Decker's War Omnibus 1

by Eric Thomson

  Shokoten shook with a final salvo, and then the reiver abandoned the chase and jumped, unwilling to relinquish the role of hunter to the frigate.

  “Freighter Shokoten, this is Garibaldi, Captain Bezan commanding. Are you all right?”

  Cheers echoed through the bridge as the face of a dark-haired officer appeared on the main screen.

  “This is Captain Strachan. Thank you for your timely intervention. We’ve suffered no damage, except to our nerves.”

  “Glad we could be of help, Captain. It doesn't happen all too often that we arrive in time to scare away the bad guys. Not often at all.” Bezan frowned, his dark eyes watching Strachan with palpable suspicion as if he thought something was funny about this incident. The gunner could relate. He smelled a rat too. A big, fat, rotting rat.

  “I suppose we were lucky,” Strachan was looking uneasy, though he still tried to ooze his slickest brand of charm. “It likely helped that I have a good gunner who held the pirate at bay long enough.”

  Bezan raised a skeptical eyebrow. The merchant service wasn't known for the quality of its weapons' officers.

  “I would like to congratulate this martial paragon if I may, Captain Strachan.”

  Strachan motioned Zack over.

  “Warrant Officer Zachary Decker,” he said, “is a former Marine Corps Master Gunner and has proven to be quite an asset.”

  Zack nodded at the screen. “Sir.”

  “Well, well. The universe is small, isn't it, Sergeant, or should I say, Mister Decker? Glad to see you again. And equally happy that you landed on your feet.”

  Zack managed to contain his surprise only by a tremendous effort of will. He knew about Bezan from serving aboard Musashi, which patrolled the same area of space as Garibaldi but he'd certainly never met the man in person.

  “Glad to see you again as well, sir,” he stammered out, hoping he didn’t sound puzzled. It could have been his imagination, but he seemed to detect a sign of approval from Bezan.

  “Captain Strachan, with a man like Decker behind your guns, I can believe you gave the reiver more to contend with than he would have thought. Tell me, Mister Decker, how does it feel to be on the receiving end of piracy?” Bezan smiled, but the smile had a dangerous edge to it.

  “If all reivers are like the one you ran off, I don’t figure it’s much of a problem, sir.”

  “Easy mark?” That hint of suspicion was back again, if it had ever left. Strachan glanced at Zack, his eyes betraying anxiety at what the gunner would say.

  “Not easy sir, but it wasn’t an experienced crew or captain, I’d say. What with the cleanup of the area last year, the reiver clans must be building up from scratch. At least this guy knew enough to break off when the odds shifted.” Zack sensed rather than saw Strachan relax. He shrugged. “Luck’s always in the game too, sir. Guess we were lucky this time around.”

  “I suppose you were,” Bezan sounded thoughtful. He rubbed his chin. “Where are you headed?”

  “We’re bound for Pacifica with a cargo of assorted minerals, luxury items and samples from Rhada,” Strachan replied, dismissing Zack with a flick of the fingers. The gunner had played his part and was no longer required.

  “A long trip.”

  “Indeed. But a ship like ours goes where the contract stipulates. If our owners wish to open trading in exotic items with a far-off planet, then who are we to gainsay them.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Bezan chuckled. “And here I thought you merchant types were free to roam the star lanes. I guess I’m an old romantic. Anyway, you should be all right from now on. Things have been quiet in the sector. Have a nice trip, Shokoten.”

  “Thank you and please thank your crew for the rescue.”

  “All in day’s work. Garibaldi, out.”

  Strachan looked like he wanted to sigh with relief when Bezan’s face faded from the screen.

  “Nav, plot a course for Pacifica. I don’t think we’ll have any more problems.”

  “Course laid in and ready.”

  “Helm, engage.”

  Strachan turned towards Zack and smiled.

  “Well done, Mister Decker. Stand down from battle stations. I believe we shall encounter no more troubles.”

