Grayson Sontang in Space Ch. 02

"Just under eight standard hours."

"Good. Okay. We can do this." She slid into the control console and glanced at Hal's figures for the rest of the trip to the vortex. At least the gee forces would keep her awake.

****

"Normal space in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1," Hal counted down, as the screen at the front of the room shifted from spectroscopic streaks to a recognizable star field. Grayson slowly relaxed. She couldn't help it. Hyperspace always made her hold her breath and tense up. Anybody with a clue as to just how warped time and space became inside a wormhole had the same reaction. "Mass detection," Hal reported and she immediately tensed up again.

"Who!" she demanded. It had to be a who. Even the Siriuns in their petty feuds wouldn't allow random rocks to float around in the vicinity of wormholes.

"Beacon indicates Siriun Confederation Class B Fighter ID 89564. Incoming communication."

"Unknown private craft. Identify yourself. This is SCF 89564."

Grayson thumbed the switch. "One moment please." She toggled it back off. "Hal, simulation. What is that fighter doing?"

Hal switched the main screen to a simulation, showing the vortex they had just emerged from and slightly behind both them and the vortex, two Confed fighters. The closest one showed the ID of the one that had hailed them. "Fighters are accelerating to match trajectory," he reported, unnecessarily, since the simulation showed their hydrogen exhaust. "I am reading eight Class B Fighters in the immediate vicinity of the transit jump, running intercept patterns."

"Any other traffic?"

"A large yacht to port at twelve degrees declination. It might be adrift. No engine or maneuvering activity evident."

"Power?"

"Beacon is functional but weak, possibly on battery. General power indeterminant given distance."

"It may have been attacked by pirates. Boost power to mass detection. And turn our beacon on."

She toggled her comm system. "This is Breathless Dragon out of Harmony."

"It is against Siriun Confederation law to run without beacon, Breathless Dragon."

"I know. I'm sorry, sir. I was worried about pirates."

"Notification went out that this transit jump would be escorted."

"I saw that. But I'm a woman traveling alone and I was scared." The computer made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker and she glared at the banks on the starboard wall. "I promise I'll keep my beacon on, sir."

"Slow to ten AU/D and prepare for boarding."

"What! Why? Just because I didn't have my beacon on? Sir," she added as an afterthought.

"You are registered as a trader. Siriun Confederation retains the right to stop and search any vessel suspected of carrying contraband. You entered Siriun space running dark. That is sufficient probable cause for a search."

"Don't you have a civil war to fight or something," she snapped.

"Not today," came the reply. "You have five minutes to begin deceleration."

Grayson slapped the toggle switch. "Fucking assholes think they're real Feds or something. Hal, power to maneuvering thrusters. I'm going to flip end to end." She took the controls and did a very slow summersault until her hydrogen exhausts were pointed in the direction they were moving at sixteen AU/D. As a measure to waste more time, she overshot and used up substantial time correcting, overcorrecting and recorrecting. When she figured she'd pushed her luck enough with that maneuver, she did a slow hydrogen burn. If she could play them out long enough, she might make it to the next vortex and out of their system before they could get too intrusive. At least she knew she had nothing for them to find, so as long as any nearby pirates didn't take an interest, this whole event could be nothing more than an annoyance. Although that yacht in the distance was worrisome.

Grayson watched the simulation on the main screen. The farther fighter appeared to have sped up even more, closing with its partner to hem her in. She swore under her breath.

"Breathless Dragon, increase your burn," the command came. Grayson edged it up, just enough to be detectable. "Ten gees," the impatient voice ordered.

"Yes, sir," she replied, then edged it up as slowly as she dared. She toggled the comm off again and said "Hal, I'll be right back. I'm going to dress for our company. Pipe any comm down to my bedroom, okay?"

"Understood."

Once in the bedroom, Grayson dug a silk sarong out of the back of her closet. It really wasn't her style, but it went well with her vaguely Asian appearance, and clung tightly in all the right places. Enough to possibly distract a male Confed officer, or even a liberal minded female one. She changed quickly and donned dainty silk slippers in place of her utilitarian space boots. She wasn't above using all the tools at her command when it came to dealing with Feds or Fed wannabes. When she got back to the bridge, the simulation showed the Siriun ships had almost caught up with her, and the gap was closing rapidly as she decelerated. They would soon have to make the same adjustment, or they would overshoot her. She dared hope that they would allow her to stop her engine and proceed at speed, toward the next wormhole, but that seemed unlikely. It probably hadn't escaped their notice that although her maneuvers appeared clumsy, she was still perfectly lined up for the vortex that offered escape from Siriun space.

