Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  Kinsey traded the glass for his knife and fork, applying both to an unsuspecting potato. “One week, Captain.” He pointed the knife across the table. “But that’s it. One week, not a day more.”

  “Week might be good for the crew, but that chassis—”

  “The chassis will be ready. Karansky’s promised me that and I mean to hold him to it. Whatever it takes.” Kinsey looked up, catching Henricksen’s eyes, dropped his gaze back to the food on his plate. “Sims are all well and good but I need live tests, Captain. Ships with crew on board capturing data. Running the systems under load.”

  Henricksen was quiet a moment, watching him dissect that potato. Thinking about the sims and that untried RV-N chassis. “The asteroid field scenario.”

  Kinsey froze, knife embedded in the potato’s skin. Raised his head and stared at Henricksen across the length of the table. “What about it?” he asked stiffly.

  “The sims repeat. Keep choosing that one scenario over and over again.”

  “So?” The knife moved, sawing through the potato, scraping loudly on the plate beneath. Kinsey set it down, stabbed a chunk of potato with his fork and lifted it to his mouth.

  “So either your sims are shit or you’re repeating that scenario on purpose.”

  Kinsey’s eyebrows lifted. “And why do you think I’d do that?”

  All but an admission, despite the casual tone. Not crap software then. Not that at all.

  “What’s in there?” Henricksen asked quietly.

  Kinsey dipped his fork, selecting a piece of fish from the bites on offer. “That’s the question isn’t it?” Smile on his face now—mocking, enigmatic. The face around it cold as ever, inscrutable as a statue frozen in time.

  “DSR?” Henricksen asked him, going very still.

  They’d seen ships in the sim—in the asteroid field, around it, even detected something at the center, but they could never get a good fix. Never quite see what it was.

  “Maybe,” Kinsey told him, lifting the fork to his mouth. “Most likely,” he admitted, sliding another bite into his mouth. A grimace and set he set the fork down. Knife with it. Pushed the entire plate away for good measure. “We’ve noted some recent vessel traffic around that asteroid field—ships moving in and out, that kind of thing.”

  “Could be they’re civ ships, not DSR at all.”

  “Could be,” Kinsey nodded. “No beacons, though, so it’s hard to tell.” Long look at Henricksen. Long meaningful look after that.

  “Rocks, maybe? Blocking the signal?” Henricksen chewed his lip doubtfully. Asteroid fields wreaked havoc on sensor systems. Ships squawked oceans of electronic chatter, though. Usually some of it slipped through.

  “Maybe.” Kinsey picked up his glass, swirling the contents as he studied the fish tank to one side. “Or it could be they’re turned off.”

  Henricksen went very still, fingers clenching his glass. “Against the law, running a ship in space without an active beacon.”

  Spoke of hiding and secrets—two things the DSR was all about.

  “Indeed,” Kinsey nodded, lips curling in a secretive smile.

  “Could be they’re civvies,” Henricksen argued. “Unregistered. Up to no good.”

  It happened—all too often, in fact. Pirates everywhere, not just the DSR you had to look out for these days.

  “Civvies,” Kinsey grunted, giving him a look. “Not a pilot myself, but I’ve heard it’s quite a feat, navigating an asteroid field without turning yourself into space dust. Civ ships tend to steer clear of asteroid fields.”

  “Unless they’re mining.”

  “They’re not.” Flat out—no room for argument in that answer. “No civ ships are authorized to be in that area. And the surveys show nothing of interest. Nothing worth mining even if they were out there for that.”

  Henricksen thought a moment, fiddling with his glass. Picked it up and set it back down, spinning it on the tabletop with his fingers. “How many ships are we talking about?”

  “Another good question.” Kinsey swirled the wine in his glass, took a sip and set it down. “We don’t know for sure.” He touched the glass, stroking the stem with his finger. “Probes go in, but they don’t come out. Sensors can’t get a good set of scans with all those asteroids in the way.”

  Henricksen tilted his head, brow furrowing. “So why not send a few ships in? If they’re DSR—if you even think they’re DSR—why all this skulking about?”

