Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  Henricksen shivered, hating that sound. Lavish as these spaces were, they always put him in mind of a prison—a place that, once entered, never let you out.

  He thought about leaving again—no one there to meet him in the front entryway, no sign of his dinner host in the enormous room beyond. Went so far as to turn around and grab the latch protruding from the door before Kinsey’s voice intruded, bringing him up short.

  “Good evening, Captain.” Kinsey appeared like magic, immaculate as always in his pinstriped suit and shiny leather shoes. “You’re late.”

  Right to it. Not pulling any punches tonight.

  Never did when it came to his schedule. Kinsey despised tardiness—still figuring him out, but Henricksen picked up on that pretty quick—and 1830 for dinner meant arrive five minutes before, not nearly an hour late.

  Not off to a good start this evening. Then again, maybe if he showed up late often enough, he’d piss Kinsey off so badly he’d stop inviting him back for these uncomfortable little chats.

  “Sorry,” Henricksen said, not really meaning it. “Training,” he explained, with a distinctly vague wave.

  Kinsey stared in silence, watching, judging from the center of the bright, white room attached to that entryway. Long fingers reaching, tugging at the cuffs of a crisp, white shirt. “Dinner’s ready. I hope you like fish.”

  He didn’t, actually. Aquaculture on the stations, fish fed a steady diet of waste food and garbage—cook them however you wanted, fish always tasted like trash. But Henricksen nodded politely anyway, keeping that little newsflash to himself. Followed Kinsey’s beckoning finger across the entryway to the front room where he waited—an oversized square filled with white carpet and white furniture, a glitzy, glass and chrome chandelier pending from the ceiling, hanging halfway to the floor.

  Swanky, if not exactly Henricksen’s style. Everything in that room fresh, and clean, and modern. White, and chrome, and glass.

  Monochrome pallet, not a spot of real color anywhere. A showroom, not real quarters. Nothing here of Kinsey himself. Kept that all locked away, hidden behind the closed doors set in that front room’s four walls.

  Kinsey’s quarters and his right to jealously guard his spaces. Kinsey’s choice to confine his visitors to the snow-white front room with its glitzy, enormous chandelier. The wood-paneled dining room off to one side.

  Henricksen crossed the soft carpets, following his host’s stiff-backed form. Tilted his head, studying him, noting an odd, hitching movement to his gait.

  Clipped steps, the barest hint of a limp as he rotated his left hip.

  Prosthetic, he reminded himself.

  Forgot about that, sometimes. Remembered the arm each time he clasped it, but Henricksen often forgot about Kinsey’s prosthetic leg.

  Advances in artificial limb technology allowed for unimpeded movement, even a limited amount of tactile sensation, but the joins with flesh remained imperfect. Machine parts subbing in nicely, but still learning the fine points of natural human motor movement. Not yet the master of the dance.

  The carpet stopped at an arched doorway, downy white flooring giving way to fern green tile and wood paneled walls the color of cinnamon. The stark white modernity of the front room evaporated, replaced by the warmly lit confines of a formal dining area: table at the center, taking up most of the space, sideboard against one wall, door leading to a kitchen in which sumptuous meals were made.

  Just two place settings on that table when Henricksen entered. Seating for twelve, but with just the two of them eating, only two sets of china and glassware, knives and forks and other utensils laid out. Serving dishes filled the table’s center, lined up just so, lids securely in place, ensuring the food inside stayed warm. Soft music filtered from hidden speakers—some sort of stringed instrument composition, the kind that went out of style a quarter of a millennia ago. The kind no one but Kinsey seemed to listen to anymore.

  Huge aquarium to Henricksen’s right as he entered, filling the entirety of the wall. Brightly colored fish gliding serenely through the water, a suspicious set of eyeballs watching them, buried deep in the sand below. Playground of castles and coral reefs in miniature to entertain them, waving fronds of some slimy green weedy thing, a diver in miniature—belled helmet bubbling, creating tiny spots of chaos in that small sea of otherwise calm—with a tiny, spotted octopus wrapped around it, slowly strangling it to death.

