Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  Sikuuku’s smile faded, tipped over and turned into a frown. “Seriously?” He picked up one of the glasses, grimaced and set it back down. “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Princess,” Henricksen muttered, rolling his eyes.

  He picked up a glass and blew the worst of the dust from the inside. Pulled a scrap of cloth from the drawer—clean, as far as he could tell, left there by the room’s previous tenant—and wiped it down for good measure. Gave the second glass the same treatment and held both out for Sikuuku’s inspection.

  “Better? I can spit in ’em, if ya want. Clean ’em out proper.”

  Sikuuku grimaced. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.” He snagged a glass from Henricksen’s hand, spun the cap off the bottle and filled it halfway. Tipped the container over its mate and splashed a dollop of liquor inside. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his drink.

  Henricksen pulled his drink to him, cupping it loosely in his hand. Considered Sikuuku’s tattooed face sitting across from him—smiling widely, hinting at good news he was just itching to share—and the bandages peeking from beneath the cuffs of his uniform jacket. Bright and white and obviously new. A cocoon of gauze and antibiotic, antibacterial, anti-everything sterile wrappings that engulfed the gunner’s tattooed forearms, winding halfway to his shoulders.

  More bandages on Sikuuku’s lower legs, though he couldn’t see them, covering half-healed burns. Scar on Henricksen’s face the docs said they could get rid of. Wipe away like an errant spot of paint. Leave his skin soft and smooth, like that scar had never been there at all.

  “Piss off,” he’d told them when the doctors offered. “I’m keepin’ it,” he declared, much to their dismay.

  Stormed out, leaving shocked looks and muttered questions in his wake, but fuck them. No way in hell he was forgetting Hecate. Didn’t want to forget what happened. Didn’t want their baby fresh skin.

  Didn’t blame Sikuuku if he went the opposite route, though. Awful scarring from those burns. Twisted, painful-looking. Did a number on his tattoos. Fewer questions at his next assignment if he covered them over. Fewer people stopping. Staring. Wondering at those scars…

  “So.” Henricksen cleared his throat, spinning his glass on the desktop. “You make your decision yet?”

  “Maybe.” Sikuuku’s smile turned secretive, broad shoulders shrugging.

  Henricksen grunted, scooping up his glass. Sat back and studied its contents, conscious of Sikuuku’s eyes watching from just a few feet away.

  “To Hecate,” the gunner said softly, holding out his glass. “And the crew we left behind with her.”

  Henricksen grimaced, fingers curling around the glass. “Hecate,” he said, choking on the name. Lump forming in his throat. He opened his mouth and closed it, not trusting his voice. Not knowing what else to add. Leaned forward and clinked their two glasses together. Sat back and just held his drink for a while, picturing that last moment, just before the shockwave washed over Hecate, obliterating her body. Killing her AI.

  Three weeks since Hecate died, and two-thirds of her crew with her. Three weeks he’d been stuck here with Sikuuku on this grim-as-death military station watching Hecate’s surviving crew trickle away.

  Reassigned. Sent off to other ships. One by one, Hecate’s crew disappeared, leaving Henricksen and Sikuuku sitting here alone.

  Well, except for all those junior officers, of course. Whole ream of them coming and going, faces changing out every few days. And Sikuuku…well, judging by that smile on his face, he’d be shoving off to his next assignment soon. Had his choice of close to a dozen billets, experienced gunners being in short supply and high demand right now.

  Lot more gunner billets in the Fleet than captain assignments. Which left Henricksen waiting, and waiting, hoping the Fleet valued him enough to find a place for a him. Walked the station with Hecate’s patch on his shoulder—a brand that marked him, advertising exactly what he was.

  A soldier with no assignment. An officer who’d survived the death of his ship.

  “Congrats, by the way.” Sikuuku tapped at his throat, tipped his glass toward the stars on Henricksen’s collar.

  “Thanks.” Henricksen ducked his head, avoiding Sikuuku’s eyes.

  He should be happy. After all, he’d worked hard to get those captain’s stars. Fought, and bit, and kicked his way to that rank.

  Load of guilt over it, though. Not at all the way he’d imagined getting here.