  Kinsey smiled again—condescending as always, slightly amused. “Send in an armed force—that what you’re thinking? Roust the ships out, blow anything that resists to hell?”

  “That such a bad idea?” Henricksen leaned back, arms folded tight to his chest.

  “Actually, yes.”

  “Why?”

  Kinsey started to answer, paused and tilted his head. “Because we know those ships are there, but not why, or what they’re up to. We send in a force and my guess is they’ll run. Jump away and take whatever their hiding with them.”

  “Hiding?” Henricksen’s eyebrows lifted. “So now they’re hiding something?”

  Kinsey shrugged again—he was full of shrugs tonight—face blank, eyes swirling with secrets.

  Henricksen pursed his lips, studying the man across from him. “So, what’ve you got? What makes you think there’s anything besides ships inside that asteroid field?”

  The smile came back, twisting Kinsey’s lips, never quite making it to his eyes. “Oh, they’re hiding something alright. Secrets are my business, Captain. I can smell ’em.” He lifted a finger, tapped the end against his nose. “And the secret to secrets is stealing them without anyone knowing. That’s where the RV-N comes in.”

  “And the sims keep repeating—”

  “Because I want those crews to know that rock field like the backs of their hands. I want them in and out—scans and video, every last piece of information they can gather recorded in the RV-Ns’ systems—and then I want them to go back, and do it all over again. And again. And again.” Kinsey pounded his fist against the table, rattling the dishes, keeping time with his words. “Until we know what they have, and how to take it ourselves.” He was quiet a moment, dark eyes blinking slowly, fingers curling around the forgotten wine glass. “Do you understand now, Captain? Do you see why I need those stealth ships flying?”

  He did, but he still didn’t understand the hurry. Why this four-week timeline was so important.

  Henricksen stared a moment, trying to read him, turned his head and considered the fish tank, searching for answers amongst its brightly colored occupants. Wondering what the DSR could be hiding inside that asteroid field. Why he himself was so loathe to make those crew assignments so they could find out.

  “A week, you said, and that chassis’ll be ready?”

  “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll run Karansky’s crew all night if I have to. Question is: will your crews be ready as well?”

  Not sure, he thought, but they’ll mutiny if I keep them in the sims much longer.

  Henricksen sighed, setting his drink down. Pushed his chair back and climbed to his feet. “They’ll have to be, won’t they?” A nod to Kinsey and he turned around, retracing his steps across that pristine, white-on-white room as he showed himself out.

  Fourteen

  Hollings guided Henricksen back to the RV-N project’s section of the station. Never knew where he came from—wasn’t outside Kinsey’s quarters when Henricksen left them—but the petty officer appeared out of nowhere before he reached the administrative section’s security door, nodding politely as he caught up with Henricksen, keyed him through and set off for home.

  “Thanks,” Henricksen said, stopping with Hollings outside the pressure door leading into the RV-N projects’ berthings. “Appreciate the help. Think I can take it from here.” He clapped the petty officer on the shoulder, lips twisting in a self-deprecating smile. Gave his hand a good, firm shake before releasing it and stepping back.

  “Anytime, sir. Statio
n’s a maze. No doubt about that.” Hollings braced up and saluted, spun on his heel and marched away, leaving Henricksen staring after him—watching Hollings round a corner and disappear from view.

  Turned around as Hollings’s footsteps faded, putting his back to the berthing area as he headed for the airlock providing access to the hangar bay—the one place in this section he hadn’t yet visited. Not once in the weeks since he and Sikuuku arrived.

  Hadn’t really given the RV-Ns more than a passing glance from the control room, to be honest, because they weren’t really ships yet. Not until they were ready to fly. Well, that day was coming—like it or not—and it was high time he gave the RV-Ns a once over. At least have the decency to set foot inside one.

  A stop at the airlock to enter his credentials and Henricksen punched a button, cycling it open. Checked the hallway to make sure no one was looking—nothing to stop him from going out into the hangar, no rules forbidding crew from entering, he just wanted some time to himself—as he stepped inside the airlock, letting the door seal up.

