Salvagers

Salvagers

by Cameron Craig

Cameron Craig is a writer based in the Boston area. He wrote screenplays for nearly a decade before deciding to make the switch over to novels. When he’s not writing fiction, he can be found likely watching movies, playing video games or cheering on his hometown team the Tampa Bay Lightning.

More TTTV stories by Cameron Craig:

https://talltaletv.com/tag/cameron-craig/

 

 

Varin stood in the airlock waiting for the pressurization sequence to finish. He drew his handgun from its holster on his waist. It was a standard issue Salvage Federation hand cannon used by all salvage runners. It was cheap and only held eight rounds, but had enough stopping power to neutralize any threat with a well placed shot. The headlamps on both sides of his helmet’s visor shined through the single circular window on the airlock door, but wasn’t bright enough to see inside the derelict ship.

“Nothing on thermal scans,” Alex said, his voice coming through Varin’s helmet. “She has no power.”

“Can you get lights on her?” Varin asked.

“Working on it.”

The pressurization sequence finished with a loud hiss. Varin pressed a button beside the airlock door and it slid open. He stepped aboard the dark derelict ship, his headlamps lighting the way. Immediately on the ground was a trail of blood leading from the kitchen to the engine room. He whipped around, checking his corners and every direction for a possible threat as his headlamps weren’t bright enough to see much of his periphery.

“Careful, boy,” Jackson said, his voice also coming through Varin’s helmet.

“Got blood. Heading for the engine room,” Varin said. He descended the central narrow stairs and opened a door slightly askew and cleared the room. “Nothing,” he said, looking over the barren room with only some cargo containers opened, the engine untouched. He went back up the stairs and cleared the other rooms. “Nothing in medical, cargo, kitchen or living quarters.”

“Eh, figured,” Jackson said, disappointed. “I’m going to start her up.”

A low rumble reverberated throughout the ship. Varin headed for the captain’s quarters. He always checked the captain’s quarters last due to their location on the front of the ship, secluded from the rest of the rooms. On his way, he spotted a few bullet holes in the wall beside the kitchen with some splatters of blood. “Pirates,” he said.

“Sorry, mate,” Alex said sympathetically.

Salvaging a ship after pirates was almost always the worst case scenario. Not only was it a reminder that they were in unsafe space, but pirates usually left little of value behind. It didn’t affect Jackson and Alex’s wage as much as it affected Varin’s. Items found in the cargo holds were usually split among the crew. Pilots and engineers had fixed rates, something they had opted for in favor of more steady paychecks. The runners–the ones who boarded the ships–earned low wages, but could keep what they found. A runner could make a month’s wage in one salvage if they found high value items, or HVIs. It was rare, but for many it was the intriguing part of the job. Varin always suspected it was a predatory decision to lure in young men with little work experience to do a dangerous job with misleading promises of making lots of money. But for those like Varin, without advanced education or skills, opportunity was limited. And a fluctuating income was better than no income.

Varin approached the captain’s quarters.

“She should have power now,” Alex said.

The lights flicked on and Varin entered the room.

“Beginning cargo hold transfer,” Jackson said. “Looks like their cargo hold wasn’t big enough. They left some behind.”

“Anything good?” Alex asked.

“Eh, some nitrogen and some mined corrinstar.”

Varin tuned out of their conversation. Nitrogen and corrinstar wasn’t valuable unless in a large quantity. The size of this mining barge wasn’t big enough to hold such. But, it was better than nothing.

“Black box is gone,” Varin said. “Manifesto too.” Varin opened the closet door and found just a few hanging shirts and a few misplaced drawers. “Closet was picked clean.”

“Alright, let’s get a move on it,” Alex instructed the crew.

Varin detached a small wire from a device on the wrist of his spacesuit and plugged it into the captain’s terminal, opposite the bed.

There was one silver lining to salvaging after pirates. Pirates usually forfeited downloading data. Most pirates didn’t have the proper tools as the space suits which came with the ability to download were supplied by the Salvaging Federation. Downloading data took a few minutes–minutes pirates didn’t have if they wanted to make a quick escape to evade the response from a distress call. However, that depended on what area of space they were in.

