Decker's War Omnibus 1

by Eric Thomson

  Strachan nodded as if satisfied with the explanation. For a moment, Zack feared that he’d ask for more details on his story, but the merchantman took another sip and changed tack.

  “How much of a ship’s gunner are you anyway, Decker? I know Tren enough to figure he sells bullshit along with the best beer on Aramis.” Once again, Strachan’s tone and expression brooked no evasions or tall tales.

  “I’m checked out on all gun and missile systems as an operator, I used to have command rank, so I also have my basic gunnery officer’s ticket, along with the Marine Master Gunner qualification. So you could say I know the ins and outs of firing and fixing most of the stuff in the Fleet inventory, but one of the best gunners in the Fleet, I’m not. I’m a Pathfinder first and last, which means my specialty is recon, not gunnery.”

  Strachan nodded thoughtfully.

  “Thought Kinnear was laying it on a little thick. He tells me you’re looking for a job.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? You have a decent one here working with your old buddy, don’t you?”

  Zack shrugged.

  “Too young to settle down. I still have the urge to move. Tren’s right. I’m looking for a berth.”

  Strachan nodded again. “Kinnear recommends you highly, and I’m short a gunnery and security officer in Shokoten. Where we trade is where the high-profit margin cargoes are, and pirates know it. My ship has good legs, but it also needs someone to handle our weapons properly in a fight. You interested?”

  “What’s the job include, Captain?”

  “Train the crew to man the guns and shoot straight in a fight, maintain the buggers, keep our small arms locker in order, train the crew in small arms handling, and ship’s security. We pick up passengers along with cargo, and they sometimes need watching, and we have to make sure we’re secure on the ground when we’re sitting in a foreign port. Think you can handle that?”

  “Yeah,” Zack slowly nodded. “I can handle it, and I’m interested. What about pay and benefits?”

  “Standard rates.”

  “Which are? I’m not familiar with the merchant service.”

  “A thousand creds a month for the first year, renegotiable every year after that, free meals, a hundredth-share of the annual profits, increased every year. You become entitled to Merchant Guild medical and disability insurance and use of Guild facilities when you’re in port.”

  “Sounds good,” Zack replied, face expressionless. A thousand creds a month was a quarter of the pay he used to make as a command sergeant, but with his pension, it would make a tidy little sum for someone who’d be living on board ship.

  “When do I sign on?”

  “Show up at the Guild offices tomorrow morning around nine. My first officer will see you squared away and bring you on board. We lift the day after tomorrow. I have a quick cargo turnover. You need to bring your own coveralls and leathers, and you can only bring one duffel bag of personal gear. Space is at a premium on commercial ships.”

  Zack allowed himself a small grin. “Same thing on frigates, Captain. And I already have leathers, good Fleet-issue battledress.”

  “Right then, Decker. I’ll see you when my first officer brings you aboard. Her name’s Raisa Darhad. You won’t have any problems recognizing her.”

  Strachan drained the rest of his beer, stood up and shook hands with Zack again. Then he left the Dragon’s Tooth with a parting nod at Tren.

  *

  “Did Diego offer you a berth?” The former Marine asked when the two friends were alone in the stockroom.

  “Yeah. As the ship’s gunnery and security officer.”

  “Good.” Tren seemed genuinely pleased, more than Zack figured he would be.

  “So what’s the story on Strachan?”

  “Runs a clean operation, as far as I know,” Tren answered, looking at the stacked crates of Shrehari ale against the far wall. “Fast freighter, decent crew. Does just about every run in this part of the galaxy, including the Imperium. No shady stuff, at least not what an old Pathfinder might object to, the kinda crap we fought against for years. Does some smuggling on the side, like this Shrehari ale here, and that don’t hurt no one except the taxman. You ought to get along fine and have a good time at it too.”

  Zack grunted and stared hard at his friend, who he noticed had kept his eyes riveted on his ample stocks.

