A Greater Interest: Samair in Argos: Book 4 (38 page)

Skygexx’s antennae flared.  “Thank you, my Lord.”

Verrikoth clacked his mouthparts together in amusement.  “Now.  I have a job for you.”

The captain of
Ironhide
sat a little straighter.  “Yes, my Lord.  I’m ready.”

“Good.  Once your sship iz fully provizzioned and fueled, you will be esscorting one of the cargo sshipss, probably
Fletcher’z Dolly
, to Hecate.  You will be placing an order for one more light cruizer, I’m ssure the localz will love to hear that, and you will be providing backup for Commander Ssokann, who will be accompanying you.”

Skygexx buzzed in the affirmative.  “Of course, my Lord.  I could have
Ironhide
ready for space in twenty hours.”

“I’m ssure you could, Commander,” Verrikoth said, his antennae waggling.  “But unfortunately, I’m alsso ssure that
Fletcher’z Dolly
will take considerably longer.  I leave it in your capable handz, Commander, to expedite their departure.”

He nodded.  “Of course, my Lord.  I will do so with all speed.  The freighter did not take damage during the battle, but I will have my own engineering team look her over before we depart.  Will we be carrying cargo to Hecate, Lord?”

Verrikoth considered that.  “Get with the Quartermasster,” he hissed.  “See if there is anything that could be used for a reasonable incentive for the order of sstarfighterz I will be purchasing.”

Skygexx paused and then, greatly daring, made a joke.  “A dozen Sierra missiles then, my Lord?”

Verrikoth considered that for a long moment.  Skygexx felt himself starting to hum slightly in consternation.  Then the zheen warlord emitted a blat of laughter.  “Quite amuzing, Commander.  And perhapss ssomething to think about if they attempt to reject your initial offer.  But I was thinking more of that crate of cosanti-pyramid crysstalz.”  Though the various raids Verrikoth had been a part of, he’d “happened” upon a cargo of the fabulous treasures, which had already been cut by a jeweler.  It was a motherlode of jewelry, a crate a half meter on all dimensions, filled with jems cut to the size of the average human thumbnail.  The cosanti-pyramid was an exceptionally difficult crystal to cut properly, but when done so, the jems shimmered with what felt like an inner light.  Zheen and lupusan, with their exceptional hearing, had also been known to hear that shimmer, resonating in the crystal.  The finer and more difficult the cut, the more it shimmered and the more it could be heard. 

“That would more than pay for the down payment on the cruiser, my Lord,” Skygexx replied.  “And if we’re looking for starfighters, I think we would still have enough left over to buy a wing of them: thirty-six ships if that’s what you want.”

He gave a buzz of laughter.  “Very good, Commander.  I will have the crate transferred over to the
Ironhide
by the end of the shift.  Keep me informed about the status of your ship and that of the freighter.  I want a report by this time tomorrow.”

“Understood, my Lord,” Skygexx said, making a note on a datapad in front of him. 

“Carry on, Commander,” Verrikoth said and pressed a control, cutting the connection.  He began issuing orders about the disposition of the processed materials from Seylonique as well as the fuel.  He ordered for all the ships remaining in his fleet to be to have their fuel bunkers topped up and then the materials sent over to the shipyards. 
Nemesis
,
Skale
and
Ganges
all needed repairs but once those were completed, the rest of the materials would go toward the new heavy cruiser.  At a rough glance, Verrikoth estimated that there would be enough here to finish anywhere between sixty and sixty-five percent of his new heavy cruiser and then the rest woul have to come from local materials.  But that was good, because he had been worrying as to where he was going to get the bulk of the materials to actually build the ship in the first place.  Now that particular problem was solved.