"What's our speed, Hal?"

"Thirteen AU/D."

She sighed. "How long before we hit the ten that they want?"

"Three point six hours."

She considered. That would give her plenty of time before they boarded, if they waited until then. Or they could launch a shuttle as soon as they reached proximity and let the shuttle deal with the speed matching while the more massive fighters jockeyed into position. She glanced at the screen. If they chose that option, it could be just a matter of minutes. But if they took that option, the risk would be incalculable. If she locked the shuttle out, it was doubtful it could get back to its own ship before its fuel and oxygen ran out. Even as she watched, the fighters flipped and began deceleration at heavy gees. A shuttle emerged from the starboard side fighter, even as her comm unit lit up.

"Breathless Dragon. Open your shuttle bay."

Now Grayson understood. The shuttle was heavily armed. If she tried to lock it out, it would just rip its way in. And shred her beautiful ship. "Open the shuttle bay, Hal," she muttered, watching as the shuttle expertly matched speed, rolled and lined up on her bay all at the same time. She grudgingly admired the pilot. He probably was just as expert with the armaments. Grayson rose wearily and headed for the shuttle bay, repeating a mantra to herself. "Be polite, be polite, be polite." She suspected it wouldn't last five minutes.

Outside the shuttle portal, she watched the meter as the air cycled back into the bay and played with calculations in her head. If they only sent a couple of guys, she might be able to take them out. Then she could flip the ship and race the fighters for the wormhole. Except she couldn't hit it at over fourteen AU/D. And the fighters were already going faster than she was, probably precisely in order to cut her off if she tried something like that. Not to mention their laser weaponry moved at the speed of light, rendering her hot engine useless. When the portal opened and she saw six Confeds, it all became a moot point. She rolled her eyes. "Do I really look that dangerous?"

"Your reputation precedes you, if indeed you are Grayson Sontang," one of them said. Insignia on his uniform singled him out as Customs, which this far out in the sector meant he was a smuggler hunter.

"And if I weren't?"

"Then you would need to explain why you are piloting a ship registered to her," he replied.

She shrugged. "You know Harmony. They screw things up all the time."

"Quite true," he agreed, "Still, Fed FaceRec says you're her." He held up his comm pad as if to verify.

"Really? The Feds still let you play in their database?"

This time he shrugged. "We can look but not touch."

"So, you know who I am. Return the favor?"

"I am Agent Hendon with Customs. This is Pilot Evans," Grayson nodded with respect. She received the slightest of nods in return. "These are Warrant Officers Jones and Redding, and these are Alliance Officers Het and Sip." Grayson nodded at the two native Siriuns, trying not to wrinkle her nose. They were basically bipedal and roughly the same size and shape as humans, though far hairier and smellier. They said humans became used to the smell. She found that hard to believe. But then, the Siriuns probably thought the same thing about humans.

"So what do you want," she demanded.

"You're a trader. You know how this goes. We search your ship trying to find something incriminating. You try to keep us from finding anything incriminating."

Grayson gestured toward the front of the ship. "I'm just passing through. What do you care if I'm carrying or not? I just want to get to the next wormhole."

Hendon smiled. "It's boring this far out in the sector. We have to find some way to keep ourselves busy."

"Then fine. Search away. Just don't make me miss my exit from your precious sector."

"May we?" he asked, gesturing toward the portal that her small frame was blocking. Grayson glowered but backed out of their way, heading for her bridge. The biggest problem with spaceships was that they didn't have doors that you could slam. The pilot followed her to the bridge. Grayson tried to ignore him. Respect for his skills was one thing, but willingly putting up with him going through her logs was something else entirely.

When she reached the bridge, she went straight to the dumbwaiter. "Coffee, Hal, and keep it coming." The computer, bless its soulless AI, had a cup there for her already. Grayson picked it up, then turned and scowled at Evans, who had helped himself to the seat at her command console.

