Rystani Warrior 04 - The Quest

“CAPTAIN, WE aren’t alone.”

Angel Taylor peered at the
Raven’s
viewscreen and frowned. Another starship had just exited hyperspace, heading straight toward the Vogan ship Angel was after.

Oh, no you don’t. This was her salvage. No other scavenger ship was going to beat Angel to the prize. “Raise engine speed ten percent.”

“We’re already redlining,” Petroy, her first officer, informed her, but just as she knew he would, he increased their speed.

The
Raven’s
engines vibrated up from engineering, pulsed through the deck of the bridge beneath Angel’s feet, reverberated through her bones. Ignoring the assorted rattles and moans of her equipment, Angel gritted her teeth and peered at the viewport where a panorama of stars served as a backdrop for the asteroid belt that had trapped the abandoned ship.

“Just once, I wish the information we purchased could be both accurate and
confidential.
”

Despite the competition, she had to secure the Vogan ship first. Losing the salvage to a rival wasn’t an option. Due to lack of funds, her ship’s safety inspection was five months overdue. In fact, the
Raven’s
engines needed a complete overhaul, and if Angel failed to procure the derelict ship, she faced the humiliation of being grounded—a fate she’d avoided for the last eight years, ever since she’d won the
Raven
in a
gambling joint back on Earth.

When she’d first acquired the
Raven,
it hadn’t been safe to fly out of orbit, but Angel had patched the holes in the hull and reprogrammed the computer systems herself. She’d lucked out on her first run, finding and securing the salvage rights to a wrecked Venus-to-Earth transport ship, which she’d sold back to the mining company that had built her, earning enough profit to take on a crew and enough fuel to leave the solar system. Since then, Angel had never looked back, roaming the galaxy in search of abandoned space vessels in hopes of one day finding the mother lode, a haul so rich she could afford to buy a ship that wasn’t older than Petroy. Meanwhile, she enjoyed the hunt. The freedom of space and being her own boss suited her—even when her ship’s system was falling apart around her.

Leaning eagerly over the computer vidscreen, Angel increased the magnification. The abandoned ship ahead tumbled like a glinting piece of quartz among lumps of coal. She wasn’t the mother lode, but was still a prize all right, rotating end over end in space, her once shiny hull now pitted and partially charred at the stern. The bow appeared undamaged and perfect for salvage. Angel could scrap the hull for metal and the tonnage alone would keep the
Raven
in
fuel for several months. If she was lucky, the hulk would still possess its old engine intact, and there would be electronics in the bow section that might bring enough to pay her small crew their back wages too.

But the other ship surged forward across the starscape in a streaming ribbon of light, making a beeline for Angel’s prize. Space laws were clear, albeit not always obeyed in the vast reaches between civilized worlds where enforcement tended to be sketchy. Yet, according to Federation law, the first salvage operator who attached their clutch beam to the hull possessed retrieval rights.

“Turn on recorders to verify the clutch and grab.” Angel was too experienced to risk arriving first on the scene, only to later lose a court battle.

“Recorders activated.”

The
Raven
had to secure the other ship—or Angel and her crew might end up dirtside slinging hash to keep their bellies full. If only she could have afforded to purchase those new hyperdrive engines she’d seen on Starbase Ten. But due to her perennial lack of funds, she’d had to settle for a retrofitting instead of a complete overhaul.

“They still have the edge, Captain.” Petroy spoke crisply. “At current speed, they’ll beat us to the Vogan ship.”

“No, they won’t. Inject the booster fuel into the engines.”

Petroy’s squat body shuddered, and his sturdy shoulders shrugged. “Captain—”

“You want to spend the next year dirtside?”

“Better to live on a planet than blast ourselves into the ever after.”

“That’s where we disagree.” She’d spent the first twenty years of life on Earth and had had enough of their perfect society to last a lifetime. Angel’s father had abandoned her mother before she’d been born, and her mother had been too sick to work, leaving them at the mercy of her mother’s family. She’d learned early that charity from her aunts and uncles came attached with strings, like obeying every societal rule. Not only had the necessity of depending on others depleted her mother’s self-esteem, it had sapped her will to live. After her death, Angel felt as though she couldn’t breathe on Earth without violating some ordinance or other. Stars, she couldn’t even listen to the music she liked without some botcop knocking on her door and handing her a ticket for a noise control violation.

“I’d prefer to live another five hundred years,” Petroy spoke dryly.

She ignored his sarcasm. During her childhood on Earth, Angel had learned that money could be made from what she’d found tossed in the garbage. Over the years she’d retrieved books, restored furniture, and repaired a bicycle. Broken toys often needed just a bit of glue to fix and those she couldn’t sell, she’d donated to a nearby orphanage—the scary facility where her relatives had threatened to send her if she’d caused trouble. As much as she’d hated obeying rules and depending on the charity of family, she’d seen firsthand that life in the orphanage was to be avoided. Space salvage had been a natural extension of her childhood scavenging, and now her fingers danced over the console to check on the condition of a volatile mixture of fuel she’d found on a dead space station last year and had saved for an emergency. “The booster fuel should get us there first.”

