Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  Henricksen watched in silence, fingers wrapped loosely around his glass. Stared numbly at those four tiles clustered in the reader’s corner. At Fisker’s smiling, freckled face looking so, so young.

  Fisker.

  He closed his eyes, remembering Fisker in the mess hall that first day on Dragoon. Stiff, and nervous, and oh-so-eager to please.

  Dead. He’s dead now. They all are.

  And the AI—One-Eight-Three lost as well. All because Kinsey was in a hurry. Sent a ship out that wasn’t quite ready. A crew that had no idea about that chassis’ fatal glitch. And now here they were, making decisions on assignments. About to send five more crews out in that exact same ship.

  How did we get here? How did it come to this?

  “Garrett? Garrett.” Sikuuku grabbed his arm, shook it hard. “You with me?”

  “Yeah,” Henricksen said softly. “Sorry.” He opened his eyes and found Fisker staring back at him. Fisker with his shy smile and trusting face.

  Hell.

  Henricksen grabbed up the glass and emptied it, refilled it from Sikuuku’s bottle, topping off the gunner’s while he was at it.

  “Not your fault,” Sikuuku told him, touching a finger to Fisker’s tile.

  “Somebody’s fault.” Henricksen gulped at his drink, grimacing as the Scotch burned his throat, slithered its way down to his stomach. “Might as well be mine.”

  Sikuuku opened his mouth and then closed it, brow wrinkled with worry. “Kid just about worshiped you, you know.” He reached for Fisker’s tile and opened the record, scrolled through the information. “Busted his ass for weeks trying to get you to notice.”

  “I noticed,” Henricksen said softly. “Damn fine engineering officer.”

  Sikuuku looked at him, thoughts swirling in his eyes. “Wanted on our crew. Figured he was a shoo-in since—”

  “No,” Henricksen rasped, closing the record. “Too green. Adaeze.” He nodded to the pilot’s record. “Always knew he’d do better with her.”

  “So you made that decision without me?” Sikuuku sat back, arms folded, looking none-too-pleased. “Thought we were making crew assignments.”

  Henricksen shrugged his shoulders. “Made sense. Her skills and his raw talent. Seemed like a good fit. Figured you’d agree.”

  Sikuuku pursed his lips, thinking a moment. “Not sure I would’ve. Kid was green, yeah. Green as grass, never even came close to combat, but—”

  “I’ve done green,” Henricksen said quietly. “And I don’t need it.” A sip at his drink and he set it down, twirling the glass on the desktop. “I’m not exactly the best teacher, either. Think we’ll both agree on that.”

  Sikuuku laughed softly, raising his glass in salute. “To Fisker. Best ensign I ever knew.”

  Henricksen clinked his glass against the gunner’s, drained it and filled them both back up. “So where do you want to start?” he asked, waving to the reader on the desk.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Our crew, maybe?” He scanned the rows of tiles, plucked two from the pack and moved them to the top of the screen.

  His own tile, Henricksen’s sitting beside it.

  Sikuuku sipped at his drink, studying Henricksen over the rim. “You already ruled out Fisker for Engineering. Even before…” He grimaced and trailed off, face filled with apology. “Who did you have in mind for Engineering?”

  Henricksen pressed a finger to the reader’s surface, moving a tile up beside his. “Ogawa,” he said, letting it drop.

  “Ogawa,” Sikuuku grunted. “Really?”

  “Problem?”

  “Nope.” Sikuuku sipped at his drink, set it back down. “Respect the hell out of Ogawa. Best engineering officer I’ve run across in a long time. Just figured you’d go for Taggert.”

  Taggert with his snub nose and boyish face. Taggert who wasn’t as young as Fisker, nor as inexperienced, but looked it. Acted like it sometimes.

  “Close second,” Henricksen admitted. “For the same reason I assigned him to Baldini.”

  “Baldini,” Sikuuku snorted. “So that’s another decision you made without me.”

  “Recommendation,” Henricksen corrected. “I’m open to options.”

  Sikuuku grunted and sat back, thinking a moment. “Taggert’s a bit of a pistol, isn’t he?”

  “Stubborn and opinionated,” Henricksen nodded. “Gives back as good as he gets.”

  “You sure putting him with Baldini’s a good idea?”

  “Nope. Baldini’s an arrogant little prick, and Taggert’s mouthy as all get-out. But he’s got a few more years under his belt than Baldini. Won’t be afraid to stand up to him. And honestly, Baldini needs that.”

