Dark Salvage, Chapter 1
By E.S. Wynn
Date:
21st August, 2316. 12:27 (ES/GMT)
Location:
Kamm’s World, Upsilon Constantinus (HD 126614)
“You
were in the war, right?”
Tessa
glanced up from her drink. Piercing, sapphire eyes rose to meet the
careful stare of the man watching her from across the rough surface
of a fiberboard table. His own eyes were sharp and serious, coal
black, perched in a face full of heavy lines that seemed to bend
under its own weight into a flat, direct expression. In a way, they
contrasted perfectly– where she was lean and sleek, his skin was
like asphalt, sunblasted to the same dark color as the local brew
that sat thick and heavy in their cured leather cups, untouched. Only
their hair bore even the slightest resemblance, both shades of
midnight, hers cropped back to a short cut, his all but gone, a
graying frizz of curlicues clinging like resolute soldiers to a
perimeter of smooth and barren brown. When her response came, it was
as no-nonsense, as direct and serious as his features.
“Yeah.”
He
glanced at the sheet of silicon in his hands, paused thoughtfully.
She studied the neon flowers on his shirt as she waited, bright
orchids swaying in some digital breeze with distant ocean stirring
quietly behind them. It was unusual, the kind of print you never saw
on the frontier, and a sharp contrast to Tessa’s own simple outfit
of jeans, vest and sleeveless shirt. After a moment he looked up
again, ran one finger thoughtfully over the weak stubble on his lip
where a mustache was trying to take root.
“Flew
Seindrives against the Coralate?”
“For
the better part of a decade,” she nodded. Her eyes dropped back to
her hands, the cup propped reluctantly between them.
“Record
makes you out like a real war hero.” He looked up at her again,
leaned back in his chair and pulled in a deep, considering breath.
“Now, I’ve never been to Earth or Alpha C, but I hear the VFW
guarantees a job and luxury living for veterans of the Cygnus War on
both of those worlds.” He gestured lightly. “Somebody with your
record, I figure you’d be flying a desk in some corporate
stratoscraper, maybe playing captain on some fancy cruise ship for a
legacy carrier like, I don’t know,” he made another gesture.
“Carniva?”
“Yeah,”
she looked up again. “You’d think.”
The
man blinked in the long quiet pause, leaned forward. “So then, what
exactly is someone like you doing all the way out here, scratching
around on the frontier?”
“I
guess I’m just not your typical war hero.” Tessa shrugged, the
barest edge of steel creeping into her voice.
“That’s
an understatement.” The man let his eyes wander back to the silicon
sheet. “Your performance record in the war is off the charts.
Hundreds of confirmed kills, outlasted your fair share of wingmen–”
“Is
there a point to this?” Tessa’s eyes hardened.
“There’s
always a point.” He shifted, fixed her with a careful stare. “Why’d
you dodge the question?”
“Don’t
push me, Grant.”
“Fine,”
he paused, cracked the silicon sheet. “We’ll come back to that
one.” Eyes dropped to reading again. “The records I got a hold of
say you were given a medical discharge, but I can’t track down a
reason why for love or carbon bonders. It’s like they just...” he
made a futile gesture, “let you go. No correspondence, no benefits,
nothing but a cut check and a ticket to nowhere that’s never been
cashed. Just wham, bam, thank you ma’am, and you’re out, flying a
stint with the Ixion Condottieri.” He thumbed an emphatic gesture.
“Why is that?”
Eyes
never wavered. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“And
I don’t want to bring on crew with secrets,” Grant said flatly.
“Especially big military secrets that people in government are keen
on keeping classified.”
“Then
don’t hire me.” She stood up suddenly. “I’ll find another
ship to fly.” She paused, half ready to turn away, glanced back at
the cup. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Tessa,
wait a minute.”
She
hesitated, eyes finding his again, half ready to walk out on him in
that stretching instant. Grant pulled in a careful breath, set down
the sheet and steepled his fingers.
“Now,
you may walk out that door and you may find another quick job in
another dusty, rundown bar on this backwater world, but I guarantee
you won’t find a ship as clean or reliable as mine.” He paused,
letting it sink in. “The Junkyard
Queen’s a
salvage freighter, yeah, but she’s been modified for speed, so she
flies like nanowire through hydrogen fog. She deals strictly in legal
finds, floaters and artifacts of possible historical interest– it’s
the kind of low profile job most pilots would kill a man for, and
it’s served on an open-ended contract, so the pay starts the moment
you sign, instead of after the job’s done.” He shook his head as
she looked away again. “I’d hate to see a pilot of your caliber
blow off an opportunity like that just because you don’t feel like
answering a few sensitive questions.” He paused. “Besides, how
long has it been since you were able to afford a decent meal?”
