Chapters:

Chapter 1

Denizens of Dump

Chapter one

Enough fell to keep a man in bacon for months. Tons of scrap, wrecked vehicles and bags of many less savoury items vomited from the doors of the spaceship. They fell in a hellish rain, screeching against one another in competition.

Kellin turned and ran, his brown jacket flying out behind him with its many pockets snagging on jagged spires of rusting metal. His mismatched boots crushed through the tangle of junk, fresh wounds tearing into the scarred leather. He ran as far as he dared and threw himself to the ground.

The scrap hit the deck.

A moonscape of red dust, littered with piles of junk, was beaten into a whirling dust storm. The rubbish howled in protest as it fell into its grave. A deep rumble of pain escaped the earth at the impacts. The ground shook itself like the skin of a drum.

The thunder quietened, and the ground grew still. Kellin picked himself up. His most prized possession, a dented quad motorbike, lay on its side, leaking oil. With a yowl of rage, he began to climb. He reached a good vantage point and searched the sky.

He spotted his tormentor, a vast, black angular ship with aerodynamic fins, turning and flying back towards him. The pilot began waving the craft from side to side in a perverse, mocking victory dance. The ship’s blue engines cut through the red haze, choking every so often as dust clogged them.

Kellin whipped, or rather hefted, an ugly-looking pistol out and tried to load the weapon. It was made from several other pistols, though he’d been assured it would work with the right ammunition. The maker, however, had no idea which calibre, and suggested Kellin start small and work up.

Kellin went through his many pockets and selected the largest ammunition he could find.

Scowling down the bent-iron sight, he took aim. The ship passed overhead, the downdraft from its engines blowing the dust out of his inky black hair and blinding him. He fired anyway. The kick of the gun nearly ripped his shoulder from its socket. He gasped in shock, swore in pain and sat down rather hard. Far above, he heard a metal clang as the bullet hit.

He jumped up and shouted in triumph, roaring at the tiny measure of revenge he had managed to take on the monster that had simultaneously tried to kill him and provided him with enough scrap to buy dinner.

The ship turned, kicked its engines into a higher gear and pointed itself towards the stars.

Kellin watched it go, jealousy rising inside him. He hunted through his pockets for another bullet, but one glance at the pistol told him it would never fire again. He swore a couple more times and bellowed at the departing ship.

Silence answered him. He put his head in his hands.

I’ve been on Dump far longer than is healthy.

Kellin began by checking the new drop for people. How anyone ended up in the bin was beyond him, but then there was always one. Every scrapper had at least one story of being jumped by a panicked and confused city dweller or waster, who’d fallen asleep in the wrong place.

Once the scrum of rats had scattered, he could make an assessment of whether the drop was worth his time or not. It was civilian, and judging by the smell there was a lot of domestic waste. That was bad.

He reckoned he had about an hour to sift through as much as he could before the rest of the Scrappers managed to navigate through the wasteland. They would bring larger vehicles, salvaged and put to use collecting more salvage, hauling away the heavier items such as scrap iron, engines or more vehicles.

Donning his homemade gloves that stretched up to his elbows, Kellin began picking his way through. There was a crashed car; he quickly popped the hood and found a pile of abandoned shopping. It was rotting, but he extracted several tins. The glove compartment contained a map of a city he’d never visited and a pair of glasses. He pocketed those and moved on.

There was an art to scrapping, one he had learned as a child. Knowing when to dig, or simply to move on; seeing what was achievable, and what was simply too big to be managed. Being fast helped, too, and Kellin had no way to fight for anything now with the pistol ruined.

A large helicopter-like vehicle lay in front of him. Its faded hospital markings caught Kellin’s eye; he broke in through a window and began ferreting through the lockers. He bagged half a dozen unused syrets of adrenaline, as well as a small first aid kit, but ignored an ageing and clearly broken defibrillator. A good pair of goggles was wrapped around one of the headrests and he took them too. He had a good laugh when he found the vehicle’s keys.

Then it was on.

Kellin hunted for over an hour till the rumble of approaching vehicles got too loud to ignore. He still hadn’t found a weapon, which was disappointing. City people were forever shooting one another and dumping the murder weapons in the bin. Not that day, however.

His eyes fell upon an unopened bag. It was a long, black holdall that wriggled with a life of its own. It went still as he approached, alerted by the clatter and rattle of his boots through the junk.

Rats, he thought, and gave it a good kick.

The bag swore at him. The fit of muffled curses lasted for several minutes, until the bag ran out of either oxygen or swear words.

Kellin paused, gave it a long thoughtful look, and then kicked it again.

The bag swore one hell of a lot more. It thrashed around, wriggled a bit, swore again and then went still.

He sighed and drew his knife. He cut the bag open as gently as he could, trying to butcher nothing more than fabric. The bag seemed to sense its doom and began thrashing around again.

