Wreckers: A Denver Boyd Novel

by George Ellis

  “You know there’s a mandatory two-year sentence for anyone caught drinking booze on Jasper,” I told Batista as she took a nip of some cheap whiskey I’d found in the galley.

  “Don’t plan on staying long,” she said, reclining in the co-pilot seat, Pirate perched above her shoulders in his usual spot.

  She’d had a chance to shower and clean up, and I did my best not to let my thoughts wander. The way she talked about Avery left little doubt they’d been romantically involved. It was easy to see why. Looks. Attitude. And she was a mechanic. It was a damn trifecta.

  I had showered too, but I got the distinct impression she was more interested in my food and drinks than anything else. A couple years in the service of the federation will do that to a person. Freeze-dried protein packs may be full of nutrients, but they had nothing on the junk food I lived on. Batista almost promised to clean the entire ship when I told her there was a bag of potato chips in it for her. The first few days of the journey went like that. Me adjusting to having a second person on board. Her adjusting to no longer being stuck on the 405 under the thumb of The Man. We took turns emptying trash into the incinerator until the ship was more liveable.

  Gary was in heaven. He finally had another person to barrage with his trademark musings. At first I thought Batista would shut that down, but he made her laugh more often than not. Maybe it was the novelty or maybe he just tried harder with her, but there was no denying they were bonding faster than we were. Not that I was jealous. I mean, sure, even Pirate was going sweet on her, but new people are exciting out here in the void. On a ship like mine, they didn’t come around often.

  * * *

  I was sleeping when the first warrant went out. Gary woke me up with the news.

  “You’ve done it this time,” he scolded. “A thousand credits.”

  I’d been hoping Jeffries wouldn’t put out an official warrant on us. He was obviously trying to hide something about Batista and the sabotage, but that embarrassment had been trumped by his desire to track me down and make me pay for crossing him.

  To do that, he’d issued a Binding Federation Warrant throughout the verse. A BFW basically meant every federation ship and soldier was required to detain Batista and I on sight. That part didn’t worry me. Of greater concern was the 1000-credit reward promised to any non-fed who happened to catch us. It wasn’t a kill warrant, but that was only because Jeffries wanted to make us suffer before we were executed.

  “I give us one chance in three to make it to Jasper now,” I told Batista as I entered the cabin.

  “I’m going with one in eight,” chirped Gary.

  Batista smirked. “I’m gonna have to go with Gary on this one.”

  I pulled up the long range scanner and found nothing within 50,000 clicks. A clean scan like that can lull you into a false sense of security. While it’s true space is big and endless and infinite and all the other words we use to describe a concept most of us really can’t wrap our heads around, it’s also somewhat crowded thanks to the finite technology we humans have to work with. Without one of those cool warp drives from the old movies, we have to account for massive amounts of fuel, meaning on any given day, there are probably half a million ships on float between the sun and Jupiter.

  “Quiet,” I said, looking at the scanner again.

  “Don’t say it,” Batista warned.

  I couldn’t help myself. “Almost too quiet.”

  She rolled her eyes and looked at Pirate. “I’m sorry you’ve been subjected to this for so long.”

  “What am I, chopped liver?” Gary whined. “I’ve been listening to his jokes for years!”

  Blip.

  And just like that, the scanner wasn’t clean anymore. An orange light flashed at the outer edge of the perimeter. I turned to Batista with my best told-you-so eyebrow raise. She wasn’t impressed. The truth is, I’d expected the blip. Maybe not at that exact moment, but we were venturing into Tracer territory, so we were bound to run across another vessel eventually.

  “What kind of ship?” Batista asked.

  “J Series, double propulsion,” I answered, pulling up the specs. “Lightly armed but heavily armored.”

  “Tracers,” she hissed.

  Tracers were a loosely formed band of, well, pirate ships, for lack of a better description. The cat burglars of the universe. That’s actually where my cat’s name came from – I’d won him in a bet with a Tracer I’d crossed paths with about a year back. It just so happened he’d also been born with one eye missing, so the Pirate moniker made even more sense.

