The Forgotten Planet

I stood on the deck of a holding berth staring in disbelief at one of the ugliest ships I had ever seen. It was a Prospector class trading vessel, which is a rectangular box-shaped craft with a smaller box welded roughly on the front that serves as the bridge. Utilitarian would have been the nicest thing one could say about this ship when it was fresh off the assembly line, but that was many years and many voyages prior. Now, it was covered with blast marks, random graffiti and what appeared to be a climbing vine of some sort that disappeared over the top of the vessel. Maxine and I shared a pained look.

Next to me was Russell, standing tall and proud with a look of joy on his face. Adan had the good sense to avoid eye contact. Beyond the ship lay rows of docking berths, some empty and others filled with every imaginable class and style of starship. I wondered if there was a better ship for sale among the masses and cursed myself silently for leaving this up to Adan and Russell.

“She’s great, right?” Russell said, beaming with enough wattage to a ship twice the size.

I was honestly concerned that he was losing his eyesight. If this was the best we could do up here, I wondered how bad the ships would have been planet-side. Adan quickly read my mood.

“A couple million credits don’t go that far when it comes to starships,” he said.

“I think I can see the galley through that hole,” I said, pointing to a gap in the hull plating.

“Well, she needs a few things,” Russell said carefully as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Some more hull plating, obviously, a deflector array, enviro scrubbers... “

Poochy took that moment to relieve himself on one of the landing struts.

“Dammit Poochy,” Adan scolded. “Bad dog.” Adan looked around guiltily and added, “I’m not cleaning that.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I answered. “It’s now probably the cleanest spot on the ship.”

“That’s something... Ironic maybe?” Maxine added.

I shrugged. “That or a paradox.”

Russell was on a roll and continued to plow forward with the short list of needed parts.

“- a Heisenberg manipulator, about a hundred meters of fiberoptic cable, a few nuc-cells...”

“Is there a refund policy on this thing,” I asked no one in particular.

“- a grav generator, lots of duct tape... oh, and a coffee pot.” Finally finished, Russell looked up expectantly.”

“Well, I don’t have any of those things on me,” I answered matter-of-factly.

“Was I supposed to be writing that down?” Adan asked. I was 92% sure he wasn’t being sarcastic.

“Do the fusion engines and the A-Drive work at least?” Max asked.

“The A-Drive works fine, but the sublight’s are fission, not fusion.

“Of course they are,” I sighed.

The difference between the two is about a century or so technologically. Basically, we had less acceleration and a lower top (sublight) speed than an outdated fusion vessel. A modern antimatter engine would quite literally fly circles around both of the nuclear varieties.

“Why don’t you and Adan patch the systems you can, while Galen and I see what we can scrounge up at the junker,” Maxine said.

“How about a nav unit too? Russell added. “And not one of those old Orion models. I don’t want to end up in a black hole or some folded-up pocket dimension.”

“Right, I’ll just put it on the expense account,” I answered. “Speaking of money, how much do I actually have to work with?”

“Nine and some change.”

“Well, I can definitely get you the coffee pot and some duct tape.” I said dryly.

“Maybe you could hack the register,” Adan said. “Between that and money-change con-”

Adan and I had gotten by almost exclusively on cons in our first few years after Pa was killed. There are probably still a few constable stations with our likenesses collecting dust on their wanted boards.

“Do you know the Kansas City Shuffle?” Max asked me.

Adan and I shared a surprised look. Now I was positive Adan had bitten off more than he could chew with this girl. Beauty, attitude and some classic con-game? She was definitely going to be trouble.

“Sure, I know it,” I answered. “You got a plan?”

“The beginnings of one,” Maxine replied. “Adan’s told me about some of your gizmos. Grab one of those cloaking devices and I’ll fill you in as we walk.”

…

“Damnit Poochy,” I hissed, “Get off me.” I pushed him away and he snorted and barked at me. The massive dude in line in front of me turned and stared at us.

“Hey, how’s things?” I asked.

He eyed the lumps in my overstuffed jacket, shook his head, and turned back around in line.

Three hours had passed since Max and I had left Russell and big brother back at our jacked-up new ship. I was in the checkout line of the station’s junkyard with an antique chrome espresso machine in my hands and Poochy nipping at my closed trench coat. A few poorly concealed stolen items under my coat clinked together every time Poochy bumped me, and the racket had finally drawn the attention of the Cindar male at the register. I gave him a nervous smile and wiped nonexistent sweat from my brow. So far, so good.

The junkyard’s exit was no more than twenty meters away, just past the register, the ancient, chain-smoking security guard and the wide-open chain linked gate. Behind me, row after row of wrecked space vessels and ground vehicles lined the bare-metal floor of the station. Potential customers were free to look through the vehicles and dismantle whatever systems they wanted to purchase. A three-meter-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire encircled the entire area, in order to dissuade casual thieves from simply wandering off with valuable items. Hence the con.

