Junkyard Dogs 1: The Scrapyard Incident (4 page)

"Yeah, you
want to see it?"

"Of course!"

She laid her left
forearm down on the table in front of him, wrist up, so he could have a better
look the device. Held in place by a two centimeter-wide, self-adjusting
neo-kevlar wristband, the computer was an elongated oval about six centimeters
by two that was only a slim two or three millimeters in thickness. It was also
curved across the short axis to fit comfortably around her wrist and forearm.

"I read
about those in last month's issue of "Future Technology." Is it as
good as they say?"

"It's even
better! This is the control panel here. It's equipped with the new Cyberdex
virtual keyboard, but I use voice commands just as much. I've got my
dissertation, all of my references and a raft of other archival material right
here on my wrist. It's like having an entire library with you everywhere you
go. Want to see the schematic on an Orion destroyer?"

"You
bet!"

She spoke softly
at the device.

"Succession
War...obsolete destroyer...Orion Mark IV...3-D projection...execute!"

This brought up a
3-D holo display of a representative of the destroyer class in the air in front
of them and she eagerly began to point out details. The two of them quickly
became engrossed in the display and then moved on to other subjects. Carlisle
wasn't anything at all like Harris had expected from Kresge's earlier briefing.
Her mind was lightning fast and the depth of her knowledge was astounding for
such a young officer, but she was surprisingly easy to talk to. Her nervous
speaking habit seemed to get less severe as she relaxed and simply let things
flow. The two of them had so many common interests that Harris completely lost
track of the time.

"So you see,
all of the information I've been able to pull together so far indicates that
Jannsen was a damned good strategist but he was a lousy tactician," said
Carlisle as she referred to details on a holographic diagram of the final
battle of the Succession War. "Yet somehow he pulled off a brilliant
tactical move that saved the day for the Federation Forces. It doesn't make
sense. Talbot says..."

A call over the
station intercom brought them out of their reverie. The mess hall had emptied
out except for the two of them.

"Lieutenant
Harris...Lieutenant Harris... Report to the Command Center, immediately."

"Damn!"
he said. "Look at the time! I'm set to relieve Perkins as officer of the
watch. Five minutes ago!
Gotta go."
He smiled at
her as he got up to leave. "It has really been great talking to you,
Ensign."

"Tamara."

"Great talking to you, Tamara.
You
do
seem to have a new angle. We should have plenty of time to
discuss it while we're checking out those destroyers over the next few weeks.
See you at seven bells. Goodnight."

"Goodnight,
Lieutenant."

She wore a
discrete smile of her own as she left for her quarters. As was her habit, she
spoke softly to herself.

"Engrossing...intellectually
stimulating...damned nice eyes...so polite... Ryan ...his name is Ryan...I hope
I didn't get him in trouble."

Now he had been
totally unexpected. She hadn't thought that anyone at the Reclamation Center
would have had much interest in her project, let alone
know
enough to help refine some of her ideas. As for the Lieutenant himself, she
found herself intrigued by his clean-cut good looks and his unobtrusive manner.
His gentle, intelligent brown eyes didn't seem to miss much either. These next
few weeks were probably going to be interesting, to say the least. Her smile
turned to a frown as the painful memories of seemingly friendly colleagues who
had led her on with kindness only to turn nasty on her when it suited their interests
intruded into her thoughts. Admiral Loftgren's lecture on how important success
at this assignment was to her future career came flooding back as well.

"Think about
something else, Tamara..." she said as she slipped into her quarters.

Chapter 5

...The main occupied construct of the
Reclamation Center, the command facilities and staff quarters, was a standard
military-issue Class J orbital repair facility that had been brought in
immediately after the war. Just small enough to fit the main hold of one of the
huge M-class
transports,
the facility was a prefab
construction of dumbbell shape with short cylinders instead of spheres at the
ends. These facilities had been designed to be transported fully functional and
in one piece to wherever they were needed. One of the cylinders was rotated to
simulate gravity while the other remained stationary and unpressurized to allow
docking, unloading and storage of supplies without complicated and difficult
maneuvers. In the center of the stationary cylinder was the main cargo door and
tethered outside it were several rows of small two-person sleds, two large
utility sleds, and two small cutters that were used to transport personnel and
materials back and forth between the station and the planet....

