Decker's War Omnibus 1

by Eric Thomson

  “You okay?” Decker asked.

  “I will be in a moment,” she replied, her voice deep and hoarse. “Arkanna fight-or-flight instincts tend to be somewhat primal compared to yours.”

  “I can see that.” He shook his head in admiration at the mess she’d made of her two assailants. “I’d hate to have you mad at me.”

  Both were Pradyni, just like the one Decker had dispatched, but where the gunner’s dagger had left a small hole, Darhad’s claws had torn her opponents to shreds. He pulled the cloak off the Pradyni he’d killed and handed it to Raisa.

  “Better use this to get the blood off. These lizards bleed just as bad as humans, and we can’t have you cross Spacetown looking like you came from a slaughterhouse.”

  “Thank you.” Chest still heaving with deep breaths, she took the rough cloth and wiped herself. “We must return to the ship. On Pradyn, what we just did is called murder until you can prove you were acting in self-defense. I would rather not try to explain myself to a court composed entirely of staring lizards.”

  “Me neither.” He leaned over wiped the blood off his blade on the dead alien and re-sheathed it, all the while staring at the savaged assassins.

  The Arkanna woman was much more dangerous than he might have imagined. She could probably kill Command Sergeant Zack Decker, retired, late of the Pathfinders, in less time than it took him to belch.

  “Come.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she walked off.

  *

  “Who and why?” Zack asked, staring at the star map on Strachan’s cabin wall. He and Darhad had reported to the captain the moment they came aboard, and Strachan had poured them both a much-needed drink.

  “Who knows,” Strachan replied, a thoughtful expression creasing his forehead. “Robbers most likely. They thought that people who come out of posh clubs are loaded with creds.” Something in his voice rang false.

  “Rather lightly equipped for that sort of trade,” Zack replied. “Only three guys with knives? If one of ‘em had a blaster, they’d be richer, and we’d be dead.”

  “No private gun ownership on Pradyn, Mister Decker,” the first officer reminded him. “Guns have been banned ever since the present dynasty took power. It seems to contribute to political stability. Anyone caught with an illegal weapon is automatically sentenced to public dismemberment.”

  From the corner of his eye, he caught Darhad and Strachan exchanging a glance, but whether it had to do with his comment or something else, he couldn’t tell. One thing was for sure, he doubted those were ordinary footpads. He didn’t know why, but his instincts told him so.

  “Whatever they were,” the captain finally said, “we will have to keep you and the first officer on board until we lift. Though I doubt the dead natives will be traced back to you, there is no point in taking unnecessary chances.”

  Raisa Darhad nodded.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Zack acknowledged the order. Sensing he was about to be dismissed, he stood, drained his glass and snapped to attention before pivoting on his heels and leaving the cabin.

  “Good night, Gunner.”

  When Decker was gone, Strachan refilled Darhad’s drink. “Talk to me, Raisa.”

  “Not much to tell. I’m convinced Decker is genuine. He loves the Fleet but is bitter at the same time. More importantly, he’s absolutely certain he’ll never wear a Marine uniform again, which removes any incentive to interfere. I don’t think he is a danger. And he is a formidable fighter, a very dangerous fighter. His emotions shut down when he is in jeopardy, and he becomes an efficient machine.”

  “If I didn’t know better, you blood-thirsty she-wolf, I would say you engineered the ambush just to test Decker. Arkanna have strange ways.”

  A dangerous smile distorted her lips.

  “And if I had?” Before Strachan could reply, her smile vanished. “I say trust Decker. When and if your business comes to include things he will object to, we can re-evaluate his employment. But, as long as it is just avoiding the taxman, he has no problems serving you.”

  “Good. What about the ambush, then?”

  She shrugged. “Footpads? An assassination attempt? Take your pick, Diego. Whatever it was, the attack failed, as it was destined to do. A mature Arkanna and a Pathfinder Marine make for very dangerous prey.”