This type of place can be pretty hit-and-miss for good finds – except for a few special parts, Betty’s made out of castoff equipment scavenged from countless places just like this – but we found a Bermuda scout vessel with useless engines but with life support and navigation intact. Between that a few other gems like the massive fission-powered tractor I found in the farthest corner of the yard, I was able to cobble together the absolute bare minimum of the items we needed to make the ship flightworthy. The coffee maker had actually turned out to be the hardest item to find.

Max snuck a look back at me from the front of the line, and I caught a quick uptick of her lips. Next to her was a two-meter-tall labor-bot we’d rented earlier. It was there to push a hover platform that was loaded with the items we actually wanted. Well, sort of. The quarter ton of deck plating, a deflector array, a couple of scrubbers that had seen better days, a few coils of cable and the two uranium fuel rods packed up in a lead-lined box were plainly visible.

It was all piled in such a way that it left a middle, hollow area big enough to fit, among other things, a Heisenberg manipulator, an admittedly undersized quantum gravity generator and a much-maligned Orion navigation system. A powered-up WaveWrapper® sat in the cubby along with the high-end merchandise, adding an extra layer of almost-invisibility in case the proprietor wanted to take a closer look.

Obviously, station personnel could check the security video, but all they’d see is a loop of the innocuous footage spiced from the last two weeks. The hack was easy, and the program is one I wrote years ago.

Poochy aggressively nosed my jacket, eliciting more clanking from the poorly hidden holographic systems and video playback units I was packing. The Cindar at the register – whose name tag said Bob – talked into his wrister and moments later, a large Terran in overalls came to stand beside him. Then they both glared at me. I smiled, trying to look ill at ease. It’s funny. I don’t get nervous playing roles, even when I get myself into sketchy situations. Maybe the characters I play don’t get nervous? It’s a conundrum.

“Dammit Poochy, get down,” I growled while pushing him away. He growled back at me, admittedly with more spunk.

Maxine’s mechanical pushed the platform up to the register, but the attendant didn’t appear to notice.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Maxine said to Bob.

Bob finally glanced at her, and then did a double-take. Maxine’s power over the opposite sex apparently worked cross-species. Cindar’s are mammalian too, they just look like they came off a lower branch of the evolutionary tree. Stooped shoulders, a brow ridge like a cliff, and far too much body hair. “Yes, ma’am?” he said. He tried to look back at me, but it was as-if his eyeballs weren’t cooperating. They kept working their way back over to Max.

“Your prices weren’t marked as far as I could tell. How much is all this?” she asked, gesturing to her platform.

Bob did a cursory glance, and then had the robot separate the pile a bit so he could see under the top layers. The man in coveralls, who I assumed was the boss, didn’t take his eyes off me.

“I don’t know... $14,500 sound good?” Bob asked the boss. The man just nodded absentmindedly. He seemed to only have eyes for me.

“That seems a bit high for just a bit of scrap,” Maxine replied. “It’s for a sculpture I’m working on for the Sultana of Penzance.”

He gave her a confused look. “You’re putting enriched uranium rods in a statue?”

“Well, he’s a fertility deity,” she said. She rested a hand on Bob’s arm and added, “I want him to be virile.”

Bob swallowed hard.

“Hey,” I said, louder than was necessary and gesturing to my coffee pot. “Can I just give you fifty credits for this? I’m in a huge hurry.” That brought no verbal response, but their eyes narrowed, and frowns deepened.

“You know, I’m not even sure I need all this,” Maxine said, gesturing at the pile.

“You just wait your turn pal,” the boss barked at me. Then to Maxine in a more civil voice, “You can have it for ten.”

“I don’t know... What’s your return policy?” Maxine asked indecisively.

“There isn’t one,” the boss answered gruffly.

“I could always use driftwood. Do you think that would look good, Bob?”

The guy at the register and the boss both looked at her blankly. People were now piling up behind me, and judging by the murmurs and rude comments, the crowd was entering the beginning stages of restlessness.

“The driftwood I mean,” Maxine continued. “I guess I need to decide if my theme is post-modern or rustic.”

“I really like driftwood myself,” Bob confided. The boss glared at him slack jawed. He’d started out pale skinned, but his face was getting greener and greener as his copper blood pooled in his cheeks.

“Seriously, I’m in a hurry,” I groaned. Poochy continued to nip and paw at my jacket, and the stolen junk clinked some more.

“Listen lady, I don’t have time for this,” the boss said. He looked at her and said, “eighty-seven fifty... take it or leave it.” When his head turned, I pulled the raw chuck of meat out of my jacket and dropped it towards Poochy’s mouth. He gobbled it up so fast, I almost lost a finger.

Maxine looked as if she was offended but was trying to keep her temper under control. “I suppose that sounds reasonable.”

She paid Bob, and then guided the labor-bot and the quarter-million in stolen merchandise out the front gate.

“Have a nice day,” she said, turning to wave.

“Come back now, ya hear,” Bob called after her.

“Uh-huh,” the boss said, gaze fixed on me.

“Hey fellas,” I asked cheerfully. “Do you have any sort of tool loaning program? I’ve got a third party check I can leave as collateral.”