Pirate Rebel Privateer Spy

By Robert Grisham

Pirate, Rebel, Privateer, Spy is a tale set in the year 2253 in a less-than-perfect universe. The roles people play can make a mess of things. Sometimes questionable, sometimes convoluted, and sometimes damnable, everyone has an agenda. Everyone wants something. And everyone has his own plan to get what he wants. And things get interesting for Polaris when strategies collide.
Before her world collapses in on itself, can Polaris untangle the truth of things? She has an ally in her brother Gilead, but will his help be enough?
Dreaming of being something you’re not can get those you love killed. Not everyone can be a ship’s captain. Not everyone understands the military mind. Not everyone appreciates his own limitations. Knowing yourself, knowing your abilities, is the first place to begin. Some will pretend they’re something they’re not, and try to convince everyone else around them to join their delusion. Playing along isn’t always easy. In fact it can be downright deadly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312329171

Book preview

Pirate Rebel Privateer Spy

Pirate Rebel Privateer Spy

by Robert Grisham

Copyright © 2014 Robert Grisham

Digital Edition

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ISBN: 978-1-312-32917-1

In Short

Mankind has conquered space, but it has yet to subdue itself. And the greatest threat facing folks these days isn’t pirates or rebels or slave traders. It’s far more subtle, and nearer at hand. Despite the bloody chaos of incessant warring, Polaris Storm and her seventeen-year-old brother, Gilead, want adventure. To that end, they take jobs as freelance security agents aboard a science vessel to protect its advanced technology. Unfortunately, part of that technology—plans to what may be the most dangerous weapon ever created—have fallen into the wrong hands. She must infiltrate the weapon itself and sabotage key components. To get the job done, Polaris must elude ship’s security and escape detection, even as the forces of several governments align against her. Coming out of this alive will require the help of her brother’s guns, and every bit of luck she’s never had. But there’s no choice. If she’s ever going to have a peaceful place to call home she first has to keep the universe from blowing up.

Chapter One

They had set out three months ago, the seven of them, and seventeen-year-old Gilead Storm had grown dog weary of the lack of action. He was eager for adventure, but they had found none. For a science vessel, cloak and dagger jobs were few and far between, but they paid well, and had the potential to be quite fun . . .

. . . if not for their captain, Trent Highland. The science ship’s captain always made these jobs more complex than they had to be. Gil usually took in stride whatever came his way; his older sister Polaris, however, did not. Captain Highland’s imaginative ways of doing things tended to push her every button.

On the bridge of the privately owned exploration vessel, SuperNova, Gil quietly reclined in the co-pilot’s seat to read a book. The holograph star chart projected above Polly’s nav-computer’s panel went largely ignored. It served only as a prop should someone happen in. No one ever did.

SuperNova’s A.I. brain –a fist-sized cube– made piloting the ship from the bridge obsolete. Voice activated, the ship could be commanded from anywhere aboard her. This room served only as a prop for the Federal inspectors who sometimes stopped them. The bridge was small and cramped and, except for Polly and Gil, none of the crew bothered coming up here anymore. Brother and sister found it the perfect place to get away from the others.

A slow plodding metal on metal thunk . . . thunk . . . thunk drew Gilead’s eyes up from his book. His sister, Polly, sat reclined in the pilot’s seat with her leg cocked up on it. With one arm relaxed on her knee, and the other resting on the window ledge, she held her knife loosely as she tapped out her irritation. She stared out the window . . . perhaps at the stars, perhaps at the Grenadier Nebula, or perhaps—lost in thought—at nothing at all. She raised the knife by bending nothing more than her wrist and tapped its blade tip on the ledge slowly again and again. Suddenly she gripped the hilt tightly and drove the knife point hard into the steel shelf; the tyrillium blade penetrated the metal nearly an inch.

Gilead watched her with mild amusement. Capt. Trent Highland’s Tyrillium steel, an alloy he had contrived not five years ago, had yet to find its way to the marketplace. The knife, a birthday gift from Captain Highland, had been given to replace a blade Polly had snapped in two. Highland guaranteed this one would last her a lifetime.

