Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  Taggert tucked up his arms, jaw set, clearly pissed off. “So we’re not flying them. Ever. That what you’re saying?”

  “Not until—”

  “I’ll test the changes,” Two-Six cut in. “Shaw can put my chassis in drone mode. We can test the new configuration—”

  “No. Not happening,” Henricksen said flatly.

  “I’m not crew, Captain,” Two-Six reminded him.

  “But you are sentient.” He raised his head, staring hard at the camera. “I’ve seen too many AIs die already. I don’t need another one on my conscience.”

  “Captain—”

  “No,” he repeated. “I won’t have it, Two-Six.” A last look at the camera and he spun around, stalked across the bridge.

  “Where are you going?” Sikuuku stood and started to follow but Henricksen stopped him with a raised hand.

  “To see Kinsey.” Henricksen grabbed the door and yanked it open “I want to know what’s so goddamn important that he rushed that chassis into live trials.” He stepped into the hall, paused and looked back over his shoulder. “I said no, Shaw, and I meant it. No drones, no crew until I say so. Got it?”

  Shaw was quiet a moment, blue eyes glittering in the bridge pod’s light. “Aye, sir,” she said, tapping two fingers to her temple.

  “Good. Now get those ships fixed.” He nodded to Shaw, to Sikuuku and the others. “Taggert.” He snapped his fingers, pointed to the reader plugged into Scan. “You got a back-up of that data?”

  “Yeah,” Taggert said slowly, brows drawing downward. “Couple, actually. Backed everything up to Two-Six just before—”

  “Give it to me.” Henricksen flicked his fingers, snagging the reader from Taggert when he brought it over.

  “What are you—?”

  “Kinsey may need convincing.” Henricksen shoved the reader inside his jacket. “Bastard’s certainly not gonna take my word on anything, is he?”

  Taggert shrugged, looking confused as ever as Henricksen abandoned the ship for the hangar bay, using the comms system built into his enviro suit to summon Hollings to come get him because he still couldn’t find his way to Kinsey’s quarters without a tour guide.

  Nineteen

  Kinsey answered the door with a frown on his face. “You’re late, Captain. Again,” he noted, pointing to an old fashioned wristwatch circling his wrist.

  Not the greeting Henricksen expected—honestly wasn’t sure Kinsey would answer the door for an uninvited guest—but then he remembered it was Friday, and long past 1830. Going on 2000, in fact, which explained the watch and lapel pin. The other discrete yet obviously expensive accessories Kinsey wore about his person.

  Friday evening—drinks with the Brass. Henricksen’s lips twisted, sneering in disgust. Crew dead, ship and AI wrecked, an investigation on-going that had the entire project on edge and all Kinsey could think about was schmoozing the bigwigs. Getting some facetime with the senior administrators so he could feather his nest.

  Prick.

  “We need to talk,” Henricksen snarled, shoving at the door.

  Kinsey shoved back, refusing to move, blocking the entrance to his quarters with his body. “I’m afraid I have plans, Captain. You can come back tomor—”

  “Fuck your plans,” Henricksen snapped. “And fuck you while you’re at. You’ve got a bird down, Kinsey, and all you can think about—”

  “You want to think about your next words very carefully, Captain.” Kinsey stepped in close, eyes flashing with anger, voice cold as an arctic wind. “You want to think very, very carefully before you start throwing accusations my way.” He flicked his eyes over Henricksen’s shoulder, eyeing Hollings standing discretely to one side, the sparse foot traffic moving up and down the hall. “You want to talk privately? Fine. Hollings will be happy to make an appointment.”

  “No,” Henricksen said flatly. “No appointment. Now.”

  “I told you, I have plans—”

  “And I said, fuck your plans.”

  Kinsey bristled, lips pressed in a flat, angry line. “Leave us.” He flicked his fingers, dismissing Hollings, eyes never leaving Henricksen’s face. “What do you want, Captain?” he asked, once the petty officer moved way. “Why are you here?”

  Henricksen pulled Taggert’s reader from his jacket, holding it up. “You’re going to want to see this.”

