Pursue the Past: Samair in Argos: Book 1 (69 page)

              Her knees gave out just as Corajen and Ygris banged into the bathroom, the lupusan in full combat footing, the big man with his pulser drawn, looking for targets.  They took in the whole scene in under one second and then Corajen was crouching down, waving Ygris off.  The big man hustled out of the bathroom and out of the stateroom, after doing a quick check for intruders, as if that was possible in such a confined space.

              Corajen was kneeling there, next to Tamara, being careful not to touch her, but being there in case she was needed.  Tamara just sat there, leaning against the sink with her hands cradled against her chest, taking in and letting out shaking breaths, just staring at that spot on the wall, not acknowledging Corajen’s presence, nor Stella’s frantic text messages on her HUD, not even when Turan and one of his orderlies arrived.  The doctor pressed a hypo into the carotid artery in Tamara’s neck and she sagged almost instantly.  The lupusan easily swept the woman up into her powerful arms and laid her gently on the hover stretcher waiting in the corridor.  Once she was on, the medical personnel rushed her to the infirmary.

Chapter 22

              Tamara opened her eyes.  She was in sickbay, lying on one of the beds.  She tried to sit up, but her arms were secured to the sides of the bed frame.  Upon further inspection, her arms were encased in some sort of hard polymer up to the elbows.  She couldn’t move her fingers inside, but her skin felt delightfully cool.  She had the slightly sour taste in her mouth of the regeneration fluid, which was strange, because she only remembered punching the wall.  That shouldn’t have required a dunk in one of the regen tanks.

              “Good morning, you great idiot,” a voice said.  Looking over, and without any real surprise, she saw that Cookie was in the chair next to the bed.  He was in a shipsuit, which was surprisingly clean.  He wasn’t a slob and he did believe in hygiene and cleanliness, but when he was in the galley he was normally doused in flour or spilled food.

              “Good morning,” Tamara replied.  “How long have I been out?”

              Cookie shrugged.  “Doc had you out for about a day.  You took a dip in the tank because you apparently broke four of your knuckles and more than a dozen of the bones in your hands.”  He shrugged again.  “Quicker and easier than keeping you in those cocoon things.  Doc could explain better.”

              “I wonder when he’s going to be by,” she wondered aloud.

              He tapped her on the shoulder, leaning in.  “What happened, Tamara?  Why did you do it?”  Worry and concern was plastered all over his face.

              She sighed.  “I don’t know, Raoul.  I had a nightmare, I got up and went to the bathroom.  I splashed some water on my face.  Stella was ragging on me about why this kept happening.  I grabbed a towel and then threw it at the bulkhead.  And then I just started seeing his face.  I couldn’t stop seeing it and then I just started hitting.  The next thing I know, I’m here.”

              Cookie’s expression got even more serious, if that was possible.  “How long has this been going on?”

              “The punching of the bulkhead?  Only tonight.”

              “No, the nightmares.”

              “They started about a month after you found me.”  She looked away, staring at the ceiling.  “They have just been ongoing.  Some nights are better than others, and I’m usually too tired not to sleep.  I get a few hours and then I wake up screaming.”

              He squeezed her arm.  “I’m sorry, Tamara.”

              “Yeah,” she rasped.  “Me too.  I keep being afraid of a dead bastard who nearly ended my life.  I beat him.  I’m alive and prospering and yet he’s still there.”

              He didn’t have anything to say, so he didn’t.  They sat there together, for a long few minutes, Tamara looking at nothing on the ceiling, Cookie looking at nothing on the privacy curtain pulled closed on the other side of the bed.

              “Thanks for being here, Raoul,” she said quietly.

              “Hey, of course,” he said gruffly.  “Though you keep calling me by my birth name people are going to start to talk.”

              That forced a laugh out of her.  “Let them.”

              Another sixteen hours of regeneration therapy and then five days of rehab before Tamara was finally fit for duty again.  She spent the time conversing with Stella and Cookie, finding herself growing closer with both.  Stella had called security when it was clear Tamara had gone berserk for which the engineer and the chef were grateful.  She’d done enough damage to herself by that point and Stella couldn’t take it, couldn’t stop her and had to call for help.  Tamara at first was angry for such a violation of her privacy, but after she calmed down, she thanked the AI for her foresight.  By the time Corajen had burst into her stateroom the worst of it was over anyway and it was unlikely that she could have hurt herself more.  However, getting her medical attention so quickly probably prevented any nerve damage that she might have suffered and for that, Tamara was grateful.

