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“Strip.”
Zack gave Ducote a crooked grin, his hands still held up at shoulder level, palms outward. The trader did not smile back. Though outwardly calm, her washed-out blue eyes betrayed anxiety and irritation. Decker had ruined what should have been an entirely normal lift and thrown her life into turmoil and she resented him for it.
“Why, Captain, we barely know each other,” he replied.
“To borrow one of your expressions, Mister Decker – funny guy. Now strip so I can see you have no hidden weapons.” Her voice was as hard and sharp as freshly hewn quartz.
“And put me at a psychological disadvantage. A stark-naked man with his privates flopping about will feel embarrassed, humiliated, or just plain uncomfortable, which from your point of view is dandy. Good move, Captain.”
“Indeed, Mister Decker. I’m glad you approve.”
Her sarcasm bounced off Zack without leaving a trace.
After climbing aboard the ship, she had steered him down a narrow and short corridor to a tiny cabin aft of the cockpit. Everything seemed small aboard Demetria, except her cargo holds. From what he had seen, the ship's living area was smaller than an average bungalow. But she looked to be in good repair and was spotlessly clean, for all that she showed signs of wear and tear on her bare metal bulkheads and decks.
As he undressed, Zack examined Captain Ducote. A tall, strong-boned woman, she was handsome rather than pretty, with a square face, strong chin, hawk nose, and pale skin. Her long, straw-colored hair was pleated and draped into a crown at the back of her head. Pale blue eyes sat beneath eyebrows so light they seemed bleached. She wore clean, dark blue coveralls that molded her body like a second skin.
Noticing his speculative gaze, she snapped, “Make it quick, Mister Decker. I have a lift window to meet, and you’re delaying us. Remember what I said. Disobey me once and I space you. Or down here, throw you to your enemies.”
He knew she didn't mean it. For all her coldness, she didn't look like a killer. But Zack knew she would kill to defend herself, and with the same sangfroid, she had shown so far. He obeyed, dropping his clothing, item by item, into a small pile at his feet, until he was stark naked. The bare decking felt cold under his feet, but he repressed a shiver, standing nonchalantly, as if his nakedness in front of a strange woman didn't matter. Decker grinned again.
“Like what you see, Captain?”
She made a face. “I've seen much better, Mister Decker.”
Zack shrugged. “Then you’re a lucky woman.”
Ducote ignored the reply as she picked up his clothes, the gun still pointing steadily at Decker. When she was done, she stepped back into the corridor.
“You should lie down during lift-off. Demetria is much more maneuverable than Shokoten, and I enjoy piloting her. I shall bring you food once we’ve left orbit.”
With that, the cabin door hissed closed. Zack didn't bother trying it. He knew Ducote would have made sure it was locked. He shrugged and stretched out on the bunk, oblivious to the chill and discomfort.
The immediate danger had passed and now, like a proper Marine, he took his rest while he had a chance, and fell sound asleep, his body, and spirit exhausted by the events of the long and tragic day.
*
The cabin door whooshed open. Decker, who was lying on his back, hands behind his head, glanced over and smiled.
“Had a decent lift-off?” He had woken briefly, while the pressure of climbing out of Pacifica's gravity well had tried to mash him into the bunk, but had fallen asleep again when Ducote had switched to artificial gravity. It had been a smooth departure, professionally executed.
She tossed him a bundle of clothes.
“Get dressed, Mister Decker. I’ve decided I would rather risk losing the psychological advantage I hold over you than seeing you naked all the time.”
Zack bit his tongue, repressing a smart comeback that would not have endeared him to the dour woman. But his smile grew larger.
“Thank you, Captain. And you can call me Zack.”
“I think we should forego familiarity, Mister Decker. After all, your recent behavior has not given me any cause to consider you friendly.”
He gave her an amiable shrug. “Suit yourself.” Without further comment, he pulled on the clothes under Ducote's watchful eyes and unwavering blaster.
He checked his trouser and shirt pockets. Ducote had emptied them. When she noticed his gestures, she said, “I will return your property when I put you ashore, minus, of course, the price of your passage.”
“And when will that be?”
“On Santa Theresa; or if you fear for your life there, at the port of call after that one. A free trader lives on a narrow margin, and I cannot afford to make a detour only to drop you off.”
“It'll be a long trip, under the circumstances, keeping a virtual prisoner under watch and under lock. I'm not about to hijack your ship because I wouldn't know how to sail her. I'm just a Marine gunner with some naval skills, and I don't go for rape. If a woman doesn't want me, there are always others who do.”
