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“He will be all right, Captain.”
The voice sounded tinny and distorted to Zack's ears, and somehow he figured it wasn't an angel because they were supposed to emit nothing but glorious sounds. Perhaps he was in Hell, where he'd been wished by many people over his lifetime. If so, then why did one of the minor demons sound like the she-wolf?
“Our Mister Decker is much tougher than anyone would credit.” The same silky voice purred near his ear as warm, dry fingers brushed his cheek. His eyes opened a crack, and caught sight of a blurred, crimson-haired, white skinned woman with impossibly blue eyes, upswept eyebrows, pointy ears, and a predator's smile. Yup. Definitely Hell. But somehow, he didn't really mind, if all demons looked like the delightfully dangerous Raisa Darhad.
“Some damage to the blood vessels due to decompression, probably lung damage too, but without proper diagnostic equipment, I cannot find out the extent. We’ll find out in the next two or three days if he has sustained severe trauma, but I doubt it. He was not exposed long enough.”
“Thank you, Raisa.”
Decompression injuries? Zack tried to move his limbs or register feeling throughout his body, but couldn't. Panic gripped him.
“C-can't m-move,” he croaked. “C-can't f-feel.”
Raisa's warm hand rested briefly on his forehead. “Stay still, Gunner. I have given you a sedative. You have internal damage and your body is covered with bruises. I fear you would moan in pain if you move too much. You will regain full responsiveness when the drugs wear off.”
“W-what happened?”
Darhad's face swam before his eyes again.
“You were fixing the command board in launcher three when there was a malfunction in the ship's housekeeping program. After visiting non-human planets, we vent each compartment to make sure we don't bring vermin back. It’s an automated function, and it seems the program did not talk to the internal sensors, believing the launcher area was empty. The bridge received your distress call, and we stopped it in time. A few seconds more and you would have died rather messily. I have already examined the housekeeping program and found degradation in the code that caused the malfunction. It will not happen again.”
“A-accident?” Decker croaked.
“Yes, of course, it was.”
And I'm the Grand Admiral herself, Zack thought sourly through the haze of drugs.
“Accident or not, you'll stay in your bunk until further notice. That's an order.” Strachan ordered.
Decker nodded feebly and let his eyelids drop, exhausted. He fell asleep within seconds.
*
When he woke, it was five bells in the afternoon watch of the following day. He opened his eyes and immediately closed them again. The light in the cabin was painful, and his vision was alarmingly red tinged. Then, he felt his body, just as Darhad had promised. It hurt from head to toe.
After a while, Zack opened his eyes, this time for a longer period, and glanced around. He was alone in the small room. Kiani was on duty somewhere else in the ship. Not a single sound of the ship's life penetrated the bulkheads. If Shokoten's engines hadn't been sending their reassuring, almost subliminal vibrations all the way into Zack's brain, he would have thought the ship abandoned. He tried to turn on his side and winced.
His bunk was comfortable enough, but after fifteen hours, he figured he had turned into a feather merchant with bedsores on his bum. A sudden need to urinate overrode all other considerations.
He sat up unthinkingly, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and grimaced again, this time at the waves of nausea and the pounding of blood in his head. Looking down to regain control of his breathing, he saw his skin for the first time.
“Shit!”
He was a mass of bruises, his body mottled in blue, green and yellow, just as they’d warned when he first woke. Decker frowned. Someone, Darhad if memory served, had said something else that hadn't registered at the time but that now nibbled at the edge of his consciousness.
His bladder sent an urgent signal, and he concentrated instead on getting up before staggering to the heads. He sat down on the cold toilet and winced.
Once he’d made it back to his bed without puking or keeling over, he lay there, unthinking and unmoving, letting his system calm down and return to the dull throbbing from before he stood again.
What was it the she-wolf said? A glitch in the housekeeping program. Accident.
