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The streets of Vortaz’s Spacetown were remarkably silent after the deafening noise in the bar. The air was cleaner too though it still attacked human throats with harmful intent.
Decker stopped at the edge of the cracked sidewalk, ignoring the drunk Kardati in the gutter, and breathed in deeply, relishing the simple exhaust and solvent fumes after the dense, choking atmosphere inside.
Pradyn’s sky was dark, yet only a few stars twinkled. The haze of pollution and the riotous sea of lights washed out most of them. An unpleasant, sharp odor suddenly stabbed Decker’s nose, along with a sound of rushing water. He turned towards the sound, and then looked away in disgust. A Darsivian was urinating in the shadows of a narrow alley beside the bar, humming a tuneless song.
Zack and Raisa Darhad looked at each other and grimaced. After a moment, the Arkanna walked off toward Vortaz proper, leaving Decker to follow her. She led him through a warren of ill-lit narrow streets, past bawdy houses and run-down taverns, into garbage-strewn alleys infested with all sorts of scurrying creatures, sentient or otherwise.
An average human being would have lost his sense of direction fast and grown worried at the characters lurking in the shadows. But Zack could find his way back from Hell necessary. He instinctively memorized every turn and was always calculating the shortest route back to the main strip and the safety of the spaceport.
His mind instead worried about his companion’s motives and whether she was leading him into an ambush and a quick death. Smugglers couldn’t afford informants, and Decker, the former Marine noncom, had already learned enough to make even the most sanguine captain nervous. Making an embarrassing crewmember disappear was no feat of trans light physics. It could be days, weeks even, before anyone found a dead body around here, if ever. Not all aliens in this part of the galaxy shied at eating another sentient species, and humans were considered one of the tenderest races.
Decker walked with a caution born of years spent patrolling hostile jungles, hamlets, and towns, with terrorists and guerrillas lurking behind every window or beneath every bush. He had loosed his knife in its arm sheath the moment they left the main drag, but part of him wished for his Imperial Armaments blaster.
Darhad stopped, and Zack fell into a fighting stance, expecting a treacherous assault. The Arkanna first officer gave him an expressionless glance and then walked to a recessed and unmarked door on the right side of the alley. She knocked on the door while Zack, feeling foolish at his paranoia, took up a covering position behind her, as if that was what he had always intended.
After a few heartbeats, a small rectangle at face level opened, spilling light over Darhad’s face. A hoarse voice asked a question in guttural Pradyni, which the Arkanna answered in the same language. The window vanished, leaving them in darkness again.
The door swung open, and a thickset native with a livid scar over his skull waved them through. He slammed the door shut behind them. Darhad led the way down a short corridor and pushed aside a plush red curtain.
“Welcome to the Unhatched Egg, or Trazujki Yar in their language, Gunner.”
Zack stepped past her into a room he’d never thought would exist in the seediness of Spacetown. Dark wood panels with a swirling grain lined the four walls of the windowless club. Plush, leather-covered furniture surrounded tables of every height and size, to better accommodate the variety of sentient beings in the room.
A thin layer of smoke hung near the beamed ceiling, blurring the low light from the wrought-iron chandeliers. Soft, non-human music played from hidden speakers, and the patrons talked among themselves in subdued tones, as if awed by the opulence of their surroundings.
Zack saw Pradyni, Darsivians, Kardati, Flaxitatt and other races, but these specimens were well groomed and wore better quality clothing, a few of which he recognized as officers’ uniforms. A few glanced up at the Arkanna and her human companion then returned their attention to whatever they were doing. It seemed clear that if one didn’t belong here, one wasn’t admitted.
Darhad led the way to a private booth opposite the bar and sat down facing Zack.
“Nice joint, Raisa,” Decker commented, a wry smile on his face, as he sat back on the surprisingly soft, padded bench that ran along the booths walls. “Who’d you have to kill to be allowed in here? This isn’t a typical Spacetown dive.”
She smiled back at him, slanted eyes twinkling.
“This is a private club, reserved for ship’s officers and merchants. Many, ah, transactions are conducted here, and admission is only through someone who is already a member.”