Ducote cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him.
“You have a high opinion of your charms, Mister Decker,” she said in a dry tone. “Come. We will break our fast. The ship is on autopilot until we reach the jump point.”
“Listen, Captain, not that I'm impressionable, but could you stop pointing that gun at me? It'll help lower the tension in here and help my digestion.”
She glared at him with her cold eyes and then glanced down at the blaster. With a shrug, she tucked it into her coverall's cargo pocket.
“I suppose you have a point, Mister Decker. You will have to tell me how you came to own an Imperial Armaments fifteen millimeter in such good condition.”
Zack grinned. “You seem to know your guns pretty well. I'm impressed. Few people would recognize Shrehari hardware.”
“One sees many things as a free trader and hears much more. Perhaps that’s why I agreed to take you off Pacifica because your story didn’t sound as far-fetched to me as it would to the master of a company ship. However, my opinion could change when you tell me more over breakfast.”
Ducote led him next door to a small galley and told him to squeeze his bulk between the table and a bench fixed to the bulkhead. She might have put the blaster away, but in the time it would take for him to get out of his tight seat, she'd have a chance to empty the gun's magazine into his body.
She shoved two plastic covered packages into an autochef and programmed it. They did not speak in the minute or two it took the machine to produce a healthy, nutritious, and to Decker, bland meal. He ate with appetite nonetheless, savoring excellent coffee served in battered tin mugs.
“Thanks. That hit the spot something fierce.”
He pushed the empty tray away and slumped back against the bulkhead, sipping the black, bitter brew. Ducote grunted in reply, chewing on the last of her soyburger. When she was done, she cleaned off the small table, refilled their coffees, and sat down, hard eyes on Zack's face.
“Story time, I believe, Mister Decker. What is this danger that has you turned into a fugitive?”
“Well,” he started, “I guess it all began when they threw me out of the Fleet...”
*
“...and then I figured your ship was my best chance off Pacifica.” He concluded. “The rest you know.”
She had listened to him in silence, asking few questions. Ducote now stared into the dregs of her coffee, digesting Zack’s tale. He had told her everything because he needed her help, and she could feel that he had been entirely truthful. Or at least told her the truth as he believed it to be, which could differ from reality. What had touched her most was his expression and tone when he spoke of Raisa Darhad, his dead mate. If nothing else, that small, vulnerable part of Zack Decker had convinced her to keep an open mind.
“Have you ever thought, Mister Decker,” she said, frowning, “that you might have been maneuvered into Shokoten by Intelligence? That your friend Tren Kinnear has not completely retired after all?”
He looked thunderstruck at the idea. Then, he chuckled. But the sound was far from amused.
“You know, Kinnear always was an operator. By the gods, but that would explain a lot, including my predecessor’s death.”
“A Fleet agent who they unmasked.”
“Who Kiani unmasked. And to think she tried to make me believe Raisa did it.” He shook his head in disgust. “So the Fleet took advantage of my situation by putting me in Lokis’ place, hoping I’d be loyal enough to the old Corps to pass the word if something looked really wrong. Boy, if I ever get my hands on Kinnear, I’ll fucking kill him for sending me in blind. We always used to hate the Navy brass who did that to us when we were both in the Pathfinders.”
“Assuming you’re right,” Ducote asked, “how will you prove it? You no longer have your data chip with the sensor readings. Somehow I doubt the Fleet will try an operation against the Amalis based on your say-so, even if they put you on Shokoten to ferret such a thing out.”
“You have a point,” Zack said in a resigned tone. “With my record, no officer in his right mind will take me at my word. But before I even try to convince someone, I have to contact the right people. I can’t just walk onto the nearest base and tell them my story. They’d either throw me out on my ass or take me into protective custody as a nut case, especially without proof. What a mess.”
He fell silent and stared off into a corner of the galley, trying to control his frustration. Ducote observed him in silence and wondered what to do with him. Extraordinary as it seemed, his story was so smooth and logical that it was believable.
She had always prided herself on her ability to make quick personal judgements. It was a vital asset to a free trader whose livelihood depended on her negotiating skills. Her guts told her she should trust this man, and help him as much as she could.
