Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

Supposed he’d get used to it—didn’t want to, didn’t like being reminded of Grandee and all those dead people—but supposed he would, in time. Made him wonder, though, why they’d shut this section of the station down. What prompted the Fleet to open it back up again…

  “Hope to hell they kept up the maintenance.” He turned his head, eying a crack between two panels—a jagged edged, dark line interrupting the bland greyness of one wall.

  “Grim looking place, isn’t it?” Sikuuku muttered, pitching his voice low.

  “Station.” Henricksen shrugged, throwing a look the gunner’s way. “Most of them are.”

  “Enlisted barracks.” Fisker smiled politely as Henricksen looked up. “That hallway,” he inched a finger at the corridor Henricksen and Sikuuku were currently inspecting. “That’s enlisted barracks, sir.” He stiffened, face paling as a raucous noise erupted—laughter and raised voices drifting from the hallway in question.

  Sikuuku smiled, listening for a few seconds. “Sounds they’re having fun.”

  “Mechanics.” Fisker spread his hands—nervous, apologetic, the trademarks of this oh-so-young ensign. “They’re a rather… rowdy bunch.” A twitch of his lips, hands wringing, eyes flicking down the hall. More laughter—accompanied by a liberal amount of what could only be swearing—and he cleared his throat uncomfortably, spun around and continued on. “This way, sirs.” A glance over his shoulder, pointing to the double doors ahead. “Mess hall and rec room are at the end. You and the other RV-N officers are billeted down here.” Fisker nodded to the next hallway—the second of the two crossings on their right. Turned the corner and beckoned with his fingers. “Follow me. I’ll show you which rooms are yours.”

  Sikuuku slowed, arms folding. “Thought you said this was officers’ quarters.”

  Fisker jerked to a halt, freckled facing frowning worriedly as he turned around. “Mr. Kinsey…” He paused, fidgeting, glancing up and down the hall. “Mr. Kinsey made special arrangements. This way,” he repeated, waving at the hallway with its spoke and wheel doors.

  Sikuuku kept staring a moment, shrugged and reluctantly followed. Nudged Henricksen in the ribs when he came alongside him, pointing with his chin at a door to one side. “Airlock at the entrance to this section makes sense given the age of the place. But quarters?” He glanced across the hall, shaking his head hard. “Seems kind of extreme.”

  Henricksen shrugged, eying one of the doors as they walked by. “Dragoon’s no spring chicken. Random depressurization wasn’t all that uncommon a hundred years ago.” He glanced up, noting the vents above them, equipped with manual cutoff valves. “Airlocks kept the crew safe in quarters until rescue came. Or station operations returned to normal.”

  “So…what? This is some kind of museum?” Sikuuku looked less than thrilled with the idea.

  “Not quite that old.” Henricksen smiled. “And if you’re worried, don’t be. Black Ops stronghold like this…” He gestured at the walls around them. “Probably got the most high-tech backbone infrastructure in the Fleet.”

  Sikuuku eyed him uncertainly, threw a mistrusting look at the next door they passed by. “That why this place smells like my old uncle’s cabin?”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  Sikuuku grunted and kept walking, clearly unconvinced. “Not sure I like stations.” A flick of his eyes to Henricksen. “Rather be out there among the stars than trapped in this ancient collection of cans.”

  Henricksen laughed softly. “You’re the one that talked me into coming here, remember? So don’t you go getting all weak in the knees and scared just because of a couple of hallways with hatch doors, Akiwane.”

  “Sir?” Fisker called from the end of the hall. “This one, sir.” He pointed to the last door on the right. “This one’s yours, Captain.” A nod to the door across the hallway. “And the other’s for you, sir,” he said, offering Sikuuku one of his patented, wanting-to-please smiles.

  “For the luvva—I’m not your damned sir.” Sikuuku pushed past Fisker and grabbed the wheel on the door to his quarters, spun it three full turns and yanked angrily at the latch to push the door open.

  Stood there after and just stared at the tiny suite of rooms on the other side: sitting area at the front with a desk and chair crammed in one corner, couch and two uncomfortable-looking chairs cluttering what little space was left.

  Door standing open to the right, leading to an equally tiny bedroom with a cubicle of a bathroom attached. Tight quarters, to say the least. Especially for someone as large as the gunner.

