Decker's War Omnibus 1

by Eric Thomson

  Zack nodded.

  “Deal, Captain. I’d rather keep busy anyways. It’ll keep me from brooding.” Again, she saw a flash of pain and loss in his eyes. It touched her in a surprising manner.

  “That being said, you can drop the ‘captain’ nonsense. We’ll be living cheek-by-jowl for the next few weeks, and the formality will drive me crazy. Call me Avril.”

  “Please to meet you, Avril. I’m Zack.”

  He thrust his strong, callused hand over the table.

  She took it and squeezed hard, testing him. Her hand felt as well-worn and hard-worked as his and that pleased him.

  “Welcome aboard Demetria, Zack.”

  *

  “Try it again.” Decker's voice echoed down the short corridor connecting engineering to the cockpit. He was wearing borrowed coveralls, now grease-smeared and stained, like his hands and forearms. His broad frame fit snugly inside the belly turret's access tube, and he had to fight a twinge of claustrophobia every time his mind had more than a few moments to think.

  Everything was small on the ship, cabins, passages, engine room, cockpit, guns; everything except the cargo hold and the drives, which was just as well. The popguns she carried wouldn't have fought off a pleasure sloop, let alone a reiver. But, if Avril's pride in her ship was warranted, she could outrun just about anything in space.

  Zack's first move, after a guided tour and a long discussion about her abilities, had been to study her schematics and figure out a way to boost the guns' power. Ducote didn't seem overly thrilled about the notion, preferring to rely on speed, but she didn't stop him. It gave her a chance to test his skills without jeopardizing a vital function.

  After crawling into the first turret, he grimaced in disgust. Avril had said a free trader lived on a tight margin, and she hadn't been kidding. Her maintenance expenditures had been limited to the vital systems, and the guns looked like hell. Lubricants had dried up and hardened, freezing many moving parts. Command modules had died from simple neglect, and vibrations had worked some of the wiring loose and shorted out the more sensitive controls.

  The ordnance was the only part of the ship that lacked maintenance, but Zack needed three days of full-time work just to bring the guns back to their original state. Meanwhile, Ducote had gained a new appreciation of his competence. A pleasant side-effect of her growing respect for him was a thaw in her manner. She now smiled more and seemed more willing to talk about personal things. But the trader still didn't trust Zack enough to leave him in the cockpit alone.

  “Power output is ten percent above nominal,” Avril yelled back.

  “Good. Now keep an eye on the readout and tell me when I reach twenty-two percent.”

  He fiddled with the interlink, swearing as sweat ran into his eyes.

  “Twenty-two percent!”

  “Is it stable?”

  “Yes.”

  Zack shoved the module back into its slot and locked it in place. He crawled backwards out of the tube and turned as he rose.

  “That ought to do it,” he commented, wiping his hands on an old rag. “Still won't win you first prize in a slugfest with pirates, but it'll keep 'em well enough occupied while you run. What you need is a good defensive missile pod. Now that'll call for some respect.”

  She shook her head in exasperation.

  “I can't even afford a decent evening gown, Zack. How do you expect me to pay for a missile pod?”

  Decker grinned sheepishly. When he wasn't thinking about Raisa and the secret he carried in his head, he could almost believe he was enjoying himself. There was something satisfying about his work aboard Demetria.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he replied. “Anyway, that takes care of what little you have. What do you want me to do next?”

  “Eat supper.”

  As if in reply, Zack's stomach gurgled, causing him to chuckle with embarrassment.

  “Traitor,” he muttered as if scolding the offending organ. “Okay, boss. What's on the menu?”

  “You’ll see, Zack. Come.” She vanished into the small galley. Decker shrugged and made a quick stop in his cabin's washroom to relieve his bladder and wash the last of the lubricants from his thick fingers.

  *

  “You do seem to know a lot about starships. For a Marine, I mean.” Avril was putting away the large meal at the same rate as Zack, which was unsurprising, considering she was almost as big as he was. “Manning guns is a given, at least for an ignorant civilian like me. But pulling full maintenance and goosing up the output seems more in the realm of naval engineering.”