“Okay, Mister Zachary T. Decker, although I don’t understand myself for once, I’ve decided to take you at face value,” her features hardened for a moment, and her voice took on an edge of steel, “for now. I will drop you off at any port you choose, provided it’s on my route. Though I will take your money for the passage, I can use another pair of hands around here. Free traders have no room for idlers. You say you know your way around a starship. I shall give you occasion to prove it.”
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 crewmember. 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, prefabricated 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 time 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.”
“Hmm.” Zack looked at the scan again, wondering whether he could disable it without ditching the valuable oil. Then, something else on the readout grabbed his attention.
“We may not have a choice,” he said, voice flat and unemotional. “This isn’t just a beacon.”
“What?” Her eyes widened in understanding. “No!”
“I’m afraid so. My guess is they want to capture or destroy us somewhere in deep space because your act down on Santa Theresa didn’t convince them. They’ll blow a hole in your cargo hold with this baby and wreck us. Then, all they have to do is reel your ship in, take us off, and blow Demetria into the next dimension. You ship will be written off as another mysterious loss.”
“Then we must dump the container.”
“Not so fast. It might have an anti-tamper device. We have to remove the one on top before anything else.”
“Easily done.” She disappeared into an alcove near the hatch and rummaged around. A few moments later, she reappeared, wearing an exoskeleton. Large arms with clawed ends hung from the top of the construct.
She maneuvered into position, sweating under the weight of the machine, and used the powerful mechanical arms to lift the upper container and deposit it to one side.
“Thanks, Avril. I need you to hold my sensor for me now.”
“Sure, hang on.” She struggled out of the frame and placed it against a bulkhead, out of the way. Perspiration ran down her pale forehead and matted her hair. Kneeling beside Zack, Ducote took the proffered instrument.
“Keep it pointed at the thing. I’m going to open it, and this baby will hopefully warn me of any anti-tamper shit before I trigger it.”
She nodded though her eyes filled with worry.
“Go ahead.”
With excruciating care, Zack snapped off the shipper’s seal and snapped the latches open, glancing at the sensor’s screen every few seconds. Sweat ran into his eyes, and he swore at the sting but didn’t stop working. Ducote, seeing his discomfort, pulled a soft bandanna from her leg pocket and gently sponged the perspiration from his face.
He lifted the lid millimeter by millimeter, searching for evidence of a booby-trap. During his career, he’d seen many types and knew he had to look for the unexpected.
“There!” He glanced at the sensor, then into the narrow opening between lid and container.
“What?” Avril’s voice was steady, but he could hear her fear.
“A laser-reflector anti-tampering device. Looks like it’s hooked to a magnetic circuit. If I have this right, the moment the container leaves the metal deck, the magnetic field holding the reflector in place breaks and the reflector slips away. The detector no longer gets a bounce-back and kaboom,” Zack explained. “Very slick.”
“Can you do anything about it?”
“Yeah. First thing, though, is move the lid out of the way.”
“Is connected to anything?”
“Yes, it is. A simple wire detonator. There.” He pointed at a hair-thin, shimmering strand in one corner. “Be a dear, Avril, and fetch the little gray plas package in my duffel bag. It contains tools that might be useful.”
“Sure.” She rose. “Zack, how long will this take? We will pass through the gas giant’s Van Allen belt soon.”
“Damn! Reset the course. No knowing what’ll happen when we enter a strong magnetic field. This thing may go on its own, or the bastard may simply send a detonate command if he loses track of us.”
“On my way, but won’t our pursuers know we’ve found something, now that we change course for the second time within an hour.”
“Can’t be helped.”
*
Ducote returned a minute or two later carrying the small package.
“We’re back on course to the jump point. Our friend is still following at the same distance.”
Decker nodded. He carefully replaced the container lid and opened Kiani's miniature tool collection. He studied the half-dozen instruments in silence.
“You know,” he remarked, “when I took these out of Nihao's locker before I jumped ship, I had no idea what they were for. I'm still not sure I do, but something tells me they're good for EOD work.”
Ducote reached over and picked one of the tools up. She examined it, frowning.
“If I might hazard a guess, Zack, this could be a negative field inducer.” Without waiting for a reply, she twisted the lower handle and waved the wand-shaped instrument in front of the sensor. “I was right.”
“Good. Keep it handy. I think I know what to do.”
Carefully, Zack lifted the lid again and examined the detonator at the end of the monofilament thread.
“Inducer.”
Ducote slapped it in his palm. Slowly, Decker slipped it into the opening, aiming its business end at the detonator.
“Scanner.”
