Black Sword (Decker's War, #5)

by Eric Thomson

  “I lost consciousness the moment I stepped on the shuttle that brought me from orbit. When I woke up, I was in Desolation Island’s interior, a long distance from the nearest settlement and minus the microchip.”

  “Whoever took it out didn’t do a particularly neat job, but since the excision point shows no signs of having been infected, it must have been sufficiently workmanlike. You’ve led a hard life, judging by the amount of scar tissue you carry, but you’re fit enough for our purposes.” She nodded towards his clothes. “Get dressed.”

  Decker, relieved that the medisensor hadn’t picked up his transponder implant, complied with alacrity. The warrant officer pointed at an inner door.

  “Your next stop’s in there. Try to make sure we don’t meet again during your training, Whate. We’ll both be happier that way.”

  “Yes, Staff.”

  The door opened at his approach. Another warrant officer, this one seated behind a desk, make a come-on motion with his hand, then pointed at a spot three paces in front of him.

  “You must be Whate, William, B.” He glanced at his computer screen. “Impressive qualifications — everything you told the recruiters checks out. We rarely see special operations folks come through here, at least not via the correctional system.”

  When he spied a glint of surprise in Decker’s eyes, the warrant officer allowed himself a weak smile.

  “We have the anonymized service records of military personnel condemned to serve their sentences on Parth, with DNA as the only reference point. It allows us to put recruits into the proper retraining streams without breaking the nom de guerre rule.”

  Decker wordlessly nodded his understanding and the warrant officer continued.

  “Considering the rank you held, the fact you have more combat experience than ninety percent of those we recruit and have no disciplinary offenses on record other than the incident leading to your conviction, you’ll be in the accelerated stream. But before you think you lucked out, it is the toughest one of all. It turns people such as yourself, who made a single life-altering mistake rather than lived a life full of mistakes, into useful Marines again in the shortest time possible. You’re not a young man anymore, and you may wish we’d put you through the long course, with those who’ve never spent a day in the Corps. But it wouldn’t be your sort of crowd, now would it?”

  “Do I have a choice, Staff?”

  The bleak smile reappeared.

  “Of course not. The last choice you made was whether to reenlist. Having chosen to do so, your sole option is to follow every order, no matter how inconsequential. Should you fail to comply, we will fill your life with pain, and you may lose your chance at resuming a career in the Corps. If no one’s mentioned it to you yet, discipline for convict-recruits during retraining comes under penal battalion regulations.”

  “Understood, Staff.”

  “I’m sure a man with your experience and intelligence will make the most of his opportunity to restore some measure of personal honor. You’ll never regain your commission of course, or qualify for a warrant. But if you do your duty, a sergeant’s stripes aren’t out of the question. If you survive.” He pointed at yet another door. “Your next stop is through there. Good luck, Whate. The regiment can use a man of your caliber.”

  “Thank you, Staff.”

  The warrant officer waved away Decker’s words.

  “As you undoubtedly know, the whole point of the convict reenlistment program is to recycle human material instead of wasting it. You’ve been given the occasion to make sure your years in the Corps aren’t thrown away. What you do with it is in your hands. Dismissed.”

  “Staff!”

  Zack stomped to attention, then pivoted on his heels and marched off to what was presumably another stage in the processing intended to turn him from exile to convict-recruit.

  “Strip,” a bored staff sergeant ordered in the next room, pointing as he spoke, “drop everything you’re wearing into that chute and step into the sanitizing booth. I’ll issue new clothes once you’re clean. Lord knows what fucking parasites you exiles pick up on that damned island.”

  Decker bit back a choice reply and did as ordered. He wouldn’t miss the garments bestowed on him by a benevolent Correctional Service.

  “Whate, William B.,” the sergeant read from his tablet while Zack stood under the cleansing rays of the sanitizer. “You’ll be issued two sets of tropical weight battle dress, two pairs of boots, four sets of underwear, four pairs of socks, a toiletry bag, a field cap, a tactical vest, a light-weight helmet, towels and a duffel bag. Lose any of it, and the loss comes out of your hide rather than your salary since the Fleet won’t pay you before graduation. If you graduate.”