  Why do I have the feeling Tren here really wants me to sign on with Strachan? I mean more than just seeing an old pal right. Strachan’s job interview wasn’t very thorough, which means Tren sung him my praises and piled on the crap ‘till it reached the sky. In a hurry to rid yourself of me, buddy? That’s a sudden change of wind.

  “What’ll happen to Ellena?” He asked instead.

  This time, Tren looked at him before answering. “She’ll stay with us of course. Mara kind of adopted her. She could never have kids. Spent too much time working on an old tramp with shitty radiation shielding. Don’t worry about the girl. Shokoten calls into Aramis twice a year, so you can visit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “C’mon. Let’s see you paid-up and packed. No more work tonight.” He put his arm around Zack’s shoulder and squeezed. “We’ll give you a real good sailing party!”

  Three

  Zack Decker stepped off the grungy street and into the chilly silence of the Merchant Spacer’s Guild, feeling as if he had crossed a portal between parallel universes. This close to the port itself, it was mainly warehouses, cheap, flea-infested hotels and the lowest grade of bars. But the Guildhall, now that was something else.

  Decker had made his tearful farewells the night before, liberally dousing them with Tren’s best hooch, the stuff he kept for his classiest customers. Ellena had hung around his neck, crying that she’d miss her ‘Uncle Zack’ something terrible.

  By leaving the Dragon’s Tooth, he felt as if he were leaving his family. But Zack was clear-headed enough to know the familial atmosphere couldn’t last, that his wanderlust would sour it. Not to mention the inescapable fact that he’d murdered a militia officer, something that could see him arrested as soon as the other plods pinned the job on him. And that would kill Tren’s thriving business.

  On the other hand, Decker hadn’t seen nor heard a thing about Detective Leath since he’d stuffed his body into Ellena’s closet. That bothered him. After the first brush-off, he stopped asking Tren about it, but Zack couldn’t shake the suspicion that his old buddy had more pull than anyone knew, and had arranged for the death to become a non-event. After a month and a half living with Kinnear, Decker knew there was more to his old buddy than just a retired Marine sergeant who became a gin-slinger. Tren seemed to have contacts everywhere, from the cleanest cops to the dirtiest crime gangs. It ensured his inn, and its inn-mates were left alone.

  Zack had left the tavern early that morning before anyone else woke. He didn’t want to go through the goodbyes again, preferring a clean break. Because Shokoten visited Aramis regularly, it wasn’t as if the farewell was forever, like the one his ex-wife gave him when she bugged out with his daughter. Or the one he received when they walked him down Musashi’s gangway and into the hands of the military police.

  After the automatic doors of the Guildhall’s entrance had swished closed behind him, Decker stopped to get his bearings. The central area was two stories high and as big as a gravball playing field, and that meant big. Most likely, it had started life as a warehouse.

  Skylights let in the morning sun, turning the austere hall into something warmer. Cream colored panels covered poured plascrete walls while massive support pillars marked off separate work areas. The panels glowed softly under the bright, natural light, looking like brushed silk.

  At first glance, the Guildhall was clean, uncluttered and functional. It matched Zack’s idea of the people who took to the star lanes for profit.

  To his left, a dozen simple but comfortable looking chairs were set out in small groups around tables laden with printouts of various publications.
An industrial coffee urn presided over the waiting area, chugging along as it percolated the richly scented brew in a method centuries old. Three spacers in clean coveralls were sprawled out in the chairs, coffee mugs at hand, looking as if they were recovering from a night of overindulgence.

  A long table, labeled ‘Employment,’ with several computer terminals on it sat across from the waiting area while glass-enclosed offices lined the wall. Two business-suited Guild employees behind a high counter shuffled paper, ignoring the waiting spacers.

  Further down, Decker could see signs advertising cargo and freight, passenger transport, administration, spacers’ welfare and insurance, standards and at the end of the large atrium, a door that sported a sign proclaiming the Merchant’s Guild Club–Aramis.

