Wreckers: A Denver Boyd Novel by George Ellis (ebook reader ink .TXT) 📕

and he wasn’t letting the opportunity pass. I was still wary about micro-adjustments in his behavior, but I was unable to pin it down to anything specific. He just seemed a bit off. I’d considered having Edgar run a diagnostic on him, but then realized he was a prime suspect if anyone had tampered with Gary’s intelligence board in the first place.

Some people thought M12 was an abomination, a kind of floating graveyard with no style or class. I wasn’t among them. I had always admired Jones’ entrepreneurial spirit and ingenuity. Maybe it was the mechanic in me. But the idea that he just glued together one of the most popular stations in the verse out of a dozen random ships…well, I liked that. I’d never met the man himself, but if he was anything like his creation, I had a feeling we’d get along fine.

I wasn’t particularly hoping to make his acquaintance this visit, however. Under the radar was the order of the day.

Batista shook her head at the patchwork station as we approached it.

“Looks worse than I imagined,” she said. And I had to admit, M12’s aesthetics were not its strong suit. The station looked a bit like a mad scientist’s attempt to fuse a robotic octopus with a bionic spider that was missing half its legs. I was more enamored with the idea of the station.

Edgar stared at the mismatched structure through the display. He was just waiting to get off the ship and hit the casino. I tried talking him out of it, but he had been clear that once he stepped off the Stang, what he did was his business. “Besides, no bounty on my head,” he had bragged.

I navigated the Stang around to quadrant six, the low-rent end of the neighborhood. If there were railroad tracks on the station, quad six would be on the wrong side of them. It was an old, long-range hauler that now had a new life housing a tightly packed group of rental properties. Shaped like a donut, it held a special place in my heart because my uncle and I had towed it out here to become part of the station.

“Nice neighborhood,” Gary said.

“Ford 5.0, please proceed to skip eight,” an automated voice advised over the Stang’s intercom.

I smiled a bit to myself, as I was the only one who got the reference. Edgar had given me a blank stare when I told him to change the call sign from Mustang 1 to Ford 5.0. Not too many people in the verse even remembered the Mustang was a car, let alone a model made by the Ford Company, which had changed its name a century earlier. And the reference to the car’s famous engine size? Over everybody’s heads.

Anyway, skip eight was separate from the main set of docking bays. Batista raised an eyebrow as we rounded the corner and saw a perfectly secluded bay that we had all to ourselves.

“Look at this spot right in front,” Gary noted.

* * *

Jiang greeted me with a wide grin and even wider arms. I wasn’t much of a hugger, but made an exception for Jiang because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He met me halfway up the gangway, embracing me before I could even step onto the bay floor.

“It is good to see you, Denver,” he said, holding me tight for a moment. Then he stepped back and looked at my face with concern. “You have either aged poorly or you carry a lot of burdens.”

His eyes moved past me to see Edgar and Batista descending the gangway. He seemed to understand the nature of our relationship. “I see.”

“You, on the other hand, look exactly the same as the last time I saw you.” I said, trying to remember how long it had been since my last visit to his corner of M12.

“Thirteen months ago, Denver,” he said. “You were very drunk most of the time, so I won’t hold the lapse in memory against you.”

“You were drunk, too,” I reminded him.

“Then I guess I simply have a better memory, or I can hold my gin better. You never were much of a drinker,” he said. Jiang liked to talk that way. He was a man of options and consideration, so a lot of times when he made a point, he also offered other potential possibilities as well. He was also right about me. I loved the taste and relaxation a good beer provided, but you had to twist my leg to get me to drink gin or other spirits. Just wasn’t my thing. So when I did, it usually got the best of me.

Edgar walked right past us without a word. I called after him. “Three hours, don’t be a minute late.”

The big man waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he said with a thick accent. Apparently he’d been working his way through the 80s action flicks too. He disappeared into an atrium that led to the heart of quad six.

Jiang sighed. “Only three hours. That won’t give us much time to catch up.”

Batista approached and traded nods with Jiang.

“Guess it’s good to have friends. Can we trust him?” she asked me.

Jiang took no offense, so I took some for him. I gave her a severe frown. “I trust him more than I trust you. Be back in three hours, and don’t forget the groceries.”

Batista appraised Jiang one more time. She seemed satisfied and started to head off.

“I like IPA’s more than lagers!” I yelled as she stepped out of sight. I hoped Batista only doubted we could trust Jiang because he was someone she didn’t know, not because of his background. There was a lot of anti-Chinese sentiment in the verse, mostly lingering racism from the Earth days. I didn’t take Batista as that kind of person, but I’d also come to realize I didn’t know her very well.

“You’ve grown a temper,” Jiang said, rather gravely. “Although it is understandable given the warrant.