Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2)

  REBEL STARS: BOOK 2

  Edward W. Robertson

  © 2015

  THE REBEL STARS SERIES

  REBEL (Book 0)

  OUTLAW (Book 1)

  TRAITOR (Book 2)

  Cover illustration by Andrzej "Dugi" Rutkowiak. Typography by Stephanie Mooney.

  PROLOGUE

  "The reason we're going to win," Thor Finn said, "is because space is very, very scary."

  Behind him, Iggi Daniels burst into laughter. "That's it? You think you can take over because everyone's going to be too busy hiding under the covers to do anything about it?"

  He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing up at a titanic screen with a view of Saturn lording it up over the fixed stars. Bands of colored gasses spanned the planet, churning at furious speed, each band rotating the opposite direction of those it was sandwiched between. Rings sliced through the darkness like icy razors tens of thousands of miles across. It was an epic sight. The perfect backdrop to play out his vision of the future.

  In that moment, his position before it proved useful in a second way: it prevented Iggi from seeing him mouth a nasty word.

  He turned to face her. "You're right. Fear of the dark isn't a long-term means of control. Sooner or later, the kids grow up, and they learn the monster under the bed isn't real."

  "So how do you keep them in line?"

  "I don't have to worry about that. You see, your argument's flawed. It depends on the idea that there aren't any monsters out there. But humanity grew up knowing the boogeyman is real. And now he's back."

  Her wellspring of mockery dried up, however temporarily. "You mean it, don't you? You want to take over the entire Solar System. Like a latter-day Sauron."

  "I'm not delusional enough to think we can waltz in and seize the throne. I'm looking at more of a hegemonic thing. Earth's nations don't have the resources to keep the aliens at bay. Not without spending so many of those resources that they lapse into anarchy."

  "They could do it if they started now."

  "They're not scared enough to start making sacrifices. If we leverage our current advantages, we'll leap so far ahead that, when the time comes, we'll be the only ones capable of fighting back."

  "And once we have that much power over them, they'll have no choice but to cede us more and more."

  He grinned at her. "See? Not half as insane as it sounds."

  She scratched the back of her neck. "And here I thought we were just gunning for a monopoly."

  "A monopoly on the navy is cool. But a monopoly on power is a monopoly on everything."

  "I can't believe the one thing capable of saving the System is your ego."

  "This isn't about my ego." He turned back to the screen. Hard not to be struck with a sense of wonder and possibility when the rings and bands of Saturn whorled in front of you. "Well, it isn't only about my ego. The threats out there are real. Those things are coming for us. It's only a matter of when. We have to build a fleet capable of standing up to it. And we need to train the rest of the System to obey us."

  "Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves?" She shuffled up beside him. "What about Benez?"

  "All he's thought of thus far is challenging our merger in court."

  Iggi snorted. "He should go yell about us on street corners instead. At least he'd get some fresh air while he's wasting his time."

  "The politicians will only confound him for so long. We need to come up with an excuse to come at him before he can throw another wrench into the works."

  "That Swimmer video was a real fiasco, huh? Any way to paint him as their real ally?"

  "Doubt it," Thor said. "He's been dabbling around the Locker lately. I'm thinking we label him a pirate-lover. Make some noise about how we're taking it upon ourselves to finally bring order to the System. Or would that put a dent in your business?"

  "Run it by me first." Her device dinged. She glanced at it, but didn't open the message. "And what if things get hot? Are we prepared to go to war with him?"

  "We're already at war with him. All we're talking about is escalation."

  "Easy to make that decision from here, huh?" She nodded out at the massive bulk of Saturn, the pale discs of its moons, the glittering points of the habitats in orbit around it. "While we're safe behind the Black Gate of Mordor."

  Thor rolled his eyes. "Don't call my favorite home Mordor. Besides, this isn't about conquering. It's about building something that can withstand the next invasion. Anything that gets in the way of that has to be neutralized."

  "I'm not arguing with you, big guy. Just sayin'." She smacked her palms together. "Well, I got some calls to make. Try not to subjugate any worlds in my absence."

  She turned and padded out of the expansive room. Thor Finn stayed put in front of the screen, watching Saturn turn. He'd been much closer to it than he was now, skimming above its atmosphere, and knew how big it really was.

  From here, though? It looked like you could reach out and grab it in one hand.

  1

  For Rada's money, there was no better feeling than her ship launching on the start of a new voyage. Especially when that ship was probably the most nimble vessel in the System. Faced with dozens of readouts and updates, with a station falling behind her and nothing ahead but open space, she forgot everything but that moment when she left what was and voyaged toward what was possible. And felt as large as space itself.

  Too soon, the Tine leveled out. The readouts slowed. The port vanished behind them. And that sense of immensity condensed until she was, once again, nothing more than herself.

  Webber hadn't bothered to strap in. He rose from his chair in the bridge and stretched his arms above his head.

  "You need to tie down during takeoff," Rada said. "It's protocol."

  He jerked his thumb toward the aft. "And is it protocol to be flying with a piece of alien tech that renders us immune to the dangers of inertia?"

  "That's exactly the point. If the Motion Arrestor fails, you'll wind up smeared across the bulkhead as a vaguely jam-like substance."

