Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2) (17 page)

Benson snorted. "What got up
your
crack?"

"A sense of justice. The crews buy kids like they're slaves. When we started the Iguanas, it was with the idea we could make something of ourselves. But as soon as the money started coming in, they changed things back to exactly the way they were."

"The fact that this is about money should dampen your belief that they'll be willing to budge. But I've looked at their numbers. According to them, a freighter's worth of expenses are keeping your cuts thin. Want to pressure them? Claim your rights as a crewman."

"Then I need to speak to Admiral Garnes."

"Don't we all?"

Ced pointed across the desk. "You have pull with him. You know what we've done out there. Make it happen."

A smile melted across Benson's tired face. "Bring this spirit to the admiral, and maybe you'll change things after all."

To keep his mind occupied, Ced spent most of his time in the streets, ferreting out the members of the rival juke looking to infiltrate their territory. He was staring down a six-year-old boy when his device dinged. An unexpected gap had appeared in Admiral Garnes' schedule.

Ced ran back to the office, swerving into the bathroom to dab off the sweat before taking the elevator to the top floor. The hallway was marbled, shiny stone. So was the giant room the admiral was working out of that day. As Ced crossed to his desk, his footsteps echoed between the far walls.

"Cedrick Banner," the old man said. "I hear congratulations are in order. How is command treating you?"

"It's inspiring. And exhausting. So I won't waste your time." Ced slid his device across the table. "You claim increased costs are driving down the jukes' share. Well, I'm claiming my rights as a crewman. I demand an audit."

Garnes' wrinkled cheeks puffed with laughter. "You just said it yourself. You're
not
a crewman. You're a junior. Where in the codes does it say junior crew have the standing to call for audit?"

"We're brand new. There
are
no codes for junior crew."

The old man tipped his head sadly. "The numbers are accurate, Mr. Banner. Perhaps some day, when you have true authority, you'll see just how much it costs to house, feed, educate, and train young people."

A towering man appeared behind Ced. Without speaking or touching him, he indicated Ced should leave before he had the chance to regret it. He returned to Benson's office in a daze, so angry his right arm was tingling, half numb.

Benson made a pained face. "Went that well, did it?"

"He told me I had no standing. That I was junior, not full crew."

"That's management for you. When they can't beat you with facts, they'll kill you with technicalities." He pushed his chair back from his desk. "Want a drink?"

Ced had tried alcohol before—he'd been helping to move hard drugs for years; on the Locker, and especially in the crews, letting kids take a nip of grog was no more frowned on than letting them eat dessert. Though he'd never gotten a taste for it, at that moment, he'd try anything that would pour some oil on the storming waters of his emotions.

He made the one-fingered beckoning motion he'd seen adults do in bars. Benson smirked, produced two glasses, filled their bottoms with a thick, dark brown liquid. Ced picked his up and tossed it back. And choked, throat closing, tears squeezing from his eyes.

Benson chuckled, gulped down his glass without so much as a blink, and passed Ced a tissue. "Things didn't used to be like this, you know. The modern crew system is only a decade older than you are."

"How—?" Ced's throat closed again, provoking another round of coughing.

"There was no bidding system. They could sign kids as young as twelve, but they had to pay them—and compensate the family, if there was one. About thirty years ago, the crews started making noise. They were the backbone of the Locker, but the introduction of the Shipping Lanes and the expansion of corporate navies meant hauls were dwindling. That—along with a shitload of bribes—is how they convinced the poles to allow bidding and contracts on minors.

"For the first few years, enrollment was way up. There's never been any shortage of orphans here, or of distant relatives happy to turn over unexpected wards to prestigious crews. After a few years, however, with word of the terms getting around, fewer people were inclined to sell their nephews or second cousins into a program that left those children struggling to pay off debts for a decade or longer. So the poles made it mandatory to put orphans up for bidding. In response, their relatives hid those kids away."

He poured himself another slug, swirling it as he gazed across the desk. Ced said, "What changed?"