  “This is a joke, right?” Sikuuku turned, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Fucking shoe box in there.”

  Fisker ducked his head, bright spots of color blooming on his cheeks. “Sorry, sir. The rest of them are doubles.” He waved at the doorways lining the hall. “Chiefs and officers all have roommates. Enlisted are in barracks.” A nod to the opposite end of the hallway, eyes flicking to one side. “It’s four to a room down there.”

  Sikuuku still didn’t look happy.

  “The Captain’s rooms are the same,” Fisker offered. “And at least you don’t have to share.”

  “This is bullshit.” Sikuuku scowled, looking past Fisker to Henricksen. “What’d they give you?”

  Henricksen shrugged, eyes flicking to Fisker. “Kid says it’s the same setup. Expect it’s the same.”

  Fisker looked at him, pathetically grateful.

  Felt bad for the kid. Tough being an ensign—Henricksen should know, he’d been there and hated every minute of it. Also hated seeing people treat like them idiots, even though most of them were at that age.

  Not their fault Academy don’t teach them how the real military works.

  “Open it.” Sikuuku lifted his chin, hugging his arms tight to his chest. “Let’s have a look.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Open it,” Sikuuku repeated, staring stubbornly at Henricksen’s face.

  Henricksen rolled his eyes. “Fine, ya big baby. ‘Scuse,” he said, pushing Fisker to one side. Stepped across the hall and spun the wheel on the door to his quarters, moved aside and let Sikuuku take a look. “See? Same as yours.” Right down to those hard, uncomfortable-looking chairs. “Not like the ship, Akiwane. Station barracks, which means rank goes out the window. Everyone gets a shoebox.” He tipped a wink at Fisker, offering a crooked smile. “Even us highfalutin captains.”

  Sikuuku still didn’t look happy. Scowled even harder, not quite ready to give up. “What about Kinsey? What’s he got?”

  Fisker paled, freckles standing out starkly as he glanced guiltily at Sikuuku’s quarters. “I don’t—I’m not—”

  “Ease off, Chief.” Henricksen caught the gunner’s eyes, gave a slow shake of his head. “Kinsey’s a bureaucrat. They always get better quarters. Ain’t that right, Fisker?” He slid a look at Fisker, eyebrows lifting in question. Saw the ensign nod and duck his head, dropping his eyes.

  “Separate section of the station,” he said softly. “Senior administration only.”

  Henricksen nodded—that was typically the way of things. “I know it’s not what you got used to on Hecate.” Not even close. Sikuuku’s shipboard quarters had been twice as large as these. Henricksen’s far roomier than that. “But if they get the RV-Ns working properly we won’t be spending all that much time here anyway.”

  Sikuuku held onto his righteous indignation a while longer—stubborn cuss, stubborn as they came—but eventually relented. Dipped his head when Henricksen kept staring, matching him stubborn for stubborn, and shrugged his shoulders, looking slightly less grumpy, but nowhere near content. “Guess I’ll get used to it. Like the smell.”

  “Atta boy.” Henricksen flashed a grin, punching the gunner on the shoulder. “Alright, Fisker. What’s next?”

  “Um, well…” Fisker licked his lips, fidgeting again. “I hadn’t—I wasn’t really—I thought you’d want to stow your gear, sir.” He waved at the rooms on either side of the hall. “Maybe get settle
d in a bit before—”

  “No gear to stow,” Henricksen told him. “All went up with the ship.”

  Not entirely true—they both had personals stashed in storage they hadn’t taken with them on that last mission. But the toiletries and uniform items, everything Henricksen brought on board Hecate disappeared when she went down.

  “As for settling in…” Henricksen threw a look over his shoulder, inspecting the rooms behind him. “I think that’s pretty much done.” He flashed a grin as Fisker colored, pink skin turning red beneath his freckles now. Turned his head and nodded to the far end of the hallway. “Got a bar in this place, Fisker? Chow hall where we can get something to eat before Sikuuku and I get drunk?”

  Didn’t really intend to—wanted to in the worst way, but he wouldn’t. At least not tonight. Bad mistake, getting stinking drunk on the first day of a new assignment. With crew around he didn’t even know.

  Hell of a way to make a first impression. Likely never live that down.

