Kassab himself was descended from royalty though his link to the throne of Jasmine was somewhat tenuous, having come through one of the former emperor's cousins and a distant one at that. On the other hand, he had rapidly climbed the ranks of the Jasmine Republican Navy through hard work and a natural talent for leadership. He nodded his head. Yes, perhaps there was someone better suited for the task. The Captain decided he would just have to be patient a bit longer and wait for the right opportunity to suggest a better option.
***
Santana Nexus Station, somewhere on the tenth ring, January 2, 2599.
On the Santana Nexus Station itself, Rahman Halabi, one of the Sheik of Barsoom's most trusted Lieutenants, and the chief interrogator for the Sheik's security forces, finished questioning another of what seemed like an endless supply of prisoners and others accused of wrongdoing. As the man was taken away, Halabi knew that he had few minutes to prepare for the next accused miscreant and he took a short rest break.
The interrogator was very good at his job, being able to alternate between threats and persuasion with consummate skill. No one knew for sure, but it was rumored that he had been trained as a truthseer. Halabi did nothing to confirm or deny that rumor, knowing that it merely added to his mystique. So feared had his reputation become that many of those that he was asked to question blurted out the truth without Halabi having to resort to any unusual persuasion. As he grabbed himself a cup of coffee and sat down to savor it, he had a few moments to reflect.
Halabi's family had been taken away in the middle of the night and executed on trumped-up charges and questionable evidence by soldiers of the Jasmine Republican Army when he was a young man. He had been a fervent monarchist ever since and had eagerly offered his services to the Sheik of Barsoom when the opportunity presented itself. Trained by one of the old masters in the craft of interrogation, he had been with the Sheik for more than twenty years now. Halabi had always been fully behind the Sheik's cause and he had rejoiced when the Glorious Revolution they had worked so hard for had finally begun in earnest a few weeks ago.
Now...he was beginning to have doubts.
It seemed as though the Sheik had been able to attract a few really competent, honest people who fervently believed in the goals of the Revolution. Unfortunately, it looked as though the Sheik had also recruited a large number of personnel who were anything but honorable. Halabi was discovering that far too many of the Sheik's new people were nothing but opportunists and bullies who had been able to find a perfect niche for themselves to further their own nefarious agendas by joining up with the Sheik and becoming his representatives. The interrogator was disturbingly reminded of the very people who had killed his parents and his older sister all those years ago. The consequences of this trend were reflected in the caliber of the people that Halabi was being asked to question recently. Lately, it seemed as though all too many of the interrogator's clients were simple, law-abiding citizens whose only crime had been to come to the attention of one or the other of the Sheik's hired thugs.
Halabi didn't like what he was witnessing, but he didn't know what to do about it either. If he spoke up, he himself could wind up in serious trouble. He sighed. He would simply have to do his best to ferret out the really bad eggs and steer the innocents away from the Sheik's quite full jail cells while staying under the radar himself. This Glorious Revolution, for all of the promise it held when it began, was not turning out the way he had imagined it.
Not at all...
Chapter 3.
"An army marches on its stomach." -- Napoleon Bonaparte.
UTFN Reclamation Center, onboard Federation Auxiliary ship Greyhound, January 2, 2599.
Commander Oskar Kresge scowled at the computer display in front of him. Kresge, a handsome, dark-haired man currently dressed in a Navy-issue khaki coverall, was on the bridge of the Greyhound. The Greyhound was an ancient Bombardier freighter which, due to circumstance and sheer necessity, had become the command center for the United Terran Federation Navy (UTFN) Reclamation Center, known to everyone by its more familiar title of "the Scrapyard."
Forced to take refuge in the huge, floating spaceship graveyard that occupied the L5 point in the orbit of the planet New Ceylon, Kresge and a ragtag team made up of a handful of Federation Naval personnel, a bunch of civilians who had volunteered to help out when they discovered they had little choice, and small contingent of Meridian Imperial Marines from the personal guard of the Meridian Ambassador had just fought off a determined attack by the forces of "The Glorious Revolution" being led by a fanatic who called himself the Sheik of Barsoom.
