by Eric Thomson
“Understood, Gunner, understood.” Strachan raised his hand in surrender.
“I’ll be off, then.” Zack suddenly felt impatient to start on his modifications. “Thanks for the hooch.”
“My pleasure, Gunner. Good night.”
“Good night, Mister Decker.” Darhad nodded.
“Captain. First Officer.”
*
“What are you doing, Zack?” Nihao looked at him, and his desk in surprise while the cabin door shut behind her. She pointed at the scattered electronic components, sophisticated miniature tools, and the half-disassembled sensor. “Is it not a bit late for a new science project?”
“I guess,” he replied, looking up from his intricate work. “But I couldn’t resist. It’s a Master Gunner thing. We have this urge to modify and customize every piece of gear we’re issued.”
“You are a man of many surprises, Zack Decker. What exactly are you doing?”
He briefly debated whether to tell her about the contraband shipment, and his plan to hide it from sensor sweeps, but decided against doing so. He had no idea whether the purser was in on Shokoten’s sideline, and she really did not need to know.
“The captain obtained a handheld sensor, for my security sweeps, and I’m boosting the gain. Not exactly legal, but I picked-up a few things that aren’t in naval manuals.”
Modifying sensors was just one of the skills Zack Decker had accumulated like a packrat accumulated junk. On long cruises aboard patrol frigates, there was a lot of spare time and a lot of boredom for the Marine complement. Most Pathfinder squadrons maintained a training program to upgrade skills, and not only purely Marine skills either. Decker had become a technical whiz of sorts on many non-weapon systems, like sensors, in his spare time aboard Musashi.
“Interesting,” Nihao replied, in a tone that showed she found it anything but. She undressed, this time not even managing to distract the forcibly celibate Decker and crawled into bed. But the purser spent a long time watching her bunkmate at work, almond eyes narrowed.
*
“Show us your magic, Zack.” Captain Strachan swung his right arm towards the container stacks filling the cavernous hold, as he, Decker and the first officer stepped through the large access hatch.
It had taken Zack two solid days of work to boost the Mark Nine. Outwardly, it still looked the same, but its innards would give a Fleet maintenance inspector fits of foaming indignation. The fact that it could be done at all would give Fleet Security nightmares trying to figure out how many former noncoms were turning old declassified sensors into units almost as powerful as the classified ones.
Decker switched the little machine on and slowly walked between the stacks, carefully sweeping each one and scrutinizing the readout on the small screen. He suddenly stopped and aimed the sensor squarely at one of the big plas crates, frowning with concentration.
“Carbine, plasma, military pattern, ten millimeter,” he announced. “I can make out three dozen in this container alone.”
Strachan gave him an ironic round of applause.
“Bravo, Zack. Well done. I did not tell you that our shipper already takes extraordinary precautions when we bring such a cargo anywhere but into the Shield. Your little machine has done wonders.” He bowed. “My congratulations.”
Decker shrugged and looked at his readout again. Those were military weapons all right, but they didn’t have the usual telltale that identified them as Fleet or Army property, or legal surplus, which meant they had been manufactured without the telltale. It was impossible to remove it without destroying the weapon. And that meant these weapons had been produced primarily for the black market. If they were caught with these beauties, the authorities would not be amused.
He grunted. “To make things short and easy, which containers have contraband, apart from this one?”
“Raisa?”
The first officer nodded and walked down the narrow aisle between the stacks, pointing out random containers to Decker. His sensor detected more, many more carbines, enough to equip a rifle company, along with three dozen light machine guns and the same number of general purpose machine guns, the Marines’ beloved gee-pigs.
Other merchandise caught his attention, but he didn’t know the restrictions on miniature fuel cells, electronic components and the like, though the Navy was always concerned about state-of-the-art gear ending up in Shrehari hands.
“Someone on Itrul planning to start a war?” Zack asked when Darhad finished pointing out the contraband, taking care to keep his tone and expression as neutral as possible.
“Not our business, Gunner. Ours is but to deliver. I have no idea whether Itrul is even the final destination.” Strachan waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal.
“I hope not, sir. Itrulans are mean fuckers, and I’d rather not see them with high-tech like this in their scaly little hands.”
They’d have no use for electronics, and Zack guessed the stuff was destined for somewhere else. He wondered how he felt about that. Perhaps he should ask himself how he felt about his continued good health.
“Are you developing scruples, Gunner?” Strachan asked, a hint of steel in his voice.
“No, not really. I like to keep my hide intact, and arming Itrulans isn’t a step in that direction.” Zack shrugged, discarding his private reservations at the same time. “To hide these buggers, I need a masking field generator, and for that I need parts.” He rattled off a list of components from memory.
“Raisa?”
“I believe engineering holds those items. I will ask the third officer to deliver them to Mister Decker’s cabin.”
“Thanks. I’ll write down whatever else I need.”
“How long?”
“Probably take me a couple of hours for the first one. The rest will be easier after that. Say three days, sir.”
“Very well, Gunner.”
*
“There you go, sir, take a look at the readout.” Decker handed his souped-up sensor to Strachan and pointed at the first of the contraband-filled containers. It had taken Zack almost five hours to build the first unit and three hours per field generator after that. He finished them all within two and a half days. The precision work drained him and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a gun turret and fall asleep with his head on the breech.
