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- Drifters (Part One)

Drifters (Part One)
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Content
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 English

 Writer’s Note: Drifters: Part One was published originally in Jump Point 5.1.
Helluva time for the a/c to cut out, Reynolds thought as he stared through the scuffed cockpit glass and cued the comm.

“You need to take a second and think real hard about what you’re doing here.” His fingers tapped anxiously on the flight stick, and he could already feel the sweat forming under his suit.

About five minutes ago, an EMP tripped his Retaliator, the Echo Calling, out of quantum. Five ships — a Freelancer and a bunch of fighters that looked patched together with tape, glue and bad intentions — waited in an attack pattern. The ambush had surprised him. They’d scouted this route for weeks to try and avoid this possibility. What had surprised the ambushers was that the Echo still had guns and shields. Nickels had finally gotten around to installing that backup power plant, so although Echo’s engines were affected by the EMP, they were more than equipped to mix it up. That little fact gave their attackers pause.

“Cap! Two more contacts, aft side, drifting thirty degrees down,” Nickels yelled from his terminal.

“Power down your weapons, disengage your cargo, and drift,” said the attacker’s spokesman over the comms. From the appearance of the cockpit in the background, he looked to be flying the beat-up Freelancer. Probably their leader . . . or the one wearing the communal balls for the week. Reynolds didn’t recognize him, but whoever this was knew everything important about the Echo, in particular what they were transporting.

“Listen to me,” Reynolds leaned into his camera. “Say you take us in a rush, you know who you’re stealing from. That kinda trouble? That doesn’t just go away.”

Spokesman hesitated. It was just a flicker where the façade of toughness dropped. Just a flicker, but Reynolds survived noticing things like that.

“Detach your cargo and leave.” The façade was back in full effect.

“Not gonna happen.” Reynolds glanced at his screens. Maybe a minute ’til the engines were back online. He flipped to the Echo’s internal communication network. “How we looking, people?”

In the top turret, O’Neil stared in horror at the circling ships. It took him a second to realize that Reynolds’ question included him.

“Top turret up,” he managed to stammer out. Sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes. He instinctively tried to wipe it away, but his hand kept banging off the faceplate of his suit. He blinked hard as he listened to Reynolds argue with whoever was on the other side of the guns leveled at him.

“Don’t be stupid, man. You ain’t gotta die here today,” the Freelancer captain said.

“With what you’ve got?” Reynolds fired back.

“Fly away. Just fly away . . .” O’Neil mumbled to himself. His hands started to tremble.

“Bottom turret’s set, Cap, whenever you wanna light these bitches up,” Frears replied over the comm as he calmly cycled through the ships in his field of fire.

“What I’ve got is five on one. You do the math,” the Freelancer captain replied. This guy wasn’t giving up.

“What you’ve got is a glorified tug and a bunch of shit fighters.”

Frears chuckled. Whoever these morons were, they were used to pushovers who’d drop their cargo at the first sign of trouble. They picked the wrong crew this time.

That’s when he noticed a smudge on the back of his helmet, stowed down by his feet. He took his eyes off the idiots outside to have a closer look. A smudge of engine grease. Son of a bitch, he thought. Nickels must have tried it on. Ever since he’d shelled out the credits for the new CDS suit, the crew had been hovering like vultures.

Back in the cockpit of the Echo, Reynolds received reports from the rest of the stations. Engines were cycling and should be up in thirty. This Freelancer captain obviously didn’t want a fight or he would’ve opened fire by now. Reynolds just needed enough time to get mobile. Once they were moving, they could weather anything thrown against them long enough to get out of there.

“This is the last time I’m gonna ask. You know what we want.” The Freelancer captain managed to muster all the menace he could.

“You’re repeating yourself,” Reynolds responded. His eyes were locked on his readout, watching the engine’s power meter climb, waiting for just enough power to start moving.

“They’re heating up missiles!” Nickels shouted suddenly.

One of the old, beat-up 300s had drawn a lock. Reynolds muttered. They were out of time.

O’Neil’s turret was already swinging towards it.

“Wait—” the Freelancer captain tried.

That’s when it all popped off.

Space lit up with the exchange of lasers and bullets. The first exchange was devastating. The Echo was mangled from the storm of incoming fire, but its shields and thick armor managed to weather the mortal strikes of the initial assault. With the Retaliator’s return fire, the 300 was the first to go, immediately sliced apart from O’Neil’s turret fire.

The Freelancer launched a full spread of missiles. The Echo’s engines suddenly flared to life and the massive bomber dove and deployed countermeasures. The turrets focused fire on the Freelancer, chewing down the shields and punching a series of shots through the cockpit before it could react.

The Echo tumbled and twisted, swarmed by fighters undeterred by the loss of their fearless leader. Laser fire sprayed from its turrets, beautifully pirouetting through space until a rocket punched through weakened the shields and annihilated the Echo’s cockpit. The Retaliator’s beautiful evasion turned into a death spiral and the fighters pounced for the kill. The last remaining turret killed the final fighter moments before an explosion ripped the Echo in half.

Then, silence. The massive fragments of spaceship quietly drifted in place. Occasional secondary explosions from areas of the ships still pressurized went off, ejecting the final volumes of oxygen and flame into space.

And with that, space was still again.

A point of light, initially indistinguishable from a star, slowly grew, eventually drawing close enough to be recognizable as a ship. Critics had famously called the 2918 Constellation ‘the one misstep in RSI’s proud lineage’ and it was tough for many to argue. The hull plating on the nacelles was often sized incorrectly, creating odd gaps where the glow of the engine would seep out. This 2918 Connie was somehow still flying, although by the sight of it, it wasn’t for the universe’s lack of trying to kill it.

The ship slowly drifted towards the sprawling battlefield. Retro thrusters gently pulsed to bring it to a halt.

Magdalena “Mags” McCann moved from the nav station on the deck and stepped to the front of the observation window. Dressed in pajamas, a bathrobe and space boots (she hated cold feet), she swizzled her spoon around her bowl, hunting out some lingering RumblePops cereal hiding in the murky depths of sugary milk. Kennelworth’s “Where We Go” blasted over the bridge’s tinny speakers.

Mags looked over the vast destruction, crunched the last RumblePop in her mouth, and grinned.

“Sweet.”

Inside the Harlequin, Kennelworth’s singular brand of gutbucket rock wasn’t restricted to the bridge; it was being pumped throughout the ship for everyone’s benefit. While the outside of the battered Connie looked rough, the inside was even worse. Random frayed wires dangled from exposed paneling, bonded together with gum and tape. A particularly gaping hole in the wall had a circle drawn around it with “Don’t Touch” written helpfully nearby. Inside the hole, something sparked sporadically.

The music abruptly disappeared from the intercom. Mags cleared her throat.

“Hey, everybody. Sorry to bug you . . .”

Inside one of the sleeping berths, Honan Yao picked through a bag of discarded vials, looking for one that had a little bit of charge left. He plugged any potential candidates into his hypo to check the level, but nothing.

“I know things have been a little rough since I took over.” Mags’ voice echoed from the tiny wall speaker. Yao was too focused on his search to care. His mind started to drift to alternative injection methods in case this ended up being a bust. None of the solutions were ideal, but desperate times . . .

He finally tossed the bag aside. He contemplated going to engineering, but he’d have to get up. Then it hit him . . .

Yao went into another compartment and pulled out his old medical field kit.

Success. At least for one hit. His adrenaline started to surge as he quickly popped the small vial of ink-black liquid into the hypo.

“The past few weeks, we’ve —” Yao shut off the speaker and settled back. When the WiDoW hit his system, it was like falling down a chasm of warm pillows.

And he welcomed it because he could forget now.

Like the rest of the ship, the cargo hold had seen better days. The vast open space was just that, vast and open. Only one container actually had any salvage in it but, even for salvage, it was just junk.

Kel picked through it all the same. He methodically moved through each piece, studying every millimeter for structural integrity, potential for spare parts, and elemental composition. The Banu had been trained at one of the best Mining Soulis in the Protectorate. The Essosouli himself had even commented on Kel’s astute observational skills and claimed that Kel had the potential to ascend to Mastery level within the Guild.

When the Harlequin’s previous captain had purchased him from the souli, he was a little disappointed to interrupt his advanced studies, but he wasn’t about to miss out on traveling with actual Humans.

He extracted a busted lamp from the container and studied the frayed wires coming out of it.

“…anyway, I’ve got something that might make it all better. Come on up to the bridge.”

Kel’s eyes lit up. He gently laid the lamp down (would need to be completely rebuilt internally, but the structure was at least aesthetically appealing) and bounced up to the bridge.

A battery slapped into a small holdout pistol. The handgrip hummed momentarily as the heater cycled the power and the ammo counter rose. Trin “Dropshot” Liska tucked the pistol in her waistband and walked over to her locker. A small, dense woman in her early thirties, every moment of struggle in her life was etched into every scowl on her face and into every tattoo on her body. So even at a glance, it was obvious she’d been through some shit.

She pulled out the heavy ballistic cannon from the top shelf. The word ‘Diplomacy’ had been scratched into the barrel. She checked the breach then sifted through the magazines on the shelf until she found a fully loaded one, slammed it, and racked a round.

Her brother, Ozzy, watched from his perch on the railing in the engine room. His leg bounced rapidly, the only outward sign of any emotion. Equally vacantly angry, he shared the same litany of scars and tattoos as his sister. They both shared pack tats of the Souther Titans, a ragtag gang that supposedly started as an offshoot of the Tooth & Nails on Spider, but to many, it sounded like bull. Ozzy only had three bleeding scar tattoos (indicating three years of “robbin’ and ramblin’”), while Trin had eight.

He did, unfortunately for him, have QuarterDeck-made tattoos that his sister did not.

Mags’ voice barely overpowered the loud whine of the ship’s massive engine.

“Yeah, so exciting times. I’ll see you guys up here.”

Trin looked at her brother. He jumped off the rail as she tossed him another pistol and they made their way up.

Mags studied the readout on the terminal, carefully tagging and prioritizing the debris fragments. Kel stood up at the front window, excitedly calling out what he was seeing.

The door to the bridge hissed open. With a quick glance back, Mags saw Trin perch up on the wall.

“Hey Trin, is Doc on his way up?” she asked while punching some tags.

“There! There!” Kel exclaimed, pointing out some debris. “Energy cells. Very minimal wear. Fresh. Very fresh.”

Trin glanced at the front window. The wrecked 300 was currently front and center outside.

“What’s going on?” she finally asked.

“We got ourselves a payday.” Mags could barely contain her excitement as she tagged some more fragments on her terminal. Trin glared at the back of her head. Ozzy moved over to the other side of the bridge, his pistol held loose at his side.

“Yeah? Anything like the last one?” Trin replied.

“Look, I apologized for that, okay?”

“Apologies don’t pad my account.”

“My fence swore he could move . . .” Mags spun the captain’s chair to face her as she spoke. Her sentence drifted off when she saw both Trin and Ozzy perched up. She looked back and forth between the two. Ozzy kept the pistol out of sight, but hiding his hand was just as obvious.

“What’s going on, Trin?”

“What’s it look like?” Trin fired back.

“It looks like you’re in the same place you stood right before we tossed Malcolm out of the airlock.”

“Great memory,” Trin said, chuckling. She scratched an itch on her lip with the hand holding Diplomacy.

“Guys, seriously. I’ve only been in charge, for what, like two months?” Mags settled back in the chair and casually glanced at a screen. Internally, her mind scrambled for some kind of out. Last thing she wanted to do was escalate this situation unnecessarily; she’d seen Dropshot waste too many people. Kel, unfortunately, was too preoccupied gaping out the window to be much help. “You gotta give me a chance.”

“Before Malcolm touched void, you said things’d be different.” Trin stepped forward as she spoke. “That’s what you told us. Lower profile, bigger score.”

“Run silent and smart was what she said, sis.” Ozzy finally decided to chime in.

“Thanks, Oz. You know how my memory goes when I’m upset.” She turned back to Mags. “Point is, shit ain’t changed.” There was a nasty, tense silence . . . except for:

“XT-20 fuselage. No. Bad condition. Look at the scorch. Unusable.” Kel droned in the background before finally turning around. “I wouldn’t . . .”

That’s when he finally realized what was up. Ozzy moved the pistol into sight, so the Banu didn’t get any ideas. Trin cleared her throat.

“Anyway, here we are, still scraping away with nothing to show for it.”

“Doc can’t even keep an honest high anymore,” Ozzy muttered. Trin shook her head, severely disappointed.

“Okay. Fair enough.” Mags slowly rose, her hands up. “We can work out your issues and move forward.”

Trin smiled.

“Yeah . . .” She stepped forward, raising her gun.

“Wait!” Kel shouted as he lurched forward, keeping his hands out as well. Trin stopped. Mags slowly opened her eyes and looked around, pleasantly surprised that the pair had actually listened to the Banu. Kel waited a few moments and carefully considered his words before speaking. Finally:

“I know I only the ship slave —”

Mags slumped.

“You’re not our slave, Kel,” she said with a sigh.

“Yes, yes,” Kel waved her off and continued. “Captain Mag much better than Old Captain. She want money like us. Old Captain like money too and we like money.”

“Huh?” Ozzy mumbled as he glanced at Trin.

“But Captain Mag listen to us. Old Captain never talk to us. Just yell.” Kel moved forward as he spoke, almost pleading with Trin. “Captain Mag help Trin Liska. Old Captain not go to hell world to get Ozzy Liska. Captain Mag did.”

Mags gave a little nod in agreement. She almost missed all of Kel’s little speech, trying to figure out if she still had a pistol stashed on the bridge. (Back when Malcolm was running the show, she never felt safe being more than three steps away from a weapon.)

“We need to trust Captain,” Kel said finally. He walked over to Mags. “We trust in her and good things will come.”

Then he patted her on the forehead. Mags wriggled out of the way. Three weeks ago, while docked up on a transfer station, Kel had seen a father gently pat his daughter on the head before letting her run off to play and had been doing it ever since.

It was sweet . . . but kinda annoying.

The important thing was that it seemed to be working on Trin. She hadn’t shot Mags, so that was already a victory. Ozzy glanced at Trin, looking for the go-ahead to start shooting. Trin glanced out the front window at the fractured 300.

“So that’s the big news? A fighter?”

Mags made a big show of keeping her hands in view while she reached over to the flight stick. She gently angled the ship down, revealing the sea of wreckage: the Retaliator, the Freelancer, and the rest of the fighters.

That sight gave Trin and Ozzy pause as they gaped at the vast destruction. They stared silently for a few moments, but didn’t lower their guns.

“So . . .” Mags finally said. “Can we get to work?”

The Harlequin’s hold was bursting with activity. The floor screeched open to reveal the cockpit of the Merlin embedded underneath. Trin ran some final system checks on the snub and topped off the fuel. Ozzy entered pulling on the final pieces of his flight suit as he approached the open cockpit. He popped his helmet on and slipped into the cockpit.

“Let’s go, let’s go. We gotta start cutting before anyone else stumbles onto this,” Mags’ voice carried over the tinny intercom.