“Sort of like a smuggler’s Guildhall?” Zack asked in jest. But he preferred not to speculate about whatever business was transacted behind the club’s bland facade. He strongly suspected he didn’t want to know. Successful marauders could match honest traders cred for cred, and liked luxury just as much.
Darhad gave him a languid smile.
“Perhaps, Zack. Untaxed transactions,” she used the euphemism for smuggling, “outweigh the other variety in the Shield Cluster. The name Unhatched Egg refers to business deals yet to be consummated. Quite apt, I believe.”
A Pradyni waiter in a simple, dark suit materialized at Darhad’s elbow and silently placed a bowl of nuts on the table, then looked at the Arkanna.
“What would you like? I believe you are partial to Shrehari ale.”
“Not if it’s like the swill they served at the last place I’m not.”
A soft laugh escaped her lips. “Would the Zahkar vintage be acceptable to your delicate palate?”
Zack stared at her for a few moments grinning with delight.
“It certainly would.”
She turned to the waiter and spat out a short sentence in Pradyni. The alien bowed and vanished again. Darhad took a handful of nuts from the bowl and popped several in her mouth, chewing daintily.
“Have some. They’re perfectly safe for human consumption and so good that even a meat-eating Arkanna enjoys them.” She placed a few more between her sharp teeth and crunched.
Decker shrugged and took a handful for himself. She was right. The nuts tasted fantastic, like a cross between a cashew and an apple, with Holkan gengji thrown in for good measure.
Before he had a chance to eat more than a few, the waiter returned with two platinum mugs foaming at the brim. He carefully placed them on the table and said something in his language that sounded much like ‘Cheers.’
“You’re partial to this stuff as well?” Zack asked, raising his beer and smacking his lips.
“At times, Gunner, at times, though I find it affects my metabolism less than it does humans, and I often prefer something from my home world.”
Decker’s eyebrows shot up. Shrehari ale, especially premium vintages, carried quite a punch and Zack couldn’t drink more than three ordinary bottles before feeling dizzy. Considering the ex-Marine’s size, a single bottle would do for the average human.
The ale tasted as good as advertised and washed away the last dregs of the horse piss he’d had earlier. It also went well with the nuts. Zack grinned at Darhad
“You sure know how to take liberty, Raisa. Now tell me there’s a cathouse that looks like this, with human girls, just around the corner, and I’ll be in heaven.”
“Sorry. There is no such thing on Pradyn.” She took a sip. “How do you like the merchant service so far?”
“Okay, I guess.” He shrugged, still looking at the bar. “Can’t say I care for all the people I’ve met, but then the Fleet’s not a haven for saints either. As for the other business, so long as it’s just keeping the taxman from taking his slice, I don’t give a damn. That’s Constabulary business, not Fleet.”
“Did you like the Fleet?”
Getting personal, are we, Zack thought, focusing on Raisa Darhad again.
“It was my home for twenty years. Can’t say much better than that.” Pause. “Yeah, I guess I loved the Fleet.”
When in doubt, tell the truth.
“Why did you leave?”
“I didn’t leave, if you mean leave voluntarily. The colonel handed me my retirement papers, with no real choice in the matter.” Zack’s reply was spoken with a disinterest calculated to suggest he didn’t appreciate the line of questioning, but he was finding it difficult to brush her off.
“Why?”
Either you don’t take a hint, or you’re one persistent alien dame, he thought. Then, realization dawned on him. She was testing.
“Had one disagreement too many with my superior officers. But that last argument got out of hand, and my acting squadron commander wanted to see me court-martialed. The colonel had the matter dropped if I put in my papers.” He shrugged, as if the past wasn’t important, though he fooled no one, least of all himself.
“Otherwise, I’d likely have ended up in a penal battalion as a private second class.”
“What happened?” Her voice was hypnotically soft.
He debated how much he would tell her, but if he didn’t spill the whole story, the questions would continue, and they were affecting his enjoyment of this excellent ale.
“We were ordered to raid a marauder base in the Telara Sector. Captain Sarratt, who’d been given temporary command of the squadron over our executive officer’s head...” In a resigned voice, Decker recounted the story of the botched assault right up to the destruction of the base.
