“It’s my project,” Kinsey thundered. “And I won’t see it fail.” He sat there glaring at Henricksen, hands curled white-knuckled around the arms of his chair. Peeled them loose with an effort and shrugged his shoulders, adjusted his cuffs while he calmed himself down. “The loss of crew is unfortunate, Captain. The loss of those secrets is unfortunate, but the Ravens...” He turned his head, considering the image on the wall. “Counter-intelligence, true counterintelligence...it could end this, Captain. Bring the DSR to its knees. The nannites—”
“They’re already on their knees, Kinsey. They’ve been on their knees for years now and they just keep right on fighting.”
“Guerilla warfare.” Kinsey flicked his fingers, voice filled with disdain. “Sabotage. Terrorism. Nothing approaching real combat.” He touched his arm, flexed his artificial fingers. “Those days are gone, Captain. Dead and buried with the DSR army the day it made its last stand.”
“Maybe.” Henricksen leveled a flat-eyed stare across the table. “Or maybe they’re just playing ’possum. Maybe the DSR’s been holding back all this time. Waiting for just the right time to unleash those nasty little critters they stole from Kepler.”
Kinsey cocked his head, lips twisting in a smug, self-satisfied smile. “All the more reason to get those Ravens flying, don’t you think?”
Henricksen opened his mouth and closed it—angry, embarrassed, realizing he’d been manipulated. Worse still, he hadn’t even seen it coming. He leaned back, laughing bitterly, shaking his head. “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”
Kinsey smiled, shrugging. “I had a feeling you’d see things my way. Eventually,” he added with a nod. The smile slipped, Kinsey’s face turning serious—not cold now, not closed up and vacant, just…serious. Sharp and business-like. A touch concerned. “We need those Ravens flying, Captain. We need to get in that asteroid field and take the Meridian Alliance’s secrets back.”
“That easy, eh?”
“Nothing’s that easy,” Kinsey admitted. “But a stealth ship with an advanced recon package…You get those ships in there, Captain.” He leaned forward, face intent. “Get us a good set of images, some scans of that station so we know what we’re dealing with. Locate the payload—”
“Payload?” Henricksen raised a hand, cutting Kinsey off. “What payload? No one mentioned anything about a payload.”
Kinsey blanked again, eyes swirling with secrets. “Container.”
“A container of what?”
Kinsey stared silently, giving nothing away.
“Look,” Henricksen said, sighing in frustration. “You’re gonna have to—”
“No. I don’t,” he said coldly. “Stealth is your job, Captain. I read you into this, showed you how serious this is and now I need you to do your job. Unless you want more ships to go the way of Hecate.” He pointed at the wall without looking, staring hard at Henricksen’s face.
“Why?” Henricksen asked, earning himself an irritated look. “Why not just do what they did? Plant a spook inside the DSR and see if they can work their way into whatever super-secret project they have going.”
Kinsey pursed his lips, eyebrows lifting.
“You already did. Figures,” Henricksen grunted. “How deep?”
“Deep,” Kinsey told him. “Access to the central systems.”
“Great! Then have him copy that shit and ship it over!”
“She,” Kinsey corrected, dark eyes blinking slowly. “And like I said, nothing’s ever that easy.” He leaned back, crossing his legs, staring at Henricksen’s face. “Took us months to get a contact in there. Most of our agents…” Kinsey bowed his head, flicking at a fluff on his trousers. “Let’s just say the DSR’s good at sussing them out.” His eyes lifted, head tilting as he considered Henricksen across the table. “We can’t risk losing her. Can’t afford to take her out either. Not when so many others have failed.”
“What are you saying?” Henricksen frowned. “You want us to get on that station and somehow meet up with her?”
Kinsey smiled crookedly. “No, Captain. I’m just asking you to retrieve something when the time is right.”
“This payload of yours. A box full of secrets from your spook.”
“Just so,” Kinsey nodded.
“And what makes you think it’ll be there?”
“Trust me. It will be,” Kinsey said coolly. “I have complete faith in our agent. We’re just waiting on a communication—”
“From your contact inside.”