Polly gripped the knife and tried to pull it free. It didn’t budge.

Bored? Gil asked, startling his sister who spun her head to face him. Her face flushed red with anger and embarrassed. What?! she snapped.

Gilead offered her a small grin before dropping his eyes and raising his book to block her out, yet he was careful enough to not completely cover his view of her.

Polly returned to the unmoving blade and gripped it with both hands. If she wasn’t careful, she’d snap that blade tip right off.

No, she wouldn’t, Gilead remembered. Highland’s alloy was virtually unbreakable. Oh, this should be fun, he thought as he peered over the top of the book at her. Though Polly strained against the unyielding blade’s leather-bound grip, she was careful not to groan or grunt out loud.

Gil wanted to laugh at her, but he kept it to himself.

Polly released the handle and for an instant the knife vibrated like spring steel. To Gilead it sounded like the knife chuckled mockingly. Intrigued, she pulled the handle sideways and released. The knife made a low warbling sound. She did it again and got the same result. Then, with effort, she pulled the grip over nearly to the window severely bending the blade. All this time Gil surreptitiously watched her. It was then, when she released the knife, that the windowsill chose to let go. Before he could react the blade flew end over end right at him. In the next moment the knife’s blade sliced into and through his book, stopped only by the hilt. The blade’s tip was just inches from his face. Lucky for him his book was thick.

Wide-eyed, he turned the book onto its back, and lowered it to show his sister.

Dumbstruck, Polly, herself startled by the mishap, peered at him over her hand covering her gaping mouth. She stared at him for a long moment and then suddenly broke out in laughter.

Not amused, Gil pulled the knife from his book, looked at it, looked at her, and then tossed it haphazardly toward the exit. It skidded across the floor and stopped when it hit the far wall.

I’m sorry, Storm, she said, doing a poor job of keeping the laughter out of her voice. Polly never called Gilead by his first name unless, of course, she was scolding him. Some folks felt that her doing so was odd, but she didn’t care. To her he looked more like a Storm than a Gil, so that’s what she called him.

As sisters went, Gil couldn’t have asked for a better one. She had a good heart, which she kept hidden beneath leathers that had seen heavy use. She preferred these durable duds because they made her look older than her twenty years. Polaris was pretty—something she couldn’t help if she tried—and most men assumed her to be naïve because of it. Fact was she was anything but innocent or foolish. Sister and brother had had their share of tough times, and now neither could afford to be seen as vulnerable.

The irony was two years ago she had worn dresses, bright summer frills, and fluffs befitting a royal, and she had lived in a mansion. In fact she had come close to becoming an actual Queen. A prince had eyes for her, and he was handsome, confident, and approachable. To Gilead, she and the prince seemed a good match for each other.

The king was getting on in years. Some felt the old man would die soon, and most hoped he would. But that hadn’t happened and now belonged to the past, to a once upon a time kingdom far far away Now, Polly sat on the bridge of an aging research vessel, a starship older than the king, and these days she dressed mostly in black well-weathered leathers. Gil supposed the faraway look that was often in her eyes was understandable. She missed their folks. She missed their having a home to call their own. He felt bad for her, but what could he do?

In the tight bridge, a little less than two feet separated his seat from hers. Except for the bright instrument panels, the consoles were, like everything else in this ship, well-aged grey metal. Momma Highland, the captain’s mother, kept every inch of this vessel diner-plate clean, but you couldn’t tell it at a glance. Try as she might, there was simply no way to hide the ancient look or feel of this past-its-prime space boat.

Today, like every day for the last two months, they had spent hours searching for their captain’s quarry, and Gil had grown as tired as his sister looked. She climbed from her seat, patted his shoulder. Sorry, she said, and went back to retrieve her knife. Returning, she slid unceremoniously back into her seat.

Bored? he repeated after a moment.

