* * *
And Decker sat up, a scream locked in his throat. His brow was stippled with perspiration and his lips pulled down in a mask of fear. He realized he wasn’t breathing, and gasped for air.
His head was filled with chaotic images, slowly fading. Yet he couldn’t escape the feeling that there were things crawling through the walls of his apartment building, pushing toward him through the insulation and wiring, clawing their way past water pipes and air ducts. He tried to silence his breathing, to listen in the darkness.
Nothing.
Nevertheless, he still could feel the hatred, the nearly physical need to end his life. He turned on every light in the apartment and checked under the furniture and in the closets. The very act of searching helped him to calm down, but only to a point. Had he owned a firearm he would have slipped it under his pillow.
* * *
He spent the next morning in a series of phone calls, and finally caught the train that took him to the office from which he’d worked for more than a decade.
OK, so Walt doesn’t want to see me, he thought. Well, screw him. Who needs a fucking appointment? Instead, he just waited in the lobby until his supervisor was heading out for lunch.
Walt took one look at him and sighed.
“Alan.” He wasn’t a big man, and he tended to look at the floor more than at people. He had somehow lucked his way into a position of authority, and tenaciously clung to that position by never being noticed.
“Walt,” Decker replied. “So… what the hell?”
Walt walked faster, and Decker kept up with him easily. As soon as they were outside and out of earshot of anyone who might overhear, Walt finally responded.
“Look, I’m trying to get everything resolved, Alan.” He gazed very studiously at the ground. Whatever he was thinking or feeling wasn’t strong enough for Decker to get anything from him.
“Walt, I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “I just did my job.”
“You’ve had seizures, Alan.” His voice lowered, and he leaned in closer. “More importantly, you pointed a very big finger at Weyland-Yutani. They didn’t like that very much.”
So there it was, in black-and-white.
“That’s my job, Walt. That’s what you told me to do.”
“I know that, and I’m trying to fix it, believe me, but it’s not going well.” For a moment Decker felt the man’s fear and frustration. They came across clearly before they were suppressed again. “You pissed off the wrong people with your report, Alan. I’m doing what I can. That’s all I can say right now.”
Walt hurried away, and lost himself in the flow of lunchtime pedestrians. Decker could have followed him, but he already had his answer. He hadn’t been forgotten—not exactly—and he still had a champion on his side, such as he was. It was all just a matter of being patient.
Yet patience wasn’t one of his favorite things.
Then the feeling hit him again, the sudden weight of a baleful stare. He damned near pulled the muscles in his neck as he glanced around, checking the crowd. But no one seemed to be paying him the least bit of attention.
This is getting old, really fast, he thought. Yet he continued to scan the throngs of people.
Finally Decker headed for home, taking several detours along the way, in case what he was feeling was more than just paranoia. In his apartment he kept his window screens closed, and more than once found himself glancing outside. After a few hours spent feeling stressed as hell, he finally broke down and took another of the pills.
7
THE HUNTED
When he awoke in the darkness of his bedroom, it was with an absolute certainty that he was in danger. In his dreams he might be the hunter, but here he was the one being hunted.
In some ways it was better. In most ways it was worse.
He sat bolt upright with a grunt, then tried to calm his breathing so that he could listen.
Nothing.
Suddenly four figures rushed into the room. At first he wondered if it could be another dream, but instantly he knew better. He tried to speak, but all that came from his mouth was another grunt.
Decker kicked his heel into the stomach of the figure closest to him, and heard a male voice let out a gasp. The man stumbled against the wall and knocked the lamp from the small table where he kept his alarm clock and his water glass.
Something shattered as it hit the ground and the man he’d kicked crawled along the floor, dry-retching. Decker felt a flare of satisfaction at that, but it was crushed under a tidal surge of adrenaline. He started to rise to his knees on the bed, and the second intruder swung something heavy against the side of his head. It connected hard enough to rock him back.
“Careful, Piotrowicz,” a voice said in the gloom. “We need him alive.”
“Nobody said he had to be intact,” his assailant growled.
Decker’s head rang from the blow but he shook it off as best he could and went for the one doing the growling.
“Come on, bring it, loser.” The man was smaller than him and wiry. He was also a fighter. He blocked the best moves Decker had and shoved him back.
Another one tried to get into the fray, aiming to take Decker from behind and pin his arms. That was a mistake. Decker felt his intentions and reacted to them, bringing his elbow back and around to smash it into the man’s face.
His attacker went down hard and Decker turned back to the one who’d hit him in the head, betting that he was the biggest threat.
“Hey, look!” The man’s voice was still growling, and despite his mind telling him to close his eyes, he looked. A light exploded in the room, the glare of it enough to blind him.
The same man hit him again before he could recover, and then the other shapes were leaning over him and swinging. The fists that hit him were gloved, but that hardly softened the blows. He did his best to block the assaults. It was a vain effort. There were too many of them. He tried to fight back, might have gotten in one good punch, maybe two.