Kinsey frowned, annoyed at the interruption. Touched at his collar, checking the creases of his stiffly pressed shirt. “She’ll send us coordinates for the pickup once the information is packaged and ready.”
“Coordinates? Inside the asteroid field?”
Kinsey nodded again, eyes never leaving Henricksen’s face.
“How the hell are we supposed to—”
“Patience, Captain.” Kinsey raised a hand, cutting him off. “One thing at a time. You get those birds flying. Figure out how to get into the asteroid field without the DSR noticing. We’ll work on the rest after that.”
Not the way he liked to run things. Not even close. Henricksen bowed his head, thinking a moment. “Shaw says she can stabilize the engine and cloaking system interactions, get those birds cleared for operations, but it could take a while.”
“How long?”
“Days, weeks.” Henricksen shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, I don’t know. I’m a pilot, not an engineer.”
“We can’t wait weeks, Captain. We’ve already waited too long as it is.”
Henricksen barked a bitter laugh. “Well, you’re shit out of luck, buddy, because those birds ain’t flyin’.”
“One-Eight-Three flew. Flew just fine until Fisker fired up the cloaking system in hyperspace.”
Henricksen lurched to his feet, stabbing a finger at Kinsey’s face. “Fisker didn’t cause that accident. I showed you the data.” He waved at the reader on the table. “You saw what happened. You can’t ask me—”
“I can and I am,” Kinsey said crisply, face an emotionless mask. “I’m not saying I like it—”
“The ship is unstable!” Henricksen shouted. “You fire up that stealth system in hyperspace and it turns into a fucking bomb.”
“Then don’t,” Kinsey said quietly. “You said it yourself: there’s no good reason to be cloaked in hyperspace. Not with that energy signature to announce your arrival.” He leaned forward, staring intently at Henricksen. “Cloak’s for sneaking, Captain. Nothing at all sneaky about a hyperspace jump.”
“So don’t use it. That what you’re saying? Just stay off the cloak in hyperspace and everything’ll be fine?”
“I’m saying there’s a simple enough workaround until Shaw and Karansky’s engineer’s work out the engine and cloaking system incompatibility. And I’m saying we are severely out of time, Captain.”
Henricksen chewed on that, thinking of the failsafe Shaw mentioned. How she could configure the AIs themselves to keep the crew from doing something stupid. “How long?” he asked, reluctantly relenting. “How long since that communication from your spook?”
“Two weeks.” Soft voice from Kinsey, utterly devoid of any emotion. “Two weeks, and not a word since.”
“Long time. You think they’re on to her?”
“No,” Kinsey said, without hesitation. “I think she’s being smart. And careful. She’ll come through with those coordinates, Captain. And when she does, you need to be ready to launch. Immediately, you understand me?”
Because objects in space drifted. And if they waited too long, those coordinates wouldn’t mean spit.
Henricksen closed his eyes, rubbing at his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I get you.” But God, he didn’t want to do this…
“Good. Now I need crew in those ships.” Kinsey scooped up his glass, spun it between his palms. “I need those Ravens flying, Captain, so they’re ready when—”
“Yeah. Yeah. I get it,” Henricksen sighe
d, waving a hand. “Months of waiting and now everything’s a big fucking hurry.”
Kinsey laughed—actually laughed!—surprising the hell out of Henricksen. “Isn’t that always the way?” he said, lips curving in their first real smile.
“Didn’t use to be,” Henricksen muttered. “There was a time…” He trailed off, thinking of those early days with Hecate. His first command on Harbinger and how different that was. “Hell,” he said, flopping down in his chair. Leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, head cradled in his hands. Stayed there for a long time, thinking things over, considering the options laid out before him, finding every last one of them sucked. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck me.”
“Captain?”
A deep breath and Henricksen straightened, staring bleakly across the table. “You’ll have crew assignments in the morning, Kinsey.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Surprised him, those softly spoken words. Hadn’t expected gratitude. Not from Kinsey, who was short on compliments and kind words.