Huh? What? She tilted her head back and rolled it to stretch stiffening neck muscles. Her jet-black hair fell below her shoulders and swayed behind her as if it weighed nothing. No, actually, I’m not. With one hand she pulled her long hair over a shoulder and started to twist it into a ponytail.

So what’s on your mind? Gil said, watching his sister with a mix of bewildered amusement.

She met his gaze with unflustered eyes. Several things, actually.

Give me one.

Okay. Something about our captain bothers me, Storm . . . In the back of my mind I have this sense that we’ve met him before.

You mean before Los Dabaron.

She thought for a moment. I guess it’d have to have been. But that can’t be right.

Though that battle was eight years ago thinking about it still made Gil shudder. He had been just nine at the time; his sister twelve. Like her he didn’t like thinking about those years. His cousin’s death still stung. It seemed senseless back then. It seemed senseless even now. Nearly freezing to death he and Polly had somehow survived, but Cousin Clayton never woke up from that terrible sleep. Gil took Clay’s death hard. Polly did too, and those memories were never easy to review. If they had met Trent Highland before then he’d have been a boy himself.

Polaris rubbed her temple. Captain Highland’s behavior is weird.

Weird? Compared with what? How do you mean?

"Like he knows us. Couple that with this. His face seems familiar, but I just can’t place it. Ugh! She brushed the thought off with a flick of the wrist. Oh well, never mind. I think being on this ship is dulling my senses. Now I’m starting to imagine things that never were."

Stay sharp, sis. Things’ll pick up soon.

"Why on Earth did the captain name this old scow SuperNova anyway? An image jumped right to the front of Polly’s mind. When I first saw that emblazoned on her prow, I thought, ‘Now there’s a spaceship I could sign on to.’ It had such a nice ring to it."

Gilead remembered that. They had just escaped their enslavement. Stealing away from the pirate king in the middle of the night he and Polly had made a run for it in their little planet jumper. Miles from nowhere—well between worlds—their little two-man shuttle up and quit on them. Inexplicably power reserves quickly fell to zero. Adrift, they worked for hours to reignite the engines. But without power to life-support time eventually ran out. When an old spaceship happened across them they were nearly frozen. That anyone had found them at all . . .

With his energy all but gone Gil looked up through their frosty canopy to see ‘SuperNova’ written in well-worn big block letters. Moments after, Captain Highland tractored them into his cargo bay, popped their hatch, and wrapped them in warm blankets. That was the second time in Gil’s short life that he and his sister had escaped becoming popsicles. He remembered shivering fiercely and looking up at the captain—Highland’s mother and sister beside him—and seeing that look of recognition in his face even then. Pressed, Highland would admit to nothing.

So now, sis, you’re having second thoughts?

Polaris shot an irritated look back at the door. What was I thinking? I hate freefall! I want to feel solid ground under my feet. I want danger, excitement. Not this.

Gil chuckled. "You don’t think riding in this old bucket is dangerous? Think about it. Any minute now rust could breach the hull. That’s dangerous."

She turned to face him and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees. With her head turned slightly down and her eyes raised to meet his, she looked evil. I want to kill something, Storm. Her tone was blunt and matter-of-fact.

Gilead snorted back a laugh. He knew her. She didn’t really want to kill anything other than time. Wow, sis, he said. You really do have some pent up issues there.

She turned to the star-chart, tabbed in their current location, and expanded the view. Several blips, distant but within reach of their little recon ship, appeared.

"What say we fire up Maverick, ditch SuperNova for a few hours, and go hunting? There’s got to be a Confederate or pirate ship within reach."

While aboard SuperNova, Polly and Storm’s two-man interplanetary jet had since been modified and improved by the Highland team. She was a sturdy craft, now, and reliable. Most importantly, Maverick was fast. Though it was never intended to be, the Highlands armed it with small cannons of their own design, and that made her dangerous. And Gil lived to be dangerous.

Polly pointed to a holographic blip in the star-chart. Looky there. This one might prove interesting. It’s moving at a pretty good clip.

