The Santana Nexus (Junkyard Dogs Book 3) (3 page)

Chapter
3.

"An army marches on its stomach." --
Napoleon Bonaparte.

UTFN Reclamation Center, onboard Federation Auxiliary ship
Greyhound
, January 2, 2599.

Commander Oskar Kresge
scowled at the computer display in front of him. Kresge, a handsome, dark-haired man currently dressed in a Navy-issue khaki coverall, was on the bridge of the
Greyhound
. The
Greyhound
was an ancient Bombardier freighter which, due to circumstance and sheer necessity, had become the command center for the United Terran Federation Navy (UTFN) Reclamation Center, known to everyone by its more familiar title of "the Scrapyard."

Forced to take refuge in the huge, floating spaceship graveyard that occupied the L5 point in the orbit of the planet New Ceylon,
Kresge and a ragtag team made up of a handful of Federation Naval personnel, a bunch of civilians who had volunteered to help out when they discovered they had little choice, and small contingent of Meridian Imperial Marines from the personal guard of the Meridian Ambassador had just fought off a determined attack by the forces of "The Glorious Revolution" being led by a fanatic who called himself the Sheik of Barsoom.

Kresge was scowling because, a
ccording to the inventory figures that his fiancé, Irene Marshall, had just presented to him, he and his group of defenders had enough food to last them for about another two weeks. They could stretch it out some, but the Scrapyard survivors had already been on somewhat shortened rations for the last several weeks.

He was going to have to send out one or two of the freighters that had also taken refuge in the Scrapyard to procure some more food. The scowl was him expressing his distaste for the idea and realizing that he didn't have a whole lot of choice in the matter.
There simply was no other way. Things tended to go to hell in a hurry when people were undernourished. Nor was a successful foray for supplies going to solve any long term problems. Supply lines and communications were disrupted throughout the entire Santana Quadrant. Keeping the Scrapyard operating was going to require the constant attention of a lot of personnel.

What was it going to take to get things back to normal?

He pushed himself away from the computer terminal and came to a decision. Long term solutions were just going to have to wait. At least one of his precious cargo ships and one of his precious destroyers were going to have to team up and make a run for provisions.

Who
should he send out and where should he send them?

He decided that he'd better talk it over with his second in command, Lieutenant Ryan Harris.
Harris was a native of the nearby planet of New Ceylon and had a lot of first-hand knowledge about his home planet and many of the other nearby star systems in the Quadrant. Kresge called down to the engineering section.

"Engineering
? This is Kresge. Is Harris down there?"

Chief Angus Hawkins answered him. "He's no being down here, Commander, I be thinkin' he was goin' to be spendin' another night on the
Istanbul
so he could be checkin' in on the Ensign again first thing in the morning."

Angus Hawkins
was a short, wiry, sixtyish engineering tech who wore his steel grey hair in a classic flattop crewcut. A crack engineer, Hawkins was a native of New Scotia. His heritage was quite obvious as soon as he spoke.

"He should be comin' back t' the
Greyhound
somewheres before 0800. We were goin' t'be working on the weapons interface module some more."

In a desperate move to provide some kind of protection for the people who had taken refuge in the Scrapyard,
Kresge's Federation group had armed the old
Greyhound
, an ancient Mark I Bombardier Cargomaster, with a Bofors twin mount rapid-fire pulse beam system. They had done so right after they had replaced the old vessel's worn out power plant and hyperdrive unit with parts salvaged from an equally ancient Federation Orion Mark IV destroyer, the
Terrier
. The power plant and the hyperdrive systems had been working flawlessly. The weapon, however, had proved to be a different matter entirely. It was powerful and the transplant had been successful, for the most part, but the weapon had so far proven to be rather finicky. More work was definitely needed.

"Thanks, Hawk," replied Kresge, "When you see him, tell him I need to talk to him."

"Will do, Commander."

While Kresge was talking to Hawkins, Helen Murdock, the owner, operator and Captain of the
Greyhound
had come onto the bridge.

"Mornin', commander," she said. Murdock was a
short, wiry, grey-haired woman somewhere around sixty years old. She slipped a chipped mug full of coffee into the cupholder at the Captain's station and did an elaborate stretch.

