Junkyard Dogs 1: The Scrapyard Incident

by Phillip Nolte

  "Let me introduce you to engineering technician Angus Hawkins," said Harris.

  Since the three of them were to be together for the next several days, all had been tuned to the same suit-to-suit communications frequency. Hawkins had actually been monitoring the previous conversations between the two officers and thus had been expecting them. One of Kresge's innovations was a muting down of the level of military protocol required for small operations in the Scrapyard. With everyone in spacesuits and usually in small groups of less than five people, regular shipboard procedures such as coming to attention, saluting, and other military protocols were deemed a low priority because they could be downright dangerous in some situations, and a more relaxed interaction between officers and enlisted men was encouraged. Each member of the small party chose a call sign to ensure the brevity and clarity of their communications.

  "Hawkins, this is Ensign Tamara Carlisle," said Harris. "You'll need a call sign, Ensign. What do you want us to call you?"

  "Um...Vixen, will do just fine," said the young woman.

  "Vixen," replied Hawkins, with a slight nod of his head inside the clear bubble of his spacesuit helmet. "I be Hawk."

  "Java works for me," said Harris, rounding out the introductory remarks.

  Hawkins too was enamored with Carlisle's new suit.

  "Goodness me, Lass, but that be one fancy suit you're wearin.'"

  "Thanks...Hawk. I was just telling Harris about it. It's a prototype. I'm testing it out for a few weeks."

  "Looks t' be a wee bit flimsy?"

  "Meta-kevlar...nanite architecture...Actually, it's not. I know it almost looks too good to be true, but the fabric is a brand new polymer. They claim it's not only stronger than the material of the old suits, but that its insulating properties are almost perfect. If you look at it in the infrared, you won't see any heat signature."

  "You be wearing it well," he said, matter-of-factly.

  "Thanks, Hawk."

  Harris got them back on track.

  "Ensign Carlisle -- I mean, Vixen -- is here to inspect some of the Succession Era warships, Hawk, but I think we should start out with one of the training vessels to give her a little practice and some orientation before we head out to the Auxiliary Tracking Station. I trust that's okay with you, Ensign?"

  Carlisle was momentarily disappointed that they were not immediately heading for the section of the Scrapyard that contained the destroyers but, not wanting to get off on the wrong foot with her new coworkers, chose not to let it show

  "Ah...I guess you have to learn to walk before you can run," she replied.

  "Well, let's get to it," said Harris. "Since part of your training is to practice close quarters maneuvering, you might as well go ahead and take this first stretch on the flight com."

  Carlisle slid into the pilot's seat. She took a few minutes to look over the instruments and adjust the foot controls and the seat to accommodate her small frame before buckling in.

  "Standard control set up?" she asked as she looked over the com center.

  "Yeah. The controls for this craft are exactly the same as the ones on a Class II Naval cutter, even though the two types of craft look a lot different."

  "That'll make it easier."

  "But you mustn't get overconfident. I know you've put in hundreds of hours already on several different types of ship and even more on the simulators, but the Scrapyard takes some getting used to."

  "What should I look out for?"

  "Most pilots will never get as close to another space craft as we do out here. The trick is to keep your speed way down on the approach and really, really watch what you're doing. I bet you'll catch on pretty quick."

  "We'll see."

  "First rule is that all three of us need to keep an eye out, there's a lot of floating junk up here. We'll holler if anything looks too close for comfort. Head for that batch of stuff over there."

  He pointed to a clump of old ships ahead of and a little above their present position. To their right and behind them, the blazing orb of Nacobbus dominated the sky. Ahead of them, New Ceylon was a bright spark against the star-encrusted black matrix of space.

  She took a few more minutes to feel out the controls before she smoothly and confidently undocked the utility sled, swiveled the bow around and "upwards" while gently accelerating towards the small cluster of wrecked ships and other unrecognizable junk that looked to be at least a couple of kilometers from the main station. Hawkins took station on one of the front corners of the roughly rectangular utility sled while Harris picked a spot where he could watch the scrapyard and keep an eye on Carlisle's piloting technique.