Kresge was scowling because, according to the inventory figures that his fiancé, Irene Marshall, had just presented to him, he and his group of defenders had enough food to last them for about another two weeks. They could stretch it out some, but the Scrapyard survivors had already been on somewhat shortened rations for the last several weeks.
He was going to have to send out one or two of the freighters that had also taken refuge in the Scrapyard to procure some more food. The scowl was him expressing his distaste for the idea and realizing that he didn't have a whole lot of choice in the matter. There simply was no other way. Things tended to go to hell in a hurry when people were undernourished. Nor was a successful foray for supplies going to solve any long term problems. Supply lines and communications were disrupted throughout the entire Santana Quadrant. Keeping the Scrapyard operating was going to require the constant attention of a lot of personnel.
What was it going to take to get things back to normal?
He pushed himself away from the computer terminal and came to a decision. Long term solutions were just going to have to wait. At least one of his precious cargo ships and one of his precious destroyers were going to have to team up and make a run for provisions.
Who should he send out and where should he send them?
He decided that he'd better talk it over with his second in command, Lieutenant Ryan Harris. Harris was a native of the nearby planet of New Ceylon and had a lot of first-hand knowledge about his home planet and many of the other nearby star systems in the Quadrant. Kresge called down to the engineering section.
"Engineering? This is Kresge. Is Harris down there?"
Chief Angus Hawkins answered him. "He's no being down here, Commander, I be thinkin' he was goin' to be spendin' another night on the Istanbul so he could be checkin' in on the Ensign again first thing in the morning."
Angus Hawkins was a short, wiry, sixtyish engineering tech who wore his steel grey hair in a classic flattop crewcut. A crack engineer, Hawkins was a native of New Scotia. His heritage was quite obvious as soon as he spoke.
"He should be comin' back t' the Greyhound somewheres before 0800. We were goin' t'be working on the weapons interface module some more."
In a desperate move to provide some kind of protection for the people who had taken refuge in the Scrapyard, Kresge's Federation group had armed the old Greyhound, an ancient Mark I Bombardier Cargomaster, with a Bofors twin mount rapid-fire pulse beam system. They had done so right after they had replaced the old vessel's worn out power plant and hyperdrive unit with parts salvaged from an equally ancient Federation Orion Mark IV destroyer, the Terrier. The power plant and the hyperdrive systems had been working flawlessly. The weapon, however, had proved to be a different matter entirely. It was powerful and the transplant had been successful, for the most part, but the weapon had so far proven to be rather finicky. More work was definitely needed.
"Thanks, Hawk," replied Kresge, "When you see him, tell him I need to talk to him."
"Will do, Commander."
While Kresge was talking to Hawkins, Helen Murdock, the owner, operator and Captain of the Greyhound had come onto the bridge.
"Mornin', commander," she said. Murdock was a short, wiry, grey-haired woman somewhere around sixty years old. She slipped a chipped mug full of coffee into the cupholder at the Captain's station and did an elaborate stretch.
&n
bsp; One of the exports from nearby New Ceylon was coffee that was famous throughout the Quadrant. The Scrapyard might be short of food, but they had a generous supply of some of the best coffee known to man! She rubbed her eyes and fluffed up her kinky medium-length hair. Kresge swiveled his chair around to face her. His blue eyes met her grey ones.
"Mornin', Helen," he replied.
"You're wearin' your 'I think I have a problem' face again, Commander," said Murdock. "What is it this time?"
"Am I that obvious?" asked Kresge. He shook his head, "No, don't answer that. It's only about a million different things. We have plenty of power, air and water, but we're going to be critical on food within twelve to fourteen days."
Murdock mulled that information over for a moment.
