by Jody Wallace
Catalyst
Cat Ship
Jody Wallace
Contents
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About the Author
SNEAK PEEK—Catapult by Jody Wallace
SNEAK PEEK—Gravity by Maggie Lynch
Also by Jody Wallace
Jody Wallace
Copyright ©2019 Jody Wallace
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
For permissions or licensing of any content in this book, contact the author directly at http://jodywallace.com/
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Published by Meankitty Publishing
http://jodywallace.com/books/meankitty-publishing/
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Cover Design by Victoria Cooper
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Editing by Carrie Torres
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For information about all books in the Obsidian Rim series go to: https://obsidianrim.com
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Catalyst: Cat Ship / Jody Wallace. -- 1st ed., Book 8 in the Obsidian Rim series, Book 1 in the Cat Ship Series
Created with Vellum
Dance teacher Wil Tango, adopted by a cat who needs to make use of his opposable thumbs, knows all too well the primary rule of their arrangement: never reveal the cat is a genius. Their clever scheme to win all the jackpots on Gizem Station works until a bigwig gets suspicious, and he finds himself stuffed in a stasis box and shipped to Garbage Planet. At least he’s got the cat for company.
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Sulari Abfall, scrapyard picker extraordinaire, thinks she’s scored when she earns access to the latest offload from Gizem Station. Their trash is her treasure, and the profits from her recycling program should provide more than enough to upgrade her clunky garbage scow into a clunky tow ship, a huge step up in trash hierarchy. When she’s drawn to a hazardous waste container, she finds more than she ever bargained for. A naked man. And a sentient cat.
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But unsealing the stasis pod sends an interspace signal back to Gizem Station—and the vengeful VIP who thought Wil was dead. It will take all the wits of a lovely garbage scow captain, a down on his luck dance instructor, and a brave orange feline to defeat a gang intent on mayhem, murder, and a galactic catnapping that could change the course of the future for the entire Obsidian Rim.
To Carrie and Mittens, two very grouchy cats who will swat you if you bustle around when they don’t want you to.
Chapter 1
The low, flat mech-dolly let out a suspicious clank as it followed Sulari Abfall up the ramp that led into the unplumbed depths of the waste management stellarship from Gizem Station. The stench of oils, metals, and organic rubbish bloomed out of the cavernous bay doors. With great restraint, Su did not break into an excited jig at being first to enter, with the fifteen minute head start she’d won at last night’s pikka game.
Such behavior would be in poor taste. Even for a garbage picker.
The cold, ever-present wind in this district of Trash Planet whipped several strands of her hair free of the band of the protective goggles. As she shoved up her hood, she caught the glares of the other pickers, arms crossed, carts, dollies and assorted equipment idling behind them.
Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to bag and tag the best loot with no interference, no wheeling and dealing, and no fistfights. You had to go in alone—but it was always, always worth it.
“Halt for inspection.” The Pish Incorporated goons flanking the cargo bay waved her to a stop. She directed the dolly to idle while they sent drones underneath, tiny beeping robotics that looked like they may have been the work of a refurber here on Trash Planet themselves.
Hells, that probably meant they worked better than new.
“Arms,” directed the larger of the two goons. Su raised her hands out to her sides while he wanded up and down her body in search of weapons. He had the kind of scanner that penetrated the protective fabric of her coveralls. The drone exited the undercarriage of the dolly and shot up to scan the flattened crunch crates lashed to the top.
Guns weren’t allowed in waste ships or scrap piles after that explosion at Hazard Port. The pickers of Trash Planet didn’t agree on much, but none of them wanted to die in a chem fire that blazed for eighteen days and nights, untouched by the storms. Hadn’t been a Pish ship, but inspections on the way in and out were now routine with all the big companies.
“You’re not a very big one,” the goon commented. “How you gonna pick up any scrap?”
Su lifted her goggles to her forehead and enjoyed his flinch the moment he noticed her scar. “Stronger than I look,” she said. Which was true. Her job included heavy lifting. “Meaner, too. Tell him, Bart.”
“She’s plenty mean,” said the other guy, a Pish guard she’d gotten to know over the years. The big goon’s wand beeped at her knee, and he frowned, adjusting the knob.
“It’s metal,” she said. “You don’t wanna see those scars, too, do you?”
“Musta hurt,” he grunted, starting up her other leg. The rest of her was all flesh and bone and a damn bunch of hair, and he wouldn’t find anything illegal.
At least not that he would recognize as illegal.
“Any other implants I should know about?” The wand reached her head, and again his gaze fixated on the scar bisecting her cheek. “You mighta needed more mending after that, and I don’t want to false positive you.”
The second drone whizzed out from under her dolly, green lights flashing.
“I’m clean. So’s my dolly. And you’re wasting my fifteen,” she complained, though her head start hadn’t officially begun yet. “I got dumpsters to dive.”