  Henricksen touched at the insignia, tracing the outline of those captain’s stars. Hard-earned and a long time coming, but the rank felt empty. Worthless, without a ship to command. Especially since his last posting involved the complete destruction of an Aurora class warship, the AI inside it, and a good chunk of his crew.

  Hard to feel good about that. Impossible to celebrate a promotion with that hanging over his head.

  Then again, this celebration wasn’t his celebration. Bottle of hooch, smile on his face—Sikuuku had an assignment. No mistaking that look.

  “So what’s it gonna be?” Henricksen sampled his drink and found it to his liking, glanced at Sikuuku, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Scotch?”

  “Uh-huh. Good stuff, too. Not that bathtub swill.”

  “Where in hell did you find it?”

  Sikuuku shrugged, offering that secretive smile again. “Chief,” he explained, tapping the anchors on his collar. “I know a few people.”

  Henricksen grunted, smiling, and left it at that. Better for him if he didn’t know who these connections of Sikuuku’s were. “Well, thanks for this.” He held up his glass. “Exactly what I needed.” He sipped at his drink, drained the glass and let Sikuuku refill it. Sat back, taking the drink with him, and drew one leg up, resting his foot on the seat of his chair. Rested his arm on his knee leaving his glass dangling, hanging loosely from his fingers.

  Considered Sikuuku a moment, watching him sip at his drink, eyes roaming around the room. “I know you’ve had offers.”

  Sikuuku’s eyes snapped back to him, locking onto Henricksen’s face.

  “You gonna go with a Dreadnought or a Bastion?”

  Sikuuku hesitated, shrugged and flicked his fingers. “Passed ’em over.”

  “Really?” Henricksen thought Sikuuku would go with the Bastion for sure. “For what? One of those Valkyries like Seychelles?”

  “Maybe.” Sikuuku slouched in his chair, resting his drink on his stomach. “Still considering my options, actually.” He pursed his lips, thinking a moment, eyes flicking around the room again. Emptied his glass and refilled it, sliding the bottle Henricksen’s way. “What about you? Any promising leads?”

  “None,” Henricksen said, resentment returning. He drained his glass and grabbed the bottle, filling it back up.

  “Thought you mentioned a Bastion posting?”

  “Bastion. Right,” Henricksen snorted. “Ops boss. Not my style.”

  Didn’t fancy playing second fiddle on a Bastion, cow-towing to some other, more senior captain.

  “What about another Aurora? I know they’re commander billets but—”

  “Checked. None available. Nor likely will be for quite some time.” Henricksen sighed wearily, scrubbing his fingers through his short-clipped hair. “Could probably call in a few favors. Get a posting on a Titan, I suppose.”

  “Step down, going back to a Titan.” Sikuuku sipped at his glass, watching Henricksen from his chair.

  “Yeah. Well.” Henricksen shrugged, at a loss for words again. Already knew he wouldn’t take a Titan even if it was offered. Good ships, solid and dependable. But he’d been there, and done that, had no interest in going back.

  Honestly didn’t want another Aurora either. Didn’t help him, being a captain in a commander billet. Didn’t get him where he wanted to go.

  “Move up or move out. Fleet’s unofficial motto.” Henricksen’s lips twisted bitterly. He raised his glass and lowered it again without drinking, bowed his head and stared at the contents, swirling the Scotch in
side. “Not sure quite sure where I’m going,” he said softly, “but it’s not out.” He glanced up and back down again, shaking his head hard. “It’s not out.”

  Spent most of his life with the Fleet. Had stars on his collar now after twenty hard-fought years of service. No way he was getting out. No way in hell.

  “Here, here,” Sikuuku said, raising his glass.

  They drank together and shared the bottle, finished that round and moved on to another before circling back to the topic of assignments again.

  “So. Seriously. What’re ya gonna do?” Sikuuku asked him.

  “Hell if I know,” Henricksen grunted, sipping at his glass. “Been looking over the rosters.” He waved to the abandoned reader, the lists of ships’ assignments lined up on the display. “Apparently, the Fleet’s flush on captain’s postings at the moment. More stars than seats to put them in,” he explained, with another bitter smile. “Stick me in some station admin job if I’m here much longer.” His eyes drifted to the reader again, lying so innocently on the desk. “Should probably just take that Bastion posting. At least it’ll be a ship.”

