Salvage Stories 1

*Burst of static, followed by sounds of shuffling and a man grunting. His voice is whiskey-dark but gentle with a slow drawl*

Alright, is this working now? I’ll take it from the red light that it is.

Ain’t used citizens’ band radio much, not for anything but listening, but a friend of mine said you lot liked a story now and again. Now I know most of you don’t know who the hell I am, so here’s a little background. Don’t worry, I’ll make it quick.

You can call me Jack, if you do. I run salvage and delivery on my own, freelance-like. Got a couple buddies I been in the business with for a long time, though we go our own ways for much of the year. We was sitting at that big station by Della’s Halo out in Adonis during one of our irregular meetups, me yacking on over a drink about some such thing that happened to me—you know how it is out here—and Hugh says I oughta write some of these down, maybe write a book. Out of the blue, I might add; he’s never once said nothing about my stories except maybe a nod or a laugh.

Naw, I says. Graham agrees, says how you can’t reach nobody with books these days, what with the Terra-owned systems being so intent on cultural isolation. Now radio, he says, that’s how you get your voice out there. No restrictions or rules, really. Broadcast to anyone within the system who wants to listen, carry on to the next, keep spreading your message.

Now I never considered myself much of a storyteller, but these two guys have been listening to me jabber at our meetups for nigh on 30 years now. Sometimes a small crowd gathers, though I tend to get as many laughs and head shakes as nods. Guess something I’m saying could be worth hearing.

*Jack barks a laugh*

Listen to me go on. I don’t want none of you thinking I’ve got a big head or nothing. I’ve been out here stripping alloy from dead hulls and running boxes halfway across the galaxy for much of my life just like lots of folks, a whole lot of ‘em, and they know as well as I do that sometimes you see something you can’t quite figure. Near anyone who spends more than half a year off-planet has a story, ‘cept maybe the lucky ones.

*There’s a pause followed by the flick of a lighter, the crackle of ember, and a long, slow exhale*

So, whoever you are, just know you’re not alone in it.

–

And with that, let me tell you about the time I nearly met myself.

I’ve been sitting in the pilot’s seat of an old salvage ship for a long time now—a Corvus model that was already an antique when I bought it, but it was top-of-the-line for its time. Built to strip hulls down to the frame like meat off a bone, grind out the impurities, and auto-load the cargo bay with sleek little bars of metal used for just about everything these days.

Of course, times change and so does technology, so over the years I made a few changes myself. Ripped out some stuff I didn’t need, bolted on some stuff I did need, and upgraded everything else to modern standards if you squint at it just right. You can hardly call it a Corvus anymore. Hugh calls it a “bespoke nightmare.” Graham calls it “that thing you built.” I call it Feast because that’s what it does, ravenously, peeling back a ship’s skin like wet paper. Whatever you want to call it, it’s mine, and I guess my point is that it’s just an odd bird.

Odd in part because I changed out my hailing signal to something with a bit more personality. The standard beep-beep-de-bleep is fine but I like to think I’m a fun guy and I’d like to think whoever I’m hailing will appreciate something fun, too. It’s the opening melody from that song Tell Me Like It Is by Blinders—unless you were in the Agrera-Stein system a decade ago, I don’t imagine you’re likely to have heard it. Regardless, it’s a fun little tune and it typically affords me a return hail in good spirits.

*Rustling, then an approving grunt as ice clinks into a glass; liquid pours*

But to the actual story. So I’m floating about the outer edge of the Jeppaari system after an unfortunate run-in. It was, ahh, with some people I didn’t want to see, so I left in an almighty scramble to strand them searching the black for a ship that weren’t there no more. Ol’ Jack still has a few tricks, and Feast knows how to keep up. Regardless, nothing goes particularly smoothly and I end up floating with a couple drops of fuel left and nothing but essential life support systems to keep me company. Of course, the void is as barren as it is bountiful, and hell if I don’t spot something big and broken right out the window after, what, maybe two days of being adrift? Not so long, all things considered. I ping out a scan and Feast lights up with tidings of fuel and supplies. I spin up the engines to the highest power I can afford and putter my way towards it.

No scary story here, I tell myself as I come in close. Sure, it’s a four-crew ship with a hole blown in the side of it, but I’ve been out here long enough to, let’s say, compartmentalize. Salvage is the shadow bound to the heels of tragedy—the inevitable response, really—so a couple bodies don’t bother me. Just part of the business. And it would be a shame to let all this metal go to waste, so I make use. Siphon what fuel was left, strip enough metal to fill my cargo hold to the seams, and even grab the only case of water that wasn’t reduced to ice crystals. Damn thing just bumps right into my airlock door like it’s knocking politely, so I suit up and lean out to grab it like a fan reaching over the outfield wall for a foul ball.

Now I’ve not considered myself a man of much luck for quite some time now, not like the stockpiles I used to have, but sometimes… you know? Sometimes the weight slides in your favor. So I’ve set my course for a salvage station deeper into the system and am happily stacking bottles of water in the minifridge, when one of my favorite lights on the radar panel starts to blink: apparently there’s a much closer salvage station nearby. A small one too, one I’ve never heard of and isn’t labeled on the map, but a new station don’t surprise me much. In low-population systems like Jeppaari, the ones with just one major station, it’s not uncommon to see little places pop up to fill in the gaps. For the folks that can’t quite afford to jump two or three planets away and back again in one go, you understand. So I count my blessings and set the new course, feeling like Mr. Big-Time.

