Salvage

by Charles Brass

  “All clear. The patrol has passed.”

  It’s Leader. He speaks with quiet confidence.

  Though I’m sure it’s my imagination, the others seem to sag in relief. The heavy zero-g suits would mask any such motions, though.

  There’s a tap on my shoulder. I try to turn, but the input port-pack still holds me tight to the back of my chair. I press the release tab on my right armrest. There’s a chime, then a clunk reverberates through my suit’s backplate. The tiny lights around my faceplate flicker, and a notice appears I’m running off the suit’s powerpack. It’ll empty in forty-eight standard hours. A moment later the armrests and foot pedals fold back against the sled, and the brackets holding my thighs swing off.

  I turn, successfully this time. Geen is on the cargo bed, leaning close. He gestures at the control plate on his forearm, holds up three fingers, then taps the side of his helmet.

  I nod, raise my forearm, and activate the third comm channel.

  “–me? Can you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I say. And I’m glad to hear his voice. We’re an hour into the job now and for me, it’s been tense–and exhilarating–the entire time. The silence has been... loud. I suspect they’d been quiet to avoid distracting me. Even if I’d said they didn’t have to, that conversation might even help me focus better, I doubt any of them would’ve talked–well, maybe not to me, anyway. Our suits have over a dozen comm channels. I’m sure I’ve missed a lot of conversation.

  “Pilot, my jey-ke. That was a fantastic piloting job you pulled. You scared me incontinent a couple of times there in the debris field, but you got us all through without a scratch. My deepest thanks.”

  “Just earning my credits, my tiy-ke.”

  “Yes. Now, well, now the real work begins.” He hisses a chuckle. “Come. Help me remove the remainder of these pods. I believe most of this equipment is ours.”

  The others spread out among the stacks of cargo pods. The leader, his forearm raised, gestures and points. If I switch comms, I’m sure I’ll hear his instructions.

  “That’s a lot of equipment,” I say.

  Geen looks up, the ridges and hollows of his face brightened and shadowed by the lights around his faceplate. “There’s a lot to do. And we’ve only got three days.”

  This revelation surprises me. Geen has never hinted he knows what we’re after here. “You know why we’re here?”

  He faces me, eyeridges raised. “What? Oh, sure. I’ve worked with Je–uh, worked with the leader before.”

  I’m certain he stopped himself from saying the human’s name.

  “He told me a few of the details. How to prep the sled, among other tasks.”

  I wait. He unlatches more cargo pods. Finally, I touch his arm. “Well? Can you tell me? I have to fly us out of here. Be helpful if I knew what we’re here for.”

  He faces me again. Tiny faceplate lights reflect in his vibrant yellow eyes. “Salvage, my jey-ke. We’re here for valuable salvage.”

  * * *

  We remove four small cargo pods from the sled. The light gravity makes getting them down to the rubble-covered deck easy. He uses clamps on a harness to keep them together.

  “Don’t want them floating all over when we start moving,” he says. “Here. Carry these over there to that hatch.”

  I’m not completely inexperienced in a zero-g environment, but what experience I do have pales in comparison to his. I watch my steps, try not to stumble. It takes effort. And my entire body still aches from the previous day’s seizure.

  There’s an open hatch along the back wall, to the right of the sled. Blast marks crater the wall, exposing bent and blistered framework beneath. The hatch hangs off a mangled bottom hinge. Scrapes along the floor suggest it’s been shoved against the wall. The rubble nearby has been pushed back. I frown as I nudge the four cargo pods to the hatch, then turn back to Geen.

  He’s at a stack of cargo pods near the hangar bay’s left wall, looking at his forearm plate as he scans each pod. The red spotlights hanging from the sled provide the illumination to see what he’s doing.

  The others are also among the stacks of equipment. Their suit lamps cast red beams across the shadows. Leader indicates which men should take what equipment. Just as Geen selects his pods–the middle two in a stack of four–the eight men disappear through a hatch near the back left corner, each carrying a pod half as large as their suit. More pods remain behind.