  The man’s grim chuckle, sounding pro forma to Decker’s ears, was cut off by a metallic bowl descending over his head. Before he could wonder why, he felt the soft touch of tiny razor blades removing the scruffy beard he’d grown on Desolation Island.

  It also turned his full head of sandy hair into a brush cut clean enough to make even the strictest sergeant major smile. The face he saw reflected in the booth’s shining plastic walls was the one he felt most comfortable showing the galaxy.

  “The man of a thousand faces had to come here so he could wear the real one for a change,” Decker muttered to himself. “Where’s Hera when I need a second opinion about my rugged good looks?”

  “What’s that, recruit?” The staff sergeant looked up from his tablet.

  “Nothing, Staff. Just telling myself how good it feels to be clean shaved for a change.”

  “Right. A word of advice — keep the monologs to yourself. Your drill instructors aren’t fans of recruit soliloquies. Now step out of the sanitizer and go to the counter, where your gear is waiting. Make sure you have the right sizes and the proper quantities, then thumb the screen. Once that’s done, get dressed, pack the rest in the duffel, and exit through there.” He pointed at an open door next to the automated clothing dispenser.

  “Yes, Staff.”

  *

  Hera Talyn carefully checked the telltales on her apartment door before unlocking the dingy, one-bedroom flat, to determine if anyone had entered while she was out buying groceries. It was something she’d done several times a day since taking anonymous lodgings in one of Rabanna’s less desirable districts.

  With little more to do than wait for a signal from Zack’s transponder, she spent her time exercising before the day became too hot and wandering the streets, looking for anyone who could be paying her unwarranted attention. Therefore, keeping her home base secure was paramount.

  Laziness had killed more agents than any other failing, and it was by no means certain that whoever was on her tail had abandoned the quest once she left Harambee.

  Satisfied that the tiny, low-tech markers were still in place, she listened intently, trying to discern any sounds from inside that shouldn’t be there. Though it would be much harder to break in via a third-floor window, not to mention highly visible from the street, it could still happen.

  Satisfied no one wishing her harm lurked behind the door, she entered and dropped her bag on the ground before drawing the blaster that never left her side. After checking the apartment’s nooks and crannies for intruders, she put the groceries away and pulled her tablet from its hiding spot.

  One further element formed part of her daily routine — checking every database she could hack into hoping to find something new related to her vanished partner. He had failed to turn up on any Correctional Service roster. But she had cast a much wider net, knowing Zack’s ingenuity might have sent him in an unexpected direction.

  One source she scanned daily was the database listing Fleet members condemned to one of Parth’s many correctional facilities. The moment she called up Zack’s service record, Talyn noticed it had been flagged by someone who accessed the file earlier that day. Or at least the anonymized version thereof.

  That could only mean one thing. A smile crept across her face as she hac
ked into the Marine Light Infantry Regiment’s personnel database and found the most recent recruit listing. Her smile broadened when she came across the name William Browning Whate, an alias Zack had used during the Garonne mission.

  He would have chosen that nom de guerre on purpose, knowing she’d be looking for him everywhere. Talyn chuckled with barely suppressed elation.

  Her partner was in Fort Erfoud, less than twenty kilometers south of Rabanna. Zack Decker, the ultimate survivor, had escaped Desolation Island without her help and made his way back into the Corps as a convict-recruit.

  It also meant that Ariane Redmon wasn’t among the exiles. She must have joined the Marine Light Infantry as well, if Decker, now back on the mainland via legitimate means, hadn’t activated his transponder.

  Talyn glanced at what she liked to call her bag of tricks, a thoughtful frown creasing her forehead. Though impatient at seeing Zack again after weeks without news, she would have to take care that her next moves didn’t imperil whatever game he was playing.