Not that he believed it for a moment, but there was something else. Oh yeah. She had said he was fixing the launcher's command board. How would she know? He hadn’t known the board was down until he pulled it, and all he had done was reset the chip and reroute the command functions. Then he’d shoved it back in its slot. Then the hatch slammed shut, and the compartment vented.
The door opened, and Kiani walked in, her face a mask of concern
“How are you doing, Zack? You look like hell though I understand it will fade away by the time we make port. Are you hungry or thirsty yet?”
Zack grinned.
“A cold beer and a hoagie would be nice, Nihao.”
She frowned and wagged her finger at Zack.
“I think not, Zack. No beer or junk food until you are fully recovered. Synthmilk, soyburgers, and hydroponics greens are the only things on your approved menu.”
Decker made a face.
“Then I guess I'm well enough to return to duty.”
He sat up, earning another burst of nausea and slowly settled down again, grimacing. Kiani laid a restraining hand on his chest.
“No, Zack. You are a very sick man. Catastrophic decompression is not something the body shrugs off in one afternoon. It will take time.”
“Can I at least receive visitors?”
“Sure. Do you wish me to send out invitations?”
“Hell, no. Just ask the first officer if she has time to see me.”
Nihao frowned.
“You enjoy living dangerously, Zack?”
He shrugged. “I want to find out more about this supposed accident.”
“Why supposed?”
“I think Raisa Darhad is wrong. I can’t figure why, but she is.”
“Perhaps you imagine things. Who would go to such lengths to kill you?”
“Yeah,” Decker replied, eyes half-closed in thought, “who?” Alers was who, but he didn't do it alone. Not by a long shot.
*
“You wanted to speak with me, Gunner?” Raisa Darhad stood beside Zack's bunk, hands clasped behind her back. They were alone in the cabin and for once, she didn’t try to manipulate the ex-Marine with her pheromones. Even predatory females had enough mercy to give wounded males a chance to recover. She needed to concentrate on his feelings right now, and they were clouded enough with pain that she didn't need sexual arousal as well.
“Yes, sir. Would you repeat what you told me when I woke last night, just after you recovered me from the launcher?”
She nodded and did as asked, repeating her statement word for word. It matched what Zack remembered.
“May I speak frankly, sir?”
“Certainly, Gunner.” She could almost smell the skepticism. Decker was no fool.
“Let's cut the crap, Mister Darhad. You know it was a set-up and not an accident, though your explanation was plausible.”
“And what makes you speak thus, Gunner?” She didn't seem offended at his tone or words, rather the contrary.
“Something you said yesterday that didn't fit, sir. You said I was fixing the command board when the housekeeping program went overboard. There's no way for you to know. I didn't find out the launcher had a busted board until I got there, and I fixed it on the spot so you wouldn't even notice the job. No spare parts lying around.”
She nodded, smiling her predatory smile again.
“Go on.”
“Housekeeping programs don't develop unexpected glitches like that either, especially when the systems have triple safety checks. I distinctly remember the hatch slamming shut and the venting start the moment I shoved the board back into its slot. If I had to booby trap the launcher bay, I probably wouldn't have done it any different. Whoever did it rigged the board's I/O feeds to the compartment housekeeping subroutine. The moment the circuit was re-established, puff! It's not very hard to do if you know how.”
Darhad arched her eyebrows.
“Impressive, Gunner. That is indeed what I found when I investigated. I realized it was the command board you worked on because that is where your scent was strongest. I did not discover the 'booby trap' as you call it, until this morning, though it is circumstantial evidence at best, and will never satisfy an official investigation. It will not come to that, anyhow.”
“Who did it, and why?” Scent? Somehow, the thought of Raisa Darhad literally sniffing around the launcher bay was disturbing.
“I couldn’t say. At least not for sure.”
“Alers?”
“Possible. But he would not have been able to do it himself.”
“Yeah, there's that. The bugger's too stupid. Good only for strong-arming the crew. He must have had help somewhere along the line. So what're you going to do?”
