A View From the Other Side, page 4
part #5 of Samair in Argos Series
“Resume your duties. I know most of you have short leave planned for the next few shifts. Do not draw too much attention to yourselves and stay out of trouble.” There were chuckles from the bridge crew, and Braelock was sure that others were outright laughing in the other compartments. “Those of you not on liberty will assist with scoring the available cargo and salvage manifests for anywhere that we can reach within the time we have. And don’t worry, all of you will be back in time to assist with the cargo loading and prep for departure.” He amused himself with the imagined groans of his crew. “Enjoy your liberty. That is all.” And he signed off.
O====[=======>>>
“There is just so much to find, Lieutenant,” the bridled red and gold she-wolf Jarlissa was saying after her tour of the salvage yard through the comms display. She was part of Khartoom’s cargo team and was known as one of the more sharp-eyed members of the teams that would raid ground facilities or ships. More treasures and useful things were found when she was on the team. “We’ve found and cataloged all sorts of parts and equipment that we can use. But there are two things I think we need to snap up right now.” She sent a ping to his implants, and Braelock saw that he’d received a file.
“Ships?” he asked, opening and checking the file.
“Yes, sir,” she replied with a grin. “Eight of them. Well, there is about a score more of them here, but I think these are more in line with what the General is looking for.”
The she-wolf had a point. Braelock looked at the specs for the ships. They included three cutters, capable of carrying a crew of eight, armed with a pair of light laser cannons, but they were hyper-capable. Fast little ships, they excelled at scouting and swift attacks. Their limited cargo space made them less ideal for taking huge amounts of loot from prizes, but that could be worked around, especially with the number of new cargo ships the General recently added to his fleet. Good catch.
The other five ships were a surprise: starfighters, or more specifically two-seater light bombers. It was a familiar design from what he’d remembered back in the war, but updated and modified from those he’d seen before. Designated the Zeta-71 class light bomber, the small ship was all curves with the inline dual cockpit toward the front of the vessel and a pair of ion engines to either side, sweeping back. Stubby wings emerged from the sides of those engine nacelles, allowing for atmospheric flight as well as in space. But the Zeta-71’s most important feature was its impressive armament. Dual laser cannons were forward mounted, with a dorsal turret single laser cannon for the gunner. The Zeta-71 could carry a dozen Nida-class missiles in two rotary launchers on either side of the fuselage as well as a dozen cluster bombs in a bay underneath. The bombs could be changed out for a single shipkiller torpedo with only slight modifications. It had moderate armor and shields (for a starfighter) and was rugged and tough in a fight. They were easy to keep running which was the biggest reason the design had endured for so long. However, they were not terribly fast or nimble in combat, tending to wallow like hogs in a mud pen in a dogfight. There had to be a tradeoff for all that armor and weapons. All around, it was a tough, versatile weapons’ platform.
“A very nice catch,” he remarked. “The General will be well pleased with these ships.”
Reality tempered her smile. “They will need some work,” Jarlissa admitted. “It looks like a number of maintenance issues piled up, and instead of overhauling the ships, the government simply junked them for the scrap prices. I don’t think it will take too much work to get them all back up to snuff though, but Engineer Korso will be able to tell better than me.”
“Put in a bid,” Braelock ordered. “Lowest price, you know what to do.”
“I’m on it,” she confirmed, nodding. “I’ll report back in an hour.” And the comm display blanked.
Yes, the general should be well pleased with that order. Eight new ships for the fleet was nothing to sneeze at. Hopefully, it would be enough to mitigate any punishment he was going to receive because of the whole medicine fiasco. The other difficulty would be in transporting the ships themselves. His fur ruffled in thought. They’d have to devise a way to lock the ships to the freighter’s outer hull and expand the shields to cover them. That would be easy enough to accomplish for the Zetas, but the cutters were another story.
The cutters were small ships, but TC2741 could simply not carry eight vessels through hyperspace. It would be a stretch to clamp more than three of the bombers to the hull, to say nothing of the rest. Braelock sent a ping to Jarlissa to see about reserving yard space for later pickup by one or more of the General’s ships. He couldn’t imagine the salvage yard people would mind.
Setting up accounts for business transactions proved ridiculously easy. The assay and appraisal division of customs gave good appraisal prices for the goods and gemstones in the ship’s holds. The bank (a division of Z’chang and Corr) was more than happy to open accounts for the false business the team had set up. They didn’t even do more than glance at the dummy paperwork before approving the accounts and taking the goods. There were a lot of goods to take; Typhon and his wolves had been raiding ships and colonies for over two and half centuries. The very healthy account balances (over three hundred million in the local currency, worth about three hundred forty million in New Dublin pounds) meant that the account executives at the bank were proud, happy and thrilled to have Braelock’s business.
All of the various cargoes were delivered at about the same time, as was the load of anti-geriatric meds. Braelock contacted the shipper and told them of the pickup at the salvage yard, and the representative understood the detour and subsequent delay in wanting to secure the new ships to TC2741’s hull for transport. Braelock also made sure that every one of his crew received two full days of liberty to travel to the planet, the orbital, wherever they wanted with the proviso (again) that there were no trouble and no problems. He warned them if there were any brawling or killing and heads would roll, quite literally.
