Space loomed far beyond the borders of our horizon. Nothing could fill the void, yet the stars made an effort. The radioactive gasses they constantly expelled brightened the universe and gave the blackness a distinctive personality; not unlike an artist scribing their name to canvas. Joining the symphony of lights were various other heavenly bodies, though they were far outnumbered and could only be seen on occasion.

Beyond this, a tiny corner of space was dotted with countless smaller lights. They were a dismal display of space faring debris and rotting skeletons of ships long since forgotten. This floating heap of trash seemed a blemish upon our galaxy, though from a distance they could be discerned only as a large asteroid field; all 26 billion tons worth. At least it was at the last estimate, about six years ago.

Sadly, these numbers grew each year because few ships were ever melted down for reuse. Buying the rights to a junker and towing it to a refinery proved to be an unwanted expense, so abandonment was the obvious choice. After all, outdated or breached ships aren’t recycled unless they’re old enough to have an actual steel frame, so the pollution level of anything less rises all over the galaxy. Thankfully, the Coalition centralized this problem over half a century ago. They built a great many tugs and began towing a large amount of wreckage to an uninhabited corner of space. The goal was to create a governmental metal cache for future generations; after the current metal reserves dried up. The area has since expanded a thousand fold and is suitably named Junker’s Graveyard.

The graveyard orbits the Sun between the huge chasm of space separating Mars from Jupiter. It’s mostly occupied by immense chunks of hull; torn open largely by incompetent pilots or the occasional warring skirmish. The rest met their fates from a million separate freak accidents. Among these was sabotage, but could rarely be proven.

Junker’s Graveyard was also the bearer of a few thousand unbreached cruisers, tugs, skiffs and whatever else. Most were outdated, but operational to some degree. All but the new arrivals had been decompressed and were devoid of the widely used oxygen substitute, triexelyne.

Triexelyne base systems, distributors and compounds are all valuable commodities and were usually uninstalled before the tug, towing the relic, began its long trek to the graveyard. There’s always a variety of other valuables onboard a junker such as anything made of steel and they’re almost always searched, but triexelyne is like gold. Triexelyne sustains life.

Oxy-Core is a monopoly, so the price for a system is outrageous. Though many have tried, security is tight and Oxy-Core’s formula remains safe. This is why whenever a system can be stolen, scavenged or salvaged, it always is. This is why a class D cruiser, named Relentless, entered Junker’s Graveyard.

* * *

Jeb Saber was the first to notice the millions of tiny lights. Jeb was the second navigation’s officer and saw them as numerous pulses on the far end of his radar.

The procedure set down by the Coalition of Planets required him to inform his superiors of any significant progress, but the pirate ship Relentless observed no such rules. That is, beyond the general rule of chaos and survival of the fittest. Power builds upon power and you must take what you can and defend it. Such is the way of life.

Jeb was a scrawny man, which didn’t fare well on a pirate ship. He took steroids to compensate and acted the part with a grisly attitude and the growth of a wiry mustache, though he felt far too sophisti­cated to accept the standard of never shaving his beard. This superiority complex was ideal for a pirate. Though hated, Jeb was on his way up this treacherous ladder, not down, as his cunning far outmatched the other pirate’s brawn.

Jeb punched up his holo-terminal and keyed in the proper coordinates. After a ten second calculation time, the view appeared out of thin air. The transparent image hovered motionlessly in front of him. It was amazing. The angle at which the sun reflected off the debris created a brilliant scene.

Jeb turned momentarily to activate the scanner to cover a wide berth. The triexelyne signature, if one still existed, is always faint when the ship in question is no longer emitting the substance, but even so his steel scan could wait as a matter of priority. Discerning the signature from other scavenger vessels required some skill. If their class and make wasn’t detected early, the resulting dogfight could leave one a permanent resident of Junker’s Graveyard.

By now the image caught the attention of the other techs and had them in a frenzy trying to catch up. Although it appeared hopeless, Jeb was going to be the first one to discover a triexelyne deposit. Suddenly, on Jeb’s holo-image, three of the multitude of lights brightened to varying degrees.

