Salvaging the Beast (The Fall and Rise of the Third Planet Book 1)

by John Marshall Davis

Saul looked around. “They’ve got quite a stash here.”

  “They certainly do,” agreed Calypso. “We were right about Johnson. He was holding out on us. Halfwit got what he deserved. Anyway, I think we can find something here that will do the trick.”

  ***

  “So, what do you think?” asked the stranger as he entered the room.

  Saul had insisted on accompanying Dean and Anya until they were safely delivered to the clinic. Only then would he agree to be led here.

  The other man was taller than Saul and slimmer than most. His face was gaunt and clean-shaven. Those piercing eyes looked ready to stab anyone in his way. Streaks of gray ran through greasy, dark hair. It was odd how the man’s posture made him look as though he were hanging from a coat rack.

  “This is something I have never seen before,” Saul declared. He looked back down at the object he was sent in to examine. “What is it?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to tell me that, Mr. Iverson,” the man admitted. “Any thoughts?”

  This might be Calypso’s employer, Saul thought. Rubbing his chin, Saul strained to look more closely at the bulbous, metallic object lying in a cradle of sorts. “It’s metal. I am sure of that. It feels…” he let his voice trail off, then, “weird. There is resistance, but I can’t feel anything. Frictionless, I suppose. It’s like part of my mind says it’s there—”

  “And the other part says it’s not,” the man interrupted.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “I get the same vibe from it as you, then. What could be causing that?”

  “I can’t say,” Saul confessed. “Were you hoping that I could tell you what it is? I really can’t. I am sorry. Can I go now?”

  The man smiled, showing polished teeth. “Actually, Mr. Iverson, there is a lot more that I need from you. I’m taking care of your young lady friend, and I figure you owe me. But, if this job goes well, more jobs will follow. Paying jobs.”

  “What is the job? Why do you need me?” Saul asked.

  “You are a salvage technician registered with the Lunar Federacy. This device was found inside one of their facilities. They haven’t done business with me or anyone I know since the Collision. If you call, they might just pick up the phone.”

  Saul looked around, anxious. “I am not really in a good position to take on a new job at the moment. I have my own obligations,” Saul objected.

  “If you are referring to that asshole you work for, I wouldn’t worry about him,” the employer said, raising his voice a little. “Whatever Torus is paying you, it won’t come close to what I can do. He borrowed a lot of money and supplies from me back when he was floundering. Now that your boss has had a few successes, he thinks he can stop paying his debts.”

  Saul didn’t relish the idea of crossing his captain like that. “Before I decide, tell me exactly where you found this,” he said in a low voice.

  “The Lunar facility was a bunker. Miners found its remains buried deep inside a fragment of rock in Earth’s orbit,” the employer explained. “The bunker may have been located on Earth. That would raise some interesting questions.” He paused, giving Saul time for that to sink in. “Or it came from the rock that destroyed Earth. The implications of that would be tremendous.”

  Saul rested his face in his hands, mulling it over. He considered himself to be an honorable, if flawed, individual. However, Torus was no saint, and perhaps Saul could do better. Maybe his old captain had warned him simply because he knew someone on the station might tempt him with a raise and better treatment.

  “Double my salary, and I’m in,” Saul agreed, finally. That may have been a bold move, but this guy appeared too eager to back down.

  “Done. Glad to have you aboard,” the man said, beaming. “Welcome to Rorvin Enterprises. My name is Keith Rorvin.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Be patient, stay focused, and the things you want find their way to you.

  - Keith Rorvin

  2318 AD, 23 months after Collision Event

  Dean awoke. He examined his surroundings. Medical displays indicated a hospital room. They were not switched on.

  He could feel the bandages encircling his chest. Looking down at his arms, he saw a couple IVs and several bruises suggesting he had been there for a week or more. On the underside of each forearm were his tattoo marks, permanent reminders of the score he had to keep. There were a few new ones to add.

