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

by John Marshall Davis

  “Yes, or I will be. I’d love a shower and some coffee. And a toothbrush.” Calypso managed a smile of her own.

  “Me too,” Hatcher agreed. “Minus the toothbrush. I’m buying rounds for everybody.” A halfhearted cheer filled the room, more to mock than celebrate. The boys were carrying the object between them on a tarp they found in the sled’s storage compartment.

  Calypso removed the rest of her suit and made for the operations room. She had a call to make.

  ***

  “Yes, we have the object here,” Calypso said, speaking into a comm device that utilized a coded, untraceable link to her employer. “No, I don’t think she has told anyone yet. We’re still cleaning the suits and showering. I excused myself saying my blood sugar had tanked and I needed a quick snack.” That was true enough, but Calypso didn’t have time to eat. “I figured you wanted it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get the thing out of here.”

  Calypso listened carefully while her employer gave instructions, then it was her turn to speak. She felt her heart sinking, which proved she still had one, at least until today.

  “I can do it,” she said at last. So this is where her qualifications would come into play. “But not for what you’re paying me. Understand, I am not trying to change the terms of the agreement midstream, but I didn’t know it would be so many, or I’d have asked for more. Oh, and what about the kids? There are four young boys on our crew. I’m not sure of their ages, but none are older than twelve.” Calypso listened to the answer, but she didn’t like it. Part of her wanted to walk, taking her chances on the run. What was one more enemy that wanted her dead?

  A half minute of his careful explanation changed everything. The man claimed he had found her grandmother, whom she had thought dead after the Collision.

  “How can I believe you?” she stammered.

  Before she had gotten the words out, Calypso heard a new voice, old and scratched from too many cigarettes.

  “Cal? Are you there?” It was Mimi.

  “Yes. Yes! Mimi? Where are you?”

  “I’m in a hospital. Your friend is taking good care of me. When are you going to visit?” her grandmother asked.

  Friend indeed. “Uh, soon, I think.” Calypso was off balance, a feeling she hated. And then, afraid she would never get another chance, added, “I love you, Mimi.”

  “Oh, I love you too, honey. Hurry up and come see me.”

  “I will.” She heard a clicking sound, and then her employer’s voice returned. The man had leverage, and he had waited for a moment like this to reveal it. Calypso felt her ability to choose her own destiny slipping away with every word he spoke. That was it, then. Why did it bother her, really? She had spent her entire life being an object used by someone else.

  ***

  All of her targets were in the shower room at once. Instead of a blade or pistol, Calypso held a remote trigger. Everything she needed to make this work was in the mining demolition cabinet.

  She stood in the doorway, guarding the only exit. Most of her co-workers were out of view, but she could see Hatcher in one of the showers facing away from the door. Her naked body glistened with soap and water, free of any blemish. Stout muscles showed a life of hard labor, but they swam under gently freckled skin that Calypso always thought was so beautiful. The chief turned around.

  “Olivia? Why are you wearing your suit?” she asked.

  Calypso held her breath. An explosive charge placed nearby would depressurize the entire area within seconds. She raised the detonator. Hatcher looked confused. The chief left the shower, approaching.

  “I’m sorry, Noma. I really am.”

  Calypso pressed the switch. An explosion of sound and a rush of wind tugged at her. Her crewmates sank to their knees, trying to catch their breath, some blundering out of their stalls. Hatcher was strong, and rushed toward her traitorous subordinate.

  Drawing her knife, Calypso made the blade dance as only she could. Crimson lines appeared upon Hatcher’s bare chest and abdomen. Nothing short of a stab wound would stop the attack. Impending death had a tendency to motivate one’s aggression, the assassin knew.

  Aiming for the heart, she slipped the tip of her knife easily through dying skin. Hatcher grasped her killer’s arms, coating the mining suit in blood on her way down to the floor.