He knew it was a temptation, to be sure. In a civilized star system with money burning holes in the crew’s, the temptation was to get out there and drink as much as possible, then hunt, kill or fuck everything in range. They were a good crew, loyal and fearless. He could only hope they could control their base urges and yet manage to let off enough steam to keep up morale.
O====[=======>>>
“There, that’s the last one we can manage,” Korso, the ship’s engineer stated. Korso was as old as Braelock, and the two had been nigh inseparable, having served in the same unit and the same ships since they’d enlisted over three hundred years ago. He was the ship’s most experienced and skilled engineer, nay the fleet’s best. By all rights, he should be either aboard the flagship or back at Esselon-Moor supervising all the ships there.
When the order came down back before TC2741 had left for Zhongshan, the wily old silver wolf flatly refused. When Colonel Arn had come to find out why Korso had grabbed up a torque wrench and threatened to fight the more slender military officer. Arn could not let it go and charged. The old wolf put up a valiant fight before Arn subdued him, nearly tearing his throat out. But Korso refused to yield, even with the prospect of his death. Arn had snapped Korso’s left arm and right knee, but he kept trying to fight, biting and clawing with his good arm. He also lashed out at the colonel with an implant surge, digitally jamming a white-hot surge of pain into the officer’s skull. Arn retaliated with an iron-hard fist to the side of Korso’s head. The old wolf crashed unconscious to the deck, and the agony of the data spike stopped. After that, Arn had Korso sent to the infirmary and canceled the orders for the engineer’s transfer, allowing him to stay with his friend, the lieutenant. Arn couldn’t force Korso to submit; he could only kill him. And in his estimation, that would be a tragic waste.
“You’re sure that the three bombers can survive a hyperspace jump?” Braelock asked.
“Positive,” Korso replied confidently. “Four could be done in a pinch, but we’d have to slow to Yellow 2 to manage the load and accompanying power drain on the shields.”
“Well we won’t be doing that then,” the lieutenant said with feeling. “This trip is going to be tight enough as it is.”
“I’ll try and boost the power, but I can’t promise miracles. Not with our current mass and power budget.”
“Do your best.” He gently preened his claws through the fur on his arm, scratching the skin beneath. “We have a cargo run to make and then rendezvous with the General.”
His friend flicked his ears and grinned. “I can’t believe we’re cargo jockeys now.”
Braelock bared his teeth. “I’m sure you or Volka could devise a way to defeat the security bot. But by doing so, we’d be forced to leave Baenres because we can’t show up in Etios. Then eventually word would get back to the people here and we’d lose the port. And I’d rather get a beating from the General over losing the shipment of meds than blowing the mission as a whole.”
“Makes sense,” the other agreed. “Crew might not be happy, even with that good speech you made.”
Now he scowled, his ears flattening against her skull. “The crew will do as they are told. Considering all the toys and goodies we’re bringing back and the liberty on a new world, there should be no serious complaints.”
“Those kegs of that Trireme stout will go a long way toward lightening my mood,” the engineer agreed. His proclivity toward strong drink was legendary. “Just letting the Lieutenant know of a situation that might develop.”
He glared at his friend. “Well, you had better keep that situation from developing, especially in your division.”
“All three people,” Korso said wryly. “Anyway, Jarlissa is finding some interesting toys in that yard and the warehouse complex. I should check in with her.”
“You do that,” Braelock said, turning and walking down the corridor.
O====[=======>>>
Half an hour later, Korso arrived at the hatch to Braelock’s cramped quarters and invited himself in. The lieutenant looked up from the available cargo lists, looking for anything lucrative since they were making a trip to Etios anyway. Not that it mattered, since the accounts here in Zhongshan were full to bursting, even with the amount spent on things already.
“Might want to save room in the holds,” Korso warned. “Got a few things more that are going to take up some space.”
One of Braelock’s ears pricked as he looked up. “Oh?”
He nodded, closing the hatch behind him. “Yes. Jarlissa found four factory bots that are in decent shape, some reactor components and a chewed up combat car I think we can work with.”
“Is that it?” he asked, amused.
“No,” Korso said, unable to keep the smile off his face. He sent a file to Braelock’s display, which flashed receipt. He opened the file which brought up a technical image of some component. “Feast your eyes on the PK-221 Foxtrot targeting and sensor package.”
“Oooh,” Braelock replied without any enthusiasm. “And this is your very technical and long-winded way of showing me… what?”
The broad-shouldered lupusan only grinned, not the least bit intimidated. “They are targeting systems for ships guns. Jarlissa picked up nineteen of the beauties.”
“What’s wrong with them?” he asked suspiciously.
“Nothing,” Korso gloated. “They were pulled because the locals developed a new and improved version about eight months ago, so they pulled them from their current warships during the most recent refits. These were the best of the lot.”
“And why would we want them?”