  “And not just any Tracers. That ship’s the Golden Bear,” I said, my tone flat.

  Batista stiffened at the mention of the call sign. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve color-coded certain vessels just so I don’t mix them up with far less dangerous ships. Orange means Tracer. And that little outline on it means the Golden Bear,” I answered.

  Gary decided to chime in to break the tension.

  “On the bright side, maybe it’ll give you a chance to double-cross them again!” he mused. “Though I doubt even a mind as clever as yours could fool Desmond twice.”

  I glared at the camera, not appreciating Gary’s sarcasm. Batista was caught somewhere between concern and, I thought, a hint of approval at the idea I might’ve bested the most nefarious pirate in space.

  “Again?” she asked.

  The Golden Bear was nearly 40 years old and had been helmed by just three different captains. The original was a cutthroat named Artemis, after the Greek goddess of the hunt. The Golden Bear terrorized the galaxy under her rule, stealing anything that could return a profit. Weapons. Food. People. But it wasn’t until she formed an alliance with a dozen other like-minded vessels that the Tracers were born. For the better part of three decades, she brought more pirates into the Tracer fold, until they became a ruthless army comprised of the most vicious, clever and colorful people ever to float the verse. At various points in Artemis’ reign, the Tracers were more formidable and feared than the federation itself. Engagements between the two forces were fairly common, and it was a coin-flip on who would win any particular fight.

  Unfortunately for Artemis, there was one person even more cunning than herself aboard the Golden Bear, and that was her commanding officer, Titus The Gray, who stabbed her in the back – literally – to assume command of the ship. Titus was a man of great ambition. His lust for power and fame stretched the Tracer alliance nearly to its breaking point, as he instituted a “tribute” system under which all other ships paid a portion of their earnings to the Golden Bear. It was a tax. And everybody knew it. Including a young captain who had earned fame for fleecing a federation ship of its entire arsenal at the tender age of 22. Two years later, he captured the Golden Bear and spaced Titus, much to the delight of Tracers everywhere. For the last decade, Desmond had been the face and soul of the Tracer alliance. Hated by the federation. Feared by every captain in space. And loved by his people.

  And 11 months ago, I’d got the better of him.

  “It’s kind of a long story,” I said to Batista, who merely spread her arms wide and motioned to the windows looking out into the vast sea of stars.

  “I’ve got all the time in the world,” she said, genuinely interested in hearing how a wrecker double-crossed the greatest criminal of our time.

  “I guess I should start at the beginning, then,” I thought aloud. “Gary, cover your ears.”

  “No! I deserve to hear this story,” he barked. “Why does she get to hear it and not me?”

  “Because she isn’t recording it,” I pointed out. “And she can’t be hacked. Also, I like keeping secrets from you. It’s fun. Now, sleep.”

  If Gary could’ve issued a shipwide grunt, he would have. Instead he simply shut himself off. Batista eyed me, judging. “You two have a weird relationship.”

  “Shotgun wedding,” I said. The truth was I didn’t usually have people on the ship, so it was typically pretty easy to keep secret
s from Gary. I just didn’t talk about them out loud. An on-board AI can be extremely helpful in a variety of situations – hell, Batista was only alive because of Gary’s ability to guide me through an emergency medical procedure – but a data-collecting machine with a big mouth is also a liability. Which is one of the reasons a lot of ships don’t even have an AI. Or if they do, they don’t opt for one like Gary with such a big personality.

  Batista seemed to regard me in a new light.

  “So, you outwitted Desmond?” she said. “You.”

  “Never said that,” I corrected.

  Outwit implied I’d planned to pull one over on the guy. Which I hadn’t. And so I told Batista what really happened.

  Chapter 5

  I was halfway between Earth and its moon. Or the moon and Mars. I was also halfway awake, battling spaceouts.

  It was my 19th birthday after all, and Pirate and I had celebrated in style. We’d both dined on cans of our finest (i.e. only) tuna, then he got a handful of catnip and I had a few too many beers I’d salvaged from a recent job in Earth atmo. Gary was tired of the 20th century rock music I’d been forcing him to serve up the last three hours, but I took another swig and demanded more AC/DC, a favorite of mine.