  “Just make sure it wasn’t Alers. If you’re right, and Decker can be trusted, we need him more than the bosun, especially a stupid brute who is fast outliving his usefulness.”

  “If you want Alers out of the way, just give the word,” Darhad replied, “but be sure he will try to kill Decker one day.”

  “Wait for now. Our gunner can take care of himself. With any luck, he’ll take care of Alers in a manner no one will find objectionable.”

  The Arkanna nodded. She tried to read her captain’s feelings, to discover what he was thinking. Diego Strachan never did or said anything without good reason, and that narrowed it down to either his personal interest or the interest of their ultimate owner.

  Unlike Decker, Captain Diego Strachan knew his first officer’s species had developed a survival trait for a very harsh world: all mature Arkanna females were empaths, able to read and project emotions. And he had learned to mask his feelings as he was doing now.

  She rose. “Good night, Diego.”

  *

  Zack tossed and turned in his bunk, unable to sleep. He relived every moment of his brief bout of shore leave: the easy way he had told his story to Raisa Darhad, the attack in the dark alley, the secret club for select merchants and, most distressingly, his strong attraction to the Arkanna.

  “Are you all right, Zack?” A soft voice enquired from the lower bunk.

  “Yeah, sort of. Sorry to have woken you, Nihao.”

  “It is of no matter. How did your leave go?”

  “Strange as hell, kiddo. Our exotic first officer rescued me from a spacer's dive and took me to a fancy, private smuggler's club. Damn posh, let me tell you. They serve the finest vintage Shrehari ale. Our Lady of the Talons pumped me for my life's story and gave me a bit of her own. Then, just as we left the club, three Pradyni footpads ambushed us. Darhad took out two with her built-in slicers and I took out the third with my knife. What the fuck that was all about, I don't know.”

  She made no comment and Zack fell silent as he debated whether to ask or not. Then, he rolled over on his stomach and glanced down at Kiani.

  “I wonder, did something like this happen to Lokis? It seems strange that I’m attacked and almost killed in the same port.”

  “Lokis vanished while on liberty here in Vortaz, last time we visited,” Nihao finally said, her voice flat. “Two days later, the police found his body in an alley in Spacetown. He had been badly cut-up, possibly tortured. Pradyni go for clean kills and no torture. It goes against their code of honor.”

  “So why was he killed?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe he fell into the hands of thugs looking for blood sport.”

  “Or he found out something he shouldn't have,” Zack countered, rubbing his chin.

  “I don't know, Zack. Perhaps Lokis was involved in something criminal and paid for it. Some otherwise honest merchant sailors are often tempted by quick, but illegal profits. Lokis and I were close, but we kept much from each other. Anyway, it's all history now, so please leave it be. The important thing is that you are safe.”

  “Thanks for the sentiment, Nihao. But that doesn't explain why no one wanted to tell me what happened.”

  “It’s bad luck to speak of those who died violently, Zack.”

  “Really? Never heard of that superstition in the Fleet.”

  “Maybe because violent death is normal there. But in the merchant service, we don't want to tempt fate.” She paused for a long minute as if framing her next words. “Zack, beware of Darhad. She has her own agenda and, like all Arkanna females, she can be treacherous. Goodnight.”

  Zack was too stunned by her warning to reply, but he let the matter go because
he had just realized something else that was strange about his evening ashore. Darhad had known they were in danger before the assassins appeared, as if she had heard or sensed them, even though he had heard nothing.

  *

  The next day, tired but relaxed, Decker stood beside Bowdoin and supervised the loading of the outbound cargo. Darhad had been right: the captain had convinced the shippers to play straight. Shokoten would lift by sunset, bound for Wyvern with a hold full of refined exotic alloys. And the gods knew what else hidden among the visible cargo. It took most of the morning.

  “Secure the hold, Gunner and stand down the guards. I'll have the bridge seal the ship. Unless something comes up, we're ready to lift.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He raised his communicator to his lips. “Security detail, this is Decker. Check all locks and report. It's over.”