  “I don’t—I think…” Fisker gaped in horror. Academy painted a lofty, idealized picture of captains. Never said anything about them wanting to get drunk. “Mr. Kinsey doesn’t like the crew getting inebriated. Sir.” Fisker blushed all over again. Incredibly apologetic. Entirely embarrassed.

  Henricksen grunted, sharing a look with Sikuuku across the hall. “Well, Kinsey don’t live here, do he? And since he turned the running of the Raven crews over to me, I get to say when they’re allowed to get drunk. Which is tonight, if I feel like it.” He tipped a wink at Sikuuku and saw the gunner start to smile. “Three days on that goddamn freighter with nothing more than water and freeze-dried rations. If ever there was a time for drinking, it’s now.”

  Fisker stared disbelieving. “Yes, sir,” he said faintly. “If you say so, sir.”

  “I do, Fisker.” Henricksen poked a finger at the ensign’s uniformed chest. “I most certainly do.”

  “Aye, sir.” Fisker snapped a salute without thinking, pivoted on his heel—neat as you please, like a little toy soldier on the parade grounds—and waited while Henricksen and Sikuuku closed up their quarters before leading them back down the hall.

  “Like to meet the crew,” Henricksen said casually, pacing along behind his escort.

  Fisker looked around, nodded just once. “Yes, sir. Most of them are in there already, sir.” He rounded the corner when they reached the main corridor, waved at the double doors at the far end. “I can roust the rest from their quarters, if you’d like.”

  “Much obliged,” Henricksen told him, dipping his head. “Dinner time anyway.” He slid his eyes to Sikuuku. “Good chance to see what kinda crew your man Kinsey lined up for us.”

  “Not all here yet, from what he told me.” Sikuuku’s gaze flickered toward him, just as quickly snapped away. “Fleet’s fighting him for billets. Gave up enough for six crews but they balked at the rest.”

  “Did they now?”

  Sikuuku nodded, shrugging uncomfortably. “Told me they won’t cough up the rest until the chassis’ stable.”

  Henricksen slowed, eyebrows lifting. “So you did know the Ravens aren’t working yet.”

  “They work,” Sikuuku insisted, tone defensive. “They just need a little finetuning. You heard him.” He twisted, flailing a hand at the security door behind them. The RV-N hangar and the control room where they’d left Kinsey, looking down upon his kingdom.

  “Right.” Henricksen snorted. “Like getting them to stop pulverizing pilots.”

  Sikuuku stopped dead, giving him a dirty look, but Henricksen just flicked his fingers and kept going, following Fisker to the end of the hallway, turning right toward the double doors.

  Squared out room on the other, filled with a dozen or so tables. Mess hall, if Henricksen ever saw one. Square tables and squarer chairs—one for each side. Chow line at the back of the room, bar to the left next to a doorway leading to a rec room with more chairs—softer ones, matched to a couple of worn out couches—and a pool table, of all things. Vid system casting flickering images from some action-horror flick on the wall.

  Not exactly the best accompaniment for the dinner time meal. But then, neither was the bass thump issuing from the speakers in the rec room’s ceiling. Strangled, tinny strains of muted, synth-pop trash music invading the mess hall proper.

  “Smells good.” Sikuuku sniffed at the air as the aroma of the chow line wafted to them, covering the station’s mildew scent. Glanced at the rec room and grimaced, sticking a finger in his ear. “Atmosphere’s a bit crappy.”

  Henricksen grunted, nodding, casting his eyes around the room.

  Comfortable space, really. The first room they’d come across on Dragoon across that was any color than grey. Civ and military personnel both in that room, chattering away as they ate their meals. Picked up drinks at the bar and retreated to the comparative comfort of the rec room’s stuffed chairs.

  Well, military did. Civs collected in the room’s front corners. Clustered together, giving the military wide berth. Glanced at the rec room but didn’t go anywhere near it.

  Henricksen noted it like he did so many things. Filing that tidbit of information away.

  “Not bad,” Sikuuku admitted. “I’ve seen better, but—”

  “Attention on deck!” Movement in a far corner—chief in coveralls jumping to her feet as she barked out that order, killing the conversations in the room.

  Chairs scraped across the floor as military shot up straight. Braced up and saluted the captain come unexpectedly into their midst.

  Civvies glanced at each other, looking confused. Shambled uncertainly to their feet and just stood there, not knowing what to do.

