Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  “Contained?” Henricksen leaned forward, eyes locked on the back of Shin’s head. “Is it contained, Shin?”

  “Hang on! Hang on!” Shin sorted like mad, swapping one set of data for another. “Aye sir! We lost the compartments in Sector 4, but the blast doors closed, protecting the rest of the ship.”

  Four. Cargo bay. Barracks on Tier 6.

  “Casualties?” Henricksen closed his eyes, bracing himself for the worst.

  “Twenty-eight confirmed dead. Med bay’s got another sixteen reporting injured.” Shin swapped data screens, scrolling through the reports from the lower levels. “Looks like thirty-four more unaccounted for, sir.”

  Seventy-eight crew, out of a complement of three hundred and twelve.

  “Damn. God damn.” Henricksen curled his hand into a fist, pounding it against the panel. “Hecate.” He raised his head, searching for the camera. “Can you—”

  “Movement. We’ve got movement,” Duclose warned as the schematic on the front window lit up.

  “Jesus Bloody Christ, what now?”

  A check of the windows showed the ships outside shifting, thrusters firing as they muscled their bodies around. Henricksen turned his eyes toward the glass and found himself staring down the long nose of a Starstrider—long haul merchanter vessel, not all that different from the cargo pushers he crewed once upon a time.

  “Brace!” he yelled, convinced the ship meant to ram them. The Starstrider’s engines firing, shoving the ship close. He grabbed at panels, anticipating the impact, but a flash of light and the Starstrider disappeared, flipping past Hecate in one of those short-hop jumps.

  Reappeared just a second or two later—nose onto a Titan named Turnbull waiting with the rest of the Meridian Alliance ships behind them—and collided with the smaller, stationary vessel. Sub-light momentum carrying the Starstrider along at speed, all but obliterating Turnbull when it hit.

  Scan recorded every last detail of the collision, rearward facing cameras transmitting the horrible scene to the crew. The Starstrider slammed head on into Turbull, burrowing straight through the Titan. Munitions detonating, taking the propulsion system with them. A flare and everything inside the Titan exploded, destroying both ships in a flare of cobalt fire.

  “No,” Henricksen breathed, watching Turnbull die.

  A second flash—this one in front of them, glare lighting Hecate’s bridge through the front windows—and a second ship disappeared, launching itself into jump. Passenger transport vessel, this time. Blinking out of existence only to reappear a few seconds later with an Aurora directly in its path.

  The transport vessel hit hard, but off-center, scraping along the Aurora’s starboard side. Tearing most of her hull plating away in the process, exposing the bones of her superstructure beneath.

  Puffs of atmosphere, all along the Aurora’s damaged side. She jigged hard, turning away from the transport vessel, hauled over and let momentum carry it past.

  “What’s wrong with them?” Shin whispered, eyes wide with horror. “Why are they doing that?”

  “They don’t have any choice.” Hecate threw a data window onto the glass, highlighting several repeating strings of information.

  No consciousness on board the transport vessel—that’s what that data said. No AI running any of the ships out there. No life of any kind inside the Perseid jammed into Hecate’s side.

  “Drones.” Henricksen stared at the camera, shaking his head in disbelief. “DSR droned ’em. Killed off the AI and just…left them.”

  “Here,” Hecate said pointedly. “Knowing we’d find them. A trap, Henricksen. They set a trap and we—”

  “Waltzed right into it,” he said bitterly. “Sneaky-ass bastards knew we couldn’t resist.”

  Under other circumstances, he might have appreciated what they’d done. The complexity of what the DSR had pulled off. But not right now. At the moment he was too damn pissed off.

  “Shin. Status.”

  “Engines are compromised. Life support’s holding, but the Perseid sheared through the weapons systems. We’ve got forward batteries, that’s it.”

  And those slaved to Sikuuku’s Artillery pod, which just happened to be stuck.

  “What’s the status on those TSGs, Hecate?”

  “Stuck in an elevator with your techs. Crew’s trying to fix it. I’ve got a couple more working their way through the ladderways.”

  “Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.” Henricksen closed his eyes, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Get those engines on-line, Shin. This is a severely unsafe place to be at the moment. I want out of here, understand me? Quick as you can.”

