the proverbial hop, skip, and
jump away; in actual terms, it was a mere half an orbit.
He and Tychus were no strangers to scrap yards.
They had found them ideal spots for several things:
ditching hot ships and acquiring new ones
(temporarily—usual y the “new” vessels were on their
last legs and good only for quickly getting to where
they could find superior ones); scavenging parts for
hasty repairs; and sometimes simply hiding for a
while. Some had better security than others. This one
was classified as “moderate” by the Screaming
Skul s, but that was irrelevant. Their cover would al ow
them to approach openly, as they were doing now.
Jim magnified the image on the screen. “Yep,” he
said, looking over the slowly turning debris that littered
space for several hundred kilometers. “It’s a scrap
yard.”
The console beeped harshly, and a bright light
flashed. “Refurbish and Recovery Station 5034 to
approaching vessel. State your name and business.”
Jim pressed a button. “Refurbish and Recovery
Station 5034, this is Captain Jeffrey Ulysses
Nathanial Kincaid of the Linda Lou .”
Tychus snorted at the acronym. Jim gave him a
huge grin and continued: “We’ve got some cargo to
drop off.”
“You bet, Linda Lou . Your admittance code is
3857-J. Give it to everyone you deal with: It’s good for
the next six hours.”
“Thanks, roger that.”
“Piece of cake,” Tychus said. “We could do this
with our eyes closed.”
“We haven’t done anything yet.” The mission was
not to dock, have a chat with a purchasing agent at
the control center, and sel the items they were
carrying. The mission was just a bit more complicated
than that. They needed to get on board, get access to
the private offices, and steal the junker logs. The logs
dated back years and were scrupulous records of
every piece of junk that had been delivered and sold
during that time. Including the names of those who
had dropped off debris and those who had purchased
it from the scrap yard.
Apparently, according to Declan, there were people
out there—people overburdened with creds—who
would be thril ed to pieces to get their hands on this
sort of information. And the Skul s had been
contacted by a wealthy buyer who was one of those
tragical y overburdened people.
Took al kinds, Jim supposed.
He was maneuvering the ship in past the first field
of debris when his fone beeped. He scowled. “Take
her in, Tychus. I need a minute here.”
“Sure,” Tychus drawled, putting out his cigar on the
metal flooring. He glanced over at Jim, but Raynor
was entirely focused on his fone.
It displayed another set of coordinates back on
New Sydney. Jim swore softly, then put the fone away.
What the hel was going on? Why was Myles bugging
him? Would his mom stil not take the money?
“Your mama cal ing to ask why you were late
coming home from school?”
“Shut up,” said Jim. The joke hit uncomfortably
close to home, and he was in no mood to discuss it.
Tychus peered at him for a moment, then shrugged.
“Fine by me. Here, you take the controls. I need to use
the head.” He transferred control of navigation back to
Jim, rose, stretched, and left the bridge. Jim was so
distracted, he narrowly missed a large piece of debris
and had to swerve sharply. He heard Tychus cursing
from the head, and his spirits lifted a little.
When Tychus came back and plopped down in his
chair, he asked, “What? You ain’t broken in, beat the
security sensors, found the logs, and hightailed it out
of here in the time it takes me to take a leak? You’re
slipping, Jimmy.”
Jim snorted and grinned.
A short distance in, there was a platform that was
quite obviously not debris. This would be the check-in
station, but not their eventual goal. Jim maneuvered
into position. Someone in an exo-suit came out to
meet them, a data log in hand. Even in the vacuum of
space, Jim mused, there was red tape.
jump away; in actual terms, it was a mere half an orbit.
He and Tychus were no strangers to scrap yards.
They had found them ideal spots for several things:
ditching hot ships and acquiring new ones
(temporarily—usual y the “new” vessels were on their
last legs and good only for quickly getting to where
they could find superior ones); scavenging parts for
hasty repairs; and sometimes simply hiding for a
while. Some had better security than others. This one
was classified as “moderate” by the Screaming
Skul s, but that was irrelevant. Their cover would al ow
them to approach openly, as they were doing now.
Jim magnified the image on the screen. “Yep,” he
said, looking over the slowly turning debris that littered
space for several hundred kilometers. “It’s a scrap
yard.”
The console beeped harshly, and a bright light
flashed. “Refurbish and Recovery Station 5034 to
approaching vessel. State your name and business.”
Jim pressed a button. “Refurbish and Recovery
Station 5034, this is Captain Jeffrey Ulysses
Nathanial Kincaid of the Linda Lou .”
Tychus snorted at the acronym. Jim gave him a
huge grin and continued: “We’ve got some cargo to
drop off.”
“You bet, Linda Lou . Your admittance code is
3857-J. Give it to everyone you deal with: It’s good for
the next six hours.”
“Thanks, roger that.”
“Piece of cake,” Tychus said. “We could do this
with our eyes closed.”
“We haven’t done anything yet.” The mission was
not to dock, have a chat with a purchasing agent at
the control center, and sel the items they were
carrying. The mission was just a bit more complicated
than that. They needed to get on board, get access to
the private offices, and steal the junker logs. The logs
dated back years and were scrupulous records of
every piece of junk that had been delivered and sold
during that time. Including the names of those who
had dropped off debris and those who had purchased
it from the scrap yard.
Apparently, according to Declan, there were people
out there—people overburdened with creds—who
would be thril ed to pieces to get their hands on this
sort of information. And the Skul s had been
contacted by a wealthy buyer who was one of those
tragical y overburdened people.
Took al kinds, Jim supposed.
He was maneuvering the ship in past the first field
of debris when his fone beeped. He scowled. “Take
her in, Tychus. I need a minute here.”
“Sure,” Tychus drawled, putting out his cigar on the
metal flooring. He glanced over at Jim, but Raynor
was entirely focused on his fone.
It displayed another set of coordinates back on
New Sydney. Jim swore softly, then put the fone away.
What the hel was going on? Why was Myles bugging
him? Would his mom stil not take the money?
“Your mama cal ing to ask why you were late
coming home from school?”
“Shut up,” said Jim. The joke hit uncomfortably
close to home, and he was in no mood to discuss it.
Tychus peered at him for a moment, then shrugged.
“Fine by me. Here, you take the controls. I need to use
the head.” He transferred control of navigation back to
Jim, rose, stretched, and left the bridge. Jim was so
distracted, he narrowly missed a large piece of debris
and had to swerve sharply. He heard Tychus cursing
from the head, and his spirits lifted a little.
When Tychus came back and plopped down in his
chair, he asked, “What? You ain’t broken in, beat the
security sensors, found the logs, and hightailed it out
of here in the time it takes me to take a leak? You’re
slipping, Jimmy.”
Jim snorted and grinned.
A short distance in, there was a platform that was
quite obviously not debris. This would be the check-in
station, but not their eventual goal. Jim maneuvered
into position. Someone in an exo-suit came out to
meet them, a data log in hand. Even in the vacuum of
space, Jim mused, there was red tape.
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