“Well, just because the locals don’t doesn’t mean that we have the same opinion. They might be obsolete by their standards, but these devices are several generations better than what our ships already have. It will increase the range and accuracy of Illuyanka’s long guns by almost 20 percent. I don’t have to tell you what an advantage that is.”
“No, you don’t. That’s a good call. The general will be pleased,” he said, his enthusiasm returned. Yes, anything that would make his forces or his flagship more lethal would be most welcomed by the General.
“And that isn’t everything,” Korso went on. He sent over another file to Braelock’s display. “I found a trio of these: Aeris dual-cannon laser turrets. They are in perfect working order, or so Jarlissa tells me, but I will, of course, go over them with a fine-toothed scanner.”
“And what will you do with these? Illuyanka already has good point defense cannons.”
Korso looked at his friend as though he was a teacher and his star pupil had said something incredibly dim. “So we can make this ship more than just a cargo hauler.”
Braelock looked at him. “This is a cargo hauler. She can’t go toe-to-toe with warships.”
“Not for long, no,” Korso agreed. “But we wouldn’t be expected to anyway. No, I’m thinking we’d want the guns and a set of targeting packages to protect against less dire opponents. Like starfighters or patrol craft or other armed freighters. I’d like to make this fine vessel into less of a tempting target for the vermin that plague the spaceways.” His smile was infectious.
Braelock gave a slow nod, considering. “It isn’t as though Argos is overflowing with warships. Armed freighters, even full-blown Q-ships should be enough to at least surprise whatever might be a threat.”
“So I should proceed with the upgrades when the parts get here in two hours?” Korso asked eagerly.
The lieutenant chuckled. He waved a hand. “Go ahead. Just make sure we’re buttoned up and ready to undock in six hours as scheduled.”
Korso looked hurt. “Of course we’ll be ready. We have a schedule to keep, Skipper! And we have a rendezvous with the General in a few weeks. Can’t be late for either.”
Chapter 2
“We have breakout!” the helmsman called, flipping a bank of switches on the console before him.
“Sensors?” Typhon asked, turning to she-wolf sitting at that station.
“Not a perfect jump, General,” Lukara reported, consulting her displays. “Navigation is still slightly off.”
The general looked at first angry and then tired. “I thought that was fixed on the last jump.”
“I thought it was, General,” she stated. “There must be a fault somewhere in one of the calculation subroutines. I thought we’d run them all down…”
Typhon felt a low growl escape his throat. He closed his eyes. “How far off course are we?” His voice was just tired now.
“Four hundred fifty-two million kilometers, General,” she replied apologetically.
He blinked in surprise, eyes snapping open. “That’s all? I was expecting far worse.” Things are finally looking up a little.
“That’s more than four astronomical units, General,” Lukara pointed out, clearly disgusted with either herself or the equipment. She wasn’t suicidal enough to vent her ire at Typhon. “That’s atrocious.”
“By all means, chase down that fault and get the navigation system properly calibrated, but we’re close enough to the rendezvous that I am satisfied.” The sensor operator acknowledged and went back to her job.
Typhon sat back in his command seat. It wasn’t as small an issue as he was intimating; jumping to a point more than four and a half astronomical units from where you planned to was a serious miscalculation. But it wasn’t the end of the world. Astrogation wasn’t exactly trying to make a precision jump to land on a credit coin. The amount of error in this last jump was certainly noticeable, but for the moment, it was an amount he could live with. Considering the adjustment period he’d been forced to adopt on this trip as Illuyanka adapted to the mismatched civilian grade replacement parts the engineers were forced to use, this jump was as close to bang on as he could reasonably expect.
“I cannot wait to get that replicator,” he muttered under his breath. “Do we have any data on the rest of the fleet?”
Lukara blinked, jolted out of her private focus on the navigation sensors. “Oh! No, nothing yet, sir, but we’re about thirty-seven light minutes from them, so we won’t be seeing anything for some time yet.”
“Helm, change course; take us to the rendezvous point,” Typhon ordered, settling even more comfortably into his command seat. The light cruiser shivered as the engines hummed to life. He checked the displays. At projected speed, the ETA at the rendezvous was over a day. Annoying but manageable. “Deploy sensor drones. See if we can increase our passive scan range and find the freighters.”
Lukara nodded. “Aye, General. Deploying sensors drones. A note, sir. We’re down to our last three of the old military drones. The dozen more we have in inventory are the newer modified civilian models the engineers built here in Argos.”
“Which means they won’t be nearly as robust or powerful, understood.” Typhon finished for her. “Just deploy a full spread to get the best coverage and best range.”
“Deploying now, sir,” she said with no further comment. Typhon saw the drones fan out in a triangular formation from Illuyanka, the three military drones at the corners of the triangle, two in front, one moving aft. Three more of the less potent devices filled in the gaps.
They continued along for thirty-five minutes when Lukara suddenly spoke up. “Contact! Multiple contacts showing at the rendezvous point, General. Right where they’re supposed to be. I’m also reading another contact, receiving beacon ID, TC2741.”
