Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  Fisker nodded, shoulders hunching, clenched fists raised as if he expected a punch.

  Not Sikuuku’s style, though, abusing ensigns. Liked to make fun of them now and then, but Henricksen had never known him to knock fists with anyone that didn’t deserve it.

  He sat there a moment—lips pursed, considering the ensign, eyes flicking to Kapoor in the corner. Grunted and started chuckling as he lifted his beer mug to his lips. “You’re right, Fisker.” He raised the glass, saluting before taking a drink. “Blunt and bossy are pretty much my type.”

  Fisker relaxed noticeably. Smiled and took a pull at his own drink, looking visibly relieved.

  “So what about the rest of them?” Henricksen waved his glass at the uniforms gathered around the mess hall’s tables.

  “Well, there’s Sullivan and Malloy.” Fisker nodded to a couple of mechanics a few tables over. “They’re under Shaw. Keep the deck gang in line.” He paused, thinking, looking at Henricksen across the table. “I don’t suppose you’re all that interested in the mechanics at the moment, though, are you, sir?”

  “Not that I’m not interested,” Henricksen told him. “Just more concerned about the flight crews right now.”

  Fisker nodded, scanning the room, eyes skipping across the tables before settling on two loudmouths shooting pool in the rec room. “Baldini and Petros.” He peeled a finger from his beer mug and pointed to a squat, balding spark plug of a man—dark hair shorn to a fuzz in an attempt to hide the thinning—leaning over the pool table, cue stick in hand. Angled that finger to one side and zeroed it in on a barrel-chested Adonis leaning against the wall.

  Full head of hair on that one—a short cap of thick, dark curls. Smile on his face—confident, cocky, the kind of smug, self-satisfied grin the very rich and privileged were prone to wear. Handsome devil—Henricksen gave him that—despite the conspicuously blue chalk mark smeared between his eyes.

  Lieutenants’ bars on the Adonis’s collar, and that of his pool shooting friend. Officers, then, and flight crew, apparently. Which made the both of them—

  “Pilots?” Henricksen glanced at Fisker for confirmation and saw him nod.

  “Came in two weeks ago. Baldini,” a nod to the shooter, “came off a Titan. Think Petros,” aka, Mr. Curly Hair, Smudgy Temple, “was on an Aurora. Maybe a Dreadnought.” Fisker caught his lip between his teeth, thinking a moment. Opened his mouth to say something and then glanced at Henricksen—at the stars on his collar—and seemed to change his mind. “First rate, from what I hear.”

  Didn’t sound like he believed it. The guilty flush that crept up his cheeks. And from the way he looked at Henricksen…didn’t like them. Read that clearly in Fisker’s face.

  Sikuuku saw it, too. Caught Henricksen’s eye, eyebrows lifting in interest.

  “Troublemakers?”

  Fisker ducked his head, shrugging uncomfortably. “Classmates. Sosholo,” he said, sneaking a look at Henricksen. “Tight. Ever since they got here.”

  “Ring knockers. Lucky us.” Sikuuku swirled his drink, watching the two lieutenants shoot pool.

  Baldini lined up his shot, but seemed to change his mind at the last second. Flicked his fingers at Petros, nodding to someone sitting on a couch.

  Smiled wickedly as he adjusted the cue stick’s angle and cracked off a shot, midnight eight ball flying free of the table, connecting with the back of the unsuspecting crewman’s head.

  She doubled over, clutching at her head. Leapt off the couch spitting curses as she marched over and slapped the pool stick from Baldini’s hand.

  An argument ensued, the crewman tech rightly angry, Baldini proclaiming his innocence, insisting the cue stick slipped. Henricksen thought about intervening, and then decided to let it go. Use the opportunity to get a sense of the hierarchy around here.

  “Apparently they don’t like enlisted any better than ensigns.”

  Dark look on Sikuuku’s face. Dark and disapproving as the argument continued to escalate.

  “Or Earthers,” Fisker said softly, eyes lifting to the gunner’s face.

  Sikuuku grunted and sat back, sharing a look with Henricksen sitting across the table. “Couple of first class pricks Kinsey assigned to us.”

  “Pricks I can deal with,” Henricksen told him. “In fact, I’m giving you license to deal with them for me.”

  “Now we’re talkin’,” Sikuuku murmured, chuckling low in his throat.

