Chapter 3
Armando pulled the hovertruck up just inside Stanford’s Salvage Yard. Surprisingly there were already another three vehicles in the small parking area. The entire yard was surrounded by a thick twenty foot tall ferrocrete wall topped with razor wire. A massive steel sliding door provided the only way in and out of the expansive yard. Stanford was a man who epitomized the old Terran saying, “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”
Vast piles of scrap metal towered above the huge cavernous warehouse that housed the more sensitive materials. Heavy construction equipment dotted the junk yard. A crane was busy moving scrap metal from one pile to another as a bulldozer shoveled even more detritus into a waiting dump truck. Half a dozen workmen wearing purple overalls emblazoned with Stanford’s name worked the place. Two of them were obviously armed, carrying stubby, pump action shotguns.
Armando hopped out, making his way into the main building. It had been a while since he’d last been here and it sure as hell hadn’t been anywhere near as busy as then. In fact, it looked like Stanford’s business was booming. A quick sidelong glance at the dump truck revealed a surprisingly familiar logo. Why in the world was Technicron here buying up massive amounts of scrap steel? Were things really that bad?
As he entered the warehouse, Stanford’s corpulent form sat behind a rusting gun-metal gray desk scattered with datapads. He looked up from the data terminal that dominated it. “The exoskeletons are all in C-3. And don’t even think about trying anything funny. I got full surveillance on this place now so I’ll be watching your skinny little ass like a hawk. And cash only.”
He was about to look back down at his terminal when Armando spoke up. “Got it. C-3. What’s with Technicron? What are they doing here?”
Armando could tell Stanford was smiling, but his fat jowls all but covered the attempt. “Where ya been, kid? There’s a war going on. Supplies are tight. Real tight. They’re here for the same reason you’re here. Can’t buy what they need new, so they gotta use salvage. They’re buying scrap metal by the ton!” Stanford rubbed his thick blocky hands greedily together. “And paying top Eagles for it, too!” His attempt at a smile turned into a sneer. “Just like you’re gonna do. Now scram. I’m a busy man. Bring whatcha want back up here to me and I’ll tell ya what’ll set you back. Cash only. Discount for C-bills.”
A few minutes later, Armando was digging his way through a pile of junked exoskeletons. Commercial, industrial, light, heavy, it was one massive tangled heap of structural members, actuators, myomer, control circuity, and parts whose original purpose was now entirely undecipherable. It took him a good half an hour to just locate what was left of a couple of P-5000s.
Dragging them out of the mass, he began examining them in earnest. The titanium upper and lower arm members were easily salvageable. The geared electronic servomotors that made up the heart of the actuators were in considerably rougher shape. After poking around, it seemed likely if he put together what he already had with what was left on the salvaged P-5000s, he could cobble together a couple of functional servomotors.
The real question were the microcontrollers, along with their sensors. A working servomotor was one thing, but without the associated control module, it was all but worthless. Unfortunately, there was really no way to determine what the condition of the microcontrollers were without installing them into a working exoskeleton and powering it up. There wasn’t any obvious damage, cracks, or signs of them having burned up, but ultimately it was a crap shoot.
With a resigned sigh, Armando pulled together the assortment of parts, loading them onto a nearby wheeled cart. There really wasn’t any other choice. Trying to reinforce and then adapt a lighter actuator to the P-5000 was fraught with unknowns. And while it was in theory possible, it would take significantly longer, cost a lot more, and come without any real guarantee. No, he’d just have to take his chances with the salvage.
Stanford looked up from his desk with his beady black eyes as he heard the approaching cart. Armando wheeled it over next to the desk so he could inspect it. As he stopped Armando addressed him, “Two members, a few servo parts and a couple of damaged microcontrollers. Man, it was a real mess back there. Took me half an hour just to separate what was left of the 5000s from all the rest of that junk back there.”
Stanford’s eyes never left the cart. “Titanium. That’s bringing a real premium right now. 500 Eagles for the lot.”
Armando’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “500 Eagles!? For this pile of crap!? I don’t even know if these parts are any good! I could buy a new L-5UA and a L-5LA for that kind of money!”
Stanford started chucking, sending both his jowls and his girth jiggling grotesquely. “If you could buy ‘em new, you wouldn’t be here boy! Now pay up or quit wasting my time.”
Armando scowled. He didn’t have 500 Eagles, at least not anymore. Not after seeing Tazer. Anyway, with a bit of elbow grease he could probably repair the structural members if he had too. “Keep the titanium. How much for just the servo parts and the microcontrollers?”
