There was a large, slow
moving asteroid plunging through a worked-out sector of the ore-belt with a
whole lot of debris drifting in its wake like a comet tail. Not the normal
debris of rocks, ice and dust, but the wrecked hulks of spaceships, bulkheads,
tanks, engines and assorted scrap metals all tagging on behind in the
slipstream of the asteroid, gently rotating in the heat and cold of space.
In the centre of all
this junk spun an old space-station wheel, discarded by the Amerigues when it
had become too expensive to maintain as a supply station or to defend against
pirates and raiders. On it there was a massive billboard sign saying “SAM’S
JUNKYARD” And in smaller letters, “TRESPASSERS WILL BE RECYCLED”.
There were several craft
docked to the rim of the wheel, all in varying stages of incompleteness –
except for a black, cigar shaped missile with red flames painted on the side
and the name TARTARUS in bold black letters. A deadly looking creature, it was
basically just one giant rocket with a cockpit mounted on the front end.
The inside of the slowly
revolving station-wheel was even more chaotic than the outside. Thousands of
old ship and engine parts were stacked in trays, shelves and boxes along the
floors and walls. These had obviously been lovingly scavenged over many, many
years. There were several murky workshops on board with dangerously dilapidated
tools and equipment strewn everywhere. The living quarters were just as murky. There
was old grease, rust, and hardened black dirt on every visible surface.
Everything was filthy and caked with grunge. The smell of old oil assaulted the
sinuses the moment one came on board. All except for Sam’s sinuses. He’d
stopped smelling things years ago. He was even dirtier than his junkyard, with
a livid scar on his forehead half hidden by a shock of flaming red hair, and a
mouthful of rotten teeth from eating too many space-cookies. He had big ugly
blackheads on his bulbous red nose and rheumy little red eyes beneath fiery
ginger eyebrows. People found it hard to look him in the face. In fact people
found it hard to look at him at all. The only thing of beauty about him was the
tattoo of a cold-blooded and clawed creature coiling up and around his muscled
right arm and shoulder, culminating in a dragon’s head on the side of his
neck…seemingly whispering forever some devilish plot in his ear. The
predominant colours were black and red, like the ‘Tartarus’ outside.
He watched the tiny
flare of rockets as the ship reversed thrust to slow down. It was definitely
coming his way. Nothing else within 20,000 miles; just him, so they had to be
coming here. He clambered over a pile of junk, irritably kicking a clutch
assembly out of the way, and headed for the control room. It took him a while
to find the com-link amongst the debris on the desk. He didn’t often get visitors.
“Hello incoming shuttle.
Please state your Federation I.D. and business.”
While he waited his
thumb flicked the safety caps off the firing buttons of three howitzers perched
on the approach side of his station, or to call them by their generic name,
Rail-guns. Nasty little brutes they were. A Rail-gun was a pneumatic pump gun
that threw a five pound chunk of metal at the rate of five hundred per second
at two thousand miles per hour. Cumbersome and slow, but it takes only one of
these projectiles to disable any ship smaller than a cruiser. Trouble is, once
that hail of metal is unleashed into the universe, it doesn’t stop until it
hits something. And not even then does it stop.
“This is Cora Charter
here. I.D. on its way. Got some people here say they want to see you.”
“Why?”
“Apparently they have
need of your services.”
“How many?”
“Well, three people and
a very big lizard.”
Junkyard Sam was
intrigued. He hated visitors. Always trouble. But the big lizard interested
him. Instead of his usual curt response he said, “Hokay. Sending co-ordinates
and vectors. Just follow the runner beam. Docking-door will be lit up like a
Christmas tree. If you damage my station I will remove your genitals with a
claw hammer!”
The first leg that
stepped through the hatch was slim and shapely and wore a high heel shoe and a sheer
nylon stocking. Nevertheless Sam kept the laser pistol pointed unwaveringly at
the new arrivals. Hijackers came in all shapes and sizes. Women who frequented
places like this could be more dangerous than men. The rest of the lady came
through the door and wrinkled her nose at the smell. She was also very careful
not to touch anything. The next leg that came through the hatch was black and
about the size of a tree trunk. This was cause for some concern. Sam stepped
back to give it plenty of room. He relaxed a little when he saw the man was
blind, but he was still way too big for comfort. Then came Angelo who tripped
over the threshold and nearly fell into the room, followed by the biggest,
greenest chicken leg he’d ever seen. Noot stepped timidly into the room and for
the rest of the encounter Sam’s eyes never strayed far from those vicious
claws. He waited till they were all in and keyed the hatch shut.