“I must confess I cannot see anything out of the ordinary. But I’m no combat soldier, versed in the intricacies of scanning.”
“Then you’ll have to take my word for it, sir. This crate looks like it has only toasters, kettles, and other kitchen delights. The one thing that can sink us is if the sensor tech twigs to the field generator itself. You can pick up residual energy readings that aren’t masked by the ship’s overall emissions, but you have to know what they are.”
“Would your average Marine or constable know?”
“Doubt it.” He shook his head. “They don’t train the front line people to look for signs like that.”
“Good. We can reuse these things?”
“Sure. Just tell me a couple of hours before we land and I can take ‘em down.”
“Well done, Gunner, well done. You’re one hell of a good find for this ship.” Strachan clapped him on the shoulder and left the hold.
“As the captain said, Zack, well done,” Raisa smiled at him. “He may not appreciate your skill to the fullest extent, but I can read your sensor and understand how good your field generator is.”
She stood behind his right shoulder so close he could sense the heat radiating from her body. Her warm breath on his cheek and her husky voice in his ear sent their customary thrills through Zack’s body. Then, with no further words, she left the hold, leaving Decker as confused as ever.
*
“Merchant vessel Shokoten, this is the Commonwealth Star Ship Tamerlane. Please stand by for inspection.”
“Standing by. Our shuttle bay is open and ready to receive your boarding party.”
“Thank you, Shokoten. We'll be com
ing over in five minutes. Tamerlane, out.”
“Well, Gunner,” Strachan turned and nodded at Decker, “it seems your handiwork will soon be tested.”
Shokoten had been intercepted by the missile frigate Tamerlane a few light years short the border. A routine inspection, typical for ships in transit to and from the Protectorate Zone.
“Shouldn't be a problem, sir.” Zack meant it. He was relaxed, confident even. Over the last few days, he had kept busy fiddling around with his weaponry and running quickie close combat courses for the bosun's people, just in case things turned hot on Itrul. It had kept his worries from intruding.
He stared at the sleek ship displayed on the main view screen. The Liberator-class frigate exuded menace, power, and speed. The vessel was well armed, with missile launchers; gun turret blisters and behind dark squares on the blunt tip of the wedge, four torpedo launchers. Zack felt a pang of homesickness as he examined her. Then Strachan cleared his throat, motioning him to come along.
“No Marines on a missile frigate,” Decker commented as he followed the captain. When they were alone in the corridor, he continued. “Sailors usually aren't as sharp as Pathfinders when it comes to sniffing out stuff, so we ought to be okay. They'll not want to waste much time inspecting an honest ship.”
Strachan chuckled.
“Honest ship, eh? Is the military naive enough to base its judgment on mere subjective observations?”
“Not exactly, sir, but looks do help.” At least with sailors who haven't encountered many genuine space scum.
*
The small, boxy naval shuttle settled down on the hangar bay's deck exactly five minutes later. Its rear ramp dropped and a young officer in dark blue battledress, followed by a party of similarly clad sailors, stepped out of the white craft. The ensign saluted as she saw Strachan and Decker nodded with approval. This kid had enough tact to give a merchant captain the proper courtesies, which spoke well for her.
“Ensign Krasij, frigate Tamerlane, sir. My captain's compliments. May I inspect your load manifest and your cargo hold?”
Krasij was a short woman, with copper hair framing a heart-shaped face dominated by high cheekbones and intense brown eyes. Though young, probably fresh out of the Academy, she had poise and sounded as confident as an officer with more experience.
“I have no objections, Ensign. Can you tell me what you are looking for?” Strachan asked, motioning her to follow him out of the hangar bay.
“Contraband mainly, sir,” she replied, making a few subtle hand signals at her boarding party. “Things the Commonwealth frowns on exporting to less developed worlds. High-tech weapons, surveillance gear, medical supplies, anything that hasn't been properly cleared.”
Krasij's sailors split into two groups. Three stayed by the shuttle, hands hovering near holstered blasters, eyes scanning their surroundings, while the other three, as alert as their brethren, followed Zack.
Strachan and Krasij chatted amiably along the way, the captain using his old Earth charm with consummate skill. One of the sailors, a junior petty officer, quietly scanned the ship as they went along. Decker ignored him though he was tempted to play the outraged security officer. The kid was only doing his job. But he did have a Mark Ten, like his officer.
Once inside the cargo hold, Krasij and the petty officer slowly scanned the containers, stopping at each to obtain an inventory of its contents from the dour-faced second officer.
Zack stood aside and watched the Navy crew work, wondering whether Bowdoin was in on the smuggling operation. The ensign suddenly stopped by one of the stacks and stared at her readout, frowning. She pursed her lips and glanced at the middle container, the one with the gee-pigs hidden among a load of barbeque implements. A stab of fear lanced through Zack’s gut.
Of all the rotten, fucking luck, he had to get a shavetail who majored in sensor technology at the Academy. Any moment now, this little lady will have Strachan pop open the container, and then they'd be right in it. What a way to finish. Zack Decker, retired under a cloud and caught smuggling guns.