  The gunner nodded and powered down the guns, shields and launchers. But his mind was elsewhere. Did Strachan mean well done for the fight, or for snowing Bezan? When he got right down to it, that reiver was shamming, and Bezan could smell the ruse.

  A signal on his console caught his attention, ending that particular bit of speculation. One of the aft turrets had overheated during the stern chase and needed his immediate attention.

  By the time he’d completed a thorough check of the ship’s ordnance, he was too tired to think. Even Nihao left him alone that night after taking one look at his drawn face.

  *

  The next day, Zack reviewed his log entry of the incident and, on a hunch, checked the reiver's power curve. Each ship had its own emissions signal, distinct even from a ship of the same class and type, launched by the same shipyard on the same day, a starship fingerprint of sorts. These could be faked, just like real fingerprints, but Zack didn't think it was the case here. The power curve of their mysterious attacker was so close to that of the ship that had met on Ventos Prime that Decker was convinced they were the same.

  It only reinforced his belief that the whole attack had been a setup, designed to fool a patrol ship into dispensing with the usual customs check. And it had worked like a charm. Except for one thing. Why did Bezan pretend he knew Decker personally?

  Zack found no satisfactory answers to any of his questions and the rest of the trip to Pacifica became an exercise in frustration and patience. His mood did not lighten when Shokoten finally slipped into orbit.

  “Captain, we received a message from the surface.”

  The signalman’s voice broke through Zack’s bad mood. He perked up to listen. They had been circling the planet for close to six hours, a long time for a developed world that depended on trade, and he wondered why.

  “A flight plan, landing coordinates, and authorization to land,” the signaler continued. “Feeding to nav now. There’s also a private message for you.”

  “Thank you,” Strachan nodded.

  “Sir,” Gareth turned from his navigation console, “the coordinates are not for a spaceport.” He sounded puzzled. “They’re on an island in the South Ocean. The computer lists it as privately owned.”

  “Your point being?” The captain asked, unusually sarcastic. Before the young officer could reply, he continued. “Just enter the flight path and take us down there. If our owners want us to land on a private island, we will land on a private island.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Engage.” Then, Strachan left the bridge for his cabin, a move that made Darhad raise her eyebrows in surprise as she slipped into the captain’s chair. Shokoten’s cautious master usually liked to oversee landings himself. He returned a few minutes later and glanced at Zack with a frown, but declined to comment.

  *

  The island slowly grew on the main screen, and Zack watched with interest. It was approximately kidney-shaped, about fifty kilometers from tip to tip and maybe half that at its widest. The indentation of the kidney looked like a decent natural harbor, with clear blue waters and sandy beaches. A low range of wooded hills ran along the island's spine, ending with an extinct volcano at the southern end. Along the bay's shores, someone with a lot of money had built a sizeable landing strip, surrounded by many low buildings.

  When Shokoten had settled on the plascrete pad, its hull pinging and groaning as it cooled down, Strachan rose from his seat.

  “Mister Bowdoin, prepare to offload. Container carriers will arrive shortly. We will not load outbound cargo here. Zack, you're with me. There will be no need for your security detail this time.”

  They stepped down the gangplank into the bright sunshine. Natural heat and light hit Decker like a sledgehammer after endless weeks
cooped up inside the ship. Sweat immediately formed on his brow and ran down his back. He took one glance at the magnificent scenery and whistled.

  “Nice resort, Captain.”

  Strachan grunted in reply as he set off on a flagstone path bisecting a beautifully manicured lawn. Zack, Pathfinder instincts aroused, examined his surroundings, trying hard to look nonchalant. Guards, dressed in light green battledress and billed caps, carrying short carbines, were patrolling the area. They looked tough, professional and military. Mercenaries.

  The buildings were two-storied and, while the smaller ones had large, polarized windows, the three larger ones presented only blank walls. An antenna array poked out of the palm-like trees further inland, and Zack recognized a sophisticated communications system with satellite uplink. Another array came briefly into view and the gunner nearly stopped in surprise.

  Now, why would a private island have an aerospace defense command and control system?