  Not what he wanted, but better than being bound to a station. Denied the stars for the next god-only-knew-how-many years.

  Sikuuku considered him a moment, dark eyes blinking slowly. Bowed his and clasped his glass between both hands, spinning it back and forth, back and forth while Henricksen sat there, staring resentfully at the walls. “What if there was something different?” he asked some time later.

  “Different.” Henricksen frowned. “Different how? Experimental? Jump jock test pilot assignment or some such?”

  “Something like that.” Sikuuku glanced up, eyes shining with secrets, lips twitching with a smile.

  “You’re on to something, aren’t you?” Henricksen leaned forward, dropping his foot to the floor. “What is it? What makes you think I’d be interested, or even qualified for this assignment of yours?”

  “Dunno,” Sikuuku admitted. “Chance to be stationed together, though. Wouldn’t mind that.” He sipped at his drink, eyes never leaving Henricksen’s face.

  “You and me.”

  “That’s the thought.”

  “Huh.” Henricksen sat back, shaking his head. “No postings on there for captain and gunner.” He nodded to the reader, the ships’ listing stored inside. “Unless you’re talking about that Bastion.”

  “Nope. Not a Bastion.” Sikuuku knocked his drink back and set the empty glass down on the desk. “Something better,” he said, catching Henricksen’s eye.

  “Better. Really.” Henricksen squinted suspiciously, folding his arms. “And just what could be better than being an ops boss on a Bastion?”

  Sikuuku barked a laugh. “Wow. That didn’t sound bitter at all.” He held up a finger and reached inside his jacket, fished around in a pocket and pulled out a reader of his own.

  Duplicate to Henricksen’s, but less dented. Apparently chief’s knew how to treat an electronic device proper.

  A touch of his finger keyed the device on. Sikuuku set it down, watching Henricksen’s face as he turned the display his way. “That,” he said, nodding to the reader between them. “And the chance to keep me around, of course.”

  He smiled smugly and sat back, folding his arms. Scooped up the bottle and refilled his glass while Henricksen pulled the reader to him and scanned the first page.

  “A ship,” he murmured, eyes flicking across the display. “Some kinda ship, anyway.” He was quiet a moment, reading. Raised his head and looked a question the gunner’s way.

  “Keep reading.” Sikuuku waved his glass, crooked smile twisting his face. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

  Henricksen frowned, tiring of this game. Tempted to power the damned reader off and just give it back. But it was a ship Sikuuku offered—not one he knew, granted, but a ship just the same. A chance to fly again and escape this dreary station. Get back to the stars. “I’m not committing to anything, you understand.”

  “Just read, Captain.” Sikuuku touched a finger to the reader, sliding it just that little bit closer. “When you’re done we can talk about whether you want to sign on the dotted line.”

  Henricksen hesitated still, feeling oddly, uncharacteristically uncertain. Shoved his misgivings aside and dug deeper into the reader’s record, poring over the information inside.

  “So?” Sikuuku sometime later, setting his glass down. He reached for the bottle—the contents severely depleted, the bottle itself barely half-full now—but stopped with his fingers just touching it, and pulled his hand back, leaving his glass empty for now. “What do you think?”

  Henricksen looked at him, and at the reader, scrolling back to the beginning of the file. “Not sure. Hell, I’m not even really sure what I’m looking at. RV-N?” He pointed to the name written in blocky red letters at the top of the page. “What the hell is that? Never even heard of this ship, and now you want me to—”

  “Raven,” Sikuuku interrupted. “They’re calling it a Raven.” He touched a finger to the reader, eyebrows lifting in question. Searched through the file when Henricksen passed it to him and brought up the ship’s specifications. “Recon Vessel - Non-combat.” He glanced at Henricksen, lips twisting in a smile. “‘Least, that’s how it’s classified.”

  “Raven,” Henricksen grunted. “How fitting for Black Ops.”

  No mention of Black Ops anywhere in that file, but he knew a skunkworks project when he saw one. Only Black Ops would run something like this RV-N.

  “I know it’s not public, but is it sanctioned?”