  Harris took the opportunity to provide more information on scrapyard protocols. "We find it is usually best to go inside the ship we're working on," he said. "A cargo or utility hold provides pretty good protection from the high radiation of direct starlight and any wandering junk that might be floating around out here. Hawkins can give you some pointers on working with wrecks. Hawk?"

  Hawkins gave Harris a short "Do I have to?" look before pointing to an area on the sled where there were some large tool bins and several cables coming up out of the deck of the sled with various types of connectors on their ends. "I be havin' a few special tools that be helpin' a lot, Lass. Fifty years out here be nay too easy on stuff."

  Carlisle, who at Admiral Loftgren's insistence had been spending a portion of her time studying how to improve her interpersonal skills -- perhaps her weakest area -- employed one of the basic rules: encourage new acquaintances to talk about themselves or their work. She thought quickly and came up with, "Ingenious, Hawk, did you, ah...make all these tools yourself?"

  To her relief he responded appropriately.

  "Aye, that I did, most o' them."

  "And the modifications to the sled?"

  "Aye, those too."

  "Damned impressive," she said.

  To Harris' surprise, Hawkins went on to explain some of the other basics. "You canna buy any o' the tools you be needin' to work out here. Lots o' the time you dinna even know what you'll be needin'."

  "So you have to be ready for anything?" asked Carlisle.

  "Aye, Lass. Ready for anything. Lots o' these wrecks, 'specially the military ones, be havin' some kind o' damage t' begin with. That does na' help. But you dinna even need them t' be damaged. Doors and hatches get stuck, 'vacuum welded' they be callin' it. I made a power vibrator rig that can usually be breakin' the vacuum welds after a couple o' minutes but we've still had t' be burnin' through more o' them than I'd like."

  "So you've got cutting lasers and hydraulic shears?" asked Carlisle.

  "Aye, that we do. You gotta be rememberin' that there's nay any power on any o' these old ships neither. Some of the old machinery be still workin' if you can be gettin' power to it. This sled has some hefty batteries on 'er and we installed a heavy duty generator from a spaceport tug that we be salvagin' a couple o' years ago."

  "Does that seem to do the trick?"

  "Aye, Lass. I wished I be havin' another for the other sled."

  Carlisle made several minor steering corrections on the controls to the utility sled while she thought of another topic to keep the conversation going.

  "How would you get me on board one of these ships, say a Succession destroyer or something like it?" she asked.

  The older man thought for a moment.

  "Well...We can usually be powerin' the doors up through the ship's docking connector. If that does na' work, or it be too badly damaged, I be havin' some power hand tools t' be crankin' on the manual overrides for the doors. We dinna need 'em too often, thank God! As a last resort, we can be cuttin' through the hull. That can be takin' a while though."

  Hawkins lapsed into silence and Harris realized that the conversation was the longest he'd ever heard from the man. He wasn't making eye contact, but he was communicating. The ensign had chosen to ask the old technician about his expertise and had then followed up in a manner that conveyed genuine interest
on her part and the older man had responded to it. Harris momentarily wondered if his lengthy conversation with the ensign the night before had been similarly orchestrated.

  The remainder of the trip was over fairly quickly. Harris watched intently as Carlisle slowly and carefully guided the utility sled into the open main cargo door on the side of a battered old pre-war cargo vessel. On their suit radios, both men could hear her speaking softly inside her helmet.

  "Slow and easy, Tamara...just a little to starboard...now forward...and...stop."

  Her hand movements on the controls were deft, smooth and confident. Harris could have performed the docking operation more quickly, but even he couldn't have done it any more smoothly. The two men each secured their side of the craft to one of the larger cargo holdfasts in the belly of the old ship. As Carlisle put the sled's engine on standby, she realized that she was sweating.

  "Well done, Ensign."

  "I took your advice and went really slow."

  "I saw that. A lot of our new pilots manage to bump into something."

