A Greater Interest: Samair in Argos: Book 4 (24 page)

              The lupusan drew herself up to her full height, coming to only slightly above Tamara’s shoulder. 
Damn, but she’s a small lupusan!  Corajen fairly towers over her.  As do Marat and Ekaterina.  Damn.
  She had to fight back a sudden surge of emotion that welled up at the thought of her two lost guards.  “I’m glad that you’re seeing sense, Tamara,” Viktoriya said, using her principle’s first name, surprising Tamara.  “And of course I’ve won.  It just took a little longer to get you to see sense.”  She waved one large hand.  “Go ahead, Ma’am.  I’ll boot him out of the cockpit and then you can begin with your… canoodling.”

              Tamara growled good-naturedly, making sure it came across as humorous and not as a threat, then went across the main compartment to her bunk.  She laid down on it, had pulled the sheet up over her and was asleep before the grumpy pilot even made it out of the cockpit.  He’d been warned by the bodyguard that waking Tamara Samair for anything short of a hull breach would have dire consequences and unlike Tamara, Mike had a healthy respect (read that fear) of the dark furred lupusan.  He went over to one of the storage containers, pulled out a blanket, then made himself comfortable on one of the couches and closed his eyes.

              Viktoriya kept one of the monitors active, showing the aft compartment and her two sleeping charges while she settled herself into the pilot’s couch.  It would be a good five hours to the damaged
Samarkand
, the way she was going to fly it.  Conservation of fuel was how she was going to sell the two hour longer trip to her principle.  The two of them needed the sleep and she wasn’t going to argue about it.

              “Captain Radha, how are things holding together?”

              The dark-skinned human woman looked up from her command seat on the bridge of the repair ship
Samarkand
as Tamara Samair’s image on the main forward monitor.  The commander of the repair vessel looked absolutely ragged.  Her dark hair was matted with sweat and what looked like blood.  She had a patch on her forehead and another on her cheek running down her neck to her shoulder, and it was soaked with blood.  Her eyes seemed a bit glassy and unfocused, but she wasn’t out of it yet.

              “Commander Samair,” she croaked.  The explosion and shrapnel wound from the blown conduit here on the bridge had damaged her vocal cords, hell, Radha was lucky to be alive, much less still conscious and in command of the ship.  Some quick thinking, quicker movement and a vial of combat heal by one of her bridge crew had saved Nakil Radha’s life and it was a debt she wouldn’t soon forget.  For the moment, though, her normally furry soprano was down to a terrible rasp, as though she had a cheese grater in her throat and against her neck.  “It’s good to see you well.”

              “Radha, stars woman,” Tamara replied, a look of amazement on her face.  “Why are you on the bridge?  Wounds like that should have landed you in the infirmary.”

              She gave a lopsided grin that looked more like a rictus than a gesture of amusement.  “My crew tried.  But we had a lot of people injured or killed, including three-quarters of my bridge crew.  There’s no one alive or capable of doing the job, so I’m stuck doing it.”  Her vision swam a bit and she gripped the arm of the chair for support.  Luckily she was already seated.

              “I wish I had some medics to bring over,” Tamara replied, concern etched into her face.

              “Oh stop that,” Radha snapped.  “There’s no time for sympathy like that.  If you can get over here and help on the bridge, we can keep the systems running smooth enough for the engineering teams to get the ship back into decent shape.”

              “I’m on my way over, Nakil,” Tamara promised.  “Docking in six minutes.”

Chapter 8

              It was a good two days of constant rushing around, patch jobs and everyone doing the work of three to keep the
Samarkand
flying.  Tamara eventually found herself running the bridge alone after she had to forcibly sedate Nakil Radha before she caused herself permanent damage.  An injection of a cocktail of knock out juice and combat heal put her out like a light, a very angry and spitting light.  Radha did not want to “abandon her duty” as she put it, but Tamara’s scans indicated she was running a high fever and had a serious infection.  Not knowing what else to do, she knew that allowing the woman to stay awake and try and fight through the pain and fever wouldn’t do anything except risk her life.

              Now, Tamara was seated in the command seat, her right hand on the input jack, trying to keep ahead of the various floods of data from the ship’s systems.  Nasir was doing his part, but there was a great deal of damage to the ship’s systems, to the data control and trunk lines in particular.  His core matrix was intact, but he was restricted to what he could actually do.  There were still a few construction bots that he could exert control over, assisting the engineering teams.  Thankfully, his control over the fusion reactor was uninterrupted and he was able to keep the bottle stable, much to Tamara’s relief.  In his spare processor cycles, Nasir was running through the lines of control code, attempting to run down and repair a logic fault that had crept up.