  “Nothing to it.” He wiped his mouth with the fancy napkin she insisted on putting by their plates at every meal. “When you go on your advanced gunnery training, and then the Master Gunner's course, you learn not only to shoot everything that shoots, but also to repair it, strip it down and, hell, even how to build it from scratch if you have to. We received the whole theory and all. From there, it's a small enough step to learn the same for starship guns. Not a hell of a lot to do on long patrols, and I figured expanding my horizons would keep me and my brain happy.”

  “I'm impressed.”

  “Hey,” he grinned, “you haven't seen anything yet.”

  “Oh,” she looked at him skeptically under raised eyebrows. “Do you know anything about shields?”

  “A bit. Why? You have a problem?”

  “Not that I know. But I thought you might reassure me.”

  “Shit, Avril. I have nothing else to do.”

  “So I've noticed,” she said dryly, before tucking away the last of the rice stew. “I'll keep you busy, Zachary Decker, have no fear. We Reformed Dutch Calvinists have this thing about work.”

  “Yeah, so I heard.”

  “Santa Theresa doesn’t appeal to you?” She raised her pale eyebrows in question. They were seated in the cockpit, she in the pilot's chair, Zack beside her at the co-pilot's console. The planet in question, one of Pacifica's colonies, was growing on the screen as they approached her on a straight course.

  “Not really.” He made a face. “The only Fleet outfit on-planet is a battalion from the 2nd Regiment. If I go to them, it'll be like going to the Pacifica government, and that means Amali's flunkies. Those Palace Guard fuckers can't be trusted worth shit. Best if I don't show my face off the ship.” He paused. “They don't do customs here do they?”

  “Not if we’re coming straight from the mother world. As long as you don't leave the spaceport, there will be no ID check.”

  “Don't you have to give a crew manifest?”

  “Yes, but I can always list you as someone else. Care to pick a name?”

  “Jeez, Avril,” Zack shrugged, “I don't -”

  “Jeez Avril?” Ducote asked with a straight face, though her eyes danced with mischief. “Strange name for a big man like you.”

  Zack snorted.

  “That's the problem with you Reformed Calvinists: too bloody literal. Must be the Dutch ancestry. Why not list me as Tom Brown. An innocuous name that could fit anyone.”

  “Very well. Thomas Brown you shall be.”

  “Good. With any luck, the scumbags won't know I've left on your ship, and won't twig to your new crew member. That means there's a good chance I'm home free.”

  “I don’t know about that. If anyone cares to check back with Hadley spaceport, they will see that Tom Brown could only have come aboard on Pacifica.”

  “Yeah, there's that.” Decker seemed deflated. “But it’ll take them a couple of days, and that might just be too long to bother.

  *

  Rosalito spaceport was typical of the outer colonies: a stabilized earth tarmac with a simple, prefab terminal building and minimal traffic control gear. Demetria set down near a tramp freighter, a battered, ancient thing that was holding together only by its captain’s willpower. Avril stepped ashore to meet with the port officials and arrange the unloading of her cargo, luxury items that fetched a high cost on frontier worlds.

  Zack spent the ti
me in engineering doing post-flight maintenance checks. In due course, Ducote returned, leading a string of cargo carriers bearing the logo of a ComCorp subsidiary that held the monopoly on imports to Santa Theresa. During unloading, Decker had stayed out of sight in the cockpit, in case one of the stevedores was really a Sécurité Spéciale officer looking for him.

  A few hours later, while they waited for news of their outbound cargo, the airlock alarm buzzed insistently. Avril entered the cockpit and turned on the external camera.

  “Yes?”

  The bland face of a colonial official appeared on the screen. He smiled ingratiatingly.

  “Santa Theresa traffic control, Captain. I’m sorry to disturb you, but your ship has been selected for a random safety inspection.”

  “Rather unusual, no?” Avril let just the right amount of annoyance creep into her voice, masking the sudden surge of fear.