Ozzy banged the cockpit laminate twice to signal he was set. The floor panels shrieked closed until the Merlin was out of sight. Trin cued the comm.

“Bird’s flying.”

She made her way over to the storage locker with the other EVA suits. Kel was already suited up and carefully triple-checking his tools.

Trin pulled her suit out of the bin and slammed it onto the floor. She gave a quick once over for tears or punctures before she started pulling it on.

“How are you looking, Kel?”

“Fully prepared, Trin Liska.” Kel carefully and expertly replaced each tool in the field kit. “Tools are ready.”

Trin sealed her suit and slung a shotgun.

“Mine too.”

Back on the bridge, Mags was still in the captain’s chair. Ever since the interrupted mutiny, she’d kept herself busy positioning the Harlequin for easy deployment and reclamation of salvage. She watched Ozzy’s ship quietly fly to the edge of the wreckage field and begin a wide sweep.

Without warning, her stomach bottomed out. That moment of pause while looking at the distant Merlin was enough to let the gravity of the situation she’d narrowly avoided come crashing down.

She doubled over in the chair and tried to catch her breath. This was far from the first time she’d had a gun in her face, but there was something about this time . . . there was a finality, like her luck had finally run out, that chilled her.

Maybe she could run. Wait until Trin had stepped off, then just run. Ozzy was a great pilot, but he probably couldn’t take on the Harlequin and survive. Worst case, she could batter him enough to get away. That’d mean she’d probably have to leave Kel, which seemed unfair. Doc . . . she wasn’t sure how he’d react . . .

“Hey,” a sleepy voice said.

Mags pulled herself together and turned back to the panel as Yao shuffled onto the bridge and slumped into one of the seats.

“Doc . . .” she brought up another scan window on her terminal and tried to look busy. “You missed an interesting discussion.”

“When was that?” Yao asked with a yawn.

“A couple hours ago,” Mags glanced at him, unsure if he was messing with her. He looked genuinely ignorant. “I called you, called everybody.”

“Right . . .” he snapped his fingers and nodded. “That was today?”

“Yeah . . .”

“That’s cool,” Yao tapped his fingers on his terminal window, waking it from sleep. They danced across the screen, deftly selecting a series of folders and programs. An episode of Lost Squad started playing. “What’d you all talk about?”

“Shooting me or throwing me out of an airlock. Maybe both, I don’t know.”

“Oh yeah. Trin was pretty pissed.”

“You knew?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks for the heads up, Doc.”

“Come on, Mags. Trin’s not that good at hiding her emotions.” He settled back in his seat, perfectly content that the issue had been resolved.

“I also found us a job,” she finally offered up.

“Cool. Where?” He said lazily. He was too fixated on the spec show.

“Here . . .” she looked at Yao. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the show. “We’re doing it.”

Yao nodded and gave a thumbs up.

The comm from the airlock chirped.

“Exiting airlock now,” Trin said. Mags could hear Kel excitedly talking in the background.

“Copy that. We got you.”

Mags shut down the comm. Trin sounded back to normal, like the incident earlier had never happened. Mags knew that this job would have to pay out and she’d need to line up something quick right after. Otherwise, she’d be right back in the same situation. In the meantime, she guessed she should probably start stashing guns around the ship again.

Yao started gently snoring.

Trin and Kel stepped off into the void. Some people were weirded out by the moment when gravity disappeared. For them, gravity was security. A tether that kept you in place. The lack never bothered Trin. She was always amused hearing people yammer on about it. It was a conversation she’d end up having whenever she’d go planetside. It actually just occurred to her that she’d never had the conversation while on a station. Maybe once somebody got on solid ground, they started reflecting. She didn’t get it.

Trin didn’t have that kind of fear. It wasn’t out of some innate toughness, it was an awareness that space was constantly trying to kill you. That was just something you either accepted or not. Trin had spent too much of her life trying to figure out who else was trying to kill her. Even in the best of her days running with the Titans, she had to deal with bounty hunters, Advocacy, not to mention her own crew, to even start worrying about space. That, she could always depend on.

The massive hull of the Retaliator had worked itself into a pretty hefty spin. Boarding it, much less salvaging it, would be next to impossible unless they slowed it down.

Trin adjusted her pack and started matching the rotation speed of the wreck. She pulsed the EVA thrusters to push herself closer and closer until she was able to get a hand on it. Trin pulled herself onto the hull and activated her mag boots to lock on. She dug one of her custom portable remote thrusters out of her case and activated the magnetic seal to attach it to the blasted metal.

Kel was hard at work at the other end of the debris doing the same thing. When complete, he waved Trin down and gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“You can just use comms, Kel.”

“Apologize, Trin Liska.” He quickly replied and gave another enthusiastic thumbs up.

Trin brought up her mobi and connected to the interface that controlled the remote thrusters. She’d built these back in her breaching days and although they had a limited amount of fuel, they had some power to them. They did have a tendency to explode though.

She sustained the thrusters against the roll and eventually the Tali slowed down. When it finally stopped, Kel broke out his salvaging kit and cracked it open.

“You all good here, Kel?”

“Good, yes, okay.”

“I’ll check the hold,” she said as she unslung her shotgun.

“Good, okay.”

Trin pulled her shotgun, racked a charge, then disappeared through a gaping hole in the side.

Kel watched a piece of a turret slowly float past. A pair of hands still gripped the firing sticks. Kel stared curiously at them for a moment, then fired up the cutting torch and got to work.

The halls of the Retaliator were a shattered maze of twisted metal. Trin gently floated through the passageways, sweeping the shotgun back and forth. Based on the destruction, there was no way anything could’ve survived in here, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

She moved forward, meter by meter, checking corners and ready for anything. She drifted back to her days with the Titans. While they dabbled in all sorts of mischief, their prime focus was chopping ships. As the main breacher in the pack, it was her job to board disabled ships, kill any survivors, and then do enough repairs to get it flying.

This one definitely wasn’t flying anywhere ever again. She passed some crew lockers and opened each one. Nothing but spare jumpsuits.

“Of course . . .” she muttered to herself.

Up ahead, the hallway bent to the left. There should be a bulkhead and then a door to the cargo section. Trin was hoping that whatever kicked off this fight was worth it. As she neared the bend, her flashlight picked up a form in the next compartment of the ship.

She kept her weapon trained on it and set up a firing position behind the doorframe. Upon closer inspection, it was most likely Human. The EVA suit it had on was spotless, like one of those new CDS ones. She cued the comms on her suit.

“Gen comms. Any survivors in Retaliator? Identify yourself.”

The form just floated there. No movement.

Trin grabbed a floating scrap of metal and flung it at the body. It tapped off the leg.

Still nothing.

She put a round in its back. The blast spun the body around, revealing the pale, frozen face of one of the gunners. Seemed he wasn’t able to get his helmet on before the vacuum got him.

“Find somebody?” Mags chirped over the comms.

“Nope,” Trin replied as she pumped another round into her shotgun and pushed forward. She swept the corpse off to the side to reveal a small entry panel leading to the cargo hold. Interestingly, the panel was wired into some kind of backup power.

“Oh, hello.” Trin slung the shotgun and dug through a pouch for an interface cable. Once her mobiGlas and the door connected, she booted up the Knock² program to run a preset hacking protocol. After several seconds of digital negotiation, the panel turned green. The door expelled some trapped atmo as it started to slide open.

Trin had her shotgun up and braced before the door opened. She kicked off the floor and floated into the Tali’s cargo hold. One sweep of the flashlight was all she needed to discover a very unpleasant truth.

It was empty.

“Because of course it is . . .”

Trin safetied her shotgun and slung it before cueing her comm. “Tali’s clear.” Trin turned to exit when she caught a glimpse of something tumbling in the darkness. She pulled a flashlight to have a look. It was a lockbox, like one of those military footlockers she’d seen on those spec shows.

She snared it and checked its locks, but couldn’t open them. A small access panel revealed another digital interface with a keypad. Trin reattached her mobi and kicked off another hack. As she waited, she examined the lockbox a little closer. Thing looked solid, like it could take an explosive solid. All very good signs about what could be inside.

She glanced down at her mobiGlas. The hacking program was still trying to hack the password. Suddenly, her mobi went dead.

“Son of a bitch.”

Back aboard the Harlequin, everyone was gathered around the mysterious box. The hold was already full with choice parts of the various ships, expertly broken down and arranged by Kel. Trin was arranging her tools to do a thorough examination of the box while Mags paced in the background. From the look of determination on Trin’s face, clearly the box’s challenge had been accepted.

“Admit it. It has to be something valuable,” Mags said nervously as she walked. “I’m not crazy, right?”

“Very exciting, Captain Mags. Yes.” Kel said as he watched Trin attach a terminal to the lockbox’s control panel.

“To be clear though, you didn’t see any clues as to what’s inside?” Mags’ nerves started to get the better of her. “I mean, we don’t think it’s like, chemical weapons, right? Or like a virus?”

“Titanium weave case very good to protect, but not rated for biological containment. If a deadly virus, Humans would be dead by now,” Kel responded cheerfully.

“Could you two shut up?” Trin snapped as she sifted through unfiltered code on her screen.

“Sure, sorry,” Mags said and forced herself to sit down.

“Yes, apologize.” Kel approached Trin and patted her on the forehead. Trin didn’t bother to swat his hand away.

Twenty more minutes of waiting passed. Trin tried every trick in her vast and well-proven book. Each time, the lockbox didn’t budge.

“Screw it. Kel, grab your drills.”

The Banu raced off excitedly.

Hours later, the lockbox was sitting on the table of the common area. Various tools had been used and discarded around it. The surface of the box had been carved up like some kind of mechanical autopsy in an attempt to bypass the lock without damaging whatever was inside. Yao had migrated back to his berth, occasionally watching the show.

Mags entered from the hold wearing an EVA suit. Once inside, she pulled the helmet off and wiped the sweat off her face. Ozzy was still in the hold arranging the crates, also decked out in EVA gear.

“Got another batch of scrap inside,” she said in between guzzles of water. She glanced at Yao. “Anything?”

“Nope,” he murmured and sipped on his tea.

Mags headed to the hold and started peeling off the EVA suit.

“All right, Kel,” Trin mumbled as she sifted through the security panel’s programming. “Try reattaching that power cell.”

Kel pulled a hardwired battery with a pair of exposed leads and surgically placed them alongside the existing power system.

The lock clicked. Trin and Kel looked at each other. A grin spread across Trin’s face.

“Was that what I thought it was?” Mags yelled from the other room. Heavy bootsteps clomped closer before she suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Kel started cleaning his tools and returning them to their cases. Trin unlatched the case. She glanced at the faces around the room then flipped the lid open . . .

It was a rock. Roughly the size of a Human head. Some iridescent flecks of violet in there, but just a rock. Ozzy quietly drifted into the room to see what the commotion was about.

“What is that?” Yao murmured as he tried to peer from his bed.

“Looks like a rock to me,” Ozzy replied and walked to his berth.

“That’s what I thought.” Yao puffed his pillow and settled back.

Trin didn’t say anything, simply stood and walked out of the room.

“No, no, no!” Mags rushed forward and dropped down beside the case. “You don’t go through all that trouble for an ordinary rock.”

Mags carefully picked it up and peered at it closer. In the light, the violet flecks danced a bit brighter.

“Kel, you got your scanner?”

The Banu passed her a hand scanner from his kit. She flipped the terminal on and began scanning it. After a moment, she gasped.

Ozzy looked over.

“What . . .”

Mags bursts into a half smile, half laugh, like she couldn’t decide which to commit to, and turned the scanner to Kel. He immediately started clapping.

“Speak!” Ozzy yelled. “What the hell is it?”

Mags laid the rock back in the box and went to her mobiGlas. A Galactapedia entry appeared on everyone’s wrist.

“It’s called eriesium. In its refined state, they think it can act as a power source, but Humans haven’t really been able to study it.”

“What it worth?” Trin’s voice came from the doorway.

“Very rare,” Kel chimed in.

“Answer the question.” Trin didn’t break her gaze on Mags.

“Last I heard, it was about 80,000.” Mags could barely form the words.

“Not really impressed.”

“An ounce.” Mags ran her fingers over the contours of the stone. “Eighty grand an ounce.”

That got everyone’s attention. They looked at each other in silence until Trin finally blurted what was on everyone’s mind.

“We’re rich.”

Wardlow Reclamation was a dead-end junkyard in the ass end of nowhere. The ratty carpet in the waiting room had been eaten by whatever bugs had infested the place and there wasn’t a picture on the wall taken this century. Interestingly enough, it had won a customer service award in 2921 from some publication that was probably now long out of business. The award had been printed and displayed in a homemade frame near the front counter.

Mags had been staring at it for ten minutes when an idea occurred to her.

Trin sat across from her, equally bored.

They’d touched down the Harlequin a few hours ago to offload the scrap from the ships. The owner and his crew were slowly picking through everything and putting together an appraisal. The eriesium had been transferred to the standard-issue lockbox Trin was using for a footrest.

“Gotta admit, Mags,” Trin said with a stretch. “This is just the jolt we need to turn things around. Sell this off for some quick Creds and be on our way.”

The plan had been to save the eriesium until the appraisal was done, so it wouldn’t throw off the estimate. However, Mags was now considering another option.

“What if we didn’t?”

Trin shut her eyes and groaned.

“Now. I mean. We bide our time, find the right kind of buyer. Look where we are,” Mags pointed out the customer service award. “You think we’re gonna get a fraction of what it’s worth here? They can’t afford it and we’re cheating ourselves by off-loading it to the first shithole we come to.”

“Don’t . . . don’t do this.” Trin rubbed her temples to alleviate the sudden migraine that was forming. “For like a day, I had forgotten about throwing you out of an airlock.”

“Yeah, but imagine if you could throw me out of your own airlock,” Mags replied with a grin. “That’s the kind of money we’re talking about here.”

A door behind the counter opened and the squat, sweaty owner stomped inside. He smacked at a keatfly buzzing near his head as he turned on the terminal at the counter. The system began to sync with his mobi. The owner was sifting through the list when he was seized by a fit of wet coughs.

He fumbled an inhaler out of his pocket and took a hit. The coughing didn’t subside. He shook the inhaler and tried again. No luck. “Bevin,” he yelled out the open door in between coughs.

“Bevin! Send someone to Kel-To. I need more medicine.”

The fit finally ended. The owner spit something viscous onto the floor and looked at Mags and Trin.

“Yeah, okay. Assessed your scrap. You got anything else?”

Mags looked at Trin, who was glaring back. Trin finally relented and sank back in her seat. Mags jumped up and moved to the counter.

“Check the list, payout’s at the bottom,” The owner turned the terminal to face her. “Hit Accept to accept.”

“Yeah, sure. Looks good.”

The owner looked at her.

“Then hit Accept.”

“Right, sorry.” She hit the button. The scrapyard owner sniffled and printed a transfer receipt.

Trin grabbed the lockbox and started to head to the door. The owner noticed it for the first time.

“What’s in there?”

“Four broken teeth,” Trin replied without missing a beat.