  A few hours later, the freighter left Pradyn's surface far below as her thrusters labored to break her out of the planet's gravity well. By the end of the evening watch, she had left Pradyn's security sphere, and Zack could unlock his weapons again. The chances of a pirate attack on the way back were less than on the way out. There was more money to be made in the Shield Cluster from human tech than from commodities, no matter how exotic, but it paid to be cautious.

  He spent most of the night watch inspecting every gun and every launcher with painstaking precision, earning an invitation for a drink with the captain, though it was almost six bells, close to three in the morning.

  “You work too hard, Zack. It could have waited,” Strachan commented, raising his glass.

  “Nothing to it, Captain. I like my job, and I'd rather go to sleep knowing my guns will fire the moment I hit the button.”

  “Commendable. I shall make no secret of my opinion that you're an excellent gunner, and -”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And, as I was about to say,” he briefly frowned at the interruption, “I intend to have your pay grade raised as soon as we reach Wyvern.”

  “Thank you again, sir. It's been a pleasure to serve aboard Shokoten so far,” if he discounted a sadistic bosun who was out to kill him and more questions than a game show. Things on this tub might not be what they seemed, but he had no better offer.

  Strachan nodded, slowly rolling his tumbler in his hands.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” Zack asked, putting a particular emphasis on the word 'else.'

  “Not on this trip, Gunner, but thank you for asking.”

  “Aye, sir.” He emptied his glass. “Good night, then.”

  “Good night. Take the morning watch off. You deserve to sleep in.”

  *

  Captain Strachan kept him busy enough to forget about Pradyn and the first officer over the next few days. While they remained in the badlands, he drilled the crew mercilessly.

  Five days out from Pradyn, the rear missile launcher, which was also the hardest to reach of the three, stopped responding to the bridge. Rather than ask engineering to check it out, and get rebuffed by the third officer, Zack grabbed his tool case and made his way into the cramped recesses of the aft compartments.

  It was the second dogwatch, shortly after seven in the evening, and most of the off-duty crewmembers were in their messes or cabins. He had a pretty good idea what was wrong. These old launchers had weak control boards. They were originally designed for ground use, but when the Corps pulled them out of service, the company sold them on the civilian market as starship defensive systems.

  A good business move, but it didn't do squat for merchants who had no idea how to fix a busted board. Luckily Zack Decker knew all there was to know about this particular piece of weaponry.

  The access tube was narrow and cramped, especially for someone Zack's size. Whoever built the launcher into the ship had figured maintenance and reloading would be done from the outside. Going outside while the ship was in hyperspace was the best way to go psycho. The hull shielded humans. Space suits didn't.

  Zack pulled the old board and examined it as he lay on his stomach. There, in the middle of the thin plastic sheet, a small but vital part had come loose under the vibrations of the multiple launcher systems and had shorted out its command recognition capability. Decker plugged his AI into the board and quickly reprogrammed the chip to bypass the burnt-out circuits so it could accept commands through its secondary control terminals.

  Satisfied he pushed the board back into its slot and smiled when the fire control computer cycled back to life. Then, a loud clang from the other end of the access tube startled Zack. He frowned as he packed away his tools. That could only have been the access hatch.

  Not Alers again, for fuck's sake! This time, the little prick will end up in sick bay when I get my hands on him.

  Decker crawled backwards, the tube too narrow to turn, and tried to remember where the emergency release mechanism was. Suddenly, his breathing became harder and his body started to feel funny. Decompression. The tube was venting into space.

  All compartments could be vented and regularly were to kill off vermin that invariably found their way aboard any spacecraft. But the venting systems had triple safeguards and could only be done by the bridge. Unless someone could override the safeguards and Alers wasn't smart enough to figure that out on his own.

  “Bridge,” he gasped into his communicator, “this is the gunner. Stop venting launcher three. I'm inside.”