With his left hand, Jeb calculated the velocity and other readings on the brightest dot. With his right hand he drew a small, but deceptively powerful projectile weapon and aimed it at an oncoming tech. Little doubt remained as to Jeb’s intentions, especially after he announced them. “It’s a needle gun, Marc, it may maim you, but it won’t kill you, much as you deserve it.” Jeb was a man of few words and paused to let the feeling sink in. “I hear it’s pretty painful . . . interested?”

Marc’s intentions were just as clear and the scene began to draw a reluctant audience.

Marc was a foul man who wore tattered clothes and a face to match. He raised a curious, bushy eyebrow as if he truly was interested. His taser rifle soon followed. Being set to max capacity was a given. Marc was going to order Jeb to stop working, but Jeb complied before he could. Jeb gave the bigger man a glance as cold as death. He raised his gun. A needle was sent spinning through the air and wedged itself in Marc’s left eye socket.

Marc fell to his knees and planted a new burn spot on the floor as his rifle fired off a burst, though it was only an involuntary reaction. The man was dead a second after his knees touched down. To make sure, a shlk sound could be heard as the needle’s tiny propulsion system jammed itself further into his cranium. This last push activated the six miniature barbs that sprang from the needle, much like a switchblade. This allowed the projectile to hook itself into its victim. It also added to the excruciating pain, which Marc was mercifully spared.

Jeb spoke to the body in a bored tone as he turned his attention back to his console. “So I lied. Don’t got time for your shit right now.”

The corpse had no comeback, witty or otherwise, yet as the blood flowed one could hear a slight hissing. A thin stream of smoke could be seen as the newly blackened area on the deck seared into his cheek.

Seeing the conflict was over, the audience returned to their work. A few were visibly shaken, but those who couldn’t do their job in hostile environments never lasted long anyway. The race was on. Jeb found the brightest dot was a class C tug of Mars Base design. It was just hauling trash.

“Nothing valuable,” Saber thought, “except for a system!”

The danger was elevated with a working target, not from the tug’s minimal defenses, but from the government’s possible retaliation. Though, more than just the risk went up with this venture; the excitement did too . . . and Jeb Saber had been bored for far too long.

The next step was more difficult . . . convincing the captain to see things in the same light. Time was crucial. Jeb sounded the “trix” alarm and continued his calculations. The noise blared throughout the ship as a beacon flooded the spacious room in crimson light. When combined with the ships own hazy, trix-filled air, an eerie glow penetrated the room.

Jeb relayed his information to the Captain, John Krantz. Within thirty seconds his intercom flashed. Jeb slipped on his ear phone and put Krantz through. “This isn’t necessary, Saber. We have trouble enough, now that they’re looking for us. But you know that and patched it through anyway. Explain . . . now.”

Jeb appeared confident, but a careful eye could see the bead of sweat trace his hairline. He played it off as excitement. “Retaliation, revenge, call it what you want. Supplies are critical and we need a big score. Besides they’re already huntin’ us, how’s one more ship gonna’ change that?” Jeb took a deep breath and prepared for his final comment. It was a huge risk. “I’m through hid’n, Krantz. We been run’n so long the whole, fuck’n galaxy can see how yellow our ass is!”

John Krantz responded calmly, a true testament to how many such encounters he’s been through

. . . and survived. “I call it stupidity, plain an’ simple.”

Jeb hadn’t prepared for failure and somehow the intense calm was infused with fear, seeping through to his bones. The most vicious tiger is the one who waits. This was the calm before the storm.

“And you know, you mother fucker, Marc was a good man. He was a bastard, but he did his job! Though, in this case you’ve got a point . . . all he amounts to now is one less mouth to feed.”

Enough said, Saber thought, he’d won . . . and was more relieved than he allowed anyone to see.

“Keep scanning. If this gig goes sideways . . . even the slightest inch! I’ll break off and personally nail your ass to the hull!”

Jeb Saber looked around the room and saw those who’d patched into his frequency. It was easy to pick them out from the crowd. They were grinning. Small triumph for losing the find, Saber thought, as he retrieved his needle by inputting a code to retract the barbs.

