The Veritian Derelict (Junkyard Dogs)

by Nolte, Phillip

  The rest of the terrorist force made it out of the Scrapyard and rendezvoused with the Carpathia, who, with the Sheik of Barsoom on board, had remained outside of the scrap cloud with the reserve destroyer and therefore remote from any danger. As a group, they migrated out of the scrapyard and, with their tails between their legs, microjumped back towards the hyperlink point to translate out as quickly as they could.

  ***

  UTFN Auxiliary Ship Greyhound.

  Less than an hour after the aggressors had departed the system, Kresge was still trying to determine the status of all the scrapyard personnel when he got a call from the bridge.

  "Commander Kresge?"

  "Yes, what is it?"

  "Several more ships have just come through the hyperlink point."

  "Can you tell who it is?"

  "It'll take a few moments, Sir. Wait, we're being hailed."

  "Federation Destroyer Asimov calling the New Ceylon Reclamation Center."

  "It's the Asimov, Sir!"

  "The last thing I expected was reinforcements," said Kresge. "Can't say I'm sorry to see them though. Put me through to them."

  Epilogue

  In the sickbay of Imperial Meridian Diplomatic Ship Istanbul, December 17, 2598.

  Dr. Ensign Tamara Carlisle came groggily to consciousness. She was in a comfortable bed and the lighting was dim. There was someone sitting near the bed but since her eyes wouldn't focus and lighting was poor, she couldn't tell who it was. Whoever they were, they were no more than a blob, just a fuzzy silhouette. She attempted to sit up and discovered immediately that she hurt. All over. That and there were tubes and wires from various places on her body connecting her to a number of what were obviously medical devices.

  "Where the hell am I?" she said, her voice little more than a croak.

  "In the sickbay of the Istanbul," replied a familiar voice. "Don't try to move, you took a real beating. You've got a concussion and maybe some broken ribs."

  Some coherence began to trickle back.

  "Harris?...Ryan?...Is that you?"

  "Yes, Tamara, it's me."

  "What happened?"

  "Against all odds, we won! Thanks to you and your father."

  "My dad?" More recent memories phased in. "Oh, yeah, I remember now. They were here when we got back from Heard's World?"

  "He used the mining laser on the Donegal to destroy the front turret of the Perseus. The Perseus surrendered shortly afterwards. Meanwhile, you managed to hit the Skorpios twice and overloaded her shields so that Kresge and the Greyhound could do some real damage. The Skorpios won't be bothering us anymore."

  "So we're all safe?"

  "For now."

  She lay quietly for almost a minute. Harris thought she had gone back to sleep when she spoke again.

  "I'm hungry," she said, softly.

  "That's no surprise, you haven’t eaten anything since we had lunch yesterday. I've signaled the doctor, I'm sure they'll give you something as soon as they've taken a look at you."

  She reached for his hand.

  "Will you stay? I hurt and I'm tired but... it feels good having you near..."

  "As long as you need me, Tamara, I'll be here."

  ***

  Santana Nexus, December 17, 2598.

  Lester Dobbins slipped into a booth in an obscure corner of crowded bar on the Santana Nexus Orbital Station. Had the station still been under United Federation control he could not have come within ten light years of the establishment. As it was, however, with the rogue forces of the Sheik of Barsoom's Revolution in charge, Dobbins had remained unrecognized and had encountered no problems with security during the several weeks he had been hiding out on the station. He was dressed in nondescript clothing though anyone observing him closely would have immediately noticed that he was very nervous, constantly checking his surroundings as though looking for threats. Dobbins was also known by his Veritian Brotherhood name "Ezra Hellfire Brimstone," but upon going into hiding after an abortive attempt to kidnap the Meridian Ambassador just over two months earlier, he had been forced to cut off his distinctive Brotherhood Mohawk and had dyed what remained of his blond hair to a dark shade of brown. He was in the bar because he was running short on resources and his many creditors were breathing down his neck even harder than usual. Dobbins was badly in need of a large infusion of cash!

  Dobbins ordered a non-alcoholic drink and drank it slowly while he waited. He had been waiting for about twenty minutes when a strange man slid into the seat next to him. The man was wearing some kind of robe with the hood up and he too kept his head moving, as though he were nervous about something.

  "You are Dobbins?" the man asked, his voice a raspy whisper.

  "Who's asking?" replied Dobbins.

  "Serendipity," came the reply. It was the code word that had been agreed upon.

  "I never trust to luck," Dobbins returned the correct response.

  The stranger seemed to relax.

  "Come with me," said the stranger. "There is a place nearby where we can conduct this business."

  Dobbins looked around at the crowded bar and nodded his head. "Lead on," he said. He downed the last fourth of the drink he'd been nursing and got up to follow.

  The man led him out into the main corridor of the first level of the station's second ring and the two of them walked for perhaps five minutes before the stranger turned and led them down a short corridor. He stopped in front of a door with the words "Authorized Personnel Only" stenciled on the outside. The two of them were momentarily alone in the short corridor. The stranger produced a keycard, disarmed the lock and motioned Dobbins through before following him inside. They found themselves in a dimly lit maintenance room. A voice came out of the shadows in the most remote corner of the room.

  "Have a seat, Mr. Dobbins, or should I say 'Mr. Brimstone?'"

  Dobbins narrowed his eyes at the utterance of the name of one of the most wanted men in Federation space. But, of course, these people would know who he was. It was a risk he had been forced to take. Warily, he took the proffered seat at a small table. The unknown speaker remained in shadow while the side of the table where Dobbins now sat was lighted but only dimly.

  "I understand that you have certain...merchandise for sale? Is it not so?"

  "I might, for the right buyer at the right price."

  "What you have is a difficult thing to move, is it not?'

  "I haven't been trying to sell it for that long."

  "It will take a special kind of buyer."

  "Yes, it will. A very wealthy one."

  "Enough of this banter, I will offer you five million credits, cash."

  The man's offer was more than twice what Dobbins would have been happy with and he had a very difficult time disguising his shock. He thought briefly about trying to get even more but he was alone and the mysterious buyer was accompanied by several very large and, most likely, very well-armed companions. After a short pause he said, "It appears I have found that special kind of buyer! I accept!"

  After a few more minutes making arrangements for transfer of the merchandise and the money, the same hooded stranger accompanied Dobbins back to the bar. They did not go back inside. Using a nearby public computer terminal, Dobbins checked his secure bank account and, when the money had been transferred, handed the stranger a claim slip for the item in question.

  Just before they parted the man spoke.

  "You will not see me again. I do not know what you have sold to that man for so much money but I feel I must give you some advice."

  "And that is?"

  "The individual you have just done business with is a brilliant scientist who has made his fortune by making refinements to Whitney overdrive technology. This work has made him very, very wealthy."

  "That much is obvious."

  "You should also know that he is stark, raving mad!"

  Dobbins was speechless.

  "Farewell, Mr. Dobbins," said the stranger as he turned on his heel and strode swift
ly down the corridor.

  Dobbins watched the man until he turned a corner and disappeared. Now you've done it, Lester, he told himself. You've gone and sold a thermonuclear bomb to a lunatic!

  The End.

  Note from the author:

  Thank you for purchasing and reading Junkyard Dogs Two: The Veritian Derelict. Take a moment, if you would be so kind, to write a review for the book. Short or long, it doesn't matter. Tell me what you liked about The Veritian Derelict and what you didn't. Your time and effort will be greatly appreciated.

  Yes, I am working on the final installment of the trilogy, Junkyard Dogs Three: The Santana Nexus, as I compose this message. The new book will be available as soon it decides that it is ready.