“She’s safe,” Bart encouraged. “It’s a big deal, when they get to go first. Sorry, Abfall, he’s new here.”
Come find treasure, whispered a voice in her head, the embodiment of her own excitement, no doubt.
The new goon shrugged. “I’m done. Good hunting.”
Yeah, he’d better wish her good hunting. If the trash wasn’t quality, their union, Bristler, wouldn’t contract with Pish, and he’d be out of a job. Not all garbage ended up on Trash Planet. They had their standards.
She thumbed her chin in a rather insolent thanks and turned her attention to the other pickers. Hundreds of them, slavering for junk, and all watching her. Garza, the union president, lifted his wrist and tapped his chrono, his giant beard bristling with annoyance.
She could take a hint. She gave them the traditional one finger salute, and the countdown clock started.
“Goat, increase speed by three.” The mech-dolly responded to her voice with another ominous clank and zoomed up the ramp, into the loading bay. She hopped on the top of her crate stack, grabbed a corner pole, and abstained from spinning around it like a dancer hoping for big bills.
No jigs, no spins, no rubbing it in. She was all about being classy in her victory.
Because today’s treasure trove should bring her mega money. First shot always did. She’d likely earn all the credits she needed to upgrade the Moll, her small intraplanetery scow, into a stellarship capable of towing. Then she could scavenge trash on other planets and space stations on her own and not h
ave to share.
The waste management company for today’s delivery, Pish Incorporated, along with others, contracted with various picker unions on Trash Planet to deliver the waste and scraps from other parts of the Obsidian Rim here. Not just as a dump site. The hardy entrepreneurial spirit that had enabled humanity’s survival during the deadly Oblivion War up until present day, over 1600 years later, also enabled them to create treasure from trash. Recycling, converting, refabricating, scraphacking, rewiring, composting, you name it, someone on Trash Planet did it, with what the rest of the galaxy considered garbage.
In the end, everyone profited. Recycling required specialized machinery, time, and training, and for some it was cheaper to send it off. According to the contracts the waste management companies signed, they had to allow pickers to comb their ships before they added their mess to one of the massive scrap heaps in less habitable areas of the planet. The sorta-livable equatorial band was divided in districts, and everything outside that was a frigid wasteland.
Now that Su was inside the ship, she really picked up the pace. Fourteen minutes left. Ish. She and her employees had a rep for snagging super gloss items, bartering for what she wanted from other pickers for a minimum of digital intergalactic credits, and nobody had been happy that she’d won first look.
Since Pish employed guards, they’d probably give her the full fifteen. Today she’d focus on rarer barterables because they were easier to snatch. She’d scoop up her specialty items during the later phases when she could bring helps. Some of the things she refurbished were pretty big.
Su hung tight to the corner pole as the mech-dolly sped along the immense cargo bay to the lifts in the midsection. Ship rats ran squeaking out of her path. Since they were alive, they’d either broken in during the night or life support had been maintained in the bays during the trip to Trash Planet.
Interesting. Since when did rubbish need life support?
Overhead lights cast enough of a glow that she didn’t need her lamp. Su activated her goggles to detect any radiation and hazardous waste. She wasn’t equipped for hazmat, though sometimes she refurbished the containers. Those had significant resale value to Hazer Union and other places.
She also resisted the lure of the huge plastene bins stacked along the bottom bay walls. Someone else could hit those. Probably organics, from the smell of it. Hence the rats, which could have been loaded along with the organics back on Gizem.
Nope, what Su wanted was the high-end shit. The household waste. Yeah. Pish didn’t collect peon litter. They ran jobs for royals and high rollers and all of those jazz hands. People who threw out perfectly good stuff.
Finally she reached the elevators. “Goat. Slow.”
Pish cargo ships were long and bulky and rarely had side corridors. But they did have multiple floors.
And Su went straight for the next to top floor. Always the best. Always. Most said top, but too many other pickers would go for the top, and she’d have to fight or, worse, pay her way out.
And she had a feeling about today. A feeling that she was about to hit the legendary Gizem Station jackpot.
The wide industrial lift jittered upward through the levels of the ship, coming to a grinding halt at her chosen floor.
“Goat, reverse.” The dolly bumped across the uneven gap into the dimly lit bay. Heaps of rubbish, not confined to orderly bins, loomed along each wall. She smacked a perimeter beacon on the threshold, which would alert her the minute anything joined her on this floor. “Goat, swivel.”
The dolly pivoted—and clanked. Something pinged on the scuffed metal floor.
Su looked down right as one of the wheels rolled into the bay all by itself. The dolly’s go-light began to beep red, and it canted slightly toward that corner. “Well, shitballs.”
At least she knew what that clanking was all about. Each corner had two wheels, not including the spinners in the center, but the loss of one meant the dolly would support less cargo.
