Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  From there to the terminals in the control room. Into the systems beneath, and their vastly more capable processing power.

  “Definitely not taking those out anytime soon, are we?” Sikuuku grunted, watching the mech gang scurry around. “Ya know, Shaw tells me—”

  “Had a good time last night, I see?” Kinsey stepped in behind them—arms folded, face reflecting off the windows, lips set in a tight, disapproving line.

  “Slept like crap.” Henricksen turned around, copying Kinsey’s stance. Matching that critical look with one of his own. “Rack’s hard as a rock. Room smells like an old trunk.”

  Sikuuku ducked his head, coughing to cover his smile.

  “I offered you better quarters.” Kinsey tilted his head, giving Henricksen a flat-eyed stare. “Offer still stands, if you want them.”

  Henricksen flipped his hand, dismissing the topic entirely. Didn’t really want to get into a pissing match with Kinsey right now.

  “So, what’s the plan?” he asked, nodding to the windows, the stealth ships sitting on the hangar bay’s floor. “Birds aren’t flying. Guessing they haven’t been since the crews started coming in.” He quirked an eyebrow, looking a question at Kinsey. Stayed that way—he was nothing if not stubborn—until Kinsey nodded stiffly, moving in beside him.

  “Four weeks—that’s my timeline for Karansky.” A look in Henricksen’s direction. “For you and your crew as well.”

  “From the looks of things, there’s quite a bit of work to do.” Henricksen pointed a finger at the partially disassembled stealth ship. “You think Karansky’ll make it? Have those birds ready to fly?”

  Kinsey looked at him—right at him, staring steadily at Henricksen’s face. “Not a doubt in my mind.”

  Gauntlet thrown. Kinsey never even batted an eye.

  Henricksen inclined his head, accepting the challenge. “So, what? Simulators for training?”

  Kinsey nodded, turning, looking across the room to a locked door with a sign stuck to its hard surface. A red placard with white letters reading “Authorized Personnel Only”. “Not as good as the real thing, obviously, but the best we can do for now. Helps them learn the controls and the intricacies of the RV-N’s systems.” He slid his gaze to Henricksen, lips curving in a condescending smile. “How to work with one another while they’re at it.”

  Henricksen saw the smile and ignored it. With an effort. “You make the assignments?”

  Second nod—slow movement of Kinsey’s head. “Based on their records and competencies.” A pause, dark eyes searching Henricksen’s face. “You’re welcome to change them, of course.”

  Considered it—didn’t like inheriting decisions he’d had no say in—but Henricksen shrugged his shoulders instead, not yet ready to commit. “We’ll see. Like to observe them in the sims awhile. Study the data before I start swapping crew around.”

  “Alright,” Kinsey said slowly. “Sims are that way.” He hooked a thumb at the security locked door. The one with the sign, and the glowing red light sitting beside it. Second sign beneath it, reading “Caution. Simulation training in progress when red light is lit”.

  “Go ahead,” Kinsey told them, looking at Henricksen and Sikuuku both. “I’ve got a briefing at 0800 to explain this mess with the RV-N engines to the Brass.” He scowled at the disassembled ship, shaking his head in disgust. Turned around and moved away from the windows, glancing around in surprise when Henricksen called his name, laid a hand on his arm.

  Fake arm—the prosthetic, though Henricksen hadn’t realized it until he touched it. A high tech piece of equipment with built in micro-sensors and miniature motors, making it look, and move, and act like the real thing.

  Didn’t feel real, though. Cold limb beneath Henricksen’s fingers. Cold and hard, unpleasant to touch. A circuit-infused piece of plasmetal and electronics, not a real arm at all.

  Kinsey stared at Henricksen’s hand until he released him. Tugged at his cuff, checking the fit of his prosthetic arm.

  “Engineers are new.”

  Statement, not a question. Kinsey glanced up sharply, face twitching on one side. Pulling at his lips before finally going still.

  “Mechanics are new, too, aren’t they?” Henricksen moved in close, felt Sikuuku slip in behind him, listening. “Flight crews…well, I know how long they’ve been here. Only one who isn’t new is you.” He locked eyes with Kinsey, trying to read his face. “What happened, Kinsey? What’s going on?”