In the mood to harass someone, huh?

A sly smile flitted across her face. Sneak up on a Confed ship, do a quick fly by? A little boom and zoom?

Sure, Gil mused. If we do it right, sis, we could piss off a fed ship in short order.

Enough to get it to chase us?

Seriously, sis? Do you doubt your abilities?

I’d like that.

Me too, he said with hunger-filled eyes. That would be exciting, but . . .

She jumped to her feet and clapped his shoulder. A little game of cat and mouse, Storm. Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll be back before the captain knows we’re gone. She turned and headed for the door.

Hey, I’m all for tagging a government cruiser, he said, remaining seated. A few of them have pretty impressive juice. However . . .

She turned back to him and scowled.

Right now, Polly, that’ll have to wait. Captain’s been plotting and planning this heist for months. If we screw around and muck up his plans, he’ll have our hides.

She sighed and looked back at the exit longingly. Storm, my boy, I swear if we sit here much longer I’m going to go stir-crazy. Plans or no plans I’m running out of patience.

He saved our lives, sis. We owe him.

She sighed her irritation. Yeah, sure, but when is that debt ever going to be paid off? I can’t take much more of this.

We need our own ship, Gil said without thinking. Before he could bide his tongue he heard himself describe the first thing that popped into his head. "Something big enough to hold Maverick, a few supplies, and can easily be made to feel homey during long runs. But at the same time it should be small and inconspicuous, something easy to hide."

She stepped closer. You mean a launch platform of our own for times like this?

"Sure, Polly, why not? You don’t like taking orders anyway. Having our own ship would mean you could be your own boss. I will miss Mrs. Highland’s cooking though." Immediately a picture popped into his head of Polly’s last attempt to cook a meal. Whatever it had been, she had turned to charcoal.

We could do that, she said, smiling big. "Find a sizable yacht, I mean. Something not so big as SuperNova but, yes, I like your thinking. And fast. It’s gotta be fast, right?"

I’ll bet Tyson Blackhart has something in his inventory that’ll suit.

She shot Gilead an evil look. Expecting it he met her scowl with a coy smirk.

Storm, don’t start.

Cap isn’t going to like our cutting out on him, he said to change the subject from the pirate prince, Polly’s one time love interest.

I said leave it alone.

Gil hesitated. Somehow, without meaning to, he had dug deeper into what was clearly her sore spot. That was not his intent. No, wait. Let me back up here. I wasn’t suggesting you had cut out on Blackhart.

No? She had taken off her sister face, and donned the face of Lieutenant Storm, captain-of-the-guard.

Gilead knew he was in trouble when she crossed her arms, but he felt committed to go all in. He sighed. In for a dime, in for a dollar. No, sis.

Sounds to me like that’s exactly where you were taking this conversation. You need to back off.

Gilead straightened tall in his seat. "Well that isn’t where I was going. That’s not it at all. He threw up his hands as if to erase his previous comment. Forget Blackhart. Forget all that. Let’s start this conversation over. I was just saying—"

Man! You just won’t quit.

". . . as you will recall, when we signed on to SuperNova, sis, we agreed to commit ourselves to this ship. Captain Highland said he wanted at least two years’ service and two weeks’ notice if we decided to leave after that. Considering he’d saved our lives I think we should stick to our agreement."

Yes, well, that was before we found out this job was so . . . What’s the phrase I’m looking for?

Boring as hell?

Mind-numbingly stupid, she said.

Stupid? Where did that come from?

At best, Highland is going to get us caught. At worst, killed.

I take it you don’t like his plan.

No, actually, I don’t. His plan is . . . it’s . . . She knit her brow. "You know what? There isn’t a word in the English language that means ‘stupid’ to that degree."

Did you tell him?

You know the captain. Once he gets an idea in his head, it’s nearly impossible for him to see things differently. Seeing Gilead was actually on her side, her posture relaxed.