"Logs?" he asked.

"Hal, this is Pilot Evans. Please give him whatever he asks for." She moved to the control console, cradling her coffee cup and putting her feet up on the keyboard, scrambling the display on one of the smaller monitors. She wasn't concerned about the pilot. She'd spent months teaching Hal the difference between giving her what she asked for and giving a stranger - especially one in a uniform - what they asked for. No matter how cleverly he phrased the question, Hal would only give him what he was allowed to see.

Evans began ordering random flight, maintenance and merchandise logs. In between his instructions to the computer, he said, "It's not two thousand and one, you know."

"Not by a long shot," she agreed.

"So why the nostalgia?" he asked.

"You know. Space. It's not like you can step out the door and go for a walk in the woods, or hit the ice rink or the slopes or go for a swim or catch a fish. You watch movies. Eat synthetic popcorn. Tastes the same, by the way. You got the allusion, so don't tell me you don't understand."

He gave the computer a few more requests, then asked, "But why Hal? Doesn't it give you the creeps?"

Her back was to him and she was glad. She waved her coffee cup in the air, sloshing the brown liquid, which would give the bored bots something to do, cleaning it up. "I get Hal. We're tiny. Space is huge. Who wouldn't want to be part of the huge, rather than a tiny mite on the ass of the huge?"

There was silence behind her, and she smiled to herself. She was no philosopher, but she knew how to confound people's thinking. After allowing a while for that to sink in, she said, "You know you're wasted piloting shuttles."

He chuckled softly. "And you're wasted piloting a two-bit trader."

"You don't even know what two-bit means," she challenged.

"Two eights of a dollar," he replied.

She spun around in her chair. "Did you just look that up?"

He raised his hands in the air. "I liked pirate movies, too."

Just then, Hendon walked onto the bridge, staring at the two of them curiously. The pilot schooled his face and turned to his team leader. "I'm not seeing anything out of line here. The dry dock time, the handyman - er, handywoman - repairs. Even planetside time to paint a logo." He rolled his eyes at the waste of time and fuel. "I told you it was paint," he added, as if to settle a bet.

"Keep looking," Hendon ordered. He looked over at Grayson. "I thought you might like to be there when I searched your quarters."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah. I keep cases of Tantalean Brandy under my bed." But she stood up and fetched the next cup of coffee from the dumbwaiter before following Hendon around the starboard decking to her quarters. "How is it you have time and manpower to harass traders when you have a civil war going on?"

"It's not a civil war."

"What do you call it?"

He glanced at her askance. "I call it a misunderstanding. The government calls it an uprising. The media call it a revolt. Choose your descriptor."

"And are you loyal to the monarchy?" she challenged.

"The monarchy is a figurehead. That is undisputed."

Grayson smirked. "Except by the natives, the democratists, and the anarchists."

He stopped. "For a trader, you sound awfully political. I thought you people took all sides at all times as long as it made you money."

"You people? Really? Have you ever met two traders even remotely alike?"

"Fair enough." He gestured toward the portal of her quarters. "Shall we?"

She slapped the panel that opened the portal and strode into the room. It was, as usual, a mess with clothes thrown about and reading material scattered everywhere. She made no apologies, but went straight to the inner door to her office. When she opened it and turned back to Hendon, he had picked up one of her negligees and was fingering the silk of it. Grayson frowned as he laid it neatly over the back of a chair.

"Gets lonely in space, does it?" she asked crossing her arms.

The officer only smiled. "I was just wondering the same thing about you. Do you wear such beautiful gowns for company?"

"There's no one else on the ship, if that's what you mean. I assume you want to see my registration?"

He picked his way gingerly through the clutter. The office was small, with room for little more than a desk and chair. It was immaculate.

"You must not spend much time in here," he commented.

"Funny man." She pulled the paperwork from a drawer and handed it to him, then leaned against the desk as he scanned it. She studied the man. He was your basic Confed officer. Tall, short-haired, muscular but not flagrantly so. Grayson had a sneaking suspicion that they were turned out in a factory somewhere. They also were underpaid and therefore often bribable. She'd learned to tell who could be bought and who couldn't. This was one of the later.

"This seems to be in order," he said, laying the paperwork aside.

