Salvage

by Charles Brass

  My face disappears, and Leader’s head shifts back into the center. His expression turns serious. “This probably sounds like one of the easiest piloting jobs you’ll have. Do not make that mistake. You’ll be driving the sled through a debris field and into the ruins of the outpost’s hangar bay. I’ve sent probes inside and remotely cleared away as much of the rubble as I could. But there remains jagged edges and protruding obstacles. It will not be easy to maneuver us into position.”

  The window expands to fill my faceplate. Leader’s head fades away, replaced by video images enhanced with data-formulated overlays of the hangar bay. He’s right–a tangle of broken and shattered metal and rock fill the interior. A large space near the opening has been cleared, but there are still far too many obstacles reaching out to either damage the sled or perhaps gash one of our heavy suits.

  The bay looks like it’s been pummeled with powerful blasts. The only thing I can think of that might do such damage are the Unity Fleet’s plasma clusters–assuming the entertainment longshows I’ve seen bear any truth.

  “I’ve positioned beacons within the interior to help guide you in. They will not activate until we are within a certain proximity. This is a necessary precaution, as there’s an element to this operation we must avoid. Namely, patrols by the Unity Fleet. This region is a training ground for rookie crews learning to work together. I’ve been watching those patrols, tracking their schedules, and determining how to avoid their notice. The timing of our departure will put us between patrols, give you time to drive us into the hanger bay, and us time to obscure any energy readings that might leak from the sled or our equipment. We’re depending on you not only to get us there, but to do so with a certain haste.

  “It will take approximately two hours for the transport carrying this cargo container to reach our drop point. Use that time to study these scans. Prepare yourself to land the sled in the ruins of the hangar bay. Once we’re inside, you’ll trim away any of the obstructions that will hamper our departure, and reposition the sled for when it’s time to go. We’ll have a similar time constraint on our return to our transport. We need to get there first, though. That will be your primary task two hours from now.”

  Another jolt shakes my seat. The video readout from the human pauses and fades, allowing me to check the sled’s systems. Nothing’s amiss. I switch to my pilot screen. Data streams confirm the crane is still moving.

  I run through all the systems. Everything is ready. The sled sits on a simple spring-loaded launcher that’ll shove us out of the container when the time comes. It’ll also catch us upon our return. Tricky, but necessary–I can’t risk using the sled’s thrusters inside the container.

  There’s a thruster pack at each corner ventral and dorsal, each with three nozzles that will extend once we’re in flight so those sitting at the corners don’t get blasted. The nozzles also have limited angling ability, giving me incredibly precise control. During my training, I often had to recover from tumbles and rolls caused by simulated hardware failures or collisions with debris. As long as I could orient myself–either on the outpost or our transport–I recovered each time, even if some of the thruster packs were damaged. I suspect whoever had designed and built this sled was a pilot himself.

  The sled shakes again. We’ve come to a stop. Most likely we’re attached to the freighter that will carry us on our way. The fifteen-minute timer ticks down to zero. There’s a sharp jerk. We’re in motion again–up from our previous position, then accelerating.

  A two-hour timer replaces the fifteen-minute one. It begins counting down, one inexorable second after the other.

  We are committed.

  * * *

  I study the hangar bay datastream. I don’t think it’ll be as tight a fit as the leader, but it will require some deft maneuvering. It’ll be easiest to bring us to a complete stop before I even try to enter the demolished hangar bay.

  I explore the sled’s systems. Video units on each thruster pack allow me to see in all directions, including the cargo bed. On top are stacks of small pods. Underneath, tanks for the various liquids and gasses we’ll need, along with components of the sled’s systems. I scroll through each feed, verify the unit is working, then reduce them in size and arrange them in my faceplate according to their position. I won’t need them until I’m getting us inside the hangar bay, then maybe re-entering the cargo container.

  I don’t think getting us back into the container at the end will be as tricky as getting us into the hangar bay, but that’s still three days away. As Leader warned, things could get bad pretty quick before then. And I might be exhausted from being awake so long.