  He looked for hidden sensors, automatic weapons, and other defensive arrangements and it didn't take the former reconnaissance trooper long to find well-placed and well-hidden military-grade ordnance. There were likely much more he couldn't see. Either the owners of this island were paranoid, this far inside the Commonwealth, or they had something here worth the expense.

  If the island belonged to the Amalis, it made little sense. They were said to own most of Pacifica, and what they didn't own, they controlled through others. Even the Fleet had no business on this planet.

  Strachan led him off the main path, and they headed towards a sprawling, flat-roofed villa reeking of luxury. It was covered almost entirely with polarized glass that kept out the glare of the sun while affording the people inside absolute privacy.

  Carefully trimmed shrubbery surrounded it as did extensive flower beds and exotic statuary. The rose quartzite walkway ended at a recessed porch flanked by two crouching, life-sized jade tigers that probably cost as much as a small warship complete with crew. A black door silently slid aside at Strachan's touch, and they entered the house. The cool dimness momentarily blinded the gunner.

  A servant in green livery greeted them in silence and led them down a carpeted hallway lavishly decorated with modern artwork, energy fountains and slowly undulating, potted pseudo-shrubs in full bloom.

  At the end of the corridor, another black door slid aside, and they stepped out onto an enclosed patio. An ornate fountain burbled merrily in the center of the flagstone-covered area, the beautifully sculpted mermaid at its top spouting blood red water. Comfortable looking chairs were arranged in small groups around tables hewn out of single blocks of blue stone.

  A tall, slim man of indeterminate age rose and smiled at their approach. He held out his hand for Strachan.

  “My dear Captain. I am most pleased to see you back in good health from your long and strenuous trip. I trust all went well.” He spoke with an educated Pacifica accent, his voice deep and pleasant.

  “Very well, sir. Very well indeed.” Strachan looked like he was about to fall over himself with obsequiousness. “May I present Warrant Officer Zachary Decker, Shokoten's gunner? He is in no small part responsible for the well-being of the ship.”

  The man with the patrician nose turned his gaze on the former Marine and examined him from head to toe. Zack returned the look measure for measure, noting the rich cut of his clothes, his perfectly set blond hair, carefully manicured hands, dark tan, and cold eyes.

  “So this is the man you were telling me about, Diego. Mister Decker, I am Walker Amali, head of the Honorable Commonwealth Trading Corporation. You may know it as ComCorp. I own Shokoten through one of my holding companies.” He said it without affectation. The man who controlled the richest private company in the Commonwealth seemed utterly unimpressed with his own power.

  “Sir.” Decker snapped to attention and nodded.

  “Your captain has reported many good things about you. He thinks you are an asset to his ship and our business interests.”

  Zack didn't know what to answer, so he remained still.

  “A man of few words, I see,” Amali continued, still smiling, but the smile never reached his watchful, cold eyes. “I forget myself. Can I offer you gentlemen a drink? It will be some time before your ship is offloaded. Scotch, Gunner?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Good guess. Or do you have a detailed file on me, Mister Amali?

  A few moments later, another liveried servant brought a tray of drinks. When he had left, Amali raised his glass.

  “I would like to propose a toast, to a successful voyage.”

  It could just have been Decker's imagination, but there was a hint of jubilation in Amali's tone.

  The scotch was excellent, of an age and mellowness a mere warrant officer could never afford. Zack relished every drop, yet he remained uncomfortably conscious he was drinking with one of the Fleet's most elusive and corrupt adversaries, a man whose family had proven they would stop at nothing in their pursuit of power and profits.

  He could lash out now and kill the man with a single blow, doing more damage to the Amali empire and the Coalition than entire battle groups had done in years. Of course, his own death would follow soon thereafter. He mentally shrugged. As one of his former commanders had often quoted, 'Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.' Unwilling to die just yet, he sipped in silence.

  Walker Amali looked at him strangely, and Zack suddenly feared he had let his thoughts show in his eyes. He looked up at the clear blue sky and emptied his glass, smacking his lips.

  “One hell of a scotch, sir, if I may say so.”