  “As I said, Captain,” the inspector’s smile never wavered, “I’m sorry about this, but I have my orders. Too many ships with serious safety problems have called here, and the Santa Theresa authorities are anxious to avoid accidents.”

  “One moment, please.” Ducote switched off the camera.

  “Quickly now, Zack, climb into access tube three near the main reactor. There’s a niche halfway down. It used to hold a plasma converter before the ship received a newer model fusion plant. The niche has a hinged bulkhead plate you can open with a magnetic spanner. When you’re inside, seal it with your laser welder. The residual radiation from the reactor should cover your life signs. I shall let you out later. You ought to be safe for an hour or so.”

  “But doesn’t the guy know you have an additional crew member?”

  “The question never came up at the port authority, and I didn’t submit a crew list.”

  “Why?” What Zack really meant was why Ducote took the risk of hiding him from the authorities, thereby endangering her livelihood, and possibly her life.

  She read the real question in his eyes but instead of wasting time with an elaborate reply, she tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Later, Zack. Go.”

  *

  It was uncomfortably warm and cramped in the niche but effective. The smiling inspector took one look down the tube and compared it with ship's blueprints that still showed a plasma converter in Decker's hiding place. He also took a sensor reading that was effectively fogged by the stray emissions from the reactor.

  When he glanced into Zack's cabin, Avril had a momentary surge of panic. But Decker, through force of habit, had cleaned it up that morning and stowed his gear. Thankfully, the inspector didn’t ask to see the contents of the tiny closet. He left an hour later, still smiling, but Ducote could read a hint of frustration in his eyes. She freed Zack from his confinement and ran her medisensor over his sweat-soaked body.

  “You took some radiation, but nothing threatening, though I suggest you visit a hospital for a dip in a regen tank.”

  “When I can stop running and hiding,” he replied with a sour grimace. Then, realizing he was doing her an injustice, his features softened. “Sorry, Avril. You're right. Thanks for hiding me.”

  “It was well that I did. The inspector was not looking for safety violations.”

  “Sécurité Spéciale?”

  “Could be.” She shrugged. “But he obtained no satisfaction from his little charade.”

  “Say,” Decker suddenly remembered, “you told me you didn't put me on your crew list. Why?”

  A cold smile tugged at Ducote’s lips.

  “The port captain was a bit too anxious about my trip this time around. I felt it was best not to mention my new first mate.”

  “That was quite a risk.” He frowned. “Not typical of a Reformed Calvinist to lie so much in one day.”

  Avril blushed and gave him a playful punch on the arm.

  “God will understand. It was for a higher cause.”

  “Thank God for me,” Decker looked heavenwards.

  “I already have,” she replied, eyes twinkling.

  Before Zack could explore the meaning of her double entendre, the communications console screeched for attention. It was the port authority with her outbound cargo.

  “It seems that they've given up on finding you aboard, Zack. We shall sail for Dordogne in a few hours. Maybe, this time, we are safe.”

  “Yeah, let’s hope.” But Decker sounded dubious.

  They lifted off at sunset, with the best wishes of the port captain. Unnoticed by either, the old tramp followed them an hour later, her thrusters pushing harder than her appearance would have credited.

  *

  “Dordogne next, then.” They were sharing an evening meal in the galley while the ship headed for the jump point on autopilot.

  “Yes. My hold is full of rare oils destined for the Diogenes cosmetics factory.”

  “Good.” Zack nodded. “The Treizième Regiment d'Infanterie de Marine, the 13th Marines for you civilians, is stationed there. If I can find the regimental intelligence officer, I may have a chance. The Treizieme's a good outfit. Fought with us on Hispaniola.”

  “Just a word of caution, Zack, I shall not be landing on Dordogne. The Diogenes operation is in a zero-gee habitat trailing the Deveaux orbital station. You must find your own way down to the planet, or over to the naval orbiter.”

  “Forget the Navy station, Avril. Only those with authorization can board a shuttle to the place. It must be dirtside if I want to talk to Fleet personnel.”

