Synthesis

[Denelo]

A ship flew past Trafalgar Base.

It wasn't an especially important ship. Not then, anyways. It was, in fact, rather unimportant, and no one really payed it any mind.

Why even mention it?

This ship is pretty insignificant, long term. A ship is just a vessel. It might set you free, but it's also an iron cage. You can't escape it without dying. And yet humanity discards them regularly, like a conch might its shell. But of course, that's what a ship is; a shell. And in the long run, really, a ship is fairly temporary. No matter how it was heralded at launch, whether a slapped-together bit of junk that only flies five feet before falling apart or a mighty warship that participates in hundreds of battles, all ships will die. That's pretty much universal around here; everything will die at some point or another. Immortality wasn't something humans could grasp, really. And if you can't figure out how to give yourself something, how're you going to give it to a chunk of metal?

Face it, ships die. And when they're dead, there are the corpses. Lots of corpses. Empty, hollowed-out hulks. Bits of twisted steel, innocuous until they rip a hole in your ship the size of your head. And you can't have that. Someone has to take out the trash.

People are usually fairly dumb, so they will tend to dump their trash off in a corner where they can't see it at first. And then it grows. And then other people show up, see the trash, and go "how disgusting is that?", not realizing that their own places are the same way. It works just the same in a house or in space. And when the trash piles up too high, you call in the Junkers.

Back to our ship. See, as it went, this wasn't an especially important ship. It wasn't some great warship, risking the lives of some men to end the lives of other men. It wasn't even a transport, hauling vital supplies to the far reaches of space. It was a freighter. A little, dinky old thing. It didn't even support a crew, just one pilot.

See, the ship is never important. It's the people inside it that are.

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Suzume frowned at the console of her little freighter. It was significant in that it was hers. Not a lot of things were at the moment. But at the moment, she was frowning at it. The ship made an odd noise - something like a crow cawing and an old man sneezing - and started moving again. Suzume breathed a sigh of relief. See, while it was her freighter, it had been several other peoples' freighter for a very long time before it was hers. It was dying.

Suzume was a scrapper. She wasn't involved in politics or anything, like some Junkers. She'd never even heard of Gallia. She just cleaned up trash, and did it to survive. She wasn't even technically a Junker in the usual way. She just worked for them, helping to shrink the field of trash behind Southampton Shipyards. She didn't even look like a Junker. Just under five feet and with rod-straight raven hair that fell to her waist, she looked very Kusarian. Even her unusually pale complexion and large, brown eyes didn't help offset that image. It wasn't something she could help, but it did get her a lot of trouble here in Bretonia. Particularly around the Junkers.

Glancing around the cabin, Suzume herself would have been the first to admit that that scrappy little freighter wouldn't last long. She needed to do something about that, and fast. But not many Junkers would work with her. Trying to tear down an entire field of scrap isn't easy, but stopping every five minutes to haul the junk away doesn't make life any easier. Add to that the threat of claim jumpers, a few cocky Corsairs, and the ever-present threat of dust flying around at supersonic speeds, and Suzume's life was pretty hard. But she made the best of it.

Now, for instance. She was going out do what she did every day: tear tiny bits of trash off of the larger chunks, pile it up in the back of the freighter, and haul it back all day long in hopes over being able to afford a burger that night, not to mention this week's rent and repairs to the slowly fading freighter.

Suzume cruised out into the field. She liked scrapping near the edge. It was safer; easier to bolt into open space. As she went, she hummed a little tune. She liked humming; it was one of those things that'd kept her from going crazy in these last few months. Or maybe it was a sign that she was crazy. You never know.

Then she stopped the freighter. For a moment, Suzume thought that she had been right. Maybe she was crazy. Was that what she thought it was?

No, it couldn't be.

But it was.





Suzume couldn't believe her eyes. Could it really be? But the hulk of the Dunkirk was nearly intact. Well, no, it was no where near intact. But comparatively, it was only slightly broken apart. It looked like most of it was still there. There was even an engine section. Suzume's brain started working at about a mile a minute. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. Taking trash apart was one thing. But this... if she could get this out, if she could get this working... it would certainly be a lucky break, at the very least. At best, she could end up rich again.

But then another thought darted through her mind. Perhaps it was crazy. But what if... what if... it worked? She had to try. But she'd need help.

And for some reason, that very thought brought tears to her eyes. She'd had a hard life, and she'd never exactly been a paragon of mental fortitude. But enough of that. Dwelling on the past doesn't help anyone, does it?

When she was done crying, Suzume started thinking. It was something she wasn't bad at. She'd never had a chance to have a full formal education. She'd been withdrawn from school early under circumstances entirely beyond her control. But she had a brain.

Junkers aren't especially trustworthy people. She'd have to have some help from them, and it would take money to get them to help her at all, much less keep their mouths closed. But you know, there was an awful lot of scrap clinging to the chunks of that ship that would need to be removed...

Suzume gaped. She hadn't noticed before, but there was an awful lot. More than she'd thought. Scrap can be fairly lucrative. See, the local authorities just pay the Junkers to get rid of it. They don't care what happens to it afterward. But sometimes, people needed metal. And they'd pay for it, even if it was impure and... well, trashy... because it was metal, and it was cheaper to get it and purify it than to find some already purified. And with that much scrap...

Suzume had found her bargaining chip.

It didn't take long. She did know some people, you know. She used these people. And soon enough, she had a very small band of helpful - if somewhat morally questionable - men. No women. That alone was enough to make Suzume uncomfortable. But it would have to do.

And so they began.