  “Someone to argue with him?”

  “That,” Henricksen nodded. “And someone with a backbone and common sense.”

  “Think we could all use that,” Sikuuku smiled. “’Cept you, of course,” he amended, scooping his glass from the desktop, raising it in an ironic salute. “The Right Good Captain Henricksen’s got everything figured out. Got backbone and common sense. Don’t need no one else.”

  Henricksen barked a laugh. “Not so sure about all that, but I got you. That’s argument enough.”

  “Flatterer,” Sikuuku snorted.

  Henricksen flashed his teeth. “Not the smartest officer to come through the Fleet’s Academies, but I do pick things up. Learned to listen to others a long time ago.” The smile slipped a bit, Henricksen’s face turning serious. “Lucky enough to have a crusty old chief take me under his wing early on. Teach a poor pusher kid-turned-ensign a few lessons. Make sure he understood that the best pilots listen before shooting off their mouths.”

  Sikuuku chuckled softly. “Chiefs are good for that.”

  Henricksen raised his glass, inclining his head. “Taggert’s a know-it-all and a pain-in-the ass. He and Baldini were made for each other. Should do just fine.”

  “And you want Ogawa.”

  Henricksen shrugged and nodded.

  “Don’t have a say in this one either, do I?” Sikuuku’s smile took on an edge. “Seems like you’ve got all the assignments figured out. Maybe,” he said, shoving back his chair, climbing to his feet, “I should just go back to bed.”

  “Sit down, ya big baby.” Henricksen pointed at the empty chair, giving Sikuuku a stern look. Stared at him, refusing to look away until the gunner harrumphed loudly and flopped down. “Scan,” he said, waving at the reader’s display. “You pick.”

  “Hanu.” Sikuuku folded his arms, staring in challenge.

  Surprised the hell out of Henricksen with that one. Hanu was quiet like Ogawa, a taller, slimmer version of the dark-haired, golden-skinned engineering officer. Shared those tilted, amber eyes but kept her hair clipped in a short fringe.

  Pretty, that one. Slim build, oval face. Very pretty, as it just so happened.

  “Hanu,” Henricksen repeated, giving the gunner a suspicious look. “Because she’s a looker, or because she has a nice ass?”

  “Both.” Sikuuku smiled and then sobered. Leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, glass clasped between his hands. “She’s also damned good.”

  Henricksen nodded slowly. “Heck of a scan tech—I’ll give you that.”

  “But?” Sikuuku prompted when Henricksen went quiet.

  “But she’s missing something. She’s aces in the sims—don’t get me wrong.” Never saw someone take to the sims as quickly as Hanu. Buckled into her seat, instantly at home. Absorbed everything—all the inputs and outputs, the constant calculations—like some kind of machine. Suspected that’s why Sikuuku liked her—gunners wanted constant feedback, vectors and ranges, contingencies for different scenarios, anything and everything the sensors picked up. “She lacks confidence,” Henricksen told him. “Sims are all well and good, but they’re not the real world.”

  “So you don’t think she can do the job.” Edge to Sikuuku’s voice now. Two assignments made without his input—three if you counted poor, dead Fisker—and now Henricksen qu
estioned this one.

  Henricksen opened his mouth and closed it, pulled the reader to him and just stared at it, thinking hard.

  Hanu had the capability—never second-guessed that—but he didn’t want Sikuuku distracted. Didn’t want the gunner distracting her with unwanted attention.

  “Just the opposite,” he said, nodding to Hanu’s tile. “Hanu and Ogawa…they work well together. Best scan tech-engineering officer combination I’ve ever run across, hands down.” Damned if he was passing that up just because Sikuuku thought one of them was pretty. “You keep it clean, ya hear?” He leveled a stern look the gunner’s way. “Cockpit’s no place for romance. Don’t,” he said when Sikuuku started to deny it. “You’ve got your eye on her, I can tell. But she don’t want you, Akiwane.”

  Sikuuku sat up straight, looking offended. “Oh yeah? How would you know?”

  “Because I’ve been watching her.” Henricksen tapped a finger next to his eye. “And she’s been watching that wee lass on Shaw’s team.”

  “Who?”

  “What’s her name.” Henricksen waved vaguely. “The one with the big wrench and the bigger mouth.”