“But its chemical formula has destabilized. Will we still be in one piece after you—”

She didn’t have time to argue. With a quick flick of her hand, she coded in the sequence that would open a valve to mix the dangerous propellant with their normal fuel.

“Captain, I must protest.”

“Sorry, Petroy.” She spoke cheerfully, thoroughly enjoying the race. “If you don’t want to stay, eject in the shuttle pod, and I’ll pick you up on the return.”

Petroy showed all his teeth, the Juvanian attempt at a smile. “I wouldn’t miss the ride, Captain. I only felt it my duty to—”

With the booster fuel in her tanks, the
Raven
burst forward like a junkie with a fix, her renewed energy increasing their speed to a level that would have flattened Angel if she hadn’t been wearing her suit. Every Federation citizen wore a suit, made by machinery left by an ancient race called the Perceptive Ones. Directed by psi power, the suit protected her from high acceleration, filtered her air, clothed her, bathed her, took care of all her wastes, and translated the many different Federation languages. Her suit allowed her to move, in short bursts, at the speed of thought and could induce a state of null grav.

When the
Raven
accelerated, Angel automatically used her psi to adjust her suit. The soles of her boots locked onto the deck. She also strengthened the shielding against the tremendous g-forces.

The
Raven’s
hull rumbled in protest. The deck plating arched below her feet until she feared it might buckle. The viewports moaned and vibrated.

She held her breath and clenched the console. “We’re gaining on them.”

“Preparing to engage clutch beam.” Petroy laughed a high-pitched sound that had once grated on her nerves but now she’d learned to enjoy. Petroy was an acquired taste—he usually appeared all staid and severe, but at heart he loved taking risks, although he’d never admit it.

She tensed. “On my mark.”

It was going to be close. But in her heart, she knew this salvage was hers. The abandoned ship was calling to her like a first lover bent on a reunion.

Timing would be critical. If she waited too long to activate the beam, the delay could cost her the prize and the other ship would beat them to it. But if she deployed too soon, the beam would disperse, lose power, and fail to grab the spinning hull.

Her computer could calculate the particle density of the asteroid belt, the ship’s speed, and the vectors, but no computer could estimate her competitor’s accuracy without knowing the individual captain, the make and model of the other starship, or how much risk they were willing to take to capture the hulk themselves. Angel used her instincts, instincts that had won her the
Raven
with a pair of fours when she sensed her opponent across the card table was bluffing, instincts that had told her to help a stowaway Terran singer instead of turning her over to the men hunting her during her last run, instincts that told her that the Vogan ship was meant to be hers.

“Captain?” Petroy prodded.

“Not yet. The Vogan ship is heavy. She’s spinning at the outermost reach of the clutch beam.”

“The other ship just deployed their beam.”

Angel bit back a curse. Her competitor’s beam flashed across space like skimmer headlights in a foggy storm. But just like in fog that dimmed, distance scattered the clutch beam’s power. The derelict ship kept tumbling.

“Stay ready. They don’t have her locked in, yet.”

Angel held her breath, searching for signs the spin was slowing. But like an out-of-control top, the hulk kept tumbling. “They’re losing her.”

“Now?”

“Wait.” Her competitor would have to recharge their beam, which would buy the
Raven
extra time. At their speed, every extra second narrowed the distance by thousands of miles. “Load the beam.”

“Beam loaded.”

“Lock on target.”

“Locked.”

“Steady. Steady. Now.”

Their clutch beam shined through space, a bright beacon of good timing and skill. The
Raven’s
force field captured the spinning ship and slowed the wild rotations.

“Got her. She’s locked and latched.”

As her competition jumped into hyperspace and departed, leaving the prize to Angel, satisfaction flowed through her like sweet
frelle,
the rare spice manufactured on only one world in the galaxy. Now she looked forward to her favorite part of her work, boarding her prize to see exactly what she’d taken.

“YOU SHOULD WAIT to make sure our competition has truly left for good before venturing out of the
Raven.
” Petroy’s warning had come over the coin system as Angel headed to the shuttle bay, but she could hear the excitement in his tone and knew he’d trade places with her in a heartbeat if given the chance.

“You keep watch,” she muttered.

“Yes, Captain.”

“You can take the next one,” she promised.

As captain, she sometimes allowed him the first right of inspection. But this time, she wanted to go herself. The tight race had fired her imagination, and the urge to board her prize was so strong that her blood hummed with excitement. She climbed into the shuttle and ignited her engine, shooting away from the
Raven,
pleased to see the Vogan ship caught in their clutch beam like a macro fly in a Debubian spider web.

Her second team, Frie and Leval, still slept but would awaken soon and take over for her and Petroy on the next shift. But first she intended to take an inventory of their catch. Angel loved the adventure of space. She adored not knowing what waited around the next bend or on the next planet. As a child at her mother’s sickbed, she’d read many books about space and had always dreamed of escape. Life on the Raven suited her.