Pursue the Past: Samair in Argos: Book 1

by Michael Kotcher

  One thing that had not changed in two and a half centuries was pirates. Back in her Navy days, pirates had been a problem, even in Republic space. They would plunder and kill, just like in the ancient times on the homeworld of humanity on the high seas. Tamara suspected that independent raiders had always been an issue for civilized societies. And that was the reason she was helping here. She would like to believe it was because she cared about these people, and while that was partly true, it wasn’t all of it. It was the pirates. Her time in the Navy had drilled into her head that pirates were criminals that couldn’t be allowed to harm innocent people. They were a scourge that needed to be burned out. And after seeing (in her Navy days) what they were capable of, and now the carnage here on the Grania Estelle, her perspective hadn’t altered in the least. Spacing every one of those motherless bastards would be too good a fate for them.

  She sprinted down the last passage, the boat bay hatch just ahead. Looking through the hatch, she saw the giant breach in the main doors. Skidding to a halt, Tamara grabbed the open hatchway and yanked herself back and to the side. Someone inside the bay spotted her and two of them started shooting. They were standing at the ramp of one of their boxy-looking shuttles, firing at Tamara in the hatch.

  Good, they haven’t left yet. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her breath was coming so fast she was afraid she might pass out. Risking a quick look through the hatchway, she saw that they were lugging the replicator up the ramp. The two shooters had stopped firing, hoping they’d hit their mark. Whipping around, she aimed her captured pistol and fired. A shower of sparks erupted from the replicator as her shot blew out the primary capacitor. One bullet, even from a gun with such unexpected punch, wouldn’t be enough to completely destroy a piece of machinery like that. Replicators were hardy devices; their only real weak point was their circuitry and the capacitors that fed power. It was still fixable, but it would take a good engineer a while even with the proper parts.

  The pirates fired back, but Tamara remained behind the bulkhead, not getting out to try and hit them again. She couldn’t do anything more by herself, not without getting shot. She was an engineer and a pilot, not a Marine. Her breathing was coming back under control and her heart rate began to slow to a more reasonable drumbeat. She whirled away from the hatch as she saw six figures in body armor thumping down the deck toward her. Her own weapon was raised, pointed at them, but she held her fire.

  Corajen nodded to her. “Sitrep,” she growled menacingly.

  “They’re boarding the shuttles now,” Tamara replied, lowering her gun. “I disabled the replicator, but I think they’ve already done what they came to do. Once they’re sealed in the shuttles, they’re going to shut down that force field they’ve got over there.”

  The wolf grinned, showing sharp teeth. “Where?”

  Tamara risked a look. There it was. “The force field generator is there. See that thing that looks like it’s got a light show coming out in a cone?”

  “Got it.” She looked to the rest of her team. “Cover me, and get ready to seal that hatch.” She brought her weapon to her shoulder, took aim and fired. The pirates were getting the inside the first shuttle, whose ramp was already starting to rise from the deck. The second shuttle still had four men outside, trying to negotiate the hover palette full of goods inside. Two more were on either sides of the ramp, keeping their weapons trained on the Tamara and the others from their spot at the hatch. The generator sparked, smoked and then failed, the curtain of light being projected over the massive hull in the boat bay doors disappeared.

  In an instant, the air rushed out the massive breach. Tamara and the others were already shutting the hatch, which boomed closed on the doorway. It was a matter of seconds to dog it shut but both Corajen and Tamara were trying to gaze out the tiny window into the boat bay. One of the security officers called to the bridge to cut atmo to the boat bay, to save what little of the precious breathable air they had left in the ship.

  The first shuttle, already close enough to being buttoned up, wasn’t terribly troubled by the sudden depressurization. In the small amount of atmo left in the bay, it made a horrible screeching noise as it slid about a meter across the deck. It quickly came to rest, as the pilot fired up the repulsors and lifted it up.

  The second shuttle didn’t fare so well. The two shooters, screaming in terror, were swept away, unable to grab hold of anything as the atmosphere rushed out the gaping maw in the main doors. One of them hit the ragged edge, snapping his back and then tumbling out into the void. The other, screaming until his lungs no longer could find any air to refill them, simply pitched headfirst out of the ship. More junk and debris followed him, clanging against the inner hull before exiting. One of the ones trying to maneuver the hover palette inside clung desperately to the control handle, but wasn’t able to maintain a grip and he too was sucked out. The other man, on the upper part of the ramp, managed to hold on and pull himself inside. Also, in an amazing feat of strength, he manhandled the hover palette inside and managed to get the ramp closing as the last of the atmo evacuated from the bay.

  Moments later, both shuttles were up and maneuvering. Seconds later, they were out of the bay and back in space.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “Captain, the two other shuttles have undocked and are flying,” George reported. As the last shuttle pulled free of the makeshift hole its crew had cut, another section began to depressurize. But George and the other crew in that area were prepared. As the pirates had pulled back, three crewmen showing great daring, had advanced, sealing bulkheads right up to the frame where the pirates had cut through. Some more air was lost, but it seemed as though they were sealed up.