  When he didn’t receive an answer, he repeated his message, anoxia making red spots dance in front of his eyes. I'm about to die, he thought, after all this crap, I'm about to die of fucking decompression on a freighter, killed by a third-rate moron.

  Zack Decker passed out.

  Seven

  “He will be all right, Captain.”

  The voice sounded tinny and distorted to Zack's ears, and somehow he figured it wasn't an angel because they were supposed to emit nothing but glorious sounds. Perhaps he was in Hell, where he'd been wished by many people over his lifetime. If so, then why did one of the minor demons sound like the she-wolf?

  “Our Mister Decker is much tougher than anyone would credit.” The same silky voice purred near his ear as warm, dry fingers brushed his cheek. His eyes opened a crack, and caught sight of a blurred, crimson-haired, white skinned woman with impossibly blue eyes, upswept eyebrows, pointy ears and a predator's smile. Yup. Definitely Hell. But somehow, he didn't really mind, if all demons looked like the delightfully dangerous Raisa Darhad.

  “Some damage to the blood vessels due to decompression, probably lung damage too, but without proper diagnostic equipment, I cannot find out the extent. We’ll find out in the next two or three days if he has sustained severe trauma, but I doubt it. He was not exposed long enough.”

  “Thank you, Raisa.”

  Decompression injuries? Zack tried to move his limbs or register feeling throughout his body, but couldn't. Panic gripped him.

  “C-can't m-move,” he croaked. “C-can't f-feel.”

  Raisa's warm hand rested briefly on his forehead. “Stay still, Gunner. I have given you a sedative. You have internal damage and are covered with bruises. I fear you would moan in pain if you move too much. You will regain full responsiveness when the drugs wear off.”

  “W-what happened?”

  Darhad's face swam before his eyes again.

  “You were fixing the command board in launcher three when there was a malfunction in the ship's housekeeping program. After visiting nonhuman planets, we vent each compartment to make sure we don't bring vermin back. It’s an automated function, and it seems the program did not talk to the internal sensors, believing the launcher area was empty. The bridge received your distress call, and we stopped it in time. A few seconds more and you would have died rather messily. I have already examined the housekeeping program and found degradation in the code that caused the malfunction. It will not happen again.”

  “A-accident?” Decker croaked.

  “Yes, of course, it was.”

  A
nd I'm the Grand Admiral herself, Zack thought sourly through the haze of drugs.

  “Accident or not, you'll stay in your bunk until further notice. That's an order.” Strachan ordered.

  Decker nodded feebly and let his eyelids drop, exhausted. He fell asleep within seconds.

  *

  When he woke, it was five bells in the afternoon watch of the following day. He opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. The light in the cabin was painful, and his vision was alarmingly red tinged. Then, he felt his body, just as Darhad had promised. It hurt from head to toe.

  After a while, Zack opened his eyes, this time for a longer period, and glanced around. He was alone in the small room. Kiani was on duty somewhere else in the ship. Not a single sound of the ship's life penetrated the bulkheads. If Shokoten's engines hadn't been sending their reassuring, almost subliminal vibrations all the way into Zack's brain, he would have thought the ship abandoned. He tried to turn on his side and winced.

  His bunk was comfortable enough, but after fifteen hours, he figured he had turned into a feather merchant with bedsores on his bum. A sudden need to urinate overrode all other considerations.

  He sat up unthinkingly, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and grimaced again, this time at the waves of nausea and the pounding of blood in his head. Looking down to regain control of his breathing, he saw his skin for the first time.

  “Shit!”

  He was a mass of bruises, his body mottled in blue, green and yellow, just as they’d warned when he first woke. Decker frowned. Someone, Darhad if memory served, had said something else that hadn't registered at the time but that now nibbled at the edge of his consciousness.

  His bladder sent an urgent signal, and he concentrated instead on getting up before staggering to the heads. He sat down on the cold toilet and winced.

  Once he’d made it back to his bed without puking or keeling over, he lay there, unthinking and unmoving, letting his system calm down and return to the dull throbbing from before he stood again.