  Fisker looked at him, and at Henricksen, brow wrinkling in confusion.

  “Who else?” Henricksen flicked his fingers at the remaining uniforms. “What about those two?” he asked, nodding to a couple of chiefs standing by the bar.

  “Schenck and Grunewald.” Fisker nodded in approval. “Steady, sir. Reliable.”

  Schenck had the tall, thin build of a mad scientist. Grunewald looked like an unfinished statue—everything thick and square and hard as stone.

  “Better be.” Sikuuku tapped the anchors on his collar. “Chief,” he said. “Reliable’s job one.”

  Fisker’s cheeks colored.

  Sikuuku slumped, sighing heavily. “Who?” he asked. “Who’s ass do I have to kick?”

  Fisker licked his lips, eyes flicking around the room.

  “Easier to just spill it now,” Henricksen told him. “Sikuuku’ll sniff it out anyway.”

  “Nunez.”

  “Where?”

  Fisker hesitated, twisted searching the other side of the room. “Doesn’t appear to be here at the moment.” He faced back around, reaching for his beer mug, lifted it, sipping quickly before setting it back down.

  Picked it up and took another sip immediately after—nervous gesture, trying to cover something up.

  “Who else?” Sikuuku prompted when Fisker raised the mug a third time.

  Fisker froze, glass tilted, bit his lip and set it back down. “Mahal,” he said grudgingly. “She’s—She’s…” He flushed brightly, looking apologetic all over again. “She’s also not here at the moment, sir.”

  “Lemme guess.” Sikuuku folded his arms, head tilting. “She and Nunez are off having a good time.”

  Pool and drinking were all well and good, but mealtime offered a rare opportunity at privacy. A chance for two fools to get together and enjoy more pleasurable pursuits than the rec room offered.

  Fisker shrugged, flush deepening as he dropped his eyes. Confirmed Sikuuku’s suspicions without saying a word. Sat there tracing patterns in the water ring his beer mug left on the table, looking so damned guilty Henricksen just knew there was more to this than the ensign let on.

  “Officer?” he guessed. “Mahal one of the pilots Kinsey recruited?”

  “Yes, sir.” Soft voice from Fisker. The barest whisper of breath. Wouldn’t look at Henricksen while he said it—too embarrassed, too ashamed. Fisker’s face said it all. Betrayed every last thought in his head.

  “Chief and a lieutenant.” Sikuuku grabbed up his drink, shaking his head. “What a mess.”

  Fleet didn’t strictly forbid fraternization between crewmates—things happened during long deployments, birds and the bees and such. But pairings between officers and enlisted often led to trouble. Usually did, in Henricksen’s experience.

  “Separate them.” He locked eyes with Sikuuku across the table. “Run ’em hard in training. Put ’em on different flight crews, with different rotations. Can’t watch ’em all the time, can’t keep ’em from shackin’ up when everyone else is sleepin’ but we can whip the piss out of ’em. Tire ’em out so bad the rack-side mambo will be the last thing on their minds.”

  Sikuuku nodded, smiling wickedly. “Hard to be in the mood for luvvin’ when you can’t even keep your eyes open.”

  He drained his glass and set it down, throwing thoughtful glances at the mess hall doors. Dug around in a pocket, retrieving a pencil nub and a tiny little notebook, laying the latter open, using the former to scratch out some notes. Record a few names.

  Eight

  People shifted around them—cre
w finishing meals, collecting fresh beers from the bar before retiring to the rec room to one side. Joining Petros and Baldini at the pool table. Slipping into the sofas and chairs to watch some trash action vid that was short on plot, but chock-‘o-block full of explosions, and swearing, and nudity—the trifecta of terrible taste.

  Henricksen smiled to himself, enjoying the familiarity of the setting. Each ship had its own unique rhythm; stations and planetary bases the same. But mess halls and rec rooms were identical the Fleet over: bad food and cheap drinks, cut-rate vids and endless hours of pool, and card games, and other mindless activities to fill the empty hours.

  Missed that about Hecate. Missed a lot of things about the Aurora.

  Hecate.

  The smile slipped, reminiscence replaced by self-recrimination. A hundredweight of crushing regret.

  “Sir?” Fisker eyed him worriedly. “Is something wrong? Did I—Did I do some—?”

