Industrial garbage, alloys and components, wreckage floating in the void, in quantities to blot out even the stars all around. A cloud of cosmic flotsam at the center of which lies a relatively intact habitat. A hint of life and order. Red warning lights flicker from it in silent alarm as airlock bulkheads open silently.
Out glides a squat boxy shape, a metallic amalgamation of starkly practical purpose, no more than three meters on any side. Wire nets float around it, large electromagnets are attached above and below its fuselage, long mechanical arms protrude from its rounded nose as the faint light of propulsors gleams from the metal walls behind it. Written on its side in red blocky letters: Grajo.
A small periscopic camera blinks to awareness, the eyes behind it scan their surroundings before the small salvager craft begins to plod ahead and through the steel fog.
The previous days were spent rehabilitating the old habitat, and performing some rough surveys of the debris fields, today was time for a one-man inauguration of salvaging operations.
“And it certainly is a one-Man inauguration no matter what anyone might say!”
Reminds you of those damn Central bureaucrats, worse than scrap was what they were, who cares for age. You´ll stop disliking them, a gentle way to put your feelings, the moment the paper-pushers stopped blabbering on, issued your well-deserved license, and let you work legitimately for once in your life. Until then you would fly solo and forge your own path through the universe, regardless of any “isolation-related risks to mental stability”.
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There’s also the matter of distribution to think about, a salvaging crew might be able to process an exponentially higher amount of dredge but it would also have to split its proceeds. High volume would need you to hire a processing plant, and the upkeep for a whole crew isn’t cheap by any means, never mind any concerns of theft or treachery.
“Captain Alba, eh?”
Better to keep low to the ground, for now, focus on the quality of salvaging rather than quantity, once he had a solid foundation built, he could think of a crew.
Outside, in the cold darkness, a large shadow began taking shape betwixt the silver and gray and black of the debris field. This is what he was here for, a hundred meters long and about forty at the beam, angled yet smooth, all black with no names or insignias anywhere to be seen. Certainly not a standard civilian model.
Even more, confounding was the lack of armaments, sure, there were some low-caliber naval guns and point defense emplacements but the heat vent ports he could see would normally indicate a spinal cannon or heavy broadside complement, both of which were missing. No torpedo tubes to be seen either.
There were, however, hangar doors on the underside of the thing, only large enough for drop pods or similar, and recognizable despite heavy warping on their edges. Coming closer the doors were open wide enough to admit the Grajo into the hangar.
It was empty, with no tugs, pods, or shuttles in sight. The floors and walls were marked with damage. Deformed impactor slugs and spent bullets floated through the space. From inside the damage inflicted on the doors was plainly visible, someone had planted plastic explosives in just the right spots to blow the airlock without damaging the hangar or whatever used to be in it.
By now the signs were clear, this was the sort of ship he wasn’t supposed to see, especially not up close and ripe for the picking. Something had gone wrong, inside what must have been a deep recon or black operations ship a fight had broken out that left the ship inoperable and hidden, perpetrators gone.
Mutiny.