NHist 009
Salvage and the Aftermath Recovery Protocols (ARPs)
Who owns what is left behind — the rules that govern salvage, claims, and recovery after an infestation.
Contents
NHist 009
Prologue
The Thorned Verge didn’t feel like his anymore.
Raze stood at the docking collar with a duffel over one shoulder, staring at the ship that had once been his entire world. Two years had passed since he signed the retirement papers. Two years of quiet mornings and empty nights. The hull was the same scarred gray, but the small dent near the airlock—Lena’s boot print from that last ugly argument—had been smoothed out and repainted. Someone had scrubbed the old blood out of the deck grating.
Inside, three new faces waited on the bridge.
Hannigan stood at the science station, arms crossed, watching him with careful eyes. Anders leaned against the bulkhead, his Lakia unit Grover sitting perfectly still at his feet. And in the captain’s chair—Raze’s old chair—sat Zanders, the CC-10 middle-management liaison, already scrolling through files on his pad like the ship belonged to him.
“Captain Keller,” Zanders said, voice smooth and polite. “We weren’t expecting you. According to these records, you retired eighteen months ago. With honors.” He tapped the screen. “Are you sure you have the right ship?”
Raze didn’t sit. He held out the sealed orders. “N.A.C.S.S. classified. I’m taking command for this run.”
Zanders smiled the way corporate men smile when they think they’re still in control. “Of course. But I’ll need to verify the parameters.” He opened the mission packet on his pad. His fingers moved quickly across the screen.”
Zanders reads through the priorities: Scuttle designated Nemesis-class vessel. Salvage hibernation chamber, science labs, surgical equipment, and all biological specimens.
Zanders nodded, satisfied. “Straightforward enough. High hazard, but nothing we haven’t—”
Then the file expanded. A third line appeared beneath the others, marked in red text that only unlocked for CC10 management eyes. “Priority Target Recovery: Lena Voss.”
Zanders went very still.
For a long moment the only sound was the low hum of the life-support systems and the faint metallic click of Grover’s claws shifting on the deck. Zanders slowly lifted his eyes from the pad.
“This objective…” His voice had lost its smooth edge. “This is about your old crew mate.”
Raze met his gaze without blinking. “My orders are classified. Yours aren’t.”
Zanders swallowed once. The corporate mask slipped for just a second, revealing something closer to unease. He stood up without being asked and moved to the secondary station, leaving the captain’s chair empty.
Raze finally lowered himself into the seat. It felt wrong—too clean, too perfectly adjusted for someone else’s back. The ship had moved on without him. Raze stared out at the stars. Somewhere out there, Lena was still running. And this mission had never been about the ship or the data recovery.
“Take us out,” he said.
The Thorned Verge answered like she always had. But she didn’t feel like home anymore.
NHist 009
Historical Context
When humanity left Earth, the old maritime logic traveled with us—unchanged in spirit, a ghost of the deep haunting the vacuum, now applied to drifting wrecks just as it once was to wooden hulls upon the sea. Salvage law predates writing; the Edicts of Rhodes (900 BC) established rewards for rescue, while Roman jurists refined it to compensation. Medieval coastal lords claimed 'right of wreck' until papal decrees intervened. By the 17th century, the ironclad 'no cure, no pay' rule emerged, eventually codified by modern conventions. We trade tides for sub-space, but the soul of the salvage remains unchanged.
As we colonized new worlds, the concept of adverse possession—or "squatter"s rights"—followed us from Earth's frontier to the void. While corporate law strictly governs deep-space vessels, static settlements and abandoned outposts on the fringe often operate under a more pragmatic legal gray area. Here, long-term habitation and occupation can eventually override original claims, transforming derelict husks into sovereign homes for those willing to defend them against the encroaching dark.
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Classification of Assets
The Classification of Assets exists because not every wreck carries the same risk or the same value. A drifting Nemesis-class ship with an intact Golden Egg is a strategic asset that can reshape entire sectors; a vented cargo pod is just another piece of floating junk with a corporate barcode. The Mother Box therefore sorts every derelict into one of four tiers before issuing salvage directives, ensuring crews know exactly what protocols apply and what they are allowed to keep.