  There the woman lay, her mouth open, eyes wide from shock, with her limbs splayed outwards. The rest of the crew was already dead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Before the Collision, things were already tough. It was hard work salvaging whatever we could, wondering if we would ever make ends meet. When Earth shattered, our lives aboard ship changed little. It was not until we neared the two year anniversary of her demise that my life altered course.

  - Saul Iverson

  2318 AD, 23 months after Collision Event

  “It happened because you failed to do your job, Saul,” growled Captain Torus. Back-lit by emergency lights, he hung motionless in the zero gravity, casting a long shadow over his salvage technician. Saul avoided eye contact. He felt like he was getting smaller every moment he spent trapped in the captain’s gaze.

  The main grappling arm had malfunctioned, tearing into a storage container that was mounted to the hull. Fuses had blown throughout the ship. The crew was working frantically to replace them.

  There was no denying who was responsible. Torus must have checked the service logs before ordering his technician to the cockpit. The hydraulic hoses had not been touched since Saul joined the crew six years earlier. It seemed there was always something more pressing to work on.

  “You have to check the hoses for cracks,” Torus spat. Saul was going to mutter something in his defense, but Torus kept talking. “This is a very simple concept, Saul. Of all the crew on my ship, a licensed salvage man ought to know better.”

  Saul tried not to look up at Torus, who turned to hear an update from one of his pilots.

  “Did you happen to look at the manifest of Container 4?” he asked quietly.

  “Well, um...”

  “No, you didn’t,” Torus interrupted. “We lost most of our foodstuffs, some medical supplies, and two tons of spare parts.”

  “Oh,” remarked Saul.

  Torus grabbed the handset for the comm system. He addressed his crew with an icy voice that blared from every speaker. “Attention everyone, you can thank Mr. Iverson for the empty stomachs you are about to have. The busted container had our food in it. Saul is going to be a good boy and fetch us some more, unless he fucks that up too.”

  Replacing the handset, Torus seemed to relax a little. “Take the shuttle, and some cash that I’m going to give you. The nearest port is the Cage. I don’t think it’s fallen apart just yet,” he sneered. “I’ll include a list of vendors there for you to visit.” Voice lowered, he continued, “Stay away from Keith Rorvin. I paid off my debt to him, but he claims I owe a lot more. The bastard threatened to blow my ship apart on sight unless I pay up.”

  After a long pause, Saul assumed he was free to go. Before he reached the door, his captain added calmly, “I would issue you a gun, Saul, but their dockmaster won’t let you in if you’re armed.”

  On his way down to the shuttle, Saul was pushed around a few times by his fellow crewmates. He took a hard punch to the gut from someone but couldn’t tell who. He knew his stomach wouldn’t stop aching for hours. Hopefully, tempers would cool before he had to return.

  After entering his flight plan into the navigational program, Saul hit the activation key. The shuttle detached, and the maneuvering thrusters fired.

  Curling up into one of the zero-g sleeping bags, the salvage technician relaxed and let his mind slip away.

  ***

  Saul had seen plenty of space stations during his life, including the habitat where he was born. They were nothing next to the asteroid processing station sprawled out in front of him now. The Cage, officially named Myracle Station, was an enormous cylinder capped on one end, making the whole thing re
semble a giant screw. At a rough guess, Saul decided it was about a dozen kilometers long.

  Countless ships, large and small, hung in a swarm around the great structure. Rocks were fed into one end of the cylinder and mined, their contents distributed to the refineries dotting the interior surface. Allegedly, the Cage processed more material in a given span of time than all other mining facilities combined. There was certainly nothing else like it anywhere.

  Saul could not remember when the Cage was built, but it was at least a hundred years old. Since the destruction of Earth, it took on the added duty of housing more inhabitants than it was designed to hold.

  He took note of a massive warship floating in space nearby. It was the only EAG Fleet cruiser left, or that was what people said. Earth was gone, but her military was still active. After the Collision, the surviving forces rallied around the mammoth station like bees protecting a hive.