“First, as per the captain's orders, treat this incident as an accident. Anything more and we would open ourselves to an official investigation, at the minimum by transportation safety inspectors from the government. We don't want this as you can imagine. Second, you will stay in your cabin until we reach Wyvern. Considering your state that is necessary anyway. Third, the bosun will be beached at Wyvern. He has become increasingly unstable and is creating more and more chaos on the lower deck. The captain has already radioed ahead for a replacement.”
“And what about whoever helped the bastard?”
“Short of interrogating Alers, I have no way of finding out but -”
“Leave him to me, Raisa, leave him to me. It'll be Sonoda for sure.”
“As I was saying, Mister Decker,” she frowned, reminding Zack that such familiarity was acceptable only on liberty, not on the ship, “I have no way of finding Alers' helpers, but with him out of the way, I doubt we shall have any more problems. The other, ah, suspects don't have reason to act alone. And please keep any accusations against superior officers to yourself. Anything else?”
“Yeah.” Zack locked eyes with her. “One more thing. You know little about me, I haven't served with you more than a couple of weeks. Yet you’re already taking care of me as if I was an old mate, which is strange since I seem to attract more than my share of trouble. Why?”
“That’s simple, Zack. We need your skills,” she answered calmly, as if she had been expecting the question, “and value your abilities. You have more experience and discipline than most on this ship, and you have already proven you were trustworthy.”
And not only because of your reaction to the contraband, my friend. Your emotions are easy to read. You are open and guileless, almost a cub which is just as rare in this business as a Master Gunner.
“The universe is a dangerous place, especially for merchant ships with our sort of business interests. Few have the luxury of hiring someone like you, and that is a luxury we wish to keep. If you had not been as efficient or as dedicated, we might not have been so solicitous.”
Decker nodded. That was an explanation he could accept. It reeked of enlightened self-interest, which he expected from people who lived to make a profitable run. Very well then, he would strive to return their confidence by doing his job well, which he couldn't from his bed. But orders were orders.
“You had better sleep now, Zack. We dock at Wyvern in seven days, and we will need you to perform your duties when we arrive. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?”
Yeah, Zack thought, you can strip naked and jump in bed with me now. I’ll be feeling better in no time.
He caught an indefinable glint in her eyes as she waited for an answer. A small, wry smile formed on her lips, and Decker had the eerie sensation that she knew what he had just been imagining.
“There is something you can do,” he said, looking away, trying to cover his embarrassment. “I wouldn't mind having a reader with access to the ship's data banks, and a channel to monitor my station's activities by remote. That way, if we get in trouble, I can help without getting up.”
“As you wish, Gunner,” she nodded once, the smile never leaving her face. “But we have crossed back into Commonwealth space and should be safe from marauders.”
“Take nothing for granted, sir. That way we'll all stay alive longer.”
“So far, you seem to be successful. I shall try to visit you at least once a watch. Would you like that?”
“Very much, sir,” Decker grinned.
“Until later then.”
*
An alarm siren broke through Zack's unsettled sleep, and his first reaction was to pull his blaster from its recessed shelf above the bunk. But as he woke, he realized it wasn't the battle stations siren. It was the emergency call. Before he could climb out of bed and pull on some clothes, the alarm stopped.
He flicked on the intercom above his head. “Bridge, this is the gunner. What's the problem?”
“Fourth officer here, Mister Decker. There's been an accident in the cargo hold. One of the containers broke free of its magnetic clamps and shifted.”
Zack's eyebrows shot up. Two unexpected and unusual accidents within days of each other.
“Anybody hurt?”
“Yeah. The bosun was crushed. He's dead.” Gareth's voice held little regret for Alers.
“Thanks. Gunner, out.”
Decker slumped back in his bed, lost in thought. Accident or murder? Magnetic clamps weren't supposed to fail just like that. And exactly at the moment Alers was walking by on his daily inspection of the hold? What the hell was happening?
*
Darhad came by a few hours later to check on Zack’s condition.
“You heard about the accident, I presume?” Her face was expressionless, and if Decker read Arkanna body language properly, guileless.