  "So start packing bread." He wandered from the bridge.

  She swore. Beside her, MacAdams chuckled. The bulky shock chairs made most people look as small as dolls. Compared to his limbs and trunk, though, it looked like he'd finally found a furniture manufacturer up to the challenge of supporting his mass.

  "Funny how fast we get used to a thing," he rumbled. "A few months back, he'd have been holding on for dear life. Now? He treats takeoff like it's a stroll down to the corner."

  "If he won't listen to reason, will you lend me your fists? We can't afford to start taking this for granted."

  "That's what humans do." MacAdams rubbed his bare scalp. "Most people would say that's a bad thing, how fast we adjust to change. But I say it's the only way to keep from going crazy."

  She gave him a sidelong glance, then turned back to the controls. The ship could look after itself, but she didn't want to take that for granted, either. Only when she was satisfied that they were en route to the Locker, without any impending systems failures or emergencies, did she unstrap herself and head to the galley for her first meal of the day.

  When she finished and returned to the bridge, MacAdams was gone but Webber was back. He stood at arm's length from a screen displaying a starscape of all the burning gas-balls dotting the void beyond the Locker. The image was as standard as it was boring, but he was staring at it with intent, a peculiarly masculine broodiness weighing down his face. His focus was so intense he didn't register her arrival.

  "Something the matter?" she said, bracing herself for a squabble over the straps.

  "Yeah," Webber said without moving. "The plan."

 
She leaned over the back of a chair, resting her arms on it. "What about it?"

  "It's no good."

  "Any part in specific?"

  "The part where it starts," he said, "and then all the way to the part where it ends."

  Rada frowned. "We need help. The Locker's got one of the biggest independent fleets there is. A few days ago, you couldn't wait to get out and talk to them."

  "And I've used those days to think about it." He glared at the silent stars on the screen. "It's half of a good idea. If they put their mind to it, the Locker could muster a hell of a fleet. But these people are pirates. Their existence boils down to two things: taking stuff that isn't theirs, and not letting anyone else boss them around."

  "We're not going to boss them around."

  He sputtered with laughter. "We're flying in to recruit them to our cause. Which is really the cause of a billionaire space magnate who probably hasn't heard the word 'No' in a decade. The only way we could get more bossy is if we hired them to serve us dinner while yelling at them to take out the trash."

  "They're going to help us because they're doomed if they don't," Rada said. "Once the Motion Arrestors go wide, everyone's going to start using them. Best-case scenario, the drone freighters quit being easy prey, and the Locker goes out of business. Worst-case, the big corps decide they've had enough—and use their new toys to boot the Locker out of the System."

  Webber reached out and tapped the screen with one finger. "Could be. Even if you're right, you're not going to convince them."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Because if you are right, either way, their days as the Locker are over."

  "And people would rather die in denial than give up the thing that defines them." She folded her arms, regarding the unwinking stars on the screen. "Doesn't matter. We'll do whatever it takes to get them onboard."

  She meant the words, but when she walked back to the pilot's chair, there was a heaviness to her feet she hadn't felt since the days after Simm's death.

  They carried on, a tiny bubble of light and air amidst the black vacuum. To fill the time, Rada read up on the files compiled by LOTR: a heavy-duty wiki of the Locker's politics, factions, and influential figures. These were a diverse bunch, with crews ranging from single-ship freebooters to fleet-sized outfits employing hundreds of sailors and support. Their engagement in illicit activities was equally varied: some were full-on cutthroats, while others operated as standard shipping and logistics suppliers—who happened to do business with a bunch of filthy pirates.

  All, however, had an independent streak a mile wide. Rada knew they weren't going to be able to talk all of them over to supporting the Hive's efforts both to disseminate the new Motion Arrestor technology and to hold off the combined forces of FinnTech and Valiant Enterprises. There was too much history between the crews. Too much bad blood. Too many contrarians.

  But she didn't need to unite all of them. Just enough to back Toman up if the FinnTech-Valiant alliance turned violent. If the Locker's crews were as politically fractured as the LOTR's reports claimed, that very rift would be exploitable.

  "We should start with the Trojans," MacAdams said, paging through his device. "I ran with them for a while."

  Rada pulled up their file, frowning. "They're on the small side."

  "Small like a neutron star. Most crews, they'll sign any warm body they can find. Their lower rungs are flat-rate grunts. But the Trojans? They do an equal split with their entire crew. It's pure talent, top to bottom."

  "MacAdams, the sociological intricacies of the Locker might be second nature to you, but to me, you might as well be speaking Elvish."

  He looked up from his device. "They're highly respected. An All-Star team. You get them on board, and a dozen other crews will leap just to put it on their resumes."

  Rada spent half of the remaining twelve hours to arrival reading up on the Trojans and their allies. When the dashboard beeped, at fifteen minutes out, she looked up in surprise, having lost all track of time.

  The dash beeped again ninety seconds later. Incoming call. Well ahead of schedule.

  "Unidentified vessel," a female voice said over the comm. "Stop and identify."

  "Rada Pence of the Tine." She flipped on the ship's ID stream, then braked hard.

