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.
Chapter 6
UTFN Reclamation Center, Main Facility, October 5, 2598.
At seven bells, Carlisle was waiting for Harris near the main airlock at the stationary end of the dumbbell-shaped station's axle. Both were fully suited-up in preparation for the airless, weightless conditions of space. As Harris came floating up behind her he could hear her speaking softly to herself again.
"Libration point...stable solution...three body problem...Joseph-Louis Lagrange...1772..."
"Good morning, Ensign."
He hadn't intended to but he startled her anyway.
"Huh? Oh. Good morning, Sir."
According to regulations, they were required to check each other's suits and run down a short list of mandatory safety protocols prior to activating the airlock and venturing forth into vacuum. Even a near-sighted civilian would have noticed that Carlisle's suit was radically different from the standard Navy-issue utility suit like the one Harris was wearing.
"Wow!" he said, as he looked it over. "Nice suit!"
She smiled and performed a pirouette in the air, allowing him to view the suit from all angles. It appeared to be made of a smooth, slightly textured fabric, almost like the skin of a primitive, old Earth fish called a shark. The suit clung to the contours of her trim body very closely, revealing a physique that was both very feminine and very athletic.
"Absolutely beautiful!" said Harris.
His complement could have applied to the suit or to the person wearing it; he himself wasn't even sure. Out of the blue a thought came unbidden and unwelcome: quirks aside, this incredible woman was near perfection in every way imaginable: mind, body, and spirit. The thought was accompanied by a brief but acute flash of longing, tempered immediately by the crushing realization that she was also perfectly unattainable. The episode was over in little more than an instant, leaving behind the faintest twinge of regret.
"Isn't it great? It's a prototype for a command suit we've been testing at the Academy."
"Where can I get one?"
"Sorry, I don't think you can. Not yet anyway. They only made a hundred of them. They told me to take it on this assignment and give them a full report when I get back."
"How do you like it?" He asked from behind her as he checked what turned out to be standard connections for the air pack and battery on the back of the prototype.
"I love it! It's so light and comfortable that you can barely feel it. You wouldn't believe the freedom of motion."
"You'll have to demonstrate."
"Be glad to. Here, let me check you." She found herself approving of his fit, compact physical proportions, as she quickly went over his suit connections and the rest of the mandatory checks before declaring it all in order. Finally, they closed and sealed their helmets. Preflight preparations complete, Harris activated the airlock door.
"Okay, Ensign," he said, over the suit intercom, "let's have a demonstration of your weightless technique and that fancy suit. Show me how to get across the cargo bay."
The young woman began her demonstration strictly according to regulations. She kept a grip on the handrail inside the airlock while clipping a remote controlled tether to one of the many hooks and loops that studded the inner walls of the cargo bay. As Harris watched, she deftly swung out into the cargo bay and coiled her legs against the wall. She spoke involuntarily to herself, softly as before, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Harris could hear her.
"Compulsory exercise number four, Tamara..." Knees bent, she tested her balance and her mass against the wall. She counted out loud, "Three, two one...," and launched her body across the bay towards the open outside door, a distance of probably fifty meters.
Her form was perfect, an inverted swan dive pose, even her toes were pointed in the small, flat-soled boots of the sleek prototype suit as she flew gracefully out into the brightly-lit bay. What she did next was nothing short of astounding. Halfway across, she used a tug on the tether, which Harris noticed she had skillfully kept almost taut, to tuck neatly up into a ball and perform a flawless series of three hundred sixty degree somersaults, interrupted with periodic extensions of her body to execute several complex twisting maneuvers, before another perfectly-timed tug on the tether reoriented her body for her landing on the other side. She completed the transition of the cargo bay feet first, once again using the tether, this time to slow her momentum, before making light contact with the wall a meter to the right of the outside door. She clipped a second tether to the main grab handle and used the remote control to release the first tether, which she reeled in with the small electrically powered winch that was a part of the cleverly-designed remote-controlled tether system.
Harris followed her across, more conventionally, and a great deal more slowly. He caught himself with his arms before grabbing a handle, switching tethers, and reeling in his own primary tether.
"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, Ensign!" said Harris, putting some edge into his tone. "Warn me before you try anything like that again."
"Sorry, Sir," she replied, and looked like she meant it.
Despite the fact that he couldn't approve of her behavior, he was impressed.
"Those maneuvers...," he shook his head. "What you just did was amazing! Where did you learn how to do that?"
"Were you briefed about me, Sir?"
"Commander Kresge let me in on a few things that he thought were important," replied Harris.
"So you know that I'm a Spacer?"
"On a special program. Yes, we talked about that."
"Did he also tell you I was on the weightless gymnastics team at the Academy?" she asked.
"Um...No, he didn't."
"I honestly thought you knew, Sir. I'm truly sorry if I startled you; I don't get to show off all that often..."
"Apology accepted-- this time. Just don't take any risks like that when we get out into the Scrapyard!"
"Duly noted, Sir."
They went through the cargo door out into the harsh, bright starlight of Naccobus. The scrapyard completely surrounded them, above, below, and in every direction with a glittering array of harsh, intense sunlight reflected off from the old ships, disassembled pieces of ships, and other assorted scrap in the huge junkyard. Points of light, straight and jagged lines of light, light reflected in any and all shapes imaginable, some recognizable, some not. The myriad shapes of light contrasted starkly with shadows of absolute blackness. All of this was framed against a backdrop dusting of glaring starpoints in the pitch black matrix of space. Directly over their heads was the thicker band of stars that made up the spiral arm of the Milky Way Galaxy. The incredible panorama filled the entire celestial sphere. Carlisle stopped for a moment or two, taking in the glorious scene. Again she began talking to herself, seemingly unaware that she could be overheard.
"Such beauty...so many stars..."
"Kind of takes your breath away, doesn't it?" said Harris.
"Oh, sorry, Sir. I only got a brief glimpse of this yesterday after we arrived. I never imagined that the Scrapyard would be so...incredibly beautiful! Do you ever get used to it?"
"I've been here for nearly three years now," replied Harris. "I can still stare at it for hours at a time."
She couldn't stop herself from keeping the greatest share of her attention on the spectacular view as she followed Harris towards the docking area.
Chapter 7
UTFN Reclamation Center, Main Facility, October 5, 2598.
Outside the door to the main cargo airlock, the two officers each clipped a tether to the rail of the waiting utility sled. The sled bore the neatly, but obviously hand-lettered moniker "Reclamation Rover I" and, having been extensively modified over the course of countless years of service, bore little resemblance to a standard Naval-issue utility
sled. At first glance, it was barely distinguishable from the nondescript bits of scrap and other debris that made up the Scrapyard, it had so many bits and other modules added. Closer examination revealed a great deal of thoughtful modification, including a full, overhead crash cage with a sunshade to block the harsh light and radiation of the system's star. The space-suited form of Hawkins looked up from the cargo module he was making fast to the deck to acknowledge the arrival of his two new shipmates.
"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.
Junkyard Dogs series Omnibus Page 4