  Slipping the needles from his skin, Dean worked as quickly as he could to disentangle himself from the hospital bed. There were no wires to relay his vitals, but something odd was wrapped around his neck. He slipped it off, looking closely. It was some sort of necklace. A small box fastened to the hoop served as a pendant. He tossed it aside. When Dean’s feet hit the floor, cold pain stung his toes.

  He was wrapped in a typical hospital gown, and no other clothes were in sight. Since all of the monitors were off, Dean guessed his captors would have no idea he was awake and had left the bed, which was how he wanted it.

  Rummaging through drawers, the former commando looked for a scalpel or something to use as a weapon. He heard footsteps just outside, prompting him to move close to the door frame, out of sight. A young woman entered the room.

  Dean grabbed his visitor by the arms. She seemed unfazed, kicking against his legs, grabbing his crotch and squeezing until he had to let go. He staggered from the embarrassing pain. In a flash the girl was on the other side of the room, arms raised.

  Sudden pain punctured Dean’s head, forcing him to the ground. He grasped the sides of his skull. In these moments he had little control over his body. It was more than pain. His body fought his control over it. Dean was helpless as he anticipated her counterattack, unable to look up.

  He watched as a pair of black boots walked over to where he crouched on the floor. Knees bent down into view. Dean felt a thick wire against his scalp, and the pain immediately subsided. The girl was trying to push the necklace past his hands. He allowed it. The pendant came to rest on his collarbone.

  “There. Better?” she asked. Dean looked up.

  The young woman had raven black hair. Her eyes were dark brown. Facial features suggested a mixture of Asian and European ancestry. Her left hand grasped the device, while her right rested on what Dean suspected was a concealed knife. This close, he could tell how thin she was. In contrast to the dark, sleeveless shirt she wore, the girl’s skin was brightly pale. He noticed the details of the tattoo work enveloping her left arm: Chinese characters mixed with all sorts of weapons and distorted faces. A long dragon of many colors snaked its way through the collage.

  “Don’t attack me again,” was all she said before standing.

  ***

  “Why am I here?” Dean asked. He sat on the bed, legs crossed, holding a plate of rice smothered by unidentified bits of food swimming in brown sauce.

  “I brought you here to save your life,” the other man said. He had a severe look about him, and Dean knew instinctively the guy was in charge.

  “And you are?”

  When the savior grinned, he looked like he was snarling. “Keith Rorvin.”

  Dean knew that name. He wished he didn’t.

  “And you are Dr. Dean Stratos,” Rorvin declared. “You served in the Lunar Federacy Armed Forces. You also have experience working as a surgeon for the EAG.”

  Dean froze, stunned, bits of rice and pineapple falling from his spoon.

  “Learning about people is perhaps the single most important thing I do every day,” said Rorvin. “Your buddy, Saul, was quite helpful in this regard.”

  “Who is Saul? Wait…” Dean closed his eyes, straining to remember. “The kid from the bar?”

  “Yes, he said that is where he met you.”

  “What made you guess LFAF?”

  “I can always tell a Lunar citizen from the rest of us,” Rorvin boasted. “You carry yourselves differently. There is an arrogance your people can never rid yourselves of, I’m afraid. I can tell from your speech
that you’ve spent some time on Earth, but your Moon accent hasn’t gone away completely.”

  “And you only just met me.”

  “I’ve been doing some digging, Dr. Stratos, and your voice has been captured by more than one surveillance microphone since you arrived on the station.”

  “I suppose we are distinctive. It’s downright amazing how our spies were so successful in penetrating your governments,” Dean mocked.

  “Don’t confuse me with the twats who were running things on Earth,” Rorvin warned.

  “I wouldn’t dare.” Dean slurped down the last spoonful of his meal and sat the plate aside.

  “What’s with the tattoos?” the crime lord asked suddenly. “I’ve never seen kill markings quite like that.”

  “They aren’t—” Dean began, then stopped himself.