“When the demolition charges blew, my troop was caught in the blast radius. Had we been wearing anything lighter than full battle armor, we would have died. I flew several meters into the air and landed hard against a slab of rock. Put me completely out. They had to carry half of my Marines back on stretchers. A couple had internal injuries. Thankfully none died.”
“When I came to, I found the squadron sergeant-major informing me that Sarratt had put me under arrest and was laying charges for insubordination, behavior unbecoming, anything he could think of. At that point, something snapped in me. I left sickbay and headed to the barracks to confront Sarratt. I found him and the other troop leaders completing the after-action review. I added my own comments, mainly about Sarratt’s incompetence and general uselessness as an officer and a Marine. Next thing I knew, I was in the ship’s brig. A real officer would have known how to handle an asshole like me, who was still concussed from the blast, but Sarratt decided he had to make a public example of me, in an attempt to recover from his disastrous leadership.”
“When we returned home, the colonel interviewed Sarratt, the other troop leaders, the pilots and me. Then he reamed me a new one for not being able to shut my mouth. I already had a reputation in the Regiment, and a track record for ignoring orders I found stupid or dangerous. Sarratt tried to save what was left of his chances for promotion by shifting all the blame on me through formal charges. If I had just waited to be home before contesting the charges instead of barging into the after-action review, I might still be there. Instead, the colonel made a compromise, which like all good compromises, pleased no one. Sarratt would drop the charges and let me retire voluntarily, and my contribution to the after-action review would be cut, meaning no official record of his ineptitude beyond whatever was in the logs.”
“How could your colonel side with an incompetent officer?”
“He didn’t side with Sarratt. The dickhead’s career was done for, no matter what. Gossip would make sure no one would use him again. He did it to save my bacon from a court martial and protect Sarratt from public humiliation. The colonel figured that even though I had only myself to blame for my problems, my disobedience saved lives, and so he owed me the least bad outcome he could manage.”
“The biggest irony of it all, as intelligence later found out, the whole thing had been a trap, designed to lure in a Pathfinder squadron. We needn’t even have gone, which would have saved us a dozen casualties, as well as Sarratt’s and my careers.”
He took a sip of ale, staring into the distance, avoiding Raisa’s gaze. He still keenly felt a loss he didn’t want to share with anyone.
“Is there any chance of the balance being put right?” She finally asked.
Zack snorted. “You have to be kidding. Plenty of beached noncoms and officers like me, who were fucked by a career-seeking bastard. I put in my papers fair and square so it technically isn’t as if they tossed me. No, there’s no chance in hell I’m reenlisting in the Corps.”
Raisa nodded. He believed that. No one could fake the emotion and the bitterness she felt. Zack Decker was who he said he was – a beached noncom who was retired for having done his duty too well, not an infiltrator.
“Do you have any family?”
Zack shrugged. “Yes and no. My parents disowned me when I joined the Corps. They belonged to a pacifist sect and wanted me to take over the farm after I finished school. But I couldn’t stand the life and the hypocrisy, and I wanted to see the galaxy. Haven’t seen them in twenty years. If I ever returned, the old man would probably throw me off his land. All I know is my name’s been struck from the family book.”
“So without the Fleet, you have no family at all?”
“Nope.” Zack took another swig of beer, trying to look unconcerned. He wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand.
“I know how it feels, Zack.” Raisa threw her crimson hair back with a toss of the head. “I left Arkanna fifteen years ago and have never been back. My chjok, I guess the closest Anglic word is ‘pack,’ threw me out after I foolishly challenged the matriarch for supremacy. I had fallen in love with the pack leader, the alpha, and in my society, only the matriarch and pack leader may mate. It makes us strong, for only the strong reproduce, but it’s hard. I was much too young to even be considered by the alpha, and of course did not have the strength to best the matriarch.”
“No other pack would take you in?” Zack was fascinated by the glimpse of Arkanna she offered him.
“Other packs might have taken me, but I would have been the most junior female, no matter how old I was and that is not a pleasant status. I preferred to find a new life elsewhere. A human freighter agreed to take me on as a deckhand and took me into the Commonwealth.”
“Why not the Empire? I thought Arkanna and Shrehari had more in common.”