Mags and Trin stepped outside into the baking sun. The smell of oil and scorched metal filled the air. The Harlequin was waiting on one of the nearby pads. All the crates of scrap had been offloaded and stacked neatly for processing. Seeing his crewmates emerge from the office, Kel waved goodbye to the landing pad crew, who look a little befuddled.

“I hate how happy you are about walking away from money,” Trin muttered.

“Wrong, Trin. I’m happy because we’re walking towards real money.”

“Do you even know how to sell this off?”

“I do not, but we’ll figure it out.” Mags took the lockbox from Trin to carry it the rest of the way to the ship. Just as they hit the ramp . . .

“Hey!”

Mags and Trin turned back to see the group that Kel had just left.

“What’s this shit about you owning a slave?”

Mags and Trin exchange a weary glance.

“He’s not a slave,” was all Mags could muster. The landing crew start to advance. “Dammit . . .”

Mags slapped the button for the ramp. The ramp didn’t move. The landing crew broke into a sprint when they realized what she was trying to do.

She hit it harder and the ramp suddenly began to rise into the ship. The first landing crewmen arrived a nanosecond too late. Muffled sounds of rocks being pelted at the hull emanated through the hold. Kel’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Sell good?”

The scrapyard owner finished balancing the figures for the day’s transactions. The sun was about to set. As dreadful as the day was for his sickness, the cold of the night was even worse. He felt the slight tickle at the back of his throat that would precipitate another coughing fit.

“Bevin! Did someone get my damn medicine?” he yelled into the intercom. There was no response.

The owner pushed himself out of his seat and shuffled outside. He shielded his eyes from the setting sun.

“Bevin, do you think it would actually be possible for somebody to do something when I tell you to?”

When the owner lowered his hand, he froze. His entire staff, fourteen people, were dead, executed with casual precision around the scrapyard. He saw Bevin among them.

The owner stumbled back, raced inside the office and slammed the door. He turned and leaned heavily against the door. His heart pounded and brought on another coughing fit.

He didn’t even notice the two people now in his waiting room. A man and a woman, wearing pristine, unmarked combat armor and holding silenced weapons.

“Hi.” The man spoke first. The owner nearly hit the ceiling. He feebly put his hands up and started blubbering.

“You recently acquired salvage of a Retaliator.”

The owner didn’t speak words, just noises. The man put a bullet through his thigh. He dropped to the ground.

“Yes! Yes!” The owner finally reclaimed the power of speech.

“Who sold it to you?” the man asked as he crossed the room and placed the still hot barrel of the pistol to the owner’s temple. “And be specific.”

“Came in earlier today. Some old beater of a ship. Two women. Human. Never seen ’em before.” The owner keyed something on his mobi. The woman studied the incoming data while the man kept his focus on the owner. “These two didn’t happen to have a lockbox with them, did they?”

“Yeah, I mean, yes. They did,” the owner said in between coughs. “Wouldn’t sell it.”

“These women give a name?”

“Just the reg on the ship.”

“Yeah, those are fake,” The woman said without looking up from her mobi. The man looked at the owner and sighed.

“Wait —”

Bang. The man stood and wiped blood spatter off the barrel.

“We have anything solid to go on?” he asked finally.

“Just this.” She held out her wrist.

There was a security cam still of Mags and Trin sitting in the waiting room. The man looked at them closely. He punched in on one of Trin’s Souther Titan tattoos.

“Let’s go.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

 Es ist höchste Zeit, die Klimaanlage auszuschalten, dachte Reynolds, als er durch das zerkratzte Cockpitglas starrte und den Funkverkehr einschaltete.

"Sie müssen sich eine Sekunde Zeit nehmen und gründlich darüber nachdenken, was Sie hier tun. Seine Finger klopften ängstlich auf den Flugstab, und er spürte bereits, wie sich der Schweiß unter seinem Anzug bildete.

Vor etwa fünf Minuten löste ein EMP seinen Vergelter, den Echo-Ruf, aus dem Quantum aus. Fünf Schiffe - ein Freelancer und ein Haufen Kämpfer, die wie mit Klebeband, Klebstoff und bösen Absichten zusammengeflickt aussahen - warteten in einem Angriffsmuster. Der Hinterhalt hatte ihn überrascht. Sie hatten diese Route wochenlang ausgekundschaftet, um zu versuchen, diese Möglichkeit zu vermeiden. Was die Hinterhältiger überrascht hatte, war, dass das Echo noch immer Waffen und Schilde hatte. Nickels hatte sich endlich dazu durchgerungen, dieses Ersatztriebwerk zu installieren, so dass die Triebwerke von Echo zwar vom EMP betroffen waren, aber mehr als ausgerüstet waren, um es zu verwechseln. Diese kleine Tatsache ließ ihre Angreifer innehalten.

"Mütze! Zwei weitere Kontakte auf der Rückseite, die um dreißig Grad nach unten driften", rief Nickels von seinem Terminal aus.

"Schalten Sie Ihre Waffen ab, lösen Sie Ihre Ladung und lassen Sie sich treiben", sagte der Sprecher des Angreifers über die Kommunikatoren. Vom Erscheinungsbild des Cockpits im Hintergrund aus sah es so aus, als würde er den verprügelten Freelancer fliegen. Wahrscheinlich ihr Anführer . . . . oder derjenige, der die Gemeinschaftsbälle für die Woche trägt. Reynolds erkannte ihn nicht, aber wer auch immer das war, wusste alles Wichtige über das Echo, insbesondere was sie transportierten.

"Hören Sie mir zu", lehnte sich Reynolds in die Kamera. "Sagen Sie, wenn Sie uns in Eile nehmen, wissen Sie, wen Sie bestehlen. Macht das irgendwie Ärger? Das verschwindet nicht einfach so."

Der Sprecher zögerte. Es war nur ein Aufflackern, wo die Fassade der Zähigkeit nachließ. Nur ein Flackern, aber Reynolds überlebte, als er solche Dinge bemerkte.

"Lösen Sie Ihre Ladung und gehen Sie." Die Fassade war wieder voll funktionsfähig.

"Wird nicht passieren". Reynolds blickte auf seine Bildschirme. Vielleicht eine Minute, bis die Motoren wieder online waren. Er schaltete auf das interne Kommunikationsnetzwerk von Echo um. "Wie sehen wir aus, Leute?"

Im obersten Geschützturm starrte O'Neil entsetzt auf die kreisenden Schiffe. Es dauerte eine Sekunde, bis ihm klar wurde, dass Reynolds' Frage ihn mit einschloss.

"Oberer Geschützturm nach oben", schaffte er es, hinauszustottern. Der Schweiß rollte über sein Gesicht und in seine Augen. Instinktiv versuchte er, ihn wegzuwischen, aber seine Hand schlug immer wieder von der Gesichtsplatte seines Anzugs ab. Er blinzelte heftig, als er hörte, wie Reynolds sich mit demjenigen stritt, der sich auf der anderen Seite der auf ihn gerichteten Geschütze befand.

"Seien Sie nicht dumm, Mann. Du musst hier heute nicht sterben", sagte der Freelancer-Captain.

"Mit dem, was Sie haben?" Reynolds schoss zurück.

"Fliegen Sie weg. Einfach wegfliegen . . . ." murmelte O'Neil vor sich hin. Seine Hände begannen zu zittern.

"Der untere Geschützturm ist eingestellt, Cap, wann immer Sie diese Schlampen anzünden wollen", antwortete Frears über das Funkgerät, während er ruhig durch die Schiffe in seinem Schussfeld fuhr.

"Was ich habe, ist fünf gegen eins. Rechnen Sie es sich aus", antwortete der Freelancer-Captain. Dieser Kerl gab nicht auf.

"Was Sie haben, ist ein verherrlichter Schlepper und ein Haufen beschissener Kämpfer".

Frears kicherte. Wer auch immer diese Schwachköpfe waren, sie waren an Schieber gewöhnt, die ihre Ladung beim ersten Anzeichen von Ärger fallen ließen. Diesmal haben sie sich die falsche Besatzung ausgesucht.

Da bemerkte er einen Fleck auf der Rückseite seines Helms, der an seinen Füßen verstaut war. Er nahm seine Augen von den Idioten draußen ab, um genauer hinzusehen. Ein Schmutzfleck von Motorfett. Hurensohn, dachte er. Nickels muss ihn anprobiert haben. Seit er die Credits für den neuen CDS-Anzug ausgeschüttet hatte, schwebte die Crew wie die Geier.

Zurück im Cockpit des Echo erhielt Reynolds Berichte von den übrigen Stationen. Die Motoren liefen auf Hochtouren und sollten in dreißig Minuten hochgefahren werden. Dieser Freelancer-Kapitän wollte offensichtlich keinen Kampf, sonst hätte er schon das Feuer eröffnet. Reynolds brauchte nur genug Zeit, um mobil zu werden. Sobald sie in Bewegung waren, konnten sie alles, was ihnen entgegengeworfen wurde, lange genug aushalten, um von dort wegzukommen.

"Das ist das letzte Mal, dass ich frage. Sie wissen, was wir wollen." Der Freelancer-Captain schaffte es, alle möglichen Bedrohungen aufzubringen.

"Sie wiederholen sich", antwortete Reynolds. Seine Augen waren auf seine Anzeige gerichtet, er beobachtete den Anstieg des Leistungsmessers der Maschine und wartete darauf, dass gerade genug Leistung vorhanden war, um sich in Bewegung zu setzen.

"Sie heizen die Raketen auf!" rief Nickels plötzlich.

Einer der alten, angeschlagenen 300er hatte ein Schloss gezogen. murmelte Reynolds. Sie hatten keine Zeit mehr.

O'Neils Geschützturm schwang bereits auf ihn zu.

"Warten-" der Freelancer-Kapitän versuchte es.

Dann kam der Durchbruch.

Der Raum erhellte sich durch den Austausch von Lasern und Kugeln. Der erste Austausch war verheerend. Das Echo wurde durch den Sturm des eintreffenden Feuers verstümmelt, aber seine Schilde und seine dicke Panzerung hielten den tödlichen Schlägen des ersten Angriffs stand. Mit dem Gegenfeuer des Vergelters ging die 300 als erste los, die sofort von O'Neils Turmfeuer zerstückelt wurde.

Der Freiberufler startete eine volle Streuung von Raketen. Die Triebwerke der Echo erwachten plötzlich zum Leben und der massive Bomber tauchte auf und setzte Gegenmaßnahmen ein. Die Geschütztürme richteten das Feuer auf den Freelancer, kauten die Schilde ab und feuerten eine Reihe von Schüssen durch das Cockpit, bevor es reagieren konnte.

Das Echo stürzte und verdrehte sich, umringt von Kämpfern, die sich durch den Verlust ihres furchtlosen Anführers nicht abschrecken ließen. Laserfeuer sprühte aus seinen Türmen, piroutierte wunderschön durch den Raum, bis eine durchschlagende Rakete die Schilde schwächte und das Cockpit des Echo vernichtete. Die schöne Flucht des Vergelters verwandelte sich in eine Todesspirale, und die Kämpfer stürzten sich auf den Tod. Der letzte verbliebene Geschützturm tötete den letzten Jäger kurz bevor eine Explosion das Echo in zwei Hälften riss.

Dann, Schweigen. Die massiven Fragmente des Raumschiffs drifteten leise an ihren Platz. Gelegentliche sekundäre Explosionen aus Bereichen der Schiffe, die noch unter Druck standen, explodierten und schleuderten die letzten Sauerstoff- und Flammenmengen in den Weltraum.

Und damit war wieder Platz.

Ein Lichtpunkt, der zunächst nicht von einem Stern zu unterscheiden war, wuchs langsam und näherte sich schließlich so weit, dass er als Schiff erkennbar war. Kritiker hatten die Constellation 2918 bekanntlich als "den einen Fehltritt in der stolzen Abstammungslinie von RSI" bezeichnet, und es war für viele schwer zu argumentieren. Die Rumpfbeschichtung der Gondeln war oft falsch dimensioniert, wodurch seltsame Lücken entstanden, durch die das Glühen des Motors durchsickerte. Irgendwie flog diese 2918 Connie immer noch, obwohl das Universum nicht versucht hat, sie zu töten, wenn man sie so sieht.

Das Schiff trieb langsam auf das weitläufige Schlachtfeld zu. Retro-Triebwerke pulsten sanft, um es zum Stillstand zu bringen.

Magdalena "Mags" McCann bewegte sich von der Navigationsstation auf dem Deck und trat an die Vorderseite des Beobachtungsfensters. Gekleidet in Pyjama, Bademantel und Raumschiffstiefel (sie hasste kalte Füße), schwenkte sie ihren Löffel um ihre Schüssel und jagte einige verbliebene RumblePops-Müsliriegel, die sich in den trüben Tiefen zuckerhaltiger Milch versteckten. Kennelworths "Where We Go" dröhnte über die blechernen Lautsprecher der Brücke.

Mags blickte auf die gewaltige Zerstörung, knirschte den letzten RumblePop in ihren Mund und grinste.

"Süß".

Im Inneren der Harlequin war Kennelworth's einzigartige Marke von Gutbucket Rock nicht auf die Brücke beschränkt; sie wurde zum Nutzen aller durch das ganze Schiff gepumpt. Während die Außenseite der verbeulten Connie rau aussah, war die Innenseite noch schlimmer. Zufällig ausgefranste Drähte baumelten an freiliegenden Verkleidungen, die mit Kaugummi und Klebeband zusammengeklebt waren. Um ein besonders klaffendes Loch in der Wand wurde ein Kreis gezeichnet, um den hilfreich "Don't Touch" geschrieben stand. Im Inneren des Lochs funkte sporadisch etwas.

Die Musik verschwand abrupt aus der Sprechanlage. Mags räusperte sich.

"Hallo, alle zusammen. Tut mir leid, Sie zu stören. . .”

In einer der Schlafkojen durchwühlte Honan Yao einen Beutel mit weggeworfenen Ampullen und suchte nach einer, die noch ein wenig Ladung hatte. Er schloss alle potenziellen Kandidaten an sein Hypo an, um den Füllstand zu überprüfen, aber nichts.

"Ich weiß, dass die Dinge seit meiner Übernahme etwas schwierig waren. Mags' Stimme hallte aus dem winzigen Wandlautsprecher wider. Yao war zu sehr auf seine Suche konzentriert, um sich darum kümmern zu können. Sein Verstand begann zu alternativen Injektionsmethoden abzudriften, für den Fall, dass dies am Ende ein Reinfall werden würde. Keine der Lösungen war ideal, aber verzweifelte Zeiten . . .

Schließlich warf er die Tasche zur Seite. Er überlegte, in die Technik zu gehen, aber er musste aufstehen. Dann traf es ihn . . .

Yao ging in ein anderes Abteil und holte seine alte medizinische Feldausrüstung heraus.

Erfolg. Zumindest für einen Treffer. Sein Adrenalinspiegel begann zu steigen, als er das kleine Fläschchen mit der tintenschwarzen Flüssigkeit schnell in das Hypo spritzte.

"In den letzten Wochen haben wir -" Yao schaltete den Lautsprecher aus und lehnte sich zurück. Als das WiDoW sein System traf, war es, als ob er in einen Abgrund aus warmen Kissen gefallen wäre.