...Artificial gravity was yet another
offshoot of Whitney overdrive technology and orbiting constructs, unless they
had a very odd shape, were generally spun to simulate gravity...

Hartwell Wrist
Comp reference note highlighted for further review by Tamara Carlisle. Excerpt
is from "The Scrapyard" by Calvin Desjardins, Official Historian,
UTFN
Reclamation Center.

UTFN Reclamation Center, Main Facility,
October 5, 2598.

Angus Rory
Hawkins dogged the helmet latch on his bulky utility space suit with his left hand
while holding onto the main cargo airlock door with his right. As soon as he
knew the seal was tight he would activate the door and use the control handle
to propel his weightless mass into the airlock chamber. His compact one-hundred
and sixty-five centimeter frame was topped with a steel grey crewcut. A native
of New Scotia, his heritage was quite obvious as soon as he spoke -- if you
could get him to speak; he had a reputation for being somewhat taciturn.

Hawkins had been
banished to the Scrapyard for more than two years now as the result of an
incident in a rowdy bar at the Santana Nexus Station Complex, the huge and
bustling hyperpoint gateway to the Santana Quadrant. Reports were sketchy, but
rumors regarding the episode alluded to the fact that the nearly sixty-year old
engineer had soundly thrashed a young officer in a brawl involving overuse of
alcohol and the favors of a prostitute. The young officer had not been
conscious at the end of the incident. Angus Rory Hawkins had only escaped brig time
and a dishonorable discharge based on a previously spotless service record
combined with a great deal of ability.

Or so the story
went...

Because of those
abilities, it was no surprise when the Brass decided that his skills should
still be put to some use. It was also decided that he should do a little
penance. So he found himself, a former Chief Petty Officer -- CPO -- of the
Federation Space Naval Corps, demoted to a class two engineering technician,
working at the Federation's orbiting junkyard, dismantling and herding wrecks.
Those who worked with him found him to be a bit crusty, but all agreed that he
was among the best engineers they'd ever met.

If you could pin
him down, he would most likely admit that the job had some perks. He was de
facto chief engineer of the facility, despite his lack of rank. Since Commander
Kresge had taken command of the Center, and began to make better use of the
former CPO's considerable skills, Hawkins felt a great deal more appreciated.
He found himself actually looking forward to his assignment for the next few
weeks, working with the young, but seemingly competent Lieutenant Harris and
the lady Ensign who was also a Spacer. He let the thoughts subside as he
concentrated on preparations to the utility sled and to the loading of air
tanks, food modules, and other supplies that would be needed for the next few
days.

***

Naccobus System, on board a
naval cutter in transit to the New Ceylon Orbital Station, October 5, 2598.

Oskar Kresge
settled into a reasonably comfortable acceleration seat in the tiny officer's
section onboard the UTFN cutter. The little ship was under one G of
acceleration and would be executing the first of several microjumps sometime in
the next half hour. Without the microjumps, the journey would have required
several months. As it was, Kresge had about twenty-four hours to go before the
ship arrived at New Ceylon. Along with a few personal effects, the attaché case
he had brought with him contained his personal computer complete with files on
several reports and other projects that he was planning to work on during the
trip.

It was morning,
according to New Ceylon Zero Meridian time (NCZM), the default time zone
employed by all of the off-planet installations in the system. These
installations included the Reclamation Center, which he had just left, the New
Ceylon Orbital Station, which was his
destination,
and
the system's only real functioning warship, the destroyer
Boise
, which was posted near the orbital station.

There were
several other people on board with him, in addition to the pilot and copilot,
all of whom had some business at the orbital station. Two of the
Naval
personnel onboard, Chief Petty Officers Marvin Jenkins
and Perry Allen, would be on leave after the ceremonies and would transfer to a
surface shuttle for transport down to the planet within a few hours after the
ceremonies ended. Another of the passengers was a Mr. Clancy Davis-Moore who
came to the Scrapyard a couple of times a year to arrange the purchase of used
parts for his commercial clients and wealthy colleagues. Oskar had met with him
the night before to inspect the latest shipment of parts, part of a purchase
that had been negotiated a month or so earlier. Davis-Moore was reputed to be
independently wealthy, as well as some kind of super sportsman, and was only
involved in the used parts business to help out wealthy friends who operated
older ships as business or personal spacecraft. He and Kresge had met twice in
the last eighteen months. Kresge had always thought him to be a rather colorful
character and wished that he knew him better.

