Pursue the Past: Samair in Argos: Book 1

by Michael Kotcher

  They would be taking a shuttle down to the planet and bringing a pair of assistants with them, though they really were only there to keep an eye on them both, for Commander Harth’s sake more than anything. Neither of them really needed any help and both were more than capable of taking care of themselves.

  “Captain, we’re getting a hail from the surface,” the communications officer spoke up.

  “Put them on.”

  “Audio only, sir,” the comm officer replied. “You’re on.”

  “This is Commander Harth of the cruiser Legacy, to whom am I speaking?”

  “My name is Raidon Djinn, I’m in charge of the station. Well, I will be once the construction is far enough along.” The man sighed. “But this is such an exciting time for my people. A time of industry and construction!”

  “So I see,” Harth replied. “But from what I understand, as little as six months ago, this planet was an agricultural world, little more. Not that there’s anything wrong with agro worlds, everyone needs to eat.”

  “I agree and of course the growing and the cattle production is going to continue. As you say, everyone needs to eat and they’re still one of our most important trade industries. But all this? This is just… incredible.”

  “I’ll say. If you don’t mind my asking, how did this all happen?” Harth set his elbows on the armrests and steepled his fingers.

  “Oh, we had some help from a few offworlders,” the man replied offhandedly. “They jump started everything, but really, it was our own willingness to get down and get to work that made this happen.”

  So, there had been offworld assistance. That really didn’t help much. “I see. Well, my ship will be here for a few days, I hope it will be acceptable to have some of my people come down for shore leave?”

  “Of course! So long as they behave themselves,” the man said, quickly backpedalling.

  “I assure you, they will, Mister Djinn.” He cut the connection. “All right, bring us into parking orbit. Once the shuttles are ready, go ahead and launch,” he ordered. “I want it fully understood, anyone who gets drunk or starts fighting with the locals without provocation is going to regret it. I don’t intend to be here very long, but I realize everyone could use a break. XO, you can announce liberty.”

  As the XO’s voice boomed throughout the ship, “Now hear this: first section has the watch, now liberty, liberty, liberty,” Harth leaned back in his seat. This made no sense. Oh, sure, there were freighter crews that would land on planets like Folston all the time. Shipping was down in the Cluster since the war with the Federation and the Republic’s subsequent retreat from this area of space, but it wasn’t dead. There were a handful of worlds that had managed to thrive, despite the pirates and other deterrents. Folston was a nice little farming world that was producing enough to export to other worlds on the occasional cargo ship that might come through every few months, it had never boasted this kind of high tech industry.

  But that was really a problem for another day and another officer. His job was to track down the Grania Estelle and the elusive Commander Samair. Perhaps she had something to do with the industrial revolution, perhaps not. Phillips and Grey would determine what was going on, the XO would see about getting a few extra stores, and then Legacy would be off, chasing down their prey.

  Antares Grey walked into the pub nearest to the landing field, one that was frequented by the crews of the shuttles that were going up to the station. The workers were also coming to and from the three factories set up within five kilometers from here, so the place was jumping. It was a large establishment made from a converted warehouse. There was a very large and somewhat winding bar that made a rather amorphously shaped semi-circle against the far wall. Tables, chairs and even lone stools dotted all over. A second level was built that went around the periphery of the building, leaving the upper level patrons able to look down at the bar and the melee below. Servers brought heavily laden trays of drinks and food out to the patrons who were piled three-deep to the bar. Music blared from a dozen speakers all around the room, which was coming from the small stage on the left side of the building, where a five-player band was belting out some local tunes.

  He didn’t much care for the music, but then, he wasn’t here to really relax and take in the scenery. He was here on business, but then, that was a type of relaxation for him. Besides, a pub was a place for information. If you knew what you were doing, you could get just as much information here from the workers as you could by breaking into a bunker full of top-secret files.

  He pushed his way through the crowd, making his way up to the bar, where he bellied up. Flagging down a bartender, he got himself a flagon of the local tipple and another of beer. He turned and fought his way over to a crowded table. The men and women seated there didn’t look up as he approached. There were so many people in this pub that those at the tables simply got inured to random passersby.

  “Howdy folks!” Grey said amiably, a huge smile splitting his face. “What a night it is out there!”

  The six people at the table looked up at his announcement. They were all human, four men and two women, dressed in coveralls bearing the insignia of Hailorn Factory, which had its premises less than a hundred yards from the pub. None of them looked terribly happy to see him interrupting.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” he said amiably, pulling a chair over. “Just because I’m new in town doesn’t mean you can’t be neighborly.”

  “Who are you?” one of the women demanded.

  “Name’s Antares Grey, ma’am,” he said, keeping his voice jovial. “I came in on the Republic ship a few hours ago. And let me tell you: being stuffed up in a tin can for months at a time is just hell. Man it feels so good to be planetside, feeling real air and,” he sipped the beer, “tasting real alcohol.”

  That managed a chuckle. “Are you really a soldier on that ship?”

  Grey gave her an offended look. “I, ma’am, am a sailor, not a soldier. Soldiers are Army, I’m Navy.”

  “What kind of ship?” one of the men asked.

