its sensors or damage its engines. Once either of those systems was compromised, it was game over. All you had to do was circle your wounded prey, pecking away at it until it was defenseless.
Externally, anyway. A sprinkling of ships had internal defenses as well, however, and since hulls were hardened against radiation of all kinds, the only way to disable the inner defenses was to go inside.
That's where the marines came in. And Webber had just been recruited.
He got a gym membership. The yearly plan was much cheaper, but as he wasn't yet ready to trust his recent financial promotion, he stuck with the monthly. In the mornings, he went there to work out, building up his strength and endurance for his new role.
In the afternoons, he logged time in the sims, practicing breaches one after another—both airlock-standard, and intrusions through holes blown in the hull. He mixed in some combat versus automated defense systems and a bevy of emergency scenarios. He trained on everything from skiffs to the whaleships capable of hauling a small mountain of ore. The sims were right on the cusp of life-real. Miles beyond any video game he'd ever played. When he asked, MacAdams informed him they were military-grade, straight from Earth. Taz opined that, rather than being stolen, they'd been provided to the Locker in exchange for discouraging the piracy of certain outfits and encouraging attacks on others.
In the evenings, Webber went out. He didn't spend like the drunken sailor he was. Kept it modest, restricting himself to a budget that allotted the vast majority of what he had to debt payments.
Even so, it was incredible to be able to buy what he liked without worrying about every last cent. It felt like everything he'd done in life to date—all the failures, setbacks, and screw-ups—these weren't actually mistakes. Instead, they had been part of the necessary process to lead him to this time and place. The only thing that had felt comparable was the first time time he'd shipped out with the Fourth Down.
Deen made preparations to depart. There was a nice farewell party. Gomes and Vincent got a little teary. Deen wished them all well, then got so drunk he fell asleep in the bar, smiling into a puddle of beer.
A week into their stay on the Locker, Webber stumbled into the treehouse around midnight. Usual stuff. Had to be up in time to hit the gym. Unusually, Jons was in, watching his device. They exchanged hellos.
Webber brushed his teeth and flung himself into his bunk. "Figured you'd be out on the town."
"I like to pull myself off the rotation now and then," Jons said. "Makes getting back to the front lines all the better."
"Nothing can be fun when you do it every day, right?"
"Precisely." He paused his device. "What are you up to tomorrow?"
"The usual," Webber said. "Training. Gym. Then, just when it feels like my body's about to melt, go train my brain instead."
"Gyms and sims. Man, you're taking off like a rocket, aren't you? Reminds me of that one book. About the orphan kid who goes on to become pants-droppingly wealthy."
Webber frowned at the ceiling. "Oliver Twist?"
"What? No, man. I'm talking about the one with the giant lizards."
"Johnny Tapdance Versus the Godzilla Twins."
Jons grinned and nodded. "That's the one!"
> Webber laughed. "If you're in tonight, does that mean you're heading back out tomorrow?"
"You got a better idea?"
"Nope. Thought I'd tag along."
"I should be rolling out with you," Jons said. "Upgrade to the cool soldier bars."
Jammed as they were with activities, each day passed in a blink, yet Webber began to feel impatient, hemmed in. Their first mission hadn't really counted. He'd been asleep, unaware of what was happening until Gomes, MacAdams, and Taz had already brought the target down. For him, the next time would be the first time.
A good mission took time to arrange, though. You had to look at flight paths, cargos, the capabilities of the ship being targeted. That was Taz's domain, and Taz didn't answer questions.
A month passed. He made another payment to UDS, smaller this time. He began to leave more modest tips, then quit going out altogether. His life-altering new trajectory began to feel less like a rocket blasting free of orbit to sail forever and more like an arrow arcing inevitably back to earth.
Gomes called a meeting. Not at the treehouse. Instead, she'd rented a Black Room. Only way for spies to hear what was going on inside was to put their ear against the wall and pray the people inside broke into a rowdy argument.
"I'll get right to it." She stood in front of a blank screen; the others sat around a table. "We've got a new target. Won't be as fat as Nevedia, but it won't be nearly as risky, either."