  "It wasn't too bad," she said as she unbuckled and got out of the pilot's seat. "Of course this sled really handles well. It's agile and responsive, not at all like I expected. Is that your doing, Hawk?"

  "Aye, Lass, I be makin' a few other modifications."

  Carlisle looked around the cargo bay, which was empty accept for the Rover I.

  "Alright, before we go any further," said Harris, "it's time for a short briefing on salvage protocol. Standard spacewalk tethering procedures are in order out here. While moving, even through a ship, don't unhook any tether before you have secured a second one. Oh, and make sure to give any anchoring ring, railing, or whatever you intend to hook onto a good, healthy tweak before you trust it. People have died 'cause they've ignored that advice. Take your time and be safe. Look around here a bit and then we'll do a couple of safety drills. After that we'll head for the bridge."

  "Wrist comp... schematics... With your permission, Lieutenant," said Carlisle, "I'd like to lead the way. This suit has other capabilities. It has an interface for my wrist computer and I have it patched into my helmet display. As you know, I've got the schematics for several hundred ship types loaded up. It would be a good way to test how well my system is going to work over the next few days. Best to find out right away if I can find my way around."

  "You have to start sometime," said Harris, "Carry on."

  Carlisle looked around the cargo area.

  "This is a Daimler-Benz S220, isn't it?"

  "Close, Lass, but she be smaller than that. This be only a 180," corrected Hawkins.

  "What model?"

  "She's about eighty years old," said Harris. "That would make her a Series Four."

  Carlisle's eyes moved rapidly back and forth as she consulted her suit display. Again she spoke softly to herself. The two men looked and one another, Harris shrugged, but said nothing.

  "Daimler-Benz...S180...Series Four...deck layout...Execute!" said Carlisle. After a few moments, she pointed to a door on the far side of the cargo bay. "That should be the door to the main corridor."

  "That it is," said Harris. "Lead on!"

  Chapter 8

  UTFN Reclamation Center, Salvage Training and Orientation Vessel, October 5, 2598.

  With a lifetime of weightless experience by virtue of her Spacer upbringing, combined with years of rigorous military drills, intense athletic training, and the agility made possible by her experimental suit, Carlisle seemed even more at home moving around in the old ship than the two more experienced men. Since this particular ship had been set up as a training facility for new personnel, there were several stations where the group stopped for safety indoctrination and physical drills. After each station was completed, Harris would provide the location for their next stop and Carlisle would consult her schematics before leading them in what she determined to be the proper direction.

  At one stop the two men demonstrated and then observed while their young companion changed the air pack on her suit. At another stop, they had her close her eyes while they untethered her, spun her around, and sent her flying across an enclosed bay to see how she handled regaining control of bodily motion while disoriented. Her background, natural abilities, and the special suit made these tests ridiculously easy. Safety drills successfully completed, they headed for the bridge, Carlisle again leading.

  After another five minutes roving through various corridors, past the engine room, passing through crew quarters and finally winding through the mess area, the group found themselves on the bridge of the old ship. Except for a few short pauses while Carlisle consulted her schematics, their progress had been very direct.

  Harsh, white Nacobbian sunlight came in through the two large, rectangular forward viewports on the old cargo ship's bridge. A portion of the tail drive tubes of an adjacent ship positioned at an impossible angle was visible through the right side viewport. The interplay of bright light and dark shadow within the former control room made for a disorientating and somewhat depressing scene. The control modules and almost all of the other useful materials on the old ship had been salvaged years ago and little remained of the normal bridge workings besides a row of consoles with stark gaping holes and trailing wires. Harris was surprised, again, when Hawkins took the lead on further safety protocol.

  "You say your suit be pretty tough, Lass," said the older man, "but I'd still be real careful. Lots o' jagged edges in here. It would na' take much of a hole t' be causin' a ruckus. Make sure you be lookin' around before you be makin' any moves!"

  "Sounds like good advice, Hawk," said Carlisle, "I'll be really careful."