  One part of the job at a time.

  That’s how I dealt with the few long hops I did alone during my brief pilot career. Hours through darkspace, a day here and there in-system on Columbus thrusters, back to darkspace...

  One chunk of attention.

  I study the locking/launch mechanism inside the cargo container. The clamps holding the sled are wide and thick, with tiny beacons defining the grip range. White and blue lights also serve as guides. If I line us up correctly it shouldn’t be a problem getting the sled back in place. Even maneuvering backwards. I could probably do it in my sleep.

  An hour in, Leader says, “All right. Everyone, please consume one of your tubes of energy paste. I’m getting us all on the same schedule to start. When we get to the outpost, we’ll have scheduled breaks to eat and rest. I’ll plate you everything once we arrive.” After a pause, he adds, “Hope you find the paste palatable.”

  I extend a food nipple from the side of my helmet. The energy paste is actually tasty–a blend of churd nuts, soft mencie grains, and larma milk. It must’ve been expensive. And there’s six kavax.

  Whoever organized this little operation must have deep pockets.

  The remaining hour to launch point passes quickly. As we hit the five-minute mark I prepare the sled. Batteries on top of the container have fed our fuel cells, which will hold their charges for weeks. Our air tanks have been topped off, as have the tanks for the thruster propellant–there is one for each thruster pack. Even if things get bad, I’m optimistic we’ll have enough for the entire operation. Assuming of course I don’t have to slow us down too much to match speeds with the asteroid or accelerate too hard to catch the freighter on our way back.

  All depends on how much mass we add to the sled. Hopefully whatever we’re after won’t be too heavy. We may be in a weightless environment until we return to Chalico Station, but it still takes propellant to speed us up and slow us down. If our cargo masses too much...

  I’ll have to keep an eye on that. I did train for a variety of situations, though. Dense cargo on the return trip was one of them. I’m as ready as I can be with what little information I’ve been given.

  Well... There are jitters. It’s been almost an annum since the chall attack. I haven’t piloted since, except in my recent training simulations. If I made a mistale there I could walk away, reset mentally. Here, now...

  There’s no walking away.

  And things... tend to always go wrong. That’s why there always has to be a pilot on the deck. Even the highest level AIs misinterpret data. Organic brains less so. But mistakes do happen.

  So...

  Just have to fly. That’s all.

  At the two-minute mark, the data streams along the container’s sides disappear. Only the tiny lights ringing the front hatch remain. I grip the thruster joysticks at the end of my armrests, and position my boots on the pedals below. A glance at the pentagon brings my primary screen across my faceplate. Buttons on the joysticks and the armrests are mere fingertip-flicks away. I am ready.

  The sled has a primitive AI. It queries if I agree all systems are go for launch. I acknowledge this with the press of a button. We are ready.

  At the fifteen-second mark the cargo container hatch swings open. Directly ahead, maybe a quarter-klick, sits an asteroid. It’s a dull grayish-brown, with a bumpy, mottled surfa
ce. Craters, like those caused by plasma clusters, dipple its surface. The Unity Fleet must use it for target practice. And why not?

  The timer hits zero. There’s a not-so-gentle shove and we’re coasting from the cargo container. My faceplate fills with telemetry readings, my glide path, velocity and direction indicators, proximity scans. The data is mostly provided by the transport passing slowly behind us, bolstering the sled’s rudimentary scanners. We’re still moving at the same rate of speed, just now along a new axis as well.

  I don’t understand why others have such problems flying through space. It’s all in the three axes of travel–adna, colis, and rean. Humans call them X, Y, and Z. The byveri bau, taen, and ziey. No matter the language, they’re all the same. Get those right and you’re safely on your way. Of course, each of these has their own sub-three–pitch, yaw, and roll. And each of those can get complicated. As long as I have a point of reference, I can recover from any swirl, tumble, and cantor situation I might experience. I’ve even recovered without a working viewplate. That was with a small skiff, of course, but a freighter wouldn’t be any different. In theory.