  Colorful. Bright and cheery, especially after that monotone horror show of a front room. Henricksen paused in the doorway, eyes drawn it. To the streams of bubbles roiling the fish tank’s surface. The schools of fish swimming to and fro.

  Always meant to ask about the tank’s occupants, but Kinsey never gave him the opportunity. Poured the wine and jumped right into the interrogation, avoiding or outright ignoring any subject that didn’t involve the RV-N project and the training in the sims.

  Focused son-of-a-bitch—Henricksen had to give him that.

  “Have a seat, Captain.” Kinsey pointed to the chair closest to the doorway, stepped across the room and claimed a seat at the opposite end of the table.

  Defensive position. Put Kinsey’s back to the wall, leaving Henricksen’s exposed to the open doorway. The bright, white room on the other side.

  Henricksen glanced at the doorway—couldn’t help it, old habits died hard—as he pulled out a chair. Snatched a napkin from the table and fluffed it, laying it across his lap as he sat down.

  Helped himself to the food on the table without asking—Kinsey gave him a big, old frowny face for that, but he honestly didn’t care. Grabbed a wine glass and filled it with a crisp, white vintage that smelled of fruit and flowers, snagged a second glass and topped it off with water for good measure.

  Doubtful he’d get drunk on wine, but alcohol in any form tended to loosen the tongue. Encourage an honesty that wasn’t always in Henricksen’s best interests.

  Didn’t necessarily like Kinsey, but he watched his mouth around him. This man of secrets who guarded knowledge like a dragon sitting atop a golden hoard. Ate with him, because it was Friday and that was expected. Answered Kinsey’s questions as best he could, but he kept his personal opinions to himself because he didn’t quite trust him. Hadn’t known him long enough for that.

  Silence in the dining room, Kinsey watching as Henricksen filled his plate, carefully avoiding his eyes. First serving dish held green beans and carrot coins, stalks of stinking asparagus that lay like tiny tree branches on Henricksen’s plate. He dished up a double portion to use up real estate and leave less room for the dreaded fish. Added a pile of roasted potatoes speckled liberally with some vaguely green dried herb. Swapped the serving dish for a platter loaded down with fish fillets, hesitating when he caught sight of their dinner’s cousins watching from the tank.

  “These yours?” Henricksen nodded to the cooked fish on the platter, waved at the live ones swimming nearby.

  Kinsey flicked his eyes to the tank and laughed softly, shaking his head. “No. Not mine.” He picked up his fork and knife and started carving, sectioning his piece of fish into perfectly sized bites. “Those are only for show, Captain. Not particularly tasty. These, on the other hand,” he paused in his carving, flicking his knife at the platter in Henricksen’s hand, “are considered a delicacy. Patagonian Toothfish. Old Earth species,” he explained, at Henricksen’s blank look. “Seeded them in the oceans on Sandogene. They’ve done quite well from what I hear. High productivity rates in the southern waters along the continental shelf.” Kinsey smiled at him across the table—cold thing, a brief lifting of bloodless lips—and nipped a bite of fish from the tines of his fork, chewed and swallowed, watching Henricksen all the while. “So. Training.” The eyes blinked slowly—onyx pools that had no end. “Have you made crew assignments yet?”

  Right to it this evening, no messing about.

  His fault, for showing up late. Threatening Kinsey’s plans with the admirals. No time for the usual softball questions and polite banter. Kinsey
’s schedule said drinks at 2000 and he obviously meant to be there.

  Henricksen considered the question a moment, selected the smallest piece of fish the serving tray had on offer and dropped it onto his plate. “Just so happens Sikuuku and I were just discussing that. That’s why I was late.”

  Partial truth, though not quite an answer. He speared a green bean and nibbled at its end, hoping Kinsey would leave it at that.

  “Were you now?” Kinsey murmured, knife dangling from one hand, fork from the other. “And?” he prompted as Henricksen skewered another bean.

  Henricksen chewed and swallowed, taking his time about it, refusing to be rushed. “Still deciding,” he said, popping a carrot into his mouth.

  Kinsey stared, eyes hooding. “What’s the holdup?” he asked, carefully setting the fork and knife down.

  “No hold up. Just need some more time.”

  “Four weeks. That was our agreement.”