  “What do you see?” the captain demanded.

  “They’re out of my range, Captain,” the man replied, shrugging.

  The captain pressed the button on his chair. “Moxie! I need your sensors. The pirates are pulling back, I need to know what they’re doing.”

  “I’m checking now, Captain,” her voice came back immediately, sounding as though she’d run a marathon. He wanted to ask, but considering what they’d all been through in the last hour, he decided he could find out later. “They’re pulling back. The shuttles are heading for the freighter and the corvettes are moving to flank it as well. They’re still targeting us, but I don’t think they’re going to shoot.”

  The captain looked “Why do you think that?”

  “Because if they were going to, they would have as soon as the shuttles were clear, Captain,” she explained.

  They could still shoot, which was a thought that worried the captain as he sat in his chair, just waiting. Minutes passed and no new attacks came through.

  “They’re moving off,” Tamara reported. “The freighter has recovered the shuttles and they’re all heading off. We should be clear now.”

  “How far away are they?”

  “Over a light second away now,” she said. “And the distance is opening.”

  The captain leaned back in his chair, letting his head lay back on the headrest, letting out a very long breath. “We made it.”

  Chapter 5

  “So what do you have for me, Quesh?” the captain asked, seated at his conference table in his wardroom. All of the department heads were here. Unsurprisingly, everyone looked completely worn out.

  The Parkani, seated further down the table, crossed his upper arms over his chest, laying his lower ones on the table, palms down. The injury on his arm had been wrapped up in a bandage, but his skin, his clothes and the bandage were covered in grime and smudged with grease. He had a number of tiny cuts on his fingers and on one arm. His face was blackened with soot, from the fire that had broken out in engineering when the fuel lines were severed.

  “Well, Captain, we’re in trouble,” the big alien replied gruffly. “I can’t think of any other way to say it. We’ve got hull breaches in the engine spaces, the fuel lines are cut, two of the fuel tanks are breached, I’ve
got microfractures spreading like arachnid webs at least two whole frames away from the weapon strikes. The engines are completely off line, shield generators are trashed, and it looks like the hyperdrive is offline.”

  The captain shook his head, rubbing the lower half of his face. “All right, give me the rest of the news, because I know that’s not all.”

  George Miller looked at his captain. “Of our eighty-four crew and one passenger, seventeen are dead, and twenty-two injured. Doc’s treating them in sickbay.”

  “Which explains why he isn’t here,” the captain clarified, though no one else had said anything about the man’s absence. “What else?”

  The ops officer looked around the table, then quickly lowered his eyes and consulted his datapad. “Well, they made off with a lot of our stores. They cleaned out about a quarter of Cookie’s pantry and trashed about a quarter more, took about half of our cargo consignments, three 50-K containers of fuel, oh, and let’s not forget, replicator two.” That last was followed by complete silence in the wardroom.

  The captain spun his chair back and forth. “Quesh, tell me. How long will it take to get the engines back up so we can get to Instow?”

  The engineer shrugged. “It’s a week, probably, Captain and that’s just getting the engines back. We’re going to have to patch a few things and reinforce the engine mountings. It won’t be pretty and it won’t last very long, but it should be good enough to get at least one of the main drives back up so we can get to Instow. But I gotta warn you, Captain, the damage we took is severe. We’re not going to be able to get underway again for a long time.”

  “How long?” he asked, his voice very quiet.

  “Months, Captain,” the Parkani answered. “At least. And that depends on how cooperative the Instow folks are. I think we have enough power to keep the replicator running, with the good Miss Samair’s assistance, but even still, we’re stuck here for a while.”

  The captain leaned back, covered his face with his hands, then ran his fingers through his hair and then sat up. “All right. Quesh, get with Moxie and get started on engine repairs. We need to get out from the hyper limit and closer in system. Everyone else, you’re at Quesh’s disposal. If he needs you for something, unless I’ve told you different, you’re his.” The Parkani nodded, too tired to make light of the situation. “I’m going down to sickbay to see my injured crew,” he said, standing. “Everyone else…” He trailed off and waved his hands in a shooing motion. The room quickly cleared as they all stood and hastened out.

  Sickbay looked like a charnel house. The ship’s infirmary was filled with people, at least double what the small area was equipped to handle. According to George’s report, twenty-two people were in here, with injuries ranging from cuts and lacerations to gunshot wounds to plasma burns. People, the crew of this ship, were lying on beds, on the floors and seated in chairs. The sickbay on the Grania Estelle was only designed to handle up to ten people at a time so the room was now stuffed to the gills with people. A secondary triage was being set up in a nearby sleeping compartment, but due to the damage it was taking longer than expected to get things set up. The freighter’s doctor, also, was running himself ragged to try and attend to the sheer number of patients.