  Enviro suits hung on the side walls—helmet and pressure suit in three generic sizes that really fit no one at all. Crew got better for flight ops, but he’d have to go all the way back to his quarters to fetch it, risking a thousand questions and unwanted intrusions along the way.

  First time in the RV-N. Didn’t really want company. Not even Sikuuku this time. He just wanted to look the ship over—touch it, feel it, get a sense for the AI he’d so far avoided.

  Little things. Little things that mattered.

  Henricksen grabbed a suit at random, picking one from the “tallish” section in the middle, since that just about summed him up. Tugged it over his uniform, cursing the suit as it bunched up in places, hung loosely in others. Managed to wrestle it into place eventually and plunked a helmet on his head after, bulbous shape connecting to the suit via a gasket that clicked into place, sealing up tight.

  Checked his reflection in the glass after and realized the end result was terrible, the entire thing a horrible fit. Yards of brownish material pooched at the stomach, puddling in loose folds by his feet. Sleeves bunched up to allow room for gloves. A helmet that smelled like rancid butter for some reason, forcing him to breathe through his mouth or risk vomiting in his suit.

  Didn’t need it all that long, though. Most of the hangar was vacuum—far too big of a space for the station to light and heat twenty-four seven—but, with Shaw’s crew working the RV-Ns, they’d thrown up a shimmer shield, creating a bubble of heat and atmosphere around the six stealth ships lurking beneath the control room’s windows.

  Long walk from the airlock, unfortunately. Entry point into the hangar bay being somewhere near that echoing space’s middle, the ships he wanted lying far to the left. Long walk, but practical from a safety standpoint. Didn’t want engines and welders,and all sorts of spark- and fire-creating equipment running right next to the station access point, after all.

  Henricksen checked the seals on his enviro suit, punched the button next to the airlock’s hangar-side door and waited, feeling the thrum of machinery through the soles of his boots. Watched the numbers on the display ticked down to zero as the locked pumped the air out, flashed green and opened up.

  Vast space on the other side. Vast and dark, the only light a dim glow filtering from the control room far to the left of the lock, windows looking down on the hangar bay floor.

  Henricksen touched the side of his helmet, turning a headlamp on. Swung it around, getting his bearings before setting off.

  Left turn out of the airlock, straight shot from there to where the stealth ships waited. Yellow lines provided a path laced with intermittent arrows—a trail of breadcrumbs leading all the way to the sharp-edged ships. Shimmer shield bounced his headlamp back at him when he reached it, blinding Henricksen for a moment, waking dazzling stars that lingered long after he stepped through into atmosphere, removing the helmet with a grateful sigh. Shucked the bulky, ill-fitting enviro suit from his body and let it puddle on the floor.

  “Fire the guy who designed that godawful thing.” He kicked the suit and helmet into a pile, turned in a circle and surveyed the sleeping ships around him. Noticed the back hatch of one was open, light showing inside. “What the hell?”

  Habit made him reach for a pistol—stupid instinct drilled into him years ago, back when officers used to carry one everywhere. Nothing on his hip right now, though. No one but the shift guards carried weapons on station, and those high velocity pulse rifles, not something so simple as a pistol.

  Henricksen dropped his hand, cursing himself for being an idiot. Spied a rolling tool case parked next to one of the RV-Ns and rifled through its drawers until he found a satisfyingly large, satisfyingly heavy wrench inside.

  “That’s better.” He hefted the wrench, walking soft-footed over to the lighted stealth ship, wincing at every echoing sound.

  Dark lumps surrounded the ship’s backside, tool chests and spare parts scattered around it, hull panels removed to make it easier for the mech gang to get at the engines beneath. From the looks of things, they had most of it put back together now—an encouraging sign, one that hopefully meant Kinsey was right, and Karansky’s engineers just about had the engines issues solved.

  Henricksen skirted a stack of hull panels, slipping between two tool chests as he crept to the edge of the open hatch. Slowed and approached on tiptoe, sneaking a look inside.

  Not all that much to see, really. The outer hatch led to an inner airlock, with a cargo area beyond. A lock that showed green—heat and atmosphere on the other side—and open, not security locked like it should be.

