Wreckers: A Denver Boyd Novel

say if things go off course. Or adrift. Nobody wants to drift in space.”
“Not now!” I snapped. I punched in my five-digit security code to access the airlock. It buzzed. Incorrect. That was the weird thing about spaceouts: despite long periods of sleep, your brain still wakes up scrambled, as if you only dozed for a few minutes.
I tried to remember the proper code, but came up empty. Unlike most ships, my security system wasn’t based on retinal or DNA scans. I didn’t like the idea that someone could just drag my corpse around to open any doors they pleased. If an intruder came aboard and the ship went into lockdown, a manual code ensured they’d have to keep me around if they wanted full control of the Stang. Or they’d have to torture the code out of me. Hey, every plan has its drawbacks. I walked to the food cooler and reached for the freeze-dried vegetable brick in the bottom shelf, then peeled back the label, where I’d written the code.
A few moments later, the airlock hissed open and I found myself face to face with three very serious federation soldiers dressed in navy jumpsuits and matching berets, their guns leveled at my head.
I hate guns. And not only when they’re aimed at me, which happens more often than I’d like. There’s just something lazy about a gun. Any idiot can pick one up and start blasting away. Even if you have terrible aim, as I learned long ago that I did, guns create more problems than they solve.
Next to the soldiers, a stocky, balding officer regarded me with cold eyes. Jeffries.
“Denver Lamar Boyd,” he said, correctly stating my name, as if I should be impressed. He looked me up and down. “Say, you out of diapers yet?”
That was not a new one. I got age jokes all the time from people, and the diaper jokes were a favorite. Usually they came from people underestimating me because of my age. They saw a teenage boy. What they didn’t see was that I probably had more life experience than they did. I could’ve made a joke about how short he was or that his combover was more obvious than his diaper comment, but it wasn’t worth it.
So we all stood there waiting for what came next. I scratched my ear, then checked to make sure my shoelaces were tied. The only other time a fed had ever used my full name, he was a judge sentencing me to two years’ probation for transporting illegal animals and robots. It’s a long story.
I considered giving Gary the order that would instantly release a localized electromagnetic pulse inside the confines of the airlock, rendering the guns trained on me useless. They were standard issue firearms with electronic triggers and palm recognition. Once the guns’ circuits were fried, the soldiers would basically be holding hunks of plastic. I guess they could try throwing them at me.
The EMP would be followed a thousandth of a second later by a chemical fog that would knock everybody in the room out cold. Except me, as I had built up immunity to the fast-acting barbiturate. I got the idea from an episode of Batman, a campy TV series I’d seen starring a cheesy guy who thought he was some kind of bat.
I simply had to say the words “Holy fog, Batman” to get the process started. Sure, I could have chosen a shorter trigger, but I liked staying true to the TV show, and the catchphrase would only confuse people more, stunning them for a moment before the gas floored them.
Perhaps sensing there was a reason I had remained so calm with multiple guns pointed at me, Jeffries glanced up toward the vents, then broke the silence.
“Your reputation precedes you,” he flattered, flashing bright white teeth. He was insincere to the core; that much was easy to see. “Although most of that reputation might be due to your late uncle’s exploits.”
“He was misunderstood. It seems I am too,” I said, nodding toward the weapons. “I’m just a friendly teenage mechanic. You need me to fix something or what?”
Once I was aboard the 405, the soldiers scanned me for weapons. Satisfied the only tools I was packing were in fact tools, they led me through a corridor to the rear of the vessel.
“Last I checked, the engine room on this model is under the bow,” I noted. Nobody responded. They just kept walking through the narrow pathways as we snaked to our destination.
The 405 was designed for function. That meant space was at a premium. You could walk two by two through the halls — barely. The ceilings were seven feet high. And everywhere there were exposed pipes and vents and other essential systems. The walls were covered in anti-radiation shielding, which were basically thin sheets of treated metal that distorted cosmic rays enough to render them mostly harmless. Military ships like this had the cheap version, which was just another reason I didn’t want to be aboard any longer than I had to. I could spend a year on the Stang and be exposed to less radiation than a week on this heap. Once again, my uncle spared no expense. The feds did. They spared all the expenses.
The soldiers abruptly stopped and fell into place along the walls, their boots clanging against the shielding. Two on one side of me and one on the other, joining another blue suiter who was already standing guard outside a door. Jeffries looked at my tool kit with disdain.
“You and I are going into that room,” he said, motioning to the door that had been under guard upon our arrival. “You will be there strictly to observe unless I ask you a direct question. Is that clear?”
I looked again at the door and the soldier next to it. He had restraints dangling from a hook on one side of his belt. The hook on the other side was empty. About five feet