Tier 1: Golden Egg Assets — Nemesis-class ships, Lockdown-class bases, and Retaliation stations. These get the strictest Mother Box protocols because they contain critical subspace/jump technology. All subspace capable vessels and their cargo and equipment are presumed to be CC10 property unless formally transferred or abandoned.
Tier 2: Military Assets — N.A.C.S.S. vessels, stations, and bases (non-Golden Egg). The military maintains special claim and oversight over their own equipment.
Tier 3: Habitable Structures — Any structure or vessel that was designed for long-term human habitation (civilian ships, stations, outposts, settlements, etc.).
Tier 4: Flotsam and Non-Habitable Debris — Loose cargo pods, jettisoned equipment, vented sections of ships, drifting containers, and other uncrewed, non-habitable objects floating in space. These still carry corporate barcodes and ownership markers.
The accumulation of such debris is a frequent byproduct of emergency operations; crews often jettison non-essential cargo to increase ship maneuverability or purge potentially contaminated holds when facing sudden threats, leaving behind assets that the CC-10 deems too costly to prioritize for recovery. In the void, as the saying goes, "The black takes its cut," and these abandoned jettisons are simply the price of surviving the journey.
This is a clean breakdown. Tier 1 and Tier 2 get special treatment, Tier 3 follows more standard salvage logic, and Tier 4 is basically “finders keepers” with corporate liens attached.
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Differences between ships and settlements
Vessel Salvage and Site Reclamation operate under distinct logic: ships are mobile, persistent threats, while settlements are static assets. A drifting Nemesis-class vessel, capable of subspace jumps and biological spread, remains corporate property until fully decommissioned. An abandoned outpost, however, enters the public domain once the CC-10 relinquishes rights, allowing for squatter claims.
The "Golden Egg" distinction is critical: a Nemesis-class ship holds a full-scale asset capable of total sector impact. A Lockdown-class base carries a lesser, localized "Golden Egg"—possessing the power and comms to open a rift for a distress signal, but lacking the engines or navigation for transit.
Vessel operations use the strict four-outcome ARP framework—Preserve or Scuttle, Recover or Terminate—to manage movement and biohazards. Reclamation is binary: keep the site or purge it via internal spike systems and abandon it to rubble. Because of these fundamental risk disparities, salvage remains a strictly regulated corporate operation, whereas reclamation invites a more permissive, licensed approach.
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Core Principles of the ARPs - Aftermath Recovery Protocols
The Mother Box evaluates every derelict or infested vessel along two independent axes before issuing salvage directives. The first axis is Hull Status—whether the physical ship should be preserved for continued use or scuttled and dismantled. The second axis is Biological Status—whether any living organisms aboard should be recovered or terminated. These two binary choices create four possible classifications that dictate the crew’s entire operation.
Preserve Hull + Recover Bio — The vessel and all living organisms aboard are to be saved. The Aftermath crew must secure the ship and survivors, then escort it to a major, heavily populated Core or Earth-like planet with the necessary infrastructure, medical facilities, and security to safely receive it.
Preserve Hull + Terminate Bio — The physical ship is to be preserved, but all biological matter must be destroyed. The crew clears the vessel of hostiles, then delivers it to a designated automated facility, typically located at a Venus-style world. These locations are equipped with Spikes — sterilization gauntlets that use radiation and EMP to kill everything living aboard while leaving the hull intact.
Scuttle Hull + Recover Bio — The vessel itself is to be dismantled for parts, but any living crew or biological assets must be recovered first. The ship is directed to a Mars-style terraforming world or orbital industrial complex with extensive shipbreaking facilities and secure habitats capable of receiving survivors.
Scuttle Hull + Terminate Bio — The vessel and all biological matter are to be destroyed. The Aftermath crew strips any critical high-value components they can safely carry, then sends the ship into deep space on a designated trajectory, well outside shipping lanes. The wreck is tagged with telemetry beacons so it can later be recovered by military or Fourth teams for final cleansing when resources allow.
In all cases, because the vessel remains corporate property, Aftermath crews do not take ownership. They are compensated based on the value of recovered assets and the successful completion of their assigned Mother Box directives.
For site reclamation the same two-axis logic applies, but the Scuttle Structure + Recover Bio outcome is impossible—once a base or station is destroyed there is no habitat left to receive survivors. The three remaining classifications are Preserve Structure + Recover Bio, Preserve Structure + Terminate Bio using the station’s internal spike systems, and Total Destruction with no attempt at biological recovery.