Und er begrüßte es, weil er es jetzt vergessen konnte.

Wie der Rest des Schiffes hatte auch der Frachtraum schon bessere Tage gesehen. Die weite offene Fläche war genau das, weit und offen. Nur in einem Container befand sich tatsächlich Bergungsgut, aber selbst für die Bergung war er nur Schrott.

Kel hat es trotzdem durchgesehen. Er ging methodisch durch jedes Stück und untersuchte jeden Millimeter auf strukturelle Integrität, Potenzial für Ersatzteile und elementare Zusammensetzung. Die Banu waren an einer der besten Mining Soulis im Protektorat ausgebildet worden. Der Essosouli selbst hatte sich sogar über Kels scharfsinnige Beobachtungsgabe geäußert und behauptet, dass Kel das Potenzial habe, innerhalb der Gilde zur Meisterschaftsstufe aufzusteigen.

Als der frühere Kapitän des Harlequin ihn von der Souli gekauft hatte, war er ein wenig enttäuscht, seine fortgeschrittenen Studien zu unterbrechen, aber er wollte nicht darauf verzichten, mit echten Menschen zu reisen.

Er entnahm eine zerbrochene Lampe aus dem Behälter und untersuchte die ausgefransten Drähte, die aus dem Behälter austraten.

"... jedenfalls habe ich etwas, das alles besser machen könnte. Kommen Sie mit auf die Brücke."

Kels Augen leuchteten auf. Er legte die Lampe sanft hin (müsste innen komplett neu aufgebaut werden, aber die Struktur war zumindest ästhetisch ansprechend) und hüpfte zur Brücke hinauf.

Eine Batterie schlug in eine kleine Auslegepistole. Der Handgriff brummte kurz, als die Heizung den Strom einschaltete und der Munitionszähler anstieg. Trin "Dropshot" Liska steckte die Pistole in ihren Hosenbund und ging hinüber zu ihrem Spind. Als kleine, dichte Frau Anfang dreißig, war jeder Augenblick des Kampfes in ihrem Leben in jeden finsteren Gesichtsausdruck und in jede Tätowierung auf ihrem Körper eingebrannt. Selbst auf den ersten Blick war es also offensichtlich, dass sie viel Scheiße durchgemacht hatte.

Sie zog die schwere ballistische Kanone aus dem oberen Regal heraus. Das Wort "Diplomatie" war in den Lauf geritzt worden. Sie überprüfte den Bruch und sichtete dann die Magazine auf dem Regal, bis sie ein voll geladenes fand, schlug es zu und zerschießte eine Patrone.

Ihr Bruder Ozzy beobachtete von seinem Sitzplatz auf dem Geländer im Maschinenraum. Sein Bein hüpfte schnell, das einzige äußerliche Zeichen einer Emotion. Ebenso leer und wütend teilte er die gleiche Litanei von Narben und Tätowierungen wie seine Schwester. Beide teilten sich Rudel-Tattoos der Souther Titans, einer zerlumpten Bande, die angeblich als ein Ableger der Tooth & Nails on Spider begann, aber für viele klang das wie ein Stier. Ozzy hatte nur drei blutende Narbentattoos (was auf drei Jahre "Rauben und Herumlungern" hinweist), während Trin acht hatte.

Zu seinem Unglück ließ er sich von QuarterDeck Tätowierungen machen, die seine Schwester nicht hatte.

Mags Stimme überwältigte kaum das laute Wimmern des massiven Motors des Schiffes.

"Ja, so aufregende Zeiten. Ich sehe euch dann hier oben."

Trin schaute ihren Bruder an. Er sprang von der Reling, als sie ihm eine weitere Pistole zuwarf, und sie machten sich auf den Weg nach oben.

Mags untersuchte die Anzeige auf dem Terminal und markierte die Trümmerfragmente sorgfältig und ordnete sie nach Priorität. Kel stand am vorderen Fenster auf und rief aufgeregt, was er sah.

Die Tür zur Brücke zischte auf. Mit einem kurzen Blick zurück sah Mags Trin auf der Mauer sitzen.

"Hey Trin, ist Doc auf dem Weg nach oben", fragte sie, während sie einige Schilder durchstanzte.

"Da! Dort!" rief Kel aus und wies auf einige Trümmer hin. "Energiezellen. Sehr minimaler Verschleiß. Frisch. Sehr frisch".

Trin warf einen Blick auf das vordere Fenster. Die verunglückte 300 befand sich derzeit vorne und in der Mitte außen.

"Schließlich fragte sie: "Was ist hier los?

"Wir haben uns einen Zahltag verschafft. Die Mags konnten ihre Aufregung kaum in Grenzen halten, als sie einige weitere Fragmente auf ihrem Terminal markierte. Trin starrte auf ihren Hinterkopf. Ozzy ging auf die andere Seite der Brücke, die Pistole locker an seiner Seite gehalten.

"Ja? Irgendwas wie die letzte?" antwortete Trin.

"Hören Sie, ich habe mich dafür entschuldigt, okay?"

"Entschuldigungen füllen mein Konto nicht auf".

"Mein Zaun schwor, er könne sich bewegen . . ." Mags drehte den Stuhl des Kapitäns, so dass er ihr gegenüberstand, während sie sprach. Ihre Strafe verging, als sie sowohl Trin als auch Ozzy auf dem Stuhl sitzen sah. Sie schaute zwischen den beiden hin und her. Ozzy hielt die Pistole außer Sichtweite, aber das Verstecken seiner Hand war ebenso offensichtlich.

"Was geht hier vor, Trin?

"Wie sieht es aus? Trin schoss zurück.

"Es sieht so aus, als wären Sie am selben Ort, an dem Sie standen, kurz bevor wir Malcolm aus der Luftschleuse geworfen haben".

"Tolles Gedächtnis", sagte Trin kichernd. Sie kratzte sich mit der Hand, die Diplomatie hielt, ein Jucken an der Lippe.

"Jungs, im Ernst. Ich bin erst seit etwa zwei Monaten verantwortlich. Mags setzte sich wieder in den Stuhl und blickte beiläufig auf einen Bildschirm. Innerlich kämpfte ihr Verstand nach einer Art Ausweg. Das Letzte, was sie tun wollte, war, die Situation unnötig eskalieren zu lassen; sie hatte gesehen, wie Dropshot zu viele Menschen verschwendet. Leider war Kel zu sehr damit beschäftigt, aus dem Fenster zu schauen, als dass sie viel helfen könnte. "Sie müssen mir eine Chance geben".

"Bevor Malcolm die Leere berührte, sagten Sie, dass die Dinge anders sein würden. Trin trat vor, während sie sprach. "Das haben Sie uns gesagt. Geringeres Profil, größere Punktzahl".

"Leise und schlau war, was sie sagte, Schwesterchen". Ozzy beschloss schließlich, sich einzumischen.

"Danke, Oz. Sie wissen, wie mein Gedächtnis funktioniert, wenn ich verärgert bin. Sie wandte sich wieder Mags zu. "Der Punkt ist, die Scheiße hat sich nicht geändert." Es herrschte eine hässliche, angespannte Stille . . . außer:

"XT-20-Rumpf". Nein. Schlechter Zustand. Sehen Sie sich die Versengungen an. Unbrauchbar". Kel dröhnte im Hintergrund, bevor er sich schließlich umdrehte. "Ich würde nicht . . ."

Da wurde ihm endlich klar, was los war. Ozzy brachte die Pistole in Sichtweite, so dass die Banu nicht auf Ideen kamen. Trin räusperte sich.

"Wie auch immer, hier sind wir nun und kratzen immer noch ab, ohne etwas vorzuweisen".

"Doc kann nicht einmal mehr ein ehrliches Hoch halten", murmelte Ozzy. Trin schüttelte den Kopf, schwer enttäuscht.

"Okay. In Ordnung." Mags erhob sich langsam mit erhobenen Händen. "Wir können Ihre Probleme lösen und vorankommen.

Trin lächelte.

"Ja . . ." Sie trat vor und hob ihre Waffe.

"Warten Sie!" rief Kel, als er vorwärts taumelte, wobei er auch die Hände ausstreckte. Trin blieb stehen. Mags öffnete langsam die Augen und sah sich um, angenehm überrascht, dass das Paar tatsächlich auf den Banu gehört hatte. Kel wartete einige Augenblicke und überlegte seine Worte sorgfältig, bevor er sprach. Schließlich:

"Ich weiß, ich bin nur der Schiffssklave -"

Die Mags sind eingebrochen.

"Du bist nicht unser Sklave, Kel", sagte sie mit einem Seufzer.

"Ja, ja", winkte Kel ihr zu und fuhr fort. "Captain Mag viel besser als der alte Captain. Sie will Geld wie wir. Der alte Captain mag auch Geld, und wir mögen Geld."

"Hm? murmelte Ozzy, als er Trin ansah.

"Aber Captain Mag hört auf uns. Der alte Captain spricht nie mit uns. Schreien Sie einfach." Kel ging vorwärts, während er sprach, und flehte Trin fast an. "Kapitän Mag hilft Trin Liska. Der alte Kapitän geht nicht in die Höllenwelt, um Ozzy Liska zu holen. Captain Mag tat es."

Mags nickte ein wenig zustimmend. Sie hätte beinahe Kels kleine Rede verpasst, als sie versuchte, herauszufinden, ob sie immer noch eine Pistole auf der Brücke versteckt hatte. (Damals, als Malcolm die Show leitete, fühlte sie sich nie sicher, wenn sie mehr als drei Schritte von einer Waffe entfernt war).

"Wir müssen dem Captain vertrauen", sagte Kel schließlich. Er ging rüber zu Mags. "Wir vertrauen ihr, und gute Dinge werden kommen."

Dann klopfte er ihr auf die Stirn. Mappen zappelten aus dem Weg. Vor drei Wochen hatte Kel, als er an einer Umsteigestation angedockt war, gesehen, wie ein Vater seiner Tochter sanft auf den Kopf klopfte, bevor er sie zum Spielen wegrennen ließ, und seitdem tut er es immer wieder.

Es war süß ... aber irgendwie ärgerlich.

Das Wichtigste war, dass es bei Trin zu funktionieren schien. Sie hatte Mags nicht erschossen, also war das bereits ein Sieg. Ozzy warf einen Blick auf Trin und suchte nach dem Startschuss für das Schießen. Trin warf einen Blick aus dem vorderen Fenster auf die zerbrochene 300.

"Das ist also die große Neuigkeit? Ein Kämpfer?"

Mags machte eine große Show, indem sie ihre Hände im Blick behielt, während sie zum Flugstab griff. Sie winkelte das Schiff sanft nach unten und enthüllte das Wrackmeer: die Rächerin, die Freiberuflerin und den Rest der Kämpfer.

Dieser Anblick ließ Trin und Ozzy innehalten, als sie die gewaltige Zerstörung bestaunten. Sie starrten einige Augenblicke lang schweigend, senkten aber ihre Waffen nicht.

"So . . ." sagte Mags schließlich. "Können wir an die Arbeit gehen?"

Der Einfluss des Harlequin war voller Aktivität. Der Boden quietschte auf und gab den Blick auf das darunter liegende Cockpit des Merlin frei. Trin führte einige abschließende Systemprüfungen an der Stoßstange durch und füllte den Treibstoff nach. Ozzy begann, an den letzten Stücken seines Fluganzugs zu ziehen, als er sich dem offenen Cockpit näherte. Er setzte seinen Helm auf und schlüpfte ins Cockpit.

"Auf geht's, auf geht's. Wir müssen anfangen zu schneiden, bevor noch jemand darüber stolpert", übertrug Mags' Stimme über die blecherne Gegensprechanlage.

Ozzy schlug zweimal auf das Laminat des Cockpits, um zu signalisieren, dass er gesetzt war. Die Bodenpaneele schlossen sich schreiend, bis der Merlin außer Sichtweite war. Trin leitete die Kommunikation ein.

"Vogel fliegt".

Sie machte sich mit den anderen EVA-Anzügen auf den Weg zum Lagerschrank. Kel war bereits angezogen und überprüfte seine Werkzeuge sorgfältig dreifach.

Trin zog ihren Anzug aus der Tonne und knallte ihn auf den Boden. Bei Tränen oder Einstichen gab sie noch einmal kurz nach, bevor sie anfing, ihn anzuziehen.

"Wie siehst du aus, Kel?

"Vollständig vorbereitet, Trin Liska". Kel hat jedes Werkzeug im Feldkit sorgfältig und fachmännisch ersetzt. "Die Werkzeuge sind fertig".

Trin versiegelte ihren Anzug und warf eine Schrotflinte.

"Meiner auch."

Zurück auf der Brücke saß Mags immer noch auf dem Stuhl des Kapitäns. Seit der unterbrochenen Meuterei war sie damit beschäftigt, den Harlequin so zu positionieren, dass er leicht eingesetzt und geborgen werden konnte. Sie sah zu, wie Ozzy's Schiff leise an den Rand des Wrackfeldes flog und eine weite Suche begann.

Ohne Vorwarnung flaute ihr Magen ab. Dieser Moment des Innehaltens beim Blick auf den fernen Merlin reichte aus, um die Schwere der Situation, der sie knapp entgangen war, zusammenbrechen zu lassen.

Sie kippte auf dem Stuhl um und versuchte zu verschnaufen. Dies war bei weitem nicht das erste Mal, dass sie eine Pistole im Gesicht hatte, aber irgendetwas an dieser Zeit ... es gab eine Endgültigkeit, als wäre ihr das Glück endlich ausgegangen, die sie abkühlte.

Vielleicht könnte sie laufen. Warten Sie, bis Trin weggetreten ist, dann rennen Sie einfach. Ozzy war ein großartiger Pilot, aber er konnte es wahrscheinlich nicht mit dem Harlequin aufnehmen und überleben. Im schlimmsten Fall könnte sie ihn so weit schlagen, dass sie ihm entkommen könnte. Das würde bedeuten, dass sie Kel wahrscheinlich verlassen müsste, was unfair erschien. Doc . . . sie war sich nicht sicher, wie er reagieren würde . . .

"Hey", sagte eine verschlafene Stimme.

Mags riss sich zusammen und drehte sich zum Podium zurück, als Yao auf die Brücke schlurfte und in einen der Sitze plumpste.

"Doc . . . ." zeigte sie ein weiteres Scan-Fenster auf ihrem Terminal an und versuchte, beschäftigt auszusehen. "Sie haben eine interessante Diskussion verpasst".

"Wann war das?" fragte Yao mit einem Gähnen.

"Vor ein paar Stunden", blickte Mags ihn an, unsicher, ob er sich mit ihr angelegt hatte. Er sah wirklich ignorant aus. "Ich rief Sie an, rief alle an."

"Richtig . . ." schnippte er mit den Fingern und nickte. "Das war heute?"

"Ja . . ."

"Das ist cool", tippte Yao mit den Fingern auf sein Terminalfenster und weckte es aus dem Schlaf. Sie tanzten über den Bildschirm und wählten geschickt eine Reihe von Ordnern und Programmen aus. Eine Episode von Lost Squad wurde abgespielt. "Worüber haben Sie alle gesprochen?"