One of the exports from
nearby New Ceylon was coffee that was famous throughout the Quadrant. The Scrapyard might be short of food, but they had a generous supply of some of the best coffee known to man! She rubbed her eyes and fluffed up her kinky medium-length hair. Kresge swiveled his chair around to face her. His blue eyes met her grey ones.

"Mornin', Helen," he replied.

"You're wearin' your 'I think I have a problem' face again, Commander," said Murdock. "What is it this time?"

"Am I that obvious?" asked Kresge
. He shook his head, "No, don't answer that. It's only about a million different things. We have plenty of power, air and water, but we're going to be critical on food within twelve to fourteen days."

Murdock mulled that
information over for a moment.

"
I wondered when that was comin'," she said."I think I'd send our NiTrans freighter,
City of Darwin
, over to Heard's World. Their number one export is food. They don't produce much prepackaged stuff and we'd need some of our people out here to do a bit more basic cookin' but I think me and Irene and Allison could handle that well enough. If we need something more fancy on occasion, the
Istanbul's
got two big galleys and real live chef. You get us some raw materials like flour and meat, rice and potatoes and we could do wonders."

She thought a bit longer.

"We should send one of the destroyers with them though," she added. "Things ain't safe for a lone, unarmed ship these days."

"I was thinking along the same lines, Helen. I thought I'd talk it over with Harris when he gets back onboard later this morning."

"He lookin' in on Ensign Carlisle?"

"Yeah, she's started to really come around in the last couple of days."

"That's good news," said Murdock, "She is one person we really need back on her feet."

"
I couldn't agree more," replied Kresge.

The two of them continued
with their morning routines a few more minutes before Kresge came across a message in his email.

"Damn
it!" said Kresge.

"What is it, Commander?"

"Admiral Kingston wants to meet with everyone, including the Ambassador, at 0930 this morning."

"I wonder what that old bat
wants?"

"Easy, Helen, that 'old bat' is
probably the highest ranking Federation officer in the entire Santana Quadrant right now."

Murdock sniffed. "
The highest ranking professional desk jockey you mean! She's good at spit and polish and I'll wager she's a crack accountant but she hasn't got a lick of combat experience. You should be in charge out here, not her."

"Let's just hear her out, okay? By the way,
we did not have this conversation."

"If you say so, Commander."

Chapter 4.

"...Orientation onboard the station can be confusing for newcomers. The Nexus Station, like all others of its type, is spinning, partially for the stability of the platform, but also to provide simulated gravity for the occupants. The simulated gravity means that the direction normally sensed as “up” is actually inward from the outside rims of the station's rings towards the spindle.  ‘Down’, of course is just the opposite. The traditional terms ‘North,’ ‘South,’ East’ and ‘West’ are used to describe other directions important for navigating the station and maintaining orientation. The ‘North’ end or 'pole' of the station is the end that has the large, public airlock while the ‘South’ end contains the military docking facilities. For a person facing northward in the station, the rotation occurs in a clockwise direction. ‘East’ will take them in the direction of the spin and ‘West’ will take them against the spin of the station. Each ring and each level is clearly marked with Arabic numerals on numerous wall areas throughout the station while compass symbols to provide directional orientation are embossed into the floor material and are clearly visible at most corridor intersections…"

Hartwell Wrist Comp reference note highlighted for further review by Tamara Carlisle. Excerpt is from an orientation video available for download and as a hardcopy pamphlet
prepared by the Santana Nexus Station authorities for distribution to tourists and other visitors to the station. No author is listed
.

Santana Nexus Station, ring three, level one, commercial district, January 2, 2599.

Salaam Alwad
hi turned up the lights in the storeroom of his small curio shop and began the routine preparations needed to open his doors for business within another hour or so. One could always hope, but with Terrorist forces occupying the Nexus Station, business had not been particularly brisk for some time now. He would not have even bothered to open his shop except that the terrorists in charge of the station had insisted that businesses like his remain open. Salaam grudgingly understood the reasoning. Having the businesses operating as usual was supposed to create a sense of normalcy and help lull the population of the Nexus Station into a somewhat less alarmed state.