  Webber glanced at the ceiling. "Still not used to that."

  "Used to what?"

  "Exactly. To nothing. It should feel like we're getting smashed into our seats by a falling piano. But it's so calm I could get up and make you a BLT."

  "Would you?" she said. "I'm starving."

  "Identity confirmed," the voice said. "Turn around, Tine."

  Rada leaned over the comm. "I'm sorry, did you say turn around?"

  "Did I stutter?"

  "There must be some confusion. We were just here a few weeks ago."

  "Turn around. Relocate to a distance of no less than three hundred thousand miles. Or be fired upon."

  "Are you serious? Why can't we land?"

  "You have ten seconds to change course or be destroyed," the woman said. "Have a nice day."

  MacAdams frowned at the console. "If this is a joke, it's the kind that involves arming their missiles."

  Rada's gaze flicked over the screens. From an orbital pad set well out from the Locker, a half dozen drones launched into the dark. A piece of her wanted to take a run at them—she still hadn't tested the Tine's upgrades in combat, and was certain she could shred the defenders—but the drones were a drop in the bucket of the Locker's capabilities.

  Besides, she wasn't exactly interested in adding the Locker to Toman's list of enemies.

  She swerved hard enough to declare her intention to depart, but not so hard as to expose the Tine's full maneuverability. The Locker sent a signal acknowledging the move. Rada swore steadily.

  "One question," Webber said as they swung about and began putting space between themselves and the station. "What in the actual hell?"

  "If I knew that, we wouldn't have flown out here in the first place," Rada said. "Anything about this on the net?"

  MacAdams glowered at his device. On Rada's, she noted the Locker had closed off its network to outsiders, too. She picked up a signal from Ariel, one of Uranus' moons.

  Webber got up from his chair and walked to the screen showing a receding view of the blank sphere of the Locker, a miniature moon encased in an atmosphere-trapping shell. "Don't tell me we're heading home. We just got here."

  Rada pulled up her device's video. "We'll check the net for news. I'm sending a message straight to Toman. He can pull some strings to get us permission to land."

  She composed a message, included the relevant clip from the ship's log, and Needled it to Earth, where Toman was currently litigating against the merger between FinnTech and Valiant. She didn't know what he hoped to accomplish there—both companies were spacefaring, unbound to the laws of any one nation—but they'd been doing business with aliens. Swimmers. The species who, centuries ago, had nearly destroyed humanity. None of the rules applied anymore.

  Though Earth and Uranus were, at that moment, both on the same side of the sun, her Needle would take more than two hours to reach Toman. His response, assuming he had time for one, would take equally long to get back to her.

  They killed the lag time scouring the net. This was shockingly bereft of information. All that was known for sure was that, 24 hours ago, the Locker had closed down, first to non-residents, then to everyone. Speculation was rampant, but its very rampancy made it impossible to believe any one theory.

  Toman's Needle arrived close to five hours later; he'd replied almost immediately. Rada put the message up on the main screen. Her uber-wealthy employer was in his early thirties and he gestured often while speaking, moving with the fluidity of a martial artist, which Rada was fairly certain he wasn't. His message had been recorded in a well-furnished but professionally bland hotel room.

  "Your news is very odd," he began. When recording messages, a lot of people took o
n a blank, stiff appearance, but Toman looked as natural as if he were in the ship with them. "Good news for me, though: that means I get to bring you here to Earth."

  "What?" Rada said. "Something big is going on right here in front of us, and you want us to turn tail for Earth?"

  On the recording, Toman paused, as if anticipating her response, then smiled. "You might find yourself asking: Why recall you to Earth when something highly interesting is happening at the Locker? Two reasons. First, I'm about to need your help. Second, might I remind you the ship you're seated in is mine. It happens to contain our only functional Motion Arrestor. If something that interesting is happening at the Locker, it would be prudent to remove yourselves—and my MA—from the vicinity posthaste."

  He moved across the hotel room to the uninterrupted window that formed the outer wall. A hazy blue sea filled the view. "The Locker closing its doors is way too juicy to be kept secret. I'd tell you to drop a drone, but I don't want to risk pissing them off. I'll sic LOTR on it instead. In the meantime, I need you here. Toman out!"

  The video ceased. Rada stared at the blank screen, feeling Webber's eyes on her.

  "Well?" he said.

  "Well what?" She was already pulling up a course. "We're on our way to Earth."

  "Don't tell me you're happy about this."

  "You're still new here. Word to the wise: when Toman whistles, you come running."

  * * *

  Five days later, they docked in Earth orbit. The shuttle down to the airport gave Rada a commanding view of Better Sands, capital city of Las Reinas, the nation occupying everything west of the Rocky Mountains between the North Pole and the isthmus to South America.

  Las Reinas was one of Earth's five or six major players. From above, its capital looked fit to match that status. White towers thrust from the shores of a gleaming bay. Boats of all sizes spangled the deep blue waters. Many of its skyscrapers were built from sympathy glass, and as the sun set, the buildings turned the same shades of orange and pink as the pastel coastal sky; other towers tinted themselves with contrasting blues and greens. A light haze hung in the air, making everything soft, dreamlike.