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Salvage Operations
Salvage is never a leisurely affair. The moment an Aftermath crew boards a derelict or enters an abandoned site, emergency power kicks in and the safety protocols activate. Every derelict is hardwired to jump back to its last port of call, and every abandoned base begins a countdown to self-destruction or forced evacuation. The crew can speed the process up or redirect the outcome, but they can never stop the clock from running.
That ticking timer is the hard limit on every operation. If the crew is not secure in a hibernation chamber or off the ship when the jump occurs, everything living is reduced to paste against the bulkheads. The same fate awaits any crew caught outside the bunker or isolation chamber when a base initiates its sterilization protocol.
Inside it they must complete three things: assess the wreck or site, perform every salvage task the Mother Box assigns, and transmit the official claim signal. The order does not matter. They can strip every room or corridor first and send the signal on the final moments if they choose. What matters is that every required action finishes before the timer expires.
The claim signal itself is the legal act that registers primary salvage rights for the CC-10 and locks in the crew's compensation. Until it is acknowledged, the wreck or site remains unclaimed. The Mother Box's response—Claim registered. Proceed at your own risk—is the moment the operation is officially recognized. Without it the crew has no standing and no payout. The ticking timer turns every salvage into a race against the Black.
Aftermath crews do not conduct large-scale towing operations. Their role is to board, assess, secure critical assets, and either stabilize the ship for later recovery or strip it of everything worthwhile before leaving it to the Black.
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Personal Auxiliary Claims
Once the primary claim signal is acknowledged and the CC-10’s ownership is secured, individual crew members may transmit their own secondary, tertiary, or quaternary signals to stake personal claims on specific high-value components, data cores, or cargo. The ship is massive, so there is room for these side deals as long as the corporation’s primary rights are honored first. It is an accepted unwritten rule that lets crews earn extra compensation beyond their standard salvage percentage.
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N.A.C.S.S. Authority and Certified Operations
Once a vessel is redesignated for N.A.C.S.S. use, all prior corporate ownership claims are permanently extinguished. The CC-10 cannot reclaim these ships, even if they are later found abandoned. This is one of the few ways a ship can truly leave corporate control.
When a vessel shows signs of Intruder infestation, all standard salvage rights are immediately suspended. The N.A.C.S.S. holds absolute authority under the “Twice is Enough” doctrine. A single confirmed sighting of any Intruder contaminant aboard a ship classifies it as a biohazard, not salvage.
Crews are required to report the find immediately and vacate the area. Attempting to board or remove material from an infested wreck without explicit N.A.C.S.S. clearance is considered aiding and abetting a potential outbreak. In rare cases where the N.A.C.S.S. authorizes limited recovery operations, designated Aftermath crews may be contracted as auxiliary recovery units. These operations are strictly supervised.
Payment is issued as a hazard bounty rather than traditional salvage—typically a flat rate plus danger pay. Anything recovered is immediately impounded for study or destruction. No crew may retain biological samples or any material that fails quarantine protocols. The N.A.C.S.S. doesn’t negotiate. If they tag a ship as compromised, your salvage claim evaporates. The only compensation you’ll see is whatever they feel like authorizing.
Most Aftermath crews know better than to push it. While the N.A.C.S.S. maintains ultimate authority over all Intruder-related incidents, they are far too few in number to respond to every wreck and distress signal. To compensate, the N.A.C.S.S. maintains a certification program that allows vetted Aftermath crews to operate as auxiliary biohazard response teams.
Aftermath crews that are N.A.C.S.S.-certified—either through prior military service, completing multiple clean containment operations, or earning sufficient trust—can request immediate operational clearance via any Mother Box relay or Father Node. The AI system cross-references the crew’s certification status, recent medical scans, compliance record, and the distress signal data. In most cases, approval is granted within seconds. The phrase commonly heard is: “Mother Box has cleared you for recovery. Proceed at your own risk.” This streamlined process is intentional. The N.A.C.S.S. would rather have trained, certified crews clearing infested ships quickly than let a potential outbreak sit uncontained while waiting for a N.A.C.S.S. strike team to arrive.
