The Veritian Derelict (Junkyard Dogs)

by Nolte, Phillip

  Despite the hour, while he was at the gym he had been joined by several people, one of them this slender, strikingly beautiful, Spacer woman currently at the door. He had admired her grace and skill at the weightless maneuvers and was surprised and somewhat pleased when she asked him to spot her while she attempted a particularly difficult move.

  If he hadn't been so smitten with her, he might have noticed that she had been a little evasive about her background and how she came to be so proficient at weightless maneuvers. She had mumbled something about having been on a weightless gymnastics team at university and liked to keep her skills at least somewhat honed. Since the job she had at the General Store had her keeping late hours, the wee hours of the night were the best time for her to work out. Horsefall had found himself inviting her to a nearby bar for a drink as they departed the gym and had been delighted when she had accepted.

  The bar had been crowded and noisy and Horsefall was tired from the workout after his shift so they had sought out the quietest corner they could find. They shared two drinks that first night and some small talk. The night after, they had met at the gym again before heading to the bar and sharing a few more drinks. That time Horsefall thought he had detected the promise of more than just conversation in the future. Much more.

  His heart skipped a beat in anticipation as he overrode the security lock on the door mechanism. Not only was she very attractive, she was also very coordinated and in excellent physical condition. She had asked a few questions about what he did on the station and, when she found out that he was one of the communications techs, had wondered if he could send a message for her to her brother on the Santana Nexus. Horsefall knew it was against regulations but found himself replying that he would be happy to send it for her. They talked it over some more and, seemingly by mutual agreement, he had invited her to come up for a private tour of the communications suite.

  Horsefall opened the heavy, shielded door and let the woman into the communications suite. Her sleek, jet-black hair was just long enough to brush her shoulders. Her eyes were just as he remembered them, beautiful, huge and mysterious, so dark they were almost black. Those eyes laughed at him out from under straight-cut bangs. The Spacer clan tattoo on her left cheek that swept up over her cheekbone and ended about a centimeter in front of her left ear made her appearance even more exotic. Horsefall thought, not for the first time, that she was drop-dead gorgeous. She set her handbag down on a table just inside the door and came easily into his arms as soon as he turned back to her after securing the door. Like most gymnasts, she was not a very tall woman -- Horsefall was average height and she still barely came up to his chin. They shared a long soulful kiss.

  She tasted of cloves and her firm, compact athlete's body felt really, really good in his arms.

  Horsefall surprised himself by ending the embrace. He was breaking enough regulations by having her in the communications suite in the first place, no need to compound the problem by doing something really foolish. An unauthorized visitor was one thing, dereliction of duty was quite another. Besides, he was due to perform the weekly communications check with Federation sector HQ on the Santana Nexus Station in less than ten minutes.

  She retrieved her handbag and followed him over to the communications console. He positioned her in a dark niche only a meter or so away from him but out of the range of the communication console video pickup. He looked at her and put a finger to his lips while he slid into the padded chair in front of the console.

  She suppressed another giggle.

  Through the large viewport across the room behind him, she could see a cluster of starships docked near the asteroid, including several scarred and battered mining vessels, several tramp cargo ships, some wealthy man's yacht and an old destroyer, a small, obsolete ship with Tunisian Republican Navy markings that was probably at the outpost for provisioning before returning to its home system. In addition to its primary function of processing the various ores gleaned from the asteroid belt before shipping the partially refined and thus more concentrated products obtained to manufacturing facilities all over Federation space, the mining station also served as a supply center for this remote sector of the Quadrant.

  "Is that the...what did you call it?"

  "This is the stage two Whitney communications console," said Horsefall. "We can converse almost instantaneously with anyone else who has one of these consoles anywhere in the explored part of the Galaxy. In a few more minutes I'll put through a call to the Santana Nexus. I'll send off a couple dozen packets of email and other communications and then I'll check in with my counterpart on the Nexus before he sends a bunch of stuff through from his end. When we get done, I'll put this console on standby for another week, when we'll do it again. I told you about this just last night. You don't remember do you?"

  "I do, kind of," she replied. "I remember that you said the communicator takes a lot of power,"

  "Oh, yeah, you'll probably see the lights dim for a few seconds after I bring it online. Do you have the message for your brother?" She fumbled in her bag for a moment before fishing out and handing him a memory chip. He laid the chip on the top of the computer console and turned back to her. "Sorry, Tiffany, but you need to stay quiet and out of the range of this video pickup for the next ten minutes. Can you do that?"

  She smiled and nodded as she leaned back into the niche as he had instructed, out of the range of the video pickup. Out of politeness or genuine interest, she kept an eye on what the communications tech was doing while he operated the communications console.

  Horsefall busied himself for a few minutes getting the week's communications lined up. Operating the big, stage II Whitney communicators was a power-intensive and therefore expensive enterprise. By having everything queued up and ready to send beforehand, a good communications tech could save valuable time and money. He carefully and methodically uploaded material from four or five message chips before accessing the message from Tiffany's chip and loading it as well. Finally he flipped the big red toggle switch that brought the large console from standby to operational status. The woman noticed a distinct dimming of the lights that lasted for a second or two before the illumination returned to its former level.