  “Aren’t what? If they aren’t marks for the number of kills you’ve made, then what?”

  “Some of them are,” Dean explained, finally.

  “And the rest?”

  Dean just stared, saying nothing.

  “What happened back there, with the gang?”

  “Pain,” Dean answered.

  “Your pain?” With a big smile, Rorvin added, “Or theirs?”

  “I was referring to mine. They are dead because I confronted them about what they did, and it turned ugly.”

  “Did you find out why they did it?”

  Dean shook his head slowly.

  “The Constant Anguish is supposed to be working for me,” explained the criminal. “But Rafe had his own agenda. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done me a favor. So what is your problem, exactly?”

  “I am not sure I can explain it. Not without telling you more than I want to,” Dean said.

  “Allow me to meet you halfway then,” the criminal offered, coming closer. “I suspect that you were in Special Operations. I am also certain that your problem is connected to a radio transmission of some kind.” He held up the pendant dangling from Dean’s necklace.

  The doctor stared, biting his lip.

  Rorvin continued, “This is the reason you are able to stay awake with a clear head. Without it, you would need an army of painkillers to keep from going mad.”

  “What is that?” Dean asked.

  “It’s a short range radio jammer.” Rorvin let it fall, walked over to a chair, and sat down. “You can thank Saul for figuring that out. Now, we have some business to discuss.”

  ***

  “I hear I owe you some thanks,” Dean said, entering the game room.

  “Hello, doctor,” greeted Saul. “How are you feeling?”

  “Call me Dean.” He hobbled over to their table. A week in the bed had made his body stiff and his muscles weak. Spinning a chair around, the doctor sat in it backwards.

  Anya looked away from the chess board. She stared at her surgeon, but remained silent.

  “I am doing very well, thanks. You are quite clever,” Dean said, holding up the jamming device.

  “Are you from the Moon?” Saul asked. “Mr. Rorvin thinks so.”

  “I know, he told me. He is right.” Dean looked down at the jumpsuit they gave him to wear, scrutinizing the logo stitched over his right breast. It featured a thick, red “R” atop a light blue circle. “Rorvin Enterprises,” he said.

  “And it looks like I was right,” Saul said, pointing to the pendant.

  “Yes,” Dean affirmed. He nodded his head toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk. But first…” he turned to look at Anya. “I’d like to check on my handiwork. Would you mind lifting your shirt for a second, miss?” The girl looked down, complying with his request. “Turn the other way, Saul.”

  The young man obeyed and said, “Her name is Anya.”

  “Well, Miss Anya, everything is looking great,” assured the doctor. He gave her a big smile. “Not bad for pliers and twine. It looks like they are taking good care of you. Would you mind staying here while we go out for a bit? You can look now, Saul.”

  His patient shook her head slowly before turning back to the game. Sliding her rook sideways, she was lining up for a kill.

  “Alright then,” he said, getting up from his chair.

  Saul moved his bishop. “Checkmate.”

  Anya leaned over, carefully examining the scene on the board. Dean knew she was working out what had just happened.

  “That girl shows clear signs of trauma,” the doctor stated after they closed the door behind them. “Rorvin’s people have figured that out, surely.”

  “No one mentioned it to me, but I figured as much,” replied Saul. “I’ve been keeping her company, hoping she’ll get better.”

  “Right now, that is the best thing. She needs therapy, but I don’t think there are many counselors around. When you have the time, try to get her to talk. Go easy. Don’t push her.”

  “Makes sense. Why me?” Saul asked.

  “I’m not a psychiatrist. Neither are you, but she seems to trust you,” Dean pointed out.

  Saul seemed to consider that. “You have a point. Anya doesn’t talk much to anyone, but she does speak to me.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Are you a soldier?”

  Dean knew that was coming. If Saul had worked out the existence of a receiver, he probably guessed the rest.