But they had the numbers and the advantage.
8
AWAKENING
This time the manual release only eluded him for a moment, and then Decker was sliding out of his confinement and trying to stand on weakened knees. He failed and slid to the ground, his limbs shaking.
His head hurt.
His jaw hurt.
Everything was blurry. He was both nauseated and hungry.
As he began to gather his wits, the low vibration under his body told him something that made no sense. He was aboard a ship again, and it was moving. He wondered if it might be another nightmare.
No, he told himself. If this was a dream, I wouldn’t feel so much like shit. There was only one answer, absurd as it might be.
He’d been kidnapped.
This is insane. He shook his head. Things like this only happen in movies.
As his vision cleared, he saw that there were more chambers around him, and he could see that the people inside them were starting to stir. He looked down and realized that he wore only his underwear. The same was true of the people starting to awaken.
He finally managed to find his feet and stood, steadying himself as he looked around. Not exactly a luxury liner, though he’d have been surprised if he found otherwise. Definitely a transport—a working vessel. One quick look around the room and he saw the emergency evacuation chart showing the way to the escape pods. According to the schematic, he was aboard the Kiangya. Decker made a note of the name. Someone, somewhere, was going to pay for abducting him, and he needed the details if he was going to press charges.
Decker moved through a doorway and into an open area, where he found lockers. Each had a crude paper label stuck to it, with a scrawled name. One of them said “Piotrowicz,” and he was fairly certain that was the name of one of the bastards who had kicked the crap out of him.
Surprisingly, one of the other lockers had “Decker” written on the paper tab. He opened the door and found clothes that were familiar enoug
h. By the time he was done dressing, there were sounds coming from the area he’d vacated.
For a moment he considered bolting. Ultimately, however, there was nowhere to go. He wasn’t a pilot and he wasn’t a shipmate. He had no idea where he was and no idea where he was going. Much as the thought of escape appealed to him it would do him no good.
They’d probably just beat the crap out of him again. So he waited, and did a few stretches to make the blood flow back to his limbs. While he was doing so, people started filing into the area to get dressed. Men and women alike, of varying ages. None of them paid him any mind.
One man with dark skin and starkly blond hair mumbled something in what sounded like Swedish and slipped past him, heading for a locker with the name “Hunsucker” on it. How anyone could move that easily after hypersleep was a mystery, but he envied the bastard.
Most of them were in excellent shape. A good number of them had military tattoos and scars to show that they’d been injured more than once. Decker glanced down at his own leg and saw the scar tissue from where the machinery had almost ended his life. It was fading, but still fresh in comparison to a lot of the ones around him.
A man whose body resembled that of a shaved gorilla walked past him and gave him the stink eye. His face was heavily tanned and craggy. His hair was a thick mane of salt and pepper. Despite the nasty look in the man’s eyes, he smiled as he noticed Decker.
“Murphy! Tell Rollins her acquisition is awake.”
A narrow-faced black man shook his head.
“Tell her yourself, dickhead. She’s right behind me.”
Sure enough, as Murphy moved another warm body came into the room. The woman was attractive and—unlike most of them—she was already dressed. Her attire was functional, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. She looked at the bruiser for a moment, and Decker could feel the crispness in her attitude. Purely business.
He’d run into this sort of person before. Somehow, he doubted the woman had a friend on the ship. She didn’t seem the type to consider fraternizing with anyone. Ever.
“What can I do for you, Manning?” Rollins asked frostily.
“Your man is here and awake,” the gorilla replied, and he seemed to have taken it down a notch. “Just thought you’d like to know.”
She looked toward Decker, and then nodded to Manning.
“When you’re ready, you can escort Mister Decker to get something to eat, then bring him to the medical unit. Let’s make sure you didn’t break him when you reeled him in.” Manning looked as if he’d just stepped in something disgusting, but he kept his mouth shut.
As Rollins turned her back and walked away, Decker looked at her and tried to read something more. Nothing. Then again, he wasn’t getting much from anyone. That was hardly unusual, though. Emotions had to be high for him to get any significant impressions.
The only one who seemed at all interested in him was a redheaded fellow, who was glaring in his direction. He was younger than the rest—maybe even a teenager.
Sometimes it was best to establish a pecking order early on. He gave back as much attitude as the kid was throwing.
“You got a problem, red?”
The redhead didn’t answer, but he looked away first. That was good.
Manning got into a bodysuit quickly enough, and pointed with his chin toward a door on the far side of the room.
“Chow’s that way, Decker. Come and get some food, and then we can get you all set for your meeting.”
Instead of answering, Decker just nodded. He wasn’t feeling very communicative. What he was feeling was hungrier and hungrier. There was no way to tell how long it had been since he’d eaten.
