Contents

  Title

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  From The Author

  Book Two Excerpt

  About The Author

  Acknowledgements

  CRASH WAGON

  Book One - Family Ties

  By

  Jason Eric Pryor

  Copyright © 2013 by Jason Eric Pryor

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.JasonEricPryor.com

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  Prologue

  2499 A.D.

  New Year’s Eve

  Earth

  This was not the life Brett wanted. Not for him or Jordan. It was the kind of life that would get him and his sister killed sooner rather than later. He was betting on sooner, given the current situation they found themselves in.

  The streets on this side of Laguerto were dangerous enough without members of The Monarchy showing up. What did they want? Why were members of a rival crime family encroaching on their turf? They probably thought they could move through the crowded streets of the New Year’s Eve celebrations unnoticed.

  He'd noticed them, however. And now he and Jordan had them cornered in a vacant alley. Perfect place for bad things to happen. He didn't care why they'd come, as long as they didn't stir up any trouble.

  “You boys are about a day’s flight from Portozuela, aren’t you?” he said. “Pretty far from home.”

  One of the five interlopers stepped forward. “Last I checked, it wasn’t against the law to travel outside of your home city.”

  “I guess that depends on which law you’re talking about. By Central Government standards, sure. You can come and go as you please. But people like us - we live by a set of laws that’s a bit less liberal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Trust me,” the man said. “I’m here on business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “The kind where I plant enough lead in you to make you radiation proof and show you off like a trophy to my boss.”

  “Really? That’s your plan?” Brett said. “You figure you’ll just show up with a few other head cases, take me down so you can get a pat on the back by your family head?”

  Some of the men turned their attention to Jordan. From the corner of his eye, he could see why. She had slowly moved her hand to the pistol that was strung low on her hip. The two of them were outnumbered. He couldn’t let this get out of hand. Knowing Jordan, she would start the fight quicker than the Monarchy thugs.

  “Why don’t we all just calm down, okay?”

  “Tell that to your sister, Hawkins. Looks like she might be feeling a bit heroic.”

  Brett shot Jordan a look. Not now. Look for your moment. She glanced at him, moved her hand away from her gun, and turned her focus back on the men.

  “There. She’s fine. See? No need for lead to fly.”

  “That’s up to you,” the man said. “My boss may be even more impressed if I was to show up with you alive. Won’t be a need for shooting if you were to come along with us quietly.”

  “Well, that’s not an option,” Brett said. “Not really looking to be someone’s prisoner. Especially yours. Plus, it’s New Year’s Eve, and I’d kinda like to stick around here. I hear they’re shooting off fireworks later on.”

  “Doesn’t look like you’re leaving me much choice,” the man said.

  “I’ve got a notion, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m thinking your boss doesn’t even know you’re here,” Brett said.

  “It’s called taking the initiative,” the man said.

  “It’s called stirring up a hornet’s nest. You Monarchy boys have Portozuela. My old man’s got Laguerto. It’s been relatively quiet between the two families for a while now. Why don’t we try to keep it that way? At least for another year.”

  “Great things happen to risk-takers, Hawkins,” the man said. “Personally, I think it’s time to start mixing things up a little. It’s starting to get boring. I say we start the new year off with a bang.”

  Brett was getting a bad feeling about how things might turn out. This guy was not the kind of man you could reason with. He had learned on several occasions that it’s nearly impossible to talk someone out of a fight once their mind is set on starting one. An intelligent man can use reason and logic as an initial option. When intelligence is absent from a man, he's controlled by savage ferocity.

  “Something tells me you aren’t just wanting to make me a trophy to impress your boss,” Brett said. “Sounds like you got a little bloodlust looking to come out.”

  The man looked at Jordan. “Maybe it’s just the regular kind of lust.” He took a couple steps toward her.

  “Hang on a minute,” Brett said, stepping in front of her. “This is between you and me. You can leave her out of it.”

  “You know,” the man said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do want more than just a trophy.”

  “Well, you don't want this. I can assure you.” Brett said. “How long do you think it will be before some of our men see you and yours? They won’t be as chatty as I’ve been. My guess is you’ve been spotted already.”

  The man took a couple more steps toward Jordan. “That’s what I brought my boys for.”

  “I’m not going to tell you again. Stay away from her.”

  The man drew and aimed at him, catching Brett off guard. Why did I talk so much?

  Two shots rang out, but it wasn’t Brett that took them.

  She found her moment.

  Chapter 1

  Nine years later

  The Graffiti was in a slow spin, drifting aimlessly through space. All navigation systems were down, as well as life support. Most of the crew had been killed in the initial explosion, including the captain, so Robert Price, the Graffiti’s pilot, had taken over as the highest ranking crew member.