Varin logged in to the terminal. The ship belonged to Rory Hunter, a forty-year old man from Varindrack, a nearby planet about a week’s flight away. Varin checked the data on the terminal. There were blueprints and schematics for all sorts of weaponry, afterburners and more he didn’t have time to sift through. For any other runner, this was a treasure–a jackpot of extreme HVIs. But for Varin, these didn’t have any monetary value. He didn’t sell personal items which he found if he could trace the pilot’s family. He believed the family should be entitled to the captain’s belongings despite the law stating whoever finds a derelict ship is entitled to it. He couldn’t bring himself to sell them if there was a chance the possessions could help ease a family’s pain and grief of losing a loved one. Even if only a little, he couldn’t sell them.

“Uh, Varin. You have to get out of there,” Alex said, hurriedly.

“Pirates?”

“Got an inbound about four minutes away.”

“Shit,” Jackson said. “I’m salvaging what I can.”

“No! Turn it off!” Alex demanded.

The lights in the derelict ship dimmed. Varin began the download.

“Varin, come on!” Alex yelled.

“Give me a second!”

“They’re picking up speed. Inbound in three minutes!”

“I’m on my way.” Varin said, lying, the download nearly done.

“Come on, kid!” Jackson yelled.

The download finished. Varin unplugged from the terminal and ran for the airlock. The lights went out. He pressed a button on the airlock door and jumped inside.

“Come on!” Alex yelled.

After a moment the airlock’s pressurization process finished. Varin ran across the tether and back inside the airlock of the salvage ship.

“I’m in. Go!” Varin yelled.

The tether detached from the derelict ship and retracted into the salvaging ship. Varin looked out the window of the airlock as the ship began to turn around. He braced himself from the force of the turn, watching the derelict ship drift silently through the darkness. He thought about the money they’d lost from not salvaging the wreckage more than his own safety.

The airlock opened and Varin fell inside the bridge. He began buckling himself up to the seat immediately on the wall to his left. It was an emergency seat for these types of situations.

“You better have something good, kid!” Alex yelled, keeping his eyes on the cockpit’s dashboard and lifting the cyclic control stick.

Varin saw the approaching pirate vessel from the front window of the cockpit. It was faint among the black backdrop of space, but the fact that he could see it meant it was close.

“Did you get anything?” Jackson asked, his voice coming through Varin’s helmet.

As the salvage ship turned around and flew to safety, Varin looked down at his wrist device which stored the data of the blueprints and schematics. “No. Nothing.”

“Initiating docking sequence,” the salvaging ship’s AI said.

A blue beam of light flashed over the cockpit’s window and engulfed the ship. It was Olympus Station’s artificial gravity pulling the ship in. The station was a massive structure silently drifting through space with multiple open bays where heavy traffic of ships flew in and out of. It was a major port for freight ships and the headquarters of many multi-galaxy federations. Its location and heavy traffic deterred pirates from coming near it, but made them congregate just outside looking for high value targets that flew just far enough off the path to engage. This in turn also generated good salvaging opportunities and why the Salvaging Federation was based out of Olympus Station.

The crew unbuckled from their chairs and made way for the central console on the bridge. It was a waist high circle protruding from the ground that acted as a communication device, a navigation device and a mission briefing. It was also the place the crew met to receive payment.

Jackson walked up from the central staircase that led to the engine room and cargo hold. “You scared us, kid.”

“Sorry,” Varin said. He didn’t like being called a kid as he was thirty-three and only eight years Jackson’s junior, but he didn’t care enough to bring it up. Especially not as they were about to get paid and it was the end of their work day.

The crew all plugged into the center console. A small display projected in front of each of their faces.

“Alright, captain’s first,” Alex joked, pressing a few buttons on his wrist device. ‘+1812’ flashed on the display in front of him. “And for you,” he said to Jackson. ‘+1352’ flashed on Jackson’s display. “That only leaves six hundred for beer,” Alex said.

