The Camel (Part 2)
Morisel had been on birds like this more times than he could spit. Even before the war. He'd been a pilot since before the Federation of Independent Planets had combined to BECOME a federation... And was still after the beaten corpse of the FIP had been cremated and scattered.
The familiar layout combined with the years spent residing on ships just like this one made for an odd vaguely deja-vu sensation. Not quite a proper deja-vu, but... akin to it. Maybe it was the silence that kept it at bay and stopped him from feeling like he'd walked these halls before. It hung thick in this hulking bird. Normally, even on these derelicts, you'd hear something coming from the external mic. Creaking, tapping, the odd beep of a battery somewhere on its last legs... but in this one - nothing.
Worse, the whole damned thing had been empty so far besides the inch of liquid in the breach room. Whoever scrapped this bird originally did a better job than he'd ever seen. Course, there's always a nook or cranny forgotten. Just gotta look hard enough. Find what the original crew hadn't wanted found. Find what the scrappers forgot and left behind. Alone, in a mid-sized ship like this Camel... finding something stashed away that well was almost a 1% chance he knew, but, hell... Morisel had gambled enough to know how frighteningly often you could hit a 1% chance.
He'd threaded that needle once or twice back in his days as a pilot right near the end of Consolidation. The Concordant PR wing does a damn fine job of keeping it hushed, but right near the end there? When they'd realized that the Federation was digging in to go absolute Guerilla Warfare on those outer planets? Well, they did what any Empire-In-The-Making would do.
If your enemy goes to ground, leave 'em no ground to go to.
Now, you'd think glassing entire planets and leaving 'em radioactive hell-holes would be something that'd be talked about. And, it was. But for all the wrong reasons. See, when you win... when you really win, the only narrative that goes out is the one you crafted. Ain't none left to say otherwise, and those few that do... well, may as well just paint a target on your back sayin' "please sir, come put me in a nerve-torch tank".
Truth of it was that the Terran Concordant had blood on their hands. Blood he'd seen first-hand. Morisel rarely lingered on his childhood, as his entire past - his whole goddamn life - had been burned away in nuclear fire.
Kalliea had been on the smaller side of settled planets. Just three generations into the terraforming process, and far from what most would find comfortable, but way out on the Reaches... it was something of a diamond-in-the-rough. The terraforming was going well, and thanks to their general location, it made them a pit-stop on the intergalactic highway between the inner systems and the outer edge of civilization.
Naturally, when shit finally did hit the fan, it meant that his little home - his little rock where everyone he'd ever really known had lived - became an important set-piece in a struggle between superpowers. The last time he'd been there...
'Fuck, no, not now. Don't think about it now.'
The last time he'd been there, things were bad. Bad for the Federation, bad for the war, bad for everyone... The FIP had lost. Not officially of course. Boots still hit the ground across the flexing front-line, but... realistically, everyone knew, and more and more every day were being split off into insurgency cells. Deep embeds designed to make sure every scrap of land the Concordant took was one they'd keep bleeding over.
Kalliea had been blockaded. Nearly 8 billion people on her at that time. Something like ten thousand FIP soldiers in that mix. Every one of them dug so far into the scenery as to be nothin' more than ordinary folks just waiting for when they'd be called upon.
But, ya gotta have someone left to do the calling in a case like that, and Kalliea had been something of a forward operating base. Important folks called the shots from there. Course, the Concordant knew that. Entire reason they bothered with the blockade was because they knew it, and they thirsted for those high-value targets.
The Federation wasn't stupid, and a number of the best and brightest were on other planets, but there was one that wasn't. On paper, Tristan Vilhiem was a standard Logistics Officer, responsible for mundane troop and supply management... but behind the facade, Tristan was perhaps the single brightest tactical mind the FIP had. And he was stuck.
Morisel shook his head, sweat beading on his brow as he staggered against a locker. 'Not this memory.' His jaw flexed, teeth feeling like they were going to crack from clenching so hard.
"You've earned something of a name for yourself, Morisel. I hear you've pulled off... what is it? Four? Red-class extractions. We need you to do a Black, and you leave today."
The words slammed into Morisel like a hammer held by a ghost. His vision swam, and he was in a carrier, looking at a modified CM-23L 'Camel'.
"She'll pass anything but a 'hand up your ass' cavity search. We've tweaked the engines so you'll be able to burn like a jackrabbit when you need to, but to the average tech it's going to look like she's just seen shoddy repairs. We've added a couple of little shielded compartments too, so when you get the HVT - straight to compartment A, and any shit they brought with 'em goes to B and C, if needed. I believe you've practiced and memorized the background given to you?"
Bile rose in Morisel's throat. He shoved it down, trying with every fiber of his being to shove the memory away at the same time.
A klaxon blared, just about drowning out the clamouring crowds jostling for passage off-planet. It wasn't quite full-on panic, but... folks could smell the chum in the water, and wanted out. Morisel pitied them. His own parents were probably at home a few blocks away, scoffing at the uproar and assuring each-other that it'd all blow over soon. The Concordant was known to be harsh, but fair, after all.
The crew had been loading crates for two hours. Ostensibly, these were the sole reason for his visit. Just another merchant trying to make a quick buck buying cheap (thanks to the blockade) overflow stock from warehouses that couldn't move their cargo off-planet nearly as fast as their warehouses were filling up. He'd had to turn back three separate families that had somehow made it past the Concordant security that was keeping a close and careful eye on everything at the dockyard.
And, there it was. A minor scuff on the crate confirmed the HVT was onboard - a bit of red paint as if a forklift had brushed the box against something during transit. It got unceremoniously dumped in the hold just like all the others. An hour later, everything was finished. Just he and the cargo now, heading back off-planet to sell the... whatever the hell was in the crates. Morisel honestly couldn't remember. Not that it mattered now.
The HVT had been shuffled off to their secure little hideaway and after the briefest of stops to once-again re-re-re verify flight destinations, identification, and blockade circumvention papers, it was just he and the void. A successful -
"Pilot of CM-23L class transport, designation 'Salt-Shaker'; Kill your engines and prepare to be boarded."
Morisel was punching the engine before he could even utter the expletive exploding from his lips. Interceptor class ships scrambled in his wake but, realistically... they were too late already. He'd never get to use this trick again, and as soon as the HVT was offloaded he was going to have to burn his whole identity... but, an hour of hard burn later and he finally was able to let himself relax.
They'd made it.
He'd have to lay low for a while of course, but, all in all... that's not such a bad price to pay for rescuing one of the Federation's most important officers.
Morisel chuckled, thinking about what the news feed would say about this daring escape. He'd be able to check when he reached the rendevous station in two days. Until then, it looked like some well-deserved easy flying. Not a bad result for a plan that had a 5% chance at success.
Back on the scrap Camel, Morisel the Skip sank to his knees. Each ragged breath felt like it was being wrenched from his chest. 'Don't read the news you idiot. Don't.. don't see it. Not again.'
His vision tunnelled, black closing in on everything as his mind rapidly repeated his pleading thoughts.
'Notagainnotagainnotagainnotagain NOT AGAIN.'
This post is the third, in a series of posts following our spacefaring salvager, Morisel - a Collection has been created to contain the story. If you're interested in the fate of our dear Belter, toss a follow, or bookmark the Skipping Stones - A Dead Belt Tale collection. I plan for weekly posts as we navigate this story.
Inspired by the Solo RPG game Dead Belt, produced by:
A Couple of Drakes Zine
www.acoupleofdrakes.com
On Twitter: @DrakeandDice • @NaviMusing
Also inspired by the Freewrite prompt - Nothingness and the Worldbuilding prompt - 331: Motivations
Header image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