* * *

He wouldn’t fail. Things were different this time around. With an additional two years’ experience under his belt, his confidence soared. Back then, a better description for his initials read, Just Stupid, with the middle name of Plain. He was given conflicting orders. It was meant as a cruel joke, but Jeb took it seriously. In an effort to appease both parties a cargo was lost. He’d inadvertently opened the bay doors. Though much of it was salvaged, a triexelyne base system had been dashed against the hull of a fellow black flag privateer.

At the time, Captain Emaine helmed the Relentless and chose to make an example of the new kid. He’d lost his right eye then. Emaine gouged it right out of his head. He’d done it in front of the crew and enjoyed it far more than necessary, at least by Jeb’s standards. The humiliation nearly surpassed the agony.

Some took sympathy and told him how lucky he was to avoid any fatalities due to the incident. He believed it. As the painful days turned into weeks Jeb’s hatred for Emaine grew. It gave him a resilience rarely seen and many fellow pirates lost bets placed against his survival in the short span of a week. However, he’d more than survived . . . he’d prospered and earned the respectful nickname, One Eye. It seemed a different life to Saber. He was so much different. He now possessed a controlled fury best not tested. To be honest, should only his shadow be listening, he’d admit a desire to put a quick end to the pathetic shit he once was.

* * *

Unfortunately, Emaine wasn’t with them any longer. He fell victim to a tragic “accident”. Though, it was none the worse for his successor.

Captain Krantz more than filled Emaine’s boots. The man had, if not morals, then values . . . such as watch your back. This was a trait his predecessor proved poor at; that and underestimating a one-eyed mate. What Saber appreciated most was his reward for Krantz’s unexpected advancement. Most everyone aboard the Relentless was bright enough to see through Emaine’s “mysterious” death.

The new Captain saw to it that Saber not only lived in spite of his crime, but benefited from it. Jeb’s missing eye was surgically replaced, not with cybernetics, but with a cryogenically frozen eye. It was on ice for three months and its previous owner was a True Clone.

It cost the ship’s crew three men, but they eventually took out the T.C. guard and looted the ship’s valuable load of quom, a rare ore mined from Titan. To compensate for the crew’s heavy losses the T.C. was put on ice. He came in handy.

Jeb Saber’s visual perception and accuracy were unmatched throughout Relentless’s compliment of 98 crew mates. Make that 97. Marc was an example of how well the eye worked. It served as a constant amusement to Jeb Saber that, in spite of everything, he retained his title. Putting the memories aside, One-Eye returned to his console and got down to business.

* * *

In the 22nd century, pirates filled the vast emptiness of the known universe. They were more common than cockroaches and paid Junker’s Graveyard frequent visits. A few, not so bright, came calling so regularly you could set your watch by them.

With the obliteration of Old Earth, pirates were the most notorious scavengers in the galaxy and the graveyard graduated to the largest junkyard in the solar system. Such attraction could only be expected, which only grew with the frequency of newly scrapped arrivals. Much of this waste is brought without the permission or knowledge of the Coalition, whose technical term was the Coalition of Planets. Pirates generally prefer the term C.O.P. and the feeling is mutual. The pirate’s most popular title is scum, or So Civilized, Until Morgue. It wasn’t a perfect acronym, but the message was clear enough. The reasoning behind this is simple. The Coalition wanted everyone to play by their rules. Most pirates disagreed with extreme prejudice.

Though constantly at odds, the Coalition doesn’t mind pirates picking through their intergalactic trash can. It’s the lesser of two evils. The graveyard is a stockpile for future generations, but having thieves scavenge the wreckage sidesteps murder and looting elsewhere. However, this plan doesn’t always work. Vessels are usually scoured before being left and there’s often nothing left to scavenge. When this happens pirates are forced to resort to attacking other vessels. That’s when people die; good law abiding people. This hurts the Coalition’s standing with the public.

To counter this problem a task force was assembled and after months of planning an ambush was set among the drifting behemoths of Junker’s Graveyard. It proved successful, so another was planned. Again it was successful and another was planned. The cycle continued despite the only successful sieges being against foolish, unwary pirates and therefore the least dangerous. Those wiser quickly figured out the Coalition’s pattern and either went unnoticed, having tip-toed in the backdoor or crossed the graveyard off their list of possible bounty. Those who stayed away still needed supplies, ammunition, credits and most of all triexelyne.