Gil sighed and pushed to his feet, came around his chair, and sat on its backrest. Yeah. His eyes do tend to glaze over, don’t they?

The way he stands there clutching his beard . . . She mimicked the captain by stroking her chin.

Gil grinned at the picture in his head. Don’t forget the forefinger resting on his lips.

She rolled her eyes. "Right. You’d think he was actually considering your suggestion when in fact he’s dreaming of God only knows what—an Orion beach or something—but his mind certainly isn’t on your advice. I used to think that chin thing made him look studious. Now, not so much."

"Haven’t you noticed, sis? He is a geek."

Something in that made her perk up and think. He was a geek. She hadn’t considered that fact as relevant before, but it was more than that. It was a game changer. Why did a geek want to captain a starship at all? She’d have to give that some thought.

Polaris calmed her voice. I think it’s funny how his hands can’t seem to find a home. She mocked him by putting her hands first in her pockets then on her hips before finally folding them stiffly. To brush away the notion she threw up her hands.

That’s only around you, Polly. When you’re near, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, that’s for sure. It’s like there’s a casual pose out there somewhere just beyond his reach. When you’re not in the room, he’s . . . well, he’s smooth.

Smooth?

Wrong phrase; let’s just say he’s less klutzy . . . less stiff.

She snorted back a laugh, then went to Gil and leaned in close to whisper. When’s the last time you shot something, little brother? Isn’t that why we were hired; to slap bad people around and break their things?

As she straightened, Gilead thought about it, then shook himself. The fact was that—if he had to think about it—it had been way too long since his last firefight.

For that matter, sis, I can’t remember the last time I hit someone. For the last year we haven’t gone anywhere stimulating, or done anything remotely fun.

Right! Cap never goes to any place interesting. Freight crap here. Freight piddling stuff there. Dull, dull, dull. Agh! If he wants to deliver goods willy-nilly he should clear his cargo bay of all the machines and gadgetry and haul real freight. She glanced back over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, then lowered her voice again. "Finally . . . finally we get this job, something easily made fun and interesting, and what does he do? He twists it into all kinds of stupid. She emphasized by screwing up her face and twisting her hands together. The man needs a hobby. No! He needs a new occupation!"

Gil chuckled.

Polaris turned to pace, stopped at the door, which auto-opened with a sucking sound, and craned her neck to look back at him. Jerking her head, she invited him to follow. I need to go to a bar, down at least two drinks, then find the biggest, burliest man there, and punch him square in the nose.

Gil didn’t move. "Okay, so you want to blow off some steam? I get that. You have been wound pretty tight these last couple days."

She spun around to face him. The door closed behind her. I’m sorry I snapped at you, but if I don’t scratch this itch . . .

Pirate bar then?

Pirate, Confederate; at this point, I really don’t care.

Yes. I see that. However . . . Gil grimaced, . . . I have issues with Confederate taverns, sis. And I’d just as soon not subject myself to any of them.

Issues? Such as?

"If you punch someone in a Confederate tavern they’ll lock up our ship. Look at a Confederate cop sideways they lock up our ship. Make an off color remark about the Confederacy’s Prime Minister—worse—they lock us up. I swear those people have absolutely no sense of humor. They just don’t understand a guy’s need for adventure, for danger, for roughhousing with the big boys."

Or a girl’s. She chuckled. No, they don’t. But still, there’s something to be said about slapping that smug look off a Confederate cop’s face.

"You really enjoyed that, didn’t you?"

She grinned mischievously and shrugged. It was worth the jail time. Two days in lockup was nothing.

He rolled his eyes. Fine. Then after this job we’ll look at getting you tossed into a slammer again, okay?

When he didn’t move she knew he was kidding. Come on, Storm, let’s do it. Let’s go to a Confed bar and raise a ruckus. I have got to vent or . . .

Yes, there is that. But I say we stick to pirate strongholds. Pirates understand a person’s need for a good brawl. And they aren’t prone to cuffing good folks like us.