  Horsefall exchanged greetings and other pleasantries with his counterpart on the Santana Nexus before the two communications techs went through the routine of sending and receiving the week's mail and other electronic communications. The exchange went smoothly and professionally, just as it was supposed to. Finally Horsefall signed off and went through the procedures necessary to return the big console to standby.

  "There you have it..." he said as flipped the standby switch and turned to face her "...What the...?"

  The naive, innocent young woman he had invited into the communications suite no longer looked so innocent. Or so naive. The pulse handgun she was pointing at Horsefall wasn't a particularly large weapon but that didn't make it any less deadly. The sonic and flash suppressor unit fitted to the projector of the handgun was strictly forbidden by all governments in the Quadrant, not just by the Federation. Her look had become hard, predatory.

  "Move away from the console, Soldier."

  "Tiffany?" he asked, as he moved to comply, "What the hell is going on?"

  "Over here," she said, gesturing with the pistol towards the very same niche next to the communications console that she herself had just vacated.

  As soon as Horsefall had gone into the hiding spot and turned around, she coldly centered the laser sighting dot of the pulse pistol on the bewildered man's chest and pressed the firing stud. A lethal burst of three consecutive pulses struck home. Horsefall, a look of surprise frozen on his face, slid down the wall and slumped into the niche.

  "We're starting a new war," she said, to the man she'd just cut down in cold blood, "and you're the first casualty!"

  With the weekly stage two communication having just gone out, it would be at least another week before anyone outside the small planetary system expected the mini
ng station to report in again. The woman efficiently and professionally stripped Horsefall of his sidearm, identification cards and other valuables. She then used his key card to obtain the authorization codes for a cargo shipment set to be delivered to the obsolete but still serviceable Tunisian destroyer that she had seen through the viewport.

  Showing an expertise with the communications console that would have amazed the now deceased communications tech, she again used his key card to copy the entire download just received from the Santana Nexus to the same memory chip that she had given the technician a few minutes earlier. She then set several small but powerful explosive charges, which had been concealed in her handbag along with the pulse pistol, and armed a remote detonator. The communications suite would be destroyed if she were to input the proper sequence of symbols into the tiny hand-carried remote control unit that she slipped into a pocket of her coverall.

  She spoke into a small communications device. Her message was brief and concise, "Objective taken, prepare for the next phase."

  ***

  Onboard Spacer Mining Ship Donegal, outside the Piedmont Asteroid Mining Station, Catskill-Soroyan Star System, November 29, 2598.

  Seamus O'Connell, Captain of the asteroid mining ship Donegal, was docked near the Piedmont Mining Station, along with a mixed assortment of other ships that had business at the station. He and Niall Patrick, Captain of Donegal's sister ship Glendaloch, along with their twenty-five man crews, had been mining a remote area of the asteroid belt as a two-ship team and were at the Station to unload the high-quality ores they had mined and to replenish general necessities like food, medical supplies and other sundries in preparation for another foray out into a remote area of the belt. The two captains planned to depart from the orbital station early the following morning.

  Captain Patrick was currently somewhere onboard the Mining Station, finishing up some paperwork, while the Glendaloch was connected to the station, nestled into one of the station's transfer berths, still being unloaded. O'Connell, on the bridge of the newly unloaded and reprovisioned Donegal, could see most of the other ships currently docked with or near the station. Docked into the transfer berth adjacent to the Glendaloch was a relatively new cargo ship with conspicuous NITrans markings on it, the very same ship that had replenished the Donegal's supplies. She was currently transferring provisions onto the Glendaloch.

  NITrans -- short for Nacobbus Interstellar Transport -- was one of the largest and most prosperous businesses in this area of the quadrant and ships bearing these markings handled most of the exports and imports to and from Catskill-Soroyan, New Ceylon, and many of the other planets on the fringes of Federation space.

  As a man who had always been interested in spacecraft, O'Connell couldn't help but notice a couple of unusual ship types. One was military, a battered old destroyer that bore Tunisian markings. With her fore and aft single mount pulse cannon turrets and the characteristic humpbacked bridge design, she was almost certainly an Islamic Alliance Dagger class destroyer. Back in the day, this class of destroyer had been produced in relatively large numbers and they had been a common sight but the forty-year old design had been obsolete for years and any of the ships that still remained in service were showing their age. This particular ship was the first one of its type that O'Connell had seen for at least five years.

  The other ship was, indeed, unusual. Unless he was mistaken, and when it came to spaceships he usually wasn't, the other ship was an old Hispano-Suiza type 72 yacht. Not only were such ships incredibly expensive, and thus pretty rare to begin with, none of them had been built in more than twenty years. He made a note to tell Niall about it when his fellow Captain got back from the station. O'Connell headed for the aft cargo hold to see how his crew was coming with the process of securing the provisions they had come to the mining station to get.