"I don't know. Maybe the crews started offering bigger bids. Maybe people got used to the shoddy terms. Whatever the case, about fifteen years ago, new enrollments jumped. They've stayed up ever since."

Ced's body felt warm. So did his brain. "It's so dumb. They should
want
to treat us well. If we felt valuable, appreciated, more of us would stick around after the initial contract. How many big talents jump ship once they turn eighteen because they feel slighted by their original crew?"

"Fewer than you'd think. The additional debt incurred by jumping would take years to erase. On top of that, I suspect collusion between the brass, but good luck proving it." Benson sipped. "Anyway, the problem with your plan is it's long-term. Nobody wants to risk the next generation of crew—and profits—to learn if you're right."

"Hasn't anyone ever tried to do anything?"

"Every day. But the only people inclined to make changes are those without the power to do so. Hence, the leaky crapmobile rolls on."

The memory of their early days in the streets selling
Swimmer Attack!
figurines surged into Ced's vision. If any of them had tried that stunt alone, the Orcs would have beaten them to a pulp. Together, though, they'd looked out for each other. Fought for each other. And started a revolution.

"We
do
have power," he said. "They think our work is worth so little they don't have to pay us for it? Then I guess they won't miss it if it stops."

"You want to strike." Benson set down his glass with a clunk. "Then know this: if you fuck it up, they'll crush you."

"They're already doing that every day we're on the job. So what do we have to lose?"

* * *

Ced sat in the cafeteria surrounded by his Iguanas. Almost none of them had touched their food except Marly, who always ate like she expected it to be her last meal. For once, she had good reason.

Breakfast neared its end, but virtually no one had left. Ced stood. Casually, he swept his tray to the ground. The bang of plastic drew every eye in the room.

"You've all seen the numbers I sent you." His voice was shaking. His hands were, too. He cleared his throat and thought of his mom. The quivers stopped. "Now, we have a choice. Give up on the last five years of our lives, and the next fifteen. Or demand that we—and everyone who comes after us—gets a share of what we've built."

Glances flew across the room like the flocks of birds he'd seen soaring across Earth. Before the moment could fall apart, he turned his back and walked toward the door. With a rustle of trays and feet, the Iguanas followed. At the door, he looked back. Heddy was standing, nodding her people to their feet. Donner's Drakes were next to rise. And then every juke in the room was on their way outside with Ced.

They gathered in the street outside the Dragons' building. Seven jukes, close to a hundred people in all. Now that they were in front of him, he wasn't sure what to do with them. Chant? March in a circle? Within minutes, a small crowd of civilians gathered around them. A few of the bolder ones wandered forward to ask questions. Ced answered as many as he could. If the nets picked up the action, it would put that much more pressure on the Dragons.

In between conversations, Heddy moved up beside him. Maybe it was the flush of excitement, but she was prettier than he'd remembered.

"You really think we can do this?" she said.

"I'm not sure I even know what 'this' is." He tipped back his head at the high tower that had been his home for the last six years. "But everyone's out here. We're showing them that we know what they're doing. If nothing else, management will think twice before jacking up the care debt again."

Pedestrians came and went. After a few hours, stalls materialized around the fringes, lured by the promise of traffic. Now and then one of the junior crews broke into a chant. Twice, adult overseers of the jukes came out to talk to their CEOs, but both times they walked away scowling. And both times, Ced climbed onto an overturned trash can to give an impromptu speech, culminating in a burst of clapping and cheers.

The station lights dimmed, signaling the approach of evening. They hadn't so much as glimpsed any of the Dragons' officers. The temperature in the Locker was neutral that day and nightfall did nothing to drive the jukes inside. Instead, they pulled trash cans to the middle of the street and set them on fire, triumphant faces glowing in the wavering light.

Ced woke early. Some of the others were already up, bargaining with the vendors to sell them breakfast in bulk. A few people who claimed to have net followings circulated between Ced and the other CEOs, but the morning was quiet.