Not if they see we’re on a well-deserved vacay. Pirates and rogues tend to be a little more relaxed and a lot more understanding about such things.

Chapter Two

In his office on SuperNova, Captain Trent Highland studied himself in a full length mirror, posing first this way, then that—first, hands on hips, then in his pockets, then crossed—but he couldn’t find any pose that made him appear casual and comfortable with himself. Polaris Storm was on his mind, and even that made him nervous.

"Be Cary, he muttered. Focus. Do the Cary."

Trent believed Cary Grant, an old-time actor, was the coolest man who had ever lived, but no matter how hard Trent tried, he just couldn’t nail Grant’s mannerisms. He couldn’t get beyond looking stiff and ill-at-ease. In costume, looking relaxed was hardly ever an issue for him, but he seldom felt comfortable in his own skin as himself, plane ol’ Trent Highland. What maddened him most was finding a proper and casual place to put his hands. Grant had a way of gesturing that seemed so real, so casual, and—most importantly—so manly.

Ah, come on, Trent, he grumbled to himself, you can do this.

Deep in thought he didn’t hear the outer hallway door open until Josh and Nate brought their argument to his door. Focused on each other neither had yet looked in to see him acting like a fool. Trent scrambled around his desk and switched the holo from the projected Cary Grant movie to a tactical display of this sector. His heart raced from fear at the prospect of getting caught practicing Cary Grant poses and mannerisms. He dropped into his chair, which complained with a squeak. Desperate to make a certain impression he casually looked up at the boys from the computer-generated screen.

Joshua Chisholm and his brother Nate were so engrossed in their argument neither had looked in on him . . . yet. Fifteen-year-old Josh was saying something about open space and going like crazy. Nate, his ten-year-old brother, disagreed, and when they were about to pass Trent’s door Nate peeked in. Sir, sorry to bother you, but if we had to run from a fight against Confed forces wouldn’t it be wiser to duck into an asteroid belt?

Well, I—

The Confederation has Talon fighters, Nate, Josh said. His brows were pulled severely together and drawn low. If we do something as stupid as duck into an asteroid field, they’d catch us for sure. Duh. I say we head for open space and run like crazy.

"What? That’s all kinds of stupid. This old ship can’t outrun their HvM180’s. And you know that."

What I know is—

Buddy, you get a missile like that locked on your tail, you might as well hang it up. Inside an aster—

Have you ever heard of Chaff? Come on Nate. Get real.

Ever heard of a Zero-point energy? Nate countered. You lure Talons into a predetermined area, and spring a ZPE web. Boom! Trapped. Easy-peesy.

And if they rocket just one ZPE emitter, what happens?

Nearby emitters reattach to close the gap. You can’t escape a box trap of ZPEs, Josh. Can’t be done.

And what happens if more than one emitter is knocked offline? Too many, and the whole system implodes in on itself crushing the Talons inside. Crushing the pilots too, I might add. ZPE box traps are stupid. And besides if you’re running from Talons, Nate, where are you going to find time to set your stupid trap? Josh looked at Captain Highland. Am I right? Tell him I’m right.

Well, I—

Never mind. Josh spun on his heels and headed away.

Nate followed. Okay. Point taken. The boys’ voices faded down the hall. The hiss of the passage door opening and closing were the last sounds Trent heard them make.

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the computer screen to study Nova’s course and heading, but the anger welling up inside him was palpable. No one took him seriously. None of his crew seemed to treat him like they’d treat any other ship’s captain. Was it his age—he was twenty-two—his breath . . . what? He’d grown a beard to make himself look older and hide what Polaris said was his baby face. She’d never said that to him directly. He’d overheard her say it in passing, but it stung all the same.

Zero-point energy web strung between asteroids indeed.

Huh! Hey wait! That doesn’t even exist! A smile spread across his face as he realized the boys were talking about some vid-game they were playing. But who says a ZPE couldn’t actually exist? I could . . . no, wait. He shook off the distraction. Back to business, Highland.