  "Hard to believe, but it's almost noon, station time," said Harris, "Let's take a short break and have some lunch. After that, we can head over to the Auxiliary Tracking Station." Each of them found a spot to clip down and began making a meal out of their choice of the various food concentrates in their suits. Harris resumed his training routine.

  "Good job with the drills and the piloting, Ensign," he said. "You seem to be a natural. I haven't brought anyone in here who's done that well on their first try."

  That observation earned him a genuine smile.

  "Well... thanks. I thought I'd do okay. To be honest, I actually have a lot of experience with close-quarter maneuvering. My father put me at the controls of a mining sled when I was about eight. By the time I was twelve I was almost as good a pilot as he was."

  "Eight?" said Hawkins. "Do all Spacers be startin' that young?"

  "I don't know about all of them," replied Carlisle. "But every kid in our Clan has to do time on spaceship simulators as soon as they're tall enough to reach the foot pedals. The ones that show some promise get put at the controls of a real ship while they're still pretty young."

  "Well I'll be," Hawkins responded, "Were you havin' some kind o' special sled?"

  "Yes, several of our sleds were outfitted with dual control systems. One set of controls was configured for smaller pilots."

  "Amazin'!" said Hawkins.

  Harris joined in, "I don't know that I've ever worked with anyone that has as much experience with zero gravity as you do, either. These drills seemed like second nature to you."

  "I've done similar shipboard drills hundreds of times. When you live in space your response to an emergency has to be instinctive or people die."

  "I know what you mean," said Harris. "That's one of the biggest problems we face out here when we're working with new personnel."

  "Getting through this ship wasn't anything like I expected, though," said Carlisle. I spent hours going over schematics but...this was damned hard! You have to make sure you know what's up and what's down and you have to do it all in the dark, with just your suit utility lights dancing around. I wonder if..."

  Her thought and the lunch break were cut short by an incredibly bright flash of light that came in through the forward viewports of the old cargo ship and flickered several times before subsiding. Saved from temporary
blindness by their self-polarizing helmet visors, all three instinctively grabbed for something solid. Fortunately, whatever was happening didn't cause any unexpected movements of the old ship.

  Carlisle was closest to the viewports in the front of the ship and the first to respond. With a quick look around for jagged surfaces or floating obstacles she took a careful mental measurement of the room and the distances involved before skillfully launching herself over to the port side forward viewport for a look. No fancy gymnastics this time, she launched head first and caught herself with her arms. Harris noted absently that in spite of the bizarre situation she had, per regulations, immediately hooked up a second tether upon taking station at the viewport!

  "Omigod!" she exclaimed, her voice on the edge of breaking. "Someone is attacking the station!" In rapid succession, two more brilliant flashes lit up the control room of the old freighter. Harris kicked over to the viewport area with Hawkins just a split second behind him. All three watched in horror as two cargo ships with conspicuous NITrans markings methodically pounded the now mangled remains of the Reclamation Center's Main Facility with powerful beam weapons that they weren't supposed to have. As defenseless as the station was in the first place, coupled with the element of complete surprise, the task of destroying it was nearly complete already. The attacking ships weren't even moving, they just sat stationary in space about a bare kilometer away while firing powerful weapons at an unhurried pace.

  "Sneak attack!" exclaimed Carlisle, face white, voice shaking. Then she began mumbling, "Cargo loading? ...McConnell... Hart...Perkins... survivors...?" She looked away from the scene and shook her head as if to clear it.

  "Damn it! Get a grip, Tamara!" she scolded herself as she clenched her teeth and forced herself to calm down. "Guys, quick! Cut your suit microphones!" She issued the voice command to her suit com that stopped any sort of transmission.

  Immediately grasping her reasoning, both men followed suit. Even if being inside the old cargo ship might have adequately blocked their suit transmissions, the wisdom of this recommendation was soon obvious. Two calls for help from station personnel were quickly answered by bolts of destruction from the raiders.