He opened the small shipping crate that he had received a
couple of weeks ago from his friend the traveling merchant, Clancy Davis-Moore. Salaam's little shop carried an assortment of high-end artifacts, including paintings, carvings and other objects d'art. He removed the lid of the crate and carefully pulled out some of the packing material. Each of the various pieces in the crate was also packed in a separate transport case for additional protection. He opened one of the cases and gingerly extricated a carving of a cat-like creature native to the New Nigerian Republic. Made from the wood of one of the trees native to that planet, the carving was exquisite. Too bad he was probably not going to be able to sell it nor any of the other pieces in the crate which were, he had no doubt, every bit as desirable.

Salaam
was one of only a handful of importer's in the entire quadrant that had a license to possess and sell real wooden objects. His wealthy clientele had, over the years, made him into a modestly wealthy man himself but prosperity had not come without a lot of hard work and more than a few pretty lean years. Given the present situation, his modest gains were all at risk again. He wished now that he had been brave enough go with this friend Clancy Davis-Moore in search of new opportunities in the Meridian home system. Maybe, if he got through this current crisis, he would take Clancy up on the offer to team up.

Salaam had been talking
discreetly with the proprietors of some of the shops that neighbored his and his sense was that they weren't very pleased with the Terrorist occupation either and wouldn't be the least bit unhappy to see it end before too much longer. Salaam sighed; he was getting too old for life-threatening adventures! The thought of fighting to regain control of this orbital station made him feel every one of his sixty-some years but as he had always done, throughout his life, he was not going to shirk any responsibilities. Something needed to be done and Salaam, though he might complain eloquently, had always been one of the men who got things done. He had worked his whole life for this modest shop and his moderately comfortable lifestyle. He was not about to give it up now, certainly not easily.

But one life lesson that he had learned the hard way was to be
extra cautious when you knew you were about to take a risk. He continued to consider what his next actions should be as he worked on unpacking the crate of exotic carvings.

Chapter
5.

"...My first glimpse of the Scrapyard was absolutely amazing. We were heading for it after we jumped out from the New Ceylon Orbital Station. At first it was just a fuzzy point of light. As we got closer, I could begin to make out some of the larger ships within the cloud of wrecks. As you get even closer, you realize that there are thousands of wrecks in that huge cloud. It is an awesome sight! One of the references I found said that the Scrapyard looked like a giant snowflake or a huge explosion that had been frozen in place. I think I'll go with the explosion, that's what it looks more like to me..."

Personal note recorded on her
Hartwell Wrist Computer by Amanda Steuben upon her first trip to the UTFN Reclamation Center.

Onboard
Meridian Imperial Ship, Istanbul
, somewhere in the scrap cloud at the UTFN Reclamation Center. January 2, 2599

Lieutenant Ryan Harris
, an athletically built, clean-cut young man in his late twenties, came into the sickbay of the
MIS Istanbul
to check on the condition of Ensign Dr. Tamara Carlisle. It was early in the morning and the Lieutenant was surprised to see that the recovering Ensign already had a visitor. She was sitting up in her bed and there was a short, wiry man, dark hair shot with grey, who was conversing rather intensely with her. Harris recognized Seamus O'Connell, Captain of the mining ship
, Donegal
, and also it seemed, the Ensign's father. Two pairs of remarkably similar sea-green eyes turned their attention to the Lieutenant as he came into the small chamber. The Spacer clan tattoos that each of them sported on their left cheeks were also identical. The ensign's face lit up when she saw Harris, but he wasn't sure if it was because she was happy to see him or because she was relieved that he had interrupted the conversation with her father.

"Ryan!
" said Carlisle, "Come in. You know Captain O'Connell."

"Good morning, Lieutenant," said O'Connell.
He didn't look as though he thought there was anything good about it.

"Good morning, Sir," replied Harris. "How is our patient doing?"

"She hasn't lost any of her stubbornness," said O'Connell.

Carlisle ignored the comment.
"They're releasing me later today," she said.

"Have a seat Lieutenant," said O'Connell,
coming to his feet. "I was just leaving anyway."

"Are you sure, Sir?"