  ***

  Piedmont Asteroid Mining Station, Catskill-Soroyan Star System, November 29, 2598.

  Christopher Hartmann, Deputy Chief of Security for the Piedmont Asteroid Mining Station, looked up at the digital clock on the wall above the door to the Security Office. He sighed, only one AM. Hartmann still had another six hours to go until this shift ended. The new Deputy Chief was a Spacer who had recently finished a stint as a Military Policeman in the United Terran Federation Marine Corps. The experience gained there had made him eminently qualified for this security position which he had taken shortly after receiving an honorable discharge just a couple of months earlier.

  Hartmann was originally scheduled to be in his quarters, getting some well-earned rest. However, the Chief of Security was currently away from the station, at some kind of convention clear across the quadrant at the Santana Nexus, and the senior security officer who was supposed to be in charge of the early morning shift had called in sick. That left Hartmann working a double shift.

  Fortunately, it seemed as though this was going to be a quiet night. Security issues on board the Station could be formidable at times. Asteroid mining facilities attracted all sorts of personnel, from career miners to those seeking only enough income to finance a trip to anywhere else. The work was difficult and dirty but the people running the mining operations didn't ask a lot of questions of their prospective employees. Lots of potential troublemakers could be found making up the ranks of the men and women doing the mining, from current and former criminals to others who had their own reasons for wishing to keep a low profile

  Outside of a fistfight that had occurred when two of the more belligerent miners, most of whom were also Spacers, had a little too much to drink, things had been pretty calm on the Station during Hartmann's first shift. The two offenders, who were actually brothers, were locked up in separate holding cells, just down the corridor from the Deputy Chief's desk. He would probably release them in the morning, after they'd had time to sober up and sleep it off.

  About a fourth of the miners presently at liberty on the station were on the last day of their monthly seven day holiday away from working in the mines, which were down inside the asteroid, and they were drying out before returning to their grueling and hazardous jobs. The first two hours of Hartmann's second shift had been mercifully quiet and he didn't expect the situation to change any over the course of the next few hours. He went back to the task of completing his report for the shift he had worked earlier in the day.

  Chapter 4.

  New Ceylon Orbital Station, Galaxy Hotel Luxury Suite 557, November 29, 2598.

  Lieutenant Ryan Harris, United Terran Federation Navy Engineer assigned to the Navy's Reclamation Center in the New Ceylon system woke up, as usual, at 0500 New Ceylon Zero Meridian (NCZM) time. A well-built man of medium height, he stretched elaborately and ran his fingers through his short, brown hair. He made his way somewhat groggily to the rest facilities in the opulent, upscale suite he was currently staying in at the Galaxy Hotel. His were some of the finest accommodations available on board the New Ceylon Orbital Station and he silently thanked the stars that the Federation Navy was picking up the tab, not him!

  He selected a now familiar series of buttons on the room's elaborate beverage maker and dialed himself up a cup of New Ceylon Arabica, a product of the nearby planet, and one of the finest coffees known to man. During the two minutes required for the coffee to brew, he stretched a few kinks out of his neck and shoulders before slipping on one of the lush robes that the hotel provided for their wealthy and discerning guests. With the hotel's fancy monogramed porcelain mug in hand, he made his way over to the computer terminal in the equally well-appointed sitting portion of the luxurious room.

  The terminal came to life within a few seconds and the Lieutenant went immediately to his email. He scanned down the list of incoming mail and was disappointed to see nothing from Ensign Tamara Carlisle.

  Again.

  He and the Ensign had agreed to correspond with one another after a shared ordeal that had started out in the Scrapyard and had finished up on the very orbital station where Harris was currently stat
ioned. The Federation Navy allowed extremely long distance personal email communications to be sent out once a week, during the normal course of transmissions that were part of Naval operations. Interstellar communication was expensive and the large, power-hungry Stage II Whitney transceivers were only operated on a weekly schedule unless there was an emergency.

  Communication had been even spottier lately for the inhabitants of the New Ceylon system because both of the system's Stage II transcievers had been destroyed in a terrorist attack that Harris, Carlisle, Kresge and others had eventually thwarted and the entire system was currently depending on the infrequent courier ship to relay messages from the Santana Nexus. One such ship had just come through the system the day before and left a burst of messages before translating out again. The Lieutenant's disappointment was deepened by the sad fact that this was the second transmission cycle that had contained no correspondence from the Ensign.

  He paused and thought for a moment. He really didn't know what sort of communication it was that he expected from her; it wasn't as though they were lovers or anything. True, they had shared a goodnight kiss after the ceremonies celebrating the treaty with Meridian and the successful defense of both the Scrapyard and the Orbital Station, but he was probably putting too much stock into it.

  He thought again about the circumstances of his first meeting with her. The Ensign was a Spacer enrolled in a special program at the Federation Naval Academy created for the purpose of integrating more Spacer citizens into Federation Service. He could still see the exotic Spacer clan tattoo that swept up across the left cheek of her considerably attractive face.