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Chapter Two: One man's junk, another man's gold


Stanley T. Sparks looked crestfallen at the young man's remark, for a fleeting moment of time. Then his normally ebullient manner resurfaced and he drew Mikhail to him.

Their faces close, Sparks smiled to his protégé and assured him, “I wouldn't be spending megabucks so as to waste it. No, with guidance from the ground and crew to maintain the ship, you'll be able to do what's needed, up there where a man's ambition can bring untold wealth...”

“If the developing countries want to have access to space again...” Creavey added in his nasally tones.

“You do mean it...?” Mikhail continued dully.

“Oh yes my boy,” Sparks boomed jovially, “Sparks Two will fly and you my boy, well... you'll be it's captain and...”

“Rubbish collector...?” the cadaverous lawyer added.

“Thank you Creavey, that will be all,” Sparks snapped, “Go wait for me at the car...”

Then as his smiled retuned, Stanley turned to the young man with him and told him, “Now recall the scientist I told you of? Well, you're going to meet her now. Play nice, I need her...”

They walked ahead, towards what seemed to be the least damaged of the two craft.

“Ms Richards!” Sparks bellowed, once then twice and then a third time. Before he could yell again, a face appeared at a window in the cockpit, a woman of indeterminate age, with long, lustrous red tresses, pouring out from beneath a blue peak-cap, shoved hard onto her head.

“Yes Sparks, what is it!” She called down.

“Do remember who's paying you!” he snapped back, annoyed at her impertinence.

“You are and don't you keep reminding me, you odious little man,” she snarled, climbing down some steps leading from underneath the main body.

“This charming young woman,” he said with derision, “is the brains behind this little enterprise and, if and when you meet the gawp who generally follows here... I apologise, that'll be my son.”

As he finished speaking the redhead neared them: she was in her late twenties and wore a blue coverall, that did literally. But what he saw, Mikhail liked.

“And what brings you to where people work?” She snapped, when she was within feet of them.

“And some call this charming young lady 'Rattler', because when she gets her teeth into something, then she just doesn't let go...” he smirked, looking from Ms. Richards to Mikhail.

As the young woman approached Mikhail, he suddenly realised that he stood alone.

He quickly turned his head to the left, to see where Sparks had stood, to see the rotund fellow waddling after his lawyer and car.

“She’ll look after you my boy!” He called back, “I have investors to go see… cash to acquire…”

Mikhail's Mission



Chapter One: Sparks won't fly

The junk yard was as expansive as the man in the too tight, light blue short sleeve shirt, that he filled as he did his light tan trousers, so that the seams looked as though they might break, with every movement: and he moved slowly, sweating profusely with each step.

“Currently, they can't launch any satellites,” he began, dabbing at his bald pate with a handkerchief, “there's too much junk up there. It's been that way since two thousand and thirty eight... just too much junk and neither China, nor India will cooperate with one another, to clear it...”

The small black moustache beneath a pug-nose, had to be wiped every few seconds, as sweat dripped down the man's rotund face.

“Without fresh satellites up there soon, we'll have no telecommunications, no G.P.S and neither of those two countries will have contact with their respective moonbase... nevermind whatever those darn Europeans might want...” he paused, walking and talking; for a moment.

“Well my lad... that's where private enterprise and good-old British gumption can help save the day...” Again he wiped his forehead, then added with a smile, “And help make me a wealthy man...”

“But sir,” the gaunt fellow behind the two chimed in, “there are many who would consider you wealthy already...” He seemed cadaverous to the young man, dressed in black and clutching his laptop to his belly, the voice sounding distinctly whiney.

The large fellow stopped walking and rounded on the man who had just spoken, his smile twisting into a mask of pure anger, within a millisecond.

“Creavey, you're my lawyer. I'm Stanley T. Sparks, entrepreneur and, any monies I've earned will be quadrupled, when and erm... if this takes off...” He mopped at his face, his little 'tache seeming to twitch, with his anger.

Then, once again he smiled at the young man with him; “And you'll soon see what I mean.”

Once more he began to walk, amongst the piles of scrap metal, his right arm draped over the young man's shoulder, as he led him further in, with Creavey following dutifully.

Mikhail Georgeson was a fairly tall, slim young man, with aspirations to do something different: and, that is what Sparks had promised him, 'suitable for someone with drive and ambition and, with a desire to earn some real money.'

Even now, he knew nothing of this golden opportunity, but having been promised a days pay, just for his time, Mikhail had decided, “What the hell!”

So here he was, being guided round a vast junkyard, by a man who seemed to be out on a pleasant sunny day, whilst being followed by the shadow that was Creavey.

“Not far now my boy,” the rotund fellow boomed, pleasure evident in his voice.

They took a right turn at one stack and then saw what amazed Mikhail, two Shuttle craft, both showing signs of dilapidation.

“A little work and, I'm sure we can start charging China and India and maybe even good old Blighty, for removing the junk for them...” he beamed, at the magnificence of his intent.

Mikhail Georgeson stared open-mouthed, at the formerly white bodies of the craft, now ingrained with years of grime: “There's few tiles left and... there's the actual take off... and the repairs and...” he knew the list was endless.

Yet, it seemed as though Sparks could not hear him, or if he did, he was satisfied with his own answers. “Oh the craft will be able to use an ordinary runway... so no rockets... as for the shielding...”

He squeezed Georgeson’s shoulder, “We'll be using a sort of prototype shielding.”

“Prototype?” Miklail asked slowly, warily.

“Oh yes, a new thing... a young scientist friend dreamed up for this very job... force-shield, sort of thing... she'll explain it to you, when you meet her that is...”

Mikhail was now pop-eyed and asked almost absently, “You're kidding, right?”

“No, no... She assures me it'll work, deflecting anything that comes toward the craft...” he explained, as if to a child.

“No, that isn't what I'd meant...” Georgeson clarified.

He pointed to the two craft, “You really expect to collect junk, in... junk?”