"Mich zu erschießen oder aus einer Luftschleuse zu werfen. Vielleicht beides, ich weiß es nicht".

"Oh ja. Trin war ziemlich sauer."

"Sie wussten es?"

"Sicher".

"Danke für die Vorwarnung, Doc.

"Komm schon, Mags. Trin ist nicht so gut darin, ihre Emotionen zu verbergen". Er setzte sich wieder auf seinen Platz und war vollkommen zufrieden, dass das Problem gelöst war.

"Ich habe auch einen Job für uns gefunden", bot sie schließlich an.

"Cool. Wo?" sagte er faul. Er war zu sehr auf die Spekulationsschau fixiert.

"Hier . ." schaute sie Yao an. Er hatte seine Augen nicht von der Show gelassen. "Wir machen es."

Yao nickte und drückte den Daumen nach oben.

Der Funkspruch aus der Luftschleuse zirpte.

"Wir verlassen jetzt die Luftschleuse", sagte Trin. Mags konnten Kel im Hintergrund aufgeregt reden hören.

"Kopieren Sie das. Wir haben Sie."

Mags haben die Verbindung unterbrochen. Trin klang wieder normal, als wäre der Vorfall zuvor nie passiert. Mags wusste, dass sich dieser Job auszahlen würde und dass sie gleich danach schnell etwas organisieren musste. Andernfalls würde sie sich wieder in der gleichen Situation befinden. In der Zwischenzeit vermutete sie, dass sie wahrscheinlich wieder anfangen sollte, Waffen auf dem Schiff zu verstecken.

Yao begann sanft zu schnarchen.

Trin und Kel traten in die Leere. Einige Leute waren verwirrt von dem Moment, als die Schwerkraft verschwand. Für sie war die Schwerkraft Sicherheit. Eine Fessel, die sie an Ort und Stelle hielt. Der Mangel hat Trin nie gestört. Sie war immer amüsiert, wenn sie hörte, wie die Leute darüber jammerten. Es war ein Gespräch, das sie immer dann führte, wenn sie auf dem Planeten war. Eigentlich fiel ihr nur ein, dass sie dieses Gespräch noch nie auf einer Station geführt hatte. Vielleicht begann jemand, sobald er festen Boden unter den Füßen hatte, darüber nachzudenken. Sie hat es nicht verstanden.

Trin hatte nicht diese Art von Angst. Es war nicht aus einer angeborenen Härte heraus, sondern aus dem Bewusstsein heraus, dass der Weltraum ständig versuchte, Sie zu töten. Das war einfach etwas, das man entweder akzeptierte oder nicht. Trin hatte zu viel Zeit ihres Lebens damit verbracht, herauszufinden, wer sonst noch versuchte, sie zu töten. Selbst in ihrer besten Zeit bei den Titanen musste sie sich mit Kopfgeldjägern, der Advocacy, ganz zu schweigen von ihrer eigenen Crew, auseinandersetzen, um sich überhaupt über den Weltraum Gedanken machen zu können. Darauf konnte sie sich immer verlassen.

Der massive Rumpf des Vergelters hatte sich selbst in eine ziemlich heftige Drehung versetzt. An Bord zu gehen, geschweige denn ihn zu bergen, wäre so gut wie unmöglich, es sei denn, man würde ihn verlangsamen.

Trin passte ihren Rucksack an und begann, sich der Drehgeschwindigkeit des Wracks anzupassen. Sie pulsierte die EVA-Triebwerke, um sich selbst immer näher und näher zu schieben, bis sie in der Lage war, die Maschine in die Hand zu nehmen. Trin zog sich auf den Rumpf und aktivierte ihre Magnetstiefel zum Einrasten. Sie grub eine ihrer maßgefertigten tragbaren Ferndüsen aus ihrem Koffer und aktivierte die magnetische Dichtung, um sie an dem verdammten Metall zu befestigen.

Kel arbeitete hart am anderen Ende der Trümmer und tat das Gleiche. Als er fertig war, winkte er Trin nach unten und drückte enthusiastisch den Daumen nach oben.

"Sie können einfach Komms verwenden, Kel."

"Entschuldige dich, Trin Liska". Er antwortete schnell und drückte noch einmal enthusiastisch den Daumen nach oben.

Trin brachte ihr mobi hoch und schloss sich an die Schnittstelle an, die die Fernsteuerdüsen steuerte. Sie hatte diese in den Tagen, in denen sie in die Bresche sprang, gebaut, und obwohl sie nur eine begrenzte Menge an Treibstoff hatten, hatten sie eine gewisse Leistung. Sie neigten jedoch dazu, zu explodieren.

Sie hielt die Triebwerke gegen die Rolle und schließlich verlangsamte sich die Tali. Als sie schließlich stoppte, holte Kel sein Bergungsgerät heraus und brach es auf.

"Alles in Ordnung bei dir, Kel?"

"Gut, ja, okay."

"Ich überprüfe den Laderaum", sagte sie, als sie ihre Schrotflinte entfaltete.

"Gut, okay."

Trin zog ihre Schrotflinte, zielte auf eine Ladung und verschwand dann durch ein klaffendes Loch in der Seite.

Kel beobachtete, wie ein Stück eines Geschützturms langsam vorbeischwebte. Ein Paar Hände griff noch immer nach den Schießstäben. Kel starrte sie einen Moment lang neugierig an, zündete dann den Schneidbrenner an und machte sich an die Arbeit.

Die Hallen des Vergelters waren ein zertrümmertes Labyrinth aus verdrehtem Metall. Trin schwebte sanft durch die Gänge und fegte die Schrotflinte hin und her. Aufgrund der Zerstörung war es unmöglich, dass hier drinnen etwas hätte überleben können, aber sie ging kein Risiko ein.

Sie bewegte sich vorwärts, Meter für Meter, kontrollierte die Ecken und war zu allem bereit. Sie driftete zurück in ihre Tage bei den Titanen. Während sie allen möglichen Unfug trieben, war ihr Hauptaugenmerk auf das Zerhacken von Schiffen gerichtet. Als Hauptverletzerin im Rudel war es ihre Aufgabe, behinderte Schiffe zu entern, alle Überlebenden zu töten und dann genug Reparaturen durchzuführen, um sie zum Fliegen zu bringen.

Dieser flog definitiv nie wieder irgendwo hin. Sie ging an einigen Crew-Schließfächern vorbei und öffnete jedes einzelne. Nichts als Ersatz-Sprunganzüge.

"Natürlich . . . ." murmelte sie vor sich hin.

Vorne beugte sich der Flur nach links. Dort sollte es ein Schott und dann eine Tür zum Frachtabschnitt geben. Trin hoffte, dass das, was diesen Kampf auslöste, es wert war. Als sie sich der Kurve näherte, nahm ihre Taschenlampe im nächsten Abschnitt des Schiffes ein Formular auf.

Sie ließ ihre Waffe darauf gerichtet und richtete eine Schussposition hinter dem Türrahmen ein. Bei näherem Hinsehen war es höchstwahrscheinlich ein Mensch. Der EVA-Anzug, den sie trug, war makellos, wie einer dieser neuen CDS-Anzüge. Sie übermittelte die Signale auf ihrem Anzug.

"Gen comms. Gibt es Überlebende der Vergeltungsmaßnahme? Identifizieren Sie sich."

Das Formular schwebte einfach dort. Keine Bewegung.

Trin schnappte sich einen schwimmenden Metallschrott und schleuderte ihn auf den Körper. Er klopfte das Bein ab.

Immer noch nichts.

Sie steckte ihm eine Kugel in den Rücken. Die Explosion wirbelte den Körper herum und enthüllte das blasse, gefrorene Gesicht eines der Schützen. Er schien nicht in der Lage zu sein, seinen Helm aufzusetzen, bevor das Vakuum ihn erwischte.

"Jemanden finden? Mags zwitscherten über die Comms.

"Nein", antwortete Trin, während sie eine weitere Patrone in ihre Schrotflinte pumpte und vorrückte. Sie fegte die Leiche zur Seite, um ein kleines Eingangsfeld freizulegen, das zum Frachtraum führte. Interessanterweise war das Panel mit einer Art Notstromversorgung verkabelt.

"Oh, hallo." Trin schleuderte die Schrotflinte und grub sich durch einen Beutel für ein Schnittstellenkabel. Sobald ihr mobiGlas und die Tür verbunden waren, startete sie das Programm Knock², um ein voreingestelltes Hacking-Protokoll auszuführen. Nach einigen Sekunden digitaler Verhandlung wurde das Panel grün. Die Tür stieß einen Teil der eingeschlossenen Atmo aus, als sie sich zu öffnen begann.

Trin hatte ihre Schrotflinte hochgehalten und sich abgestützt, bevor sich die Tür öffnete. Sie trat vom Boden ab und schwebte in den Frachtraum der Tali. Ein Schwenken der Taschenlampe genügte ihr, um eine sehr unangenehme Wahrheit zu entdecken.

Er war leer.

"Denn natürlich ist es . . ."

Trin sicherte ihre Schrotflinte und schleuderte sie, bevor sie auf ihr Kommando antwortete. "Tali ist frei". Trin drehte sich zum Ausgang um, als sie einen Blick auf etwas erhaschte, das in der Dunkelheit taumelte. Sie zog eine Taschenlampe, um nachzusehen. Es war ein Schließfach, wie eines dieser militärischen Schließfächer, die sie auf diesen Spektakeln gesehen hatte.

Sie schnappte ihn und überprüfte seine Schlösser, konnte sie aber nicht öffnen. Ein kleines Zugangspaneel enthüllte eine weitere digitale Schnittstelle mit einem Tastenfeld. Trin schloss ihr Mobi wieder an und startete einen weiteren Hack. Während sie wartete, untersuchte sie das Schließfach ein wenig genauer. Das Ding sah solide aus, als könnte es einen explosiven Feststoff aufnehmen. Alles sehr gute Anzeichen dafür, was sich darin befinden könnte.

Sie warf einen Blick auf ihr mobiGlas. Das Hacking-Programm versuchte immer noch, das Passwort zu knacken. Plötzlich war ihr mobi tot.

"Mistkerl".

Zurück an Bord des Harlequin waren alle um die geheimnisvolle Kiste versammelt. Der Laderaum war bereits voll mit ausgesuchten Teilen der verschiedenen Schiffe, die von Kel fachmännisch zerlegt und arrangiert worden waren. Trin ordnete ihre Werkzeuge für eine gründliche Untersuchung der Kiste, während Mags im Hintergrund auf und ab ging. Der entschlossene Blick auf Trin's Gesicht zeigte, dass die Herausforderung der Kiste eindeutig angenommen worden war.

"Geben Sie es zu. Es muss etwas Wertvolles sein", sagte Mags nervös, als sie ging. "Ich bin doch nicht verrückt, oder?"

"Sehr aufregend, Captain Mags. Ja." sagte Kel, als er Trin dabei zusah, wie er ein Terminal an die Schalttafel des Schließfachs anschloss.

"Um es aber klar zu sagen: Sie haben keine Hinweise auf den Inhalt gesehen? Mags Nervosität begann sie zu überwältigen. "Ich meine, wir glauben doch nicht, dass es sich um chemische Waffen handelt, oder? Oder wie ein Virus?"

"Titan-Gewebekoffer sehr gut zu schützen, aber nicht für biologische Eindämmung eingestuft. Wenn es sich um einen tödlichen Virus handeln würde, wären die Menschen jetzt schon tot", antwortete Kel fröhlich.

"Könnten Sie beide die Klappe halten?" Trin schnappte zu, als sie ungefilterten Code auf ihrem Bildschirm durchsiebte.

"Sicher, Entschuldigung", sagte Mags und zwang sich, sich hinzusetzen.

"Ja, entschuldigen Sie sich." Kel ging auf Trin zu und klopfte ihr auf die Stirn. Trin machte sich nicht die Mühe, seine Hand wegzuschlagen.

Weitere zwanzig Minuten des Wartens vergingen. Trin versuchte jeden Trick in ihrem umfangreichen und bewährten Buch. Jedes Mal rührte sich das Schließfach nicht vom Fleck.

"Scheiß drauf. Kel, schnapp dir deine Bohrer".

Die Banu raste aufgeregt davon.

Stunden später stand das Schließfach auf dem Tisch des Gemeinschaftsraums. Um sie herum waren verschiedene Werkzeuge benutzt und weggeworfen worden. Die Oberfläche des Kastens war wie bei einer Art mechanischer Autopsie zerstückelt worden, um das Schloss zu umgehen, ohne das, was sich darin befand, zu beschädigen. Yao war zu seiner Koje zurückgekehrt und sah sich gelegentlich die Sendung an.

Mags, die aus dem Laderaum kamen und einen EVA-Anzug trugen. Im Laderaum angekommen, zog sie den Helm ab und wischte sich den Schweiß vom Gesicht. Ozzy war immer noch im Laderaum und ordnete die Kisten an, die ebenfalls mit EVA-Ausrüstung ausgestattet waren.

"Ich habe noch eine weitere Ladung Schrott drinnen", sagte sie zwischen Wasserspritzern. Sie warf einen Blick auf Yao. "Haben Sie etwas?"

"Nein", murmelte er und nippte an seinem Tee.

Mags begaben sich in den Laderaum und begannen, den EVA-Anzug abzuziehen.

"In Ordnung, Kel", murmelte Trin, als sie die Programmierung des Sicherheitspanels durchsah. "Versuchen Sie, die Energiezelle wieder anzuschließen.

Kel zog eine festverdrahtete Batterie mit einem Paar freiliegender Kabel und platzierte sie chirurgisch neben dem vorhandenen Stromversorgungssystem.

Das Schloss klickte. Trin und Kel sahen einander an. Ein Grinsen breitete sich über Trin's Gesicht aus.

"War es das, was ich dachte, dass es das war? Mags schrieen aus dem anderen Raum. Schwere Stiefelschritte drängten näher, bevor sie plötzlich in der Türöffnung auftauchte.

Kel fing an, seine Werkzeuge zu reinigen und sie in ihre Koffer zurückzubringen. Trin schloss den Koffer auf. Sie warf einen Blick auf die Gesichter im Raum und klappte dann den Deckel auf . . .

Es war ein Fels in der Brandung. Ungefähr so groß wie ein menschlicher Kopf. Einige schillernde violette Flecken, aber nur ein Stein. Ozzy schwebte leise in den Raum, um zu sehen, was es mit der Aufregung auf sich hatte.

"Was ist das?" murmelte Yao, als er versuchte, von seinem Bett aus zu spähen.

"Sieht für mich wie ein Stein aus", antwortete Ozzy und ging zu seinem Liegeplatz.

"Das habe ich mir gedacht. Yao schnaufte sein Kissen auf und lehnte sich zurück.

Trin sagte nichts, stand einfach nur auf und ging aus dem Raum.

"Nein, nein, nein!" Mags eilten vorwärts und ließen sich neben dem Fall fallen. "Man geht nicht durch alles, was t Mühe für einen gewöhnlichen Stein".