Henricksen stared at him a moment, caught completely off guard. Pushed to his feet and stood there, looking down on Kinsey’s seated form. “You can thank me if we actually get those birds flying without blowing up.”
“Fair enough.” Kinsey dipped his head in acknowledgment, flicked his fingers, dismissing Henricksen from his quarters. “Good night, Captain.”
“Night.” Henricksen turned to leave, moved a few steps away and stopped again, looking back over his shoulder. “Do you think you could—”
“Hollings should already be waiting,” Kinsey told him, lips curling in an amused smile.
“Thanks,” Henricksen muttered, blushing. Turned away and hurried across the room, yanked the door open and stepped into the hall.
Twenty-One
Late by the time Henricksen returned to his quarters. Late beyond late, and well past curfew. No crew moving about at this hour, no voices drifting from the locked rooms on either side of the branching hallways, no one in the mess hall when he poked his head in to take a look.
Wasn’t always that way. Crew kept the curfew, for the most part, but curfew didn’t extend to Shaw’s gang or the civ engineers. Most nights there was someone hanging around after hours—watching vids, playing pool in the rec room, that kind of thing. Not tonight, though. Not since the accident. Something changed after the RV-N disaster. Four crew died, leaving the rest in mourning. Leaving everyone in mourning. Stealing the life from the RV-N project.
Henricksen backed out of the mess hall, letting the double doors swing closed. Retraced his steps to his quarters, swapping Taggert’s reader for his own, checking to make sure all the personnel files were loaded before stepping across the hall and banging on Sikuuku’s door.
“Go ’way,” the gunner called, voice muffled by the heavy metal portal.
“Open up, Akiwane.” Henricksen pounded on the door again—harder, louder this time. “We need to talk.”
Grumbling from inside, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps slogging across the floor. Sikuuku opened the door—mostly naked, completely disheveled, entirely pissed off. “What’s so goddamn important that it can’t wait until morning?”
Henricksen almost smiled. No ‘sirs’ from Sikuuku, not when it was just the two of them. Known each other too long for that. “Crew assignments,” he said, holding the reader up.
“What? Now?” Sikuuku blinked blearily, rubbing at his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Late. Close to midnight, if I had to guess.”
“You’ve been dodging crew assignments for weeks now.” Sikuuku leaned against the doorframe, giving him a look. “What’s the rush?”
“No time like the present,” Henricksen said, flashing a crooked smile.
“Seriously?” Sikuuku sighed heavily, scrubbing at his face. “Can’t it wait? You woke me from a dream about Tahitian beauties.”
“I doubt they’re going anywhere.” Henricksen pushed past him, forcing his way into Sikuuku’s quarters. Rousted a desk from the corner because there was no other table available and dragged it to the center of the room.
Sikuuku turned around, watching him, arms folded tight to his chest. Naked except for his underwear, ass end facing the wide open door. “What about Kinsey?”
“Yeah. About that.” Henricksen dropped the reader on the desktop, bowed his head and rubbed wearily at his eyes. “We’re gonna need something to drink.”
“Against regs having liquor in quarters, Captain.” Sikuuku reached behind him, discretely shutting the door. “Offended you’d even think I’d do such a thing.”
“Cut the crap, Akiwane. I know you better than that.” Henricksen hooked a chair with his toe and pulled it over to the desk. Snagged another just like it from the corner and set it on the opposite side of the makeshift table. “Bet you’ve got half a dozen bottles squirreled away in here.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sikuuku insisted, playing the innocent still.
“Oh, for the luvva—I’ll replace it, alright?”
Sikuuku folded his arms, chin lifting. “You said that last time.”
“And?”
“And I’m short a bottle of tequila.”
Henricksen rolled his eyes in exasperation. “That wasn’t good tequila. It didn’t even have a real worm!”
“Still short,” the gunner told him, shrugging his burly shoulders.
“Fine,” Henricksen growled, quickly losing patience. “I’ll replace the tequila and whatever you’ve got lying around.”
“With interest,” Sikuuku told him. “Compounded.” He considered a moment, lips moving as he did arithmetic in his head. “Case of whiskey should do it.”
“A case? That’s highway robbery!”