  This short jaunt between the freighter and the hangar bay shouldn’t tax my abilities. Even with an annum of inactivity laying over-top. An instructor once told me I have an innate talent for piloting, one I find within me as easy as walking.

  I am so, so lost without this.

  Of all my therapists, I think only Mr. Tremp really understood.

  The asteroid in front of us, one of dozens, is not our target. That one lies ahead on my colis axis. Maybe two asteroids away at this point. I do quick math in my head–yes, more than enough propellant to get us where we need to go and back. Never hurts to organically crunch the numbers.

  I extend the thrust nozzles and initiate maneuvers. As we cross the space between the transport and the hangar bay, I’ll have to descend several meters on raen, and bring us to a complete halt. Shouldn’t be a problem. Then the proximity detectors ping the first obstacle in our path: a small chunk of asteroid maybe the size of my helmet. And I’m heading right for it.

  My shock hits quick; my recovery is just as fast. The simulations included this kind of snap maneuver. Since we have to descend eventually I go ahead and nudge us below the approaching chunk. It’ll be close, but we’ll miss. During the past two hours I’ve familiarized myself with the sled’s exact length, width, and height, accounting for those on board. I know to the millimeter how high is the highest helmet, and how low are the lowest boots. It helps that the suits are pretty much all the same size. My pedals are the deepest down.

  The chunk zips close enough that through the imagery on my faceplate I see the tiny pores on its cold, rocky skin. Then it’s past. The first obstacle avoided.

  I stay on my pilot screen for a most of the journey. I glance now and then into the cameras. We’re still pretty much in line with our cargo container, though it’s as high above us now as the sled is long. The freighter carries additional rows of containers–ours is in the second of five. I dodge several more chunks of asteroid. Some require an ascent, some a steeper descent with an appropriate recovery, while some require some pitching, yawing, and spinning.

  The sled handles like a dream.

  I have so, so missed this.

  I’ve calculated the point where we need to slow our momentum. I’ll wait until we’re close to our target asteroid, which is a large round rock tapering to blunt points at either end. The abandon outpost sits almost dead center side-to-side, just above mid-point top to bottom. We’re still a good half-hour away from arriving but already I see the wreckage.

  The outpost had four levels, the uppermost just below the asteroid’s surface. Plasma clusters left craters in the rock and across the outpost’s outer skin–it’s been torn open. Exposed. The debris cloud is minimal, with most of what was blown from the asteroid scattered into empty space.

  I pivot the sled to face the hangar bay, aligning us using lines from a graphical overlay. I send a ping-pulse from the proximity detectors to ensure nothing small lurks in our path. It registers clean. We reach the point where I initiate a deceleration. Our momentum along the colis axis dips.

  So far the freighter has obscured us from any watching eyes. Now, we’re exposed. If the Unity Fleet has a vessel lurking nearby, and if it’s looking our way, we’ll be seen. That’s simply unavoidable at this point. My task is to get within the hangar bay as quickly as possible.

  A quick check of the mission timer reveals we’ve been traveling over forty minutes now. I take a deep breath. I’ve forgotten how quickly time can pass when one’s sitting in a pilot’s chair. And for these past forty minutes I’ve been in a state of complete bliss.

  This is it. This is what I was meant to do. My aptitude.

  It’s been nearly an entire annum since I last experienced this. No matter the type of vessel–skiff, personnel shuttle, freighter, even a mid-sized passenger cruiser–the experience is always the same. Complete, utter joy.

  Humans tend to say we kavax have lost all ability to feel emotion. While some of my kind can be rather stony in their interactions with others, human observers are wrong. We feel emotion, particularly the highs. We just don’t express them as openly.

  If the remainder of the operation fails, if matters become hopeless, I can at least take satisfaction in knowing I’ve salvaged this much from my bleak future. It’s assuring to know I can still perform.

  The hangar bay approaches. I pivot the sled around so we’re facing the asteroid directly, and trigger the four thrusters aimed in our direction of momentum. Watching the readouts, I slow our speed until we’ve come to a complete stop, relative to the freighter. We’re centered in the ruined hangar bay entrance.