  “Now, now,” he chided. “I told you all who I am. Seems only neighborly that I not be drinking with a bunch of strangers.”

  They introduced themselves and the conversation went on. He talked about the Legacy and the joys of serving aboard a real life Republic heavy cruiser. They talked about life on a farm and then the miracle of the offworlders bringing all the technology to their humble little dirtball. First it was the small ship, the one with engine trouble (they didn’t know the name of that one) and then the bigger one, the bulky ship (one of the women called it) that gave them books and tools and small machines for building. But it was the third ship, the Requiem that really got things going. They hired out their technicians to help build the factories and sold flash-teaching devices to give the Folstons the information they needed. In a matter of months, they had bootstrapped their way up to a spacefaring culture, something that would normally take years, possibly decades.

  Of course, they had always suspected that technology and other boosts were coming from outside sources, especially after what the local leader had told Commander Harth. It was an interesting puzzle, why anyone would be willing to suddenly change the entire profile of what was otherwise an uninteresting and unprofitable world?

  Lieutenant Sophia Phillips was having similar luck in another establishment, speaking with the high rollers. Workers had management and those were the ones she was dealing with. A few smiles, laughter, and batted eyelashes and the men in the club she visited were spilling their guts. The three ships that came here did indeed each have things that were traded to or purchased by the locals. But it was the second and third ships that had given them the true tools they needed. The second ship had delivered tools and teaching aids, the third ship had provided techs and industrial fabricators and the locals just went crazy with them all.

  It was an interesting puzzle, why would anyone care about this world? It would be a while before they would get them
selves up to a truly spacefaring level, but it seemed no one had informed the locals of that. She estimated that within five years, they’d have their station completed and within a year of that, they’d have at least a half dozen ships ready to start plying the spacelanes. Though Phillips was willing to bet that they’d exceed that estimate.

  As far as their mission was concerned, little information had been garnered, Harth realized, reading over Phillips’ and Grey’s reports. Grania Estelle had been here, that much was certain. They had apparently spent a few weeks in orbit, helping out the smaller ship with their engine troubles and then some trading was done with the surface. After that, both ships departed for places far from here. The smaller ship, the Emilia Walker, didn’t provide any information as to where they were going, but Grania Estelle had been contracted by the locals to deliver a load of gadolinium to the nearby system of Hecate.

  “Well, Captain,” the XO stated, a smile on his face. “I think we’re going to Hecate next.”

  Harth chuckled. “Yes, XO, I think we are. And based on the sensor data Fury collected and allowing a small margin of repair on their hyperdrives, we might just catch them before they leave Hecate.”

  The XO nodded. “Shall I cancel the remaining leave?”

  Harth seriously considered the question. His crew was made up of good people and they would certainly understand. But he didn’t need morale to take a nose dive over this and even the best people would burn out. “No, we’ll stay another day. I want to make sure everyone has had time for leave.” He shrugged. “One more day shouldn’t matter that much. I find it highly unlikely that a bulk freighter would be able to outrun a heavy cruiser.”

  “Confident words,” the XO replied.

  “Oh, come on, XO,” Harth said with a sardonic grin. “We have a very good track record.”

  “Tamara, do you have a minute?”

  She looked up from her datapad, from the novel she was reading. It was one she had read before, but many years ago, back during her time in the Republic, before her life fell apart. It had felt nice to reconnect to a part of her past she had thought long gone.

  Tamara pressed a button and Stella’s image appeared on the datapad’s screen. The AI’s striped-haired head was overlapping the text of Tamara’s novel, which was very distracting, so Tamara pressed another key and the text disappeared. She probably lost her place when she deactivated the e-reader, but that was a small inconvenience. Stella’s image was very serious, so she knew whatever this was about was more important than losing a place in a book.

  “Okay. What’s this about?”

  “You.”

  Tamara blinked. “Me?”

  “Yes, Tamara,” the AI replied. “I’m worried about you.”

  She sighed. “Look, if this is about the other day, I’m sorry I was rude. You know what happened, I hadn’t slept well and I wasn’t ready to talk. I needed to just…”

  “Just what?” Stella asked.

  “Just get past it.”

  “Tamara, this is a habit with you,” Stella said. “I’ve seen you wake up from terrifying nightmares almost every night. I’ve started a file on your activities.”

  Tamara bit back a smile. “I get my own file. I’m flattered.”

  “Please don’t joke about this, Tamara. This is serious.”

  “I think you think it’s serious. And I am grateful you care.”

  “I told you I have a file, Tamara. And I’m an AI, so I’m very thorough.”

  “You’re thorough because I made you that way. You talk like you’re the member of this monolithic species, Stella, but from what I’ve seen, there aren’t that many AI’s left. Not anymore.”

  “I’m probably unique and thank you for that, by the way,” she said with a smile, but then it dropped. “But don’t change the subject. I’m concerned about you.”

  “Well, thank you, but I’m fine.”

  Stella eyed her for a moment. “You’re not fine. You barely sleep. You’re downing coffee like you need it to survive. Your stress levels are elevated, your appetite is down, the nightmares. Why are you just dismissing this?”