Tessa
stood silent. When she turned back again, she watched him for a long
time, eyes solid, unreadable. Grant gave her his softest smile,
gestured to her empty seat.
“I
hope you understand that it’s nothing personal. I’m just watching
my assets here.” He hesitated, watched as she turned the chair
around and straddled it, slouching forward into the back, arms
crossed. “You’ve got a history of flying real low, doing
everything under the radar, disappearing off government networks for
months at a time, like a ghost at the edge of civilized space.” His
hands slipped back to the sheet of silicon. “Sounds like a lot of
the people I bring on for jobs, but you’re a war hero, and that
makes me kind of nervous.”
“It
shouldn’t,” she said, tone level. “I like my freedom. There a
problem with that?”
“Never
had a problem with freedom,” came the quick response. “Secrets?
That’s another story.”
“Everyone
has secrets, Grant,” she shot back. “Especially out here. It’s
the rim.”
“So
I tell myself every day,” he gave her the edge of a patronizing
smile, “but I still can’t shake the feeling that if I let your
particular secret slide, it’s gonna come back to bite me in the ass
before this run is over.”
She
looked away.
Grant
blew out a quiet, exasperated sigh. “You know what it looks like to
me?” He paused, shot her a questioning stare. “Every time I look
at your M.O. over the last few years, it reminds me of this mechanic
I brought on for a stint ‘bout six months back.” His eyes dropped
back to the sheet. “Real pretty boy, strong arms, real quiet about
his affairs. He had a secret too– turned out he was somebody’s
pet. A Genetic Construct that had spent a couple years dodging the
law. Seems he belonged to some fat duchess on one of the planets as
far in as Tau C.” He gave her another soft smile. “But that
wouldn’t be anything like your secret, would it? I mean, the
military physical checks for Construct markers as soon as you join
up, right? They never would have let you within a hundred clicks of a
Seindrive if you were somebody’s love doll.”
Tessa’s
hardness faltered– she looked away.
“Least,”
he paused, eyes making little movements, studying her face. “That’s
what I’ve been told.”
“Yeah,”
her eyes met his again, hesitant, untrusting. “That’s what they
want people to believe.”
“But
you know otherwise?” He asked carefully.
“I
know it’s possible for a GMO to get into the system,” she
managed. “There are... holes–
you’d have to bribe all the right people, work with sympathizers in
the underground, watch your step...
“There
something you want to tell me, Tessa?” She watched him for a long
moment, eyes shifting only slightly as his lips spread into a slow
smile. “What happened? What did you do, bribe the wrong doc?”
She
looked away again. When she spoke, it came quiet, eyes unable to meet
the intensity of Grant’s gaze. “It’s... complicated. I was
injured, unconscious, alone. The doctor discovered the tags while I
was out. There was nothing I could do.”
“So
you’re a non-person, then. A Derivative.”
He smiled. “Well, imagine that.”
“Yeah,”
she said flatly. “Imagine that.”
“Boy,
I bet that rashed some colonel’s coolant sleeve,” he laughed.
“What model are you? Spend any time in brothels before the war?”
She
gave him a dark look. “I’m not a clone, Grant.” All the steel
came back, all the strength, all the resolve. “One of my ancestors
was a prototype for a high-performance vatgrown soldier some
corporation was developing in the second half of the twenty-second
century. She escaped during the pre-colonial upheaval and ended up
riding steerage on one of the first ships to head for ‘Ceti.”
“So
you’re just unlucky.”
“I
guess,” she said, words coming flat. “Whatever you want to call
it, it’s enough to justify discrimination as far as most people are
concerned.”
“That’s
too bad.”
“Yeah,
tell me about it.” She fixed him with a careful look. “So do I
get the job?”
“With
a flight record like yours, how could I say no?”
“You
don’t care that I’m a ‘dangerous hybrid’?” She tried,
gestured half-heartedly. “A soulless automaton taking good jobs
from hardworking transport pilots?”
“Look,
I’m not a racist. As long as what you are doesn’t get my ship
into trouble, you can hang onto it. Makes you a better pilot in my
eyes.” He gestured loosely. “But if you’re lying to me and we
start getting shot at because my pilot’s a fugitive or made some
dangerous enemy in the military or somewhere else, I won’t hesitate
to push you out an airlock or hand you over to the powers that be.
Clear?”
The
faintest edge of grin touched her face. “Crystal.”
“Good.”
He smiled back. “Welcome aboard, then.” He stood, shook out stiff
legs. “Come on, I know a better place where we can catch dinner.”
He pulled a grimace. “I can’t stand the beer here.”
- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over forty books.