  Now that I’m boots-down, my exhilaration has faded and I’m aware of my surroundings. The bay is unpleasantly dark. There’s a sense of dead over everything–easier to build a new facility than try to refurbish this one. For some reason, this reminds me of the hours after the chall attack. When all around lay dark and dead.

  Geen comes to my side, stepping lightly over and around the rubble. His pods are wider than his shoulders. They don’t seem to give him trouble.

  “Do you need help with those?” I ask anyway.

  “No,” he says. “My suit’s servos help me keep these under control. Yours are helping you, too. You probably just don’t feel it.”

  “What’s that curtain?”

  He turns. “A Faraday blanket. It prevents any stray energy from leaking out. Should keep the Fleet from knowing we’re here. Providing they don’t look too hard.”

  “That would be bad?”

  He chuckles. “Extremely.” He shifts past me and starts down the corridor. “Come.”

  I grab my four harnessed pods. “What are we doing?”

  He turns on the lamps at his shoulders, atop his helmet, and on his boots. They fill the cramped corridor with red light. “We’re going to assemble the pocket. Is that not at the top of your list?” He continues on without waiting for an answer.

  My list? I’ve not been given a list. My eyeridges bunch close. Should I have gotten a list? Sure sounds like it.

  A hollow opens in my guttards.

  Am I... discarded?

  No. Silly thought.

  They need me to pilot them back to the freighter. Stay calm. Breathe. Remember to breathe.

  Last thing I need is for my suit to give an alarm that I’ve passed out.

  Before I follow I search the plate on my forearms. Nope. No list anywhere. But I do find the buttons that activate my lamps. Red light floods the space around me. I hurry to catch up to Geen.

  The reach of the plasma clusters that ravaged the outpost extends deep down the corridor. It’s easy to tell what are shadows and what are scorch marks–the shadows retreat beneath our light. The corridor walls were once smooth and probably colored. Everything’s a burnt gray now in the cast of our lamps. Wiring and metal framework hang from busted lightpad alcoves above. We pass several small rooms, their hatches jammed open, and an interlock poking a quarter-way into the corridor before we reach a T-intersection. Geen heads to a large room a few steps to the right.

  Before I follow I notice light from my left. It’s two of the others, returning to the hangar bay. This corridor stretches between theirs and ours. Rubble and debris would make it a difficult traverse, though.

  Geen sets his cargo pods outside the open hatch. “Here. We’ll set up the pocket inside this room.”

  “How did you know this room was here?” I nudge my pods next to his. They bump, retreat slightly, then sink to the floor.

  “It’s on the map.” He shows me his forearm plate. On the screen is a partial overhead layout of the station showing our location.

  “You have a map?”

  “Yes. Leader plated it to me one during our flight. Along with my assignments. You?”

  I check my plate again. Other than information about the sled and data from within the hangar bay, I have nothing. The pit in my guttards deepens. Something about this is not right. Could it be a mere oversight? Given the level of preparation, I consider that highly unlikely. Seems I’m being excluded for some reason. Maybe it’s stuff I don’t really need to know. Leader did say I’d be working closely with Engineer–with Geen. Breat
he. “Did everyone get a map and instructions?”

  “Probably,” he says. “Whatever they need to know, anyway. Leader has been sending drones in for months now. He has the place mapped out. Oh, that reminds me. You might run into a drone or two. Don’t be alarmed. Eventually they’ll all gather in the hangar bay, then help move the reactor components to the sled.” He crouches, removes the harness holding his pods together, then carries the top one into the room. Again, his movements are smooth and fluid.

  “What do you need me to do?” I ask.

  “Stay in the corridor. Once everything’s inflated, we will go in and assemble the internal frame. It’ll just take a few ticks.” From his pod he removes a large, folded white fabric. He brings his empty pod back into the corridor, then takes his second inside. From that one, he joins a second large, folded white fabric to the first. He floats the empty pod to me, then walks backward from the room, playing out the fabric.