On her first ever head start. How could this be happening? If somebody had snuck onto the factory grounds last night and tinkered with her dollies…
Hurry up.
Yeah, her inner voice was right. No time for worrying. Sabotage didn’t matter when the clock was ticking. She checked her chrono. Twelve minutes. She darted ahead, grabbed the broken wheel, and tossed it onto the cart. “Come on, Goat.”
The dolly hurried after her with a whine as the axles adjusted to the lack of wheel. Open containers, closed containers, compacted trash, heaps and mounds of whatever—all the various forms of rubbish were tossed everywhere with barely enough room to navigate the center aisle.
Su cracked her knuckles, donned her protective gloves, and dove into a likely heap about halfway down the bay. The levels of the ship were loaded from the back by giant haulers, so the bays had to be wide and high to incorporate them. Since this was a union-friendly ship, part of the contract required Pish to leave a center aisle navigable. Otherwise you might as well be picking a planetside heap, and that required different gear and more time.
Granted, whatever the pickers didn’t select would end up in one of the heaps after a few days. Su employed a small team that specialized in scrap pile recovery because hardly anyone wanted the containers and boxes Su refurbished in her factory.
But today was all about the barter.
As fast as she could, Su unflattened her crates and started filling them. Mech parts, wires, metals, shinies. Anything with innards. This floor didn’t have many organics, and she didn’t need the nose filter. What idiots tossed easily repaired gizmos and gadgets, small machines, and recyclable metal scraps?
She found batteries and fuel cells. Kits for protein preservation, cases for electronics. A jewelry box, of all things. Carriers. Useful pots. A bonanza for a picker. The things rich idiots discarded, forcing themselves to purchase it again every time they needed it.
Sometimes they made that purchase from a Trash Planet representative. Nothing would please her more than learning that one of her retrofitted containers had been sold back to the dumbass who’d tossed it. She might not have begun her career in boxes, but it was truly her calling.
Su deposited another hastily gathered bin of DIC-magnets onto the dolly and trotted to the next stack. A good picker had to sort fast and hard, know the difference between treasure and trash instantly. Clothes, for example, if she didn’t want them for herself, weren’t good barter. In Su’s union, Estelle Gee gathered and repaired fabrics to transport over to Yassa Port in Market District, but bartering with Estelle wasn’t that profitable.
Within ten minutes, Su’s furious pace had her dolly stacked to a satisfying height except in the sagging corner. She arranged the crates until they clicked and locked into place.
“Goat, follow.” Su checked her chrono. Two more minutes. She hadn’t done half bad, broken dolly and all—provided she could make it out before the fighting started. She tied her loot to the corner poles for extra security and considered the unplumbed storage containers and heaps of trash ahead.
Later today, this floor would look like a whirlwind had been loosed inside. The first and second round pickers—not counting head starts—would already have had their chance. Su was normally third round, per her buy-in status in the union, but she had the eye. The spark. It just took a heck of a lot longer to settle her needs after the first two rounds had chucked shit everywhere.
She should head for the exit. If she was on her way out while the others were surging in, it would be safer. Her secret weapon, created just for today, would only work once.
A pin light winked at her from further back in the mountain of trash. Way further back.
A working pin light might mean fresh batteries, a functional machine—and oh, the DICs she could get for either of those. If not DICs, she could barter for all the boxes she wanted.
Worth it.
Giving the straps around her crates one last tug, she thrust herself between two heaps that looked like they’d been vomited f
rom casinos. Something sharp jabbed into her thigh as she squeezed past a mangled piece of machinery.
“Vac it.” She cursed and checked her coveralls. No rip. Thank the deities. She might still have nanobots in her bloodstream from the accident and the surgery, but no reason to waste their juice on a clumsy jab. Trash Planet itself, with its barely habitable environs, was enough of a challenge for the little scientific marvels. If it were easy to survive here, the planet would have been used for people and agriculture, not trash.
Thigh throbbing, she reached the pin light. It blinked atop a big sealed container, not a dumpster or a gizmo. Hm. But it was dark back here in the heaps.
Su flicked on the headlamp attached to the top of the goggles, and the beam landed straight on the hazmat sigil on the door of the container.
The heck? There wasn’t supposed to be hazmat on this floor. What idiot loaders had done this? But her googles weren’t reading hazmat.
And the pin light kept gleaming white and bright, not one millisecond of a dying flicker.
Open me.
One part of her longed to open it. One part wondered if it was smart. The square container was at least as tall as she was. She had an eye for containers, after all. She poked around the door with her multitool, checking the seals.
Good container. Great shape. Not common. Hazmat containers, when sent here, tended to be at the end of their first lives. She wouldn’t mind having this beauty to resell, but she was one person and it was a huge, heavy box.