She shook her head. “The few Imperials I had met by then did not impress me. They were brutal, uncouth and appeared to have an uncontrollable attraction to Arkanna females. It would not have been a pleasant life for an outcast.”
“So how do we humans measure up?”
She smiled, looking more like a predator than ever.
“Most human males do not measure up to Arkanna warriors and leave me in peace.” Her talons briefly flashed in the club’s low light. “And I have discovered that even outcasts can make an honorable living in your Commonwealth. Your humanity is something a Shrehari or a traditionalist Arkanna warrior would spit on, but it has given me a life, and for that I am grateful. However, a few human males can measure up to the expectations of an Arkanna female.”
“Do I?” Zack asked with a cocky grin.
“Perhaps, Gunner, perhaps. You are a warrior and have strength and honor. Perhaps more than anyone else aboard Shokoten.”
Her smile revealed sharp teeth and gave Zack a frisson of danger. With great difficulty, he broke eye contact and withdrew his hand. He felt close to losing control, and it was not a sensation he enjoyed. Especially not with an Arkanna who could easily kill him, and who had reason enough to do so, now that he had discovered Shokoten was smuggling arms and restricted items to alien worlds.
The fate of his predecessor came back to haunt him, and he wondered again whether Lokis had died because he’d stumbled onto Strachan’s illegal business.
Darhad did not try to re-establish eye contact. She sipped her ale and took the conversation to safer grounds. They spoke about the worlds they’d seen, the cultures they’d experienced and discovered shared interests. The earlier tension eased and Zack relaxed. Time seemed to melt away.
*
“Well, Gunner,” Darhad drained her ale and gave him a wry smile, “it is long past the midnight hour. I suggest we return to the ship. It is late, and we may find the shippers will bring the cargo for loading tomorrow. Captain Strachan can be very persuasive.”
“You’re the boss, Raisa.” He swallowed the last of his drink and rose. “Let’s find the waiter and press a few creds in his scaly palms.”
She laid a restraining hand on his arm and shook her head.
“At the Unhatched Egg, they don’t do things as vulgar as make valued customers pay in full view of others. I have my own arrangements.”
“Then let me pay my part.”
“No. This was my treat. I find you fascinating. The drinks are a small price to pay for the chance to learn more about you.”
“Then I could argue the same, Raisa.”
“Next time, Zack.”
*
They had turned the corner into an adjacent alley when Raisa suddenly froze, nostrils flaring and ears twitching. Decker instinctively turned to place his back against hers. He didn’t know what had made her stop and probe the night, but he was unwilling to take the chance it was simply nerves.
The two drinks hadn’t blunted his thinking, and he stifled his questions, letting Darhad figure out what had alerted her. He shook his dagger loose and waited, watching the shadows for movements.
A pair of soft thuds came from Darhad’s side of the alley as if two beings had jump from the roof. A third thud attracted Decker’s eyes, and he saw a dark shadow fill the narrow passage in front of him.
The three new arrivals advanced on the two spacers in silence, blades drawn. Decker took a moment to thank the gods that their attackers weren’t more heavily armed. A Pathfinder and an Arkanna in a knife fight had a chance; in a one-sided gunfight, they’d be dead already.
A soft growl rose from Darhad’s throat, and he felt her tense against his back, getting ready to pounce.
“I guess there’s no point in asking these gentlemen what they want from us,” Decker muttered at his companion. He felt her shake her head. “Then I hope they’ve put their affairs in order.”
A chilling howl ripped through the air as Darhad jumped at the nearest of the two footpads on her side, talons flashing in the dim light. Her war cry was quickly followed by a scream that turned into a wet gargle.
Decker had no time to think about his companion. The third assailant ran towards him, long knife held low, as a professional would, preparing to rip Zack’s guts out.
He tried to side step the assassin, to avoid the oncoming knife while pivoting to take his opponent from behind, but his foot landed on some unrecognizable, but slippery substance and he lost his balance. That accident saved his life.
The assassin had seen Decker telegraph his move and had shifted his knife to his left hand to counter it. As the gunner went sprawling, the blade flashed over his head and swung through empty space.
Without thinking, Decker thrust his dagger upwards, burying it in his attacker’s midriff. The cloaked figure, forward momentum fatally checked, let out a shriek of agony, and collapsed. Decker twisted out from under the falling body and pulled his dagger free.