Mags nahmen es vorsichtig auf und schauten es sich näher an. Im Licht tanzten die violetten Flecken etwas heller.

"Kel, hast du deinen Scanner?"

Der Banu reichte ihr einen Handscanner aus seiner Ausrüstung. Sie klappte das Terminal an und begann mit dem Scannen. Nach einem Moment keuchte sie.

Ozzy schaute hinüber.

"Was . . ."

Mags lächelt halb lächelnd, halb lachend, als könne sie sich nicht entscheiden, auf was sie sich festlegen soll, und dreht den Scanner auf Kel. Sofort begann er zu klatschen.

"Sprechen Sie! schrie Ozzy. "Was zum Teufel ist das?"

Mags legte den Stein zurück in die Kiste und ging zu ihrem mobiGlas. Ein Galactapedia-Eintrag erschien an jedermanns Handgelenk.

"Es wird Eriesium genannt. In seinem veredelten Zustand glauben sie, dass es als Energiequelle dienen kann, aber die Menschen haben es noch nicht wirklich studieren können.

"Was es wert ist?" Die Stimme von Trin kam aus der Tür.

"Sehr selten", läutete Kel ein.

"Beantworten Sie die Frage". Trin hat ihren Blick auf Mags nicht gebrochen.

"Zuletzt hörte ich, dass es etwa 80.000 waren. Mags konnten die Worte kaum bilden.

"Nicht wirklich beeindruckt".

"Eine Unze". Mags fuhr mit ihren Fingern über die Konturen des Steins. "Achtzig Riesen pro Unze".

Das hat die Aufmerksamkeit aller auf sich gezogen. Sie sahen einander schweigend an, bis Trin schließlich verriet, was allen durch den Kopf ging.

"Wir sind reich".

Wardlow Reclamation war ein Sackgassenschrottplatz am Arsch der Welt. Der schäbige Teppich im Wartezimmer war von dem Ungeziefer gefressen worden, das den Ort befallen hatte, und es gab kein Bild an der Wand, das in diesem Jahrhundert aufgenommen worden war. Interessanterweise hatte es im Jahr 2921 einen Preis für Kundenservice von einer Publikation gewonnen, die wahrscheinlich schon lange nicht mehr im Geschäft war. Die Auszeichnung war gedruckt und in einem selbstgemachten Rahmen in der Nähe der Ladentheke ausgestellt worden.

Mags hatte es zehn Minuten lang angestarrt, als ihr eine Idee kam.

Trin saß ihr gegenüber, ebenso gelangweilt.

Sie hatten den Harlequin vor ein paar Stunden gelandet, um den Schrott von den Schiffen zu entladen. Der Eigner und seine Crew kämmten langsam alles durch und stellten ein Gutachten zusammen. Das Eriesium war in die Standard-Schließkassette überführt worden, die Trin für eine Fußstütze verwendete.

"Ich muss zugeben, Mags", sagte Trin mit einer gewissen Dehnung. "Das ist genau der Ruck, den wir brauchen, um die Dinge zum Guten zu wenden. Verkaufen Sie das für ein paar schnelle Creds und machen Sie sich auf den Weg."

Es war geplant, das Eriesium bis zur Fertigstellung der Begutachtung aufzubewahren, um die Schätzung nicht zu gefährden. Mags zog nun jedoch eine andere Option in Betracht.

"Was wäre, wenn wir das nicht täten?

Trin schloss ihre Augen und stöhnte.

"Jetzt, meine ich. Wir warten auf den richtigen Zeitpunkt ab und finden den richtigen Käufer. Schauen Sie, wo wir stehen", wies Mags auf die Kundenservice-Prämie hin. "Glauben Sie, wir bekommen nur einen Bruchteil von dem, was es hier wert ist? Sie können es sich nicht leisten und wir betrügen uns selbst, indem wir es in das erste Drecksloch abladen, in das wir kommen.

"Tun Sie das nicht . . . . tun Sie das nicht". Trin rieb sich die Schläfen, um die plötzlich auftretende Migräne zu lindern. "Denn wie einen Tag lang hatte ich vergessen, dich aus einer Luftschleuse zu werfen.

"Ja, aber stellen Sie sich vor, Sie könnten mich aus Ihrer eigenen Luftschleuse werfen", antwortete Mags mit einem Grinsen. "Das ist die Art von Geld, über die wir hier reden".

Eine Tür hinter der Theke öffnete sich und der gedrungene, verschwitzte Besitzer stampfte hinein. Er schlug auf eine Keatfly, die in der Nähe seines Kopfes schwirrte, als er sich am Schalter zum Terminal drehte. Das System begann, sich mit seinem Mobi zu synchronisieren. Der Besitzer sichtete die Liste, als er von einem Anfall nassen Hustens erfasst wurde.

Er fummelte einen Inhalator aus seiner Tasche und nahm einen Schlag ein. Der Husten ließ nicht nach. Er schüttelte den Inhalator und versuchte es erneut. Er hatte kein Glück. "Bevin", schrie er zwischen den Hustenanfällen die offene Tür hinaus.

"Bevin! Schicken Sie jemanden zu Kel-To. Ich brauche mehr Medikamente".

Der Anfall endete schließlich. Der Besitzer spuckte etwas Dickflüssiges auf den Boden und sah Mags und Trin an.

"Ja, okay. Hat Ihren Schrott bewertet. Haben Sie noch etwas anderes?"

Mags blickte Trin an, der zurückstarrte. Trin gab schließlich nach und sank auf ihren Sitz zurück. Mags sprang auf und ging zum Schalter.

"Prüfen Sie die Liste, die Auszahlung steht unten." Die Besitzerin drehte das Terminal zu sich um. "Drücken Sie auf Annehmen, um zu akzeptieren."

"Ja, sicher. Sieht gut aus."

Der Besitzer sah sie an.

"Klicken Sie dann auf Annehmen.

"Richtig, Entschuldigung". Sie hat den Knopf gedrückt. Der Schrottplatzbesitzer schnüffelte und druckte einen Überweisungsbeleg aus.

Trin schnappte sich das Schließfach und machte sich auf den Weg zur Tür. Der Besitzer bemerkte es zum ersten Mal.

"Was ist da drin?"

"Vier gebrochene Zähne", antwortete Trin, ohne einen Schlag zu verpassen.

Mags und Trin traten nach draußen in die pralle Sonne. Der Geruch von Öl und verbranntem Metall erfüllte die Luft. Der Harlequin wartete auf einem der nahegelegenen Polster. Alle Kisten mit Schrott waren ausgeladen und zur Verarbeitung ordentlich gestapelt worden. Als er sah, wie seine Mannschaftskameraden aus dem Büro kamen, winkte Kel der Besatzung des Landeplatzes zum Abschied, die etwas benebelt aussah.

"Ich hasse es, wie glücklich Sie sind, dass Sie vor dem Geld davonlaufen", murmelte Trin.

"Falsch, Trin. Ich bin glücklich, denn wir gehen auf echtes Geld zu".

"Wissen Sie überhaupt, wie Sie das verkaufen können?

"Ich weiß es nicht, aber wir werden es herausfinden. Mags nahmen die Schlosskiste von Trin mit, um sie den Rest des Weges zum Schiff zu tragen. Gerade als sie die Rampe erreichten . . .

"Hey!

Mags und Trin kehrten um, um die Gruppe zu sehen, die Kel gerade verlassen hatte.

"Was soll der Scheiß, dass Sie einen Sklaven besitzen?

Mags und Trin tauschen einen müden Blick aus.

"Er ist kein Sklave", war alles, was Mags aufbringen konnte. Die Landungsmannschaft macht sich auf den Weg. "Verdammt . . ."

Mags klatschte auf die Schaltfläche für die Rampe. Die Rampe bewegte sich nicht. Die Lande-Crew brach in einen Sprint aus, als sie merkte, was sie vorhatte.

Sie traf es härter und die Rampe begann plötzlich in das Schiff zu steigen. Die ersten Besatzungsmitglieder kamen eine Nanosekunde zu spät. Dumpfe Geräusche von Felsen, die auf den Rumpf geschleudert wurden, drangen durch den Laderaum. Kels Kopf tauchte in der Türöffnung auf.

"Gut verkaufen?

Der Besitzer des Schrottplatzes hat die Zahlen für die Transaktionen des Tages ausgeglichen. Die Sonne stand kurz vor dem Untergang. So schrecklich der Tag für seine Krankheit war, die Kälte der Nacht war noch schlimmer. Er spürte ein leichtes Kratzen im hinteren Teil seiner Kehle, das einen weiteren Hustenanfall auslösen würde.

"Bevin! Hat jemand mein verdammtes Medikament bekommen", schrie er in die Sprechanlage. Es gab keine Antwort.

Der Besitzer stieß sich von seinem Sitz und schlurfte nach draußen. Er schirmte seine Augen vor der untergehenden Sonne ab.

"Bevin, denkst du, es wäre tatsächlich möglich, dass jemand etwas tut, wenn ich es dir sage?

Als der Besitzer seine Hand senkte, erstarrte er. Sein gesamtes Personal, vierzehn Personen, war tot, mit beiläufiger Präzision um den Schrottplatz herum hingerichtet. Er sah Bevin unter ihnen.

Der Besitzer stolperte zurück, rannte ins Büro und knallte die Tür zu. Er drehte sich um und lehnte sich schwer gegen die Tür. Sein Herz klopfte und verursachte einen weiteren Hustenanfall.

Er bemerkte nicht einmal die beiden Personen, die sich jetzt in seinem Wartezimmer befanden. Ein Mann und eine Frau, die eine makellose, unmarkierte Kampfrüstung tragen und schallgedämpfte Waffen in der Hand halten.

"Hallo". Der Mann sprach zuerst. Der Besitzer hätte fast die Decke getroffen. Er hob schwach die Hände hoch und fing an zu weinen.

"Sie haben kürzlich die Rettung eines Vergelters erworben.

Der Besitzer sprach keine Worte, nur Geräusche. Der Mann schoss sich eine Kugel durch den Oberschenkel. Er fiel zu Boden.

"Ja! Ja!" Der Eigentümer erlangte schließlich die Sprachgewalt zurück.

"Wer hat sie Ihnen verkauft?" fragte der Mann, als er den Raum durchquerte und den noch heißen Lauf der Pistole an die Schläfe des Besitzers hielt. "Und seien Sie genau."

"Kam heute früh herein. Irgendein alter Schiffsschläger. Zwei Frauen. Ein Mensch. Noch nie zuvor gesehen". Der Besitzer hat etwas auf seinem Mobi eingetippt. Die Frau studierte die eingehenden Daten, während der Mann sich weiter auf den Besitzer konzentrierte. "Diese beiden hatten nicht zufällig ein Schließfach bei sich, oder?"

"Ja, ich meine, ja. Das haben sie", sagte der Besitzer zwischen den Hustenanfällen. "Wollten es nicht verkaufen."

"Diese Frauen geben einen Namen?"

"Nur das Reg auf dem Schiff".

"Ja, die sind gefälscht", sagte die Frau, ohne von ihrem Mobi aufzublicken. Der Mann sah den Besitzer an und seufzte.

"Warten -"

Peng. Der Mann stand auf und wischte die Blutspritzer vom Fass ab.

"Haben wir etwas Handfestes, um weiterzumachen?" fragte er schließlich.

"Nur dies." Sie streckte ihr Handgelenk aus.

Es gab eine Sicherheitskamera mit Mags und Trin, die im Warteraum saß. Der Mann sah sie genau an. Er stieß auf eines von Trin's Souther Titan-Tattoos.

"Los geht's."

FORTSETZUNG FOLGT...

 Writer’s Note: Drifters: Part One was published originally in Jump Point 5.1.
Helluva time for the a/c to cut out, Reynolds thought as he stared through the scuffed cockpit glass and cued the comm.

“You need to take a second and think real hard about what you’re doing here.” His fingers tapped anxiously on the flight stick, and he could already feel the sweat forming under his suit.

About five minutes ago, an EMP tripped his Retaliator, the Echo Calling, out of quantum. Five ships — a Freelancer and a bunch of fighters that looked patched together with tape, glue and bad intentions — waited in an attack pattern. The ambush had surprised him. They’d scouted this route for weeks to try and avoid this possibility. What had surprised the ambushers was that the Echo still had guns and shields. Nickels had finally gotten around to installing that backup power plant, so although Echo’s engines were affected by the EMP, they were more than equipped to mix it up. That little fact gave their attackers pause.

“Cap! Two more contacts, aft side, drifting thirty degrees down,” Nickels yelled from his terminal.

“Power down your weapons, disengage your cargo, and drift,” said the attacker’s spokesman over the comms. From the appearance of the cockpit in the background, he looked to be flying the beat-up Freelancer. Probably their leader . . . or the one wearing the communal balls for the week. Reynolds didn’t recognize him, but whoever this was knew everything important about the Echo, in particular what they were transporting.

“Listen to me,” Reynolds leaned into his camera. “Say you take us in a rush, you know who you’re stealing from. That kinda trouble? That doesn’t just go away.”

Spokesman hesitated. It was just a flicker where the façade of toughness dropped. Just a flicker, but Reynolds survived noticing things like that.

“Detach your cargo and leave.” The façade was back in full effect.

“Not gonna happen.” Reynolds glanced at his screens. Maybe a minute ’til the engines were back online. He flipped to the Echo’s internal communication network. “How we looking, people?”

In the top turret, O’Neil stared in horror at the circling ships. It took him a second to realize that Reynolds’ question included him.

“Top turret up,” he managed to stammer out. Sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes. He instinctively tried to wipe it away, but his hand kept banging off the faceplate of his suit. He blinked hard as he listened to Reynolds argue with whoever was on the other side of the guns leveled at him.

“Don’t be stupid, man. You ain’t gotta die here today,” the Freelancer captain said.

“With what you’ve got?” Reynolds fired back.

“Fly away. Just fly away . . .” O’Neil mumbled to himself. His hands started to tremble.

“Bottom turret’s set, Cap, whenever you wanna light these bitches up,” Frears replied over the comm as he calmly cycled through the ships in his field of fire.

“What I’ve got is five on one. You do the math,” the Freelancer captain replied. This guy wasn’t giving up.

“What you’ve got is a glorified tug and a bunch of shit fighters.”

Frears chuckled. Whoever these morons were, they were used to pushovers who’d drop their cargo at the first sign of trouble. They picked the wrong crew this time.

That’s when he noticed a smudge on the back of his helmet, stowed down by his feet. He took his eyes off the idiots outside to have a closer look. A smudge of engine grease. Son of a bitch, he thought. Nickels must have tried it on. Ever since he’d shelled out the credits for the new CDS suit, the crew had been hovering like vultures.

Back in the cockpit of the Echo, Reynolds received reports from the rest of the stations. Engines were cycling and should be up in thirty. This Freelancer captain obviously didn’t want a fight or he would’ve opened fire by now. Reynolds just needed enough time to get mobile. Once they were moving, they could weather anything thrown against them long enough to get out of there.

“This is the last time I’m gonna ask. You know what we want.” The Freelancer captain managed to muster all the menace he could.

