Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  “Fine,” Sikuuku huffed, slouching in his chair. “Shame, though. Really nice ass. ’Specially in that flight suit. Am I right, Fisker?” He smiled knowingly, nudging the ensign in the side.

  Fisker stammered something unintelligible, blushed and buried his face in his drink. But Henricksen caught him glancing up and around every now and then, sneaking glances Adaeze’s way. Wistful look on his face while he watched her, like he wished he were just a little bit older. Or bolder. Anything other than a very junior, very inexperienced ensign.

  “Been there, kid.” Henricksen smiled at the startled look Fisker threw his way. “Pilots, though…” He frowned, thinking, shook his head hard. “You just be careful, Fisker. Pilot like that’ll break your heart.”

  Sikuuku glanced over, face indignant. “I get kicked for admiring her ass, but Junior here gets love lessons?”

  “Junior doesn’t have to keep this lot in line. You do.”

  Sikuuku scowled, scooping up his glass. Drained half of it in one gulp and slammed it back down.

  “Grumpy old cuss.”

  “Takes one to know one, Grandpa.”

  Henricksen laughed, raised a hand and stifled a yawn. Rubbed at his eyes and slouched in his chair, realizing just how weary he was. “Hard to believe after three days of sheer boredom, but I’m wrecked. And this beer is terrible.” He swirled his glass, grimaced and put it down. Shoved it to the middle of the table and wiped his hand on his pants leg for good measure. “Your choice if you want to stay and mingle a while, Chief, but I for one, am heading to bed.”

  Sikuuku looked at him, and at the mug in his hand. Considered the laughing crew playing pool behind him and shrugged his burly shoulders, draining his glass dry. “Think I’ll stay a bit. See if I can charm some of your young lieutenants out of their hard-earned pay.” He flashed a smile and pushed back his chair, standing up. “What about you, Junior? Wanna learn how to shoot pool?”

  “Me?” Fisker blinked, caught entirely off-guard. “I—uh—well I, uh—” He glanced across the table. “Would you—would you mind, sir?”

  Henricksen smiled crookedly. “Be my guest. Just don’t bet against him,” he warned, nodding to Sikuuku across the table. “You’ll just be throwing your money away.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fisker shoved his chair back, nearly knocking it over in his haste. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Fisker,” Henricksen called as the ensign turned away. “I don’t need a lackey. You understand?”

  “Sir?” Fisker frowned, head tilting, clearly not understanding at all.

  “You’re an officer, Fisker. A green-as-grass ensign, granted, but an officer just the same. And despite what he may think, Kinsey doesn’t own you. You’re done with all the fetch and carry. You’re flight crew, starting tomorrow.”

  “But Mr. Kinsey—”

  “I’ll deal with Kinsey. Don’t you worry about that. Now go.” Henricksen flicked his fingers, waving the ensign away. “Have some fun.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Fisker smiled uncertainly, nodded and took off for the rec room.

  Sikuuku started after him, but Henricksen grabbed his arm, holding him still while Fisker moved away. “Watch out for him.” He flick his eyes at Fisker, nodding at the ensign’s back. “Petros and Baldini… I’ve seen their type before. Stuck up pricks who think chewing up ensigns and enlisted is some kind of sport. Don’t know Fisker—may wash out in the next few weeks—but I at least want him to get a fair chance. Understand me?”

  The gunner looked at him, and at Fisker standing by the pool table. “Aye, sir,” he said, flashing a smile. Flipped a smart-ass salute—Sikuuku’s specialty, reserved for assholes and Henricksen, when it was just the two of them alone—and stuffed his hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly as he ambled away.

  Leaving Henricksen to buss up the table, dumping plates and utensils in a bin by the chow line, dropping beer mugs at the bar. A last look at the rec room—everyone smiling and laughing, Fisker sticking close to Sikuuku, watching his every move—and he wended his way through the tables, nodding to Janssen and Adaeze as he passed.

  Halfway to the double doors and he spotted Shaw watching him. Slowed and took a good, long look.

  Of them all, Shaw was the only one that seemed settled. She and her drinking partner, Kapoor, though even Kapoor looked around a lot. Sized up every person that entered the room.