  “Aye, sir.” Shin got down to business, fingers flying as she worked away at her panel.

  And outside, the ships kept disappearing, Hecate’s bridge flickering with intermittent flares of brightest, bright light as engines ignited, skipping the droned ships away.

  Flinging them past her to Seychelles and the ships she brought with her. A small fleet, desperately maneuvering, comms filled with chatter as the Meridian Alliance ships shifted about.

  The wounded Aurora took a second hit in the middle of all that shucking and jiving—a glancing blow at her center that wiped out her bridge pod, causing her to veer sharply off-line. Ended up in the path of a Titan named Shylock—crashed right into the poor bastard, disc-shaped body forced onto one of the Titan’s spear points—and stuck there. The two Fleet ships helplessly twined together, forming a nice, fat target that the droned ship plowed into, taking both ships out at once.

  “Bastards.” Henricksen shaded his eyes as the Aurora’s munitions cache erupted, compromised plasma shells popping off like fireworks, destroying all three ships at once. “DSR’s too goddamn scared to face us in a real fight, so they send these booby-trapped junk heaps after us. Where the hell are they anyway?”

  “No telling,” Hecate told him. “Droned ships. Could be just about anywhere.”

  “Cowards,” he spat, glaring at the ships outside.

  Smart cowards—he’d give them that. Smart enough to set all this up and know just how to draw them in, but cowards just the same.

  Henricksen hated cowards. Hated anyone too scared or prissy to get their hands dirty once in a while.

  “Sir!” Farrow surfaced from Comms, visored face turning his way. “Message from Seychelles. She’s inbound with the rest of her ships.”

  “Well, hallelujah! Happy to have the rescue. Shin!” Henricksen called. “Where are we with those engines?”

  “Main propulsion’s operational. Just,” she added, looking around. “Still got that ship stuck in us, but I think we can navigate our way out of here.”

  “Wonderful! Best news I’ve gotten all day. Shaheen. Get us out of here,” Henricksen ordered as another ship jumped.

  That one plowed through two Auroras and exploded, narrowly missing Seychelles in the process.

  “Is it just me, or is their aim getting better?” Henricksen asked, watching the carnage through one of the rearward facing cameras.

  Silence from Hecate—not like her at all.

  Henricksen glanced up, wondering at that. Decided it might be a good idea to give the Valkyrie a warning. “Farrow. Dial up Seychelles—”

  “Already done, sir. Seychelles sends—” Farrow paused, frowning, wrist flicking in a short, sharp gesture. “Ships inbound.”

  Henricksen spun, throwing a sharp look at Comms. “DSR or friendlies?”

  Farrow held up a hand, shaking her head. Listened a moment and nodded just once. “Meridian Alliance. They’re Fleet, sir.” She pointed at the windows as a dozen dark disturbances appeared—a swirling void of inky blackness marking a hyperspace buckle, silver-sided warships sliding through in the distance.

  Engines lighting, glowing cobalt blue against the dark of space as they raced toward Seychelles and her tiny fleet of ships. Toward Hecate trapped amongst the droned vessels the DSR had left behind, her own engines stuttering on the edge of complete failure as she desper
ately tried to escape.

  “Reinforcements.” Henricksen flicked his eyes to Hecate’s camera. “That Seychelles’s doin’? Callin’ ’em in so quick?”

  “No,” Hecate told him. “Seychelles sent no summons.”

  Henricksen shivered, body gone cold all over. “Who?” he asked, but Hecate’s camera just stared. Shifted, pointing at the windows as a panel on the Command Post flashed, displaying a long list of Meridian Alliance vessels: Shiloh and Anatolia, Harker and Cicatrix, a whole host of others. Four Titans and six Auroras in total, and following behind them—last to clear the buckle from hyperspace, last name on that list—came a hulking, familiar shape.

  “Gogmagog.”

  Henricksen stared at the name on his panel—awed, disturbed, wondering why Brutus would send a Dreadnought, especially this Dreadnought, to deal with a situation like this. Not that he wasn’t grateful—Gogmagog come in like a freight train, battered chassis prickling with cannons and conning towers, Fleet-wide comms blaring as he ordered ships out of his way—but it was overkill, sending a bruiser like Gogmagog to deal with less than a dozen droned ships.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” he whispered. “Why would Brutus send Gogmagog of all ships?”

