Genius Loci (Tall Tales)

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=Story By JA Baker=
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What do you mean, my accent's wrong?
I don't sound...?
O Dduw annwyl! Never try that ever again!
What's wrong? Well, for one thing, that's the worst attempt at a Metis accent I've ever heard. Second, I'm from Triton, you ass! And yeah, there's a difference. How you like if I call you a Pomang, Tumang?
You alls think Metis is all there is to the outer system: yous stop caring once you past Titan. Well, big news, Mr ComStar Man: there probably more of us than there is of yous, but you never find us all. No inyalowda ever find a Belta that no want be found. No, you think Belt and beyond, you think Metis, and we let you. Metis think they speak fo alls beltalowda, and wes let them, because wes no wants to speak to yous. But receive this: Metis was settled by Afrikaans, and Triton by the Welsh, boyo. Deall fi?
So yeah, I can speak Terran Standard just fine, and if it's a choice between that, and your attempt at 'Belta Talk', which, by the way, would get you shived in the spine and left to bleed-out on Metis, I'll stick to your language, to pochuye ke?
Okay, so now we've gotten that out of the way, you wanted to know what I was doing, floating around in an old escape pod?
Short answer? Neptune Mothball Yards.
Cameron never picked it clean, the Fat Man never picked it clean, Big General never picked it clean, and you Robes haven't picked it clean. Lotta ships still out there. Full of all kinds of useful parts just waiting to be found if, you know where to look. And I'm not talking anything obvious. Like weapons, jump-cores or transit drives. No, those got taken long, long time ago. But inyalowda not think like Belta, not see what we see. You look at all those ships, and you see stripped down hulks, not even worth sending to the breakers yards.
But Belta? We see CO2 scrubbers, water purification systems, airlock seals, fiberoptic cables, hull plating and a hundred other possibilities. All things you think easier and cheaper to build new, with your factories at the bottom of a gravity well. But, to someone born out here? More than worth a little hard-work to recover. So, you stake a claim, make sure you stay away from the Last Spartan, grab your tool-kit and go exploring.
Six of us went poking for parts on the Shinano, old Hegemony Fighter carrier, as was. She had been in better condition than most, having been overlooked by previous salvage operations. Still, she was a big ship, even after colliding with another ship, the Sulaco, at some point. That happens a lot, now nobody is keeping an eye on them. More than once, we've had to launch an emergency mission to prevent a Kessler Cascade from turning Neptune into a no-go zone. More than one ship's been 'nudged' into a decaying orbit; far better they burn-up than rain down upon us.
So we latch on, list long as your arm of parts wanted, either use or trade. Breaching easy, if you know how, and we split into two teams of three. None us green, but all Belta know, safety first, especially on ship you don't know. Especially on derelict. My team, led by Boss Man, we head for the CIC, looking for terminals we can strip out, use on transports, replace parts you won't sell us unless we tell you how many ships we have, and where they are.
You Dirtyfoots all the same, expecting Beltas to follow your rules, bow and scrape, and all the rest. But do you ever bother to learn our customs? Certainly not you, who thinks they speak Belta because they visited a brothel just of Metis docks one time. So, tell me: why should we trust you, when you can't be bothered to know us?
CIC already picked, so we head for Damage Control, always good place to look, when we got a call from the other team, wanting to know if any of us were out their way, down in the primary power distribution room. We responded that no, we weren't, and they then asked if anyone else was working the claim.
Most people don't cary what you'd call a 'weapon' in the traditional sense while on salvage ops, but one thing you learn fast in space is that quite often the definition of what is and isn't a weapon is more a matter of intent. We were all carrying tools that could kill, especially in a vacuum, so we weren't exactly unarmed. But still, there are rules, even when it comes to dealing with claim-jumpers: sometimes, maybe not everyone get the news, or think you talking 'bout different ship. More than one ship have same or similar names, so honest mistake can and do happen. So, before you start busting someone's faceplate with a pry-bar, you try and confirm their intentions, ya read me?