  Something to that, Henricksen thought, measuring the vibe of the room again. Everyone new, all the old crew swapped out. Something to that.

  Something important, he sensed. Damned if he knew what it was, though. Kinsey’s doing, without a doubt. Maybe his fault. Pissed off the Brass and lost his funding at some point. Had to start over, begging and borrowing to fill his tin cup.

  Henricksen made a mental note to talk to Kinsey about that. Find out what happened. Figure out what other surprises this Black Ops project had in store for him.

  Shaw might know something.

  His eyes drifted back to that corner. To Shaw leaning casually, comfortably in her chair. Smiling—it suited her—as she and Kapoor chatted and sipped their beer.

  She raised her mug when she caught Henricksen looking. Emptied it in one go and slammed it down, calling for another. Laughing aloud.

  Good laugh—that suited her too. Liked Shaw right away. Wouldn’t mind getting to know her better.

  But first he had to get those birds flying. Get crew trained and ready to test out the RV-Ns.

  Henricksen sighed, feeling a weight of weariness pressing at his shoulders. Making his legs feel like two impossible heavy, wooden logs. He shoved the mess hall’s double doors open, exiting with the sound of pool ball’s clacking, Shaw’s laughter ringing in his ears. Made his slow way back to his quarters and opened the door, stood there a while, staring at the rooms on the other side.

  Suite felt strange, looked strange from the hallway. No shelves for knick-knacks and personal possessions like he’d had on Hecate. The two Titans he’d commanded before her. No windows looking out on the stars either. In fact, he was hard put to find one single thing about those rooms that even approached giving them character.

  Ten-meter-square cell—that’s what they gave him. A tiny box of a room with a smaller, equally square box attached. A couch and two chairs for comfort. A desk shoved in a corner with a system link-up inside. Wardrobe and chest of drawers in the bedroom. Hard bed for sleeping on if he was tired enough to manage it.

  Private bathroom, at least. That was something. Hated sharing a bathroom with others. Officers could be pigs, no matter what their rank.

  “Home sweet home,” Henricksen muttered, stepping inside, pulling the door closed.

  He spun the wheel until it sealed up tight, wandered over to the couch and collapsed onto its unforgiving surface. Sat there and surveyed his captain’s quarters. His home on Dragoon for the next few weeks. Or months. Or years. However long this assignment lasted.

  Second consideration went better than the first. Now that he was actually in the room, he decided he didn’t mind it being small. Nothing to put in it anyway. Besides his own tired self, of course. Wished there was a window—missed that about Hecate, best part of being in space was the stars.

  Windowless Dragoon, with its plasmetal and cement hallways, its grey-on-grey dreariness reminded him of a dungeon. Some kind of godforsaken hole in the ground where they locked people away. Left them to die.

  Henricksen shook himself, putting that lovely image aside. “Need to get that bird flying,” he muttered, looking around. “Get back to the stars before I go crazy sitting in this bunker.”

  Laughter drifted to his ears, coming from somewhere down the hall. Muted conversation with it, cutting off as a hatch screeched open and slammed heavily closed.

  Crew, he thought, smiling. My crew.

  And a ship out there waiting. A new AI, a whole new chassis to figure out.

  “Hopefully the goddamn thing doesn’t kill me.” He winced, regretting the words immediately. R
ubbed at his face, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids until he saw stars.

  Remembered Hecate exploding. Saw her die all over again.

  “Damn. God damn.” He sighed shakily, pushing to his feet. Wandered through the open doorway into the bedroom and stopped there, blinking as the lights cut on.

  Uniform laid out on the bed in front of him: black on black, just like Fisker’s. Nametag on the left breast, stars on the collar. More uniforms in the wardrobe when he checked, and some personals in the attached bathroom.

  Everything he needed, courtesy of Kinsey.

  And Fisker.

  Ensign must’ve done this. Sent someone to retrieve them from the admin section. Damn sure Kinsey wouldn’t have bothered. Not when that stiff-assed son-of-a-bitch hadn’t wanted Henricksen here in the first place.