  Kinsey folded his arms, scowling now. Completely out of patience. “And just what is this, Captain?”

  “Data.”

  “Data.” Kinsey’s lips lifted, face twisting in a sneer. “You’re wasting my time, Captain.” He stepped back, grabbing the door’s edge, preparing to swing it closed.

  Henricksen stepped forward, forcing his body into the gap. “From the sims,” he said, holding the reader out. “From the accident last week.”

  A pause, Kinsey studying him from the entryway to his apartments, that heavy door standing halfway closed between them. “And?”

  Henricksen dropped his voice, hand pressing against the door. “I know what caused it.”

  Kinsey squinted suspiciously. “Karansky—”

  “Is part of the problem.”

  The scowl reappeared, worry showing at the edges.

  “He can’t figure it out, can he?” Henricksen guessed.

  “No.” Grudging admission. Kinsey stared at Henricksen standing in the hallway, dark eyes cold as ice, face a mask of stone. “Who?” he asked, nodding to the reader in Henricksen’s hand.

  “Shaw. With some help.” Kinsey’s eyebrows lifted, face filled with questions but Henricksen just shook his head. “You need to see this,” he repeated, holding the reader out.

  Kinsey considered the device a moment, turned around, leaving the door half open—an invitation, albeit half-hearted and unwilling, for Henricksen to enter. “Ten minutes,” he said, turning his back on Henricksen as he walked away. “You have ten minutes to show me this data of yours before I go meet with the Brass.”

  #

  Kinsey watched the video play out, studying the data screens running alongside it—impatient at first, and then increasingly attentive. Very quiet, very still.

  Watching. Absorbing. Studying the graphs on those data screens as they spiked and maxed out.

  Ran the video back and watched it again at quarter speed, looking deeply disturbed now. “Where did you get this?” he demanded, flicking his fingers at the reader, the images flowing across the wall.

  Projection system somewhere in that white and chrome front room, though damned if Henricksen could find it. Reader plugged into a data port on a metal and glass table between two overstuffed, white leather chairs, images appearing on the white-on-white wall like magic.

  Henricksen shrugged his shoulders. “It’s legit, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Kinsey squinted, giving him a close look. “How do I know? How can I be sure it wasn’t tampered with?”

  “It’s legit. You have my word. I wouldn’t be here if I thought any of this had been contaminated or otherwise adjusted.”

  Kinsey considered him a moment, thoughts swirling in his eyes. Turned his gaze back to the video feed’s images and watched in silence for a while. “Where?” he pressed. “Who? I want a name.”

  Henricksen shrugged again, leaning back in his chair.

  White chair, like everything else in the room. Overstuffed leather that wrapped around his lean body, trying to eat him alive.

  “Taggert,” Kinsey guessed.

  Third shrug. Shrugs were easy. Didn’t cost him a cent.

  Kinsey glared, thoroughly annoyed. Froze the video feed, capturing the moment RV-N-183 died, and just sat there, staring. Face unreadable. Backed the images up and let them run through again, looking grim as death.

  “Ten minutes”, he’d told Henricksen, but nearly twenty had passed. Twenty minutes of reviewing the sim and live test feeds, poring over the data from both.

  Couldn’t explain it all as eloquently as Shaw and Taggert. Piece it all together as confident
ly as Ogawa. But a little prompting and Kinsey saw it—recognized the pattern in the data right away.

  Smart bastard, Kinsey. Bastard still, but smart. Henricksen had to give him that.

  “You said Shaw came up with this, not Karansky?” Kinsey turned his head, looking a question at Henricksen sitting across from him, low-slung, glass and chrome table sitting between them, acres of pure white carpet stretching in every direction.

  “Shaw, with Ogawa’s help. And Taggert’s,” Henricksen admitted, ignoring Kinsey’s smug, knowing look. “Two-Six—”

  “Two-Six.” Kinsey frowned darkly, leaning back in his chair. “So you bypassed my chief engineer and dragged one of the AI into this?”

  Henricksen shrugged, entirely unapologetic. “AI brain’s more powerful than Karansky’s. Shaw knew she had something but she wasn’t sure what.” A nod to the frozen video feed, the data windows layered beside it. “Two-Six did all the number crunching. Layered all the data together to find that correlation between the engines and the shielding.”