Even with clearance, strict protocols still apply: Crews must transmit live biometric feeds during the operation. Any confirmed live Intruder specimens must be reported immediately. Recovered biological material must be stored in sealed Class-V containment until it can be turned over to a N.A.C.S.S. quarantine station. Salvage of non-biological material is permitted, provided it passes quarantine screening.
Crews that successfully complete these operations receive both standard salvage compensation from the CC-10 and a separate N.A.C.S.S. hazard bounty. However, if a crew is found to have falsified data or attempted to smuggle contaminated material, the N.A.C.S.S. will revoke their certification permanently—and in many cases, the crew itself.
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SUBs and IPA Salvage Operations
Outside official channels the SUBs operate under an entirely different system built on reputation, speed, and plausible deniability. There is no formal salvage law among the independents—only the unwritten rule that “finder’s keepers” applies until someone stronger disagrees. SUBs rarely report wrecks. Instead, they strip them quietly, often using ghost transponders and "Cold, Cold Black" protocols—the act of shutting down all trackers and beacons to go off the books. While this behavior facilitates unlogged conversations, it creates gaps in their logs that require significant explanation.
The most valuable hauls are sold through fence networks on neutral stations or IPA ports. Prices fluctuate wildly based on demand, risk level, and how many people are looking for the item. A single functioning Golden Egg component can set a crew up for life—or get them killed if word gets out. Reputation is currency. A SUB who consistently brings quality salvage without bringing N.A.C.S.S. heat earns trust. One who cuts corners or sells tainted goods quickly finds themselves frozen out… or quietly spaced.
IPA worlds handle salvage on their own turf under local custom, but must still respect CC-10 interstellar rules the moment any ship or cargo leaves their solar system. On their soil they can claim what they want; in open space they are still bound by the Mother Box and corporate liens.
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NHist 009
Epilogue
The Kestrel, a Nemesis-class ship, hung in the dark like a gutted animal. Raze led the boarding party himself. Hannigan moved at his shoulder with a scanner that kept glitching. Anders brought up the rear with Grover padding silently beside him, the Lakia unit’s sensors sweeping every shadow. Zanders was muttering about asset reclassification and quarterly projections like the ship was just another spreadsheet.
Raze made them search his way, the old way. Eyes and ears. Deck by deck, room by room. The boarding party moved through corridors thick with heavy glossimore air. Warped visions and murmured whispers were down every corridor. Every few minutes the failing systems would twitch and the emergency jump timer would flicker in the corner of their vision.
Zanders was the first to crack. He pushed ahead of the group near the crew quarters and stopped dead. His pad hit the deck. He started laughing—wet, broken, wrong. “We just need to reclassify the biological assets. Our crew losses are acceptable if we—” he muttered, eyes glassy.
Raze moved fast. He grabbed Zanders by the collar, yanked him backward, and tried to steady the accountant's resolve. Zanders kept whispering numbers and loss projections even as Raze dragged him clear, the man’s mind already fracturing under the psychic weight.
Grover leaped forward, not waiting for orders.
The Lakia unit slipped into the dark, his sensors immune to the hallucinations. It found a Voidseeder Lair in what used to be the canteen. Grover tore through it in silence, metal jaws ripping until the psychic pressure finally snapped.
By the time they reached the Science Lab, Zanders was barely coherent, repeatedly mumbling about “acceptable losses.”
Hannigan found her. There, inside a stasis chamber Lena Voss floated, eyes open, frost still clinging to the glass. Lena’s face froze in her final thought of panic. Raze got her out and carried her to the Thorned Verge like a father cradling a small child.
The Nemesis-class shuddered as its jump drive spooled. The timer had almost reached zero. The ship was about to hurl itself back into the Black whether they were clear or not. They ran, Raze exclaiming, “Fuck! I hate those damn timers!”
They undocked hard. The Thorned Verge’s engines screamed as Hannigan threw them into a brutal evasive burn. The bigger ship’s proximity wake clawed at them. For thirty long seconds the smaller shuttle skidded sideways through the distortion, hull groaning, before Hannigan punched them clear.
Only then did Lena snap awake in a gasping panic. She looked up at Raze, voice hoarse from disuse.“Crowe! He’s not studying the Black anymore,” she said. “He’s trying to become it.”
Raze didn’t answer. He just tightened his grip on her and stared out at the stars as the Kestrel vanished into subspace behind them. Headed for a distant vacant section of space where no one can stumble across it.