Wreckers: A Denver Boyd Novel

the Stang’s hard drive with scores of old movies and TV shows, he’d discovered that a select number of shows had licensed out their characters as navigational “personalities” available for purchase back in the day. Most of the personalities were pretty basic, but my uncle the genius decided to hack a blend of comedians from the era and name the character Gary, infusing him with artificial intelligence.
Digital Gary was 69 years old (he was launched at age 55 and had existed in AI form for 14 more so far), and he’d probably outlive me if my uncle got his way. “Big E,” as people called him, only had two conditions when he left me the Stang: I had to continue the family business and I couldn’t ever disable Gary.
Note the wording, there: disable. My uncle never said anything prohibiting me from forcing Gary to sleep for eight hours a day, just like the rest of us.
“Another military rescue,” Gary noted as he perked awake, his voice emanating from the nearest speakers, as if he were standing right next to me. “Do you think they feel bad when they don’t tip?”
“They better,” I quipped, searching for food in the kitchen. “I know I do.”
“I’d think that’s the best part about being in the military. It’s almost worth joining up just to avoid all those awkward exchanges. You certainly don’t have to tip in the mess hall. The other thing that would be nice is the uniforms. Deciding what to wear day in and day out is such a hassle. Obviously you don’t have those problems as you have like three items of clothing, total.”
I sighed as I slunk back into my chair, gnawing on a stale protein bar. As usual, Gary had a point regarding the military’s lack of tipping. The federation was notoriously cheap with outside vendors. But they also knew how to hold a grudge. If word got out I’d left a few dozen of their buddies to freeze and/or suffocate, they’d have no problem accidentally firing on my ship the first chance they got.
“Want me to drive?” asked Gary. “As you know, I’m pretty, pretty, pretty good at it.”
“Sure, why not,” I replied. The ship rotated and the turbines gently whirred as we embarked on our journey.
Sensing the shift in direction, Pirate stretched and yawned, then went back to sleep, as if he knew this was not some wild adventure we were about to undertake, but instead another routine job that would allow us to eke out a few more weeks of tuna. Which was fine with him. And on some level, with me too. Adventures tend to get people killed in this business. My dad and brother found that out the hard way 14 months ago at a remote outpost called Missura, located a few hours off Mars’ atmo.

Chapter 2
I woke to the ka-chunk of metal clamping on metal.
“Did we just dock? Tell me we didn’t just dock with the 405,” I growled, bleary-eyed.
“Okay, I won’t tell you that,” replied Gary. “You have a window.”
I felt my stomach drop as I saw the military ship right outside the thick glass. How long had I been asleep? A moment later, I was being hailed on the com-link. I ignored the hail, focusing my ire on Gary. “Why the hell didn’t you wake me up sooner?”
“Ah, we’re going to pretend you didn’t yell at me an hour ago when I tried every alarm we have to pull you out of your coma you call sleep?” said Gary.
It’s true about the coma. For the last few months, I’d been suffering from a disorder that caused long-lasting sleep cycles, commonly referred to as “spaceouts.” It’s basically when a three-hour nap turns into a 16-hour REM bender.
I tried to clear my head as I rose from my pilot’s chair. “I haven’t even negotiated the rate yet and we’re already docked. Answer their hail.”
“Relax, I took care of it,” came Gary’s reply, stopping me in my tracks.
“You. What?”
“You’ll like the terms. I even worked out a gratuity situation, provided you do a good job.”
I was still trying to process what Gary told me when I heard two loud thumps on the door.
“Why does it always feel like I’m the one being boarded when I help these morons out?” I snarled.
“Because we don’t trust morons like you,” a voice shot back. One of the officers aboard the 405, no doubt.
“You said to answer the hail,” Gary whispered into my earpiece.
I shot the nearest camera a death glare as if I was looking directly into Gary’s artificial soul. Then I addressed the officer.
“Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, who do I have the pleasure of speaking with?” I asked.
“Senior Officer Jeffries of the Interstellar Federation, in command of the DTL Graymore. And I already know who you are,” he said.
“Good, just give me a minute and I’ll come aboard,” I told him.
“Open the airlock and we’ll meet on your ship first,” he countered.
I looked around. I hadn’t had time to clean. I didn’t really care about the mess, but I did have a few items that would be better off unseen by anyone wearing a blue federation uniform.
“41.5,” I said. “Section B.”
It had been a while since I’d read the actual text, but I was pretty sure Code 41.5 section B of the statutes governing rescue vehicles meant I didn’t have to let them board.
“In fact, I could just pop this airlock and be on my way.”
Take that, I thought.
The response took a little longer than I expected, making me wonder if they were going to ignore the law and simply blast the doors in.
“Fine,” said Jeffries. “For now.”
I gathered my tool box and leather jacket and headed to the airlock. “Gary, you and I are going to have words, but in the meantime you know what to do if things go sideways.”
“Does going sideways really mean anything in space?” Gary mused. “A ship turns sideways, it can still maneuver. If anything, we should