  For a moment he thought Kinsey would answer—give him the truth of the situation without the bullshit for once. And then something changed. Henricksen saw it in his face.

  Kinsey’s eyes hooded, locking their secrets away. “Not sure what you mean, Captain.”

  “The hell you don’t.” Henricksen stepped close, conscious of the engineers around them—eyes and ears eavesdropping on their conversation—and dropped his voice, looking Kinsey right in the face. “Spill it, Kinsey. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Kinsey stared back at him—onyx eyes filled with secrets, lips pressed in a cold, hard line. A tug at his lapels to smooth them and he adjusted his cuffs, the fit of that prosthetic arm again.

  Nervous habit, that obsessive checking. Henricksen made a note of it. Filed it away with all the other potentially useful information he’d picked up.

  “Let’s get one thing straight here, Captain.” Kinsey flicked a fluff from his sleeve, eyes lifting to Henricksen’s face. “I run this project. You run those crews.” He pointed at the simulator room door without looking. “I suggest you focus on that, and get those crews ready. Let me worry about the rest.” He stared a moment, making sure Henricksen got the message, nodded to Sikuuku as he turned away.

  “And if the rest of it gets them killed?”

  Kinsey stiffened, looking back over his shoulder. “They’re Fleet, Captain. Every assignment could get them killed. You of all people should know that.”

  Henricksen winced—cheap shot, dredging up that business with Hecate, but it still hurt. Suspected it always would.

  “You get those crews ready, Captain.” A last, withering look and Kinsey stalked away. Yanked the door to the control room open and let it slam closed behind him as he stepped into the hall.

  “That went well.” Sikuuku folded his arms, looking Henricksen up and down. “Not real good at making friends, are you?”

  “Your friend, not mine.” Henricksen stared after Kinsey, turned his eyes to Sikuuku beside him. “Friend like that I don’t need.”

  A last look at Sikuuku and he abandoned the windows, heading for the locked door with the red light on the opposite side of the room. Glanced aside the gunner fell in beside him, matching him stride for stride.

  “Kinsey…” Sikuuku trailed off, biting his lip. “He’s not that bad.”

  “He’s a prick,” Henricksen snapped. “And he’s keeping secrets. Two things I don’t like.” He stopped at the security door and jammed his hand to the scanner, letting it read his palm print before entering his access code at the prompt. The lock flashed and whirred, processing his credentials, chimed politely and granted him access. “But he’s right about one thing.” Henricksen hauled the door open, looking back over his shoulder. “Best thing we can do right now is train these crews. Ships…” He frowned, shaking his head hard. “Goddamn things may never work right. But if this project fails, I won’t let it be because of training. I won’t do that to them.” He stabbed a finger at the darkened room on the opposite side of the doorway, square-sided simulator pods humming away, crew locked up inside. “Now get your ass in there, Chief. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  Sikuuku stared a moment, grunted and stepped past Henricksen without a word. Stopped just inside and examined the layout—monitoring room with a glass wall separating it from the sim pods, door set in the middle providing access to the other side. Touched at a display panel, waking the system that ran everything—assigned the simulations, captured data on the test runs, monitored the activities of the crew durin
g training—and took a look at who they had inside.

  Henricksen pulled the door to, dropping the room into darkness. Waited there by the door until a muted, red glow appeared. Lights in the corners bathing the monitoring room in blood-red illumination. Reflecting off the glass wall separating the monitoring room from the row of sim pods on the other side.

  Cameras set in the cabin of each one. Microphone in the crews’ helmets recording every communication, every last thing they said. Training system’s software picked simulations at random, recording the crews’ reactions, spewing out streams of analytical data the monitoring system consumed.

  Six sim pods in total, but just three of them active at the moment. The other three crews due to come on at mid-day.

  Five hour shifts to start out, with just a small break in between each run. Debrief after to go over the vids, analyze what they’d done.

  Sikuuku’s idea, staggering the training. Easier to assess the crews’ capabilities with just three on at a time. He pulled up the feeds from the three active sims, watching the simulations play out in real time.

  Baldini occupied one pod—loud as ever, swearing like a sailor, yelling at his crew as he piloted his simulated RV-N through a sea of false chaff and fake starships. Schenck in there with him, long body stuffed into the Artillery pod’s tight confines. Mateus sitting Scan on one side of Baldini, Pritchard at Engineering on the other.