              “How have your nights been?” Cookie asked her during one of their walks on the station.  They were doing long slow laps around one of the market promenades.  It was an odd thing, Cookie being off the ship.  He rarely ever left except for ship’s business, buying of stores and such.  But in the last week he and Tamara had come here every night after dinner mess to walk through the corridors of the station together.

              “I’ve been spending them with you,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder lightly.  “Though not the
whole
night.”

              He smiled back at her.  “I know we’ve been going for walks, I get you back to the ship and then you go to your quarters.”

              She sobered.  “I don’t sleep.”

              “I know you don’t,” he replied.  “Stella’s been spying for me.”

              “That rat,” Tamara growled.

              “We care about you, you great idiot,” Cookie told her.  “I know your hands are all healed up but you’re not better.  This thing has been haunting you for too long.”

              Tamara stopped, in front of a shop that sold knockoff designer bags.  “And how do you propose to stop it?  You have some tarragon you can throw at the problem?”

              “You’re hysterical, Tamara,” he replied.  “I’m in stitches.”

              “No, it’s just that everyone seems to have the answers, get over it; just let it go.  How?  All this advice and nothing helps.”

              “That’s because no one knows how to deal with your situation, Tamara,” he reminded her.  “You lived with a nightmare for two hundred and fifty years.  Of course there’s going to be difficulties.”

              “And you just know all about that,” she retorted, getting angry.  “You, ship’s cook, are the expert on nightmares.”

              “I listen to people,” Cookie told her, his own ire starting to rise.  “And sometimes I can help.”

              “Help!  Ha!”  Tamara turned away, looking at the window.  “If it’s not a turnip or a cut of fish, you can’t help.”

              “You know what?  For that, I should just let you spiral down and self-destruct,” he informed her, not a trace of humor in his voice.  “Are you so determined to push everyone away?  Because you’re succeeding.  Hope you enjoy the thump at the bottom!”  And he stomped off, not looking back, not waiting for her response.

              Corajen found the engineer in one of the station’s drinking establishments a few hours later.  Stella had commed her, worried that Tamara hadn’t returned to the ship.  Cookie had come back in a fine seething rage and refused to answer any questions about “that damned woman.”  He’d thrown his arms in the air and gone into the galley, slamming metal pots and pans around.  The security officer had tried to talk with him, but when he’d brandished a cleaver, the lupusan wisely retreated.

              Tamara was sitting in a chair in a darkened corner of the bar, a bottle on the table nearly empty, the tumbler in her hand with a finger or two of drink left in it.  She was staring at the crowd blankly, as though her mind was a million light years away, the drink on the arm of the chair.  She didn’t notice as Corajen approached.

              “There you are,” she told Tamara, moving closer, yet standing just out of striking range.  She wasn’t afraid that Tamara would try and hit her, or even if she did that it would hurt, but it was always prudent to avoid such an encounter if possible. 

              “You my babysitter now?” Tamara asked, not looking at the wolfen in front of her. 

              “If it comes to that.  Stella was worried and Cookie is pissed, and as Chief of Security it’s my job to find the ship’s wayward crew and drag them back by their ears if needed.”

              “Why are you here, Corajen?  I’ll be back to the ship in a few hours.  You can go back and tell Stella and Cookie that I’m fine.”

              “I’d tell Stella, she’s the only one of the two you mentioned who cares.  Cookie seems indifferent.”

              Tamara only shrugged, taking a sip from her glass.  “And again I ask, why are you here?  We went gun shopping and then bar hopping.  We made a ruckus.  I don’t recall that making us friends.”

              The lupusan flicked her ears in annoyance.  “It didn’t.  We had a decent time, but I haven’t forgotten that time in the Captain’s quarters.  Took some serious gumption to stand up to me like that, despite how scared you were.  And then you walked out.  I seriously considered going after you for that.”