With one hand, he adjusted the sensor's controls and looked at the readout.
“So far, so good. Please cut the thread and remove the lid. Be careful not to touch the inducer or my hand. If the negative field fails, the detonator will blow.”
She complied, and when Zack had a clear view, he grinned.
“That was the hard part. I need a plasma welder.”
A few moments later, she held up another of Kiani's tools.
“This is a precision instrument, Zack, a beautiful piece of workmanship.”
“Good. Now come around to the side and I'll show you where to cut.”
Avril nodded, unsure of her role in disarming the detonator, but she complied.
“See those sheathed fiber optic wires down there? They connect the detonator to the bomb. The bomb itself is hidden below the oil packages. Normally, I'd be afraid that cutting the wires will trip a dead man's switch and blow the thing, but we all have to die eventually, so it won't matter.” He grinned at Avril's expression.
“Just kidding. EOD man's humor. Fiber optics are too sensitive for a dead man's switch. If it were hard wiring, I'd think again, but the plasma welder will fry the optical receptors. I'd do it myself, but I can't afford to move the inducer by a millimeter.”
“Okay.” She still sounded unsure but was unwilling to show fear. Within seconds, she had sliced through the wiring. Nothing happened, and Zack slumped down on the deck, leaning against the container as he wiped the sweat from his face.
“I wouldn't exactly say explosive ordnance disposal is the most stressful work in the galaxy,” he commented wryly, “but it's right up there with antimatter bottling. I could sure use a cold beer.”
“Okay,” he continued after a few moments of silence. “The biggie now.” He leaned into the box and examined the laser reflector setup, muttering to himself. Finally, he straightened up, looking grim.
“The bad news is it's hardwired.”
“And what’s the good news.”
“I have none.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Can't cut the connection with the bomb.”
“So what's the solution?”
“Slide it out the door and down the ramp, then give it a mighty kick into the void, hoping it isn't powerful enough to tear up the hull from the outside.”
She looked at him incredulously. “And who will do the pushing?”
“Me.”
*
The hatch swung shut behind Zack's suited back, and a red light began to blink in his helmet's overhead display as Ducote started pumping the air out of the compartment. He felt his suit expand to its working girth as the air inside fought against the vacuum.
“Ready and waiting.”
“Stand by.” Her voice sounded tinny and small in the helmet's earphones.
Vibrations ran through the metal deck as the rear cargo doors opened and the ramp slid out. Decker stared at the magnificent star field for a few seconds, drawn to the void like a man on a cliff is attracted to the edge. Then, he put his weight on the container and slowly pushed across the deck, grunting with effort, muscles straining to the breaking point. He didn't dare use mechanical help for fear of accidentally lifting the container up, even if only by a millimeter and for a fraction of a second.
Slowly, strenuously, he moved the bomb across the hold and onto the edge of the ramp. Battling his fear of the void, he clipped on a safety line and resumed his painful progress. By the time he reached the end of the ramp, his guts were turning to water. The ship may have been moving at a respectable velocity, but it seemed stopped in relation to the immensity of space.
This would be the tricky part. Decker unclipped two personal spacewalk devices from his suit's belt and attached them to either side of the container, jets pointing towards the ship. Then, because he hadn't found a better way, he unrolled two strands of string, each attached to a nozzle trigger. Carefully, he backed into the ship.
“Ready.”
“Be careful, Zack.”
Decker pulled on the strings as hard as he could, triggering high-pressure nitrogen thrusters. They erupted in clouds of crystallized gas, momentarily masking the container. Then, a bright, silent explosion blotted out the stars as the bomb exploded, its magnetic anti-tampering device no longer restrained by the metal surface of the ramp.
Decker felt something hit his suit, punch through and dig painfully into his leg. Air escaped in a puff of white ice.
“Pressurize the hold, Avril. I've been hit by shrapnel,” he shouted into the commlink. “My suit's holed.”
Zack struggled to pinch the fold of material around the puncture and stop the flow of air while the cargo doors ponderously slid closed. Time seemed to ooze by like molasses while he waited for the telltale in his helmet's display to show the hold was pressurized again, his leg feeling the cold of space seep in through the hole.
A light blinked green in the corner of his eye, but it took his brain a few seconds to realize he was out of danger.
“Zack,” an insistent voice rang in his ears, “are you all right?”
“Yeah, Avril, yeah.” Decker slumped against the nearest container and breathed in deeply, his adrenaline rush crashing. “How's the ship?”