"I wondered when that was comin'," she said."I think I'd send our NiTrans freighter, City of Darwin, over to Heard's World. Their number one export is food. They don't produce much prepackaged stuff and we'd need some of our people out here to do a bit more basic cookin' but I think me and Irene and Allison could handle that well enough. If we need something more fancy on occasion, the Istanbul's got two big galleys and real live chef. You get us some raw materials like flour and meat, rice and potatoes and we could do wonders."
She thought a bit longer.
"We should send one of the destroyers with them though," she added. "Things ain't safe for a lone, unarmed ship these days."
"I was thinking along the same lines, Helen. I thought I'd talk it over with Harris when he gets back onboard later this morning."
"He lookin' in on Ensign Carlisle?"
"Yeah, she's started to really come around in the last couple of days."
"That's good news," said Murdock, "She is one person we really need back on her feet."
"I couldn't agree more," replied Kresge.
The two of them continued with their morning routines a few more minutes before Kresge came across a message in his email.
"Damn it!" said Kresge.
"What is it, Commander?"
"Admiral Kingston wants to meet with everyone, including the Ambassador, at 0930 this morning."
"I wonder what that old bat wants?"
"Easy, Helen, that 'old bat' is probably the highest ranking Federation officer in the entire Santana Quadrant right now."
Murdock sniffed. "The highest ranking professional desk jockey you mean! She's good at spit and polish and I'll wager she's a crack accountant but she hasn't got a lick of combat experience. You should be in charge out here, not her."
"Let's just hear her out, okay? By the way, we did not have this conversation."
"If you say so, Commander."
Chapter 4.
"...Orientation onboard the station can be confusing for newcomers. The Nexus Station, like all others of its type, is spinning, partially for the stability of the platform, but also to provide simulated gravity for the occupants. The simulated gravity means that the direction normally sensed as “up” is actually inward from the outside rims of the station's rings towards the spindle. ‘Down’, of course is just the opposite. The traditional terms ‘North,’ ‘South,’ East’ and ‘West’ are used to describe other directions important for navigating the station and maintaining orientation. The ‘North’ end or 'pole' of the station is the end that has the large, public airlock while the ‘South’ end contains the military docking facilities. For a person facing northward in the station, the rotation occurs in a clockwise direction. ‘East’ will take them in the direction of the spin and ‘West’ will take them against the spin of the station. Each ring and each level is clearly marked with Arabic numerals on numerous wall areas throughout the station while compass symbols to provide directional orientation are embossed into the floor material and are clearly visible at most corridor intersections…"
Hartwell Wrist Comp reference note highlighted for further review by Tamara Carlisle. Excerpt is from an orientation video available for download and as a hardcopy pamphlet prepared by the Santana Nexus Station authorities for distribution to tourists and other visitors to the station. No author is listed.
Santana Nexus Station, ring three, level one, commercial district, January 2, 2599.
Salaam Alwadhi turned up the lights in the storeroom of his small curio shop and began the routine preparations needed to open his doors for business within another hour or so. One could always hope, but with Terrorist forces occupying the Nexus Station, business had not been particularly brisk for some time now. He would not have even bothered to open his shop except that the terrorists in charge of the station had insisted that businesses like his remain open. Salaam grudgingly understood the reasoning. Having the businesses operating as usual was supposed to create a sense of normalcy and help lull the population of the Nexus Station into a somewhat less alarmed state.
He opened the small shipping crate that he had received a couple of weeks ago from his friend the traveling merchant, Clancy Davis-Moore. Salaam's little shop carried an assortment of high-end artifacts, including paintings, carvings and other objects d'art. He removed the lid of the crate and carefully pulled out some of the packing material. Each of the various pieces in the crate was also packed in a separate transport case for additional protection. He opened one of the cases and gingerly extricated a carving of a cat-like creature native to the New Nigerian Republic. Made from the wood of one of the trees native to that planet, the carving was exquisite. Too bad he was probably not going to be able to sell it nor any of the other pieces in the crate which were, he had no doubt, every bit as desirable.