  “Were these lyrics written by a 12-year-old boy?” Gary complained.

  “This is from your era,” I slurred. “You’re supposed to like it.”

  Right when it was getting to the good part, Gary turned off the music.

  “Highway to…hey! What are you doing?” I growled.

  “Oh excuse me for turning off that teen angst fever dream, but we’re being hailed,” he replied.

  “It’s my birthday. No jobs on my birthday. Music. Now.”

  “Okay, but you should know we’re also being targeted,” said Gary.

  That got my attention. I sat up and checked the proximity scans. We were being painted by a ship less than 1,000 miles away.

  Don’t drink and navigate, kids.

  “Tell me about the ship,” I said, switching my beverage to a can of soda.

  The Stang had armor, but I didn’t really want to test it. The fact I was being targeted was rare. Aside from the odd saber-rattling of a federation ship trying to intimidate someone every now and then, most ships didn’t actively target one another. More often than not, if another vessel lased you, it wasn’t just for show.

  “J Series, heavily armored, two rail guns. Tracers,” Gary chirped, smugly.

  “I guess we better answer. Put ‘em on the big screen, Gary,” I said, before turning to Pirate. “I’ll do the talking.” Pirate yawned and stretched a paw over the back of his chair. I had to hand it to the little dude – he didn’t rattle easily. Or it’s possible he was just high on catnip.

  “Hello, Mr. Boyd. A pleasure to meet you,” a baritone voice said.

  I looked toward the monitor, ready to make a wiseass retort, but bit my tongue at the last second. And I was lucky I did. The man on the other end of the beam was handsome and athletic, with piercing blue eyes. He was also the most notorious scoundrel in the galaxy. Not that you’d know it by his genteel demeanor. He went by a single name.

  “I’d say the cat got your tongue, but Pirate looks fairly relaxed at the moment,” Desmond said. “Yes, I know your cat’s name and the story of how you acquired him.”

  I tried to appear unfazed and forced a thin smile. “I won that game fair and square.”

  Desmond leaned back his head and laughed. “You don’t think I tracked you down to get back a cat one of my people lost to you in a card game, do you?”

  The thought had occurred to me. “Of course not, Desmond. Though I’m racking my brain for another reason you might be lasing my ship at the moment.”

  Desmond nodded. I hadn’t insulted or challenged him, but I’d made it clear I didn’t like being primed for target practice. He studied me for a moment, then glanced at someone offscreen. A second later, the red light on my dash ceased flashing.

  “Thank you,” I said, holding up my cherry cola to him, before downing a sip.

  “You have to understand, Mr. Boyd…”

  As much as I enjoyed the mock-formalities, I said, “Please, call me Denver.”

  “Okay, Denver. Not only do I have a reputation to uphold as a dastardly character, I also have a few enemies. Certain precautions are necessary.”

  I inclined my head, indicating I understood. After that, we sat there for a moment, just regarding each other. I’d heard many tales of the man. They varied, to be honest. Sometimes he was described as a sort of Robin Hood-like character, only stealing from those who deserved it. Other times he was a madman who had killed scores of innocents simply because he could. My general experience had been that as far as notoriety was concerned, it was best to believe the worst you hear about someone, and be surprised if they turned out to be better. Which is why I kept my non-soda hand casually resting near my weapons system control panel. Perhaps sensing this, Desmond raised an eyebrow and said “I hope you don’t consider me your enemy, Denver.”

  “How could I?” I asked. “We hardly know each other. So what can I do for you?”

  “I’d rather talk about that in person,” he replied. “I give you my word all I want to do is make a business proposition, one I think you’ll find very enticing, if the stories I’ve heard about you are true.”

  Stories about me? I tried to imagine what he could’ve possibly heard about me that was interesting enough to warrant a special invitation to chat. There were probably 1,000 stories about him to every 1 about me in the universe. And mine were mostly of the “arrogant young wrecker who inherited a cool ship” variety. Hardly the stuff of legend. Of the ones I’d heard about Desmond, none of them made me feel too great about stepping onto his ship based on him giving me his word he wouldn’t space me.