  Graffiti was a transport ship, traveling from Mars with a shipment of minerals, and was only a few days away from reaching the Earth city of Port Frisco. Luckily, it wasn't in deep space - the area of nothingness that stretched between Earth and Mars, dotted only by three space stations along the way, Sapphire Station, Emerald Station, and Ruby Station. Since they were only a few days from breaking Earth’s atmosphere, Price had hope their signal would be picked up by someone. Anyone.

  Unfortunately, the explosion in the Graffiti’s engine room was leading to a core meltdown. The temperature in the ship continued to rise. The engine room doors had been sealed to slow down the rising radiation levels and several survivors were frantically adjusting controls outside of it to attempt to lower the temperature in the core.

  It wasn’t working.

  The remaining survivors huddled on the Graffiti’s bridge, where the radiation levels were at their lowest. Price could hear their muted voices as he monitored the scanners, desperate for help to appear. He transmitted another request for aid.

  “Repeat. This is transport ship Graffiti. We are heavily damaged and approaching core meltdown. We have taken many casualties, including our captain. We are requesting aid from any ship that may pick up this signal.”

  Price waited for an audible reply through the ship’s communication system. Thank heavens it was still operational. He scanned the darkness outside through the Graffiti’s front viewport, hoping to see a sign that someone had heard him. All he saw were the stars, rotating in an unfamiliar pattern due to the uncontrollable roll the ship was in.

  Another explosion shook the Graffiti, escalating the muffled concern on the bridge to excited shrieks. Price keyed a command into his console which ran a scan of the ship. An updated damage report lit the main monitor. The cargo deck had lost pressurization. At least he had the foresight to move everyone to a safe place.

  He leaned forward, accessing the controls to transfer another request for aid. Before he could press the button, however, he heard a faint break in the static. He froze and raised a finger to silence the survivors' chatter. The bridge fell completely silent. Then, the comm speakers crackled to life.

  “Transport ship Graffiti. This is Captain Joseph Shaw of the rescue ship Crash Wagon. We are en route to assist you. Stand by.”

  Whoops and cheers broke out behind him. Price fell back into his chair and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. They weren’t out of the woods yet, but their chances had gotten a lot more favorable.

  * * *

  Jaimie Ellis sat at the helm of the Crash Wagon. Her ship had left Sapphire Station, the last deep space station before reaching Earth, and was on its way to King’s Bay to refuel and restock when she heard the Graffiti’s distress call. She always had two distinct feelings when she picked up a call for help. One was of genuine concern for the people that needed their aid. The other was a sense of relief that she had been able to pick up their signal. Space was big. Even if you stuck to the trade routes between Earth and Mars, being in distress could mean days, or even weeks before anyone heard you. Some people just didn’t have tha t long. She was happy when they finally got within communications range and Shaw was able to let Graffiti know that help was on the way.

  The lights of the main console reflected in the lenses of her black-rimmed glasses. She wore her sandals to the bridge, but they now sat on the deck beside her chair. She wore a loose-fitting pair of cargo pants and sat with one leg folded under her. Her shirt was old, but loved, the faded words, ‘Port of Orleans Flight School’ barely visible across its front. Her black hair was pulled into a loose and disheveled pony tail.

  Captain Shaw stood behind her. She'd alerted him that they were coming within range of the Graffiti. He looked through the Crash Wagon’s front viewport, arms folded across his chest. He was still in what could be considered good health for a fifty-nine year old man. Jaimie considered it a privilege to work on his ship. There was a certain fatherly quality that she saw in him. He seemed to view his crew as family, and she had no problem with that. It was how it should be.

  Her thoughts became focused on the job as the Graffiti came into view. “She’s in a spin.”

  “Activate the RAID,” Shaw said.

  Jaimie spun her chair to the left, and accessed the RAID console. The words, ‘Remote Access Integration Device’ lit up on the home screen. She brought up the scanners and locked on to the Graffiti’s signature. Within seconds, she was able to view the Graffiti’s systems as if she were sitting at its helm.

  “I’m in,” she said.

  “How’s she look?”

  “All major systems are down, including navigation.”

  “Let’s steady that spin she’s in.”

  “I’m on it.”

  She straightened her glasses and accessed the navigation panel on the RAID console. The Graffiti’s thrusters were highlighted on the screen. Jaimie tapped them with her finger. The thrusters, which were unusable to the Graffiti’s pilot, roared to life under her control and she was able to stop the ship's spin.

  “That’s better.”

  “What’s the radiation level?”

  Jaimie slid her finger across several more screens on the console until she came to the one that allowed her to access their safety sensors. She scanned Graffiti for radiation.

  “Higher than it should be, but not dangerous yet. It’s concentrated aft.”

  “Get me a layout of the ship.”