  But she could certainly prepare a new identity, one that would allow her free access to the regiment’s home base the moment Decker triggered his transponder.

  Twenty-Three

  Duffel bag in hand and wearing a new battle dress uniform, one with the nametape Whate already affixed to the breast, Decker stepped through the open door. He found himself in a drill hall empty save for two corporals, each carrying an instructor’s black rosewood cane tucked under the left arm.

  Flags hung in orderly rows from one wall while scenes of Marines in combat decorated the other three. One of the corporals, upon seeing Zack, used his cane to indicate a white mark on the polished concrete floor.

  “You will be the formation’s right marker. Assume the parade rest position on this spot, facing the flags and place your duffel bag by your left foot. Move at the double, recruit.”

  Decker did as ordered, executing the movements with the precision and vigor he remembered from his basic training almost three decades earlier. Having been the first through the intake processing proved to be a mixed blessing.

  He stood motionless for a long time, waiting as the others trickled out, one after the other, also wearing new battle dress. When the last recruit took his place, one of the corporals came to stand three paces in front of them.

  “Since you are now in uniform,” he said without further introduction, “I will assume that you were accepted into the convict retraining program. However, as much as you may look like Marines, your status does not differ from that of someone doing time in a penal battalion. The only difference is we will address you, and you will refer to yourselves as recruit rather than detainee. This status will change if you graduate, and I say if, because every training serial has a dumb fuck die because he did something stupid. Graduate, and you’ll not only be allowed to call yourselves Marines, but you’ll draw a Marine private’s pay and allowances.”

  The corporal paused and let his eyes roam over the formation, then said, “My colleague and I will take you to join your training company in a few minutes. You are the last to arrive for the next serial which means you won’t wait while living a detainee’s lifestyle.”

  An evil grin spread across his dark features.

  “Your personal hell begins today. Now, which one of you is Whate?”

  Decker raised his right fist, in the manner taught to recruits at boot camp.

  “Staff.”

  “I’m told that your hell will be downright special. You’re not going with the rest of these rejects from the exile farm but on the accelerated course. It’ll be small, intimate, with plenty of staff attention, and it too starts the moment we hand you over to your new platoon. Now, pick up your duffels.”

  When they had complied, the corporal shouted, “Detail, atten-SHUN. Right turn. Double time, MARCH.”

  With a noncom on either flank, the two files of convict-recruits jogged out of the drill hall and back into the muggy heat of a tropical afternoon.

  After crossing the parade square again, the corporal led them to a barracks complex of single story, pre-fabricated buildings radiating from a central hub. The huts themselves, though they seemed to have started life as components of a rapidly deployable instant base, appeared immaculate. A carefully manicured landscape, no doubt tended by convict-recruits, surrounded them.

  “Detail, HALT.”

  The corporal pointed at a door marked, ‘Alpha Company’ with his cane.

  “Everyone except Whate will report through there when I dismiss you. Your platoon sergeant is waiting inside. Whate — we’ll take care of you afterward. Detail, dis-MISS.”

  The twelve recruits turned to the right with a crash of heels. Then they took three paces forward before eleven of them veered off in an orderly line led by the noncom who hadn’t yet said a word. Decker stood patiently at attention, eyes staring straight ahead. The other corporal tapped him on the arm with the tip of his cane.

  “Follow me, Whate.”

  They jogged along a gravel path connecting the various parts of the compound, until they came to a door bearing a sign that read, ‘Delta Company — Accelerated and Special Training.’

  “End of the line,” the corporal said. “Go in, take the empty bunk, and unpack. Don’t leave the barracks. I’ll let the sergeant know his serial is ready to start.”

  Nine curious pairs of eyes locked onto Decker when he entered. Nine men were either sprawled on tautly made bunks or sitting at the single table in the center of a room that could comfortably accommodate thirty, but was set up for ten.

  The sparse furniture and basic decor exuded that boot camp vibe Decker remembered with varying degrees of fondness.