He sat up just in time to see Darhad dispatch the third assailant with a cruel swipe of her claws across his face and neck, sending a gush of dark blood across the alley. She ripped out his windpipe so quickly that he didn’t even have time to cry out.
Decker hauled himself to his feet, breathing hard with the rush adrenaline in his blood. The whole attack, from start to finish, had lasted less than a minute.
He bent over and pushed the footpad’s hood back, revealing a Pradyni face, eyes now fixed in death. Glancing at Darhad, he saw her wipe her hands on the other footpad’s cloak, shoulders heaving as she fought to regain her composure.
“You okay?” Decker asked.
“I will be in a moment,” she replied, her voice deep and hoarse. “Arkanna fight-or-flight instincts tend to be somewhat primal compared to yours.”
“I can see that.” He shook his head in admiration at the mess she’d made of her two assailants. “I’d hate to have you mad at me.”
Both were Pradyni, just like the one Decker had dispatched, but where the gunner’s dagger had left a small hole, Darhad’s claws had torn her opponents to shreds. He pulled the cloak off the Pradyni he’d killed and handed it to Raisa.
“Better use this to get the blood off. These lizards bleed just as bad as humans, and we can’t have you cross Spacetown looking like you came from a slaughterhouse.”
“Thank you.” Chest still heaving with deep breaths, she took the rough cloth and wiped herself. “We must return to the ship. On Pradyn, what we just did is called murder until you can prove you were acting in self-defense. I would rather not try to explain myself to a court composed entirely of staring lizards.”
“Me neither.” He leaned over wiped the blood off his blade on the dead alien and re-sheathed it, all the while staring at the savaged assassins.
The Arkanna woman was much more dangerous than he might have imagined. She could probably kill Command Sergeant Zack Decker, retired, late of the Pathfinders, in less time than it took him to belch.
“Come.”
Without waiting for an answer, she walked off.
*
“Who and why?” Zack asked, staring at the star map on Strachan’s cabin wall. He and Darhad had reported to the captain the moment they came aboard, and Strachan had poured them both a much-needed drink.
“Who knows,” Strachan replied, a thoughtful expression creasing his forehead. “Robbers most likely. They thought that people who come out of posh clubs are loaded with creds.” Something in his voice rang false.
“Rather lightly equipped for that sort of trade,” Zack replied. “Only three guys with knives? If one of ‘em had a blaster, they’d be richer, and we’d be dead.”
“No private gun ownership on Pradyn, Mister Decker,” the first officer reminded him. “Guns have been banned ever since the present dynasty took power. It seems to contribute to political stability. Anyone caught with an illegal weapon is automatically sentenced to public dismemberment.”
From the corner of his eye, he caught Darhad and Strachan exchanging a glance, but whether it had to do with his comment or something else, he couldn’t tell. One thing was for sure, he doubted those were ordinary footpads. He didn’t know why, but his instincts told him so.
“Whatever they were,” the captain finally said, “we will have to keep you and the first officer on board until we lift. Though I doubt the dead natives will be traced back to you, there is no point in taking unnecessary chances.”
Raisa Darhad nodded.
“Aye, aye, sir,” Zack acknowledged the order. Sensing he was about to be dismissed, he stood, drained his glass and snapped to attention before pivoting on his heels and leaving the cabin.
“Good night, Gunner.”
When Decker was gone, Strachan refilled Darhad’s drink. “Talk to me, Raisa.”
“Not much to tell. I’m convinced Decker is genuine. He loves the Fleet but is bitter at the same time. More importantly, he’s absolutely certain he’ll never wear a Marine uniform again, which removes any incentive to interfere. I don’t think he is a danger. And he is a formidable fighter, a very dangerous fighter. His emotions shut down when he is in jeopardy, and he becomes an efficient machine.”
“If I didn’t know better, you blood-thirsty she-wolf, I would say you engineered the ambush just to test Decker. Arkanna have strange ways.”
A dangerous smile distorted her lips.
