Where Weavers Daire

Chapter One

  FINDERS KEEPERS

"Warning: you have one hour of oxygen remaining," the mechanical voice of Melinda Scott's spacesuit whispered through her earpiece.

"I know, I know," the eighteen-year-old grumbled. She counted to five so the urge to unscrew her helmet and hurl it into space abated. She focused on rewiring the derelict ship's electrical systems. "Thanks for distracting me. I forgot which wire is for the thrusters."

Her bubble helmet scraped across the ship's metal frame. A tug from her pliers and a yellow wire presented itself. "Let's try you," she said and twisted the wire's end around a connection point and spun the magnetized screwdriver.

Melinda reached out and gripped one of the six magnetic handholds she had latched across the hull. They led back to a three-foot-long portable battery. It was easy to spot. It broke the wedge-shaped derelict's sleek design. She flipped the bright red lever and tiny bulbs pulsated.

"Yellow is for the running lights." Melinda ignored the spinning vastness beyond. She flipped the lever back to OFF. "Let's try the red wire."

You did all the work, found it, tagged it and after two hours' worth of work, it's all yours. Slow down and focus, she thought.

The one-hundred-twenty-foot-long wedge was full of wiring and avionics along with a laundry list of problems. Backwards wiring. Eroded back-up batteries and three-quarters of the decking was gone. The derelict's stomach-churning rotation was worse. If you don't slow down, you'll break something expensive, she thought.

Melinda twisted the red wire. She looked over her shoulder at the exposed pilot's well and its lone occupant. The glassed-in enclosure, long since stripped away, left the frame, the console, and the pilot's body strapped into his seat. Hands floated above his head.

"I know you can't hear me, but don't jettison yourself." She flipped the lever.

The derelict shuddered beneath her and bursts of air shot out into the dark.

"There we go!" she shouted and grabbed Tommy's makeshift control stick. Stupid pudgy suit fingers. Barely feel anything. A simple twist and the derelict's thrusters stopped the spinning.

Melinda tapped on her wrist communicator. "Tommy, tell Mom it's done. I'm gonna need a pickup." The animated icons danced across the two-by-two-inch screen and the transmitters built into the suit's frame did the rest.

Melinda collected the handholds and stowed them in her waist bag. It was full of nine feet of magnetic tether cord, handholds, a stun pistol with extra charges, and a backup video rig. All the items tethered to the inside of her bag, so they didn't float away.

Her magnetic boots attached themselves to the hull of her prize. "Not a bad haul for a second-generation salvage reclamation specialist." She gazed up at the frozen bundles of refuse and rock of the New Welles Asteroid Belt. The outer rings grew fatter with each passing year as starships ignored protocol and dumped their trash. The treasure lay in inner rings.

"Make a note: Pay Tommy for the restoration job on Mom's suit." Melinda stretched. "Thirty-year-old combat spacesuit fits great even if he restricted the military-grade sensor package. The retro bubble helmet is cute, but it fogs easily. Once I get back to the station, I'm swapping this fish bowl for something to cover my neck."

Melinda checked her wrist clock. "Competition is three days behind me." She collected her tools and stowed them in her father's dented toolbox. Magnetized to the hull, it served her well for patching up Toy's outdated wiring. "After we sell Toy, what're you going to—"