  “Remove the harness from your pods,” he says, “and hand me that big one in front. The one marked ‘Air-1.’”

  I follow his instructions.

  He attaches a sleeve of fabric to a fitting on Air-1's side. Then using his forearm plate he activates the pod. Small lights embedded in its metal blink to life. A moment later the sleeve fills with air. Then the folded white fabric inflates. He steps from the opening.

  Inside the room the first folds of fabric bloat into a growing white balloon.

  I recognize what we’re doing. Once the fabric is fully inflated, Geen and I will assemble an airlock with an outer and an inner hatch, both made of stiff gray fabric. We’ll join that to the front of the pocket, then go inside the pocket, where we’ll assemble the interior frame that’ll hold everything in place. It’ll probably take about an hour, but when we’re done we’ll have a small pressurized space where we can remove our helmets and gloves, eat, drink, and sleep if we wanted.

  “This looks like it’s inflating well,” Geen says. “Let’s fetch the pods with the gear for inside the pocket.”

  We return to the hangar bay, wrangle four large pods from the stacks, harness them together, then float them to the pocket. By then it’s fully inflated. The white fabric fills the hatch.

  Using an inventory list in his plate, Geen and I remove the necessary components for the airlock and assemble it. We use another of the smaller pods–Air-2–to fill it with air. The inner and outer hatches are hinged, the outer hatch opening into the airlock, the inner hatch into the pocket. The theory is that the interior pressures will hold the hatches shut. We have to cut the pocket at the designated spot once we’ve attached the airlock framework to the white fabric, but the tools provided make quick work of the process.

  It takes another forty-five ticks to assemble the framework within the pocket. Satisfied, Geen uses his plate to reduce the pocket’s air pressure. The fabric on the ceiling sags slightly but is still a good half a meter above our helmets. He stands hands on hips and looks around.

  “Pretty smooth,” he says. “Let’s get the rest of the equipment inside.”

  Working together we bring the cargo pods into the pocket in four trips. It takes a minute to cycle the air in the airlock.

  After everything’s inside, Geen removes his gloves, then his helmet. He inhales deeply, his pips spreading wide. His exhalations steam in the air.

  “It’s cold, but pretty sweet. Come, try it.”

  I hesitate, then twist off my gloves and helmet. The chill presses on my pebbled skin and squeezes my scales tighter together. I blink.

  He laughs. “Not used to this, are you, Pilot?”

  The chilly air brings back memories. “The nearest thing I’ve experienced is an evacuation drill, when we had to scramble into escape pods. That air had the same smell.”

  He laughs again, his hisses coming from deep within his lung. “Come. Let’s finish up. The first team is due on break soon enough.”

  One of the pods contains a small power core, which we attach to a plug set within the metal framework we just assembled. We string up lights and fans, and assemble recliners and benches large enough for our suits, a table, a pack recharge station, a fully stocked food cabinet, and a water dispenser. We plug the water tank into the core to begin the thawing process.

  Just as we finish, Geen’s forearm plate chimes. He looks up, eyeridges raised. “We have company.”

  The dark-gray inner hatch swings open. Two men step inside, then secure the hatch behind them. They remove their gloves and helmets. One of them is Leader.

  He looks around. “Well done, Engineer, Pilot. Right on schedule.”

  The second man approaches the water dispenser. “I could use a drink.”

  “There’s probably not enough thawed yet,” Geen says. “Give it another half hour.”

  “Hmph. Well, I’ll be in here for the next four hours. I guess I can wait.” He yawns, rubs his eyes.

  “Close your eyes, get some rest,” Leader says. “Our next scheduled break won’t be for another twenty hours.” He turns to us. “You two can set your own schedules. Just be sure your list of chores is done by the time-line I’ve provided.”

  I raise my arm. “I don’t have a list of chores, or a time-line. Or a map of the outpost, for that matter.” Part of me doesn’t want to say this, but... I have to know.