“You’re repeating yourself,” Reynolds responded. His eyes were locked on his readout, watching the engine’s power meter climb, waiting for just enough power to start moving.

“They’re heating up missiles!” Nickels shouted suddenly.

One of the old, beat-up 300s had drawn a lock. Reynolds muttered. They were out of time.

O’Neil’s turret was already swinging towards it.

“Wait—” the Freelancer captain tried.

That’s when it all popped off.

Space lit up with the exchange of lasers and bullets. The first exchange was devastating. The Echo was mangled from the storm of incoming fire, but its shields and thick armor managed to weather the mortal strikes of the initial assault. With the Retaliator’s return fire, the 300 was the first to go, immediately sliced apart from O’Neil’s turret fire.

The Freelancer launched a full spread of missiles. The Echo’s engines suddenly flared to life and the massive bomber dove and deployed countermeasures. The turrets focused fire on the Freelancer, chewing down the shields and punching a series of shots through the cockpit before it could react.

The Echo tumbled and twisted, swarmed by fighters undeterred by the loss of their fearless leader. Laser fire sprayed from its turrets, beautifully pirouetting through space until a rocket punched through weakened the shields and annihilated the Echo’s cockpit. The Retaliator’s beautiful evasion turned into a death spiral and the fighters pounced for the kill. The last remaining turret killed the final fighter moments before an explosion ripped the Echo in half.

Then, silence. The massive fragments of spaceship quietly drifted in place. Occasional secondary explosions from areas of the ships still pressurized went off, ejecting the final volumes of oxygen and flame into space.

And with that, space was still again.

A point of light, initially indistinguishable from a star, slowly grew, eventually drawing close enough to be recognizable as a ship. Critics had famously called the 2918 Constellation ‘the one misstep in RSI’s proud lineage’ and it was tough for many to argue. The hull plating on the nacelles was often sized incorrectly, creating odd gaps where the glow of the engine would seep out. This 2918 Connie was somehow still flying, although by the sight of it, it wasn’t for the universe’s lack of trying to kill it.

The ship slowly drifted towards the sprawling battlefield. Retro thrusters gently pulsed to bring it to a halt.

Magdalena “Mags” McCann moved from the nav station on the deck and stepped to the front of the observation window. Dressed in pajamas, a bathrobe and space boots (she hated cold feet), she swizzled her spoon around her bowl, hunting out some lingering RumblePops cereal hiding in the murky depths of sugary milk. Kennelworth’s “Where We Go” blasted over the bridge’s tinny speakers.

Mags looked over the vast destruction, crunched the last RumblePop in her mouth, and grinned.

“Sweet.”

Inside the Harlequin, Kennelworth’s singular brand of gutbucket rock wasn’t restricted to the bridge; it was being pumped throughout the ship for everyone’s benefit. While the outside of the battered Connie looked rough, the inside was even worse. Random frayed wires dangled from exposed paneling, bonded together with gum and tape. A particularly gaping hole in the wall had a circle drawn around it with “Don’t Touch” written helpfully nearby. Inside the hole, something sparked sporadically.

The music abruptly disappeared from the intercom. Mags cleared her throat.

“Hey, everybody. Sorry to bug you . . .”

Inside one of the sleeping berths, Honan Yao picked through a bag of discarded vials, looking for one that had a little bit of charge left. He plugged any potential candidates into his hypo to check the level, but nothing.

“I know things have been a little rough since I took over.” Mags’ voice echoed from the tiny wall speaker. Yao was too focused on his search to care. His mind started to drift to alternative injection methods in case this ended up being a bust. None of the solutions were ideal, but desperate times . . .

He finally tossed the bag aside. He contemplated going to engineering, but he’d have to get up. Then it hit him . . .

Yao went into another compartment and pulled out his old medical field kit.

Success. At least for one hit. His adrenaline started to surge as he quickly popped the small vial of ink-black liquid into the hypo.

“The past few weeks, we’ve —” Yao shut off the speaker and settled back. When the WiDoW hit his system, it was like falling down a chasm of warm pillows.

And he welcomed it because he could forget now.

Like the rest of the ship, the cargo hold had seen better days. The vast open space was just that, vast and open. Only one container actually had any salvage in it but, even for salvage, it was just junk.

Kel picked through it all the same. He methodically moved through each piece, studying every millimeter for structural integrity, potential for spare parts, and elemental composition. The Banu had been trained at one of the best Mining Soulis in the Protectorate. The Essosouli himself had even commented on Kel’s astute observational skills and claimed that Kel had the potential to ascend to Mastery level within the Guild.

When the Harlequin’s previous captain had purchased him from the souli, he was a little disappointed to interrupt his advanced studies, but he wasn’t about to miss out on traveling with actual Humans.

He extracted a busted lamp from the container and studied the frayed wires coming out of it.

“…anyway, I’ve got something that might make it all better. Come on up to the bridge.”

Kel’s eyes lit up. He gently laid the lamp down (would need to be completely rebuilt internally, but the structure was at least aesthetically appealing) and bounced up to the bridge.

A battery slapped into a small holdout pistol. The handgrip hummed momentarily as the heater cycled the power and the ammo counter rose. Trin “Dropshot” Liska tucked the pistol in her waistband and walked over to her locker. A small, dense woman in her early thirties, every moment of struggle in her life was etched into every scowl on her face and into every tattoo on her body. So even at a glance, it was obvious she’d been through some shit.

She pulled out the heavy ballistic cannon from the top shelf. The word ‘Diplomacy’ had been scratched into the barrel. She checked the breach then sifted through the magazines on the shelf until she found a fully loaded one, slammed it, and racked a round.

Her brother, Ozzy, watched from his perch on the railing in the engine room. His leg bounced rapidly, the only outward sign of any emotion. Equally vacantly angry, he shared the same litany of scars and tattoos as his sister. They both shared pack tats of the Souther Titans, a ragtag gang that supposedly started as an offshoot of the Tooth & Nails on Spider, but to many, it sounded like bull. Ozzy only had three bleeding scar tattoos (indicating three years of “robbin’ and ramblin’”), while Trin had eight.

He did, unfortunately for him, have QuarterDeck-made tattoos that his sister did not.

Mags’ voice barely overpowered the loud whine of the ship’s massive engine.

“Yeah, so exciting times. I’ll see you guys up here.”

Trin looked at her brother. He jumped off the rail as she tossed him another pistol and they made their way up.

Mags studied the readout on the terminal, carefully tagging and prioritizing the debris fragments. Kel stood up at the front window, excitedly calling out what he was seeing.

The door to the bridge hissed open. With a quick glance back, Mags saw Trin perch up on the wall.

“Hey Trin, is Doc on his way up?” she asked while punching some tags.

“There! There!” Kel exclaimed, pointing out some debris. “Energy cells. Very minimal wear. Fresh. Very fresh.”

Trin glanced at the front window. The wrecked 300 was currently front and center outside.

“What’s going on?” she finally asked.

“We got ourselves a payday.” Mags could barely contain her excitement as she tagged some more fragments on her terminal. Trin glared at the back of her head. Ozzy moved over to the other side of the bridge, his pistol held loose at his side.

“Yeah? Anything like the last one?” Trin replied.

“Look, I apologized for that, okay?”

“Apologies don’t pad my account.”

“My fence swore he could move . . .” Mags spun the captain’s chair to face her as she spoke. Her sentence drifted off when she saw both Trin and Ozzy perched up. She looked back and forth between the two. Ozzy kept the pistol out of sight, but hiding his hand was just as obvious.

“What’s going on, Trin?”

“What’s it look like?” Trin fired back.

“It looks like you’re in the same place you stood right before we tossed Malcolm out of the airlock.”

“Great memory,” Trin said, chuckling. She scratched an itch on her lip with the hand holding Diplomacy.

“Guys, seriously. I’ve only been in charge, for what, like two months?” Mags settled back in the chair and casually glanced at a screen. Internally, her mind scrambled for some kind of out. Last thing she wanted to do was escalate this situation unnecessarily; she’d seen Dropshot waste too many people. Kel, unfortunately, was too preoccupied gaping out the window to be much help. “You gotta give me a chance.”

“Before Malcolm touched void, you said things’d be different.” Trin stepped forward as she spoke. “That’s what you told us. Lower profile, bigger score.”

“Run silent and smart was what she said, sis.” Ozzy finally decided to chime in.

“Thanks, Oz. You know how my memory goes when I’m upset.” She turned back to Mags. “Point is, shit ain’t changed.” There was a nasty, tense silence . . . except for:

“XT-20 fuselage. No. Bad condition. Look at the scorch. Unusable.” Kel droned in the background before finally turning around. “I wouldn’t . . .”

That’s when he finally realized what was up. Ozzy moved the pistol into sight, so the Banu didn’t get any ideas. Trin cleared her throat.

“Anyway, here we are, still scraping away with nothing to show for it.”

“Doc can’t even keep an honest high anymore,” Ozzy muttered. Trin shook her head, severely disappointed.

“Okay. Fair enough.” Mags slowly rose, her hands up. “We can work out your issues and move forward.”

Trin smiled.

“Yeah . . .” She stepped forward, raising her gun.

“Wait!” Kel shouted as he lurched forward, keeping his hands out as well. Trin stopped. Mags slowly opened her eyes and looked around, pleasantly surprised that the pair had actually listened to the Banu. Kel waited a few moments and carefully considered his words before speaking. Finally:

“I know I only the ship slave —”

Mags slumped.

“You’re not our slave, Kel,” she said with a sigh.

“Yes, yes,” Kel waved her off and continued. “Captain Mag much better than Old Captain. She want money like us. Old Captain like money too and we like money.”

“Huh?” Ozzy mumbled as he glanced at Trin.

“But Captain Mag listen to us. Old Captain never talk to us. Just yell.” Kel moved forward as he spoke, almost pleading with Trin. “Captain Mag help Trin Liska. Old Captain not go to hell world to get Ozzy Liska. Captain Mag did.”

Mags gave a little nod in agreement. She almost missed all of Kel’s little speech, trying to figure out if she still had a pistol stashed on the bridge. (Back when Malcolm was running the show, she never felt safe being more than three steps away from a weapon.)

“We need to trust Captain,” Kel said finally. He walked over to Mags. “We trust in her and good things will come.”

Then he patted her on the forehead. Mags wriggled out of the way. Three weeks ago, while docked up on a transfer station, Kel had seen a father gently pat his daughter on the head before letting her run off to play and had been doing it ever since.

It was sweet . . . but kinda annoying.

The important thing was that it seemed to be working on Trin. She hadn’t shot Mags, so that was already a victory. Ozzy glanced at Trin, looking for the go-ahead to start shooting. Trin glanced out the front window at the fractured 300.

“So that’s the big news? A fighter?”

Mags made a big show of keeping her hands in view while she reached over to the flight stick. She gently angled the ship down, revealing the sea of wreckage: the Retaliator, the Freelancer, and the rest of the fighters.

That sight gave Trin and Ozzy pause as they gaped at the vast destruction. They stared silently for a few moments, but didn’t lower their guns.

“So . . .” Mags finally said. “Can we get to work?”

The Harlequin’s hold was bursting with activity. The floor screeched open to reveal the cockpit of the Merlin embedded underneath. Trin ran some final system checks on the snub and topped off the fuel. Ozzy entered pulling on the final pieces of his flight suit as he approached the open cockpit. He popped his helmet on and slipped into the cockpit.

“Let’s go, let’s go. We gotta start cutting before anyone else stumbles onto this,” Mags’ voice carried over the tinny intercom.

Ozzy banged the cockpit laminate twice to signal he was set. The floor panels shrieked closed until the Merlin was out of sight. Trin cued the comm.

“Bird’s flying.”

She made her way over to the storage locker with the other EVA suits. Kel was already suited up and carefully triple-checking his tools.

Trin pulled her suit out of the bin and slammed it onto the floor. She gave a quick once over for tears or punctures before she started pulling it on.

“How are you looking, Kel?”

“Fully prepared, Trin Liska.” Kel carefully and expertly replaced each tool in the field kit. “Tools are ready.”

Trin sealed her suit and slung a shotgun.

“Mine too.”

Back on the bridge, Mags was still in the captain’s chair. Ever since the interrupted mutiny, she’d kept herself busy positioning the Harlequin for easy deployment and reclamation of salvage. She watched Ozzy’s ship quietly fly to the edge of the wreckage field and begin a wide sweep.

Without warning, her stomach bottomed out. That moment of pause while looking at the distant Merlin was enough to let the gravity of the situation she’d narrowly avoided come crashing down.

She doubled over in the chair and tried to catch her breath. This was far from the first time she’d had a gun in her face, but there was something about this time . . . there was a finality, like her luck had finally run out, that chilled her.

Maybe she could run. Wait until Trin had stepped off, then just run. Ozzy was a great pilot, but he probably couldn’t take on the Harlequin and survive. Worst case, she could batter him enough to get away. That’d mean she’d probably have to leave Kel, which seemed unfair. Doc . . . she wasn’t sure how he’d react . . .

“Hey,” a sleepy voice said.

Mags pulled herself together and turned back to the panel as Yao shuffled onto the bridge and slumped into one of the seats.

“Doc . . .” she brought up another scan window on her terminal and tried to look busy. “You missed an interesting discussion.”

“When was that?” Yao asked with a yawn.

“A couple hours ago,” Mags glanced at him, unsure if he was messing with her. He looked genuinely ignorant. “I called you, called everybody.”

“Right . . .” he snapped his fingers and nodded. “That was today?”

“Yeah . . .”

“That’s cool,” Yao tapped his fingers on his terminal window, waking it from sleep. They danced across the screen, deftly selecting a series of folders and programs. An episode of Lost Squad started playing. “What’d you all talk about?”

“Shooting me or throwing me out of an airlock. Maybe both, I don’t know.”

“Oh yeah. Trin was pretty pissed.”

“You knew?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks for the heads up, Doc.”

“Come on, Mags. Trin’s not that good at hiding her emotions.” He settled back in his seat, perfectly content that the issue had been resolved.

“I also found us a job,” she finally offered up.

“Cool. Where?” He said lazily. He was too fixated on the spec show.

“Here . . .” she looked at Yao. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the show. “We’re doing it.”

Yao nodded and gave a thumbs up.

The comm from the airlock chirped.

“Exiting airlock now,” Trin said. Mags could hear Kel excitedly talking in the background.

“Copy that. We got you.”

Mags shut down the comm. Trin sounded back to normal, like the incident earlier had never happened. Mags knew that this job would have to pay out and she’d need to line up something quick right after. Otherwise, she’d be right back in the same situation. In the meantime, she guessed she should probably start stashing guns around the ship again.

Yao started gently snoring.

Trin and Kel stepped off into the void. Some people were weirded out by the moment when gravity disappeared. For them, gravity was security. A tether that kept you in place. The lack never bothered Trin. She was always amused hearing people yammer on about it. It was a conversation she’d end up having whenever she’d go planetside. It actually just occurred to her that she’d never had the conversation while on a station. Maybe once somebody got on solid ground, they started reflecting. She didn’t get it.