"I'm good with low-risk," Harry said. "So long as it's not low-risk because it's Farmer John's only cattle car."
"Cooper Imports. Check their financials, if your bleeding hearts compel you. Luxury goods suppliers. We'll be taking a load of coffee."
"Coffee?" Jons glanced across the others. "Why, we'll be billionaires!"
Gomes shook her head. "Not printed crystal bullshit. Genuine Kana'ali beans."
"Never heard of it," Webber said. "I'm guessing that means it's expensive."
"It's a rare year that any of it gets off Earth. We're working with Ikita again. Contract's all hammered out. All we have to do is go grab it."
Vincent sniffed. "What kind of payout are we putting our lives on the line for this time?"
"Your share should come in around 20-25K, depending on how expenses shake out." Gomes gave them a moment to absorb this. "Some jobs will be bigger, some will be smaller. You don't get to pick and choose which are worthy of your time—you trust my judgment as captain, or you jump ship. Anyone want to jump?"
Nobody made a peep.
Gomes touched her device. "I've sent briefings to your devices. You'll have the next three hours to study them. Before we leave this room, the briefings will be wiped. You won't be able to access them again until we're in flight. Paranoid, yeah—but if you can't get to them, then neither can anyone else."
Webber called the file up on his pad. It included ship schematics (a Painter-class stuff-haulin' base trussed up with a sexy exterior to better match Cooper's brand), expected defenses (minimal), and the location and expected route of extraction for the cargo.
MacAdams glanced over his shoulder. "In the sims, be sure to not spend too much time on Painters. The corps, sometimes they drop worms in the program, hire spies to infiltrate the staff. If they spot somebody spending all his days on the same model, it's a dead giveaway."
"Man," Webber said. "Who ever knew that stealing stuff would take so much work?"
"The joys of an information-rich society," Lara put in. "Sometimes I think the only way to get by is to never do or say anything you wouldn't want everyone to see."
Jons raised a finger. "Or be so disgusting that no one can stand to watch you for more than five minutes."
Just as Gomes had promised, after time ran out, Webber's files deleted themselves from his device without a trace.
Four days to launch. He'd already quit the bars, but he spent every waking moment preparing.
The morning of, Gomes warned them that, although she intended to return to the Locker, you never knew how things were going to go down once you hoisted the black flag. Webber didn't have much in the way of possessions, but he made sure to pack everything he couldn't stand to lose.
They took an elevator up to the landing platform. Out in the vacuum, the Fourth Down's profile had been modified again. A third wing now ran down its ventral line. The fore was corrugated, as if to provide extra protection against tiny spaceborne rocks, or to provide more surface area for solar panels. He wondered if Gomes had modified its engine signature as well.
They strapped in and blasted off. Once they leveled into a cruise, Gomes restored access to their briefs. This time, it included a course. Their quarry was leaving Mars at that same moment, en route to Neptune. To intercept the ship without rushing past it or being left in the dust, the Fourth flew sunward. After several hours, they hooked cloudward and anti-spin toward Neptune's current position. For the moment, they were dawdling, but once the target was six hours out, they'd punch up a hard burn. By the time the other ship neared, they'd be traveling at virtually the same speed and vector.
The first day passed without a bump. Near the end of the second, as they prepared to burn, the crew gathered on the bridge and buckled in. Lara counted down. The engines ramped up, pressing them against their chairs. The extra Gs were tolerable but exhausting. Every hour, the ship eased off for a fifteen-minute break of standard G. Webber napped intermittently.
"This is the part I don't understand," Vincent said, waking him. "Right now, they're on our scans, yes? And we're on theirs. Why don't they insist we ID or move the hell out of their way?"
"They've already ID'd us," Taz said. "We're clean. Just another junk-hauler out of the Lanes."
"Surely this claim will grow less and less plausible as we get closer to missile range."
She gripped her temples. "You think?"
"Excuse me for never having robbed another ship before."