  He stared at the uniforms laid out on the bed in front of him, hand drifting to Hecate’s patch on his shoulder. Picked up the pants and matching jacket and stowed them in the wardrobe with the others. Chucked the boots they’d left him in there as well. Sat down on the bed and stripped off his old uniform—Hecate’s uniform, dark blue and silver—the black boots he’d just broken in. Held them in his hands, wondering what to do with them now that Hecate was gone.

  “Should probably just burn it all.”

  He’d never wear it again, anyway. Not with Hecate dead. But burning it felt like sacrilege. Felt wrong after all they’d had been through together. So he folded everything neatly and stowed it away inside the wardrobe, keeping the jacket for now, with its torch and keys patch. The midnight blue trousers, those broken in and oh-so-comfortable boots.

  Only thing left of Hecate now, that uniform. His and Sikuuku’s, those of the hundred and fifty crew that safely made it off her before she blew. Suppose there was a copy of her AI someplace, but a copy wasn’t her. Not the real Hecate. Not the one he knew.

  Copy lacked her memories. The experiences she picked up along the way. Two hundred years of service…no way a copy could emulate that.

  A last touch at Hecate’s patch, tracing the torch and key with one finger, and Henricksen shut the wardrobe door, closing it up tight. Wandered over to the bed and climbed under the covers, staring at the ceiling as the lights cut off, plunging the room into darkness. A pitch black nothingness that lasted just a few seconds before the night time glow panels lit, providing a soft illumination close by the floor.

  Lay there feeling tired as hell, completely wrung out. Wanting to sleep but unable to, partly because he kept unconsciously turning to one side, looking for the window he expected to find there. Searching for the stars he felt, even if he couldn’t see them with his eyes.

  Mostly because he saw Hecate dying. Each and every time he closed his eyes.

  “Fuck it,” Henricksen growled after an hour of tossing and turning. Climbed out of bed and walked into the front room, sinking down in the chair by the desk. Powered on the system and spent the next few hours poring over personnel records, getting to know his new crew.

  Nine

  Toss up who looked worse the next morning: Henricksen or Sikuuku. Both of them shadow-eyed and worked over, trying not to look as dragged out as they felt.

  Sikuuku definitely had the better time getting that way. Didn’t return to his quarters until the wee hours of the morning. Stood outside his quarters, mumbling to himself while he messed with the wheel, trying to get the latch to work—three sheets to the wind, from the sound of things, and on the edge of passing out right there in the hallway.

  Henricksen sat there, staring at the door to his own quarters until Sikuuku finally got his shit together and figured out the latch-and-wheel combo. Shambled drunkenly inside, leaving the damned thing wide open behind him.

  Put himself to bed not long after. Even managed to get a few hours of sleep before the alarm went off and the room lights woke, rousing him from slumber. And now here they both were, standing in the control room looking down on the hangar—two dog-tired men holding back yawns. Doing their best to seem interested as Kinsey droned on, introducing them to a long list of civ engineers and scientists working on the RV-N project.

  Missed most of the names—went in one ear and right out the other. Karansky stuck, though—lead engineer for the RV-N project and kinda, sorta, but not really number two to Kinsey himself. Middle aged and showing it. Paunch starting at his middle, nondescript face made remarkable only by the two enormous, wriggling caterpillar eyebrows nesting on his brow.

  Carried a strange air of disappointment around him. Like this project was beneath him. Wasn’t where he thought he’d end up in life. Serious, though—all of them were, every last one of the civvies Kinsey introduced—and Karansky even more so. Karansky in his starched shirt, and starched white lab coat, shoulder length hair that looked starched as well.

  Project leads beneath him were Wallace and Song. Wallace ran the airframe team, in charge of propulsion and chassis modifications—a blond-haired, pink-skinned woman with a bookish, schoolmarm kind of thing going on. Almost cracked a smile when Karansky introduced her. Remarkable really, considering the stony, stoic faces of pretty much everyone else in that room. And Song…Song hovered at the edges, reader cradled in one arm, fingers constantly rattling at its display. Song managed the stealth system team, responsible for the RV-N’s electronic camouflage, sensors and cryptologic package, all the other sneaky Pete aspects of the ship.

