Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2) (28 page)

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.

"Deja vu," a voice said. "Except the last time we did this, you were about half the size."

Ced's eyes snapped open. "Benson?"

The man smiled; now in his early thirties, wrinkles appeared around the corners of his eyes. Though it was years out of fashion, and he was starting to recede around the temples, he still kept his hair slicked back. This stuff didn't make him look old or worn down, though. More like a guy who's run the first few miles of a race but knows he's got plenty left in the tank.

"Back like Gandalf," Benson said. "They tell me you were in prison. Should I be disappointed in you? Or proud?"

"I helped free some people Kansas was keeping captive. She decided to let me take their place."

His eyebrows shot up. "
You're
the one who smuggled the Hive's people out of here? Why am I not surprised?"

"You heard about that?"

"It was rather difficult to miss the civil war it provoked."

"Civil war?" Ced sat upright from his pillows. "What's going on out there?"

Benson scanned him for signs of sarcasm, then thumped down into a chair, settling in for a long stay. "How much do you know about what the Hive knows?"

"Valiant Enterprises is behind the modern care debt. And they're the same ones who just put Kansas in charge—for the small fee of aiding them in obsoleting us."

"You are remarkably well-informed for a guy who spent this entire news cycle in solitary. Well, once word of
that
got out, Kansas' new status quo went belly up. A third of the crews backing her withdrew their support. The Blackwings declared open war to depose her. This isn't posturing over corners, either. The body count's rising every hour."

"How is this even a fight? She's in the pockets of our enemies. How can anyone support that?"

He sighed lengthily. "Because Valiant Enterprises, and their new partner FinnTech, have declared System-wide war on piracy. They're gathering a fleet to strike the Hive if they don't turn over the people you sprung from the hoosegow. They have made it not-so-subtly known that if Kansas is deposed, they will treat it as an act of treason, and come for us next."

"So who's winning?"

"Difficult to say. This isn't some orderly campaign of front lines and uniforms. Some of the crews are seizing the opportunity to settle old scores or grab new streets. Some are hanging back, either to see who comes out ahead, or to preserve themselves while the others exhaust their strength. For now, the poles have established a designated Conflict Zone and pulled out the civilians. But if things get nasty, the crews won't respect the Zone. They'll consume the entire station."

Ced rubbed his face. "Is Kansas still alive?"

"Do you ask because you're concerned for her? Or because you want to be the one to make her not alive?"

"I honestly don't know." He tore his gaze away from the wall. "What are you doing here? Where have you been?"

"When Garnes transferred me to the ships, he tried to have me killed. To stop me from coming back and reforming the jukes. I managed to keep my ass intact through the first attempt, but if you're crewing on the ship of a man who wants you dead, it's only a matter of time before he succeeds. I spent everything I had to smuggle myself out. I went into hiding." His eyes got bright. "I'm sorry I didn't come back for you."

"If you had come back, they would've killed you and your wife. There's no shame in surviving."

Benson laughed, voice thick. "That's where you're wrong, Ced. If all you do is survive, there's nothing but shame."

"You came back, though. You're here now."

"Kansas dealt with my Garnes problem. I have to give her that much. In fact, I'm so grateful that I have elected to offer myself to her mortal enemy the Blackwings, as an advisor on how they can best combat the Dragons."

"I want to help you."

"I'm sure you do. The problem, however, is that you're currently about as fit to fight as my dirty laundry. Which, despite its protective crust—"

"Get me to Kansas," he said. "I'm the only one who can convince her to throw off Valiant's chains."

Benson's face pinched together. "You were the only real friend she ever had. But that girl's long gone. If she knows you're working with us, she will kill you."

"Then don't send me in unarmed."

"You'd be willing to do that?"

"The path she's going down will lead to the end of the Locker." He touched the tube in his arm, stopping himself from pulling it out. "If I can't talk her out of it, there's only one thing left to do."

"I'll speak to the people who enjoy making these decisions. Get some rest. If this goes forward, you'll need it." He stood, gave Ced a small nod, and left the room.

Ced was able to sleep for a few more hours. When he got up, he called for the attendant, who brought him more mush and a device. As he ate, he paged through the net, scrolling through pictures of vacant streets, watching a video of crews shooting at each other inside a park, of a Blackwings outpost burning, the smoke coiling up and gathering against the underside of the dome. Forty crewmen had died so far. There was no sign of a slowdown. The latest videos were just minutes old.

Growing restless, he swung out of bed. His legs felt shaky, but they held out. His fluid bag had a plastic sling so he could wear it to the bathroom. He looped it over his shoulder and headed into the hall.

This was dimmed for the night. Many of the patients' rooms stood with their doors open. Inside, men and women slept, or blinked down at their devices, faces blued by the displays. Most of the people were young, angry-looking. One face looked familiar. As he reached the end of the hall, he remembered: the man was an Orc crewman. They were
all
crewmen. Casualties of whatever was going on outside.

He took the elevator to the top floor and found a window with a view of the streets. Below, a single pedestrian hurried on their way. Down the street, an entire apartment block was blacked out. A light haze made the night dream-like, indistinct. Did he smell smoke? As a fish tank for humans, the station had hellaciously potent scrubbers to keep the air pure. If something else was burning, it was doing so now.

Maybe it would be best to end the crewing system as a whole. Renounce piracy. Let the Locker become a station no different than the dozens of others scattered through the void around the sun. Stop making it so hard on themselves. Join normal society.

There was a reason the System was vying for control of the Locker, though. It was powerful. An outsider. A wild card. And it had been—and would be again—
free
. When the rest of the planets and habitats fell in behind the govs and corps, the Locker remained its own. Unafraid to stand up.

Or to throw down.

* * *

Benson returned first thing in the morning. He was smiling, but it wasn't entirely happy. "They're in. They'll give us anything we need. We have a problem, though. Kansas doesn't go anywhere without an armed security detail. We can lure her out, but you won't have a chance to speak to her alone. Admiral Frank thinks we should use you to eliminate her and her team."

"I'm sure he'd love that," Ced said. "But we don't have to draw her out. Not if I can get into the office."

"Won't work. She keeps security on her there, too. Never without it."

"I know how to get her alone. Can we fake a message to her?"

"Simple text? Probably. Anything more elaborate, and the forgery will be obvious."

Ced rolled out of bed and walked around the room, getting his blood flowing. "Text is all we need. Send her a message from Iggi Daniels. Arranging a call."