Around noon, the front doors opened. A woman in a snug blue jacket and hard plastic shoes clipped toward the jukes. She was tall and lean with hooded eyes that made her look like she'd just been woken up and was very upset about it. A team of kids moved to intercept her. She cleaved through their lines and confronted Ced.

"Mr. Banner?" she said. "What is this about?"

Ced folded his arms. "Take a wild guess."

"The situation has already been explained to you. By no less an authority than the admiral."

"I reject his explanation. I want an audit. Once we see what the numbers turn up, then we'll give you our terms."

"Are you aware," she said softly, "of the penalty for desertion?"

"Go ahead. Toss a hundred children out the airlock. And see how long before the Locker does the same to you."

The officer stared at him, then walked back to the office. Kids jeered, lobbing wrappers, but the woman kept cobra-cool.

The crowd of civilians had vanished overnight. He'd expected they wouldn't be back. Stuff like this was an exciting novelty, but for outsiders, interest died fast. The net-hoppers must not have been kidding about their platforms, though. By early afternoon, several hundred people stood around the jukes in a loose ring.

The office doors swung open. A full squad of Dragons emerged wearing blue and white hardshell armor, complete with helmets, looking like invading marines or a robot sports team. In a double-file line, they paced up to Ced. The other jukes shrank away, but the Iguanas stayed by his side.

"Every one of you is in violation of your contract." The speaker was indistinguishable from the other armored men. "If you do not return to your rooms immediately, then you consent to be returned to them by force."

"I consent to be treated fairly," Ced said. "I consent to be paid for my work. I
consent
to not be sold into child slavery, to have twenty years of my life chewed up and spit out without a cent to show for it."

The man didn't move. "You have sixty seconds to comply."

Feet shuffled behind Ced. But his people weren't retreating. Rather, the other jukes were moving forward. Their faces were tight with fear, but they linked arms with the Iguanas.

Ced stuck out his chin. "Come and get me."

The armored warriors stood perfectly still. Arms looped through Ced's. Sixty seconds later, one of the men clicked out a silvery baton. His troops followed suit, the clack of their weapons echoing through the silent plaza. Ced's entire body tensed. The first man took a step forward. Behind Ced, someone screamed, but the line held.

"Shame!" A voice rang out from the crowd. To Ced's left, a man in fine clothes traipsed forward, index finger pointed right at one of the faceless guards. "Shame!"

His call was taken up by others. People lifted devices above their heads, aiming them at the Dragon troopers. The first guard hesitated. He gazed across the sea of smooth young faces, the throng of adult witnesses. His baton lowered. He turned his head to the side, speaking into his mike.

For thirty seconds, no one said a word. The trooper nodded once and turned to his people. "Let's go."

As they retreated toward the tower, a shout thundered through the air, joined instantly by scores of others. Not of fear, but of triumph.

* * *

"Ced?" A hand shook him awake. Benson stood over him, looking like he hadn't slept all night. "On your feet."

Sleepily, Ced got up, following his captain to a corner coffee shop. It was still dark, but in the street, many of the jukes were already up from their blankets, milling around in small groups. Several glanced Ced's way. The look in their eyes was funny.

Inside the shop, Benson took a seat and ordered two coffees. As soon as the waiter ambled away, Benson closed his eyes. "They're transferring all the CEOs. To full crews. Effective immediately."

Ced laughed. "I don't want their promotion. I'm staying right here. And they can't do anything to stop us."

Benson gritted his teeth. "Think, Ced. As a juke, you don't have rights. That's how they can dodge the audit. By putting you on full crew, not only do they give you full rights—appearing to meet your demands—but they expose you to full punishment, too."

"They'll threaten to airlock me. For real."

"Donner and Cay have already given in. The others won't last the day." He squeezed Ced's shoulder. "You did your best. Things will change because of this. They know they can't keep squeezing the jukes. If they rise up again, it could crack the entire contract system."

A wave of heat crashed over his body. He blurted, "Who will replace me?"

"Not my problem." Benson laughed hollowly. "They transferred me, too. I'm a flyboy now."