To compensate, these pirates stepped up their freelancing a notch or two. Due to their unique talents, they chalked up more civilian kills than ever before. It’s funny how a good plan can backfire so dramatically. Many civilian trade routes were no longer used, traffic was severely stunted, the Coalition’s public relations officer was fired and Project Ambush was being reorganized, which in layman’s terms meant scrapped.

This was where Lieutenant Commander Lyric Hadley found herself, commanding the class C decoy tug Cyrano, with only 25% of her supporting fleet remaining. During the difficult reorganization the last thing she expected was the Relentless.

* * *

The Cyrano’s radar apparatus was reminiscent of Old Earth’s submarines. Though red and elliptical, the brightly colored band still swung around the grid in a clockwise motion and blipped brightly upon discovery of any significant body of matter within detectable range.

The Cyrano’s detectable range was huge . . . just shy of 1000 miles. Almost all tugs were class C and a typical tug’s radar spanned out to 314 miles, which was three times the diameter of any Old Earth sub built between 2044 and 2082; none of these ever exceeded 100 miles. Even 314 miles is small by today’s standards, but for this particular mission the Cyrano’s old radar was removed in favor of a significant uprade; one that matched class E cruisers.

Range alone couldn’t solve everything. With this system a natural flaw developed which would’ve stumped even the best of radars. Namely . . . Junker’s Graveyard. Within the constantly shifting borders of this immense junkyard were thousands upon thousands of free floating debris. It was similar to navigating a tame asteroid cluster and every single one of them, within detectable range, showed up as a bright . . . red . . . dot.

To solve this problem the Coalition copied the pirates’ own technology and began scanning for large quantities of triexelyne. If an object had a sizeable trix signature it was from an unruptured ship and likely still in service. With these settings L.C. (Lucom) Hadley found more than pirates. She found every ship in her depleted fleet, not including her own. It equaled a grand total of two. The fleets trix signatures were usually masked to fool pirates, but not now. Not during the reorganization.

Worse yet, all active progress aboard the trio had temporarily ceased. It was party time . . . they were all finally going home.

* * *

James Roberts Sr. was a tech. His job was to monitor the radar aboard Cyrano, but right now he had other priorities. He screamed to be heard over the surrounding ruckus. “Hey, Jules, how’s the synth?!”

The response was just as lively. “Just fine, you asshole! Yours ok? I pissed in it! It shouldn’t be anything you’re not used to!” Julie Sutherland paused a moment. “And don’t call me Jules!”

Laughter flooded the operations room. Julie even let out a smirk. She wore her red hair long, unlike Lyric and would’ve looked just fine in a Playboy magazine, which still existed because where there’s a desire as strong as sex the demand is always met. The only thing that changed was paper to plastic, the scenery and the price. Julie wouldn’t dream of giving a man like Roberts the pleasure. She couldn’t imagine a woman who would.

Only a few tiny slivers of gray hair lacerated Robert’s scalp, but he feigned combing them anyway as he walked up to Julie in an obviously alluring fashion, overemphasizing everything for show, including his sizable gut. Soon the laughter was subdued by a flurry of hoots and hollers as he was prodded on.

“Hey, baby, I ‘aint so bad. I mean this is a “no” means “yes” sorta thing, ‘aint it?!”

When Roberts came within reach she answered. “Oh, yeah, what else could it possibly be?! Drank enough of my piss, baby? You might need a refill!”

With that Julie promptly tossed the beer-flavored concoction in a high arc towards Roberts, glass and all. James fumbled to catch it as the fluid sloshed out. He failed, but not because of poor reflexes. When Roberts attention shifted Julie belted him across the jaw. Working out was never Roberts strong suit and he was out like a light before the glass shattered across the chromide floor.

Silence filled the room, but a moment later cheers and whistles could be heard as the crowd gave into whatever direction the party took them. The radar was unmanned as Relentless closed the distance.