  Large doors that slid aside on rails had once protected the hangar bay. Plasma clusters punched one of the doors clean off. The other was blasted in half, with the lower remnant hanging from a twisted hinge and other support structures on the outside. The upper half has been blown into the interior. Its crumpled edges and damage from the surrounding structure present the first major obstacle.

  We’re close enough to the hangar bay now that the beacons inside register the sled’s proximity and awake. My faceplate fills with new data. Graphic overlays give me a precise three-dimensional map inside. It’s far more detailed than any of the previous data packages. And it reveals it’s going to require a far more deft touch to get us safely inside than I anticipated.

  My helmet speakers crackle to life. “Outstanding job so far, pilot,” Leader says, “and I am not trying to rush you. But I would urge some haste at this point. We have maybe ten minutes to get inside and obscure our presence.”

  “Understood.”

  I nudge us into the hangar bay, one quick thrust at a time. There is room to actually roll the sled if I need to, place us boots-first on the ceiling. Stalagmites of rubble jut from the floor. Stalactites of twisted metal poke from the ceiling. As with the way I maneuvered us around the debris outside, I flip, pivot, swing, and slide the sled on all axes to tuck us deep into the bay. I find a spot that’s relatively smooth at one of the back corners, lower the sled’s landing skids, and ease us down. Anchors descend from each of the four ventral thruster packs and clamp down on debris. Micro-thrusts align the sled with the asteroid’s movements. There is a slight spin, a subtle roll. In a few annums the hangar bay will probably be facing sunward–a full one hundred-eighty degree roll. Residual motion left from the assault that demolished the outpost.

  Before we prepare for departure, I’ll spin the sled so were facing back the way we’ve come, and center it in the bay. As I drop the sled into stand-by mode, I’m already looking at places to cut and trim debris. It will take hours of work, but that’ll be something I’ll have.

  The thrusters have kicked up dust and small rocks. They will eventually settle; while the demolished outpost has no power, there is a small measure of gravity. Probably residue from the micro-cores provided by the Sha–Ho, the technologically
superior race that created the Unity Sphere. The micro-cores powered the outpost and its pseudo-gravity system, and were probably removed from the outpost with its abandonment. It takes annums to scrub the affects.

  My speakers crackle again. “Make haste, men.” It’s Leader. “Just like we practiced. For real this time. Go.”

  I enlarge the video feeds and watch the activity behind me. All eight of them are out of their chairs. Four are on the sled, releasing cargo pods from their restraints. The others are heading across the hangar bay, toward the opening. They jump, shift, and slide with practiced ease. Beams of red light from spotlights on the sled’s underbelly illuminate their progress.

  The four with cargo pods quickly catch up. They space the pods evenly across the entrance, which is about fifty paces across, forty high–wide and high enough for a mid-class shuttle. (For reference, the beacons say the bay is one hundred-fifty paces across, sixty deep.) The others are assembling long rods out of small rods lying in orderly piles near the entrance. My eyeridges bunch. How did those get here?

  I realize, The same way the beacons got inside. They’ve been pre-positioned.

  I’m beginning to understand just how well envisioned this illicit operation is. The leader must have spent months preparing. I scan the surrounding rubble. What else awaits? And there, and there, and over there–more equipment! Stacks of it!

  The long rods are jammed into place so they extend from deck to ceiling. There’s eight of them. The cargo pods are opened and the men remove and spread out folds of curtains with crisp metallic sheens. They clip curtain edges to the rods, then crouch at the base of the rods and fiddle with small control plates. The metallic curtains’ upper edges rise from the deck. The rest unfold. In the span of a few seconds, the curtains fill the entrance, held in place by the rods. Magnetics, I suspect.

  Lights at the base of each rod blink white.

  The eight men step back. One checks a plate on his forearm, the rest hold still. According to the mission timer in my faceplate, the motionless silence carries for several minutes. Then the one studying the plate lowers his arm.