Trin didn’t have that kind of fear. It wasn’t out of some innate toughness, it was an awareness that space was constantly trying to kill you. That was just something you either accepted or not. Trin had spent too much of her life trying to figure out who else was trying to kill her. Even in the best of her days running with the Titans, she had to deal with bounty hunters, Advocacy, not to mention her own crew, to even start worrying about space. That, she could always depend on.

The massive hull of the Retaliator had worked itself into a pretty hefty spin. Boarding it, much less salvaging it, would be next to impossible unless they slowed it down.

Trin adjusted her pack and started matching the rotation speed of the wreck. She pulsed the EVA thrusters to push herself closer and closer until she was able to get a hand on it. Trin pulled herself onto the hull and activated her mag boots to lock on. She dug one of her custom portable remote thrusters out of her case and activated the magnetic seal to attach it to the blasted metal.

Kel was hard at work at the other end of the debris doing the same thing. When complete, he waved Trin down and gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“You can just use comms, Kel.”

“Apologize, Trin Liska.” He quickly replied and gave another enthusiastic thumbs up.

Trin brought up her mobi and connected to the interface that controlled the remote thrusters. She’d built these back in her breaching days and although they had a limited amount of fuel, they had some power to them. They did have a tendency to explode though.

She sustained the thrusters against the roll and eventually the Tali slowed down. When it finally stopped, Kel broke out his salvaging kit and cracked it open.

“You all good here, Kel?”

“Good, yes, okay.”

“I’ll check the hold,” she said as she unslung her shotgun.

“Good, okay.”

Trin pulled her shotgun, racked a charge, then disappeared through a gaping hole in the side.

Kel watched a piece of a turret slowly float past. A pair of hands still gripped the firing sticks. Kel stared curiously at them for a moment, then fired up the cutting torch and got to work.

The halls of the Retaliator were a shattered maze of twisted metal. Trin gently floated through the passageways, sweeping the shotgun back and forth. Based on the destruction, there was no way anything could’ve survived in here, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

She moved forward, meter by meter, checking corners and ready for anything. She drifted back to her days with the Titans. While they dabbled in all sorts of mischief, their prime focus was chopping ships. As the main breacher in the pack, it was her job to board disabled ships, kill any survivors, and then do enough repairs to get it flying.

This one definitely wasn’t flying anywhere ever again. She passed some crew lockers and opened each one. Nothing but spare jumpsuits.

“Of course . . .” she muttered to herself.

Up ahead, the hallway bent to the left. There should be a bulkhead and then a door to the cargo section. Trin was hoping that whatever kicked off this fight was worth it. As she neared the bend, her flashlight picked up a form in the next compartment of the ship.

She kept her weapon trained on it and set up a firing position behind the doorframe. Upon closer inspection, it was most likely Human. The EVA suit it had on was spotless, like one of those new CDS ones. She cued the comms on her suit.

“Gen comms. Any survivors in Retaliator? Identify yourself.”

The form just floated there. No movement.

Trin grabbed a floating scrap of metal and flung it at the body. It tapped off the leg.

Still nothing.

She put a round in its back. The blast spun the body around, revealing the pale, frozen face of one of the gunners. Seemed he wasn’t able to get his helmet on before the vacuum got him.

“Find somebody?” Mags chirped over the comms.

“Nope,” Trin replied as she pumped another round into her shotgun and pushed forward. She swept the corpse off to the side to reveal a small entry panel leading to the cargo hold. Interestingly, the panel was wired into some kind of backup power.

“Oh, hello.” Trin slung the shotgun and dug through a pouch for an interface cable. Once her mobiGlas and the door connected, she booted up the Knock² program to run a preset hacking protocol. After several seconds of digital negotiation, the panel turned green. The door expelled some trapped atmo as it started to slide open.

Trin had her shotgun up and braced before the door opened. She kicked off the floor and floated into the Tali’s cargo hold. One sweep of the flashlight was all she needed to discover a very unpleasant truth.

It was empty.

“Because of course it is . . .”

Trin safetied her shotgun and slung it before cueing her comm. “Tali’s clear.” Trin turned to exit when she caught a glimpse of something tumbling in the darkness. She pulled a flashlight to have a look. It was a lockbox, like one of those military footlockers she’d seen on those spec shows.

She snared it and checked its locks, but couldn’t open them. A small access panel revealed another digital interface with a keypad. Trin reattached her mobi and kicked off another hack. As she waited, she examined the lockbox a little closer. Thing looked solid, like it could take an explosive solid. All very good signs about what could be inside.

She glanced down at her mobiGlas. The hacking program was still trying to hack the password. Suddenly, her mobi went dead.

“Son of a bitch.”

Back aboard the Harlequin, everyone was gathered around the mysterious box. The hold was already full with choice parts of the various ships, expertly broken down and arranged by Kel. Trin was arranging her tools to do a thorough examination of the box while Mags paced in the background. From the look of determination on Trin’s face, clearly the box’s challenge had been accepted.

“Admit it. It has to be something valuable,” Mags said nervously as she walked. “I’m not crazy, right?”

“Very exciting, Captain Mags. Yes.” Kel said as he watched Trin attach a terminal to the lockbox’s control panel.

“To be clear though, you didn’t see any clues as to what’s inside?” Mags’ nerves started to get the better of her. “I mean, we don’t think it’s like, chemical weapons, right? Or like a virus?”

“Titanium weave case very good to protect, but not rated for biological containment. If a deadly virus, Humans would be dead by now,” Kel responded cheerfully.

“Could you two shut up?” Trin snapped as she sifted through unfiltered code on her screen.

“Sure, sorry,” Mags said and forced herself to sit down.

“Yes, apologize.” Kel approached Trin and patted her on the forehead. Trin didn’t bother to swat his hand away.

Twenty more minutes of waiting passed. Trin tried every trick in her vast and well-proven book. Each time, the lockbox didn’t budge.

“Screw it. Kel, grab your drills.”

The Banu raced off excitedly.

Hours later, the lockbox was sitting on the table of the common area. Various tools had been used and discarded around it. The surface of the box had been carved up like some kind of mechanical autopsy in an attempt to bypass the lock without damaging whatever was inside. Yao had migrated back to his berth, occasionally watching the show.

Mags entered from the hold wearing an EVA suit. Once inside, she pulled the helmet off and wiped the sweat off her face. Ozzy was still in the hold arranging the crates, also decked out in EVA gear.

“Got another batch of scrap inside,” she said in between guzzles of water. She glanced at Yao. “Anything?”

“Nope,” he murmured and sipped on his tea.

Mags headed to the hold and started peeling off the EVA suit.

“All right, Kel,” Trin mumbled as she sifted through the security panel’s programming. “Try reattaching that power cell.”

Kel pulled a hardwired battery with a pair of exposed leads and surgically placed them alongside the existing power system.

The lock clicked. Trin and Kel looked at each other. A grin spread across Trin’s face.

“Was that what I thought it was?” Mags yelled from the other room. Heavy bootsteps clomped closer before she suddenly appeared in the doorway.

Kel started cleaning his tools and returning them to their cases. Trin unlatched the case. She glanced at the faces around the room then flipped the lid open . . .

It was a rock. Roughly the size of a Human head. Some iridescent flecks of violet in there, but just a rock. Ozzy quietly drifted into the room to see what the commotion was about.

“What is that?” Yao murmured as he tried to peer from his bed.

“Looks like a rock to me,” Ozzy replied and walked to his berth.

“That’s what I thought.” Yao puffed his pillow and settled back.

Trin didn’t say anything, simply stood and walked out of the room.

“No, no, no!” Mags rushed forward and dropped down beside the case. “You don’t go through all that trouble for an ordinary rock.”

Mags carefully picked it up and peered at it closer. In the light, the violet flecks danced a bit brighter.

“Kel, you got your scanner?”

The Banu passed her a hand scanner from his kit. She flipped the terminal on and began scanning it. After a moment, she gasped.

Ozzy looked over.

“What . . .”

Mags bursts into a half smile, half laugh, like she couldn’t decide which to commit to, and turned the scanner to Kel. He immediately started clapping.

“Speak!” Ozzy yelled. “What the hell is it?”

Mags laid the rock back in the box and went to her mobiGlas. A Galactapedia entry appeared on everyone’s wrist.

“It’s called eriesium. In its refined state, they think it can act as a power source, but Humans haven’t really been able to study it.”

“What it worth?” Trin’s voice came from the doorway.

“Very rare,” Kel chimed in.

“Answer the question.” Trin didn’t break her gaze on Mags.

“Last I heard, it was about 80,000.” Mags could barely form the words.

“Not really impressed.”

“An ounce.” Mags ran her fingers over the contours of the stone. “Eighty grand an ounce.”

That got everyone’s attention. They looked at each other in silence until Trin finally blurted what was on everyone’s mind.

“We’re rich.”

Wardlow Reclamation was a dead-end junkyard in the ass end of nowhere. The ratty carpet in the waiting room had been eaten by whatever bugs had infested the place and there wasn’t a picture on the wall taken this century. Interestingly enough, it had won a customer service award in 2921 from some publication that was probably now long out of business. The award had been printed and displayed in a homemade frame near the front counter.

Mags had been staring at it for ten minutes when an idea occurred to her.

Trin sat across from her, equally bored.

They’d touched down the Harlequin a few hours ago to offload the scrap from the ships. The owner and his crew were slowly picking through everything and putting together an appraisal. The eriesium had been transferred to the standard-issue lockbox Trin was using for a footrest.

“Gotta admit, Mags,” Trin said with a stretch. “This is just the jolt we need to turn things around. Sell this off for some quick Creds and be on our way.”

The plan had been to save the eriesium until the appraisal was done, so it wouldn’t throw off the estimate. However, Mags was now considering another option.

“What if we didn’t?”

Trin shut her eyes and groaned.

“Now. I mean. We bide our time, find the right kind of buyer. Look where we are,” Mags pointed out the customer service award. “You think we’re gonna get a fraction of what it’s worth here? They can’t afford it and we’re cheating ourselves by off-loading it to the first shithole we come to.”

“Don’t . . . don’t do this.” Trin rubbed her temples to alleviate the sudden migraine that was forming. “For like a day, I had forgotten about throwing you out of an airlock.”

“Yeah, but imagine if you could throw me out of your own airlock,” Mags replied with a grin. “That’s the kind of money we’re talking about here.”

A door behind the counter opened and the squat, sweaty owner stomped inside. He smacked at a keatfly buzzing near his head as he turned on the terminal at the counter. The system began to sync with his mobi. The owner was sifting through the list when he was seized by a fit of wet coughs.

He fumbled an inhaler out of his pocket and took a hit. The coughing didn’t subside. He shook the inhaler and tried again. No luck. “Bevin,” he yelled out the open door in between coughs.

“Bevin! Send someone to Kel-To. I need more medicine.”

The fit finally ended. The owner spit something viscous onto the floor and looked at Mags and Trin.

“Yeah, okay. Assessed your scrap. You got anything else?”

Mags looked at Trin, who was glaring back. Trin finally relented and sank back in her seat. Mags jumped up and moved to the counter.

“Check the list, payout’s at the bottom,” The owner turned the terminal to face her. “Hit Accept to accept.”

“Yeah, sure. Looks good.”

The owner looked at her.

“Then hit Accept.”

“Right, sorry.” She hit the button. The scrapyard owner sniffled and printed a transfer receipt.

Trin grabbed the lockbox and started to head to the door. The owner noticed it for the first time.

“What’s in there?”

“Four broken teeth,” Trin replied without missing a beat.

Mags and Trin stepped outside into the baking sun. The smell of oil and scorched metal filled the air. The Harlequin was waiting on one of the nearby pads. All the crates of scrap had been offloaded and stacked neatly for processing. Seeing his crewmates emerge from the office, Kel waved goodbye to the landing pad crew, who look a little befuddled.

“I hate how happy you are about walking away from money,” Trin muttered.

“Wrong, Trin. I’m happy because we’re walking towards real money.”

“Do you even know how to sell this off?”

“I do not, but we’ll figure it out.” Mags took the lockbox from Trin to carry it the rest of the way to the ship. Just as they hit the ramp . . .

“Hey!”

Mags and Trin turned back to see the group that Kel had just left.

“What’s this shit about you owning a slave?”

Mags and Trin exchange a weary glance.

“He’s not a slave,” was all Mags could muster. The landing crew start to advance. “Dammit . . .”

Mags slapped the button for the ramp. The ramp didn’t move. The landing crew broke into a sprint when they realized what she was trying to do.

She hit it harder and the ramp suddenly began to rise into the ship. The first landing crewmen arrived a nanosecond too late. Muffled sounds of rocks being pelted at the hull emanated through the hold. Kel’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Sell good?”

The scrapyard owner finished balancing the figures for the day’s transactions. The sun was about to set. As dreadful as the day was for his sickness, the cold of the night was even worse. He felt the slight tickle at the back of his throat that would precipitate another coughing fit.

“Bevin! Did someone get my damn medicine?” he yelled into the intercom. There was no response.

The owner pushed himself out of his seat and shuffled outside. He shielded his eyes from the setting sun.

“Bevin, do you think it would actually be possible for somebody to do something when I tell you to?”

When the owner lowered his hand, he froze. His entire staff, fourteen people, were dead, executed with casual precision around the scrapyard. He saw Bevin among them.

The owner stumbled back, raced inside the office and slammed the door. He turned and leaned heavily against the door. His heart pounded and brought on another coughing fit.

He didn’t even notice the two people now in his waiting room. A man and a woman, wearing pristine, unmarked combat armor and holding silenced weapons.

“Hi.” The man spoke first. The owner nearly hit the ceiling. He feebly put his hands up and started blubbering.

“You recently acquired salvage of a Retaliator.”

The owner didn’t speak words, just noises. The man put a bullet through his thigh. He dropped to the ground.

“Yes! Yes!” The owner finally reclaimed the power of speech.

“Who sold it to you?” the man asked as he crossed the room and placed the still hot barrel of the pistol to the owner’s temple. “And be specific.”

“Came in earlier today. Some old beater of a ship. Two women. Human. Never seen ’em before.” The owner keyed something on his mobi. The woman studied the incoming data while the man kept his focus on the owner. “These two didn’t happen to have a lockbox with them, did they?”

“Yeah, I mean, yes. They did,” the owner said in between coughs. “Wouldn’t sell it.”

“These women give a name?”

“Just the reg on the ship.”

“Yeah, those are fake,” The woman said without looking up from her mobi. The man looked at the owner and sighed.

“Wait —”

Bang. The man stood and wiped blood spatter off the barrel.

“We have anything solid to go on?” he asked finally.

“Just this.” She held out her wrist.

There was a security cam still of Mags and Trin sitting in the waiting room. The man looked at them closely. He punched in on one of Trin’s Souther Titan tattoos.

“Let’s go.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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  CIG ID  17794

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 Category  Undefined

 Series  Drifters

 Comments  36

 Published  5 years ago (2020-09-23T02:00:00+00:00)

  [RSI Article](https://robertsspaceindustries.com/comm-link/serialized-fiction/17794-Drifters-Part-One) [API](https://api.star-citizen.wiki/api/comm-links/17794)