Read Rebel Stars 1: Outlaw for Free Online Page B

threats in very little time. The corps involved had recouped the massive expense by charging a toll for anyone who wanted to make use of the Lanes' safe passage beyond the Belt. Win-win.
    Except that, during downtime, Webber liked to feed his delusions of owning a ship by reading up on logistical issues. People didn't talk about it openly, but if you found the right corners of the net, it was clear that a lot of people didn't use the Lanes. And were just fine. Could be Gomes would rather pay the toll and play it safe, but the more he'd learned, the more Webber felt the Lanes were insurance for a problem that didn't exist.
    Whatever. Wasn't his call. Worrying about Gomes' problems was a much less interesting use of this time than getting tore down.
    Figuring he'd be more motivated to do his job while drunk than hungover, he made his first round of launch prep, stowing, securing, and tying down anything that wasn't bolted, locked, or magnetically sealed in place. Among his duties, this was possibly the most menial yet also the most crucial. Get a pen whipping around during takeoff, or a glass of water left loose during the transition to zero G, and that was the way somebody lost an eye or a computer.
    In the morning, he woke feeling groggy and crummy, glad he'd had the foresight to take care of most of his work the day before. There were benefits to having no illusions about your character.
    The others returned in ones and twos, taking on their responsibilities with bleary-eyed competence. After the last week of quiet, the clamor of their work was deafening. Hours later, Lara made her final check—her eagle eye for that which was out of place made her a natural—and reported to the bridge.
    A minute later, Gomes' voice reported across the ship. "Grab a chair or wave goodbye."
    Webber was already in position, strapped down, as always, to his bunk. He had no duties during launch, and he figured if he was about to die, he'd be happiest doing so in bed. The screen on the ceiling showed the feed from the Beagle control tower, centered on the Fourth Down .
    Lara began the count. At zero, flame and vapor swallowed the ship. It emerged from the flattened spheres of smoke and powered away from the landing pad. For several minutes, it operated solely on maneuvering thrusters. Safely removed from the station, it swung about and blasted toward the closest checkpoint in the Lane that would guide them to Skylon Station.
    It would be six days until they arrived. With no responsibilities for several hours, Webber stayed in his bunk and watched the stars shining on the ceiling. They looked vacant, like graffiti on a warehouse wall, but he knew this was false. The illusion of a distance too far to grasp.
    Hours later, his eyes snapped open. He had just…moved. Abruptly. Yet their route had been set hours ago. A course change wasn't totally crazy—the ship may have detected some unplotted rocks or debris in their way—but that wasn't exactly comforting. The ceiling had gone blank. He tried to call up the view from the bow, but the screen refused to budge.
    The ship jarred again, pressing him into his bunk. Below him, Jons snored away.
    "Jons. Jons ." Praying they weren't about to get jolted again, Webber unbuckled enough to lean way over the edge of his bunk and give Jons' shoulder a knock.
    Jons stirred, scowling in the darkness. "The hell?"
    "That could well be our next destination. We're juking around out there. Can you pull up the screen?"
    Jons sighed as if Webber had just asked to be taught how to put on a pair of socks, then got his device from its nook and began fiddling. The ship lurched again, squeezing Webber's stomach.
    The screen on the wall flared to life. Space. Stars. And what appeared to be a burning ship.
    "What the—?" Jons tapped his pad, to no effect. "Is this an SOS? What are we doing on it?"
    Webber squinted at the array of stars. "Because there's no one else. We're out of the Lane."
    "Are you still drunk? What would