  “Hi.” He bestowed a broad smile on the others. “The name’s Whate, first name William, but I go by Bill, Hey You, and Asshole.”

  “Hilarious,” one of the men, easily as big as Zack, if not bigger, but younger by at least a decade, said with a dismissive sneer. “We have ourselves the course clown, gentlemen.”

  “Don’t mind Hank,” another, smaller man said, standing to offer his hand. “He has a bad case of landscape-itis. Two weeks of painting rocks and cutting grass with scissors while waiting for the tenth recruit to appear, namely you, will do in the most cheerful. I’m Udo Trieste, by the way. Welcome to the squad room of the double damned.”

  One after the other, the rest introduced themselves, including Surly Hank, as Decker had already mentally labeled him, suspecting the man’s disposition was natural, and not a result of too much detainee treatment. They all seemed fit, healthy and, to his dismay, much younger than he was.

  Zack knew he would soon find himself with a nickname appropriate to his status as the eldest trainee. In the Corps, it was practically a tradition. He was relieved that none of their faces seemed even remotely familiar. Coming across someone from his days in the Pathfinders, never mind someone he met while working for intelligence, would have been awkward.

  He took the last unoccupied bunk and opened the locker beside it, finding standard issue bedding. After making his bed in the approved fashion, he stowed his gear, then examined his surroundings, finding the way to the heads and the shower room quickly enough.

  As he was about to investigate further, the outer door opened. A fraction of a second later, the corporal’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Stand to attention at the foot of your bunks,” he shouted. “Party time is over. Prepare for the course sergeant.”

  When the ten convict-recruits stood ramrod still, eyes drilling into the wall across from their bunks, a new, much deeper voice rang out by the door.

  “It’s about time we get this show on the road. You know Corporal Radzell by now, but let me introduce myself...”

  Decker’s gut clenched the moment he heard that nasal, baritone drawl. Of all the instructors he could have faced in the Regiment of the Damned, it had to be Earle fucking Windom.

  “I’m Sergeant First Class Earle Windom, your platoon trainer.”
>
  Footsteps rang out as Windom slowly walked down the center of the room. He stopped in front of Zack, turned to face him and an ugly smile split his dark features, hairless save for thick eyebrows above deep-set brown eyes. His shiny scalp shone in the harsh light of the barracks.

  “Well, well, well.” Windom dragged out his words in a manner that had annoyed Zack to no end years ago. “And what have we here? Is it my birthday and Winter Solstice wrapped up in one nice package? Or in this case one butt-ugly sack of shit? Whate, is it? Funny, you remind me of someone I have no cause to remember with any sort of fondness. I do believe this course will be extra special. For me that is. For you,” the evil glint in Windom’s eyes showed that he meant Zack in particular, “it will be an extra helping of pain.”

  Windom turned away from Decker before continuing.

  “For as long as it takes until I declare this serial ready to serve the Commonwealth as privates in the Marine Light Infantry Regiment, your asses are wholly, totally and utterly mine. I will make you expiate your crimes in record time, and you will love it. In fact, you will thank me for turning you from useless bits of protoplasm back into proper Marines. Some of you might not make it to the end, but that’s part and parcel of the way we do things around here.”

  He paced up and down in front of the trainees.

  “You were recruited from various prisons or penal battalions, where you were doing hard time for having committed one or more life-changing screw ups. Heck, the judge exiled Whate to Desolation Island, where I hear they eat barbecued leg of man, deep in the jungle. He must have done a doozy to earn a sentence one step below execution.”

  Windom stopped in front of Zack again.

  “The reason I mention this is that, in my experience, useless buggers such as you have an unfortunate tendency to be individualists, buddy-fuckers to a man. And part of my training is to teach you how to be a team player again if you ever were one before. Hence, Sergeant Windom’s first rule says collective punishment is required when one of you fails to meet my or any other staff member’s high standards. You had enough time in the Corps before landing in front of a court-martial to understand what that means. My second rule is that I don’t give a shit what you were or how many high speed, low drag qualifications you held.”