Then, miraculously, she moved on, her frown vanishing. Zack released his breath and tried to keep his relief well hidden. She must have figured she saw a sensor ghost.
Another five minutes and Ensign Krasij declared herself satisfied with the inspection. With a warm smile, she handed Captain Strachan a clearance certificate before saluting him formally and climbing aboard her shuttle. With that document in hand, they wouldn't be bothered by any other Fleet or Constabulary ship until they crossed the border. Moments later, the boarding party left, and Shokoten was home free.
“Thought we were blown for a moment there,” Strachan chuckled as he slapped Decker on the shoulder. His laughter sounded tense, almost forced. “But your little gizmos did the trick. Good work, Zack.”
As he watched the captain walk away, Decker frowned. Why did he have the impression there was something Strachan wasn't telling him? He looked a little too uptight for what just happened as if there were more than just guns in the containers.
He shook off his thoughts and secured the shuttle hangar. Moments after he closed the door, the hyperjump warning blared through the ship. Zack felt the stomach-twisting burst of nausea that accompanied every shift to and from normal space while the lights flickered for a fraction of a second. Then, body and ship settled down as both sailed at many times the speed of light in their own bubble where everything was twisted and distorted.
Next stop, Itrul. Ya-fucking-hoo!
Decker grimaced and returned to his cabin.
Eight
The ship lurched as the battle stations siren erased Decker's highly charged dream of Raisa Darhad doing things a proper first officer shouldn't do.
With a grunt, the gunner dropped out of his bunk and reached for his battledress, instinctively sure that this wasn't a drill. Within seconds, he was dressed, armed and fully awake, the adrenaline already pumping through his bloodstream. He reached down and shook Kiani's bare shoulder.
“Up and at 'em, Nihao. Battle stations and it doesn't sound like a drill.”
“Huh?” A sleepy voice grunted.
“It's a great day to die, Mister Kiani,” Zack grinned as he gave her a final shake, before leaving his cabin for the bridge.
When he got there, the ship's nerve center wallowed in pandemonium. An FTL torpedo, narrowly missing Shokoten, had forced her out of hyperspace. This deep within the Protectorate, there could be only one answer. Decker slipped into his seat and glanced over towards the command chair. Fifth Officer Sladek had the con.
“Where away, sir?”
“I don't know, Gunner,” he rasped, fear making his eyes dart here and there. “You have control of all defensive systems.”
“Thank you, sir.” At Zack’s touch, the tactical board came to life.
First the shields.
All six shield generators were operational and at full power. Not bad for a civilian ship. Zack grunted with satisfaction. His status board showed all gun turrets ready and loaded, all missile launchers active and the fire control system standing-by.
The little modifications he'd made were paying off. This was the first time all defensive systems were up without any malfunctions.
Now where was the bastard?
Fingers dancing over the console, Decker reached out across the cold void to find the unseen enemy that had forced them off course. He vaguely knew that the command crew had taken their stations and that the captain was asking for status updates from all departments except gunnery. He knew better than to disturb Decker when the former Marine was hunting.
“Navigation, current position?” Strachan sounded worried beneath his composed exterior.
“Unknown. I have to recalculate our position before we can move. We're not exactly following the standard star lanes.”
“How long?”
The fourth officer grimaced. “Fifteen or twenty minutes at least. I need readings off a few major stars and triangulate.”
“Damn. Engineering, status.”
“No damage, sir,” Sonoda's voice sounded tinny and distorted over the intercom. “But I'll want to run a level two systems check before we jump. That torpedo was close.”
“How long?”
“Can't tell yet.”
“Then get on it.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Engineering, out.”
“Captain!” Zack's tone was just loud and urgent enough to cut through the hubbub.
“Yes, Mister Decker?”
“I have a contact. Five hundred thousand kilometers off our port bow, turning and closing. Looks like a corvette-sized ship. No friend-or-foe transponder.”
“Could it be friendly?” Strachan's tone showed he knew how naïve his question was.
“Not a chance, sir. Military vessels in the sector are too busy chasing the bad guys to bother with a merchant and they'd have a transponder.”
“How do you know this is the one?”
“Extrapolation, sir. Whoever’s shooting at us in hyperspace is bound to emerge a few seconds after we do because you never know exactly what your torpedo will do. No choice but to end up being ahead of us. Half a million kilometers sounds about right for a sharp helmsman.”
“At least we have time to prepare, and if we are lucky, to escape.”
“Perhaps, but I wouldn't count on it.” As he spoke, Zack never took his eyes off his scanners. “We’re pretty evenly matched. In a slugfest, I'd put my money on us because we'll have better maintained, Commonwealth-built gear. If he has any smarts at all, so would he, unless he's a total fucking newbie who doesn't know an armed freighter from a garbage scow.”
“Then why?” Strachan sounded puzzled.
“He isn't alone is why,” Decker replied between clenched teeth. His anxiety levels were rising now. He wasn't finding the other ships he knew had to be there.
Where the hell were they? That cocksucker out there wasn't doing this himself. Pirates worked in wolf packs out here. Where?