  “Not Brutus,” Hecate told him. “Cadmus. Gogmagog’s Cadmus’s boy.”

  And the Bastions eternally bickering, vying for Cerberus’s favor. Sending Gogmagog just another part of their stupid turf war. Cadmus’s way of muscling in on Brutus’s operation and winning some glory points with Cerberus: the admiral in charge of the Meridian Alliance Fleet.

  “Seychelles won’t like this,” Hecate noted.

  “No. I don’t suspect she would.” Henricksen grimaced, caught up in Fleet politics and hating every minute of it. “Personally, as long as we get us out of this in one piece, I really don’t care.”

  Another droned ship shot away as he spoke, slammed into Ostea guarding Seychelles front quarter and passed right through her, clipping the tail off Coriolanus before spinning off into space.

  “Shaheen. We need to get moving.”

  “I’m trying,” Shaheen growled, voice filled with frustration. “But the engines are screwed to hell and that bastard Perseid is fucking everything up.”

  “Well then, un-fuck it,” Henricksen ordered. “Ships out there are suiciding like crazy. Last place I wanna be—”

  “Shit, shit, shit! Sir! The Cepheid!” Duclos twisted, pale face drained of all color, slim finger pointing at the silver orb floating outside the windows. “There’s—There’s something…”

  “What?” Henricksen snapped as Duclos trailed off. “What something?”

  “Energy signature. Big one. Building inside it.”

  “Inside it,” Henricksen repeated, staring numbly out the windows.

  Cepheid. Science ship. Nuclear reactor at its core. Massive amounts of energy. Enough radiation if it blew to kill them a hundred times over.

  “Fuck. We’re so fucked,” Sikuuku said, as a crack appeared around the Cepheid’s middle, the two halves of the orb separating, causing the energy signature to spike.

  “Shaheen!”

  Hecate’s body shuddered and lurched forward, main propulsion miraculously coming to life. Slewed hard to port, the Perseid in Hecate’s side dragging like an anchor, slowly pulling her around.

  “Fuck,” Henricksen swore, watching that crack in the Cepheid widen. Releasing a cloud of shining metal objects hidden inside.

  Specks like diamond dust at this distance. Glinting in the starlight. Flashing mirror-like as yet another droned ship short-jumped away.

  “What is that?” Duclos whispered, toggling the camera controls, swapping one video feed for another.

  “Don’t know, don’t care, don’t wanna stick around to find out. Shaheen!” Henricksen shouted. “Full power. Now, please.”

  “I can’t—I’m trying, god dammit!”

  “Fuck trying and just do it, Shaheen, or we’re all gonna—”

  “Henricksen.” Hecate’s serene voice cut right through the panic. The noise and voices cluttering up the bridge. She looked at him, and turned her camera toward the windows as a blinding flare lit up the bridge. “Hold on,” she told them, a split seconds before a second ship slammed into her, breaking her body in half.

  Three

  Henricksen pitched forward, launched clear across the Command Post, landing on the hard, unforgiving floor on the other side. Lay there for a long time, dazed and blinking in the darkness that followed—an inky black terror that went on, and on, and on.

  Listened to the crew screaming around him and wondered how many were dying. How many were already dead. If the darkness around him would ever end.

  Blood intruded eventually, some indeterminate amount of time later. Emergency lights dousing the bridge in a flickering, fading glow. Environmentals came and went, fans stuttering and stopping, roaring to life before shutting back down and starting the whole process over again. The klaxons—those screaming sirens that Henricksen so hated—squawked intermittently, rising and falling as the power ebbed and flowed. Fires brokes out, prompting the automated systems to kick in, ordering Hecate’s crew to the lifeboats as smoke and flame consumed her compartments, filling the bridge with a grey-black haze that snaked and swirled. A river of blood caught in the glow of the emergency power’s lights.

  Henricksen coughed, blinking as the smoke stung his eyes. Rolled over and pushed to his knees—arms shaking, vision doubling, sight wavering in and out.

  Touched at something warm and wet, slithering down his cheek and felt his fingers come away drenched into a tacky, slick substance. Turned his hand over and stared uncomprehendingly at the blood coating his palm.