  “Are you going to manage all right?”

  He grinned.

  “Hey, kid. You're talking to an old Pathfinder. I'm used to going places where people don’t want me to go. Getting from the Deveaux station to the barracks of the Treizième will be a snap.”

  Ducote didn't reply. Instead, she studied the dregs at the bottom of her coffee mug. The minutes ticked by in silence as Zack cleared off the table and poured more of her excellent coffee. Finally, she looked at her companion.

  “Listen, Zack. I’ll be on station for several days. If you cannot conclude your business on Dordogne, or if the Fleet no longer requires your presence...” She left the rest of the invitation unsaid.

  “Thanks.” He laid his callused hand over hers and squeezed. “I'll try. I have nowhere else to go.”

  Before the ensuing silence could deepen and lead to things for which Zack was not yet ready, he left the galley and climbed into the cockpit. Usually, he never fled a developing situation involving an attractive woman, but Raisa's death was still too fresh in his mind. Later, maybe, after settling this business and extracting his revenge. Provided he was still alive.

  The thought of death pushed his mind into a new direction, and he switched on the ship's scanners, to satisfy his growing paranoia. He had tweaked the delicate sensors and thanks to his careful tinkering he picked up the other ship almost immediately.

  It was behind them, on a parallel course, well beyond normal scanning range, near the limits of his boosted gear's capacity. Frowning, he fiddled with the controls to obtain a clearer readout, but it remained fuzzy as if its emissions were jammed.

  “Avril,” he called out, “come look at this.”

  “What is it,” she asked, leaning over his shoulder, hand on the seat back. Decker inhaled a whiff of her fresh, flowery scent.

  “We may have picked up a tail. He's on a parallel course and jamming his emissions so we can't get a clear reading. Did the port authority give you any kind of traffic advisory?”

  “No. We are the only scheduled ship today.”

  “That settles it. This guy can't be clean.” Zack called up a polar view of the system on a side screen and traced Demetria's flight path on it. “Do you think you can maneuver the ship through this gas giant's magnetic pole and then slip into orbit, shutting everything down?”

  “Stealth mode, Zack?”

  “Yeah. You heard of the tactic?”

  “Used it before, when a reiver tracked me in the badlands. No problem.”


  She slipped into the pilot's seat and took the ship off autopilot. Skillfully, without making the course change seem too abrupt, she nudged Demetria towards the planet, aiming for its south pole.

  The huge ball of gas slowly grew on the screen. Flashes of light rippled beneath the clouds as electric storms wider than an Earth-sized planet screamed their fury, generating enough power to keep a large colony happy for years.

  Periodically, Zack checked their pursuer and became puzzled when he didn't change course to match. His gut told him it was a tail. So what was the unknown captain doing?

  “Damn!” Decker climbed out of his seat and headed for the corridor.

  “What is it?”

  He didn't reply. Instead, he went to his cabin and rummaged in his duffel bag. Decker returned holding his souped-up sensor.

  “I have to visit the cargo hold.”

  “Why?”

  “I think your cosmetic oils aren't all oil.”

  Understanding lit up her eyes.

  “Take the main hatch. I’ll switch off the lock override.”

  *

  Decker slowly walked across the hold, between the container stacks, letting his sensor scan through the entire electronic spectrum. When he had done it once, he carried out the whole process again. His patience was finally rewarded when a brief blip appeared on the readout. He stopped moving and pointed the machine at every container around him in turn. At the fourth try, he found it.

  “Avril,” he called through the open hatch, “we have a clandestine electronic passenger.”

  “What is it?”

  “Shielded phase-shift beacon. I’ll bet it works in hyperspace as well. That’s why the bastard behind us didn’t change course to match. He knew he could find us easily.”

  “That’s assuming the other ship is a pursuer.”

  “Trust me, he is. No other explanation. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “So what now?”

  “Can we dump the container?”

  Her head poked through the opening.

  “With great difficulty. And I would have to explain to the Diogenes shipping people why I’m one container short of the manifest.”