Jackson laughed. “I’ll just cut back a day.”

Varin cracked a smile. Alex made that same joke every time, and Jackson always found it funny.

“And for our runner…” Alex said.

‘+527’ flashed on Varin’s display.

Jackson immediately patted Varin on the back. “Sorry, kid.”

“Unlucky run,” Alex said, trying to comfort Varin as he unplugged. “I’ve heard some chatter about some wrecks in another sector that’s safe. Supposedly a lot of guys found HVIs. We’ll check it out next week.”

“Thanks guys,” Varin said, trying not to let his disappointment show. “I don’t want to put anyone in any more danger.”

“Nonsense,” Alex dismissed. “I want to get you a big find. Jessica’s birthday is coming up, right?”

Varin nodded. “It is,” he said, looking at the small amount still on the display.

Varin walked through the hallway of one of the residential wards in Olympus Station. They were long and narrow hallways with a musty smell that never seemed to go away. Some of the white panels on the walls were chipped and the painted lines used for directions were nearly completely faded. There were TVs behind plexiglass installed into the walls that had been broken and looted for parts. He walked past a few people sitting outside apartment doors asking for money.

“Come on, Varin,” one of the men said as Varin passed him.

“Sorry, Ralph. Tough week.”

Ralph turned his head, waiting for the next person to walk by.

Varin unlocked his door and entered his apartment. It was a studio with minimal furniture and nearly no decorations. The only things hanging on the walls were digital drawings drawn by Jessica at school.

“Daddy!” Jessica said, running over to Varin, giving him a big hug.

Varin put his keys down on the small table beside the door, a framed picture of him, his late wife and Jessica atop it.

Lola got up from the kitchen table and grabbed her purse.

“Homework is done?” Varin asked.

“Yes. She did well,” Lola said. “Always so well behaved. There’s pasta on,” she said, pointing behind her to the kitchenette while she walked for the door. At the door, she stopped, turned to Varin and held out the device on his wrist. Varin typed in a few numbers and swiped up, sending her payment. ‘+80’ flashed on Lola’s display before she powered it down.

“Do you need me to walk you to your door?” Varin asked. “Ralph’s out there.”

“No, I’ll be fine.” She turned toward Jessica. “Bye Jess, see you monday.”

“Bye, Lola.”

Lola exited the apartment.

“How do you like her? Do you like Lola?”

“She’s so nice and cool,” Jessica said. “And she’s funny. You’re not going to get that other girl again are you? I don’t like her. She’s mean.”

Varin wanted to. Other babysitters were cheaper, but he knew that Lola was a better fit. He couldn’t do that to Jessica. He made a promise.

“The only thing I don’t like about Lola is she always makes pasta,” Jess said.

“Well, that’s because I told her too.”

“Why?”

“It’s just easier.” He thought the half-truth would be enough to satisfy her question. It was easier, but it was also much cheaper than buying meat. Meat on Olympus Station was cheaper than other stations as it had its own livestock and sectors for growing it artificially, but it was still expensive. He poured some tomato sauce in a pan. “Have you thought about what you want for your birthday yet?”

“Um…” Jessica hesitated, getting seated at the table. “New shoes.”

It pained him when she gave practical answers. This was an ongoing battle he was having for the past few weeks. “Come on, don’t you want something fun?” he said, pouring spices into the tomato sauce.

“I do. But I need new shoes. Those make my feet hurt. Plus there’s a field trip to one of the station’s greenhouses and Ms. Catchenberg said I need sturdy shoes to walk on the rocks. We’re going to learn about plants.” She smiled wide, excited.

He forgot about the field trip. It was more money he had to spend, but of course he was going to pay it no matter how much it was. He couldn’t let that happen to her. He looked at the only framed picture in the apartment that wasn’t a digital drawing from Jessica, a family photo which hung on the wall behind the kitchen table. He made a promise.

Varin poured the sauce into the pasta, quickly put it on a plate and served Jessica.

“Where’s yours?” Jessica asked.