O'Connell glanced at the ensign and then back at Harris. "Yes, I'm sure," he said tersely. "Think about what I said, Tamara, we can talk more about it later." O'Connell headed for the door. "Have a good day, Lieutenant," he said, as he left the room.

"The same to you, Sir."
Harris wasn't sure if the mining ship captain had heard him or not. "What was that all about?" he asked the patient.

"
...Mining ship...Family matters...I don't think I can talk about it right now," replied Carlisle.

The
Ensign had a tendency, especially when she was upset or nervous, to begin sentences with scattered thoughts that were related to the subject being discussed before getting some verbal traction and speaking more or less normally afterwards. She had been getting better about it, especially if she concentrated, but the greater the stress level she was under, the worse the problem became. The conversation with her father had obviously hit a nerve.

"I can
respect that," said Harris. He took the empty chair and decided a change of subject was in order. "So you're getting out of here today?"

She brightened up.
"The doctor says he wants to take one more look at me this morning but he should be letting me go before noon. It seems I didn't break any ribs and my concussion was milder than he thought. I'll be sore for a while but I should be able to resume some of my duties in just a day or two."

While she was speaking, Harris
had been looking her over for any sign of improvement since the last time he had seen her, just over twelve hours ago. What he saw was a petite, attractive brunette with large, beautiful eyes that were a remarkable sea-green color. She or one of the attendants had done something with her short brown hair and she looked a bit less like a patient and a bit more like her normal self. Her face still looked a little pale and the full lips of her small mouth hadn't fully recovered their color, but she did indeed look somewhat better. The black ink Clan tattoo that swept across her left cheek and tapered off a couple of centimeters before it reached her ear looked, if anything, like some kind of ancient symbol of Old Earth Celtic or possibly Egyptian origin. Harris concluded all over again that she was absolutely gorgeous. At least he thought so. He picked up his end of the conversation before she realized how intently he had been studying her.

"That's good news!" said Harris.

"Tell me about it! I'll get my wrist computer back, they wouldn't let me have it until they were sure I hadn't suffered some kind brain damage. I have all kinds of things loaded up on that computer that I need and a whole bunch of other stuff that I need to catch up on."

"What kind of stuff?"

"First off, there are all the files we got from the Scrapyard computers that we downloaded while we were stranded out here a few weeks ago. Then I need to do something with the quantum drive we pulled from the bridge computer on the Veritian derelict."

Carlisle's Hartwell wrist computer was
indeed indispensable. Containing all manner of information on Military History and other reference material, she used it constantly to access vital information. She had used it extensively during the very first battle for the Scrapyard just over two months ago which had pitted her, Harris and Angus Hawkins against a couple of armed merchant ships being operated by a Fundamentalist Christian terrorist group. It had proved indispensable again a little over a week ago during a second battle for the Scrapyard against a much larger and more powerful force of ships under the command of the Sheik of Barsoom. It was during the final events of this battle that the Ensign had been injured

"That sounds like enough to keep you busy for a while," said Harris. "Just try not to overdo it."

"I don't think that'll be a problem," she replied, "They've had me walking around a lot the last couple of days. I feel a lot better but I still get tired pretty easy."

Harris smiled at her. "Knowing you, it won't be long before you're back at full strength."

"Thanks, Ryan. I hope you're right." She leaned back against the pillow. "So what's been happening since I've been out of action?"

"What have you heard?"

"Absolutely nothing, they've kept me pretty isolated."

"
So no one told you that Admiral Harriet Kingston is here in the Scrapyard?"

"No
! When did that happen?"

"Just after the Sheik and his forces left the system.
The
Asimov
and the
Xerxes
were able to escape from the Santana Nexus right after you and the Ambassador and the
Istanbul
did. They used your microjump technique to escape the skirmish at the Nexus station. The
Xerxes
was pretty shot up but, fortunately, she could still jump. The
Asimov
suffered some mild damage but she was still able to easily hold off the destroyer that was guarding the jump point long enough for them to get out of the system."

"I'm glad to hear they
got out okay," said Carlisle. Her mood visibly darkened.

"Is something wrong, Tamara?"

"Admiral Kingston sure as hell didn't like me very much when I met her at the Nexus."

"I'll wager that was before she found out how capable you are."