“Well, well, well. Oh
me. What a pretty sight. You folks sure strange mix ‘n match. Say nothing of
the lizard fella.”
After that there was a
standing stare-off for a few minutes while both sides tried to take the measure
of the other. Junkyard Sam was no man to inspire trust or confidence in anyone,
and Angelo’s ragtag bunch of misfits and aliens looked equally disreputable.
“Well, well, well. Oh me,”
Junkyard Sam finally spoke. “So you interest in services? What services that
be?” he asked with a gruelling smile.
Angelo pulled himself
together.
“We need to hire you and
your ship.”
His ‘ship’ was fairly
well known in the betting circles on G.O.D. 4, which was how Belle had come to
know about it. It was probably the fastest Scout-class ship in the solar
system. People made more money out of his race victories than he did, which was
why he lived in this dump. But that was the way of the world.
“Is that so?” he said.
“Hokay. You step in office and we talk.”
The little office-kiosk
was in no better state than the rest of the ship. Fingered and filthy ledgers
and note books littered the battered grey steel desk in the centre. Hardly
legible receipts and bills were impaled on a rusty spike in one corner with a
cracked yellow plastic intercom-cum-phone in the other. There were bits of
scram-gear, rotary fan con-crystals, and fuel injectors mingling with a baked
bean can that served as an ashtray, and a coffee mug with ‘Happy Father’s Day’
printed on the side. There was also a bottle of green looking stuff that could
have been either for drinking or degreasing an engine.
“So. What on your mind?”
he said staring unabashedly at Belle’s boobs.
“Well I know what you got on your mind but you ain’t
getting it,” she said, rearranging her assets to best advantage.
“We want to hire you to
take us somewhere,” said Angelo.
“This is junkyard if you
notice. Why no take taxi? They go most place.”
“We need you to take us
down the wormhole.”
Sam stopped speaking for
so long it looked like he had solidified in mid-air, like most of the grease
around here.
“You not enough money.”
“We don’t have any money.”
“Sound better and better,”
he grinned at Belladonna with a certain eagerness in his bearing. “So?” he
asked lasciviously. “How you wan pay?” and laughed pointedly at her.
“You can forget about
that for a start. You don’t have enough
money for that. Not if you worked
your whole life,” said Belle, making a point of hanging onto Righteous’ arm.
Righteous’ face was inscrutable. One couldn’t tell what he felt about Belle,
but he certainly wasn’t doing anything to avoid her attentions.
“Drink?” asked Sam,
uncorking the previously mentioned bottle and pouring some oily fluid into his
cup.
“No thanks,” she said,
and shivered at the thought. Angelo also shook his head though Sam had cast him
nary a glance.
“So what you got? You
got have something, else you not come.” Sam took a deep swig of the liquid and clenched
his teeth as it went down. Then he looked from one silent face to the next.
“Ahhh. Well, you wastin’
my time then?”
“I can tell you where Eric is,” said Righteous
out of the blue.
Sam almost didn’t hear
what he said. It took a few seconds before the import of the words penetrated
his brain. News like that was hard to hear and too good to be believed.
“You got big talk mister
black and blind. What you say about Eric?” His face sidled into a cunning,
cruel leer. Eric. The name made his heart thump with unaccustomed excitement.
“What you know? I think
you know nothing,” he said louder.
“He’s the Prophet,” said
Belle. “He knows.”
“I know you want to find
him,” said Righteous. “And I know where he is.”
Sam stared blankly at
Righteous, not knowing which way to turn from the emotions that suddenly raged
within his bosom. Belle leaned her head lovingly on Righteous’ arm and stroked
his bicep tenderly. “This is so romantic,” she said.
“If you help us, we take
you to him,” said Righteous.
Junkyard Sam looked as
if his insides were being torn apart by wild horses. His normally ruddy face
had taken on a sinister, more passionate hue, and his nose blazed like a
beacon.
“If you mess with me I do
bad tings with you,” he whispered the threat like the echo of an avalanche
about to break free.
“He don’t mess. He’s the
Prophet. He knows everything,” said Belle, stroking his arm lovingly.
Junkyard Sam
contemplated the offer for a mere nano-second.
“What for we wait? Les
go.”