The stench of blood struck him. He jumped back in shock as a battered figure emerged from the ruins of the bag. Her blonde hair was plastered to her skull with blood, and her eyes were hollow and rimmed with black. She had a sharp, angular face, striking and cold. All Kellin noticed was the pistol trained on his heart; it never wavered once as she fought her way out.

“Don’t even think about it!” she said in a crisp, clear-cut voice. “The answer’s ‘no’ to whatever question you’re thinking.”

“Would you like a first aid kit?”

“No! Hands up now.”

Kellin’s hands were well above his head and straining to get a little further. He was never going to live this one down. Jumped — and captured — by a waster.

If Old Man saw this...

He settled on bartering. “I think you need a first aid kit. It just so happens I need a pistol...”

“Do I look like an utter fool.”

Kellin glanced at the luscious, red cocktail dress, the pointed, high-heeled shoes and the severe head wound, and bit back an answer. The woman crouched over the bag and picked up another handgun and her handbag.

“Where am I?” She began rummaging through an impossibly small handbag, which to Kellin’s eyes was made out of red jewels.

“Dump.”

“Dump?” She looked at him. “And which part of Dump am I on? Where is the nearest spaceport?”

“That way.”

“How far?”

“About two hours’ ride. Maybe more. Depends on how much scrap they dropped. Could take some time to find a way through it all.”

“Ah.” She’d just caught sight of herself in a small hand mirror, more frequently used for signalling aircraft. “You said you had a first aid kit? Give it to me!”

“Well, I can trade you for it. Say, for one of those pistols?”

“I swap you a gun for a first aid kit, you shoot me with the gun and take the kit back? One hell of a deal, don’t you think.”

“It does have its merits,” Kellin conceded. “But there would be no prospect of repeat business.”

“Funny. Give me the kit.”

“Give me one of your pistols and I can give you a lift back to Cavern City? I promise not to shoot you. If you stay here then you’re at the mercy of whoever shows up next, and they probably won’t have first aid kits.”

“Will they be armed?” The woman paused.

“Heavily. It’s why we need to hurry up.”

“Right. I give you the weapon now, and the ammunition when we get to this city. If you try to turn on me, or sell me out, I’ll shoot you. Now, the first aid kit.”

Kellin began going through his many pockets. The inside of his jacket had more pockets than most wardrobes, and it took him a few moments to find the right one. After pulling the bright red kit out, he settled to playing with his new toy while the woman wrapped a bandage around her head. The pistol was a proper piece of kit. Small, blocky and with a tiny barrel protruding from a suitably heavy stock.

“This is a laser!” he said, and then pointed it at a hostile-looking lump of dirt and pulled the trigger. It wasn’t loaded.

“It’s not a laser,” the woman said. “It’s a G-78Z FPS.”

“But it looks like a laser,” Kellin said. “And ‘laser’ sounds better.”

“Fine. Have it your way.”

“I will.” Kellin holstered the still unloaded weapon. “What’s your name, by the way?”

She chose one at random. Sarah had gotten boring, as had Saidie and Melissa. Betha had a good cover story but had been involved in one too many brutal killings. So she chose Traci. Traci Hughes, a young professional who’d gotten into a drunken argument with her boyfriend (a very proficient and angry soldier, or maybe a policeman), ended up taking a ride in a flying skip to another planet and now wanted to go home to be reunited with said policeman/soldier.

He’d have to be a soldier. Where else could she have got a military grade pistol from?

Her rescuer-come-trading partner continued to hum to himself as he pawed the weapon. He wore a ragged brown jacket that seemed to be alive with bulging pockets. Various items, which she considered to be junk, peered out from them, and at least one oily rag was making an escape bid. A grey coloured bandana was strapped to his head, along with a pair of goggles. Shadows of dust marked his face where the goggles’ protection had ended.

Useful, though most likely harmless. She always assessed local assets on their usefulness, and this one had only a short lifespan; no longer than it took him to get her to town. Whatever passed for a town on this sorry planet.

They set off down the side of the scrap pile. Traci made slow progress with her heels, which were rapidly ruined — as was the dress. Its embroidered hem was pulled and cut to ribbons.

That said, the dress was drenched in her blood as well so it didn’t really matter.

She had another thought.

“What’s your name?” she called after Kellin.

Assets behaved better if they felt cared for and valued. He answered her question as he waited for her to navigate a particularly steep bit.

“I’ve got a spare pair of boots on my bike if you want to borrow them?”

“They won’t fit, I have small feet.”

“You’ll be lucky to find boots here that fit. I had a pair once.”

“Is there any sort of government down here?”

“Government.” Kellin instantly spat on the ground. “No. We got rid of them.”

That was probably good on the whole. Planetary authorities normally had a problem with her.

“And are there ships that leave often?”

“About one or two every year. Some religious folk come and round orphans up and take them away. The King sends one ship out every year to buy stuff we don’t have here. Mostly he discourages people from leaving.”

“The King? Who’s he?”

“The King of the Dump. He’s got a whole host of other titles too, but everyone calls him the King and I think he likes it. Not the ‘Dump’ part of course.”