Carlisle smirked at him.

"
Spacer girls aren't vulnerable to shameless flattery, Lieutenant!"

"Gotta
do what I can to keep your spirits up!" replied Harris, smiling.

She was trying to
come up with another witty response when an attendant appeared with a tray containing breakfast for the patient.

"
Breakfast," said Harris. "Make sure you eat all of it. It's time for me to go to work anyway. How about I check on you later?"

"I'd like that.
By the way, is my spacesuit okay?"

Carlisle had been using a Federation prototype command
spacesuit that was a revolutionary design and had a number of enhanced capabilities over standard-issue Navy spacesuits. Those capabilities had proved invaluable many times over during the last few weeks.

"As far as I know
," he replied. "It certainly kept you alive after that pulse beam turret you were operating was destroyed. The medical staff was going to cut it off from you but Kresge and I talked them out of it. Besides, the fabric is so tough that it would have taken a quantum knife or something similar to cut it."

"I don't know what I'd do without that suit."

"Maybe one of the things you can do when you get out of here today is head down to spacesuit maintenance and check on it."

"That's a good idea
, Lieutenant."

"
Like I said earlier, just don't overdo it for a few days until you gain some more of your strength back."

"I won't. Thanks for coming to see me."

Harris noted, not for the first time, that she was even more attractive when she smiled.

"My pleasure," said Harris as he got up to leave. "Later..."

***

Elsewhere onboard the
Istanbul
, Amanda Steuben and Faiza Saladin, the two youngest members of the Scrapyard family or the "Junkyard Dogs," as its members had officially taken to calling themselves, were just receiving their latest homework assignments from Commander Kresge. Amanda was the sixteen-year old daughter of Orville and Allison Steuben while Faiza was the daughter of the Meridian Ambassador, Mohammad Saad Saladin and his wife Sondia. Though the two young women were about the same height and of the same age, any physical similarity between them ended there. Amanda was a slender girl with somewhat unruly red hair, deep blue eyes and a pale, clear complexion. Her coloring had been inherited from her father, Orville Steuben, who was a crack electrical technician drafted by the Junkyard Dogs from the New Ceylon Orbital station. Faiza, with her nearly black eyes, clear olive skin and jet black hair, took after her mother, with a physique that tended more towards voluptuous. Even at her relatively young age, she was already quite curvy and well on her way to developing into a full bosomed, statuesque women like her mom was.

The two of them had been roommates for several weeks now onboard the
Istanbul
and had also become good friends. It didn't hurt that they had several more important things in common including extremely high intelligence and the desire to enlist in the Naval officer's training programs of their respective government's Navies. Both of the young women were also equipped with Hartwell wrist computers, just like the one that Ensign Carlisle had been missing so badly.

Since the two young women
had each voiced an interest in pursuing a Naval career, Commander Kresge had designated them as "cadet apprentices" and had proceeded to give them research assignments to give them a taste of what lie ahead. Some of the material was basic information that any officer in training would need to know. Other material was of a more immediately practical nature. Several times in the last few weeks Kresge had put them to work on subjects that he needed more information about but didn't have the time or the means to ferret out himself.

The Commander
had also decided that his two students needed to study subjects outside of Naval affairs. He had given them some outside reading assignments including material on the art and literature of the western cultures that had been the forerunners of the United Federation and the Arabic/Islamic cultures that had blossomed into the Islamic Alliance.

Kresge
had ordered them each to download portions of the extensive library of literature that was part of the inventory loaded into the computer banks of the Ambassador's ship. As a diplomatic vessel, the personnel onboard the
Istanbul
were required to be knowledgeable about many cultures and one could never be sure what sort of information might come in handy. The great works of art and literature that are valued by individual cultures can reveal a great deal about the personality of the culture that produced the artists and writers who, in turn, capture not only the imagination of the public but the spirit of their times.

Amanda had been
reading the Arabian Nights while Faiza was reading about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Both were finding the reading entertaining even if neither could figure out how such information could ever be of any use to them.

There was a small conference room on the
Istanbul
a short distance from the quarters shared by the two young women that they used for studying and interacting with Kresge, who usually remained on board the
Greyhound.