  Kinsey looked at him, and at the images projected on the white-on-white. “This is good work.” A nod to Henricksen, fingers flicking at the wall. He turned his wrist over, checking the time, pushed to his feet, adjusting the drape of his trousers over that artificial leg. “I’ll get Karansky’s crew on it in the morning. The Brass will be very happy about this. A few adjustments and the project should be—”

  “Why?” Henricksen asked quietly, bringing Kinsey up short. “Why did you rush the RV-N chassis into live tests?”

  Kinsey swiped at his pants leg, scowling in disapproval. “I didn’t rush anything, Captain. Shaw said the chassis was ready—”

  “No. She didn’t.” Henricksen stared across the table at Kinsey, matching him glare for glare. “Shaw wanted to run analytics, but you pushed the RV-N into live tests. Why?” he repeated, stabbing a finger at the images on the wall. “What’s so goddamn important about this project that you were willing to risk that ship and its crew?”

  Kinsey’s scowl deepened, lips pressing together into a thin, hard line. He balked at first, refusing to answer, and then sighed and flipped a hand, stance relaxing, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. “I suppose it’s time we got down to that.”

  Henricksen blinked, frowning in confusion as Kinsey turned away, walking across the room to a bar on the far side—a glass and chrome construction as cold and modern as the rest of the furnishings in that whitely antiseptic space. Mirrored shelves behind it filled with bottles of pale liquor, racks of cut glass drinking vessels.

  Kinsey slipped behind it, artificial leg hitching awkwardly as he twisted and reached up, snagging two square-sided tumblers from a shelf. Shuffled around and pulled a bottle from beneath the bar top, considering the contents and Henricksen sitting across the room with a look on his face like he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to crack it open and share.

  Started to put it back and then grunted and sliced the wax around the mouth with a fingernail. Pulled the top off and poured a dollop of red-brown liquor into each glass.

  Snagged one and emptied it, drinking the contents down. Filled the glass back up from the bottle, studying Henricksen from behind the bar all the while. “We’ve got a leak,” Kinsey said, setting the bottle back down. “We’ve had one for a while.”

  Henricksen twitched his shoulders, feeling cold of a sudden. Numb all over. “That’s why you left Kepler.”

  “And moved the project here to Dragoon.” Kinsey scooped the two glasses from the bar, carrying them across the room.

  Handed one to Henricksen, keeping the other for himself. Stood there, swirling the contents, staring into the bottom while Henricksen lifted his, sniffing at the liquor inside.

  “Brandy?”

  “Cognac.” Kinsey raised his glass in salute, balancing on his good leg as he sank down into a chair. “I was saving this. Meant to share it with the staff once the RV-N passed qualification testing.”

  “Champagne.”

  “Hmm?” Kinsey glanced up, brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “Champagne’s for celebrations. Scotch, whiskey, cognac.” Henricksen held up his glass. “Hard stuff’s for when the shit hits the fan.” He smiled crookedly as Kinsey barked a bitter laugh.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Kinsey murmured, staring at the images on the wall. He raised his glass and then lowered it, leaned forward and clinked it against Henricksen’s before sitting back and taking a pull.

  “Kepler?” Henricksen prompted, wriggling forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “What happened?”

  “Leak,” Kinsey shrugged. “Like I told you. DSR…” He sighed again, shaking his head. “The DSR managed to plant someone on the inside. Not sure how, not even sure when, but station security picked up some access violations—unauthorized data transfers, that kind of thing. Nothing serious at first, you understand. Spook snoops told us to play it cool. Let them conduct their forensics, see if they could find the mole. And then…” Kinsey grimaced and turned his head, staring across the room.

  “What?” Henricksen leaned forward, staring at Kinsey’s face, untouched drink clasped between his hands.

  “Things started disappearing.” Kinsey lifted his glass, gulping at the contents. “Prototypes, design specs—hard and soft assets from a dozen Black Ops projects wiped from the database. Stolen from secure storage.”