“Yeah. Can’t say I’m sorry to see the bastard gone. I’ll leave the pious hypocrisy to others. How did it happen?”
“One of the magnetic clamps failed in the last day or so. The other one was not strong enough to prevent the container from shifting under the vibrations of the engines. It was unfortunate that the second clamp gave up the struggle just as Alers was passing by.”
“Unfortunate indeed,” Decker murmured, narrowed eyes watching Darhad with suspicion.
She noticed his reaction and shook her head.
“It was a straightforward accident. I found no signs of tampering. The captain ordered an inspection of every clamp, and we found several more showing excessive wear.”
“Convenient. It saves me the trouble of killing him myself.”
“As you say, Gunner.”
Somehow, he didn’t believe the she-wolf. His ‘accident’ wasn’t one, and neither was Alers’. But it solved his particular problem and put the bosun’s accomplice on notice, so who was he to dig any further?
*
By the time Shokoten skipped out of hyperspace, Zack Decker was back at his accustomed station on the bridge. He still experienced discomfort, but most of the bruising had faded. The intervening week had been very educational for the former Pathfinder. He was now as well acquainted with the ship as her master, if not more so.
“We have contact with Wyvern control,” the fifth officer’s raspy voice rang out from the navigator’s station. “Transmitting approach trajectory now.” A few moments later, “course laid in and beaconed. ETA in four hours.”
“Thank you, Mister Sladek. Stand down from emergence stations. Please tell me when we have our landing window. You have the con.”
“Captain.”
Strachan left the bridge and Sladek slipped into the vacated chair, slaving the navigation readout to the small display screen in the chair’s arm. Zack decided to try out a few ideas he’d had while he was laid up. He spent the next few hours reprogramming the fire control system until it would do what he wanted.
*
Wyvern finally hove into sight, and the captain reclaimed his chair for the delicate landing procedure. With only fifty million inhabitants, it was still an open, pleasant, and unpolluted planet, and Decker was looking forward to a bit of civilized liberty. But it was not to be.
If the change of cargo had been relatively swift on Pradyn, one of the technobarbarian worlds, it was even more so on an orderly and well-governed human planet.
Robots quickly unloaded the containers less than two hours after touchdown at the busy Draconis Spaceport, and Zack barely had time to run a full check of the hold before the outbound cargo was brought on board. But since Captain Strachan and Nihao Kiani, had business ashore, their departure wasn’t scheduled until the wee hours of the morning.
The officers, save for Sonoda and Kiani, ate supper together at the Guildhall's Officer's Club. Only one thing disturbed Decker's brief bout ashore, and that was the annoying sensation of being observed, just as on Pradyn. Though Zack tried, he couldn't see anyone suspicious.
When they returned on board, Decker met the new bosun. She was a no-nonsense woman of indeterminate age with a face hewn from granite. Her platinum blond hair was cut so short, it nearly vanished against her pale scalp, and her gray coveralls looked like they'd been painted on her muscular, short body. She wore a small silver ring through her left nostril.
Bosun Lorena Kader would prove a lot easier to get along with than Alers. She treated Warrant Officer Decker the way a petty officer should: with respect for rank and ability. When Zack wanted three bodies for this job or the other, three bodies would show up, ready and five minutes early. Kader and Decker spoke little beyond pure business, but they were comfortable enough dealing with each other, like any pair of old noncoms.
*
Shokoten lifted twenty-four hours after arriving, this time, headed for Itrul, in the Protectorate Zone, as the badlands wedged between Commonwealth and Empire were known.
“Do you know Itrul, Zack?” Captain Strachan asked, sitting back in his chair. They had jumped to hyperspace a few hours ago and were sailing along smoothly. It would be a long trip, and Zack wondered why their contractors hadn't used a ship and a departure planet closer to the Protectorate. There was enough business headed for the Shield Cluster that Shokoten didn't have to go trolling for cargoes, like a tramp, and live on narrow profit margins.