  “Don’t remember agreeing to anything. Do remember being told.” Henricksen grabbed his wine glass and drained half of it in one gulp.

  Kinsey stared along the length of the table, face cold as a corpse. “I see you like the wine.”

  Cheap shot, suggesting he was a drunk. Henricksen pointedly ignored it. Took another sip before setting it aside. “Better than that piss beer they serve in the mess hall.”

  Kinsey stiffened, eyes widening with indignation. Relaxed with a visible effort and offered a very fake sounding laugh. “My offer still stands.” He gestured at the room around him, retrieved his fork and speared a piece of fish. “I’ve got rooms set aside, just waiting for you to move in. Soft bed, stocked bar, fish tank if you want it.”

  Leave the barracks, move into the lofty, over-decorated quarters Kinsey assigned him in the first place.

  Annoyed Henricksen to no end that Kinsey kept asking. Three weeks of these meetings and each and every time Kinsey tried to get him to move up here. Give up his closet in the RV-N section for a chance to sleep in these shiny, expensive quarters with the other senior officers.

  Kinsey pressured—repeatedly—and each and every time Henricksen refused. Politely, of course—kept it to “no” and “thank you” rather than “kiss my ass, you insufferable prick”—but Kinsey kept asking. Kept badgering him to move.

  Didn’t understand it, honestly. Easier to agree and make him happy, but Henricksen always was an insufferable cuss. Never could do anything the easy way. Didn’t want to kiss Kinsey’s ass and share cocktails with the Brass. Whole point of bringing him here was to get the RV-N crews ready. That meant, eating, sleeping and training with them, day after day after day. Bugging out each night to sleep in swanky quarters like Kinsey’s just wasn’t his style. Sent an entirely wrong message to the crew under his command.

  “No. Thank you.” Wooden answer, Henricksen carefully controlling his answer, trying hard to keep it from showing on his face.

  He speared another carrot coin and shoved it in his mouth, grinding it to dust.

  Kinsey watched him, fingers drumming on the table, dark eyes inscrutable as always. “Your choice, of course.” His lips lifted, curling at the corners. “But the offer still stands. If you change your mind.”

  Henricksen twitched his shoulders, hand wrapping tight around his utensils. Mashed at the fish with his fork to carve a piece off. Shoved it in his mouth and almost spat it back out again, because—delicacy or not—Patagonian Toothfish still tasted like trash.

  “I spoke with Karansky.” Casual tone this time. Kinsey sipped at his water glass, picked up his fork and turned it sideways, using the tines to cut a potato in half. “He says the engine modifications are just about complete. They’re running a few test scenarios while Shaw bolts everything back together, but the RV-Ns should be ready to fly by the end of the week.”

  Henricksen tensed, knowing what was coming. “They’re not ready. Adaeze’s the best pilot of the bunch and even she’s struggling with speed wobbles in the trough. They need more time, Kinsey. You can’t—”

  “Don’t!” Kinsey snapped, smacking the table so hard he nearly tipped his glass over. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.” He glared across the table, eyes flashing with challenge. Turned his head away—a sharp, dismissive gesture—and carefully set the fork he held down. Tugged at the cuffs of his finely pressed shirt, smoothed the lapels of that perfectly tailored jacket. “Three weeks in the sims, Captain.” The head turned, eyes cold now, face a mask of bland dispassion. “Three weeks of twelve-hour days—don’t think I haven’t noticed.” A hint of anger returned—a carefully controlled amount that disappeared as Kinsey folded his hands together, resting his elbows on the table. “I’ve seen the results from those sim sessions and they’re impressive. Scores are way up since you arrived.”

  Henricksen nodded stiffly, accepting the compliment. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  “Any particular reason you separated Mahal and Nunez?”

  The lovebirds—not the shoe Henricksen expected.

  “Noticed that, did you?” He scooped up his water glass, lips twisting in a rueful smile.