  His eyebrows raise and his mouth opens. Then he checks his forearm plate. “Oh, cruks. I forgot to transmit that data to you. I guess I didn’t want to distract you during the trip from the freighter.” He works his plate. A moment later, mine chimes.

  I look at what he’s transmitted. A short list of tasks, most of them focused on preparing the sled for departure. The list is very specific. Included are locations for the pods containing the equipment I’ll need to move debris from my departure path, and cut debris from the ceiling. It’s all equipment I’ve trained on the past six weeks, in addition to the simulations involving the sled.

  Relief floods through me. I am part of this operation.

  The top items, involving the pocket, are dimmer than the rest–tasks completed.

  Hopefully, my remaining tasks will keep me busy enough not to worry anymore.

  My suit’s leg servos hide the tremble in my knees. Breathe. All is well. Breathe.

  Standing next to me, Geen glances at my plate. “You should be able to handle all that without any problem.”

  “Yes, I think so. In fact, I think I’ll get started.”

  Geen reaches for his helmet. “I’ll join you.”

  Suits reassembled, we step into the airlock. White lights on the inner airlock hatch confirm it is sealed. Only then are we allowed to open the outer airlock hatch. We step into the corridor, and seal the hatch behind us.

  That it works as designed gives me pride.

  I can do this.

  “Should we bring these empty cargo pods back?” I ask.

  “Leave them. We’ll need them to carry all the equipment back to the hangar bay.”

  “We’re not leaving this behind?”

  “Everything returns with us. Not on the sled–Leader will have the drones sling them to passing freighters over the coming weeks. The only thing he wants to leave behind are our bootprints and the changes we make to the rubble. And holes where we took what we’re here for.”

  “Did he tell you all this?”

  He laughs. “Of course not. But that’s how I’d do it.”

  “Oh.”

  In the hangar bay, he helps me locate the equipment I’ll need to clear a path for the sled on our departure–my primary task, and probably the most difficult. My main piece of equipment will be a multi-legged device called a trencher. I’ll have to wrestle with it quite a bit to get it where I need, and anchor it down, but it should make short work of the rock and rubble along the floor. I’ll use a different device on the bent, twisted metal and tentacles of wire hanging from the ceiling. I’ll have to be careful with that though, as I don’t want to disturb the portion of the hangar bay door flattened against the ceilin
g. Or damage the Faraday curtain.

  Geen says, “I sense you have a lot of questions.”

  “I do. But I don’t know if it’s my place to ask. If the decision’s been made that the less I know, the better off I am, I don’t think I should push against that.”

  “Ask your questions. If I feel I can answer them, I will.”

  We talk as we work. I notice then that the stacks of cargo pods have been positioned between stacks of rubble. Probably to hide them. I wonder about the prying eyes that we’re hiding from. What would the Unity Fleet do if they caught us here? Nothing good, I’m certain.

  I say, “You know the leader.”

  “I worked with him before, about four decades ago. He was just starting his business back then.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Primarily small-to-medium ship repair, cargo pod maintenance, heavy work like that. I helped design a few of his systems. The cranes, the heavy lifting equipment in the garage bays, a lot of the zero-g operation platforms.” He checks his forearm plate, then moves two small pods from the top of the stack so he can pull out the third.

  I find the pod I’m looking for. It’s at the bottom of the stack. Moving slow and careful, I dig it out, mindful to return the pods I just moved back to their original location, to ensure others can find them.

  Geen says, “We’ve stayed in touch since I’ve left. I’ve done an odd job for him here and there, returning to Chalico Station a couple of times. The system’s grown since he first set up shop.”

  “Has the Unity Fleet always been his primary customer?”

  “No. The Unity Fleet’s arrival here is fairly recent. Within the past annum I’d say. The shipbuilders who set up shop here did so because of the resources.” He waves at the Faraday curtain. “A lot of metal-rich asteroids. A couple of rocky inner planets, one with an atmosphere full of volatiles begging for harvest. There’re also a pair of gas giants in deeper orbits. More resources there–methane, other gasses.”