“Fine, except for the ramp. Half of it is gone.”
“You weren't going fast enough, kiddo.”
“Huh,” she snorted. “Any faster and we would have had relativistic problems. Good work, Zack. You saved our lives, and my ship.”
“Why is it, Avril old dear, that I have the impression saving your ship is a notch above saving our hides?”
“Because without the ship, we would have to walk to Dordogne.”
For some reason, that absurd statement was hysterically funny, and Zack collapsed with laughter. After a few heartbeats, Avril joined him, the tension of the last hour flowing out.
“Or,” he fought for breath, “we could always hitchhike. Maybe the guy on our tail will pick us up.”
Decker sobered up at the thought of their pursuer.
“Speaking of which, we’re not out of this yet. I'll be up in a sec.”
Two dull explosions rang through the hull and stopped him in his tracks.
“Are we under attack already?”
“No, of course not.” He could hear the amusement in her voice. “Those were the explosive bolts holding the ramp. With its lower half gone, there was no point in keeping it. If there is any justice in the universe, it will float into the other ship's path and make a big hole in her hull.”
“I think we used up our daily ration of luck just now.”
*
“The pig behind us has increased speed,” Ducote announced as Decker limped into the cockpit, a bandage around his thigh beneath red-stained coveralls.
“See?” Her finger traced his trajectory and power curve on the left screen.
“He knows we disposed of the bomb and beacon. Now all he can do is intercept. How far to the jump point?”
“Ten minutes. We will reach it before he does and then I will program a circuitous path. He’ll lose our trail after our second jump. Assuming he finds our first emergence point.”
“Good tactics, but I'll bet the bastard knows that too. Can you divert power to the guns?”
“Sure, but is he not too far away?” She asked dubiously.
“He won't be in the last minutes before we go FTL, and that's when we want to blind him, but I'm more worried about missiles right now. He will try everything he can to stop us from jumping.”
“Right.” Ducote nodded as her fingers danced over her console. “You have all defensive systems on your panel, with power at your command.”
“Roger, Captain.”
The minutes ticked by in silence until...
“There!” Zack pointed at the tactical screen. “Four missiles. By their speed, I'd judge military grade, human. Expensive bastards, but effective. Computing intercept...” Then, “Firing solution confirmed. Come to papa, little birdies.”
A low whine rang through Demetria's hull, then another and another, as her guns shot bursts of pure energy into the path of the oncoming missiles. Like a calliope, the eight barrels pumped out shot after shot, in quick succession, saturating space between the two ships.
Zack whooped as a bright flash briefly flared in the distance.
“One down, three to go!”
“Power use is affecting our jump drive spool-up, Zack,” Avril warned, her eyes fixed on her controls.
“Yeah, I know. But the only way to stop missiles is to pump as much energy into their path as you can. Our speed won't matter shit if one hits us in the ass.”
The guns whined ceaselessly as Zack cycled them through the firing sequence without pause, and a second missile exploded in a brilliant display of fireworks. Then, a red light blipped on the gunner's board.
Zack swore. “Shit! We lost number two turret. Overheated.”
He had lost twenty-five percent of his firepower, and his chances of destroying the two remaining missiles had dropped by the same factor. An amber warning light told him number three turret was about to follow. And the missiles were fast closing the range.
“How long before the jump?”
“Ninety seconds.”
“Can you make it sixty?”
“Our emergence might be off by a wide margin.”
“And our lives by an eternity if we don't. I'm about to lose the second turret, and with only four barrels, I have little hope of stopping the other two. They'll hit in a minute.”
Ducote remained silent for a few heartbeats, and then reached for the controls.
“FTL in five,” hyperspace shutters closed over the cockpit windows, “four, three,” Zack aimed his guns at the other ship, “two, one, JUMP.”
Nausea came and went, leaving a feeling of relief that made Avril sigh as she slumped back in her seat.
“That was close.”
“Naw. I've seen a lot worse.” He grinned at her. “We make a pretty decent team. That was a high power reiver on our tail, and there aren't too many who can claim they escaped their sort. I wouldn't wonder if it was the junk heap we saw on the ground. I thought she looked a bit strange for a tramp freighter.”
Ducote smiled back and nodded.
“We do make a good team. Zack, you have a berth on Demetria when this is over if you want it. And I mean that. I can use the help and the company. It's not a rich life, but I travel a lot.” She placed her hand over Zack's and squeezed, her eyes meeting his.