  “Indeed, Gunner. Do you wish another glass?”

  Almost before Zack could answer, the servant was back with his tray and a full tumbler of the amber liquid.

  “Tell me, Mister Decker, that is a Master Gunner's badge on your uniform, is it not?”

  Zack felt an irrational stab of fear and tried to cover it by shrugging.

  “Aye, sir. A little souvenir of my time in the Corps.”

  “May I see it?” Decker knew it wasn't a request but an order.

  With a leaden hand, he removed it from his tunic and handed it over. Amali turned the golden insignia in his fingers, examining it with interest.

  “Very nice, Mister Decker. I believe it represents a nineteenth-century field piece.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Amali nodded, his eyes locking with Decker's for a moment.

  “A most appropriate award for a man who can outwit and out-gun pirates with a mere merchant vessel.” He handed the badge back.

  They spent the next few minutes in idle conversation, and Zack studied his host with half closed eyes, trying hard to look like a tippler enjoying an excellent drink. He doubted that it fooled Amali, and was relieved when the magnate called a servant to lead him back to the door. Amali wanted to speak with Strachan in private.

  *

  Zack took a few deep breaths when he stepped out of the house and tried to shake the alcohol fumes from his head. The scotch had been potent, more so on an empty stomach, and Amali's servant had given him generous servings.

  Eyes narrowed against the glare, the gunner wondered again about the extent of Amali's little colony. His instincts told him that this was a well-planned, easy to defend installation. It reminded him of nothing so much as a luxury version of a Marine outpost. Even then, Marine outposts weren't blessed with so much modern equipment. He slowly walked back to the landing strip, forcing himself to memorize everything he saw.

  Armed guards watched him with the same interest as bodyguards showed a potential threat, and Zack knew that if he walked off into a direction other than the ship, they'd make sure he changed course.

  When he turned the corner around one of the windowless buildings, Shokoten came into full view. Ground effect flatbeds were busy hauling the containers off to a hangar at the far end of the bay. There, they vanished down a ramp, confirming Zack's impression that at least parts of the structures were underground.


  He could see no other crew members on the tarmac, not even on the belly ramp, getting a bit of fresh air. Zack wasn't surprised, when he climbed aboard, to find that all outside cameras had been switched off, on orders from the captain. Someone didn't want the entire crew to see what was happening. Why then, did Walker Amali ask the one crew member who was ex-Fleet, into his home?

  He must have known Zack was the only one aboard the freighter who could take a quick look at his setup and figure out it was more like a fortified camp than a rich man's private resort. Curiosity perhaps.

  Twenty year Marines who helped their new civilian employer flout the law weren't common. In the mind of a wealthy sociopath like Amali, it either made him a scumbag without morals, or an infiltrator. A Fleet infiltrator. For the first time, Zack wondered about the exact circumstances of his enlisting aboard Shokoten.

  The thought gave Zack a shiver as if someone had walked on his grave. The peril of his position suddenly became apparent. Amali had only to believe he wasn't merely a senior noncom who had retired under a cloud to seal his fate.

  He returned to his cabin and pulled out the data chip on which he'd encoded his findings in the cargo hold. If Strachan found out, Zack was a dead man.

  Decker stared at the chip for what seemed like an eternity, unable to decide. Then, he changed into coveralls, grabbed his toolbox, and crawled into turret three's access tube. Once inside, he started the self-diagnostic routine, hoping the electronic activity would make him look busy.

  He slipped the data chip into his sensor and turned it on. Then, calmly and in a logical sequence, he described Amali's island, drawing a plan of the enclave, marking each building, in particular the one that had swallowed the containers. With that, there was no turning back. This chip would mark him as a spy, no matter what.

  He still didn't know what he would do, but meeting Walker Amali seemed to have triggered something within him.

  Nobody questioned his twenty-minute stay in turret three, though Raisa sensed something new in Zack when they met in the wardroom for a belated lunch. She didn’t pry but made sure, with glances and keywords that she felt something had changed. Zack didn't know whether to feel scared or reassured.