  Zack walked over to the waiting area. The three spacers looked at him, bleary-eyed, and then sank back into their hangdog misery, satisfied that the new arrival wasn’t some exotic apparition. Decker had dressed simply, like any spacer, military or civilian did when on shore leave: dark, military cut slacks, scuffed boots, white collarless shirt and black leather jacket.

  He dropped his duffel bag by a chair and helped himself to a cup of coffee. Taking a sip, he grinned with appreciation at the flavor. Instead of sitting, Zack wandered around the waiting area, admiring holo pics displayed on the smooth walls. They showed gleaming merchant vessels of many eras, including pre-spaceflight Earth sailing ships. The former noncom spent a long time studying the most beautiful one, an ancient ship by the name of Cutty Sark.

  When he finally turned around, his eyes stopped dead in their tracks as he saw a female merchant officer walk through the doors. She wore a high-collared, black tunic of an exotic cut that emphasized her feminine curves and flared over her hips. It was cinched at the waist by a broad gray belt through which she had thrust a curved dagger half the length of Zack’s big forearm. The dagger’s hilt was an extraordinary work of filigree art that did not come from any human artisan.

  Her trousers were of the same matte black as the tunic and hugged her form like a second skin. They were tucked into knee-high military-style boots with flat heels. She wore rank insignia, three stripes, on a leather strap dangling from her right shoulder.

  Zack at once knew this was Raisa Darhad, Shokoten’s first officer. Captain Strachan had told him he would have no difficulty recognizing her, and he was right.

  Where the captain had looked like a marauder gone legit, she appeared more dangerous than any pirate Decker had ever met, for First Officer Darhad was not a human female. She was from a predatory species called the Arkanna.

  As she walked towards Decker, a flush of heat ran through his body, a strange mixture of attraction, admiration, and instinctive fear. Darhad moved like a killer, an exotic, beautiful and deadly assassin. The trained warrior in Zack screamed in warning.

  Arkanna, a humanoid species resembling homo sapiens, came from an early spaceflight planet of the same name in the neutral Protectorate Zone. Uncommon in human space, they preferred the more violent, unpredictable Shrehari and their harsh Empire. This one’s presence in the Commonwealth hinted at a past life shrouded in mystery, and most likely, death.

  Humanoid though she was the differences between the Arkanna and humans were more striking than the resemblances. Characteristic of her race, First Officer Darhad’s skin was albino white, almost translucent, with a fine tracery of veins barely visible just below the surface. In shocking contrast, her thick, shoulder-length hair, gathered into a ponytail at the back, was crimson.

  Her eyes were her most striking feature. Where human eyes were white, hers were almond shaped and of a deep cerulean blue around bright red irises. They seemed to exude an archetypal power that sent a shiver down Zack’s spine. For a moment, he knew how his distant, ape-like ancestors felt when they met Earth’s equivalent of her distant, predatory ancestors.

  When she came nearer, Zack realized she was as tall as he was, taller than most human women, yet her body was slender. But she seemed no less of a formidable opponent.

  “Mister Decker, I presume,” she said, stopping a meter in front of him. Her voice had a deep, rich modulation, sensuous, but with an alien undertone that disturbed Zack until he realized that it stirred his deeper animal feelings.

  She examined Zack from head to toe after he’d nodded, speechless before this apparition. She didn’t seem overly disappointed by what she saw.

  “I am First Officer Darhad of the Shokoten.” She held out her hand. Decker, struggling to recover his poise, looked her straight in the eyes and took her slender fingers in his, squeezing hard as he shook like Captain Strachan had done yesterday.

  Suddenly, pinpricks of pain studded his hand below Darhad’s fingertips and he released the pressure. He glanced down as they let go and caught sight of shiny talons retracting into her pale digits. Her scent, musky and exciting, filled his nostrils.

  “Pleased to meet you, First Officer,” he finally answered.

  She considered him for a moment and then smiled, her bloodless, full lips drawing back to show sharp, pointy teeth, like those of a predatory carnivore. A she-wolf with the shape of a dancer.

