Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About The Author . . .
THE RIM REBELS
By
William Zellmann
Text Copyright 2012 William Zellmann
All rights Reserved
FREE SYSTEMS ALLIANCE: Name given to a group of some 340 systems, of which 186 have inhabited planets, occupying the outer part of a spiral arm to the Galactic East of the Empire. Originally part of the Empire, the Free Systems Alliance became independent in 3428 A.E., and remains the only multi-system government not part of the Empire. In contrast to the centralized Emperor/Council of the Empire, the Alliance of Free Systems is governed by a Congress consisting of one representative from each inhabited system, a President elected by the Congress, and a cabinet appointed by the President. Since the member systems fiercely defend their own independence, the Alliance government itself is, by design, relatively weak, and the sessions of the Congress often chaotic and contentious.
-Encyclopedia Galactica, 2473rd edition
Prologue
The pebble had been wandering the outer fringes of the Boondock system for millennia since being formed in the primordial protostar that became the system's primary. The chance of its course intersecting that of another material object was so slight as to be infinitesimal . . .
The first hint of trouble came when the faint but steadily increasing vibration of the reaction drive generators stopped with no warning but a faint shudder. Even before several alarms went off simultaneously a moment later, Captain Jirik Jeffson of the independent trader Bonny Lass had jumped to his feet, staring around wildly. As the alarms sounded, he spun to the Engineering console, glaring at the red lights flashing there. The needle of the normal space acceleration gauge, which had only moments before begun to slowly lift from its peg, had fallen back to the zero mark, as had the output indicators for the reaction drive generators. He instinctively flicked the life support switch to "Emergency" just as the bridge lighting began to flicker, and jerked a nod as the indicator lights flared green and the associated gauges showed the emergency generators coming to life.
He looked at the pressure indicators for Engineering, and noted that the pressure had fallen slightly, was still slowly falling. He touched the 'com switch. "Bran! You've got slight pressure loss, but it looks slow. A sticky patch should handle it! Are you all right?" Without waiting for an answer, he flipped the 'com switch to "shipwide," then set off for Engineering at a dead run. Seconds later he sighed with relief as Bran Fergson's voice came from all the speakers as he ran.
"I'm OK, Captain." Bran's voice was strained, and sounded far away in the lowering air pressure. "We've been holed. The hole in the inner hull is about two centimeters in diameter. I'm putting a sticky patch on it now." Jirik made no reply except for breathless subvocal cursing at the size of the Lass.
Ignoring the warning light above the airtight hatch to Engineering, he released the dogs securing it, and the heavy hatch flew open with a "whoosh" of equalizing pressure. Bran was just turning from the freshly installed patch when Jirik followed the hatch into the engineering compartment. He scanned Bran's tall, pudgy body, and when he saw no sign of injury his shoulders sagged with relief.
Bran's round face split into a wide grin. "Sheol, Captain! Did you fly down here? I haven't even had time to see what's happened, yet!"
Jirik grabbed onto his temper. "Huh! I knew that if I wanted to know what happened, I'd have to come down here myself, you oversized shlith!"
Bran's grin faded as he climbed back onto the crate he'd been standing on, then turned, trying to estimate the path of whatever had holed them. "Deity!" he cried, "The generators!" He jumped down again, and began hurrying across the engine room. Jirik followed him, losing ground as Bran weaved through the maze of piping and machinery. By the time Jirik reached him, Bran was sandwiched between the masses of the two inertial drive generators, muttering to himself.
Some of the damage wasn't hard to spot. On the nearest of the two huge generators a shiny gouge shone clearly. Ragged ends showed where wire and tubing had been cut by the intruder. Bran's attention, though, was focused on the other massive machine. Jirik craned to see over the first unit, and saw his finger poking at a two centimeter hole in the thirty-mil-thick casing. He didn't need Bran's grim expression to tell him they were in trouble.
Bran straightened with a sigh. "We've got a problem, Captain. The port generator is beyond repair in space." He stared at the starboard generator. "I may be able to repair this one, if only the external systems are damaged." He shrugged. "Give me half a standard hour, and I'll know more."
Jirik cursed. "Fix it, Bran. We're at the edge of the system. We'd have to call for a tow if we're to get to Boondock in less than a month, and Boondock doesn't have a space station, so they probably won't have tugs."
Bran nodded. "I'll do my best, Captain," he replied soberly.
"I know you will, Bran," Jirik replied, "And I know that if anyone can get us some boost, you can. Keep me posted." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and headed for the bridge.
It wasn't a short trip. The Bonny Lass was a big ship. Well, maybe not by interstellar freighter standards, but she was the largest ship designed for actually landing on a planet. She was a DIN-class Combat Hauler, designed to resupply ground troops in the field. All her armaments had been removed when she was retired by the Alliance Navy, of course, but she still had the huge inertial drive generators that would let her ground and boost fully loaded; the really large freighters were orbit-to-orbit jobs, incapable of grounding even if they'd wanted to. Still, it was a long walk from Engineering on the bottom level, past the vast cargo holds, to the bridge. Jirik was puffing by the time he arrived.
Valt Willem was at the Astrogation station, as usual, and turned with an expression of mild interest as Jirik entered the bridge. Valt was only really interested in astrogation and sex. Anything outside those areas he left to others to handle. Valt was classically handsome, and his uniform knife-edged and tailored, as usual. Almost a hundred and ninety centimeters tall, Valt was nearly always the very picture of health. Somehow, despite the confined nature of starship travel, he managed to stay almost obsessively fit, and even to keep a bronzed tan. He was the only member of the crew that didn't settle for rumpled coveralls when in space.
Tor Jankys, the other occupant of the bridge, however, was obviously jittery, and had evidently been pacing. His hands were clenching and unclenching. Tor was nearly as tall as Valt, standing some 185 centimeters tall, but there the similarity ended. Where Valt was graceful and lithe, Tor was bulky and brawny. His youthful face was square, and marred by an acne problem which he was fighting valiantly. Somehow, his clothes always seemed a size too small, his shoes a size too large. Even the weathered tan that farm life had given him was beginning to fade. But his features were strong and well-formed. His face was also suffused with a simple wholesomeness and lack of guile that inspired confidence. He displayed an enthusiasm and a sense of wonder that made the others feel jaded.