“I ate on the way here.” He tried to keep a straight face, hoping she couldn’t hear his stomach rumbling from hunger.

Jessica playfully pouted then dug in.

“I know, I know. You hate it when I do that. But I was running late today.”

“That’s okay,” she said with a face full of food.

Varin looked at her shoes by the door. They had holes in the sides and the stitching keeping them together was frayed. “Come on, what else do you want for your birthday?”

“Hmmm…” Jessica said, taking another bite.

“Tell you what,” Varin said, “I want you to come back from the field trip with a list of three things you want for your birthday.”

“Three?!” she beamed with excitement.

“Three,” he repeated, cracking a huge smile, taking her plate into the kitchen.“Now go brush your teeth.”

“Three!” she yelled as she ran for the bathroom.

Varin waited to hear the faucet run. As soon as it did, he scraped the remaining pieces of half-eaten pasta into his mouth. He wiped his face with a rag so Jessica wouldn’t see the tomato sauce on his lips.

He put the plate into the sink and looked at the device on his wrist, the blueprints and schematics still stored on it. Usually at night after Jessica was asleep, he would spend an hour or two tracking down the family of the possessions he recovered.

“Daddy?” Jessica called from the bathroom.

“What is it?”

“The water isn’t working again.”

He tried the faucet next to him. It ran for a second before tapering off to a slow drip of brown droplets.

Tonight he wouldn’t research. Instead, he decided to sleep on it and revisit the idea tomorrow. Despite the value of the blueprints and schematics being more than he had ever found, this time, he didn’t find the matter urgent.

Varin sat on a wobbly steel chair in a room with a dozen other runners. He held a card indicating he was runner number eight. He was in the scrappers’ pool, a room where the runners came to sell their findings to the Salvaging Federation. It was a small room on the ninth floor of the northwest industrial wing of the station. It was humid, dirty and the room smelled like machinery and the foul stench of body odor. The room looked like it hadn’t been mopped or even cleaned in months, dust balls kicking about.

“Runner number seven,” the automated voice called out over the crackling speakers in the room. The runner entered the scrapper’s room.

Varin could seek out an independent scrapper for the potential of a better price, but preferred not to as he heard many stories of others who were threatened or scammed. It usually wasn’t worth the time and potential danger. It’s why the room had a dozen runners in it despite there only being eight chairs. Besides, it was a risk he couldn’t take. He made a promise.

Some of the runners were regulars, talking in small groups, comparing their findings and tactics. One thing that was never discussed was where they found their salvage. It was one of the many ways Varin felt different from the other runners. Other runners had an intrinsic competitiveness they liked to flaunt in the scrappers’ pool. Many had the idea that the value of their findings were proof of being a better runner. Varin never understood it and didn’t engage with it. He thought the position was entirely luck dependent. One could increase their chance of HVIs by talking, making connections and salvaging in risky areas, but in the end it all came down to luck. He thought instead of competing with one another, they should join together and advocate for a higher wage or share secrets so that others can make more money, even if only a little. Even on a good week of finding HVIs they were all still poor. It was the only thing he had in common with the other runners.

“Runner number eight,” the automated voice called. Varin stood up and entered the scrappers room. It was a small room blocked off with chain-link fences above the waist, a small table between the scrapper and the door. Behind the scrapper was a wall dominated by a computer and storage shelves for physical salvage brought to him.

The scrapper had a mechanical arm from his right elbow down and an eye augmentation allowing him to scan and zoom his vision. These were the usual augmentations for scrappers as it helped them observe the stuff brought to them.

“Plug in,” the scraper instructed with a groggy voice, plugging his own wrist device into the table he stood behind. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

“Some HVIs,” Varin said quietly, plugging in.

“More specific,” the scrapper said, annoyed.

“Blueprints and schematics. Looks like weaponry, shields, afterburners.”

The scrapper’s eye augmentation zoomed in on the display that projected out of the table. “Well, look at that. What a find.” The scrapper scrolled through a few of the visual representations of the schematics while looking at the finer details. “Where did you find this?” the scrapper asked enthusiastically.