  “Come, Mister Decker. We have much paperwork to complete so we can turn you into a Guild-certified merchant spacer.”

  She turned around and walked towards the counter. Zack picked up his duffel bag and followed her, unable to resist admiring her shape from behind. Though after seeing those talons and teeth, he wouldn’t even dream of making a move on her. He was sure the crew didn’t give First Officer Darhad any trouble.

  The Guild bureaucrats behind the counter wisely chose not to ignore her, and the elder of the two, a woman in her mid-forties, smiled at them.

  “What can I do for you, First Officer?”

  She pointed over her shoulder with a long thumb. “This is Mister Decker. Mister Decker is a former Marine Corps command sergeant, who is signing on to Shokoten as gunnery and security officer. I would have you process him so he may obtain his Guild certification and work papers.”

  “Certainly, First Officer. Mister Decker, do you have your discharge papers?”

  Zack nodded and dug deep into his jacket’s inner pocket, producing a flat, gray data chip which he handed to the clerk. She pushed the chip into a slot on her computer terminal and read the lines appearing on the screen, raising her eyebrows at several notations. Finally, the clerk typed a few commands and smiled at Darhad and Decker.

  “Won’t take but a minute.” And it didn’t.

  “There,” she said handing back Zack’s discharge papers and a new data chip, blue in color. “These are your Guild papers, Mister Decker. Based on your military record, the Guild recognizes you as a qualified ship’s gunnery and security officer, as well as a level four weapons system tech and a level six general engineer. With a hundred practical hours on the bridge, Shokoten’s captain can also certify you as watch keeping officer.”

  Darhad raised her upswept eyebrows in a good mimic of human surprise.

  “You have watchkeeper training, Mister Decker?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s been standard for Pathfinder officers and command noncoms on patrol frigates for the last two years to take the training in case of emergencies.”

  “Fascinating,” she purred, a small, feral smile playing on her lips. She looked at the clerk. “Anything else?”

  “A few more formalities to put Warrant Officer Decker on the official Guild rolls.”

  “Warrant officer?” Zack looked at the clerk in surprise.

  “That’s what your qualifications give you.” Then, seeing the lack of understanding in Decker’s face, the clerk explained, all the while watched by an amused First Officer Darhad.

  “In the merchant service, just like the Commonwealth Fleet, there are three levels of rank: officers, warrant officers, and ratings. Officers are concerned with sailing the ship and handling the cargo. Warrant officers are specialists whose work doesn’t involve sailing the ship but who have defined jobs, l
ike pursers, doctors, or gunners like you. And the ratings, of course, have the same jobs as enlisted personnel on board a warship. Now if you’d actually qualified as watchkeeper, the Guild could have recognized you as a ship’s officer, provided a master was willing to hire you as such. But your naval gunnery ticket is enough for warrant rank.”

  Decker grunted and nodded his thanks.

  So now I’m a fucking warrant officer. Warrant Officer Zachary T. Decker of the MV Shokoten. Nice ring to it.

  When the retinal scan, DNA sampling, and the multiple thumbprint signatures were over, the clerk shook Zack’s hand.

  “Welcome to the Merchant Spacer’s Guild. May you have a long and profitable career.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well then, Warrant Officer Decker,” the first officer purred, “let me guide you to our ship.”

  First Officer Darhad had a long stride and a fast pace, and Zack had to hurry. People in the streets looked at her with frank curiosity, and Decker saw more than one stare at her receding derriere, which he had to admit was charming. But those talons, and those teeth...

  *

  The Merchant Vessel Shokoten had none of the sleek, deadly lines of a Fleet patrol frigate, but she had a certain sinister elegance, nonetheless. She appeared built for speed, the sort of speed traders wanted in the badlands, or smugglers anywhere.

  Her dull gray hull was liberally streaked with black re-entry marks and pitted from too many high-speed runs through space hazards, but it was in good repair, as were her hyperdrive nacelles and gun turrets. She was big for a lander, almost as big as a Navy corvette, the smallest class of warship in the Commonwealth.