  Karansky, Wallace, and Song. Karansky, Wallace, and Song. Henricksen repeated those three names, committing them to memory. Losing the thread on the others in the process.

  Long list of names, a veritable sea of young, earnest faces. But Karansky, Wallace and Song—those were the ones that really mattered. Rest were just underlings. Did whatever those other three told them to.

  Henricksen smiled politely at them anyway. Shook their offered hands. Tugged at the sleeves and collar of his flight suit when no one was looking—stiff things and new, not quite comfortable. The fit entirely different than Hecate’s jacket and matching pants.

  Hecate.

  He turned his head, staring forlornly at the empty spot on his shoulder.

  Hard to get used to that. Felt naked, almost abandoned without a patch to mark him. A ship to call home.

  A last introduction—Fergus or Ferguson, something like that—and Karansky excused himself. Gathered up Wallace and Song, dismissing the gaggle of nameless, faceless junior engineers as he drew his team leads into a huddle on the far side of the room.

  Kinsey went with them. Stood there—arms folded, lips pulled downward—listening closely as the engineers started arguing, pointing at something on the panel in front of them.

  Henricksen inched a few steps closer, eavesdropping on the conversation.

  Apparently, there was a problem with the propulsion system. Something about an incompatibility issue between the jump drive initiators and the stealth system camouflage, of all things.

  “Not exactly confidence inspiring, is it?” Sikuuku said, leaning close.

  “No. It isn’t.” Henricksen frowned, listening for a while. “Keep this to yourself for now.” He flicked his eyes to Sikuuku, giving him a meaningful look. “No sense worrying the crew.”

  “If the ship’s buggy—”

  “It’ll stay put,” Henricksen told him, throwing a sidelong look at the windows. “Engineers will either fix this incompatibility issue or they won’t. Either way, those RV-Ns don’t leave the hangar bay until I’m one hundred percent confident they won’t blow up or wig out on us.” He caught Sikuuku’s eyes and held them. “You and I know there’s a problem. More importantly, Karansky and his engineers do. Crew doesn’t need to know right now. Crew doesn’t need that kind of distraction.”

  Sikuuku frowned, considering the huddle of engineers on one side, and the control room windows on the other. “Aye, sir. If you say so, sir.”

  Henricksen eyed him a moment, considering this chief of his. “Sir” from Sikuuku meant the gunner didn’t agree with his approach. Two
“sirs” meant he’d humor him, but only for so long. “I know what I’m doing, Akiwane.”

  “’Course you do, sir.”

  Three “sirs” now. Henricksen sighed. This was going to be a long day.

  “C’mon, you grumpy old bastard.” He waved for Sikuuku to follow as he stepped across the room, leaving Kinsey and his engineers in the corner. “Let’s take a look at those ships.”

  Lights on in the hangar bay below them, shining through the control room windows as Henricksen and Sikuuku stepped close. Far side of the hangar bay lay cloaked in darkness, near side bathed in a bright white glow filtering from the ceiling above.

  Six sharp-sided shapes sitting in the middle of it, arranged in a circle with their engine ports marking the edge. Most ships rested on the decking when not out there, soaring through space. But the stealth ships…the RV-N’s squatted—ugly, sinister looking things, even with the lights on.

  Figures moved in the circle of space between them—Shaw and her deck gang busily working away at an RV-N’s ass end. Already removed the hull panels around the vent ports, starting to disassemble the machinery beneath. Pieces of RV-N lay everywhere, laid out in a carefully arranged pattern. Supposed that was so they knew what went where when they put the whole thing back together again. Didn’t end up with a bunch of spare parts that got chucked in the “just in case” bin.

  No robots helping them, which was unusual. Not robots anywhere on this base, come to think of it. But then, Dragoon was Black Ops territory, and full to overthrowing with secret squirrel, hush-hush type projects.

  Might not want all those electronic eyes scuttling about. Mobile data collectors recording every last thing they saw.

  Henricksen’s gaze shifted, focusing the lab coats down there with Shaw’s crew. Three of Karansky’s engineers running diagnostics while the mech gang worked away at the engines—plugging cables into a dozen different places to capture data on the fly, feeding it to the softly glowing readers clutched protectively in the engineers’ hands.