Decker's War Omnibus 1

by Eric Thomson

  “You’ll be wanting to cooperate fully with me,” he said in a guttural, heavily accented Anglic. “You may be able to pull one over those oafs, but in my business, we’re used to dealing with all sorts of disobedient merchandise.”

  Decker snorted.

  “Sure you are. Does that mean you’re running a circus?”

  “No, my friend. We’re running a slave brokerage.”

  His smile was so predatory Zack wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d suddenly sprouted fur and claws.

  “We know how to keep our products in good condition for the auction block, so a shot from this pistol will not kill you but you won’t want another dose for as long as you live. Imagine the worst nausea you’ve ever had, and then multiply it by a hundred.”

  As he watched his new captor, it dawned on Zack that his seat was designed so that he wouldn’t have a chance of moving fast enough to avoid getting shot. They did indeed know how to manage their wares. This, then, was the Coalition’s revenge: spending what remained of his life in slavery on an alien world half a galaxy away from home.

  He might as well have shot himself with his last round instead of letting the reivers take him prisoner. At least she wouldn’t have to face this fate. A surge of grief and despair welled up at the thought of her and at the idea that he would never be able to avenge her death. Few humans sold into slavery ever made it back.

  Shortly after arriving on board the unknown ship, they confined Decker to a pen which was even smaller and less comfortable than his cell aboard the reiver. He was but one of hundreds of beings, mostly nonhuman, confined in this manner in the slaver’s hold. Though he expected an almighty stench when he passed through the doors, it smelled remarkably antiseptic. The spray nozzles on the deckhead over each pen probably had something to do with it.

  None of the captives paid Decker any attention and he figured that they were probably sedated in some manner, which was smart. No riots, no self-mutilation, just compliant chattel ready for the market. He would soon be in their zombie-like state, of that he had no doubt. He could already feel his senses getting dull and his limbs heavy. The neural inducer they’d slapped on the back of his neck was doing its work. He hadn’t even bothered to try removing it. The cold sensation of the glue was enough to tell him that short of using a scalpel, it would remain there until a counter-agent was applied.

  To amuse himself, he started to count backward from one hundred. Before he reached seventy, his mind had begun to wander, and he found himself incredibly fascinated by the metal deck. Then, all conscious thought vanished, and he became nothing more than a living automaton, eating, voiding himself and sleeping in his little pen.

  He’d had no sense of elapsed time when he felt himself awaken from what seemed like a long, strange dream, but fragments of memory told of several bouts of jump and emergence nausea. He was still dressed in the coveralls given to him by the reivers, but now wore wrist and ankle restraints that forced him into an uncomfortable shuffle.

  His pen opened, and nonhuman guards shoved Zack into a long, winding line of slaves inching their way towards the rear of the hold, where a shallow ramp opened onto a hard, dark surface. A gust of damp, thick air hit his nostrils, and he grimaced at the underlying smell of putrefaction that drove away the last of the sedation.

  As he walked off the incline into the gray, diffuse daylight, he saw that the landing strip was on the edge of a beach strewn with decomposing organic matter, not all of which came from the sea.

  The procession snaked across a tarmac and into a windowless building, watched over by two loose rows of guards equipped with shock sticks. As he walked through the high door into the brightly lit hangar, a pair of rough hands yanked him aside and shoved him down a narrow corridor between wire fences humming with electricity. To either side of him, other slaves shuffled down other chutes, though it wasn’t immediately obvious what sorting criteria the slavers used. He got to the end of his passage and stopped at a closed door. It opened inwards with a snick and a bored voice called out in Anglic.

  “Next.”

  Decker stepped in and found himself facing an obese human female sitting behind an old console.

  “Stand on the green spot.”

  He obeyed, and a glow played over his body as she scanned him. When it was done, she stared at her screen and grunted a few times.