              Tamara didn’t look up as she poured the last of the liquor into her glass and took another sip.  She acted as though she was completely uninterested in this conversation.

              “I’ll go back to the ship now,” the lupusan replied.  “Let them know that you’re not dead.”

              Tamara finally looked up at the other female, a look of genuine (if muted) surprise on her face.  “You’re not going to… what was it you said?  Drag me back by my ears?”

              Corajen chuffed a laugh.  “You’re a big girl.  You’re sitting here, pickling your liver and honestly, if that’s what you want, go ahead.”

              “The Captain doesn’t have anything to say about me being here?”

              She shrugged.  “Not that he’s told me.  And since we seem to be staying for a few minutes in this system, I don’t think he cares at all.”

              Now it was Tamara’s turn to grunt.  “He’s got some special projects he wants me to work on.”

              “Yeah, I don’t care about that,” she replied, waving one clawed hand.  “Right now, I’m just checking to make sure you’re still breathing.  Maybe later, I might be back to haul you to the ship.  And I
will
be back if you’re not on the ship in seven hours.  Until then, stay here and feel sorry for yourself.”  The lupusan turned and walked away, leaving Tamara sitting there staring at her drink.

              The Captain was sitting in the wardroom, balancing his head on one hand, elbow on the table as Turan came in.  He’d heard what had happened when the shore patrol (such as it was on this ship) went over to the station to round up those wayward souls who were going to miss their shifts.  His Chief of Security had literally dragged his Engineering Third Officer back to the ship.  The two of them had apparently gotten into it in the boat bay, where the very inebriated Engineering Third Officer had tried to take a swing at the lupusan.  Which eventually led to his Ship’s Doctor coming into the wardroom to brief him on the outcome of that scuffle.

              “What happened?” the Captain asked tiredly.  This was a headache he didn’t need right now.

              Turan actually had the grace to look embarrassed.  “Well, from what I understand, Tamara was incredibly drunk but otherwise pretty passive when Corajen dragged her back to the shuttle.  She actually sat there until the shuttle landed.  Once it did, it was then that she started to get violent.”

              The Captain straightened and then raised an eyebrow.  “Get violent?  She tried to attack my chief of security.”

              “She was drunk, Captain,” Turan pointed out.  “It was a wild haymaker of a swing that Corajen easily evaded and then put her down.”

              “Put her down?” the Captain demanded, leaping to his feet.  “What?”

              Turan raised his hands in alarm.  “No, Captain, I’m sorry.  That didn’t come out like I wanted.  Corajen knocked Tamara on her ass, then cuffed her and dragged her to the brig.  Tamara sustained some slight lacerations on her face and hands.  Though I think the hangover is going to be worse than any pain from those injuries.”

              Eamonn slumped back in the chair.  “Doc, what the hell is going on with that woman?  Is there anything we can do?  Or am I going to have to have Corajen throw her around some more?”

              The doctor nodded slowly.  “Actually, that might not be a bad idea.”

              “You want me to what?” Tamara demanded, her voice light.  She was in the ship’s tiny brig, which was only big enough to hold two people, sitting on the small bunk and leaning forward her head in her hands.  The hangover had claimed her it seemed and every few seconds she let out a whimper of pain.

              “I want you to get out of this funk you seem to have settled yourself in,” Corajen replied, flicking her ears in amusement, her arms crossed over her chest.  “And then, you’re going to come to the workout room with me and I’m going to throw you all over the mat.”

              Tamara winced at the volume and sharpness of the lupusan’s voice.  “I am not going anywhere.”

              Corajen shrugged.  “You’ve been bottling everything up.  So either you’re going to come down there with me after I get Turan to give you something for the hangover, or I’m going to drag you there without the hangover cure.”

              “Why can’t you just let me die in this cell?” Tamara whined, collapsing back onto the bunk, clutching her head.

              The lupusan laughed.  “Oh, you might want to, but you’re not going to die.  I’m going to beat the hell out of you and you’re going to be better for it.  You wear yourself out with work and from what Stella tells me you pass out pretty quick in your bunk, but I get the feeling you aren’t dealing with any of the stuff that haunts you.”