  “Shaheen. Get us out of here,” he rasped, gathering his legs under him, shoving to his feet. Swaying once he got there, feeling decidedly unsteady, blinking hard until his eyes grudgingly agreed to focus. “Shaheen!” He tottered around, screams filling his ears—deep-throated shrieks of anger and agony, tinged with panic and fear. “Shaheen,” he repeated, coughing on a smoky breath, waving a hand to clear the air in front of his face. “Report!”

  Another step and he fetched up against Helm’s panel. Glanced down and found Shaheen staring back at him—dark eyes unblinking, neck turned at an impossible angle.

  Dead, apparently. Wholly, completely, irrevocably gone.

  He stood there a while, trying to understand that. Shuffled his feet—unsteady still, vision threatening to cut out at any moment—and set off into the smoke and blood darkness, following the shrieking noise of screaming to the battered remains of Hecate’s Artillery pod, and found Sikuuku trapped inside.

  Fenced in, crumpled metal panels pinning him down. Flames dancing all around it, slipping in to eat through the heavy material of the gunner’s dark blue uniform. Gnaw at arms, chew at legs.

  “Help me,” he begged, choking on pain, banging on the pod’s remains from the inside.

  Henricksen grabbed at the crushed and crumpled metal, tearing at the panels with his bare hands. “Hang on,” he grunted, yanking hard, trying to clear the bulky, broken panels away. “Hang on. Just hang on!” he repeated as Sikuuku screamed louder—pissed off, hurting, desperate to get out.

  The pod resisted them, being purpose-built to survive a warship’s abuse, so Henricksen redoubled his efforts. Tugged and twisted, putting everything he had left in him into trying to bust the pod’s broken panels loose. Hands shaking with the effort, veins standing out in his neck.

  Nothing moved at first. Not even an inch. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, the panel Henricksen held gave way.

  He stumbled backward, completely off-balance, clutching a crumpled square of metal in his hands. Chucked it aside and reached for Sikuuku as he spilled out onto the bridge, knocking them both to the floor.

  Henricksen lay there, panting harshly, vision a mess of spiky-edged points of dark nothingness, like starbursts in reverse. Sucked in a smoke filled breath and felt Sikuuku writhe atop him—moaning rag
gedly, thick arms tucked up against his chest.

  He wrapped his arms around him and rolled over, laying Sikuuku flat on his back. Found blood on his face, obscuring the tattoos on his cheeks. More blood on his wrists and ankles, forearms and shins. Raw, blistered flesh peeking through his uniform’s burnt remains. Breath hitching in choking gasps. Dark eyes filled with immeasurable pain.

  “Hold on,” Henricksen said, laying a hand on the gunner’s shoulder. “Just hold on. Gonna get you some help.”

  Sikuuku choked, nodding, as Henricksen yelled into the blood and grey, praying someone would answer. Hoping they weren’t all like Shaheen.

  “Shin! Farrow!” he croaked, coughing on a smoke-filled breath. “Get over here!”

  A sound of scrabbling followed by movement to one side—a dark figure in a dark uniform crawling across the floor. Shin appeared first, wide-eyed and terrified, dark strip of fabric—undershirt from her uniform, by the looks of it—wrapped around her face, covering her nose and mouth. “Sir,” she said, coughing lightly.

  “Med kit.” Henricksen waved to a panel on the wall.

  “Aye, sir.” Shin scooted across the room and tore the panel away. Hustled back clutching a metal case to her chest and dropped down to the floor.

  No sign of Farrow anywhere—Henricksen tried not to think what that meant.

  “Morphaux. Single dose,” he ordered, shifting to one side.

  Synthetic opioid—morphine, but stronger. Less addictive than that old school drug.

  Shin nodded, scooting in at Sikuuku’s side. Tore the med kit open and dug through the contents searching for the morphaux injector, while Henricksen slid his hands under the gunner’s shoulders. Lifting him carefully, ever so carefully. Murmuring apologies as he slowly, painfully, sat the gunner both up.

  “Easy, buddy, easy,” he whispered as Sikuuku shivered, moaning aloud. “I got ya. I got ya. Shin’s got somethin’ here to help ya out.”