Free Traitor (Rebel Stars Book 2) by Edward W. Robertson Page A

part of town. The buildings there were tidier, with straight, solid lines that looked built to last generations. Rada had expected everyone to be dressed in heavy wool with pewter belt buckles on everything, but the residents wore light, breezy button-up clothes. She supposed that on tropical beaches, everyone went casual eventually.
    It was a funny thing. These people, they shat into holes in the ground. Many had missing teeth, crooked fingers, and other signs of vintage health care. Some seemed to be running a contest between what they could make dirtier, their homes or themselves.
    Yet as rough as their self-imposed rusticism was, they seemed no less happy than the people Rada had known on Mars, the moons of Neptune, or the cities of Earth.
    "That's wonderful," Webber said after she'd voiced these thoughts out loud. "But let's reassess the value of our fast-paced, tech-driven society after we get out of this smelly hellhole. We're not finding anything here. I say we go see the Wrath."
    Rada had seen glimpses of the third sect's district. This was gated off by spiked fences. Men in black, rubbery armor reeled in and out of the trash-strewn gates, accompanied by occasional shouts and, sometimes, gunfire.
    It looked like a war zone. But several of those on Fell's list called it home.
    "You're right," Rada said. "Time to head to Bartertown."
     
    * * *
     
    Tiant laughed stutteringly. "Not a great idea. 'Bartertown' is a poor representation of what it really is. It should be called 'Beatingtown.'"
    "There's no other way around it," Rada said. "We have to talk to these people."
    "The people who live there will have zero interest in speaking to sociologists. But I know someone who can help you. She's a tom—a traveling storyteller. She can come and go as she pleases."
    He arranged a meet. The tom's name was Kerns, an older woman with gray braids, a short-sleeved plaid shirt, and a beautiful acoustic guitar. As she listened to Rada's request, she chewed a wad of green leaves.
    "Yeah," Kerns said. "No."
    Rada squeezed her jaw tight. "Tiant said you'd have no problem getting in."
    "I wouldn't. But you have a problem making it worth my while."
    "What, are you allergic to money?" Webber said.
    The old woman spat green juice. "Your money's nothing but electrons. Think I can spend those here?" She rubbed her sleeve over her forearm, lifting the hair there. "Look, I'm rich."
    "You're a tom," Rada said. "Telling stories is your livelihood. Well, I have one for you. It's about the alien who saved humanity."
    Kerns waved a wrinkled, heavily tanned hand. "I know the story of Sebastian. That's the story that made me want to do what I do."
    "This isn't about Sebastian. It's about a rebel who stopped his crew from nuking the handful of humans who survived the plague."
    Kern looked suspicious. Then a hot, hungry look washed over her face. "Tell me."
    The old woman listened without interruption. After, she closed her eyes for three heartbeats, then produced a paper notepad and started scribbling notes. "Now tell me who you want to find."
    Rada showed her the faces of the nine recent immigrants she hadn't yet spoken to, then filled her in on the kinds of questions she was looking to have answered. She made it clear that she wasn't as interested in the answers as whether the speakers were telling the truth.
    "Don't you worry," Kerns grinned, green pulp lining her teeth. "I'm a professional liar. I'll spot your man."
    Rada walked off, MacAdams in tow. Webber lingered, speaking to the tom.
    Rada didn't see him until later that day. After a bit of idle chat, she said, "What'd you talk to Kerns about?"
    "The best places in town to get a drink," Webber said. "Figured I'd try to stir up some gossip. Even if I come out empty-handed, at least I'll be drunk."
    Rada felt a small twinge of jealousy, but it vanished as soon as she delved into her notes. The next couple days passed quietly. She revisited some of the interviewees, following up on the back