  Doctor Turan was not human, he was a member of the Guura species. The Guura were an amphibious species, their home planet of Gom Rayan being over ninety percent water. He was quite tall, extremely slender, with a very long neck. His head was proportional to the rest of his body, and his face was a mix between a series of overlapping scales and a rather elephantine like trunk of only about ten centimeters in length. He had very long gills on his very long slender neck, as well as lungs in his thin body. Guura were a rare species to see out in the void, most preferred to stay either on their home world, or one of their colony worlds, but like in every society there were anomalies that liked to travel, to break away from the norms. Doctor Turan was one such individual.

  He had studied his tradecraft at a very small medical school on Gom Rayan, learning about primarily his own species, of course, but that had never been enough. Of course there was always work to be had, people to be healed, research to be done, but he had always felt a bit stifled in the waters of home. So, much to the disappointment of his family, he booked passage on a freighter two years after his studies had been completed on Gom Rayan and began his trek across the stars. He stayed aboard the light freighter, the Juniper Freeze, for the length of his three year contract, working as a medic aboard the small ship. He learned a great deal about humans, since the crew of sixteen was all human, save him. Those three years had opened his eyes to the idiosyncrasies and patterns of behavior of humans, their violent tendencies and their amazing capacity for ingenuity and kindness. He respected them and found himself growing fond of these crazy creatures. When his contract on the Juniper Freeze had ended, he had signed on at Urulaan Star System, as a doctor on Mining Station Four for a three year term. Here he was exposed to a plethora of species, people of all types coming in and going out, the regular mining crews, the shiftless vagabonds, the con men, transients, freighter crews, and of course the civilians on the station itself.

  It was a crazy time. He had learned a lot, done much research, and even had his first exposure to truly modern medicine. The station had been equipped with a full surgical theater as well as over two dozen regeneration tanks for serious health issues and injuries. Turan had read every scrap of information he could get his hands on, studied every piece of equipment, spoke with every medic, doctor, nurse, paramedic, even folk healers among the citizens, anyone with the tiniest scrap of knowledge. Turan was determined that while he would inevitably lose people in this profession, it would not be because he didn’t know enough.

  Which was why the captain was so gratified to have him among the crew now. When he had hired the good doctor on seven years ago, he’d had to admit he was a bit wary about hiring on a Guuran, but the tall being had quickly earned his spot. He’d even befriended the irascible Parkani engineer, which was no small feat in and of itself.

  “It was simple,” Turan had reported, when the captain had found the two of them in the mess hall, sharing a meal. “The cranky bastard had an infection in his liver and an ache in his joints. I bet him that I could cure both if he let me. If I was right, he’d sit down and talk with me. And if I lost, he’d get to punch me right in the chest.”

  The captain had laughed at that, since Quesh was renowned for his temper. If he’d hit the good doctor, it was very likely he could have killed him. The captain was more than a little impressed with Turan’s spunk. And his competence, as it turned out. Quesh had undergone a quick dunk in the ship’s regen tank and taken a handful of pills and within two days, the pain in his joints was gone, and the infection had cleared right up. The Parkani felt ten years younger and for the first time that the captain had known him, had actually been laughing and joking with Turan.

  When the captain arrived in sickbay now, however, the Guuran was not laughing and joking. His very light blue skinned arms were splattered in blood, as was his apron. He was busy, working on a man’s stomach, digging out a bullet that had lodged there. His hands moved delicately, deliberately. The captain nodded in satisfaction. This was no sawbones he’d hired, this was a fully-qualified doctor and surgeon. A good many of the people in this sickbay would owe their lives to that Guuran.

  The captain went through the room, stopping to speak to everyone, making sure he kept out of the doctor’s way, out of his assistant’s way. There wasn’t anything he could do for them, he was no doctor, but he could be seen among them. He could give them encouragement. He helped out for a while, acting as one of Turan’s assistants, fetching water, administering some small amounts of medication, under strict supervision of the doctor himself. He stayed there for over three hours, seeing to his crew and making sure that he was seen.

  Finally, after all that time, Turan came over to see him. He left the cargo handler Sylvia, who he had been sitting and ch
atting with, holding her hand. She wasn’t better yet, but he had managed to make her smile. “Good to have you here, Captain,” the Guuran said wearily.

  “What’s the butcher’s bill, Turan?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  The doctor removed his gloves, tossing them in a nearby sink. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a soft trilling noise that was common to his people, a sound of frustration. “Well, Captain, aside from the seventeen already killed in the boarding action, we had twenty-two in here, wounded. Three have already died and I think four more might join them. We simply do not have enough facilities to save them all.” He rubbed his palms together. “The rest, well, they will recover, physically. But more than a few, especially the women, were brutalized and violated. I have eight cases of rape among those who weren’t killed afterward.” Another trilling sound. “I’m doing what I can for them, Captain, but they’re going to need therapy, time and comfort. Some of them are very badly shaken by the trauma.”

  The captain nodded. “We’ll do our best with them. Only so much that can be done, especially with the ship in shambles as it is. I need all of Quesh’s people moving as quickly as they can. We have to get in-system and to Instow soonest.”