  “Healthy, physically fit, age around forty standard years; signs of recent injuries but all superficial. I’m going to ask you some questions. It’s in your interest to answer them honestly. Life as a slave can suck but if you provide value to your owner, you might not have such a bad go of it, so make sure the skills you claim to have are for real. If they aren’t, you’ll pay for it.” Her chuckle wasn’t entirely devoid of humor. “You’ll pay for it. Name?”

  “Decker, Zachary Thomas.”

  “Profession?”

  “Commercial starship gunner and security officer.”

  “Huh.” She grunted again and stared at her console. “I don’t doubt you’re a guns and sticks guy, Decker, but if you’ve been in the military, you’d better say so.”

  “Why?”

  “Humans who’ve served in the Fleet are worth more at auction and get better conditions than regular security dicks or second-rate soldiers, once they’ve given proof of their abilities. You’ve got some of the usual telltales, so you’d best tell me about your career before you became a commercial trooper.”

  Decker hesitated, and then decided that whatever slaves who were ex-military ended up doing, it had to give him a better chance of escape.

  “Commonwealth Marine Corps, twenty years.”

  “Knew it.” The fat woman sounded pleased with herself. “Rank and specialty?”

  “Command-sergeant, pathfinders.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Oh my! You’ll fetch a pretty penny. We seldom get career Marines through here, and I’ve never seen pathfinders in all my years. Any interesting qualifications that could influence your price?”

  “Marine Master Gunner, which pretty much covers all the lesser qualifications, and I’m rated as a merchant warrant officer by the Shipping Guild. How about you? Been here long?”

  “Since I was sold the first time. They needed decent personnel specialists, and that’s what I did back home.” There was a perverse hint of pride in her tone.

  “You’re a slave?” Decker knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. Why pay someone when your business is buying and selling unpaid laborers?

  “Going on fifteen standard years now. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

  “No worse than being a corporate drone, eh?” Zack chuckled.

  “It beats working the xantun fields or the gemstone mines, or even worse, the whorehouses.” She shuddered.

  Decker smiled at her but bit his tongue instead of remarking that the last option wasn’t likely in her case. She had some petty power here if only the authority to classify him in preparation for sale, and could certainly do her best to screw him over if he indulged in his usual wit.

  “Okay, Decker.” Her console extruded a small plastic square. “Come stand beside me.”

  He did as he was bidden and she reached up to slap the square behind his ear.

  “This has all your vitals and your suggested product categories. Go through that door and follow instructions. Welcome to lifelong servitude.”

  Zack shuffled through the opening where a large holographic arrow led him down another maze of wire-enclosed chutes until he reached a room filled with small individual pens. There, a dour-faced humanoid with enough body hair to knit a decent area rug, waved a sensor near his left ear and glanced at the readout.

  His eyes widened at what he saw, and he raised his wrist to his lipless mouth, emitting a string of sounds that were obviously some sort of language, but one Zack couldn’t begin to understand. No sooner had he finished than another humanoid of the same species came striding across the room, fixing his emotionless gaze on the ex-Mar
ine.

  “You will go with me,” he said in broken but understandable Anglic, before turning back the way he came. The alien led him to a small room that seemed, after weeks in reiver cells and slaver pens, the height of luxury, even though it only held a cot, a chair, and a waste disposal unit.

  “Did I win the slave lottery or something?” He asked as the being tossed a food pack at him.

  “You valuable merchandise. We take care of valuable merchandise.”

  Then he closed the door and left Decker to his privacy.

  “Zack, old boy,” he murmured. “Things are looking up if the old soldiering skills can buy better treatment. Heck, I might just make it. The Amalis better start writing their last wills and testaments, because this time, I’ll be taking out the entire clan, just to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  *

  The door opened again a few hours later and tall woman, clad in an unusually cut suit made to resemble raw leather, filled the frame as she stared at Decker. Never one to let an interesting sight go unseen, he rose from the cot and returned the favor.

