Pursue the Past: Samair in Argos: Book 1 (28 page)

Chapter 9

              “How we doing, Tamara?” the Captain’s voice sounded on the overhead.  His tone was also slightly annoyed, worried and carrying a bit of a sing-song lilt to it.

              “Working on it!” she bellowed back.  She was stuck in the bulkhead, working through the control lines, thousands of connections.  Her team was alongside her, doing the same thing, running and testing everything.  It had to work the first time, for they had no time to rip it all out and try again, not with those two ships moving to intercept them. 

              “Work faster,” came the response.

              “Get off my back!” she roared, losing her temper. 

              Igraine turned to Pip as she worked.  In a concerned whisper she asked, “The Captain allows members of the crew to speak to him like that?”

              In a stage whisper that carried down the passage, Pip replied, “No, not usually.  I expect once we’re out of this mess and safe in hyperspace, he’ll give her what for, and I don’t mean in a pleasant way.”

              “Pip,” Tamara said, connecting another line.  “You’re a half-share Engineman aboard this crate.  He’s capable, Igraine, but he isn’t very smart.  And if you don’t keep working and get these lines done,
I’ll
give you what for.  And don’t worry, you won’t enjoy it.”

              There was a round of chuckles from the group.  But Igraine wasn’t satisfied.  “So what is your rank, Tamara?  If it’s okay that I ask.”  Her tone became contrite.

              She sighed.  “Technically, I’m
not
a member of the crew.  I didn’t sign the Articles like all of you.  I don’t hold any rank in the ship’s hierarchy.  I report to the Captain and to the Chief, but that’s all.”

              “You don’t get paid?”

              She shook her head.  “No, though the Captain and I have worked out an arrangement.”

              “She rebuilt the starfighter that’s in cargo bay one.  She gets to keep it when the ship gets rebuilt.”  Rory’s recitation made the new crewmembers stop and look over at her. 

              She stopped and looked over at them.  “No, I’m not getting paid in credits or gold bars or anything like that.”

              “Why not?” Victor seemed flabbergasted at this response.  “Even down on Instow we had a monetary exchange system.”

              Tamara pointed at the bulkheads meaningfully.  “Back to work.”  She herself took hold of a bundle of control cables and continued her work.  “I’m not that interested in money.  Except for what it could do for me.”

              Mairi snickered.  “I always am interested in what money can do for me.”

              Now it was Tamara’s time to smile.  “I’m not going to say I won’t want to go out and have a beer or two or a nice meal in a good restaurant, but for the most part I’m not big on stuff.  I don’t need a lot.”

              The new ones stopped again and glanced at her, looked at each other, and then went back to work.  “That’s an interesting attitude for a woman on a freight hauler.”

              “I know I’m fascinating,” Tamara said sardonically, “But we have a lot of work to get done if we want to get out of here.”

              “But how could you stay on a ship like this and not want to get compensated for your time and effort?” Igraine asked, puzzled.  The tip of her tongue stuck out of her mouth, as soon as she stopped speaking, working to get another line attached.

              “I’m getting something out of it,” she replied. 

              “Yeah a
Perdition
starfighter.  A ship that isn’t good for anything but battle and can’t leave the star system,” Mairi retorted.  “It’s a collector’s item.”

              “Are you going to sell it?” Pip asked.

              “Not if I can help it.”  She sighed.  “It isn’t that I don’t like or need money.  I don’t want to stay cooped up on a ship forever if I can help it.  And I might want to buy a few things if I go to a station or even planetside if I got for shore leave.”  Tamara smiled sadly.  “But it isn’t my driving force.”

              The overhead squawked.  “Tamara, what is your status?”

              She actually growled this time.  “Captain, are the ships pursuing us in weapons’ range?”

              There was a pause.  “No, not yet.”

              “Then stop bothering me.  We’re working as fast as we can.  In another hour we should be finished and then I will report back.  Samair out.”

              There was an audible sigh that they all heard over the transmission before the line cut.  “You know that the Captain isn’t going to take that kind of attitude from you for too long, Tamara,” Rory pointed out, a bit worried.

              She nodded.  “He’s just making me angry.  Pestering us is not going to make the job go any quicker.  In fact he’s slowing things down every time he calls.”  She growled again and then returned to work.

              The Engineering crew was dead on their collective feet.  They had all been working as close to nonstop as was physically possible.  They were all worn out, irritable, and the snapping at each other had increased exponentially as the hours passed.  The control runs were finally completed, the hardware all connected and tested.  Quesh and Tamara were running sims to see if the hyperdrive and shields were synched up and capable for hyperspace flight, especially for an extended flight like they intended.  Ka’Xarian and his team had gotten the two shield generator nodes hooked in and calibrated.  The shields were now covering the entire ship now at eleven percent.  It was an increase, though not a dramatic one.  At least now, however, there was enough coverage to protect the ship against the massive stresses of faster-than-light travel. 

              Their speed would still be dreadfully slow.  Red level two meant that the
Grania Estelle
would be in hyperspace for nearly four and a half months; an eternity.  This would be the longest trip any of them had ever taken for one jump.  The tension level aboard the ship was high, made worse by the two ships speeding ever closer. 

              “At present speed, Captain,” George announced softly to the bridge crew, as well as his boss, “the two ships will catch us about eight minutes before we reach the hyper limit.”