  Sikuuku’s jaw sagged, eyes bulging. “Urquhart?”

  Henricksen snapped his fingers. “That’s the one. So you just stick to ogling lunch ladies, Akiwane. Last thing I need is you lavishing Hanu with unwanted attention and pissing her off. Or Urquhart for that matter,” he added, thinking of that wrench.

  “Urquhart,” Sikuuku muttered, shaking his head. “Never would’ve guessed that.”

  “You listenin’ to me, Akiwane?”

  “Yeah, yeah. No hitting on the hot chick. Now what about the rest of them?”

  “No hitting on anyone in the RV-N project,” Henricksen said sternly.

  Sikuuku rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.” He turned the reader toward him and started swapping around tiles, moving Hanu’s next to Ogawa’s, transferring their cluster of four to the top right hand corner before collapsing the rest of the tiles into three rows.

  “Don’t forget Taggert.” Henricksen pointed to the tile in question. “Goes with Baldini.”

  Sikuuku separated the two tiles, setting them side-by-side beneath Henricksen’s crew. “Baldini.” He pursed his lips, staring at the pilot’s tile, grunted and sat back. “Now there’s a tough nut to crack.”

  “Petros and Baldini, both.” Henricksen nodded.

  Drill schedule beat most of the piss out them. Tired them out enough that they stopped giving the civs and enlisted hell during their off hours. But the sims seemed to bring out the worst in the two pilots. The pressure to perform making them obnoxious and demanding. Blaming every wobble and bobble, every poor result or flat-out failure on one of the other crew because god forbid they admit they weren’t absolutely perfect.

  “None of the crew want to work with them,” Sikuuku warned. “Taggert included. That boy is not going to be happy about his assignment.”

  “Tough,” Henricksen grunted. “Obnoxious as they are, they’re not half-bad pilots. Better than not half-bad,” he amended, because that was the truth. “Somebody has to crew with them. That’s just the way it works.”

  Sikuuku folded his arms, eyes flicking across the remaining tiles. “Schenck would probably do alright at Artillery. Guy’s about as lively as a moss-covered boulder, but he seems to get along with everyone.”

  “Sold.” Henricksen moved Schenck’s tile before Sikuuku could change his mind. “Ahmadi for Scan?”

  “Good as any,” Sikuuku shrugged. “Seems to be able to tune the blabbering out, which helps.”

  “Ahmadi it is.” Henricksen placed the scan tech’s tile next to Schenck’s, completing Baldini’s crew. “Petros?” he asked, eyebrow lifting.

  “Petros.” Sikuuku sighed heavily, thinking on that a while. “How about what’s-his-face?” He pointed to a tile in the lower left corner. “Mr. Potato Face there. Surosa—Surosis—Suria—”

  “Surosovic?”

  “That’s him. Built like a sack of suet. Personality of a sponge.”

  Harsh as it sounded, Sikuuku pretty much nailed it. God—if there truly was a god, singular or plural—gifted Surosovic with a sharp mind and some severely unfortunate genetics. Not his fault, but there it was.

  “Never says a word in the debriefings,” Sikuuku grumbled. “Just sits there, typing away on his reader, making notes on his runs.” He paused, head tilting, slid a look Henricksen’s way. “Does he even talk to anyone outside of the sims?”

  “Not that I’ve seen,” Henricksen shrugged. “Keeps to himself for the most part.” Odd, but nothing really wrong with it. Hadn’t heard the other crew say anything bad about Surosovic, anyway. “You thinking he goes with Petros?”

  “Considering it. Might not be the most sociable person, but on the plus side his lack of people skills means he probably doesn’t give two shits who he works with.” Sikuuku flashed a smile as he reached forward, moving Surosovic’s and Petros’ tiles together, creating a new line below Baldini’s crew. Slid Nunez’s tile up with them while he was at it and then sat back, waiting for the expected objection.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  Sikuuku shrugged, obviously not caring. “He’s gonna bitch no matter where we put him unless it’s under Mahal.” He scanned the tiles a moment, pointed to one near the bottom. “Put Kapoor with him. Shaw’s give-’em-hell friend should provide some entertainment.” Sikuuku’s smile turned wicked. “Listening to Kapoor and Petros go at it should distract Nunez from his misery for a while.”

  Henricksen wasn’t quite sure about the soundness of that decision-making process, but he moved Kapoor’s tile anyway, finishing Petros’ team out.

