Miracle in My Minitank

As my WIDS-20, more fondly known as my Minitank, pulled up to the dilapidated remains that once were Westerlane Industries back in the early 21st century, I reassessed my equipment. Air quality in the year 2201 was between hazardous and lethal, so I needed my bodysuit and oxygen filtration mask to be in prime working order if I was going to attempt this salvage. I didn't have much time left.

Life on Earth had been hardly sustainable since a meteor hit us nearly a century ago. It was big enough to cause rippling damage that we still felt, but small enough to not completely wipe out existence in a single blow. That last point was debatable, since it might yet be the death of us.

Things got desperate after Reckoning, which is what we called the moment of impact. The atmosphere was wrecked, making it unsafe to venture outside for long periods of time without protection. A mass exodus in the financial market meant extreme deflation. A decent set of roving tools costs about $50 US, but you'd have to save for a year to earn it. All currency is virtual now, which is ironic because it is virtually impossible to come by. Sure, the oldest profession in the world is still there to earn yourself a few bucks; but, if that wasn't your thing, you'd be hard up for work. You only found good jobs if you'd been massively educated, which most of us weren't. If you were massively educated, you'd be off this rock by now.

The best thing I found to keep myself going was to become a salvager, one of those few brave souls that inspected the unstable ruins of yesteryear and found old remnants of society to collect and pawn off. People were serious suckers for the good old days. It was on a salvage nearly 3 years ago that I found Minitank. Abandoned as a pile of junk, I harvested and repurposed it for my own needs. I had a way with those things. Never had I been that lucky before or since, but that wasn't worth much on a normal day.

Paper had no practical value anymore since when exposed to air it was practically chewed up; trees couldn't exactly keep up in the aftermath of Reckoning. If you found some sheets in decent enough shape, brokers got excited to tease their collectors with it. Don't get me started on the bidding wars that occurred if the paper had something printed on it!

We had survived, as humans always survive, much like the resilient cockroach. Reckoning came with advances in technology. We created means to not let our atmosphere and our environment destroy us on contact. The quivers and reverberations from Reckoning that disturb the ground, even now, had been met with adaptive infrastructure. Nothing was tall anymore, just small and fortified. I just wished it was enough for a decent life.

The biggest thing to come out of Reckoning was advances in space technology. Some brilliant scientists, shortly after Reckoning, put their finishing touches on sustainability in harsh atmospheres. They thought it was going to save the Earth. Instead, the powers that be used the innovation to make neighboring celestial bodies like Mars and Earth's moon more inhabitable. The trouble was how to get the people off this place.

Finally, Addison Westerlane emerged with a revolutionary way to transport people. His company, which has been in the family for over 200 years, had been working on mass transport for nearly its entire existence. Though they hadn't had anything space-worthy until Addison came along, it was long rumored that the potential for the tech was hidden behind Westerlane Industries' doors. Heck, they made Minitank a long time ago. The WIDS in WIDS-20 stood for "Westerlane Industries Defense Structure."

Addison Westerlane came on the scene with shuttles to take people away from our dying world at the low cost of $30,000. I'm kidding, of course. $30,000 might not have been much for space travel a few centuries back, but now it was quite the sum. Scrimping and saving from my salvages over the last ten years had only yielded me a little over $10,000, most of which was in the last three years since I discovered Minitank to help me traverse through ruins. In another seven years or so I would have enough to shuttle out of here.

Then, last week, it was announced that there were only two shuttles left. That was all our current resources could allow for. Anyone of any importance had already abandoned this place. Everyone left are poor stragglers, and I didn't want to be left behind. Earth was a wasteland; her time was nearly done. I knew of one ticket with my name on it, but only if I could buy it by tomorrow.

Those facts had led me to the pile of rubble I currently examined from Minitank. I consulted as much data as I could get my hands on over the years to uncover the history behind Derek Westerlane. He might have brought the shuttles to temporary fruition, but I knew the idea was there long before him. He had to have an ancestor who set the ball in motion! I thought the idea went all the way back to Addison's great great granddaddy, Patrick Westerlane, the founder of Westerlane Industries. Finding the original headquarters took time, and there was no way anyone would get there without a tank.

The building, mostly collapsed, seemed like it was modest even in its time. I had a good feeling about that, because no start-up was ever a skyscraper. Westerlane Industries did eventually have skyscrapers, but not until much later, and not for long. That meant that old Patrick must have done well for himself. I was hoping that the brains of the operation left something valuable behind. The history buff collectors sitting comfortably far, far away from here went crazy for anything Westerlane. The name was practically synonymous with "savior."