Varin tried to keep a calm demeanor, despite internally being thrilled at the scrapper’s response. “I can’t say. I honestly don’t know.” He hoped the scrapper’s enthusiasm would translate directly into more money. He came in expecting to make 9,000 credits from this find.

“You haven’t sold much it looks like,” the scrapper said, reading over Varin’s information on the display. “You sold some awhile ago, but nothing in the past five years. Why? You go to independent scrappers down in the marketplace? They didn’t want these?”

“No, I don’t go to anyone else.”

“So either you’re a shit runner with an extremely lucky find, or you’re lying to me.”

“I just usually don’t sell what I find.”

“No?” the scrapper laughed heartily. “What are you living on the ship?” the scraper cackled at his own joke. “Giving it to your captain for rent?”

“How much for it?” Varin said, trying not to get annoyed.

“Well, it’s a pretty find,” the scrapper said, looking over the blueprints again, adjusting his eye. “Afterburners, warp drives, weaponry, shield batteries, mining sentries…”

“It’s a very good find,” Varin said sternly, trying to subtly let the scrapper know that he knows the value so he won’t be shorted.

“But these levels of blueprints and schematics,” the scrapper continued, “is going to take a lot of time to sell. Some of these are military grade. It’ll take me a while to find the right buyer. You are either new or lying about selling stuff. So I’ll tell you what. Like I do with all new runners, I’ll buy these for a flat rate now and depending on how fast and easy I sell them, I’ll buy your next stuff at a higher price.”

It wasn’t exactly the answer Varin wanted, but it could have been worse. “How much?” he asked.

“I’ll give you 5,800 credits.”

Well, perhaps it couldn’t get worse. Varin thought that was an insultingly low offer, but didn’t want to show his frustration.

“Give me 6.5.”

“I’ll give you 6,000 and it’s my final offer. I don’t usually barter prices because if you don’t sell to me I can just send you on your way to deal with the dogs in the marketplaces.”

“The fact that you’re bartering shows me you want them. Give me 6.5 and you can forget the deal about my next sales.”

“You won’t be back?” the scraper asked in disbelief. “You’re really going to go to those savages in the marketplaces?”

“I’m not going to them. But I won’t be back.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I usually don’t sell what I find.”

“Which tells me, you need this money.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment. The scrapper took a deep inhale. “6.5,” he said.

They shook on the deal and the scrapper transferred 6,500 credits to Varin.

Varin walked through the hallway of the residential wards. He held a pair of new black and pink boots for Jessica. He wanted to wrap them as a gift but remembered hating getting clothes and shoes as gifts when he was a kid. He understood it now, but didn’t want this to count as one of her three gifts. He wanted to give her what he never had.

He walked toward a small group of people standing in the doorway of their apartment. It was a family of three, wrapped in blankets from the cold, sniffling. But even at a quick glance, Varin knew those weren’t the sniffles of people who were sick. This family was crying. A man in a suit stood before them.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” the man in the suit said. “From the damage to the hull, independent investigators believe it was pirates.”

“Was there anything left?” the elderly woman asked, wiping her tears.

“Sorry,” the man said, “looks like salvagers got to Roy’s ship before anyone else.”

The woman turned and fell into the arms of the younger man standing beside her.

“Was anything recovered from his terminal?” the younger man asked, hugging the elderly woman.

“I’m afraid not.”

Varin overheard as he walked by, looking down at the boots in his hand.

“My condolences,” the man said. “Someone will be reaching out to you shortly. Take care.” He turned and walked down the hallway.

Varin stopped, turned around and made eye contact with the family. They all held each other, wiping their tears. He wanted to say something to them, for it was their family’s wealth he was holding in his hands. For a moment, he wanted to talk to them, apologize and hoped they’d be sympathetic and understanding of the hard times of which they shared. But he turned back around and continued to walk down the hallway, away from the family.

He stared down at the boots in his hand again. “I made a promise,” he kept repeating to himself. “I made a promise.”