"The answer is a lot of boring computer shit," MacAdams said. "Ideally, we spoof 'em into thinking we're not actually getting nearer. If that fails, we shift to phase two—distress call, ID ourselves as a fellow Cooper vessel, whatever's been working lately."
Vincent squinted at the screen. The target wasn't visible yet, but it was indicated by a green dot. "And if they get spooked and bug out?"
"The ship can compute within instants if we can chase them down." For once, Taz was smiling, hunched so close to the readouts Webber probably could have made out the numbers reflected in her pupils. "If no, we fly away. If yes? Make sure your straps are tight."
Messages pinged back and forth on one of the screens. The green dot grew closer and closer. Webber got the feeling he used to get in bars when he was chatting up a woman who seemed into him but a part of him hoped she would wise up, pay her tab, and walk out. And then, on the highest-magnification screen, he could see the ship. Its nose was sleek like a river fish. The Fourth was still ahead of it in space, slowly losing ground as the other vessel continued along its predetermined course.
Taz pumped her fist. "Shock range. Captain, permission to deploy."
"Granted," Gomes breathed.
Taz hit a button. On the rearview screen, three tiny rockets fired into the black, turning tail to accelerate toward the Cooper ship. A flurry of communications appeared on another screen. Collectively, the crew held their breath. The mini-rockets streaked across the gap between the ships. A single point of light burst from the vessel and lanced toward the Fourth's rockets. As they closed on each other, the enemy countermeasure split into an anemone of smaller missiles.
"Those on proximity?" Gomes said.
Taz didn't turn from the screen. "Do you need to ask?"
"Do you need to ask, Captain."
Taz glanced halfway back. "They are indeed on proxy. Captain. Pulling up effective range."
A translucent green circle expanded from the green dot of the other ship. The three rockets arced apart, each one chased by a number of the enemy interceptors. They began to spiral and juke, doing little to thro
w off their pursuit. The nearest rocket veered back toward the Cooper ship. Before it had crossed halfway to the wide green circle marking what Webber guessed was the range at which it became useful, one of the enemy missiles closed on it. The instant before impact, a white flash burst from the Fourth's rocket. Then both missiles exploded in a blue-white sphere.
Taz swore. The other two rockets continued on, nearing the translucent green boundary. The enemy vessel began to veer, but its forward momentum was so immense it was hardly changing course. A swarm of countermeasures hemmed in a second rocket. It went off, following the same burst pattern as the first.
Still several seconds from effective range, the third rocket neared the interceptors. Gomes glanced at Taz. Taz only had eyes for the screens. The red pinpricks denoting the enemy missiles closed on the Fourth's last rocket, blotting it out. Webber let out his breath.
There was no burst. The rocket leapt free of the screen of red and streaked toward the Cooper vessel. Red specks turned tail, trying to follow. The rocket cleared the translucent circle, streaked forward, and vanished in a white flash.
Taz leapt to her feet and pumped her fist. "Hell yeah!"
On screen, the enemy began to zigzag wildly, exactly the way a guy might if you were to box his ears and poke him in the eyes. MacAdams clapped once. Another missile zipped away from the Fourth Down, taking the straightest route toward the blinded ship. It wouldn't kill it—just knock out its engines.
"Let's suit up," MacAdams said. "The sooner we launch, the sooner we're out of here."
Webber followed him toward the exit. Jons fell in beside him and slapped him on the shoulder. "Go get 'em."
"There better not be any 'em to be got," Webber said. "Listen, if anything happens to me—"
"I know. Make sure to pull your pants back up before they see you."
He laughed, regarding the floor. "There's a file on my device. EOMD. Take care of it for me?"
Jons nodded slowly. "Of course."
The words removed a cold shard from his heart. He jogged to catch up with MacAdams and Taz on their way to the shuttle parked in the fore of the Fourth. They already had their suits on; before the excitement at the bridge, Jons had prepped the shuttle. Outside the airlock, they affixed their helmets and double-checked their seals. Webber hadn't worn one since he and Jons had been tasked with welding duty over a month ago, and inside the confined space, his breathing felt tight and loud.
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