Another shrug, Sikuuku’s lips parting in a toothy grin. “Teach you to steal from my stash and not replace it.”
“Fine,” Henricksen sighed, flopping down in a chair. “No idea where I’m gonna find an entire case of whiskey on this station, but I’ll pay your ransom, you thief.”
Sikuuku’s smile widened. “Might be I know someone.”
Of course he did. Sikuuku always knew someone.
“Just grab a bottle, Akiwane, and let’s get down to business.”
“Aye-aye, sir, your majesty, sir.” Sikuuku snapped off a saucy salute and stepped through an open doorway, started rooting around in a wardrobe inside his closet-sized bedroom. Returned with a bottle and a couple of mismatched drinking glasses, a pair of uniform pants thrown over one shoulder, depositing the breakables on the desk before tugging on his trousers. “So. Kinsey.” He cracked the seal on the bottle and spun off the cap, pouring them each a dram. “Spill it,” he said, settling into the chair across from Henricksen. “Tell me everything.”
#
“That,” Sikuuku said, “is a hell of a story.” He grabbed up the bottle and refilled his glass, tipped it over Henricksen’s and topped his drink off as well.
Amber liquid, this time, not red-brown like Kinsey’s cognac. A sniff of the glass’s contents revealed hints of citrus esters. Something that reminded Henricksen of woodlands. Old Earth cedar or pine.
Scotch, and not a bad vintage from the smell of it, the taste of it as it slipped across Henricksen’s tongue. Damnably expensive tipple, especially out here. Especially for the good stuff.
“Do I want to know where this came from?”
Sikuuku shrugged his burly shoulders. “Probably not. Oh, and just so we’re clear, if I get busted for having it, I’m gonna claim you gave it to me.”
“Of course,” Henricksen snorted. “I’d expect nothing less.” He picked up his glass and held it out, smiling crookedly as Sikuuku clacked his own drink against it.
“So.” Sikuuku sat back, slouching in his chair, glass of Scotch resting on his stomach. “We really doing this?” His eyes flicked to the reader sitting on the desk between them, returned to Henricksen’s face. “Did you really agree to take a handful of glitch-ass st
ealth ships into an asteroid field stuffed full of DSR ships and god only knows what other nastiness?”
“Sounds crazy when you put it that way.” Henricksen set his glass down, finger resting lightly on the rim. “But I had my reasons.”
“Oh yeah?” Sikuuku tilted his head, eyebrows lifting. “Gonna share?”
“Back’s against the wall, Akiwane,” Henricksen said quietly. He raised a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose, bowed his head and stared into the depths of his drink for a long, long time. “Karansky, whoever he was working with, they stole some bad shit from Kepler.”
“What kind of shit?”
“The kind that killed Hecate.” Henricksen raised his head, catching Sikuuku’s eyes. “Nannites, Akiwane. Weaponized nannites. The kind that eat ships.”
“Shit. Holy shit,” Sikuuku breathed, tattooed face turning pale.
“Brass wants its secrets back. Nominated us to go get them.” Henricksen reached for his glass, hesitated and snatched up the reader instead, sliding it between them. “Crew assignments, Chief. Time we got down to it.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, shoulders twitching with a shiver. He raised his hands, scrubbing thick fingers through his hair. “Yeah, you’re right.” A deep breath to steady himself and Sikuuku hitched his chair around, moving closer to Henricksen. Leaned forward, resting his forearms against the desktop as Henricksen keyed into the reader, accessing the personnel records stored in its memory.
Twenty-four records in total, one for each RV-N crewmember. Twenty-four digital tiles—photo showing, personnel details available beneath—arranged in four neat rows.
Sikuuku turned the reader a bit so he could get a better look. Grimaced when he spotted Adaeze’s tile mixed in with all the others. Fisker’s sitting next to it. Grunewald’s and Abboud’s side by side in the bottom row.
He snagged Adaeze’s tile without asking, dragging it with his fingertip to the display’s bottom corner. Placed the tiles for the three other fallen crew beside it, rearranging the remaining tiles to cover up the holes.
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