  Odd that, finding the ship’s inner door unsecured. Then again, that outer hatch shouldn’t be open either. And the lights he spied in the cargo bay most definitely shouldn’t be on.

  Somebody in there.

  One of Shaw’s crew, most likely. Pulling a late shift, finishing some odd job up.

  Henricksen lowered the wrench, feeling incredibly foolish. Thought about dropping it in one of the tool chests, but decided to keep it in the end. Took it with him as he stepped into the airlock and pushed at the inner hatch door.

  Illumination on the other side—a double row of buzzing light bars throwing back the darkness, shining down from the ceiling onto a rectangle of composite metal decking. On plasmetal walls set with reinforced glass panels. A door to Henricksen’s right providing access to the stealth ship’s single, central corridor.

  Simple layout to the RV-N, one he’d memorized while studying the stealth ship’s design specs during that three-day trek to Dragoon. Just three levels to the ship, unlike Hecate’s eight, a Valkyrie’s ten, with a single corridor running the length of each. Bottom tier was cargo and provisions, munitions storage, spare parts and the like. Middle tier held common spaces—kitchen and dining area on one side, rec room on the other—and provided forward access to the bridge. Top tier was crew berthings—four snug cubby-holes equipped with bunks and little else, sufficient for racking out during long deployments.

  Shared spaces, not assigned. Black Ops was a waiting game—couldn’t assume you’d be back in time for a dinner and a solid eight hours in a stationside bunk—and the ships a conveyance. A tool for the job, not a home.

  Not like Hecate. Not like other warships in the Fleet.

  Henricksen considered the ship’s innards, scanning the empty cargo hold from the doorway. Stepped inside when he found no one around.

  The hazy glow in the cargo bay brightened immediately, sensors picking up movement, waking the sleeping lights along the walls. A click and a voice issued from speakers in the ceiling, echoing tinnily off the walls.

  “Good evening, Captain,” the ship greeted him, tones carefully neutral, scaring the crap out of him just the same.

  He froze up tight, wrench lifting, fingers clenched in a death grip around its handle.

  “What brings you here tonight?” A pause, camera in the corner swiveling, lens adjusting as it zoomed in.
“And what’s with the wrench?”

  “Oh, you know.” Henricksen lowered the wrench, forcing himself to relax, willing his voice to calm. “Trouble sleeping. Thought I’d go for a little walk.”

  “A walk?” The AI sounded puzzled. “Why would—”

  “Walk my ass,” a new voice interrupted. “I know snooping when I see it.”

  “Shaw?”

  Sounded like the mech gang chief. Definitely female, anyway.

  “You know, if you wanted a tour you could’ve asked me.”

  Henricksen shrugged, looking up at the camera, assuming Shaw was watching remotely. “Impromptu decision. 2200. Figured knocking on your door and asking for a guided tour would be considered rude.”

  Shaw laughed aloud—a deep, throaty sound filled with genuine amusement. “Well, you showed yourself in, so I assume you can find your way around. I’m on the bridge tweaking systems. Wanna come up and give me a hand?”

  Henricksen shrugged again and headed across the cargo hold.

  “By the way, why are you carrying that wrench around?”

  “What? Oh.” Henricksen tucked the wrench behind him. “Found it. Lying on the decking.” He waved vaguely at the open hatchway behind him, indicating the hangar outside.

  “Uh-huh.” Shaw sounded suspicious.

  A quick look around showed no tool chests anywhere. Henricksen thought about tossing the wrench in the corner—he felt increasingly silly carrying the damned thing around—but with Shaw watching, decided to keep it for now.

  A touch at the security panel on the wall and he buzzed through the inner door to the stealth ship’s central corridor—everything simple and durable here, composite metal and ultra-durable plastics, triple-thick reinforced glass. Climbed the aft ladderway to the second tier and walked the length of that nearly identical hallway to the bridge at the stealth ship’s bow.

  Door there was closed, but it opened at his touch. Space inside looked nearly identical to the sim pod, except with brighter lighting. The blood-red, low light combat illumination swapped out for a soft yellow glow.