“And if I had?” Before Strachan could reply, her smile vanished. “I say trust Decker. When and if your business comes to include things he will object to, we can re-evaluate his employment. But, as long as it is just avoiding the taxman, he has no problems serving you.”
“Good. What about the ambush, then?”
She shrugged. “Footpads? An assassination attempt? Take your pick, Diego. Whatever it was, the attack failed, as it was destined to do. A mature Arkanna and a Pathfinder Marine make for very dangerous prey.”
“Just make sure it wasn’t Alers. If you’re right, and Decker can be trusted, we need him more than the bosun, especially a stupid brute who is fast outliving his usefulness.”
“If you want Alers out of the way, just give the word,” Darhad replied, “but be sure he will try to kill Decker one day.”
“Wait for now. Our gunner can take care of himself. With any luck, he’ll take care of Alers in a manner no one will find objectionable.”
The Arkanna nodded. She tried to read her captain’s feelings, to discover what he was thinking. Diego Strachan never did or said anything without good reason, and that narrowed it down to either his personal interest or the interest of their ultimate owner.
Unlike Decker, Captain Diego Strachan knew his first officer’s species had developed a survival trait for a very harsh world: all mature Arkanna females were empaths, able to read and project emotions. And he had learned to mask his feelings as he was doing now.
She rose. “Good night, Diego.”
*
Zack tossed and turned in his bunk, unable to sleep. He relived every moment of his brief bout of shore leave: the easy way he had told his story to Raisa Darhad, the attack in the dark alley, the secret club for select merchants and, most distressingly, his strong attraction to the Arkanna.
“Are you all right, Zack?” A soft voice enquired from the lower bunk.
“Yeah, sort of. Sorry to have woken you, Nihao.”
“It is of no matter. How did your leave go?”
“Strange as hell, kiddo. Our exotic first officer rescued me from a spacer's dive and took me to a fancy, private smuggler's club. Damn posh, let me tell you. They serve the finest vintage Shrehari ale. Our Lady of the Talons pumped me for my life's story and gave me a bit of her own. Then, just as we left the club, three Pradyni footpads ambushed us. Darhad took out two with her built-in slicers and I took out the third with my knife. What the fuck that was all about, I don't know.”
She made no comment and Zack fell silent as he debated whether to ask or not. Then, he rolled over on his stomach and glanced down at Kiani.
“I wonder. Did something like this happen to Lokis? It seems strange that I’m attacked and almost killed in the same port.”
“Lokis vanished while on liberty here in Vortaz, last time we visited,” Nihao finally said, her voice flat. “Two days later, the police found his body in an alley in Spacetown. He had been badly cut-up, possibly tortured. Pradyni go for clean kills and no torture. It goes against their code of honor.”
“So why was he killed?”
“I have no idea. Maybe he fell into the hands of thugs looking for blood sport.”
“Or he found out something he shouldn't have,” Zack countered, rubbing his chin.
“I don't know, Zack. Perhaps Lokis was involved in something criminal and paid for it. Some otherwise honest merchant sailors are often tempted by quick, but illegal profits. Lokis and I were close, but we kept much from each other. Anyway, it's all history now, so please leave it be. The important thing is that you are safe.”
“Thanks for the sentiment, Nihao. But that doesn't explain why no one wanted to tell me what happened.”
“It’s bad luck to speak of those who died violently, Zack.”
“Really? Never heard of that superstition in the Fleet.”
“Maybe because violent death is normal there. But in the merchant service, we don't want to tempt fate.” She paused for a long minute as if framing her next words. “Zack, beware of Darhad. She has her own agenda and, like all Arkanna females, she can be treacherous. Goodnight.”
Zack was too stunned by her warning to reply, but he let the matter go because he had just realized something else that was strange about his evening ashore. Darhad had known they were in danger before the assassins appeared, as if she had heard or sensed them, even though he had heard nothing.
*
The next day, tired but relaxed, Decker stood beside Bowdoin and supervised the loading of the outbound cargo. Darhad had been right: the captain had convinced the shippers to play straight. Shokoten would lift by sunset, bound for Wyvern with a hold full of refined exotic alloys. And the gods knew what else hidden among the visible cargo. It took most of the morning.