              That left Tamara mentally racing around, trying to keep ahead of the myriad of power and control issues that were plaguing the ship, trying to trim out the more ragged bits.  She had to keep things going as smoothly as possible until the engineering teams could get in and replace a component and then try to integrate it into the existing subsystems.  It was getting easier, though.  The power system was stabilized now, and now it was just a matter of swapping out conduits.  Once that was done, she could turn over the bridge to a watch section and she could actually roll up her sleeves and help.  Though, she supposed there were better uses of her time.

              She opened a channel through her implants to the
Moxie-2
.  “Mike, can you hear me?”  His image appeared on her HUD.

              “Waiting for orders, Ma’am,” the pilot replied.  He grimaced.  “Feeling pretty damned useless, truth be told.”

              “Good, that means you’re up for some work.”

              He sighed.  “Yes, ma’am.  Ready for your order.”

              It took nearly ninety minutes for Tamara’s plan to come into action.  Kay’grax, the surviving head of the engineering crews aboard the
Samarkand
, detailed five of his people with EVA training to help secure the
Moxie-2
to the repair ship’s docking port.  Before the retrofit, only a soft, flexible tube linked the two ships, but now there were metal struts welded in enough places to lock the two ships together.  It would take a little bit of doing, but the two could now move as one, using Tamara’s ship’s engines to provide propulsion to the
Samarkand
.  It would be slow going, but at least they’d be able to start moving the repair ship to the gas giant, without waiting for its own propulsion to get back online. 

              The trip back to the gas giant, what normally would have been the journey of three or four hours turned into nearly a full day, since the converted cargo ship wasn’t able to accelerate the larger vessel to even a fraction of its full speed.  The job was to get there in one piece so that engineers and bots from the gas giant could be shuttled up to work on the ship, not to race across the intervening void to prove the strength of the engines and the temporary welding job done by Kay’grax’s techs.

              But eventually, they did make it and relief crews came up from the Kutok mine, as did medics, supplies and all manner of things to bring the
Samarkand
back up to Bristol fashion.  Tamara had
Moxie-2
uncoupled and spent a shift with her elbows deep in data optic cable, splicing and replacing damaged lines.  It was tedious and her back cramped something fierce by the time she was finished, but she had done a satisfying amount of work, and it was work that she knew most of the others wouldn’t care to do.  Besides, she’d repaired and replaced a good deal of it during the ship’s initial overhaul from a medium cargo hauler to repair ship anyway; it felt good to do it again.

              But once the repairs were done, there was other, larger-scale work to be done and Tamara knew it.  She’d allowed herself to shirk her real responsibilities for long enough and there was a hellacious amount of work to be done, a serious refocusing of First Principles’ efforts.  Getting the
Samarkand
back online and back up to full capacity again was just the first step to pulling this off.  There was a good deal of infrastructure to be replaced, starting with the mining station and tank farm, but then there was going to be a push like no other: building projects to rival the ones the company had built in the last year or so, perhaps even surpass them.  To do that was going to require titanic amounts of fuel and processed minerals.  Thankfully, the Kutok mine hadn’t taken any appreciable damage, and by the time the
Samarkand
was back up and running again, the collection and refining sectors that had been taken down for maintenance would have their overhaul completed and would begin producing fuel again.  The gas mine’s own collection tanks were currently at seventy percent capacity, so there would be some time to spare before they’d have to slow the production due to lack of storage space.  Which meant that a new tank farm was going to need to be built and quickly.

              So much to do.

              “Captain Raydor, we have three ships incoming from a vector leading back to the inhabited world,” the sensor watch reported.

              “Three ships?” Kol replied, checking his own displays.  A destroyer and two of the Naval corvettes, a strong force, considering what was available out here.  “Communications, hail them.”

              The comms watch nodded and sent a standard greeting.  A moment later, the young man turned back to him.  “Sir, I have the commanding officer of the
Curroth
on the line for you.”  Kol gestured for him to open the channel and the man pressed the appropriate control.

              “This is Captain Aloicius Greer of the Seylonique Naval destroyer
Curroth
to
Persistence of Vision
, please respond.”  The man was middle-aged, dressed in a well-cut uniform, one that probably cost a fortune with a tailor, to disguise his thickening waistline.  He was bald, of middling height, that was also hidden by the fact he was seated in the command seat on the bridge.  He also was sporting a huge, shaggy mustache, something he was exceptionally proud of it seemed, considering how well it was groomed. 

              Raydor scowled. 
Of course it would be Greer.  That little puissant has been hanging on the coattails of the administratory council for nearly a decade and it seems that all his bootlicking has finally paid off. 
“Captain Greer, I’m glad to see you and your ship out here.  I only wish you could have been here days ago when the pirate fleet had come to call.”

              “Ah, Captain Raydor,” the other man said in recognition, “I only wish that the council had released my ship sooner.  Had I but been here, well, who knows how things might have turned out?”

              ‘Of course.  Well.  It’s good to have your ships out here.  We’re considerably light on forces since the attack.”  Kol tried very hard to keep his face calm and expressionless.