Stanford rolled his eyes off the cart to stare at Armando. “230 Eagles.”
Armando drew his lips into a tight line. Stanford had him and worse he knew that he had him. Grudgingly he drew out the roll of Eagles Spinaker had given him laying down 20 notes on his rusty desk until the roll was all but gone. “230 Eagles.”
Stanford scooped them up, his fat hand exhibiting a surprising amount of dexterity in the process. “Now beat it, kid. And, oh, by the way I’m buying scrap of all kinds. If that old bastard you work for wants to sell, this is the time for it. I’ll buy his whole damn inventory. I’ve never seen prices so high. I’m buying anything and everything I can get my hands on. You be sure to tell ‘em that!”
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After another depressing drive through the shabby city streets, Armando pulled the hovertruck in behind Short Circuit. Ducking in through the back door, he quickly retrieved a dolly and proceeded to load up the parts he’d just purchased from Stanford. As he wheeled it, his boss was waiting for him.
Spinaker cast a critical eye on the parts then an even more critical eye on Armando. “Took you long enough. You got in late as it was and now you’ve spent the better part of the afternoon on a parts run. Neeford wanted that P-5000 back online as quickly as possible. How much longer is it going to take?”
Armando shrugged. “Two days, at least. I can’t find replacement parts anywhere. I’m going to have to rebuild both the lower and upper arm actuator from the ground up. And that assumes this junk from Stanford even works! Then I’ve got to try and straighten out the limb itself. You wouldn’t believe how much that pig wanted for a couple of pieces of titanium. You’d think they were made of gold or something!”
“Oh ya,” Armando dug into the pocket of his jeans, “here’s your change.” He handed Spinaker a small roll of 120 Eagles. “That’s what’s left. Stanford wanted almost 300 Eagles for the titanium, as it was he charged me and arm and a leg for what I got.”
Spinaker quickly thumbed through the roll with a frown. “This is turning into quite an expensive job. Neeford isn’t going to be happy. The least you can do is work late and get this thing finished up as fast as you can. I’ll call him and explain what’s going on. You get to work.”
As Spinaker turned to head towards his office, Armando called out. “Oh ya, I almost forgot. Stanford wanted me to give you a message. Said salvage prices are through the roof. He offered to buy the inventory of the entire shop if you’re willing to sell. In cash. And I’ve gotta say, the junk yard was busy. Even Technicron was there buying scrap metal by the ton.”
Spinaker gave him a long, hard look. “If I sell out and close the shop, Armando, have you thought about where that would leave you?” With that, Spinaker turned and headed out to the front of the shop.
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Armando started laying out the parts to the upper arm actuator as his mind spun. Working at Short Circuit is what gave him his transit visa. Without it, he would be stuck in DumpTown. And while he was a skilled technician, living in DumpTown was bad enough, it was hard to imagine working there as well. He’d be lucky to find a steady job there, luckier still if it paid him regularly, and he’d only make a fraction of what Spinaker paid him. Not to mention the working conditions would suck. He’d probably be expected to provide his own tools, tools he didn’t have.
Look down at the bench, it was clear he was going to have to drill down to the component level to get the lower arm actuator rebuilt. He could scrape together a full set of the Neodymium-Iron-Boron magnets used by the brushless motor, and the output shaft looked ok, but the gear assembly was a wreck. He’d have to take apart the potentiometer too, but hopefully that was just the wiper. With a heavy sigh, he pulled up his stool and began the tedious work.
It was well past 9:00pm when he finally put down the soldering iron and looked up from the optical magnifier he’d be using to help him rebuild the servomotor. Spinaker had long since left asking him only that he arm the shop’s security system when he left. He felt a pang of guilt when he thought back on how he’d used the old man’s money to buy a batch of KanDue and a couple new LTEs earlier that day.
Rubbing his forehead, he took a deep breathe followed by the sound of his stomach protesting its lack of food. He’d swing by the noodle cart once he got back to DumpTown. Prices in the city proper were way higher and besides he had to catch one of the last transits back. They stopped running to DumpTown at 10:00pm, and didn’t start again until 6:00am the next morning. Grabbing his jacket, he flipped off the lights and punched in the security code, arming the system. Barely a minute later, he was on the streets outside Short Circuit hoofing it to the nearest transit stop.