The other person
was an agent for NITrans who had been at the Reclamation Center for a couple of
days arranging future pickups. This gentleman had come out on the same trip
that had brought Ensign Carlisle to the Reclamation center. He came over to
talk to Kresge.

"Pardon me,
Commander. Could I have a word?"

Kresge had to
think for a moment to remember the man's name. Shuster, the name was Shuster,
and he was new on the job, having only made a couple of previous trips out to
the Scrapyard.

"Of course, Mr. Shuster.
What can I do for you?"

"This may
not really concern you, Commander, but the company sent out a bulletin this
morning and asked us to share the information with the military."

"We'll help
in any way that we can."

"This is
somewhat sensitive information and we would greatly appreciate your customary
discretion in this sort of thing."

"The
military can keep a secret." Kresge smiled at his own joke.

"Of
course," said Shuster, the humor apparently lost on him. "Our company
has lost contact with two ships within the last four months. It's been long
enough that they're preparing to file the insurance claims to pay off the
clients who had goods on those ships."

"Lost
contact?"

"I know that
doesn't tell you much, but the company does like to play this sort of thing
close to the vest."

"Is this
another one of those pirate rumors we've been hearing about lately?"

"I'm afraid
it might be, Commander. Just let us know if you see or hear anything regarding
any of our ships that
seems
at all suspicious."

"I'll be
happy to, Mr. Shuster."

"Thanks,
Commander, I won't take any more of your time." The agent returned to his
seat.

Kresge thought for
a moment. Rumors about some kind of pirate activity in the Quadrant had been
reemerging in the last few months, after years of inactivity. Of course, a few
ships went missing every year; interstellar space travel, as routine as it had
become, was still inherently a very dangerous enterprise. He filed the
information for further action, should any be needed, and settled in for the
remainder of the trip.

He planned to
structure his day exactly as he would have if he had remained at the Scrapyard.
He would work for eight or nine hours, with a lunch break in between, before
knocking off for the evening and having dinner. He then planned to read for a
while before sleeping. The shuttle would arrive at the orbital station at about
seven a.m. NCZM time, and he would meet an hour or so later with Governor
Larkin
of the orbital station and Captain Dortmunder of the
Federation Naval Ship (FNS)
Boise
to coordinate the festivities
planned for the Meridian ambassador's visit.

For lunch he had
arranged to meet with Irene Marshall, a civilian who had been appointed by the
governor of New Ceylon to be the government liaison with the military and the
civilian businesses on the orbital station, a job that merited the title of
Under-Secretary of Commerce.

Irene. Since he had
rescued her from a boring State-sponsored cocktail party the same night he met
her, he had been seeing her whenever he could get back to the station, which
was usually once a month or so, for the last two years. He had been thinking
for some time now that he wanted to talk seriously with her about their future.
Kresge was nearly forty standard years old, had never been married, and had
been pretty sure he never would be.

That was before
he'd met Irene.

Lately he was
thinking that he might be having a change of heart. Maybe they could talk about
it, if an appropriate opportunity came up. Maybe he would create that
opportunity. They would have the afternoon and the evening together before he
had to get back to some serious work the following morning. Unless he could get
some of that work done right now.

As he reached for
his computer, he wondered briefly how Harris was getting along with Ensign
Carlisle and then smiled privately. The Federation Navy would somehow find
places for both of the two officers, the young Spacer with the genius IQ and
"personality quirks" and the young engineer, so very good with
recruits, whose real passion seemed to be fussing over and herding old, wrecked
ships. They just needed a little time. Yes, that was it, a little time and
maybe a real challenge of some sort, to help them bring their considerable
talents into focus. He wondered if he could devise some sort of project...

He sighed, pulled
his computer out of the attaché case and set to work.