              “Yes, quite,” Greer replied, his face looking slightly smug, his tone condescending.  It was clear what he thought of the forces that were arrayed out here in the space near the gas giant.  “I daresay a properly
led
naval force would have been able to turn away the pirates with far fewer losses.”

              Kol managed a smile back.  “Yes, it’s a pity you weren’t here to stagger us all with your brilliance in military strategy and tactics.  Of course, the defensive ships and their crews did the best they could.”

              The man sneered.  “Yes, they did
quite
and exceptional job, didn’t they?  Seventy-five percent losses among the corvettes.  Dreadful showing.”

              Before the discussion would turn into a full-fledged mudslinging match, as it was fast becoming, Kol changed tack.  “Is there something you wanted, Captain?”

              “Why yes,” the man replied.  “I should think that would be obvious to you, Captain Raydor.  I am here to assume command of all defensive military forces by order of the administratory council and the Seylonique Space Navy.”  Now his smile was triumphant.

              “Just like that?” Kol asked, feeling his calm and composure rapidly ebbing. 

              “Just.  Like.  That,” Greer said.  He gestured to someone outside the vid pickup.  “I have the orders here, just to keep things formal.  I’m transmitting them to you and to all the other Seylonique assets out here now.”

              The comms officer nodded and at a look from the captain, sent the orders to Kol’s display.  A window opened up and there, in plain text, were the orders.  Captain Greer was to be assuming control of all assets in the Seylonique system until such time that “the situation stabilized.”  That last part was telling.  It seemed that the council had decided to finally try and leash Tamara Samair and her independent band of loyal miscreants and it seemed they had decided to keep
Curroth
to command out here indefinitely.  The situation, after all, might never “stabilize.”

             
Ms. Samair is going to love this
.  But he didn’t voice that.  Plastering his best look of calm on his face, a mask made of cheap plaster that might crack at the first sign of strain, Kol Raydor nodded to the other captain.  “Very well, Captain.  These orders look clear.  I’ll need to speak with Ms. Samair, of course.”

              But Greer was ready for him.  “No, I’m afraid that
I
will need to speak with the good woman.  She has run around like a hooligan for far too long.  She needs to show proper respect to her betters.”

              Kol almost burst out laughing at that remark.  Then his mind caught on to another possibility. 
Is he trying to provoke me?  If I disobey or get insubordinate, will he try to relieve me of command?  Does he actually have the authority to do that? 
Now he wasn’t so sure. 

              Tamara was at her desk aboard her ship, finishing up sending a recall message to
Grania Estelle
, which was currently holding position off the orbital across the system.  It would be another week before the bulk freighter got back here, but there were things on the ship she that she needed and conversations that needed to be had in person.  Vincent Eamonn wasn’t going to like a lot of things she was going to talk about, but that was just too bad.  There was a momentum building, and he could either get with the program and start running to keep up or be swept along in her wake, she didn’t care which, not now.

              She’d spent an hour looking over the casualty lists.  So many names, though not as many as there could have been.  She’d missed the war between the Republic and the Federation, so she didn’t have the nightmares and horrors associated with that, of seeing endless names from ships’ companies, ground forces units and planetary populations as both star nations continued to slaughter the citizens of the other for years.  That was actually one thing about her enforced slumber that she could thank Oliver Islington for.  But it didn’t make looking over the lists now any easier. 

              Ekaterina and Marat were the hardest names to see, of course, both missing, presumed dead.  She recognized the crews of the corvettes, having hired most of the officers (and especially the captains) herself.  It didn’t matter that they’d died defending their home star system.  It didn’t matter that they’d managed to fight off and destroy a greater number of enemy ships of the same class.  They were dead,
that
was all that mattered.

             
This can’t happen again.  It wasn’t as though we were unprepared, but we need more.  We need better.  Verrikoth came here with a heavy cruiser and two light cruisers.  We already know he’s got one shipyard under his control, most likely more.  In another year, he’ll have at least two more cruisers, most probably three.  We’ll never be able to stop him, should he decide to come back.  We’re going to have to increase production, increase shipping and trade, push harder than ever before.  Never again can that pirate bastard be allowed to just take what he wants and walk away with what he probably considers minimal losses.

              She gave herself a few more moments to wallow, then shook her head. 
No, there was work to do now.
  Tamara brought up a file and began jotting down notes.  Protecting the gas mine was paramount.  Of all the real estate and assets in the system, fuel production was most important.  It wouldn’t matter how much in raw materials or industrial equipment they had if there was no fuel to run it.  Of course, there was no perfect defense, and there was going to be a large push to increase the amount of mobile forces, but she had an idea, something that hadn’t been tried before, to her knowledge, and that would take a lot of effort and expense but it might be effective.  Hell, if she could get the money and the AI support…  The money would be the biggest problem.  Getting more constructor bots for Nasir would be easy enough and the lupusan AI would be able to handle a good portion of the heavy lifting.