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DumpTown was a funny place. It didn’t bother the civil authorities who went in, rather they were only concerned with who was allowed out. In fact, the transit was rather full. A gaggle of kids in their late teens were dressed up in a combination of tight black synth-leather and neon lycra, their hair spiked and gelled and their bodies sporting an amazing array of piercings. A few rough shaven, heavily muscled men carrying enormous totes bags claimed a pair of the benches, their tactical sunglasses constantly sweeping back and forth across the crowd. Armando just caught the nub of an earpiece on one of the men.
A pack of wage slaves sat and stood scattered about the place looking dejected and exhausted as they clutched their long empty nutri-boxes, studiously trying to avoid eye contact with any and everyone. A cluster of Talons, basically a pro-Stewart Commonality gang, was also on their way into DumpTown, no doubt looking for trouble. DumpTown was where all the people who ended up on the wrong side of the war had been shoved into, in other words anyone who was or had been pro-Lyran. Like his father had been. Their ballistic clothes were heavily padded and stylized giving the impression they each had a heavenly and heavily muscled physique. Each of their backs sported their gang’s screaming eagle insignia: a bald eagle, bloody claws outstretched, swooping down upon on a cowering mass of people in suspiciously Lyran blue. Thankfully, there were no other gang members on this particular transit, meaning that would likely reach DumpTown before the first fight broke out.
Last of all were the upscale junkies, looking to score their fixes on the cheap. They were on a downward spiral. Still proud enough to try not to look the part but desperate enough to come to DumpTown to save a few Eagles so they could buy just a little bit more.
He could spot them a mile way because, once, Amy had been one of those. She’d actually gone to one of the dance academies downtown back when she was still living with her parents and the Lyrans had ruled the planet. The Lyrans were funny that way. They had a healthy appreciation for the both the fine and performing arts and had somehow managed to bring a bit of culture along with them. He still remembered seeing one of the famous Lyran troubadors straight out of the Rewland College of Fine Arts on Tharkad. It was the closest he’d ever come to understanding, or for that matter even thinking about, poetry.
All that changed when Savannah returned back to the Free Worlds League. Eager to prove their recently rediscovered loyalty to the returning Eagle, anything with even just a tinge of Lyran influence was ripped apart, burnt down, blown up, killed, or outright destroyed. Including the dance academy Amy had been training at.
That had been the end of her dream, and for that matter his. The dance academies were all distance memories, just as his hopes of landing a job at Technicron. But, they both had their TLEs. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he fingered the two new memory cubes he’d bought off Tazer. That, and the six-rack of KanDue in his jacket would make her the Null-G dancer of her dreams, and him the valiant MechWarrior of his.
Forty-five minutes later he hopped off the crowded transit and back onto the grim streets of DumpTown. What light there was cascaded down from the windows of dilapidated buildings that lined the filth strewn street. Shapes clustered ominously in the pools of darkness watching as the denizens of DumpTown hurriedly scurried to their various destinations. He quickly crossed the street entering the multi-story tenement that housed his own little rat hole.
The elevator had long ceased to work and any interest in fixing it had left with the Lyran DropShips years before. The higher floors were ironically both cheaper and safer, as most people were unwilling to make the long ascent up the stairs. Armando didn’t mind, however. He figured climbing up fifteen stories had to count as strenuous exercise and the privacy was worth it.
Slotting his access card, the door to his apartment slid open. The smell was only slightly less noxious as the air outside and for the thousandth time he swore he gather up all the garbage and at least throw it out the window.
But instead his eyes fell almost immediately upon his TLE deck and headset, his hand reaching into his pockets before he even realized it. He paused for just a second, berating himself for forgetting to stop by the noodle cart and then just as quickly shrugged it away. He could always get it later.
Pulling out the six-rack, he stuck a syringe into it, pulling up the plunger to fill it with KanDue. Next he placed the memory cubes on the mattress next to him. One was unmarked, the one Tazer had called “Kentares”, and the other was the Solaris VII match. Well, it’d been a long day. Best stick with the known, who knew what the hell was on that other one. He popped the Solaris cube into the deck, brushing his hair out of the way to expose the two bare spots where he positioned the contacts of his headset for maximum effect.
With practiced ease he wrapped a tourniquet around his arm, causing his veins to weakly rise to the surface. He didn’t want to mess around, so he went straight for his "know-how-to-hit" spot. Part of him already realized he was well on his way to damaging his veins, maybe even collapsing them, but he knew in a few brief seconds all that wouldn’t matter anymore.
With a motion smooth from countless repetitions, he inserted the needle, pulling back a bit on the plunger to ensure he was securely inside the vein. Satisfied after seeing a tiny drop of blood discoloring the eerie green of the KanDue, he pressed slowly and steadily down transforming himself back into a MechWarrior once more.
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