Suited up, I brought my vacuum bag with me as I hit the harsh atmosphere. Disturbing the contents here could lead to rapid deterioration, thus the vacuum bag. I wished I could have brought some of my hauling tools and bracers, but I was afraid they might cause the structure to finish collapsing. My suit protected me from the air but not tons of bricks landing on me.

What was once the front of the building was standing precariously, enough room to walk in the door and see a mostly faded "W," but not much else. I crept deeper into the structure, minding my footing while evaluating the piles of detritus nearby. A small quake caused movement, and I heard something shift toward the back of the room. My eye caught something shiny. Not much shines anymore, it mostly just rusts, so that piece of metal must have really been protected until now.

Closer examination showed a recessed handle for a door in a false wall with a large cupboard-sized space with shelving. It reached from my waist to a little over my head. The formerly disguised door connected to rusted hinges but otherwise remained tight until I swung it away slowly from the wall. That thing was heavy!

I cringed as the door's hinges scraped and protested upon opening; it had clearly been a long time since last used. The hollow inside had been mostly cleared out with only a few odds and ends left. I could see some old office supplies like a pen, stapler, and paperweight; but I panicked when I noticed scraps of paper starting to disintegrate before my eyes with the new exposure to air. I opened my vacuum bag and used my arm to swipe everything inside the cupboard into it. I had to reach up higher than my line of vision to swipe the top shelf with my gloved hand, and something solid plunked into my bag before I got a good look at it.

It was right then that my worst nightmare happened. That stupid door, which had been doing okay while shut, fell off its rotting hinges and smacked the floor. It triggered some quaking that led to bricks and debris falling everywhere. I cursed and hit the seal button on my bag, barely hearing the woosh of air exiting it as the entire structure gave up its bracings. Only years of experience salvaging got me out of the building and to Minitank before I too became part of the rubble.

I was mad, but there was nothing to do but head back to my favorite old pawnbroker, Bart. He was the person who was holding on to a ticket for me dependent on this salvage. I might have given him the impression that my savings were better than they were. It didn't matter that I had next to nothing from the trip. Bart was out of here tomorrow with or without me, so I needed to sell him everything tonight.

I stormed through the first door of his hut, waited with arms crossed while the pressure adjusted and the air reoxygenated, then walked through the second and final door. Bart's old eyes had been watching me and I was sure he could guess what had happened.

While I hooked my vacuum bag up to Bart's sterilized, pressure-sealed box, he went around to the other end where the gloves connected to it to preserve salvage integrity. I punched the button to release the bag's seal and walked around to Bart.

"Rough one?" he asked, reaching into the bag. The first thing he pulled out was the rusty stapler. I grunted.

"Twenty cents," he said in a clipped voice when I didn't explain further. Bart liked to appraise and bark prices quickly. I just rolled my eyes.

Next came the half-destroyed scraps of paper. There was some handwriting on them, but that never meant much to me. There hadn't been need for the handwritten word in a long time, and only old brokers like Bart and rich collectors took the time to decipher handwriting anymore. It was rare to ever lay eyes on it.

"Sixty dollars," Bart said, his voice betraying nothing, though I noticed that his eyes appeared more thoughtful than they had previously.

It didn't matter how pensive he got though, my dreams of getting that ticket were as ruined as the original Westerlane Industries. I blinked hard a few times, there must have been dirt in my eye, and Bart reached in bag one last time. I heard him take in a slightly sharper breath than usual. I was just about the only one who could see past the stoicism and read Bart's emotions, so I brushed my eyes as I whipped my head to see what he had.

Bart was holding something dark and as thick as my pinky, probably the thing I barely snagged from the top shelf. The outside looked like cracked old leather, but Bart carefully used the gloves to pry it from… pages? Page upon page of writings and illustrations of rockets, only eroded where the edges were exposed briefly to the air. Bart read slowly and was silent for a long time in his examination. He set the little black notebook down slowly and removed his hands from the gloves.

He picked up his compact that he used for exchanges, punched something in, and gestured for me to do the same. When they touched, I realized instead of adding the few hundred dollars I was expecting, he had decimated my savings by taking out $10,000.

"That," he said pointing to the book, "is the beginning of Westerlane. Forgotten doodles, maybe, but he writes of the beginnings of shuttles in there. Salvation from a dreamer, scribbled into words. I will give you $20,000 for that and take $10,000." As he said it my compact chimed. It was my ticket.

We both smiled and headed for our ride.