  “Because it’s nothing,” Tamara protested, a frown starting to crease her features.

  “If this was going on with me, if I was starting to behave erratically, and I told you I was fine, would you just simply accept that?”

  Now she was getting angry. “Drop it, Stella. It isn’t your concern. I’m fine.”

  Stella paused for a moment. “I already told Turan about this.”

  Tamara’s eyes blazed. “You did what?” Her voice got low and icy.

  Stella looked uncomfortable. “I needed to talk to someone about it. You weren’t willing to talk, obviously. Who else was I going to go to?”

  Tamara stood up and walked around her quarters, leaving the datapad on the bed. Stella was still projecting her image on the screen, but now it was upside down relative to Tamara. “You’re getting worse, Tamara. Why won’t you let me help you?”

  “Because I’m fine! Just leave it alone!” she yelled, running her fingers through her hair. “And I appreciate you think you need to help, but there’s… nothing… wrong. I’m fine.” She walked the two steps to the bed and pressed the off switch on her datapad. Stella’s image disappeared.

  Tamara let out a long growl and banged her fist against the bulkhead. The pain helped calm her back down. She found, quite to her surprise, that she was breathing heavily. She forced her breathing back to normal.

  “Damn it.”

  Stella peeked into Tamara’s HUD as though she was looking around the corner of a wall. But without a word, she hustled back out of Tamara’s vision.

  Strangely, that night she slept better than she had in months. Perhaps the shouting and the anger had burned through some of the built up tension. Tamara didn’t know and nor did she care. It was nice to wake up completely refreshed without her chest aching, her heart beating so fast it was about to crash through her ribs or her throat screamed raw. It was almost an unknown feeling, one that she hadn’t experienced in quite some time. She stretched and stood. The sleep had done her a world of good.

  Tamara wandered down to the mess hall, where Cookie and his assistants were bustling away behind the counter. The man himself was taking out a pan of freshly baked loaves of bread, while one of the helpers was filling one of the cauldron-sized pots with water and what looked like vegetables. A bag of lentils was on the counter, apparently a hearty soup was going to be on the menu at some point today. She could feel her mouth begin water at the thought of it.

  Cookie and his crew were a well-oiled machine. Even when things were at their bleakest, one could always count on them to make sure that the crew was fed, even if it was little more than sandwiches for fare. The non-humans in the crew were always well taken care of as well, though the lupusan did grumble every so often about not having any live food to eat. The Captain had vetoed that notion, even if they did kill some sort of cattle, even a goat, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of his crew hunting down and killing an animal aboard his ship. Corajen and Saiphirelle would just have to make do with rare meat, blood soup and a hunt on the next planet they came to. They, of course, would then sit in the mess hall and tell lurid stories of some of their hunting trips; the thrill of the chase, the terror of their prey as they ran it down, the feel of warm blood and tearing of flesh with their great teeth. Corajen was sadistic enough to do this during meal times, accompanied by large and rather ferocious bites of lamb, just to get reactions out of people. Most people tended to avoid her when she ate.

  Tamara filled a coffee cup and held it just under her nose and breathed in the aroma. It was another soothing balm to her nerves. She didn’t seem to need it this morning, but it was comforting anyway. It was just one of those daily rituals that allowed her to get her head in the right place for work and help her block out her normal nighttime demons. She didn’t need it for this morning, the demons were uncharacteristically quiet. It was refreshing to be so w
ell rested and mentally in sync.

  When she looked back over at the galley, she saw Cookie watching her. Taking of sip of the coffee, she walked over. “Good morning, Cookie.”

  “Good morning, Tamara,” he said, turning to set the timer. “Do you want something? I can whip you up an omelet or something. I’ve got some peppers and mushrooms, but no bacon, I’m afraid. We haven’t really started on the breakfast chow yet.”

  “That’d be fine, Cookie. Thank you.”

  He beamed at her. “Of course. Sit. I’ll bring it out to you.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” she replied, nodding her chin in his direction. “I can wait here.”

  “No, you’re going to go over to one of those tables and wait and I will bring it out to you,” he said imperiously.

  Tamara laughed and sat down at the nearest table, drinking her coffee. After a few minutes of skilled pan and spatula work, a perfectly constructed omelet was on a plate, accompanied by toast. He carried it out to her, setting it in front of her with a flourish, placing the silverware to the side of the plate. She chuckled again and dug in with a will. He grabbed a cup of coffee and then sat down across from her.

  “Don’t you have breakfast to prepare?” she asked through a mouthful of egg.

  He shrugged. “They can take care of it. Now, you tell me what is going on in that head of yours.”

  Tamara nearly choked, coughed twice and then swallowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, please, Tamara. It’s me you’re talking to here. You’re not hiding this. Something is going on in that gorgeous head of yours and now you’re going to tell me all about it.”

  “Don’t flirt with me, Cookie,” she said, looking down at the plate.

  “You are in my mess hall, I will flirt with whoever I please,” the chef replied, taking another sip of coffee. “And since I’ve met you, I can tell just by looking that you haven’t been sleeping well. That and the fact that you suck down coffee as though you need it to keep your heart beating.”