“I accept. When this is all over.” He didn't add if I'm still alive. But she saw the thought in his eyes.
*
The massive spindle shape of Deveaux Station hung several kilometers ahead of Demetria as they waited for the tug to lock on and pull them to their berth. They were out of danger for now, under the guns of an orbital defense platform.
The trip to Dordogne took more than two weeks. Avril had plotted a circuitous route with unexpected course changes to shake off the other ship. It had worked, though the days were tense, as Decker and Ducote took turns standing watch for any signs of pursuit.
Somewhere on the other side of Dordogne, out of sight and unreachable for a retired Marine noncom, was Starbase 26, the military station. The only Marines on board would be a military police company, but Zack still felt a twinge of homesickness at the thought of its nearness.
“Wouldn't it be simpler to have you offload at the Diogenes facility?” He asked more to derail his depressing train of thought than out of real interest.
Avril laughed, her alto sounding delightful to Decker's ears.
“They have stricter security than most naval installations. No one except the company's own shuttles dock at the orbiter.”
“You've handled stuff for them before.”
“Yes. They're most generous in their payments for a fast and safe delivery. I have a standing offer with them. Ships of Demetria's size rely on high value, luxury items for their survival, and Diogenes' raw materials, as well as their products, are about as high value as they come.”
“Means you can't afford their perfumes, eh?” Zack grinned crookedly at her.
“Go jump into a black hole, Decker.” Ducote made an obscene gesture and grinned back.
“Demetria, this is Deveaux control.” The radio crackled to life. “Stand by for tractor beam lock-on. You have docking bay number seventy-two.”
“Standing by,” Avril replied. Then, when the sensors showed positive tractor beam lock, “You have us, Deveaux control.”
“Welcome to Dordogne, Demetria, and enjoy the ride.”
A few minutes later, a muffled thump resonated through the hull as the ship mated with the wide airlock. Grappling arms held her hull fast and, essentially, she became one with the station.
“There we go. If you'll excuse me, I must see the representative to arrange offloading.”
“Alright. I'll go book myself a shuttle trip down to the Toulon spaceport, then.”
“You'll need to show your ID on the way out of the docking area. Let me do it. It'll be safer that way.”
“Thanks, Avril, but I don't think anyone will be doing me in on this station. I won't leave the public areas, I promise. See you later.”
“I hope so, Zack.”
“Hey, I'm leaving my stuff here, aren't I?”
*
The freight docks took up a full third of station, alternating between cavernous inner docks for large bulk carriers and smaller outside moorings, for ships like Demetria.
Zack took a rim corridor to the wide feeder passage that led to station's core. The passage, fifteen meters wide and ten meters high, showed heavy use. Arc lights at regular intervals banished all shadows though their intensity hurt Zack's eyes at first.
Conduits ran along the unpainted ceiling and walls, color-coded in a system that only the designers could understand. Warning signs in a dozen languages were the only decoration. The smell of hot lubricants, cold metal, and honest sweat permeated the passage.
Zack kept to a pedestrian strip marked off by a double yellow line on the deck, merging with the flow of stevedores, technicians, and merchant sailors. High-speed container carriers caromed by on repulser fields, transferring goods from deep space haulers to cargo shuttles headed for the surface.
The pedestrian strip eventually split in two, the left half continuing to the other side of the station. A string of security gates shut the right half and Zack headed for a booth marked 'new arrivals.' He slipped his ID into the reader slot beneath a flat screen displaying the logo of Deveaux station, a crowing rooster wearing a red Phrygian bonnet.
The face of a strikingly beautiful blonde woman replaced the capped fowl. She smiled at Decker, and he smiled back even though he knew she was just a computer sim.
“Ship?” She asked in a softly accented Anglic.
“Demetria.”
“Thank you, Mister Decker. I must inform you that the Merchant Guild register still shows you as a warrant officer on the MV Shokoten.”
“I changed ships on Pacifica and haven't changed my status.”
“Be sure to visit the Guildhall then, Mister Decker, and have your files updated. It's to your advantage. The Guildhall is on level fifty-two green.” Zack's ID card popped out of the slot, followed by a blue gate pass. “Have a pleasant stay on Deveaux Station.”
“Thanks.” The beautiful apparition vanished, leaving the holographic rooster to pose in its ridiculous manner.