  ***

  From space, the Cage had been an impressive sight to behold. Saul was disappointed by the conditions inside. After docking, he spent almost two hours waiting to escape the narrow confines of his shuttle, only to be hit with a stale, damp smell that forced him to think of both an engine room and a gymnasium.

  “I see you turning your nose up,” joked the dockmaster’s assistant, who sat staring at a computer screen. The young man wore a tired smile, and his jumpsuit was wrinkled and damp, clinging to his body.

  “That is an interesting smell,” Saul admitted.

  “Half the air filtration systems are broken. We are used to it, but the smell takes visitors by surprise.”

  “I’m sure.” Saul could not think of anything more interesting to say.

  “Okay, I have some questions I have to ask you. What business do you have on the Cage?”

  “I need supplies,” Saul answered.

  The assistant checked his screen. “Have you ever been arrested for anything, on the station or anywhere else?”

  “No, my record is clean, as far as I know.”

  “Your thumbprint confirms that you are new here, which means we haven’t arrested you for anything. That’s good enough for me. Looks like you are in the salvage registry, though.” The assistant continued to type for a minute before he reached for a control panel in his booth. A large door slid open. “You are free to move about the station. Let me know if I can direct you to anyplace in particular.”

  “Is there a good bar nearby?” Saul asked without hesitation.

  ***

  Astarsia’s Tavern was legendary. Saul had heard stories about it from his shipmates. Despite being constructed inside a space station, the bar was full of wood paneling that lined the walls and ceiling. Most of the station’s drinking establishments sprang to life after the Collision. They were built from whatever was on hand at the time: cargo containers, abandoned storage rooms, and piles of scrap metal. The drinks were often cheaper, but you got what you paid for. At the Tavern, you could ask for a pint of local brew and not get a single shard of corroded metal floating in it, or so the stories went.

  “What are you drinking?” the bartender asked. Loose clothing hung on her body, suggesting a lush, full figure. She was middle-aged with strawberry blonde hair that fell in wavy strands around her face. She had a smile that was both strong and warm.

  “Two beers. And after that, two more, please ma’am,” Saul requested.

  “Ma’am? Makes me feel old. At least you’re polite. I’m Astarsia,” she said, watching him down his first beer. “You are thirsty.”

  “I’m Saul,” he said, sticking out his hand. She took it. “I’ve been stuck in a shuttle all day,” he explained. “My captain gave me a job fetching supplies.”

  “You mouthed off, didn’t you?” there was a hint of sweet admiration in her voice.

  “Not this time,” he answered, returning her smile. He pondered what it would take to win her heart, assuming she had one. Working in a place like this, she would have to hide it from nearly everyone. “I’m waiting on some stuff to be delivered to my shuttle. I’ve got a few hours if you don’t mind my company.”

  A loud crashing sound came from the kitchen, stealing Astarsia’s attention. “I’ll be right back, Saul. Don’t leave too soon.”

  He watched her go. There was something classy about the woman, in stark contrast to everything else he had seen on the Cage.

  Nearly ten minutes went by before Saul heard the telltale clatter of a double shot glass on hard wood. He turned around and noticed a bleary-eyed man with long, greasy hair sitting at a table by the back door. Scowling at his empty glass, the man demanded a refill from a broom that stood propped against the wall.

  Sneaking behind the bar, Saul had a look at the liquor selection. He figured Astarsia wouldn’t mind if he helped her customers while she was away. Settling on a bottle of cheap whiskey, he poured himself a fresh beer and carried everything over to the man’s table. Filling the customer’s shot glass, Saul asked to sit. The man raised his eyebrows, but he failed to object.

  “I’m Saul,” he offered, smiling.

  No response. The man had a week’s worth of stubble etching his face. He could have been 40, or younger maybe. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, and Saul could make out hundreds of small marks along the underside of one forearm.