The kitchen was stocked with dried goods and reconstituted milk—and the nectar of the gods, coffee. While he drank and ate, he observed the people around him. There was camaraderie among them. It seemed clear that most of them had been together for a while. He knew the way that worked. Until he’d been sent home, he’d been getting chummy with several of his co-workers. He thought about Luke Rand, and felt a brief pang of guilt.
He’d meant to call Luke, and somehow never got to it. Above and beyond all of the others, Luke had saved his ass when the machinery was pinning him down, and he really should have been in touch. Maybe when they reached their destination—wherever that was—he’d find a chance.
Somehow, though, he thought it was unlikely.
He downed his second cup of coffee and the rest of his food, and then looked over at his escort. Manning was nodding toward the next destination.
“What’s this about?” Decker asked as they headed down a stark hallway.
Manning’s rough features spread in an aggressive example of a grin.
“I’m just here to walk you around, sport,” he said, sounding as if he enjoyed Decker’s confusion. “It’s up to Rollins to fill you in.”
“Are you people mercenaries?”
Manning nodded. “We look like Colonial Marines to you?”
“More like ex-Marines.”
Manning’s broad shoulders rolled into what could have been a shrug or—or maybe he was just stretching.
“Most are,” he said. “A few decided to sign up without prior experience.”
Before Decker could ask any more questions they’d reached their destination. The medical station was fairly standard, with two examining tables and a bank of screens showing readouts that didn’t make sense to anyone who hadn’t gone to med school. Rollins was standing there, looking at one of the displays.
“Mister Decker,” she said, barely glancing in his direction. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Andrea Rollins. I’ll be your handler for this trip.” She gestured for him to have a seat on the closest table. “Let’s get you thoroughly examined.”
Handler? He bristled at the word, but did his best not to show it. As he moved toward the table, he saw that Manning situated himself near the door, standing in a casual pose that still made it clear he was ready—maybe eager—for anything Decker might try. There was an edginess coming off of him, and each of his fists looked large enough to wrap around Decker’s entire head.
“I’m sure you have questions, Mister Decker. Feel free to ask them.” Rollins gestured for him to lie back, and he did, craning his head to look at her.
“How about, why did somebody kidnap me from my apartment?”
“That’s an easy one,” she replied. “We needed you here.”
“Who’s we?”
Rollins finally made eye contact.
“Weyland-Yutani.”
The monitors around him lit up as she flipped a switch. She looked away from him and studied his readouts.
“Is that right?” he said. “Nobody thought to ask me, before sending a goon squad?”
“The general consensus was that your answer would be no. Currently that’s not an option.” She continued looking over the diagnostics, and he shook his head.
“All of this because of a fucking report? Have you people lost your fucking minds?” Decker sat up fast and Manning looked his way, his body tensing.
Rollins switched off the readouts and shook her head.
“No, and no,” she answered. “Your report on New Galveston was annoying, I’ll admit, but it was hardly worth kidnapping you or anyone else.”
“Well then, what the hell’s going on?” he pressed. “How about some straight answers?” His irritation flared and he slipped from the examination table. Manning took a step nearer.
Rollins held up a hand, and the mercenary stopped. Then she turned to Decker.
“That’s what we’re here for,” she said. “Answers. And the first question relates to your condition. I was concerned that you’d been damaged when Mister Manning and his team caught you, but aside from a few bruises, you’re in good health.” She walked over to a video display and tapped a few buttons. “Physically, at least.
“Mentally, however, you are showing rather substantial signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which
is very curious when you consider that your only real trauma was a minimally intrusive wound to your leg.”
Decker stared hard at her, but said nothing. “Frankly there’s nothing in your psychological profile that indicates you’d be so put upon by the damage that it would cause that sort of a reaction. Not only do the medical doctors agree, so do the three separate psychologists who’ve examined you since your return.”
Three? Decker frowned.
“The examinations you endured were bought and paid for by the company. At first we thought we might use you as a scapegoat, on the chance that your report might lead to a lawsuit. But then something more important emerged. You acted very strangely when you were injured, Mister Decker. Strangely enough that we took notice.”
“But you just said that the company didn’t give a damn about my report.”
“I did, and we don’t.” Rollins smiled. The expression played around her thin lips. “But before that, when you were injured, you made some comments—comments that were recorded for the official record.” She walked closer and he could smell the faint aroma of honeysuckle from her perfume. “When you made your claims against Weyland-Yutani, we acquired the recordings, on the off chance that they might be advantageous. Can you imagine what they told us?”
He shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“They were filled with psychotic ramblings. There was enough there to put you on medical probation, quite easily. PTSD is a dangerous situation when you work off-world as much as you do. A few calls, a few extra forms filled out and voila, you’re on medical leave.”
“Is there a point at the end of this?”
She smiled again.
“You talked, and we listened, and then we ran those recordings through filters designed to scan for specific words. It’s rather standard on our end. There are a lot of… investigations we’ve initiated over the years. In your case, the words you used and the order in which they were used threw up a red flag.” She paused, and then continued.
Sea of Sorrows Page 5