*A sip followed by a satisfied sigh, then ice clinking as the glass is set down; Jack chuckles*

So, I get in hailing range and send out a request to land. Da-da-da daaaa d-d-daaa goes my signal but the response doesn’t come right away. I wasn’t close enough to see much through the windshield, but small places like this don’t tend to get busy enough to make you wait, and there’s no traffic on my sensors. Eventually, I get a short hail back. A woman’s voice pops over the comms, says ‘That was quick. You forget something?’ and I see permission to land at pad 2. Now, I get confused for someone else from time to time on account of my face being, well, common I suppose, but I don’t never get my ship mistaken. And with that little tune my hail plays? Come on. This woman is confused, I tell myself—being alone out at the fringes can do that—but I been confused myself and “confused” don’t always mean “dangerous.” Sounded nice enough, I assure myself.

I plop Feast down on the pad and slip into my EVA suit cause there’s never a dock at little spots like this. Freeze my ass off as I hook up the transfer pipes to my cargo hold and tap away at the little screen to confirm the whole haul is taken. Once I feel the hum of the transfer belts, I head inside to see about my payment.

Places like these all tend to look the same; if you’re stuck planetside, think of a convenience store and an auto shop smashed together on a mining rig. So picture my surprise when I’m greeted with none of the above. Sure, there’s the counter and the transfer panel, but there’s only one and the rest of the space is just empty. I’m not sure there’s even oxygen until a woman I didn’t see waves me over to the counter. Her clothes are smeared in oil, and I’m realizing this place doesn’t look all that new, but she doesn’t have a helmet on so I take mine off and say hello.

‘Back so soon?’ she says with this sideways smile, like she’s not sure what she’s seeing. I don’t say nothing as I walk up, so she presses me. ‘How’d you load back up so fast? I’m glad to take the metal, d-don’t get me wrong. There’s always repairs to be done… I suppose.’

Now what I said before about being confused and dangerous: I start to doubt my own wisdom. Feel like maybe I’m being accused of something. I don’t like being accused. But I still need to collect my money, and that hinges on her hitting the little approve transfer button on her side of the counter. So I play nice. Flash a smile and say, ‘Ma’am, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m certain this is my first time at your establishment.’

She looks at me like I’m an idiot and says, ‘You sure?’ eyes all squinting and arms crossed. ‘You look just like the guy who was in here before. Same haul, too: 130 bars aluminum alloy, 70 bars steel, 40 bars copper, 10 bars gold.’ I only pause for a second before I start to answer, not even sure what I’m gonna say, but she cuts me off anyway. ‘Hell, that hailing signal, too. Don’t know the song, though.’

Now I know she’s messing with me. Why would she be messing with me? I understand loneliness, making up stories to pass the time, but I’m thinking this is no way to leave a positive impression. So I says to her, ‘You’re saying the guy in here before me had the same song as his hailing signal?’

‘Sounded the same, I think. Like I said, I don’t know the song.’ She says something about how maybe it was my twin, but I don’t got a brother. Maybe other ships have the same signal now, she says, but it’s a song from near 15 years ago and as many systems away. Maybe I’m part of a mining group, she says, but I don’t respond to that. She looks uncomfortable, and I’m not feeling too chummy no more, so I get to the point.

‘Could you approve the transfer, please?’ I ask.

She jumps and makes this sound like ‘oop!’ and taps at her screen so fast I thought for sure she was gonna crack the glass. I say thanks and head back to the airlock and she’s pressing her face up against one of the windows and says something real quiet. Think she says, ‘Same ship, too,’ but there’s no damn way, I’m telling myself. No damn way.

So I’m back in the pilot seat, Feast’s stomach empty and thrusters spinning hot, ready to pack this little interaction away in the maybe-this-will-be-funny-later slot in my brain. But something happens when I’m right at the edge of comm range, something I’m still not… so, I’ve just punched the coordinates for Jeppaari Primary Station and, in the moment after the warp engine thrums but before the stars bend and stretch around me, I hear it. I hear my hailing signal, that song, the song, that Da-da-da daaaa d-dammit! It’s just a few notes, but that’s my song. And then the engine kicks and I’m so far away that, in the seconds it takes to dump out of warp, there’s a hundred thousand miles between us.

*Sipping punctuated by moments of silence; liquid being poured; the creak of a chair leaning back*

I want to head back right away, turn around and go, but I have to check the comm logs. Maybe my hand bumped the panel or something, maybe I was just hearing my own signal being sent out by accident. But nope. One signal sent, two received: one from the station and one from me. Not from within the ship, not an echo or some technical error; it was my signal from an outside source. My hands are shaking as I spin my ship around and blast back. Then I pop out of warp, and there’s nothing.

It’s the same place, exactly where the map says my previous location was. I’m floating exactly where I’d been parked not two damn minutes before. I check and recheck and send out a hail in all directions on every frequency, but there’s just nothing.

*A gulp, and a glass being set down heavily*

I sit there a while, yeah, thinking. Check my bank account, shows the last deposit was from an anonymous source. Can’t trace it. I leave not long after. Just, uh… one of those things, I guess. Still got the money.

Anyway, when I’m telling this story to Hugh and Graham, they aren’t on board for a word of it. Soon as I mentioned a station not marked on the map, Hugh’s already had his laugh and Graham can’t believe Jack had another run-in with space ghosts and no proof to show for it. I say, take a look at my bank account, the deposit, but he says that don’t mean nothing. Guess he’s right.

*A shrill creak as the chair falls forward*

But I never said it was a ghost! I’d like that on the record.

Anyway, guess that’s the end of the story… never got no closure on it. So, uhm, with that, this is Jack signing out. Stay safe out there and, for God’s sake, don’t stop at unmarked stations unless you got no choice.

*Rustling and chair squeaking; a click, then static*