  The rest of the assignments fell out easily once they settled on Petros’ and Baldini’s crews. Janssen took Fontaine and Travers, Mateus for Scan. Felt good about that match-up. Much better than the other two, anyway. Rock-solid combination, those four. Ran that crew together a few days ago and they clicked instantly, acted like they’d been training together for years.

  Mahal took the leftovers—Pritchard, Karras for Artillery, a brash, young scan tech named Salazar who kept fiddling with the sim’s systems during her off-hours.

  Not bad, honestly. Except that scan tech. Henricksen honestly wasn’t so sure about her.

  “That one’s trouble.” Sikuuku pointed a finger at Salazar’s tile, echoing Henricksen’s thoughts. “Rousted her out of the sim room a little before midnight. Claimed she was just ‘fixing a few things’. Yeah right,” Sikuuku snorted. “Fixing things, my ass. Other scan techs are complaining about her. Says she keeps changing the default config of their systems. Toggling settings and then applying them across the board. Annoys the hell out of Mateus.”

  Henricksen grunted. “Tweaks all have their preferences.” Liked to set their stations up just so, and severely hated anyone changing anything. “Sounds like Mateus caught on to Salazar’s “improvements”, anyway.” He looked a question at Sikuuku. “Noticed he’s been showing up early for sim training. Assume that’s so he can switch everything back to the default settings?”

  Sikuuku nodded. “They’re all doing that now. Spend twenty minutes wiping out Salazar’s settings, another half hour starting over from scratch. ’Spose it doesn’t matter anymore, though. Sim days are just about over.” He chewed his lip, thinking hard, snorted and flashed a smile. “Mahal seems to find all the scan tech in-fighting highly amusing. She’ll get on well with Salazar.” He rapped his knuckles on the desktop, sealing the deal with a decisive nod. “Think you made a good choice there, Captain.”

  “In that case…” Henricksen moved the last few tiles together, locked the five groupings and saved them to the personnel files. “We’re done.” He scooped up his glass and drained it, reached for the bottle of Scotch.

  “Assuming they don’t crash and burn, of course.”

  Henricksen froze, bottle tilted, just about touching the rim of his glass. “Not funny, Akiwane.�
� He filled his glass, set the bottle back down. “Not funny at all.”

  “Sorry.” Sikuuku ducked his head, flushing. “Wasn’t thinking.”

  “S’alright,” Henricksen said quietly. But it wasn’t alright. Wasn’t even close to alright. Not so soon after that accident. Not with one crew so recently in their graves. “Hell,” he rasped, gulping at his Scotch. Half the bottle gone now, and with Kinsey’s cognac already stewing in his belly, Henricksen was feeling decidedly tipsy. “What time is it anyway?” he asked, looking around.

  “Late.”

  “Well, that’s helpful.”

  Sikuuku shrugged his shoulders, reached for the reader and toggled the display. “0145.” He tossed back his drink, slammed the glass down on the desk. “Captain. I regret to inform you I am in violation of curfew and entirely unfit for duty. But,” he added, splashing more Scotch into his glass, “I am well on my way to being drunk.”

  “Cheers,” Henricksen said, smiling as he clinked his glass against the gunner’s. They drank together and sat in silence after, both of them thinking their own thoughts. “Guess I should be going.” He pushed to his feet, grabbing up the reader. “Figure out the best way to break the news on these assignments and then get some sleep.”

  “Or, we could finish this bottle.” Sikuuku pointed to the bottle in question, measuring the remaining contents with his fingers. “Two of us drinking so this won’t get us falling down drunk, but I’ll settle for sloppy-happy. Been a while since I got sloppy-happy drunk.” He flashed a smile, holding the bottle up. “Whaddaya say, Captain? Shall we see this soldier off?”

  He shouldn’t, but it was tempting. Especially after Kinsey’s news. “Why not?” Henricksen decided, sinking down in his chair.

  “Excellent! Now grab your glass and let’s go.” Sikuuku shoved his chair back and wandered into his bedroom, digging something out of the closet.

  “Go where?” Henricksen called after him.

  “Well, we’re not gonna drink here. That’s just pathetic. Ah! There it is.” Sikuuku came back fully clothed, stuffing something inside his uniform jacket. Scooped up the bottle of Scotch and headed for the door. “You coming?” he asked, when Henricksen just sat there, frowning at his back.