  Henricksen gave them a pass—civvies weren’t required to salute. Swept his eyes across the military as he raised his hand and returned the salute. “As you were.”

  Crew relaxed, conversations resuming as they sank down into their chairs. Grabbed up beer mugs and abandoned utensils as they finished their meals.

  Civvies got caught out again, poor saps. Weren’t quite sure why they’d stood up in the first place and now here they were left wondering what had changed. They glanced at each, and at the military around them, making sure the crew stayed seated this time before following their lead. Plunked down in their chairs and leaned their heads together, throwing curious looks Henricksen’s way.

  Henricksen nodded to them, and to the military, pinched Fisker’s sleeve between his fingers and pulled him close. “No more of that, ya hear me? Certain amount of formality’s required in the military—I know that as well as anyone—but you tell the crew they can drop the whole ‘attention on deck’ thing from here on out.”

  Stupid bit of ceremony, in his opinion. Remnant of another time when military protocol included frequent reminders about who was in charge. Well, Henricksen didn’t need that. Not his style. Not his style at all.

  Fisker blinked, glancing around the room. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “No more of that either,” Henricksen told him. “You’re an ensign which means you’re gonna screw up. Frequently. That’s just the way it works.”

  Fisker’s eyes widened, looking surprised, and scared, and slightly indignant, all at the same time.

  Henricksen let go of his sleeve, looking Fisker up and down. “Beauty of being an ensign is no one expects you to do much of anything right. I’ll tell you when you need to apologize, Fisker. ‘Til then, you just drop the sorries.”

  “Aye, sir,” Fisker mumbled, glancing at the crew scattered around the mess hall. “Food, sir?” He waved at the chow line across the room. “Beef and bell peppers tonight.”

  “Sounds good.”

  It didn’t actually—“beef”, in Henricksen’s experience usually turned out to be some kind of brown-dyed soy mess—but Fisker had enough going on. He didn’t need a grumpy captain telling him the food they served was most likely crap.

  “Lead on, McDuff.”

  Fisker glanced down, eying the nametag on his chest uncertainl
y. Flashed an equally uncertain smile at Henricksen and set off, weaving a wandering path between the mess hall’s tables as Sikuuku and Henricksen followed behind.

  “Severely young ensign.” Sikuuku touched Henricksen’s arm, nodding at Fisker’s back.

  “Noticed that.” Henricksen nodded.

  Academy grad, if he had to guess, but without the usual Academy swagger. Just a wet-behind-the-ears junior officer scared spitless at a Black Ops assignment. Not the usual route for an ensign—OCS or otherwise. Ship, usually, not a station.

  Hardly seemed fair, placing Fisker here so soon after graduation. Secret squirrel base like Dragoon was no place for an ensign. And Kinsey was a prick.

  “Give him time. Great thing about ensigns is they’re malleable.” Henricksen smiled crookedly. “Not grumpy and set in their ways like you crusty old chiefs.”

  Sikuuku laughed softly, eyes flicking from Henricksen to the crew sitting at the tables around them. Watching them. Voices dropping to whispers, hands lifting to cover their lips as Henricksen and Sikuuku walked by.

  Same drill with every new assignment. Scrub the smell out of the air and this could be any station. Any ship in the Meridian Alliance Fleet.

  Except for those uniforms, Henricksen thought, eying the tables of crew to either side.

  Dark uniforms here, every last one of them. Not the civvies in the corner, of course, but the rest of them…

  Black on black like Fisker. Not a ship or station patch among them.

  Henricksen touched at his shoulder, tracing Hecate’s torch and key with his finger. That patch marked him as different. Made him feel suddenly, unreasoningly conspicuous in his midnight blue uniform, ship’s designation picked out in gold thread.

  “New kids on the block.” Sikuuku grimaced, sharing a look with Henricksen. “Hate being the new kid.”

  “No one likes being the new kid,” Henricksen murmured, scanning the room.

  Most of the crew wouldn’t look at him. Glanced away quickly if they happened to catch Henricksen’s eye. Even the civvies tucked up in their corner by the double doors.

  Hint of suspicion there, actually. In the lines of the civilians’ faces. Watched him warily, shucked forward and balanced on the edges of their seats. Like they might bolt at any moment. Like they were just biding their time. Waiting for their chance to escape.