Synnwyr cyffredin yn unig ydyw.
But, you can't just go stumbling around a derelict looking for someone, especially if you don't even know where to start. So Boss Man sets his radio to all-frequency, and sends out a standard greeting/challenge to anyone within range.
Nothing. Just the ethereal sound of Neptune, just letting you know she's still there.
Boss Man, he figured that the others just got spooked by shadows: trying to get around on an unfamiliar ship, well, even the most experienced mind can play tricks on you. Also, it's not exactly unheard-of for junk to go floating around. Once say an old jumpsuit, floating along a corridor because of the faintest puff of air. It's enough to make you fill your reclamation pouch with the lights on and somewhere you know. But on a derelict? You'd be surprised at what you can think you've seen.
So we get to Damage Control, and the place is a mess.
I'm not talking about "someone did a piss-poor job removing components" kind of mess. No, this wasn't the work of a rational mind. Someone, or something, had literally ripped the consoles apart, then slammed them into other equipment. Glass and broken components hung in the air in a, we'll, it was almost beautiful, truth be told. Certainly wasn't battle damage, and no salvage crew worth a damn would leave a mess like that. Too much risk of damaging equipment that you might want to go back for another time, and that's not to mention the risk of snagging something and getting a suit puncher. No, even the greenest of dirtyfoot salvage crews would do a better job.
Other team calls back: power distribution room had likewise been trashed. Only this time, there's what looked like carbon scorching from laser fire.
Now, you're probably expecting me to say we turned and ran, but that's inyalowda thinking. Beltalowda knows from birth that life not fair, that they most likely die young, and not quick or clean. Cymaint yw bywyd. We no frighten so easy, we no panic: Boss Man asks how old it look. Not easy thing to tell, in vacuum, but there are ways, if you know what to look for. Word come back it looks old, so they told to move on to environmental control.
We move on to the cargo hold; not expecting to find anything beyond some control panels. Cameron always like the best toys, so even secondary systems are better than most can dream of, and a computer built to hold and organise cargo manifests is always useful.
But that's when we find it: DropShuttle, worst shape I've ever seen anything that wasn't laying at the bottom of an impact crater. Thing looked like it had been for a pass through the clouds of Venus, then landed in the middle of an Io volcano. Never fly again, that for sure. Going by the structural damage. Weird thing was, there were no markings, even on the parts that didn't look like they'd taken a vacation in hell. I mean nothing. No registration number, no rescue directions, nothing. It was just plain, unpainted metal. Certainly got our attention, as even pirates, and yeah, we get them in the Belt too, keep at least some markings. Only people who don't are you dirtyfeet, when you don't want anyone knowing what you're doing. And even then, you at least paint it something innocuous, like drab olive or pure white.
Nobody goes for unpainted metal. Nobody.
Well, we had to have a look, see what the big deal was, right?
Main airlock was a bust. Frame was bent and twisted, actually melted in places, either by heat or corrosives. Same went for the secondary and emergency hatches, but someone had taken a cutting torch to the flight-deck window. Not an easy job, given what they're made of, but nothing's indestructible. Enough time, heat and power, and you can cut through anything. Inside looked worse than Damage Control, if that's possible. Looked like there'd been a fire, and a bad one at that. No spacer, even a dirtyfoot, wants to face fire in zero-g, where it moves like a liquid, following the airflow. That's why Beltas always respond to reports of a ship on fire: nobody should die that way.
Well, things weren't looking good for us by that point: somebody had evidently vented a not inconsiderable amount of frustration on the Shinano, and it didn't look like we'd find any easy pickings that day. So, Boss decides to call it quits, head back home and rethink everything. Come back later with a bigger, better equipped team.
Only, when we try to raise the others on the radio, nothing. Not even Radio Neptune. No big deal: metal blocks radio waves pretty well, so we pulled up the deck-plan and worked out the quickest way to environmental control, figuring that we may as well help the others on the way out.