  Kinsey copied it, adding a touch of cold, a hundredweight of condescension. “I notice a lot of things, Captain. That’s my job, after all.” The hands unfolded, one dropping to Kinsey’s lap while the other reached for the wine glass, lifted it to deposit a measured amount on his tongue. “I need those crew assignments, Captain.” Kinsey raised a hand to forestall Henricksen’s objections, treated himself to another sip of the wine before setting the glass down. “You want more time—I know. I heard you. But here’s the truth: You can keep them in the sims another three weeks. Or four. Or a hundred. Swap the crew around for days on end, but you’ll stop seeing results eventually. Sims are good, Captain, but they’re not the real thing. Not by a long shot.”

  Henricksen bristled, threw his fork down. “You think I don’t know? I’ve seen just as much combat as you. More to the point, I’ve run those sims—hundreds of hours before they let me crew Helm—and I know their limitations.” He scooped up his wine and drained the glass, slammed it back down. “No substitution for combat. None. Nothing at all like the real thing.”

  Kinsey blinked slowly, studying Henricksen from the opposite end of the table. “Glad to see we finally agree on something.” He raised his glass in salute, drained it and refilled it, offering the bottle to Henricksen after.

  Henricksen considered it before accepting, tipping the neck over his glass.

  Probably shouldn’t, but anger and drinking were sort of a thing with him. Tended to even each other out.

  “Pick your crews, Captain.” Kinsey pointed his glass across the table as Henricksen set the bottle down. “Get them in those birds. You find out you made bad choices, you swap them out after the fact.”

  Orders now. From Kinsey of all people.

  Henricksen leaned back, smiling bitterly. “That easy, eh?”

  “Not really. But dragging your feet isn’t going to help.”

  “I’ll announce the crew assignments when I’m ready.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Kinsey demanded, staring in challenge.

  Henricksen shrugged his shoulders, staring right back. Didn’t really have a good answer. Truth was he’d mapped out half the crews in his head already. Just needed Sikuuku’s input to finalize the rest.

  Been dragging my feet, he admitted. And now I’m outta time.

  He sipped at his glass, watching a fish swim by. Cobalt body striped with sunshine, fanlike fins waving sedately, rippling with each movement.

  “You make your assignments tomorrow.” Kinsey took a drink, lowered the glass and just held it casually in his hand. “How much longer will they need in the sims?”

  Henricksen popped a potato into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, stalling for more time.

  Impossible to answer that question until he ran through a few test scenarios. Figured out if all the crew combinations they came up with actu
ally worked. But a week should be plenty. More than enough time, unless he got it totally wrong.

  Back to the drawing board if I do. Reset the clock and start all over again.

  He snuck a look at Kinsey’s face, realized he’d never allowed it. Crew wouldn’t like it either. Truth was crew were sick to death of the sims. Asking about the RV-N as often as Kinsey because that’s why they were here: to fly the real thing.

  “Not really sure.” Henricksen plucked another potato from his plate, savoring the look of disgust on Kinsey’s face as he bit it in half, holding one side with his fingers while he chewed and swallowed before shoving the rest into his mouth. “What’s the hurry, anyway?”

  Kinsey stared a moment, face unreadable. “This project cost billions.” A pause, considering, and Kinsey sat back, taking the wine glass with him. “The admirals are impatient.”

  “Admirals are always impatient.”

  Kinsey inclined his head, raising the glass. “Nevertheless, the Brass want results. I told them four weeks and in four weeks they expect the RV-Ns to be flying. Completing missions, not gathering dust in the hangar bay.”

  Casual tone, now. Relaxed demeanor. Just two military vets having a little chat over dinner.

  Never mind that the schedule was shit. What Kinsey asked completely ridiculous.

  “What’s the goddamn hurry?” Henricksen demanded.

  Kinsey’s face changed, turning hard as stone. “They’re threatening to cancel the project.”

  Henricksen lowered his glass, resting on the table. That’s not it, he thought, studying Kinsey’s face intently, seeing something in his eyes. Not by a long shot.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Kinsey sipped at his drink, refusing to answer. Tongue locked up tight.

  Well, two could play at that game. Henricksen copied him—drink for drink and look for look—until Kinsey sighed in annoyance and set his drink down.

  “I’ve given you three weeks, and I’ll give you one more.”

  Said that like it was a gift. Like he’d somehow given Henricksen more time.