Zack had no intention of visiting the Guildhall on Deveaux, or on Dordogne. The fewer people who knew where he was, the better. Except that now, to exit the docking area, his name was swimming in the station's data banks, but that couldn't be helped. He could rig guns and sensors beyond their legal limits, but he couldn't forge ID.
A bank of lifts and a holo map of the station beckoned a few steps from the gate. Zack called up the location of the passenger transport brokers. It was on level forty-six red, right beside the station's shop district. He stepped into a lift and punched in his destination. It disgorged him on level forty-six within moments.
The shop district was humming with activity, even though it was late in the station's night watch. Nothing commercial ever closed on Deveaux, which, like all other busy stations, lived twenty-four hours a standard day. He let the crowd flow by on either side of him for a few moments as he took his bearings, then set off to the right.
The variety of bars, stores, and restaurants was huge, catering to all budgets and tastes. Tantalizing smells hovered over the broad avenue and Zack's stomach rumbled with sudden hunger. Dordogne was renowned for its superb food, and even the blatantly commercial Deveaux was said to monitor the high standards of its restaurants.
The gunner lingered in front of a few shop windows, both to admire the elegant fashions and to look for a tail. Several stunning dresses caught his eye, and he wondered how Avril would look in them. But the prices kept him from speculating too much. That wasn't the case when he passed a lingerie shop, and it took a certain amount of willpower to corral his wandering thoughts.
At that moment, he had the eerie feeling of being watched again. It had been a while since the last time and now, with the memory of the recent past still fresh, he felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight.
Zack angled off the main concourse into a smaller boulevard on his left, intent on either spotting or shaking his tail. The crowds were much thinner here as the shops catered to a more specialized clientele, those with money burning in their pockets and tastes far removed from the mainstream. His worn leather jacket and plain black trousers made him stand out like a sore thumb among the richly dressed pleasure sailors looking for a good time.
He came to a bend in the corridor, where a floor to ceiling safety mirror had been set at an angle to prevent traffic accidents. Zack's eyes met his own worried reflection, and then he saw a man and a woman coming up behind him fast, pistols only half-hidden inside their jackets.
When they saw they'd been spotted, the man drew his gun and fired. Zack's finely honed reflexes saved him as he jumped aside and searched for a way out. The guns made no noise. A tinkle, like broken glass, drew his eyes back to the mirror. Small shards tumbled to the floor after hitting the hardened glass.
Needlers, his mind absently registered, shooting thin slivers of polymer ice. Silent and deadly. Assassins' weapons.
He sprinted down the corridor, shoving protesting merrymakers out of the way. Though he didn't dare look back, Zack knew his assailants were following him, and gaining. There was little doubt in his mind that these were Sécurité Spéciale agents. How they had found him so fast raised ugly questions about the organization's reach and resources. His name had surfaced in the data banks only minutes earlier, yet they had found him on a crowded commercial level, one level among fifty open to the public, within that time.
He veered around another corner and headed for a broad staircase leading downwards. The further he went, the fewer people he saw, which was bad, very bad. His feet rang on the fake marble steps as he took them two at a time.
The stairs abruptly ended on a grassy surface. Zack looked around, feeling worried for the first time. He had managed to go to the one place he should have avoided at all costs: the terrarium.
A cavernous chamber filled with vegetation, the terrarium was a fixture on most stations, to give spacers and station dwellers alike a taste of nature. To make it more natural, the light cycle in the terrarium followed that of the station's notional day and night watches, which meant it was dark right now, with only a smattering of fake 'stars' covering the ceiling.
There was another stairway at the opposite end, and Zack jogged down a flagstone path towards it, ears straining for the sound of his pursuers. He breathed in the fresh smells of nature: cut grass, flowers in bloom, apple trees. Muted moans came from a cluster of shrubs to his right and Decker grinned briefly.
Then, a figure suddenly appeared in his path. Though he couldn't make out features, he knew it was the woman who'd pursued him earlier with her male friend, who seemed conspicuously absent.
“Hide and seek time is over, Mister Decker,” she said, her voice rough and husky.
Zack gathered himself for a desperate lunge at the woman, but she and her companion were pros. While the man had followed him, she had taken a shortcut. Now he was caught between the two.
“Good night, Mister Decker,” an amused male voice softly chimed in from behind.
He felt the sting of a dozen mosquitoes on his neck and numbness filled his body with frightening speed until his legs gave out.
Zack Decker crumpled to the ground in an untidy heap, unable to do more than grunt. After that, his universe turned black.