  “Stolen,” Henricksen repeated, blinking in disbelief. “As in…”

  “Unrecoverable.” Kinsey bowed his head, swirling his drink. “No backups left behind. No trace they ever existed. Years of research, trillions in funding gone—just like that.” He snapped his fingers—brittle sound, impossibly loud in that whitely carpeted space.

  “Holy shit,” Henricksen breathed.

  “Indeed.” Kinsey raised his glass in salute, took another sip. “Never did find out who did it. Brought in a whole ream of analysts to work on it, but…” He trailed off, grunted and shook his head. “They’re still working on it as far as I know. Major infiltration,” he confided. “Tons of data to pick through. As for me,” he leaned back, legs folded, glass resting on his knee, “I decided I couldn’t wait on them any longer. Couldn’t risk someone stealing data on the RV-N project.”

  “So you packed it up and left.”

  Kinsey nodded slowly. “Dismissed all the personnel, packed up the ships, the servers, moved everything here.” He waved at the room around him, lifted his glass to his lips and lowered it again without drinking. Just sat there, staring at it, hands clasped loosely around the glass.

  “Not all of them,” Henricksen said quietly.

  Kinsey’s head lifted, brow wrinkling in confusion.

  “Karansky.”

  “No,” he said. Immediate response, without the slightest hesitation.

  “He’s the only one you kept,” Henricksen argued. “The only one who’s—”

  “No. Not him.” Kinsey shook his head hard, having none of it. “Karansky designed the RV-N chassis. He’s been with the project since the beginning.”

  “And you didn’t find it strange that he completely missed such a major design flaw?” Henricksen stared at Kinsey, waiting for an answer. Pulled the reader to him when Kinsey just sat there and toggled the display, queuing up another video. “Maybe this will convince you.” He fed the video into the projection system built into the coffee table, letting it replace the RV-N’s run.

  “What is this?” Kinsey asked, frowning. “The hangar bay?”

  Henricksen nodded slowly, gestured at the images on the wall. “Shaw caught him down there a couple of nights ago.”

  “So?”

  “He was messing with one of the RV-Ns. Making changes you never approved.” Henricksen ran the video forward, let it play through to where Shaw kicked Karansky out.

  “This doesn’t prove anything.” Kinsey waved his glass at the video as Karansky beat a hasty retreat.

  “No. It doesn’t,” Henricksen admitted. “But it sure doesn’t look good.”


  Kinsey chewed on that a while, looking pissed off as all get-out. Lurched to his feet and walked into a side room—office from the look of it, based on the brief glimpse Henricksen got before Kinsey mostly closed the door—and spoke with someone via the station’s internal comms.

  Security, he assumed, from the snatches of conversation that drifted to Henricksen’s ears.

  A last few words and the office door opened. Henricksen snatched up the reader and sat back with it, pretending to be engrossed in its contents, not eavesdropping on his host in the other room.

  Kinsey didn’t buy it. “How much did you hear?” he asked, walking across the room, that distinctive, hitching, rolling gate reminding Henricksen of an old time sailor.

  “Not much,” he shrugged, setting the reader aside. “Station security?” He quirked an eyebrow, waving at the office, the now-closed door.

  Kinsey nodded tightly, bending at the knees as he lowered his butt, perching on the front of his chair. “Karansky won’t be coming back to the project. Precautionary measure,” he explained at Henricksen’s look of surprise. “Not saying you’re right, but...” He grimaced and scooped up his glass, draining the last of the cognac inside.

  Henricksen watched him a moment, his own drink still untouched. Hadn’t expected Kinsey to move on Karansky so quickly and with so little information. Made him wonder about other things. Like what had been stolen from Kepler…

  He set his glass down on the table, leaned forward—elbows braced against his thighs, hands folded in front of him. “You know, you never explained why you rushed the RV-N into live tests.”

  “We had a leak—”

  “Uh-huh. And that’s part of it.” Henricksen tilted his head, thinking hard. “What did they take?”

  Kinsey’s eyebrows lifted. “They? What makes you think there was more than one person involved?”

  “Had to be. No way a single person could steal locked down, super-secret information from a Black Ops facility.”