  System identified them. Floated names over stations because in their flights suits, with those visored helmets covering their faces, they all looked the same. One indistinguishable from another, even gender obscured.

  All male crew in that particular pod, of course, which sort of made that last point moot. Henricksen wasn’t quite sure he liked that set-up—mixed crews performed better in his experience than single gender teams. Male or female, it didn’t seem to matter. Include all of one and none of the other…well, things tended to go wrong.

  Kinsey, he reminded himself. Kinsey set these assignments up.

  And obviously didn’t share his qualms about single sex crews.

  Henricksen frowned, tempted to break up the party. Swap out the male pilot. Maybe one of the other crew.

  Frowned harder and decided to leave it alone for now, and see how things played out. Snap decisions tended to be bad ones, and he had been known to be wrong. Not often, but it did happen. No one was perfect, after all.

  A touch at one of the monitoring station’s panels and he toggled the vid, pushing the data from Baldini’s pod into a corner, bringing the feed from Adaeze, working the Number Two pod, to the center.

  Fontaine in there with her, manning Engineering. Grunewald on the guns, Kapoor at Scan calling out information. Simulation running an asteroid field with DSR ships around it, the stealth ship itself just coming in on approach.

  Calm voice from Adaeze as she flew the ship, twitching it side to side. Minimal comms filtering through, which meant minimal noise, unlike loudmouthed Baldini in the next pod over.

  Henricksen watched her a while, admiring her skills. Her control over this unfamiliar ship. Adaeze was smooth as silk on the stick, sliding gracefully between the ships surrounding the sim asteroid field, sneaking the cloaked RV-N into the tumbling mass of boulders with the sim DSR none the wiser.

  “Cool as a cucumber,” Sikuuku grunted, nodding appreciatively. “Unlike our Sosholo lieutenant.”

  A touch at the panel and he dialed up the comms from the Number One pod, listening to Baldini whoop and shout. A blast of plasma fire and he dodged sideways, hauled the RV-N around and lined it up with a target. Reached around and thumped the Artillery pod behind him, hollering for Schenck to blow it to hell.

  “Believe our young lieutenant forgot he’s flying a stealth ship, not a combat fighter. Idiot,” Sikuuku sneered, cutting the comms off.

  The simulation ran another twenty minutes before finally winding down. Baldini pumped his fist as it cut out, yanked off his helmet and whooped aloud.

  Started high-fiving his crew, until Henricksen interrupted, keying the mic to open comms to the pod.

  “Mind telling me what that was all about, Baldini?”

  “That,” Baldini said, flashing a cocksure grin at the camera, “was called kicking the enemy’s ass. Sir,” he added, flipping an offhand salute.

  “Kicking the enemy’s ass.” Henricksen crooked a finger, beckoning Sikuuku over. “Is that the point of this project, Mr. Baldini? Is that what we’re supposed to do?”

  “Yes, sir. Kick ass and take names. Show the enemy—”

  “No. That is not what we do.”

  Baldini stared at the camera, eyes wide with surprise. Snuck a look at the crew around him and sat back, poking sullenly at his station while Henricksen schooled him on the finer points of being a stealth ship pilot.

  “Kicking ass and taking names is for yahoos and dumbshits who don’t know better, Mr. Baldini. The sooner you wrap your thick head around that, the better off we’ll be.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Shut it, Lieutenant,” Sikuuku snapped.

  Baldini’s face darkened. “I do not take orders from—”

  “You will goddamn well take orders from whoever I tell you to, Mr. Baldini. And that includes Chief Sikuuku.”

  “But I’m an officer!” Baldini objected.

  “And a fucking piss-poor one, Baldini. Fucking piss-poor.”

  Baldini’s eye bulged, mouth sagging open. He sat there, staring at the camera like a landed fish, all but apoplectic at being dressed down in front of his crew.

  Not the best way to deal with junior officers, normally, but Baldini had developed some severely bad habits. He and Petros both, based on what Henricksen saw in the mess hall the other night. First order of business was to nip that in the bud. Knock those two down a few notches and get them playing as part of a team. Lot of ways he could do that, but the fastest way—the most effective way, in Henricksen’s experience—was to tell them they flat-out sucked.