  “I’ve got time to kill and you look like you’ve got some stories,” Saul said.

  The man stared at his glass, holding it level with his eyes. “Do I look like I want to tell stories?” the man finally said, his speech slurring.

  “Guess not,” Saul said quickly. “Mind if I have a go?”

  “Suit yourself. I’m too drunk to walk away.”

  “But not too drunk to punch me in the face,” Saul said, laughing. Just then, Astarsia came walking out from the kitchen to resume her place at the bar. Saul got her attention, pointed to the bottle, then to his new friend. Astarsia nodded.

  Minutes turned into hours as Saul rambled on about his life. He had grown up on one of the aging space habitats orbiting Earth before the Collision. Shaped like ancient wagon wheels complete with spokes, they had been constructed as novelties for the wealthy. With the passage of time and availability of better accommodations elsewhere, many of those stations were abandoned and left for the poor to inhabit. They were the lucky few who were given a chance to escape the overcrowding on Earth, only to find it again in space.

  Saul couldn’t tell whether his friend was enjoying the conversation, or if he was just too drunk to protest.

  “I learned a lot about fixing stuff when I was little. Everything was breaking down where I lived. So, when Captain Torus found me, I could repair almost anything on his ship. He can be harsh, but he has kept me fed and employed ever since,” Saul explained. “On his ship, I’ve gone just about everywhere in space anyone has been, even the Martian settlements.”

  The man said nothing, but he reached for the whiskey bottle. Saul scratched the back of his neck, trying to think of another topic.

  Gunshots rang out, followed by silence. Astarsia grabbed a shotgun from behind the bar and crept toward the front door. Saul wondered if it was loaded. Ammunition had grown scarce since the Collision.

  There were no more sounds. Saul found himself wishing something would happen.

  “Brake, I’m going out there,” Astarsia said over her shoulder to the cook. Brake seemed quite happy to let her go.

  The drunk stared at the front door. A clacking noise made Saul look down at the table. There was a small plastic box laying underneath the man’s right hand. His left hand was down by his side.

  “Give me a hand,” the bar lady ordered. Her cook reluctantly obeyed. A few moments later they dragged a small girl’s body inside the bar.

  The drunk’s hand tightened on the box.

  “What happened?” asked Saul.

  “She’s been shot, but she is still alive.”

  The drunk flipped open the box. Inside was an array of tiny syringes. The man withdrew one, popped off the cap, and slamme
d the needle into his neck. Clasping the table, he fought desperately to keep himself steady. A faint moan escaped his gritted teeth, which grew louder. The man began to shake. His eyes were shut tight. Saul knew the man was in agony.

  “Call Station Control,” Astarsia commanded.

  “They won’t come,” grumbled Brake.

  “We have to try,” she countered.

  Saul had his fingers on the nearest wall-mounted comm when he heard a new voice, crystal clear and commanding.

  “Get me a first aid kit, some rags, rubbing alcohol or your strongest liquor.”

  Saul turned around. Astarsia looked up. The man pushed the table out of his way and marched straight over to the girl lying on the floor.

  “My name is Dr. Stratos. I’m a surgeon,” he said. A minute ago the man was too drunk to stand. Now, he was taking over. “Place her on the bar.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  For over 24 hours we allowed them to pour inside. Everything was happening so fast, but we had to do something. The station was getting crowded, far beyond capacity. Ships continued to approach with their requests to dock and unload refugees. I remember the commodore staring at his screen for several minutes, saying nothing. Finally, he keyed the orders to seal all of our airlocks and prime the defensive cannons to shoot at anything that refused to keep a healthy distance.

  - LCDR Louisa Malik, EAG

  2318 AD, 23 months after Collision Event

  Blood from the girl’s wounds clung to her long, corn-silk hair, now sticky and matted. Dean wasn’t sure how cognizant she was. Between keeping pressure on the punctures and fumbling with the bar’s first aid kid, he was unable to check her pupils.