Kaspar Bhavanian shut off his laser welder and examined the bead.  Seeing what he wanted, he nodded in satisfaction.  The rib he’d been connecting was now bolted and welded together, a nice, even, tight seal.  It was good work.  He raised a hand to his neck to rub the damned disruptor that was attached there, but his gloved fingers pawed the outside of his suit and he cursed.  He’d had that damned thing on for months now, blocking all of his implant access which generally was just making his life that much harder.  Lord Verrikoth, curse him, had swept up a large number of Republic technicians and enlisted Navy personnel during his attack on the Byra-Kae system several months earlier.  A pirate thug with a handful of ships had waltzed into a sovereign star system of the Republic and then systematically took it apart.  Of course, the fact that his flotilla included three
cruisers
might have had something to do with it.  The commodore had done her best to try and fight him off, but her own ships were heavily outmatched and in short order, the pirate owned the system. 

Bhavanian as well as a number of others had been taken hostage, rounded up by pirate soldiers and incapacitated in one form or another, either by stun blasts, gas grenades or by having the muzzle of an assault rifle jammed into one’s face.  Once they were secured, they’d all had implant disruptors attached and then they were loaded onto the civilian liner
Following Seas
and were shipped out of the system.  The pirate made
quite
the haul in treasure, technology, munitions, hell, replicators, and even trained workers. 

It hadn’t taken long or much persuasive techniques to get the new slaves to understand the rules.  After one of the able spacers, a new recruit on his first deployment, had been electrocuted to just before the point of death while they all watched, having to listen to his wails and pitiful shrieks of agony, the Republic citizens and civilian Argos contractors understood just how dire their situation was.  They were brought here to… well, Bhavanian wasn’t exactly sure where here was.  It was another star system, of that he was sure but as far as which one, he had no clue.  None of the workers were given access to any kind of navigational data or star charts, or even just told.  There was no need for them to have it.  No one was stupid enough to try and hack into one of the control consoles to try and escape.  The implant controls were not on the main computers, or even the secondary or tertiary mainframes here, no they were all controlled through a single processor located in the Yard Manager’s private office.  And that was a place that none of the workers were
ever
allowed to go; a place protected by no fewer than eight guards at all times.  Couldn’t have your captive workforce getting themselves free, now could you?

It had taken a couple of weeks for Bhavanian to settle himself down.  He’d been bitter, depressed, angry, many emotions over that time since his capture and the push into hard labor.  But once he really got into the work, he started to actually appreciate it.  He was building a
heavy cruiser
, for the stars sake.  This was an opportunity he’d never had back in the Navy.  He’d been stuck working maintenance on four different space stations, working in refuse and recycling and low level electronics and welding repair after some rather pointed remarks and a punch in the face to one of his superiors.  Kaspar realized as he hefted the laser welder, reflecting on his past, that he’d been incredibly lucky not to be cashiered out of the Navy at that point.  Serving six months of brig time, getting busted down to the lowest apprentice rating and being sent back to work was actually a good thing, though he didn’t know or appreciate that at the time.

Now, after all the humiliation and degrading work and comments, and even being posted out to the Argos Cluster (the Republic’s dumping ground for embarrassments and fuck ups for over a century) he was finally out of doing shit work and he was helping to build a cruiser.  Who cares that it was to be built for a warlord out in the middle of what the average Republic citizen considered the ass-end of nowhere?  This was a ship of war, a thing of beauty, really and despite his position in the pecking order, Kaspar Bhavanian was happy to be a part of it.

Sure he worked long hours, but that was business as usual in the Navy.  The food was acceptable, but it wasn’t good; again, that was something he’d grown used to over the years working in the military.  It was just the damned metallic disk attached to his neck.  The tendrils had snaked into his head and into his brain and the surrounding tissue had long since healed, but Kaspar just had this constant itch in his neck and in what felt like his brain itself.  He’d rubbed the skin around the device red and raw with his scratching, when he wasn’t wearing a suit, of course.  Actually, when he was working, he barely noticed the device at all and the itch wasn’t there.  It was only after the work shift (twelve to fifteen hours) was over and he was in crew berthing, laying down on his bunk that suddenly he remembered that it itched.  And it was driving him crazy.  The medics had checked him twice and issued him some ointment for the raw skin, but otherwise, they kept telling him it was in his head; there was nothing actually wrong.  And he believed them; it just didn’t stop the stars-damned
itch
!

“315 to Control,” he said over the comms.

“Go for Control,” a zheen voice, heavy with clicking responded.