  “What are you flying, Lieutenant?”

  Baldini frowned, obviously thinking this some kind of trick. “Sir?”

  “What are you flying?” Henricksen repeated, ice creeping into his voice.

  “Uhh…simulator? Sir?”

  Henricksen sighed and cut the comms, counting to ten so he didn’t tear the goddamn lieutenant’s head off. “Box of rocks, this one. Box of fucking rocks.”

  Sikuuku smiled crookedly. “Officer,” he said, flicking an imaginary fluff from his chief’s anchors. “Most are.”

  “Quiet you,” Henricksen growled, opening the comms back up. “What kind of simulator, Mr. Baldini?”

  “Stealth ship, sir. Simulates the RV-N.”

  “Exactly. And that little display of yours? All the fancy moves and shooting? Would you say that was stealthy?”

  Baldini blinked, processing the question. “Uh. No. Not really.”

  “Therein lies your problem, Mr. Baldini.” He folded his arms, waiting for the moment of enlightenment, but Baldini just stared at the camera, shaking his head. Henricksen sighed again, cutting the comms. “I stand corrected. Rocks make this guy look brilliant.”

  Sikuuku barked a laugh as Henricksen stabbed at the panel, trying again.

  “Stealth ship means stealth flying, Mr. Baldini, and guns as a last resort. Now reset the simulation.” He paused, rolling his eyes as Baldini and his crew groaned. “Yeah, yeah. My heart’s breaking. Now run it again, and this time do your damn job. Any more of that showboating, hot jock bullshit and I’ll run you out of this program. Are we clear, Mr. Baldini?”

  “Yes, sir.” Baldini shoved his helmet over his head, clearly sulking, muttering about “hardass captains and son-of-a-bitch chiefs”. Forgetting, in his peevishness, about the mic inside said helmet, picking up his every word.

  Sikuuku listened a while, lips twitching. “He’s right, ya know. You are a pain in the ass. Sometimes,” he amended, at Henricksen’s sour look.

  A touch at the panel reset the simulator, la
unched the mission and shot the simulated ship out into simulated space.

  Sikuuku watched a while, examining the data, straightened and threw a look Henricksen’s way. “Thinking we need to break that crew up. Baldini’s,” he added, by way of explanation.

  “No argument here. In fact, I was thinking exactly the same thing. Change ’em out tomorrow,” Henricksen decided, nodding to the Number One pod. “Cycle the crew out every couple of days for the next two weeks. Give everyone a run with Baldini. See what sticks and what doesn’t.”

  “What about Fisker?”

  Henricksen grimaced. “Fisker too. Hate to do it to the kid, but it can’t look like I’m playing favorites. ’Sides,” he added, flashing a smile. “Working for a prick can be educational.”

  Sikuuku snorted. “Say that again.”

  “Was I really that bad as a junior lieutenant?”

  “Not like Baldini.” Sikuuku watched the vid from Baldini’s pod a moment, shrugged his shoulders, looking over at Henricksen. “Knew better than to order a chief around. Always treated the enlisted fair.” He tipped an invisible cap, accepting a nod of acknowledgment in return. Went quiet for a while, watching Baldini’s simulation without really seeing it. Thinking about days long gone.

  “But?” Henricksen prompted, sensing there was one.

  “Big damn chip on your shoulder.” Sikuuku looked over, flicked his eyes back to the panel. “Wore your pusher history like a goddamn badge. Bristled up like a puffer fish anytime one of those Academy boys came around.”

  “Can ya blame me?” Henricksen spread his hands, eyebrows lifting. “Look at Baldini. Would you wanna hang around with an asshole like that?”

  Sikuuku rolled his eyes. “They’re not all assholes. Adaeze’s alright and she’s Academy. Janssen. Fisker.”

  “Fisker’s Earth Academy. That’s different.”

  “Whatever,” Sikuuku muttered, shaking his head. “What about Mahal?” he asked, nodding to the Number Three pod. “What’s your read on her?”

  Honestly wasn’t sure.

  Henricksen muted Baldini, checked on Adaeze—everything green there, simulation running just fine—before queuing up the feed from the last of the three active pods.