  “Fine, Fisker. You’re fine.” Henricksen nodded to the ensign, offering a small, encouraging smile. Let Hecate go for now, because this wasn’t the time or the place to indulge his melancholy remembrances.

  Deal with that later.

  When he and Sikuuku had the luxury of getting good and drunk.

  “Continue,” Henricksen ordered, sipping at his beer, waving at the people in the room.

  Fisker licked his lips, looking like he wasn’t quite sure he should. Nodded and glanced around, picking out a table of four playing cards. “Abboud and Ahmadi. Scan techs.”

  Both dark-haired and umber-skinned like Kapoor. One tall and hatchet-faced, the other softer, rounder, with wide-set eyes.

  Woman sitting across from them—wavy brown hair, snub-nosed face. Almost pretty, but not quite. Boisterous laugh, smile that showed all her teeth.

  Liked that in a woman. Looks came and went but a sense of humor…hold onto a woman like that.

  “That’s Pritchard.” Fisker smiled to himself. “Cheats at cards,” he confided. “She and Fontaine.” A nod to the sandy-haired, boyish looking crewman sitting next to Pritchard. “They’ve been fleecing just about everyone the last couple of weeks.”

  Sikuuku smiled crookedly. “Anyone figure it out yet?”

  “Nope.” Fisker smiled back.

  “’Sides you, of course.” Henricksen sipped at his drink, trying not to choke, studying the ensign across the rim. “Notice a lot of things, don’t you, Fisker? Got just about everyone here figured out.”

  “Guess so, sir.” Fisker flushed again, shrugging uncomfortably. “My job, sir. Ensign in charge of admin and personnel.” He showed his teeth in a rueful smile, raised a hand and flipped a mocking salute. “In addition to being Mr. Kinsey’s batman, of course.”

  Henricksen blinked blankly. “A what-man?”

  “Batman, sir. Valet?” he offered when Henricksen shook his head.

  Sikuuku leaned over, not-quite-whispering behind his hand. “Small words, Fisker. Captain here don’t cotton to those fancy-pants titles and such.”

  “Shut it, Chief.” Henricksen glared at Sikuuku, flicked his eyes to Fisker squirming uncomfortably, taking a sudden and intense interest in the tabletop in front of him. “Speak plain, Fisker. Lose the shiny, obscure words.”

  Fisker opened his mouth, closed it and just sighed. “Lackey, sir,” he said, shoulders slumping. “I’m Mr. Kinsey’s lackey.”

  “Lackey,” Henricksen grunted. “Well, now. We’ll just see about that.”

  Sikuuku looked at him, at Fisker’s freckled, dispirited face. “That what you trained for, Ensign?” Chief’s voice now—a half-angry, half-disapproving bark Sikuuku had mastered over the years. “Academy drill all that spit and polish, ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ crap into you just so you can go off and play lackey to some senior civ administrator?”

  Fisker stiffened, bright spots of color blooming on his cheeks. “No,” he said, jaw set, eyes flashing. “Engineering, sir. Engines are my specialization.”

  “Told you before, Ensign. I’m not your sir.” Sikuuku’s eyes flashed, too, staring in challenge.

  Fisker, for once, didn’t back down. “Chief,” he corrected, raising his glass, inclining his head. Tilted it and finished it off as well, leaving Henricksen no choice but to follow suit.

  Didn’t want the rest of it, frankly, but he gulped it to be polite. Slid the empty across the table, snagging Sikuuku’s mug as well. “Refill, Fisker.” He tapped a finger against the glass in the ensign’s hand. “Refills all around.”

  Fisker smiled, nodding, scooped up their glasses and left without a word. Returned a couple of minutes later with fresh ones foaming over with beer. Doled them out as he sat down, taking small sips of his drink as his eyes scanned the room.

  Good habit, that. One Henricksen espoused himself.

  “How long have you been here, Fisker?” He leaned back, taking his drink with him, couching it against his stomach as he stared across the table at his oh-so-observant ensign.

  Fisker blinked, pointing a finger at his chest. “Me, sir? Three weeks, sir. Give or take.” He flashed a smile, shifting in his seat.

  “Longer than the others, then.” Sikuuku reached for his drink, watching the ensign intently.

  “Shaw was already here.” Fisker sipped his beer, nodding to the chief in the corner. “And Mr. Kinsey, of course. The rest came in after.” He waved vaguely, indicating everyone else in the room.