“Secure the hold, Gunner and stand down the guards. I'll have the bridge seal the ship. Unless something comes up, we're ready to lift.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He raised his communicator to his lips. “Security detail, this is Decker. Check all locks and report. It's over.”
A few hours later, the freighter left Pradyn's surface far below as her thrusters labored to break her out of the planet's gravity well. By the end of the evening watch, she had left Pradyn's security sphere, and Zack could unlock his weapons again. The chances of a pirate attack on the way back were less than on the way out. There was more money to be made in the Shield Cluster from human tech than from commodities, no matter how exotic, but it paid to be cautious.
He spent most of the night watch inspecting every gun and every launcher with painstaking precision, earning an invitation for a drink with the captain, though it was almost six bells, close to three in the morning.
“You work too hard, Zack. It could have waited,” Strachan commented, raising his glass.
“Nothing to it, Captain. I like my job, and I'd rather go to sleep knowing my guns will fire the moment I hit the button.”
“Commendable. I shall make no secret of my opinion that you're an excellent gunner, and -”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And, as I was about to say,” he briefly frowned at the interruption, “I intend to have your pay grade raised as soon as we reach Wyvern.”
“Thank you again, sir. It's been a pleasure to serve aboard Shokoten so far,” if he discounted a sadistic bosun who was out to kill him and more questions than a game show. Things on this tub might not be what they seemed, but he had no better offer.
Strachan nodded, slowly rolling his tumbler in his hands.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” Zack asked, putting a particular emphasis on the word 'else.'
“Not on this trip, Gunner, but thank you for asking.”
“Aye, sir.” He emptied his glass. “Good night, then.”
“Good night. Take the morning watch off. You deserve to sleep in.”
*
Captain Strachan kept him busy enough to forget about Pradyn and the first officer over the next few days. While they remained in the badlands, he drilled the crew mercilessly.
Five days out from Pradyn, the rear missile launcher, which was also the hardest to reach of the three, stopped responding to the bridge. Rather than ask engineering to check it out, and get rebuffed by the third officer, Zack grabbed his tool case and made his way into the cramped recesses of the aft compartments.
It was the second dogwatch, shortly after seven in the evening, and most of the off-duty crewmembers were in their messes or cabins. He had a pretty good idea what was wrong. These old launchers had weak control boards. They were originally designed for ground use, but when the Corps pulled them out of service, the company sold them on the civilian market as starship defensive systems.
A good business move, but it didn't do squat for merchants who had no idea how to fix a busted board. Luckily Zack Decker knew all there was to know about this particular piece of weaponry.
The access tube was narrow and cramped, especially for someone Zack's size. Whoever built the launcher into the ship had figured maintenance and reloading would be done from the outside. Going outside while the ship was in hyperspace was the best way to go psycho. The hull shielded humans. Space suits didn't.
Zack pulled the old board and examined it as he lay on his stomach. There, in the middle of the thin plastic sheet, a small but vital part had come loose under the vibrations of the multiple launcher systems and had shorted out its command recognition capability. Decker plugged his AI into the board and quickly reprogrammed the chip to bypass the burnt-out circuits so it could accept commands through its secondary control terminals.
Satisfied he pushed the board back into its slot and smiled when the fire control computer cycled back to life. Then, a loud clang from the other end of the access tube startled Zack. He frowned as he packed away his tools. That could only have been the access hatch.
Not Alers again, for fuck's sake! This time, the little prick will end up in sickbay when I get my hands on him.
Decker crawled backwards, the tube too narrow to turn, and tried to remember where the emergency release mechanism was. Suddenly, his breathing became harder and his body started to feel funny. Decompression. The tube was venting into space.
All compartments could be vented and regularly were to kill off vermin that invariably found their way aboard any spacecraft. But the venting system had triple safeguards and was solely controlled from the bridge. Unless someone could override the safeguards and Alers wasn't smart enough to figure that out on his own.
“Bridge,” he gasped into his communicator, “this is the gunner. Stop venting launcher three. I'm inside.”
When he didn’t receive an answer, he repeated his message, anoxia making red spots dance in front of his eyes. I'm about to die, he thought, after all this crap, I'm about to die of fucking decompression on a freighter, killed by a third-rate moron.
Zack Decker passed out.
