Dream From Dust

Trent yelped and stuck his twice-scraped knuckle in his mouth in a vain attempt to keep it from hurting. Just as well, the curse words couldn’t make it out that way. What did he think he was doing? Who in their right mind would try to rebuild a spaceship this old? He had little experience and even less money. He tossed the pliers he’d been trying to use as a wrench to the floor. He didn’t even have the right tools! His dream of getting free of this place seemed hopeless.

Dejectedly, Trent stood up and felt a bit light-headed. He swayed then plopped into the captain’s chair. Yeah, he should probably think about finding some food soon. As he looked around the tiny bridge area, Trent’s optimism poked its head around the corner again. Such a small space on a tiny ship to hold the gargantuan dreams and ideas running rampant through his imagination. If only…

This bridge. This bridge, was his bridge on his ship. He got it by agreeing to a summer of slavery at the local junk yard. After the first week of labor-filled 15-hour days, he wasn’t sure he made the right deal or if he’d even survive. If he gave up even one day early, the ship would be sold to the next highest bidder. Not that there were any, or had been any for several decades at least. But, he did it. He came out of that summer taller, stronger and captain of his own starship! His golden ticket off this backwater planet. If he ever got the captain’s console to communicate with the rest of the ship.

Trent looked around his bridge, more of a cockpit he guessed. There was only the captain’s seat with a single console and barely room to walk all the way around them. Captain’s quarters sat port side aft of the bridge. All six square meters of it. Room for a fold down bunk/fold up desk and a small closet/clothes refresher. Across the passageway on the starboard side was the head. Just a closet with a shower/sink/toilet all in one unit. Next to that was the galley with room for a small table, counter with cooking area and food storage. There was even a small cooler for fresh food if you ever had extra money to waste.

The aft half of the ship was divided into three compartments. Two smaller ones on either side of the passageway that could be switched from passenger bunks to cargo areas, and a larger cargo area across the back. Both the entry lock and larger cargo lock opened into the cargo compartment. Below decks was the engine room and environmental. And every single compartment had its own long list of repairs needed. Trent’s spirit sagged even lower.

“List the positives, boy.” A deep male voice sounded from Trent’s memories. It felt so real, his head was up and looking around before he could stop himself. Gramps had been gone now for over a year. Trent’s parents had disappeared, presumed dead, while on a trade run when he was five and Gramps took him in. For ten years, the two of them lived on this planet at the fringes of the space lanes. It had been a good life. Not a lot of extras, but they always had enough of what they needed. Then one day, Gramps’ vehicle was in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time. What should have been a routine run to town for supplies ended with what was left of an old low-orbit satellite decided to aim itself at a rusty green truck. Just like that, Gramps and Trent’s life with him was gone in a flash.

Because he was only sixteen and he had no other family to take him in, Trent was made a ward of the government and sent to live in a group home. He’d finished school last spring, worked the summer at the junkyard and was on final approach to eighteen. In two months, he’ll need to make a decision, or it will be made for him. Choice one—he could stay on planet by becoming an indentured servant to the government. Choice two—he could join one of the space forces and leave this planet with a high probability of ending up somewhere even worse.

Neither choice thrilled Trent. There wasn’t anything tying him to the planet, but he really didn’t want to have to shoot anyone or anything. Hence, this crazy plan of his to resurrect this old tub. If you don’t like the paths before you, you have to make your own.

Trent’s grand plan sprang to life after he’d spotted the old ship in a deep part of the junk yard. He’d been working at the junkyard a couple hours every day after school and five hours a day during the previous summer to fulfill his contract with the government for providing room and board. After moving several piles of junk, the ship became visible and Trent’s imagination engaged. He made a deal with the owner of the junkyard to work an extra ten hours a day throughout the summer in trade for the little cargo runner. Summer had ended a few weeks ago and now the ship was his. He continued to work at the junkyard, two hours a day for the group home and four hours more to rent some space in the yard to keep and work on his new baby. As a bonus, the junkyard owner said he’d throw in any parts Trent found and pulled himself, within reason.

“So,” Trent murmured to himself, “a list of positives: The lights work, the doors open and close when they should, the galley is in good condition, the head is functional. The hull seems to be intact, environmental is clean and the engines are almost rebuilt. The biggest problem right now is getting the stupid console on the bridge connected properly. And what is wrong with this chair?” Trent reached down under his right leg to try and smooth the hard lump that suddenly had his attention. His hand came up holding a small black notebook. It was a bit bigger than an old paperback and held shut with an elastic band. Trent reached out to remove the band and it fell apart at his touch. He cracked open the book. The pages were yellow with age and covered with a neat handwritten script. Glancing at the dates on the top of each page nearly made Trent drop the book. Almost one hundred years ago! He flipped back to the first page.

Captain’s Log- Captain Ingrid Eiriksson of the Dancing Monkey

The Dancing Monkey? That’s the ship name? Trent hadn’t figured it out yet since the console had been refusing to communicate. Captain Eiriksson. That rang a small bell in the back of Trent’s mind. Where had he heard that name before? It’s not the usual spelling. Hmmm, something to look into later. He flipped to the back, looking for the last entry. Tucked between the pages where the last entry was written was a small plastic rectangle about the length of his thumb. It was thin and somewhat flexible. Sort of cloudy looking with bits of rainbow mixed in. Trent looked to the last entry to see if it explained the odd plastic.

Well, I guess this is the end of my adventures with the Monkey and the beginning of yours. I hope she does as well for you as she did for me. A couple of tips before I sign off.

• There’s an extra fuel tank between the engine room and environmental. Not really a secret, but I wouldn’t advertise it. Always keep it full! Doing this has saved my butt too many times to count.

• The front console is dead weight- toss it! I had plans to replace it but never got around to it. Don’t waste your time trying to fix it.

• Every time you make money, put away five percent of your profits for repairs and upgrades. Don’t leave it in your accounts. Not everywhere has access. Keep your repair money on data chips. There’s just over $20,000.00 on the chip tucked in here. That’s what’s left of Monkey’s repair account. Should be just enough to cover the console upgrade I never got to.

• Keep your eye on the prize. If it’s something you want, make it happen.

• And always, always list the positives!

Good Luck to you and safe sailing!

Ingrid Eiriksson,

no longer Captain of the Dancing Monkey

“Twenty thousand? Too bad someone didn’t find this seventy-five years ago and get the upgrade done then,” Trent thought. At least he knew not to keep trying to get the old console to work. ‘List the positives?’ That was Gramps’ saying. Well, $20,000 was a positive. What could he do with $20,000.00? Trent mentally calculated what it would be worth in today’s credits. Yeah, he could think of a few things he could get. Not a console, the new ones today wouldn’t integrate with the shi—the Dancing Monkey anyway. He thought he remembered seeing a console that might work in a wrecked ship a couple rows farther down. Maybe he could get it pulled tomorrow after he put in his hours. Trent sat, lost in his plans until his stomach growled loudly enough to break into his thoughts.

“Oh, yeah!” thought Trent, “I was going for food. Well, that $20,000 ought to be enough to order a deluxe burger and fries at the diner in town. Last time I got to eat there was with Gramps. If I’m lucky, it might even cover an upgrade to a vanilla milkshake!”