  “Sounds good,” I replied, motioning around the cabin. “I may need a few minutes to clean up the place.”

  Desmond laughed again.

  “I like you. I can’t wait to have you aboard. Set a course for these coordinates,” he said, then clicked off.

  And that was that. The man had spoken. Sure, I could run. And maybe I could escape for a few days, or even a few weeks. But eventually, one of the hundreds of other Tracer ships would find me, and I doubt all those captains would exhibit nearly as much diplomacy as their leader. So, I was going to talk to the baddest pirate in the world. Face to face. On his ship.

  “Wanna come?” I asked my own Pirate. He promptly shut his eyes and curled his tail around his hind legs for a nice nap. Sometimes I envied him.

  * * *

  What to wear, what to wear. I’d just stepped out of my first shower in at least two weeks and I felt like I was getting dressed for a first date. A very dangerous first date that could turn into a last one, too. I stood in my quarters wondering whether I should try to hide some kind of weapon on my person. A knife maybe? I’d never been good with guns, plus they’d be checking for those anyway. Hell, they’d probably find a knife too, and it’s not like a hidden blade was going to save me against the 10 or 15 Tracers on board. In the end, I just threw on my standard work pants and denim shirt, grabbed my tool kit, and made for the airlock.

  “If I don’t check in within the hour, blow the seal and make a break for Earth’s moon,” I told Gary as I strapped my comm link on my wrist. “And don’t forget to feed Pirate. I loaded the dispenser yesterday.”

  “I always knew I’d outlive you,” Gary mused.

  I snorted as the airlock door closed behind me. Other than the obvious reason Desmond might be interested in me – to fix or tow a ship – I had no clue what he might want to discuss. Politics? Fashion?

  The light above the Golden Bear’s airlock door switched from red to blue, and the door slid open with a hiss. I expected a security detail of some kind, but was instead greeted by the man himself. Desmond stood just over six feet tall, roughly my height. That surprised me. You hear enough folklore about a person and you imagine them larger than
life. He extended a hand and smiled warmly, his teeth bright white.

  “I don’t think you’ll be needing that,” he said, noting my toolbox. “Not this visit anyway.”

  I put the toolbox down in the airlock bridge, but didn’t step forward onto the Golden Bear.

  “If you don’t need me to fix something, I’m not sure what we have to talk about,” I said, trying to keep any hint of fear or annoyance out of my voice. “All due respect.”

  “Who said I didn’t need you to fix something?” he replied, arching an eyebrow.

  The Golden Bear was a perfect example of form following function. As a mechanic, nothing bothered me more than a poorly designed ship. The federation was chocked full of them. Too slow. Or too armored. Or state of the art in some capacities but severely lacking in other areas. This vessel, however, was exactly what the king of the Tracers needed (king was my word, not his). I could hear the subsonic hum of the double propulsion system. The nuclear fission reactor was silent, but the two sleek propulsion jets on either side of the long ship teemed with raw power.

  We passed the ample cargo bays, a necessity on any Tracer ship, and I followed Desmond toward the galley. His crew was also what I had expected: a mismatched collection of tattooed badasses. Some of them diligently worked at stations, while others relaxed, meaning their jobs fell more into the boarding/thieving aspect of Tracer life. A few of them shot me looks that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but for the most part it was a chill environment.

  “Is that double plating?” I asked, noting the shielding on the walls.

  “Triple,” Desmond replied, slowing down to give me a moment to admire the workmanship.

  “But…how do you compensate for the weight? Doesn’t it slow you down?” I said, touching the dark gold material. He didn’t answer at first. And he didn’t need to. Once my finger sunk a few millimeters into the first layer, I realized it was some kind of foam, or…

  “Hydrogenated nanotubes mixed with foam,” Desmond explained. “We recruited one of the top radiation experts in the world a few years ago, and he’s been outfitting our fleet with the material ever since.”