  “More or less.” Sikuuku reached for the bottle, spilling a few swallows into his glass. Did the same for Henricksen’s without asking and set the bottle back down. “Government funded anyway. RV-Ns are officially listed as drone sensor ships.”

  “Sensor ships. Right,” Henricksen snorted. “Never mind the laser arrays and high-velocity rail guns mounted under their wings.”

  “Kinda ruins that whole ‘non-combatant’ thing, doesn’t it?” Sikuuku smiled. “Fleet’s dirty little secret,” he said, tapping a finger to his nose. “That and the fact they’re not drones.”

  Henricksen glanced up sharply. “Not drones.”

  “Nope.” Sikuuku’s smile widened. “Chassis spec’d out for a combat AI and four-man crew. Nothing at all droned in that.”

  Henricksen frowned, scanning through the RV-N’s file again. No mention of AI anywhere, much less crew. He shut the reader down, pushed it away and sat back, studying Sikuuku’s face. “How do you know so much about this?”

  Sikuuku shrugged, setting his glass down. “Friend on the inside. Retired military. Combat retirement,” he said, catching Henricksen’s eyes. “Lost an arm and a leg during that business on Kantri.”

  “Nasty,” Henricksen grunted, staring right back.

  Battle on Kantri was legendary—the last major ground campaign between the Meridian Alliance shock troops and the DSR revolutionaries. Heavy casualties. DSR dug in so deep they almost won it.

  Starved them out in the end. Starved their own troops and the planet’s inhabitants in the process, leaving hundreds of thousands dead.

  A resounding victory, as far as the military was concerned. Broke the DSR so completely that they gave up their attempts at planetary establishment entirely and retreated to deep space. Base of operations in the ass end of nowhere, relocated every time the Meridian Alliance honed in on it. Supply lines run through sympathizing stations using pirates and other unsavories to deliver goods in secret.

  Broke the DSR on Kantri, but didn’t kill them. Revolutionaries adapted. Survived and kept fighting. Turned to guerilla tactics when head-on combat didn’t work, targeting military depots and other strategic assets. Ships when they needed them.

  Like that convoy three weeks ago. Colony ships they’d picked clean, cored out and turned them into weapons. Weapons powerful enough to kill a warship like Hecate.

  Hecate. Henricksen closed his eyes, picturing her. Remember
the last time he saw Hecate alive.

  Hardly seemed worth it, going to all that trouble just to take a few Fleet vessels out. Hard to believe the DSR really thought they could take down a military machine like the Meridian Alliance Fleet with a bunch of half-assed, booby-trapped ships.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, pulling the reader to him, flipping through the RV-N’s information again. “Black Ops has been running counterintelligence for ages, but the DSR’s just about done for.” He turned the reader around, sliding it Sikuuku’s way. “Why would the Fleet need something like this?”

  “Don’t know,” Sikuuku told him, shrugging again. “Honestly, I don’t,” he insisted at Henricksen’s skeptical look. “Just know it’s a new program and they’re looking for crew to run a dozen or so ships.”

  “New program.” Henricksen’s eyes slid to the reader. “So they’re not tested. Ravens haven’t seen combat yet.”

  “Not that I know of. Completed experimental trials, though. Kinsey tells me they’re ready to go. Program’s itching to get them deployed to the field.”

  “Kinsey. This friend of yours.”

  “Acquaintance, really. Kinsey…” Sikuuku smiled apologetically, spreading his hands. “He’s not really the kinda guy that has friends.”

  Henricksen frowned, wary once more. “And this acquaintance of yours just happens to get in touch with you right after you just happen to lose your ship.”

  Sikuuku ducked his head, staring at his hands. “We’ve kept in touch over the years. Kinsey…” Another shrug of those burly shoulders, Sikuuku seemed full of shrugs these days. “He contacted me a time or two about other opportunities.”

  “Other opportunities.” Henricksen folded his arms, giving him a look. “What other opportunities?”

  “Look,” Sikuuku sighed, looking Henricksen right in the face. “I wasn’t going to leave Hecate. Never even considered it. But, after…after…” He sighed again and leaned back, collecting his thoughts while he looked around the room. “Black Ops.” He flicked his eyes to Henricksen, lips twisting in a lopsided grin. “Gotta admit that sounds cool.”