  As she accessed the schematics, Shaw raised the comm’s mic to his mouth to speak to the Graffiti’s pilot. Jaimie found it interesting that with all the advances in engine, construction, and terraforming technology, the comm system was still basically a glorified radio. It was a way to communicate with other ships using their own comm system. This was not the same as the earpiece communicators that the individual members of the Crash Wagon crew wore. The earpiece communicators were on a private network, used so that all six members of the crew could speak to one another and be aware of what was going on during rescue operations. They could also be tracked, which allowed her to know where everyone was at all times. This had proved to be helpful on several occasions.

  “Transport ship Graffiti. This is rescue ship Crash Wagon. Do you copy?” Shaw asked.

  “We copy,” the pilot replied. “Standing by.”

  Relief flooded her when she heard the pilot’s voice. More often than she cared to think about they arrived too late to save the victims. She never blamed herself. She knew she always did her very best to reach them in time. But, it still didn’t make it any easier to handle those situations.

  “Good,” Shaw said. “Here’s the situation. I’m sending my people over to assist you. I need you, and everyone else on board, to do as they tell you. If, at any point, I think my people are in danger, if they are attacked, threatened, disobeyed, or looked at funny, they will fall back to the ship. We will then disengage our boarding hatch, put you back in that spin you were in, and go about our merry way. Do we have an understanding?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the pilot said. “We’re grateful for the assistance.”

  “Okay,” Shaw said. “Stand by and prepare for docking.”

  * * *

  Brett Hawkins and the boarding team made it to the Crash Wagon’s boarding hatch. Brett wore light body armor and carried a handgun. He was the first mate and Captain Shaw’s right hand. He was used to command the boarding team. Today, that team consisted of himself, his younger sister, Jordan Hawkins, and the Crash Wagon’s mechanic, James Foster.

  Jordan also wore armor. She, however, carried an assault rifle. She had her favorite handgun slung low on her hip, as well. Boarding an unfamiliar ship had inherent dangers. An ambush could be waiting. The RAID could be used to shut down a ship’s weapon systems, but it was up to Jordan to put an end to any human threats once they were onboard. Brett trusted her to do her job. She was very good at it. Even before joining the Crash Wagon crew, he had always been able to count on her.

  Foster carried a pistol and wore a backpack containing his tools and other small mechanical devices. The pistol was for his own protection. His main concern was the condition of the damaged ship. If he could fix it, at least enough to get it safely to the closest repair station, it would save them the trip of dropping the survivors off at a port. Even if they were heading to a port city anyway, caring for survivors meant spending precious resources. Plus, fixing a ship meant a nice cash bonus from the Guild.

  “We’re in place, Captain,” Brett said, using his earpiece communicator.

  “Jaimie’s sending you the ship’s layout now,” Shaw said.

  The trio checked the screens located on the small gauntlets they each wore. They were given the Graffiti’s layout, as well as radiation and temperature readings.

  “Okay,” Brett said. “This is a standard board and rescue situation. Jordan will lead, followed by me, then Foster. Jordan and I will get the survivors aboard the Wagon. Foster, you head to the Graffiti’s core regulator. See if you can’t do what you mechanics do. Maybe keep it from exploding and killing us all.”

  “Sounds good,” Foster said. “I just have one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why does Jordan always go in first?”

  “Well. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but she carries a really big gun.”

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Shaw’s voice said in their earpieces. “But we’re about to dock with a ship that has an overheating core. So, can we wrap this up? Or do you two need a little more time to discuss the ‘Jordan’s gun size’ issue?”

  “Nope,” Brett said. “I think we’re good.”

  “Fantastic. I know I feel better,” Shaw said. “Now, let’s help these people.”

  The Crash Wagon’s gangway extended to the Graffiti’s boarding hatch. It locked on and created the airtight seal needed to maintain pressurization.

  “Okay, guys. You’re good to go,” Jaimie said.

  “Copy that,” Brett said. “Okay. We’re about forty-five feet away from a lot of heat, panic, and unpleasantness. If something bad happens to us, we won’t be much good to these people. Keep your head in the game and stay sharp. Let’s move out.”

  Jordan led the trio through the gangway to the Graffiti’s docking hatch. She opened it and a wave of heat swept across them. She held up her hand, attempting to shield her face while still keeping an eye out for any potential threats. They were met by the pilot. He held his hands up to show he wasn’t armed.

  “No one is carrying a weapon,” he said.

  The trio stepped into the ship. It was hot. Really hot. Intermittent streams of sparks shot from crevices in the bulkheads and bounced on the deck below. The acrid smell of burning wires filled the air.

  “Where are the survivors?” Brett asked.

  “All but three are on the bridge. The others are attempting to slow the core’s heating,” the pilot said.

  Brett turned to face Foster. “You head down there and see what you can do to help them. Jordan and I will assist the others to the Wagon.”

  “I’m on it,” Foster said.

  Brett watched him disappear down the corridor through a wall of haze. He turned to face Jordan and the pilot. “Okay. Let’s get to the bridge.”

 

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