  She was bald, except for a long pony tail growing out the back of her skull. The pale flesh of her scalp was covered in elaborate tattoos. Piercings studded her elongated earlobes and flared nostrils, while her lips were tinted in the same black as her nails.

  The military style outfit was a dark shade of crimson, like that of old blood, and bore metallic devices that could be decorative or, for all he knew, could have more common functions. She was not visibly armed, but based on her size and the way she carried herself, Decker was sure that the woman could give him a good challenge in any hand-to-hand fight.

  “You are Zachary Decker, former command sergeant in the pathfinders, yes?” Her accent was strange though she appeared human, albeit a tad exotic.

  “That’s the name my mammy gave me and that’s the rank my pappy the Corps said I could wear. And I was stupid enough to jump out of perfectly good shuttles from low orbit.”

  Her black eyebrows shot up at his sardonic tone while a small, speculative smile played on her full lips.

  “A comedian. It shows spirit. I like that in a silahdar.”

  “What the hell is a silahdar?” He looked at her quizzically. “And who the hell are you?”

  Her laugh was deep, throaty and Zack felt a tingle run down his spine.

  “A slave soldier, of course. You were if you told the truth, one of the elite warriors in your Commonwealth and now you are a slave, offered up for sale. I train silahdars for my master, and he sells them for a price. By the look of you, master gunner, pathfinder and command sergeant all rolled into one, you’ll make the Atabek a fortune.”

  Her hard eyes danced with amusement at his defiant stance and his evident interest in her, not all of which was professional.

  “And what if I don’t want to become a silahdar?”

  “That would be unwise. Your value is based on what you can do. If you cannot do anything, you have no value. I’m sure you can follow the logic and how that relates to enlightened self-interest.”

  Decker nodded once but held her eyes.

  “A lot of people have tried to kill me, and they’re the ones sucking tree sap by the roots.”

  “When you are a silahdar, a lot of people will try to kill you as well, but your employer will allow you to kill those people in turn, and that is preferable to an early death, is it not?”

  Her smile was half seductive, half predatory and all enticing. Decker figured a recruiting sergeant like her would do wonders to swell the ranks of the Corps.

  “I’m Mala Daran.” She nodded politely, as one warrior to another. “I too am a silahdar, and my employer bought you the moment your name and pedigree appeared on the net. You now belong to the Atabek, our master.”

  Decker cocked an eyebrow and gave Daran his best ‘aw shucks’ grin.

  “If you’re a sample of what I’ll find in the ranks of your organization, all I can say is: Lead on, McDuff.”

  She looked puzzled at the unfamiliar reference but then shrugged and pulled a thin collar from her tunic pocket.

  “This is the mark of a slave of the Atabek. You will have it around your neck at all times. Failure to wear it will result in severe punishment.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she stepped close enough to Zack that he could inhale her musky scent, and put the slave collar on him. He felt a faint tingling as the metal touched his skin and smiled at Daran, whose face was so near to his that had he wanted to kiss her, he could have done so before she reacted. Of course, he would sport a few additional bruises, if not broken bones almost instantly since he was still manacled.

  Daran stuck her head out the door and barked an order in an alien tongue. The same guard who’d escorted him to the room appeared and quickly removed his restraints.

  “Come, slave,” she said, turning on her heels.

  “Slave? Why not silahdar?” Decker asked, more to amuse himself than for any other reason, since he already knew the answer.

  “Because we’ve yet to determine whether you truly are the warrior you claim to be. Until then, you are nothing but an animated piece of meat whose value remains to be tested.”

  “And you’ll do the testing?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She led him to a skimmer that bore little resemblance to anything he’d seen in the Commonwealth. The proportions were just off enough to make him uncomfortable as he dropped into the passenger seat.

  “You’re not afraid that I’ll try to overpower you while you’re flying this crate?” He asked, smirking enough to let her know he wasn’t serious.