Salaam was one of only a handful of importer's in the entire quadrant that had a license to possess and sell real wooden objects. His wealthy clientele had, over the years, made him into a modestly wealthy man himself but prosperity had not come without a lot of hard work and more than a few pretty lean years. Given the present situation, his modest gains were all at risk again. He wished now that he had been brave enough go with this friend Clancy Davis-Moore in search of new opportunities in the Meridian home system. Maybe, if he got through this current crisis, he would take Clancy up on the offer to team up.
Salaam had been talking discreetly with the proprietors of some of the shops that neighbored his and his sense was that they weren't very pleased with the Terrorist occupation either and wouldn't be the least bit unhappy to see it end before too much longer. Salaam sighed; he was getting too old for life-threatening adventures! The thought of fighting to regain control of this orbital station made him feel every one of his sixty-some years but as he had always done, throughout his life, he was not going to shirk any responsibilities. Something needed to be done and Salaam, though he might complain eloquently, had always been one of the men who got things done. He had worked his whole life for this modest shop and his moderately comfortable lifestyle. He was not about to give it up now, certainly not easily.
But one life lesson that he had learned the hard way was to be extra cautious when you knew you were about to take a risk. He continued to consider what his next actions should be as he worked on unpacking the crate of exotic carvings.
Chapter 5.
"...My first glimpse of the Scrapyard was absolutely amazing. We were heading for it after we jumped out from the New Ceylon Orbital Station. At first it was just a fuzzy point of light. As we got closer, I could begin to make out some of the larger ships within the cloud of wrecks. As you get even closer, you realize that there are thousands of wrecks in that huge cloud. It is an awesome sight! One of the references I found said that the Scrapyard looked like a giant snowflake or a huge explosion that had been frozen in place. I think I'll go with the explosion, that's what it looks more like to me..."
Personal note recorded on her Hartwell Wrist Computer by Amanda Steuben upon her first trip to the UTFN Reclamation Center.
Onboard Meridian Imperial Ship, Istanbul, somewhere in the scrap cloud at the UTFN Reclamation Center. January 2, 2599
Lieutenant Ryan Harris, an athletically built, cle
an-cut young man in his late twenties, came into the sickbay of the MIS Istanbul to check on the condition of Ensign Dr. Tamara Carlisle. It was early in the morning and the Lieutenant was surprised to see that the recovering Ensign already had a visitor. She was sitting up in her bed and there was a short, wiry man, dark hair shot with grey, who was conversing rather intensely with her. Harris recognized Seamus O'Connell, Captain of the mining ship, Donegal, and also it seemed, the Ensign's father. Two pairs of remarkably similar sea-green eyes turned their attention to the Lieutenant as he came into the small chamber. The Spacer clan tattoos that each of them sported on their left cheeks were also identical. The ensign's face lit up when she saw Harris, but he wasn't sure if it was because she was happy to see him or because she was relieved that he had interrupted the conversation with her father.
"Ryan!" said Carlisle, "Come in. You know Captain O'Connell."
"Good morning, Lieutenant," said O'Connell. He didn't look as though he thought there was anything good about it.
"Good morning, Sir," replied Harris. "How is our patient doing?"
"She hasn't lost any of her stubbornness," said O'Connell.
Carlisle ignored the comment. "They're releasing me later today," she said.
"Have a seat Lieutenant," said O'Connell, coming to his feet. "I was just leaving anyway."
"Are you sure, Sir?"
O'Connell glanced at the ensign and then back at Harris. "Yes, I'm sure," he said tersely. "Think about what I said, Tamara, we can talk more about it later." O'Connell headed for the door. "Have a good day, Lieutenant," he said, as he left the room.
"The same to you, Sir." Harris wasn't sure if the mining ship captain had heard him or not. "What was that all about?" he asked the patient.
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