  “I was, a long time ago. Another lifetime. The rumors you’ve no doubt heard about certain LFAF soldiers with brain implants are true. I used to hear orders through mine, until about a month ago when it started causing me intense pain.”

  “I wonder why?” remarked Saul.

  Dean shrugged. He was ready to change the subject again. “So, what does Rorvin have you two here for? I doubt he is in the business of providing charity to poor injured children. He only bothered to help me because of what I can do for him.”

  “I made Anya’s recovery part of my agreement to help him,” explained Saul. “Mr. Rorvin wanted me to claim salvage on something he thinks belongs to the Moon. I am certified to deal with the Federacy, so I contacted LFAF and made the claim. We never heard anything back.”

  “What thing?” Dean asked.

  “We don’t really know. It’s an object, about this big.” The technician held his hands a meter apart. “Metallic, shaped like an egg. It’s really weird, and—”

  Dean grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Not much, just a basic description, like what I just told you. I didn’t say anything about where we found it,” the young man stammered. “Easy. Can you let go?” He tried to struggle free, but Dean’s grip was resolute.

  “God, did you even think? Take me to it. Right now.” He released his hold.

  “Mr. Rorvin didn’t want me to tell anyone. If he finds out—” Saul protested.

  “Fuck Rorvin. Take me there, now,” Dean growled. “I am not asking you.”

  ***

  “Sorry, Mr. Iverson. I’m only authorized to let you in.”

  Before Saul could respond, Dean lunged, pressing the guard against the wall and snatching the gun from his holster. Dean pushed the barrel up under the man’s jaw.

  “Open it.”

  The guard seemed to ponder his options for a couple seconds. He was probably going over in his mind what Rorvin would do to him if he disobeyed orders.

  “Open the door, you Earthborn piece of shit,” Dean snarled through gritted teeth.

  “Okay,” the guard said, straining to talk, the gun pressing against his throat.

  Dean released him and stepped back. Holding the pistol steady with both hands, he kept it trained on the guard’s head. After keying in the passcode, the man tried to move away as the door slid open. Dean slapped him on the back.

  “You first.”

  ***

  Dean never expected to see this thing ever again. It lay in a shallow box, all bright and shiny without a single scratch on it. This wasn’t at all fair, considering the scars, inside and out, that he had picked up in the same amount of
time.

  Standing still, drumming the pistol against his thigh, he stared at the infernal object. It lay silently in its cradle. The security guard was sitting in the corner, obediently saying nothing.

  “What is this thing?” Saul asked, his voice tired. “What’s it for?”

  “Yes, Dr. Stratos, tell us,” said a familiar voice from behind.

  Whipping himself around, Dean leveled his gun at Rorvin’s face. The crime lord appeared unfazed. Behind him stood his assassin, the young woman named Calypso.

  “That is not necessary, doctor,” said Rorvin, calmly. “However, I would like an explanation for this break-in.”

  Dean considered his next move. He let the pistol fall back to his side.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We had one slot open. The other guy had experience with salvage operations, but Calypso had command presence. I needed a good first mate. Also, I figured she would look better naked.

  - Bernard Torus

  2318 AD, 23 months after Collision Event

  The commando doctor was proving more difficult to handle than expected. Calypso expected Rorvin would order her to put Stratos down. Could she do it? He was a Luna Maxilla, after all. His Special Operations outfit had a reputation which drove a growing legend.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rorvin,” Stratos said. “I was mistaken. Saul’s description made me think of something else.”

  Rorvin just stared, eyes narrowing. There was no way he was buying that story, but the doctor was stubborn in maintaining it.

  “Dr. Stratos,” the employer began, “in the future, come to me with any concerns you might have. I do not appreciate this kind of thing.” That tone meant danger, Calypso knew.

  “I understand.” Stratos risked a quick glance at the artifact, then turned his back on it.

  “Okay, people, I was about to call a meeting before this intrusion happened,” Rorvin declared. “Ms. Ree, the rat is approaching the trap.”