“No sir, not personally. But I’ve learned enough about the Protectorate and most of the major worlds to find my way.”
The Protectorate Zone received its name from the fact that it was under neither human nor Shrehari domination, but covertly patrolled by both. It represented what cynics called the perfect example of the military winning the war and the politicians losing the peace.
At the end of the last war with the Shrehari Empire, the Navy controlled most of the Protectorate. But the Treaty of Ulufan, astonishingly, relinquished all human interest in the zone, in return for two marginal star systems no one wanted or needed.
Now, the Commonwealth and the Empire used the Protectorate to wage covert war by proxy. Detractors maintained the SecGen of the day had given up the Protectorate under pressure from wealthy friends. They could make more money, more tax-free money, by dealing with so-called independent alien worlds than with Commonwealth members.
“Nasty little place, the Protectorate, and Itrul is nastier than most,” Decker continued, staring into the amber whiskey at the bottom of his glass. “A lot of Itrulans hire out as mercs and marauders. Not bad either, but fucking ruthless, the kind to eat a vanquished enemy's heart raw, with the enemy still alive and attached to it. I've fought the bastards, and I don't like 'em much. They're unpredictable and very dangerous. What are we doing there?”
“Another special cargo,” Raisa Darhad answered.
“You mentioned, a while ago,” Strachan said, stroking his beard, “that you had a few ways to disguise a container's contents from a scanner.” Zack's head snapped up, and he looked at the captain with suspicion. “Well, now is the time to put that knowledge to good use. The Navy and the Constabulary patrol the Protectorate borders much more than the frontier along the Shield Cluster, and there’s a decent chance we'll be inspected.”
“What sort of cargo?” Zack asked in a hard tone. It had better not be anything he wouldn't like.
Darhad glanced at Decker, her eyes narrowed as if she were evaluating him. Again, he had the impression she had divined his thoughts. He shrugged off the feeling as the captain spoke again.
“I would rather you find out, Mister Decker.” He smiled. “With this.” Strachan held up a Mark Nine battlefield sensor. “It will also give you, and us, a chance to verify your camouflage.”
Won't do shit for you, Diego ol' buddy. The guys who'll inspect this ship on the Commonwealth side of the border carry Mark Tens, and without a Mark Ten to check my cammo, I can't even begin to guarantee results. Unless, of course...
“You don't look all that happy, Zack,” Strachan raised a questioning eyebrow as he placed the sensor on his desk.
“Ah yes, Captain,” Darhad murmured, “I believe our dear gunner is wondering how in damnation he is to hide contraband using a Mark Nine as a check, when the border patrols use the new Mark Ten equipment.”
Decker started violently and stared at the first officer who smiled, revealing those sharp teeth.
“That's right,” Zack stammered to cover his surprise.
How the fuck did they find out about Mark Tens. They're still classified. What the hell am I going to do now? This is another test of loyalty, right? Meaning do it or you'll blow your chances at keeping this berth, and possibly even your life.
“The Mark Nine isn't nearly as sensitive as a Ten,” he said, voice steady and unemotional. “But I can boost the Nine's gain to squeeze enough out of it so that in the hands of an expert, it'll be almost as good as a Mark Ten in the hands of your average constable or trooper.” Which modifications were illegal, of course. Especially since the gain increase pointed the way towards new technology and that could be called a security violation by your local judge advocate general. But then, Decker shouldn’t be able to pull off the trick in the first place.
“Well, Zack, I believe you have work ahead of you. We have a full week before we reach the border area, and another three, maybe four days more before we cross the line. Is that enough time?”
“Sure, Captain. I'll have this baby ready in, say, two or three days. After that, another day and your containers will be as well camoed as I can manage. Not that it'll be perfect,” he warned.
“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 coming 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 whose experience with starlane scum was minimal.
*
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, no other Fleet or Constabulary ship would bother them 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. Oorah!
Decker grimaced and returned to his cabin.