  “You’re a smart man, Decker. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have made it as far as you did in your Marine Corps.”

  “I was dumb enough to get captured and shipped to the ass-end of the Orion arm.”

  “Perhaps, but bad luck and worse enemies will eventually wear down the best of us. No doubt your story will be one that combines both in the least pleasant way possible. But to get back to your question, you might be able to fly this skimmer if you manage to overpower me, but where would you go?”

  “Head for the hills, hide until I could stow away on an outbound freighter.”

  She laughed delightedly.

  “I do admire your spirit, Decker, but you’re not getting off this planet without permission, believe me. The collar around your neck is a tracking device, all ports are carefully guarded against escaped slaves, and you’ll find no one among the population to help you. The penalties for harboring fugitives are too high. No, your best chance of ever seeing the stars again is to become a silahdar and serve.”

  “Until I die a slave?”

  “You will die a slave, no matter what. As will I. You may think it unkind of the universe, but this is what we are and will always be.”

  “Permit me to disagree,” Zack countered. “I have a debt to collect back home, and I’ll do it before I meet whatever deity set up this sorry excuse of creation and give it a piece of my mind.”

  “I like you,” she turned her head sideways and smiled at him as the skimmer stabilized a few meters above the dark water and headed towards the purple hills on the distant continent, well away from the island spaceport.

  “Most of our new additions have little fight left by the time I collect them, and then it’ll be weeks of training under our Swordmaster before they regain it. You’ll be a pleasant change.”

  “Swordmaster? Seriously?” He sounded incredulous.

  “We call him that, but he is adept at all forms of fighting and is the final authority on the instruction of silahdars. He’ll be looking forward to your entering the arena. Be warned that he has a particular dislike for humans who think they’re the best fighters in the known galaxy.”

  Decker snorted derisively.

  “I don’t think I’m the best fighter in the galaxy, but your precious Swordmaster might still get a few bumps and bruises.”

  “We’ll see.” Her throaty laughter sent a r
enewed tingle down his spine. “I love your self-confidence, but hope it’s backed up with actual competence. If you’ve lied about what you are, you’ll be lucky to escape the arena alive.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he shrugged. “Less talking, more speeding. I need to up my status and get a contract off planet. The folks who owe me aren’t going to live forever.”

  Daran skillfully piloted the skimmer over the narrow seas and through a long mountain pass leading to the interior. As the vegetation-encrusted ridges finally parted to reveal a broad valley, Zack saw the outline of a massive compound in the late afternoon mist.

  “That is our garrison and training camp,” the silahdar said pointing down. “It will be your only home until you are sold to a new owner or sent off-planet on a contract.”

  “What if no one wants to buy me?”

  “Then one of two things will happen, depending on the reason. If no one wants to purchase you because your price is too high, then your value is such that you will become a trainer of silahdars. If no one wants to purchase you because you’re not worth the expense the Atabek put into you, you’ll likely be sold off as a general laborer or killed.”

  “You’re just a bucketful of cheer, aren’t you,” Decker replied sarcastically. With the idea of being owned gnawing more and more at his spirit, he found himself becoming increasingly irritable. Soon, he knew, he’d be looking for someone on whom to work off his bad temper, and that might bring trouble he didn’t need.

  He shouldn’t have worried.

  Four

  She landed the skimmer at the edge of an earthen parade ground in the middle of the garrison and, climbing out, told him to follow her. Where she had been relaxed and friendly during the flight, she was now abrupt and cold, a transformation that made Zack edgy.

  He examined the wood-clad buildings, their outlines blurred by tendrils of fog and a sheen of moisture, as she led him down a well-tended path, and tried to act as the pathfinder he once was by collecting as much data as he could about his surroundings. It didn’t do him a great deal of good. Windows were either shuttered or opaque to his eyes, none of the structures betrayed their function and signs were non-existent. In the muffled silence, it was as if Daran and he were the only living beings around.