  “Everyone?” Henricksen sat up straight, setting his drink on the table. “Civvies too?”

  Fisker nodded.

  “Well now, isn’t that interesting.”

  “That’s one word for it.” Sikuuku snorted, frown creasing his face.

  Fisker blinked, brow furrowing as he looked from Sikuuku to Henricksen. “Why is that interesting?”

  Henricksen tilted his head, eyebrows lifting. “Project’s been underway for years, right?”

  “Yeah,” Fisker said slowly, looking no less confused.

  “Military rotate in and out on a fairly regular basis, but swapping all of them out at once?” Henricksen touched at the rim of his drink, tracing its circle with a finger. “Bit unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

  Fisker thought on that a moment. “Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.”

  “Civvies now…” Henricksen’s eyes shifted to the tables in the front corner—empty now, with the civilian engineers all gone. “Engineers tend to stay put. Might lose one or two along the way, but it’s damned stupid changing out an entire engineering team. ’Specially when you’re dealing with an experimental starship like the RV-N.”

  “Yes, sir. If you say so, sir,” Fisker murmured uncertainly.

  Sikuuku slid a look Henricksen’s way, tattooed face troubled. Sipped at this drink, listening intently as Fisker resumed his staff evaluation, rattling off information that Henricksen only half-absorbed.

  Knew he should pay attention, but he was already overloaded. Never had been any good with names.

  Lucky if I remember half of ’em in the morning, he admitted, but he’d get them eventually. With enough repetition.

  Always did, every assignment. Til then he had Fisker, and the records system to shore him up. Match names with faces and specializations. Help him figure out the best pairings of crew for these high-tech, experimental ships.

  Figure out the AI, eventually—no idea what mindset they’d used as the basis for these Ravens, nothing at all in system about prior deployments, which made him suspect they were probably new.

  But all that would come later. First order of business involved humans. Picking out the RV-N crews.

  Four man ops teams in the Ravens: pilot, gunner, scan tech and engineer all working in unison, crewing the ships together. Early designs showed a fifth for comms—pretty much standard for a starship’s bridge—but no matter how they arranged the stations, they simply couldn’t find enough room. Not without significant modifications, anyway, which just wasn’t going to happen this late in the game.

  Modifications meant money—fundin
g Kinsey obviously didn’t have, considering the hard time he was having just getting billets for crew.

  Fisker prattled on for about five minutes before the double doors to the mess hall burst open, cutting him off. In walked a whipcord-thin lieutenant—blond hair buzzed into a square-sided flat top—and an equally thin, ebon-skinned woman, with dark hair clipped tight to her skull, and eyes that sparkled like topaz stars.

  Determined looking pair. As purposeful looking as Henricksen had ever run across. They stopped dead as the double doors closed behind them, staring in surprise at Henricksen and Sikuuku for a few of seconds before remembering themselves and bracing up hard. Arms bent, hands angling precisely as they snapped off matching, pitch perfect salutes.

  Fisker leaned close, pitching his voice low. “Janssen and Adaeze,” he said, nodding to flat-top on the left, the sable-skinned woman to his right.

  Lieutenants. Startled at finding a captain in their midst. Probably wondering why no one had bothered to warn them.

  “As you were,” Henricksen nodded, offering his own, slightly less perfect salute. “Drinks are on Chief.” He pointed at his glass, hooked a thumb at Shaw in the corner, smiling to himself as the lieutenants nodded and looked at each other, shrugged in unison and walked over to the bar. “More fraternization?” he asked, sliding a look Fisker’s way.

  “What? No!” Fisker looked startled. “No, sir. Not them.”

  “You sure?” Sikuuku stared after Adaeze, admiring the view from behind. “I know if I were that boy I’d be tempted to do some fraternizing.”

  Good looking woman—no doubt about that. Henricksen would’ve been tempted too, once upon a time. Couldn’t look at them that way once you became captain, though. Saw one too many commanding officers kicked out of the military completely for offering dancing lessons to the juniors in their private quarters.

  No way Henricksen was going out that way. Wasn’t a prideful man, but he didn’t want that kind of reputation following him around.

  “Knock it off,” he growled, kicking Sikuuku under the table. “Bad enough we got Nunez and Mahal knocking boots in quarters. Last thing I need is you ogling that pilot’s ass every time she turns around.”