“So if I wanted to leave I’d have to speak to him.”

“I suppose so. You’d also need papers. Government” — he hawked and spat again — “doesn’t like many of us getting out. Feel we might pollute their nice, clean planets. Government.”

He spat at the final word.

They emerged into an open area, a forlorn and dusty valley stretching away from the piles of scrap. A huge lorry roared across it. Perched on its back, armed to the teeth, sat dozens of men.

Armed men.

Traci pulled out the second pistol. She had the overpowering urge to ask Kellin how he knew she had two. Then another thought struck her.

“Here. Don’t shoot me. I’ll do the talking.”

She passed a single clip of ammunition to him.

“Alright.” Kellin folded his arms, a huge, amused grin spreading across his face.

The Scrapper lorry came to a halt. So did several smaller vehicles, quads, trikes and one vehicle that had more wheels than sense. Figures began jumping from the lorry. Most were bearded, and Traci realised in shock that several were woman.

It was the weapons that caught her attention. Most were old, requiring bullets and firing pins. All were spotlessly clean, compared to their owners, polished and in fine working order. One figure detached himself from the milling crowds and strode over.

His black hair was tied into a ponytail and a single tuft of hair had been carefully shaved into his chin. His face was gaunt and staring. A leather jacket hung from his thin frame and concealed several weapons, aside from the one visible on his shoulder.

“Don’t even think about it,” she barked at him. “Whatever the question is, the answer is ‘no’.”

The figure ignored her.

“Kellin!” he boomed, a surprisingly deep voice for so thin a frame. “You’re not supposed to be here. We’ll have to rob you now.”

“You call it robbery. I call it trade.”

The two men embraced as roughly as good, heavily-armed friends on opposing sides can.

“Anything good this time?”

It was an old ritual. It felt wrong to Kellin, now he was no longer part of the gang.

“Trig, you know I can’t tell you that. But yeah, it’s an OK haul. There’s a few vehicles round the back, and there's a lot of waste. I did get this though.”

Kellin pulled out the pistol and showed it to his friend. There was an appreciative ooooh from the rest of the watching gang.

“That’s a laser!” Trig said in whispered awe. “I haven’t held one of those in years. May I?”

“Of course.”

Traci watched in open-mouthed horror as Kellin handed over his only weapon.

“‘Fraid there’s no ammo for it,” he said, slipping something into one of his many pockets. “But she’s a fine beast. Good condition. Perfectly functioning. I doubt she’s been fired more than a couple of times.“

“What a man would give for this!” Trig pointed the weapon and pulled the trigger. It clicked loudly.

“I could do with a decent rifle. Maybe a side arm as well?”

“Swing by the shop when you get back.” Trig handed the weapon back to him. “If I’m really lucky I might find some ammo for it while we’re scavenging.”

“You might.” Kellin’s eyes sparkled as he took the weapon back. “How’s life under Short Stuff?”

“Um.” Trig looked uncomfortable. “We get along.”

“What did he call me!”

A very short figure, somewhat cleaner than the rest, jumped down from the cabin of the lorry and stormed over. He wore a huge leather jacket and his oily hair was slicked back across his forehead.

“Hey boss,” Trig said, keeping his eyes on his feet.

“Hey Shorty!” Kellin greeted him. “How’s business?”

“I don’t like that name!” the figure shouted.

“OK, Short Stuff.”

“I’m not short!”

“You’re not tall either.”

The small man went red with fury and began bawling threats. Trig and several other Scrappers grabbed him and tried to stop him shooting Kellin. Kellin yawned.

“You should go,” Trig grunted. “And I’ll consider your offer later.”

“You will not trade with that…” Someone managed to muffle the rest of the sentence as Kellin walked as slowly as possible back to his quad.

Traci hurried after him, keeping a nervous eye on the situation behind them. She flinched at the gunshot. Everyone paused to make sure they hadn’t been shot and then went back to scuffling.

“So you and Trig go back then?”

“We do. Joined the gang at the same time. Thought we’d be in it till the end.”

“But you left?” Traci watched as the scuffle ended with the short man howling at Trig and then producing a comb to fix his hair.

“I didn’t leave. I got kicked out.”

“By Short Stuff?”

“I’ve called him worse.”

They reached the quad. It had a battered-looking trailer attached to it, piled high with scavenged items. The quad lay on its side and was bleeding oil onto the ground. With a grunt Kellin righted it, and gave it a once over.

“Why didn’t they shoot you if you’re no longer part of their gang?”

“Because none of them are happy that I got kicked out. Here.” Kellin handed the ammo back to her, along with a moldy pair of boots.

“You can keep that,” she muttered, nodding at the clip.

“No, the deal was I got the ammo when we got to town.”

“Have it your way. What are you all doing out here, anyway?”

“Scrapping.”

Traci looked blankly at him.

“We gather up anything we can use or recycle. There’s an entire city built on collecting your waste.”

“That’s where we’re going?”

“It is.”

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