"Don't you want to check under my mattress or something?" she asked.

He gave her that infuriating smile again. "Already did."

"Then what the hell are we doing here?" she exclaimed.

"Talking," he replied, picking a book up from the floor. "Dune? Really?"

"Still trying to figure out why people thought a book about giant worms was so interesting. Look, you've searched my ship, gone through my logs, checked my registration. Are we done?"

"Mass detection," Hal announced.

"Where away?" Hendon demanded.

"Hal, hit the brakes. Twenty-five gees for ten minutes. Throw up a sim."

She hit the wall of her office as the conversion engine kicked up faster than the gravitron field could adjust. Hendon was somewhat more used to rapid changes in speed and managed to cushion his impact better. She slid to the floor, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked from her chest as she studied the sim on the bedroom monitor. "It's got to be a pirate. Hal would have said if it came out of the wormhole," she gasped. When the fields had adjusted so that she could raise her arm, she pointed at the monitor. "Look, your guys hit the brakes too. And they're peeling away. Sweet, leaving us to our fate." But just then, lasers shot out from both ships, meeting at the pirate's exhaust thruster.

"Shit," Grayson swore, struggling to her feet and ignoring the hand that Hendon offered. "Hal, give me thirty gees for thirty seconds and a two minute blow on the front one-eighty anterior thrusters. That debris field is going to kick down and forward. Get above it." She kept her back to the wall this time as the ship braked even harder.

"May I suggest three minutes on one-fifty-five arc for greater angle," the computer suggested.

"Fine. Adjust as necessary. There's going to be some big pieces. Deploy the blaster and vaporize any threats." She glanced at Hendon. "Except the Confeds," she amended reluctantly. When the fields had completely adjusted after the deceleration and for the thrust, she headed for the bridge at a run. Hendon was on her heels.

The pilot had moved to the control console, but was only staring at the simulation on the screen. The computer had deactivated any controls he might have tried, taking orders only from Grayson. Grayson slid into the command console, calling up a damage report on her center screen. Hendon braced himself against the console next to her, knowing more thrust changes were coming.

"Some of that ship is still intact," he commented.

"Yeah," the pilot agreed. "It was an old junkyard freighter. Either it's air locks were sealed or it was running with limited pressurization. No way it vented a ship full of air. We might get lucky and have someone to question for a change."

"Hal, plot a course to swing over that debris field and get back in line with the wormhole," Grayson instructed.

"Don't bother," Hendon told her as he clutched at the console. The maneuvering thrusters had suddenly shut off.

"YOUR pirates are not MY problem," she said with a scowl still checking the monitors in front of her.

"The pirates aren't," he agreed. Grayson felt herself go cold. What the hell did that mean? "Please ask your computer to open a comm link to the captain of the 89564."

"Why don't you hop in your shuttle and open your own comm link," she demanded. "Surely you've searched every inch of my ship by now."

"Because if you are here for the conversation, I won't have to explain it to you all over again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're being commissioned," he said, watching her warily.

"I don't take commissions," she snapped.

"I'm not asking. Tell your computer to maintain a twenty gee burn. Since we now know your ship is capable of sustaining twenty gee," he added with a sarcastic sneer. "And open a comm link."

"And if I don't?"

"Then my team will have to take possession. Permanently."

"You can't."

"Yes, actually, we can. War powers were granted six months ago. You're in Siriun space, under our jurisdiction."

"Exactly who are the pirates here?"

He didn't bother to answer. "Want to reconsider taking that commission?"

Grayson moaned. "What's the commission?"

He just gestured toward the comm panel. She ignored it. "Hal, open the comm," she ordered, adding a growl for good measure.

"Breathless Dragon calling 89564. Hendon speaking."

"Captain Harris. Everyone okay over there?"

"Yes, Captain. I believe we've found an excellent transport. The ship is on biosphere systems, so we'll need oxygen, water, food..."

"Wait, what the hell am I transporting?" Grayson demanded. "This ship is self-sustaining."

Hendon actually took a step back from Grayson. "People," he answered. Then took another step back when he saw the look on her face.

"Oh, hell no!" she yelled, jumping up from her chair. "I don't do people."

"It's just to Sirius Prime," he said, trying to placate her.

"Just! That's what, two jumps!"