Path takes us past the power distribution room, and Boss decided to have a look for himself. Room was untouched. Pristine. Looked ready for a visit by some dirtyfoot Admiral. No wrecked equipment, and certainly no laser burns. We double checked the compartment number, then have a look either side, just in case the others got confused. Still no damage, and our schematic clearly had the right compartment listed.
It was about then that we started to realize that something wasn't right.
Somewhat apprehensively, we continued on to environmental by the most obvious rout, but saw no sign of the other team. More attempts to contact them over the radio yielded the same result as before. And I ain't afraid to admit that, by that point, even I was starting to get a little rattled, so I was more than happy when the Boss gave word to pull back to the airlock we breached, to see if the others were there.
We backtracked our rout precisely, only this time, when we pass power destitution, it was as ripped apart as we'd been told, complete with laser burns. And there was no way in this 'verse that anyone could do that kind of damage in the time between our first visit and our return. We checked the compartment numbers again, and like before, they matched our plans.
Now, I know what you're thinking: stupid Beltas got turned around, can't read a deck-plan. Don't try and deny it, ffrind, it's written all over your face. You must be crap at cards.
Well, I tell you this: I completed my apprenticeship at just 15 standards, and have spent more than ten years working more ships and stations than you've probably seen. Beltalowda learn to read from operations manuals, to count from pressure gages and flow monitors. I could navigate a ship before I could walk, so don't you try and tell me we just got lost like some saesneg fresh off the boat from down-well. So, Boss gives the word: Double-time. So we didn't need telling twice. But, even a Belta can only move so fast in a vacuum, especially with just his suite lights to navigate by. I tell you, those passageways started to feel real tight real quickly, os daliwch fy drifft. About half way back to the airlock, we find a jammed hatch. No big deal: just pop the access panel, cut the hydraulic lines and make with the pry-bar.
Spacer 101.
Only, when we open it, we find the others, about ready to claw their way out through the bulkheads. We ask, "Beth yw'r uffern?", and they claimed that they'd been stuck there since just after we split up. Never even made it to power destitution, certainly never as far as environmental, and, on top of that, haven't been able to reach anyone over the radio. Boss asks about their earlier reports, and they just look at him blankly.
Yeah, kind of like you're looking at me now.
None of us wanted to remain on the ship much past that, all things being as they were, so we all start moving, quick as we can. Only, the ship, she not helping none. Hatches that had been open on the way in were now locked, while corridors we'd tagged on the way in seemed to lead in the wrong direction, take us to places we'd been, or should have been on a whole other deck. Even Boss Man starting to sound scared, especially after we found ourselves back in the cargo bay. Well, it was then that someone, I didn't catch who, had a bright idea: open one of the cargo hatches and make our way back to the waiting transport along the hull. Which was actually a decent plan, until we realized something we hadn't the last time we'd been there.
That old DropShuttle we'd found before? The one that looked like the Devil's piñata? That was our DropShuttle, only there weren't no sign of the two crew-members we'd left behind to keep an eye on it.
We lost our shit. I'll admit it. Only so much someone can be expected to take before they crack like a poorly maintained pressure seal. We'd all been growing increasingly on-edge for a while, and that was more than enough to trip us over the edge. It was every man for himself, and I'd spotted a row of escape pods just the other side of the hatch. Thankfully, they were still there when I went back. I yelled to the others, struggling to be heard over the screaming and the recriminations, then I jumped into the first one and hit the chicken switch, praying that it would still work.
And, well, I'm here, right?
Only, from what you said, I'm maybe the only one who made it out alive. So now, if you don't mind, I'll be heading home, letting the families of the others know what happened. The... I got a cosine who's bosun on a freighter. He can probably get me as far as Rochegelée, and then I'll see what I can do from there. Because I want to put as many lightyears between myself and the Shinano as possible.
You want my advice? Send over a few thruster pods and drop her into Neptune, before whatever's over there starts to spread.
The End
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;Notes from the Author : I predict that most of you are going to get the inspiration for this wrong. The correct answer will be at the end.
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Genius Loci
Genius Loci
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