              “Great,” he muttered.  “Thank you, George.”  He glanced over at the nearby display, showing engine output.  The ship’s engines were running at 105%, well into the red.  Quesh had informed the Captain in no uncertain terms he would not be able to increase the speed of the ship any more.  If he pushed the engines any harder they would burn out and he refused to do it.  The Captain did not argue with the Parkani, realizing the futility of it and that the Chief was absolutely right.  All too many captains, or other leaders, might demand the impossible of their crew and expect them somehow to come through.  Now, this was also true as far as it went, as leaders did push their people to excel beyond expectations, but there was a limit as to what was actually achievable.  When Quesh put his foot down, the Captain knew to listen.

              Eight minutes.  A lifetime as far as a battle would be concerned.  The freighter would get pummeled just like it had upon entering the star system.  Her weapons were no better than before, and while her engines had been improved, her shields were a bit worse, and the status of the hull was about even.  They’d stand no chance against a pair of corvettes.

              “Captain, Engineering,” Quesh’s voice sounded over the Captain’s comms. 

              “Go ahead, Quesh.”

              “We’ve completed our eleventh sim.  The hyperdrive is up and ready to go.  We can jump as soon as we make the hyper limit.”

              Eamonn breathed a sigh of relief.  One worry down.  “That’s excellent news, Quesh.  Very good work, to your whole team.”

              “Thank you, Captain,” the Parkani replied.  “I’m sorry about the engines, but we just can’t push them any harder.  If we weren’t going to be jumping soon, I would recommend we power back anyway.”

              “Again, good work,” the Captain repeated.  He cut the connection.  “Now we only have to worry about getting away.”

              The bridge crew all exchanged looks, but no one spoke. 

              Tamara clambered up to the bridge a few moments later.  “Captain, have we tried communicating with the two ships yet?”

              He looked over at her and shook his head.  “Not as of yet.  Though they haven’t called us, either.”  The Captain looked as worried as she’d ever seen him.  Not a good sign.

              “How far away?”

              George piped up from the ops station.  “Three hundred thousand kilometers.  From what I can tell on their power signatures, they’re weapons and shields are powered up.  They should be in range soon.”

              “Let me try.  Maybe I can bluff them.”  Her tone was calm, confident.  It was an excellent mask for the roiling turmoil in her gut, though it didn’t appear that anyone noticed.

              “You?” he asked, taken aback.  “Why would you be able to?”

              “I am still a Republic officer,” she pointed out.  “Maybe I can use that to get them to back off.”

              He considered that, his gaze going back and forth from the display to her face and back again.  “Can’t hurt, I suppose.  If they intend to attack us anyway, I don’t imagine it matters if they think we have a Republic officer onboard.”  He gestured.  “But I thought you said you were done with the Republic.  That it held nothing for you anymore.”

              She glowered.  “I think that’s a discussion for when we get out of this, don’t you?”

              “Fine.  Communications,” he said, flicking his chin in that direction.

              Tamara stepped over to the console, skipping her vision over the controls, her implants helpfully indicating what each button and switch did.  Like everything aboard the
Grania Estelle
, the console was old and well worn.  She laid her palm on the console, putting her thumb over the port for an implant jack.  Once she was in, she accessed the ship’s communication array and directed a narrow-beam transmission to the pursuing ships.

              [What do you think you can accomplish?], the AI asked, text scrolling along the bottom of her vision.

              “Not now please,” Tamara whispered, trying to look casual.  “I’ll talk about it with you if we get out of this.”  The AI didn’t respond after that, to which she was grateful.  “Ready to transmit, Captain,” she said in a normal tone.  “And I have to ask that you not question any of the things you’re going to hear me say.”

              He nodded his assent, though the worry was still there.

              “This is Commander Tamara Samair of the Republic Navy, aboard the Naval Reserve vessel
Grania Estelle
, to the vessels currently pursuing my ship.  State your identifications and intentions.  Over.”  She pressed a key to mute transmission while they waited to see if they would answer.

              She smiled at the bridge crew, who were gaping at her like a school of landed fish.  “What?” she asked.  “You all knew I was Republic military.”

              “I never knew my ship was in the Naval Reserve,” the Captain replied dryly.

              “Don’t worry,” she said with an evil grin.  “I might give her back to you one day.  George, I’m sending you a list of transponder codes that I need you to update into the ship’s registry.  They will confirm that the ship is Naval Reserve.”

              “I have it.  Captain, do I update the registry?” he asked, turning to his boss.

              The Captain hesitated for the briefest moment.  “Yes, go ahead, George.”

              The man punched a few commands and Tamara saw the information scroll across her display.  Serinda nodded as she saw it too.  “It’s all set, Captain,” the young woman reported.

              “Very well.”

              George piped up.  “Captain, two hundred fifty thousand kilometers.”

              “Incoming transmission,” Tamara said with a slight chuckle.  “I’m putting it on the forward screen, but I’m keeping the video pickup off on our end.  For the moment, anyway.  I don’t think they’d believe me if I said I was Republic military and wasn’t wearing a uniform.”

              “And they would believe an audio transmission they can’t verify with a picture?”  The Captain seemed skeptical.  Tamara didn’t answer, just brought up the video image.

              The display at the comm console and in front of the Captain activated, showing a human in his mid-thirties wearing an unfamiliar uniform, dark gray with red piping, but it had the Republic galactic spiral device on his right breast.  His collar bars showed he was an officer of the rank of senior lieutenant.  He was pale, like most people who spent a lifetime in space, out of the uv rays of the sun, he had a short haircut, a mustache and very piercing gray eyes.

              “This is Captain Wallace Sykora of the Republic vessel
Fury
.  I don’t know who you think you are, but you will heave to and prepare to be boarded.”  His voice had a heavy Republic Core World accent, aristocratic and arrogant, but it was more that he was trying hard to put on airs, not that he was born to title.