“I’ve finished up work here.  I’m just about at bingo on my suit’s atmo.  I’m coming in.”

“Understood, 315.  Control out.”

Little more than half an hour later, Kaspar was in the mess hall, seated at one of the tables, spooning the flavorless nutrient paste into his mouth.  Next to his tray was a datapad, where he was working on his true passion.  Oh, bringing the heavy cruiser to life was amazing and he loved the work.  Kaspar was in fact, one of the only Republic captives that could say this.  He was doing long hours of difficult, dangerous and tedious work, in lousy conditions with bad food and strict discipline, just like all the others, but whereas they were being ground down by this, or doing what was needed to survive, he was thriving.

One of the other enlisted, an engineer’s mate by the name of Stickley, came over to the table and banged his tray down across from Kaspar.  He plunked himself into the chair.  Stickley set to his food with a will, but after a few mouthfuls, he looked up at Kaspar.  “You look like you’re loving that shit,” he said.

Kaspar shrugged, making a note on his datapad.  “No worse than that garbage that they were serving back at Byra-Kae,” he said, not looking up.  “Actually, it’s a little better here.  They don’t try and hide the crap taste by dousing it in pepper or avocado-extract.”

Stickley shuddered at the memory.  “Thanks for reminding me, asshole.”

“Don’t blame me because the food sucks,” Kaspar chided, typing a few more controls on the datapad.

Stickley took a few more bites of his own meal before starting up the conversation again.  “So what did they have you doing this time?” he asked.

“Hull work, same as always,” Kaspar commented, frowning as he entered in a new detail on his datapad.

“You’re a machinist’s mate; you’re not supposed to be working on the hull.”  Finally, it seemed that Stickley couldn’t take it anymore.  He reached over and took the datapad and in an instant Kaspar was on his feet.  “Give that back, Stickley.”

“Ease down, EA,” the big engineer’s mate said calmly, referring to the other man’s rank.  “I’m just lookin’.”  He studied the datapad.  “You’re building something?  Schematic designs for what?  Starfighter.  A starfighter design?”  Stickley looked up at the other man.  “Who the hell you think you’re designing this for?”

“Right now, no one,” Kaspar said in fury, snatching the datapad away from the other man.  His empty hand was clenched into a fist.  “I don’t want to sit around moping, so I decided to be constructive.”

“Constructive, yeah right,” the big man replied, mocking.  “You’re designing ships while we’re all slaves to that warlord scum.  Because you love this place and your new lord sooo much.”

They were attracting the attention of the other workers.  Kaspar looked around at all the faces scowling at him and glared back.  He grabbed his tray, shoveled a few more spoonfuls of his dinner in his mouth and headed for the exit.  He bussed his tray and was out the door of the mess hall a moment later. 

And ran straight into the shift supervisor, one of the zheen working for the Lord Verrikoth.  “Sorry, sir,” Kaspar said, his gaze dropping to the deck. 

“Watch where you’re going, meatbag!” the zheen snarled.  Then his antennae twitched.  “You’re 315 aren’t you?”

Kaspar flushed, keeping a tighter hold on his datapad.  “Yes, sir, that is my designator.” 

The supervisor looked around him, into the mess hall where there were humans and other beings glaring back at the human in front of him.  “You causing trouble, 315?”

“I was trying to eat my food, sir,” Kaspar replied.  “Another of the workers took my datapad.  I took it back and then I was leaving, sir.  There was no fighting.”  A week earlier, under the strain of captivity, unrelenting shifts and stress of the whole situation, two welders had gotten into a fistfight and there had been injuries, as well as a couple of broken bones.  The overseers had been livid.  They’d stormed into the mess hall, activating the shock function on
all
the disruptors, bringing everyone in the mess hall to their knees.  Once the room was down, the majority were released and allowed to recover while the offenders were zapped for a good long while afterward.  They were taken to medical and allowed to lay there for a few hours and suffer before receiving treatment.  No one dared do that again, not while the disruptors were still attached.  It was possible that others among the workforce (what the others called slaves) were working on trying to get them removed to break out and escape.  Kaspar tried not to think about things like that.