“What are you up to, Akiwane?”
Sikuuku shrugged, smiling as he reached inside his jacket and pulled a reader out.
“What’s that?” Henricksen asked suspiciously.
“Bad idea for how we can have a little fun.” A wink and Sikuuku keyed the device on, turned it around and held it out.
Henricksen considered the reader a moment, stood and retrieved it, studying the display. “Language programs? This having something to do with those Tahitian beauties you were dreaming about?”
“Hardly,” Sikuuku snorted, folding his arms, leaning against the door. “Look, I’m not going out there with some bone-stock AI. Chassis’ chancy. Can’t be flying it with some dumbed down drone with no personality.”
“So, what? You wanna give them vocabulary lessons? A pusher kid and a former fisherman’s brat?”
“Who better?” Sikuuku smiled.
“Oh, I don’t know…someone with a formal education and training in linguistics?”
“Pfft. Education’s overrated. You and me got character. That’s what our little AI friends need.”
Henricksen considered him, and the reader in his hands. “This isn’t just a bad idea, it’s a terrible idea.”
“The best ones always are.” Sikuuku flashed a winning smile and pushed the door open, waited until Henricksen joined him before setting off down the hall.
Twenty-Two
A few hours later, in the wee, wee hours of the morning, Henricksen wound his way back to his quarters—dog-tired and on the downside of drunk, wanting nothing more than to fall down and get some shut eye, knowing full well that was not going to happen. Just under an hour before reveille—enough time to shower and pull on a fresh uniform, not even close to enough time for sleeping. So he ditched the uniform that stank of Scotch, and sweat, and the inside of the hangar bay’s enviro suit, and laid out a clean one. Pinned on the silver nametag and the stars for his collar before jumping into the shower to drown his muddled brain in soap and water.
Set the tap on cold and left it there, shivering miserably because no sleep and give or take a half a bottle of Scotch was not a good combination. And he really, truly did not want to confront the crew with assignments smelling like a distillery. Looking shadow-eyed and unsteady on his feet.
For a good ten minutes Henricksen froze himself, letting the shock of that cold water scrub the lingering effects of the alcohol from his system. Reset his brain from fuzzy stupor to something approaching intelligent thought. Cranked up the heat when he absolutely couldn’t take it anymore. When his toes started complaining and his manhood went all scared turtle, doing its best to suck itself up inside his guts. The shivers continued for a while after, spasms that set his elbows to twitching, making his hands shake so badly he kept dropping the soap. But the trembling eased as the steam billowed around him, filling his quarter’s tiny bathroom with a thick layer of fog. He scrubbed and scrubbed inside that warm, wet blanket, pale skin turning pink, the now scorching water making that jagged, bone-white scar on his temple show all the more clearly. A stark reminder of what he’d left behind him.
A ship and crew, a past far from buried.
Hecate’s legacy, that scar. A constant reminder of that now-dead ship. He touched at it unconsciously, tracing the zig-zagging line with his finger as the soapy water swirled around his feet, disappearing down the cross-hatched, metal drain in the shower’s floor.
“Hecate,” he breathed, staring blindly, steam wrapping him close about.
In his mind’s eye he could still see her: disc-shaped form limned in starlight, the Cepheid’s silver orb rising in front of her like a bright metallic moon. That diamond dust cloud of nannites racing hungrily toward her crippled ship’s body, ready to eat her from the outside in.
He shivered despite the heat, mind flashing through a dozen scenarios—a hundred horrible things that might have happened to Hecate if those nannites had reached her before Gogmagog destroyed them, and the Cepheid that set them free. Wasn’t quite sure AI felt pain, but Hecate, in her sentience, understood fear. And anger. The horror that came with a slow death. The agony of being eaten alive.
A twitch of his shoulders, as Henricksen lowered his hand, fingers clenching in a fist that trembled at his side. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, bracing his forearm against the plas-metal wall. Turned up the heat just that little bit more and let the scalding water cascade across his neck and shoulders. Bowed his head and rested his brow against his arm.
In his memory, Hecate drifted, helpless and alone. But a flash of fire—cobalt blue, bright and blinding—and she ended. Everything that Hecate was and ever would be, snuffed out in an instant—mind and body, the totality of her consciousness destroyed with the Cepheid. Obliterated by Gogmagog’s withering fire.
“Damn.” Henricksen sucked in a shaking breath, scrubbing at his face. “God damn.”
He pushed away from the wall, willing those images away. Doused his short hair in shampoo and rubbed it around, hating the antiseptic smell of it. The artificial pine scent the military insisted on including in its standard issue toiletries.
Woke him up, though. Chased away those last, lingering memories of Hecate. Killed the tremors shuddering through his body. Settled his hands enough that he managed to shave without cutting himself. He stepped from the shower feeling fairly close to human, looking fresh enough to pass for someone who’d actually gotten something approaching a good night’s sleep. Toweled off and dressed in the fresh, crisp uniform lying on his bed. Taking his time about it, checking the folds and creases, the position of his nametag, the set of his collar devices, wanting everything just so.
Crew assignments today, after all—a task long overdue. Not the best idea, staying up all night drinking, messing around with an AI’s language processing systems, but, damn, he’d needed that. Hadn’t let loose and done something completely irresponsible in a long, long time.
’Course, he couldn’t exactly let the crew know what he’d been up to. Didn’t set a good example, carousing at all hours, tampering with Fleet equipment. So he spent an extra few minutes checking the fit of his uniform, tugging and straightening until everything line up perfectly, exactly matched Fleet regs. Slapped his cheeks to get some color back into them. Scrubbed hard at the dark circles lurking under his eyes.
Didn’t completely work, but the Henricksen that walked out of that bedroom looked nothing like the shambling wreck that had wandered back to his quarters just an hour earlier. Combat experience helped with that. Taught you to fake it. Large-scale battles meant days with little or no sleep, food when you remembered and could grab it, showers to clear the mind and clean off the blood. So you learned after a while—out of necessity if nothing else. Figured out how to trick the mind and body into thinking they weren’t tired. Convince your comrades you were rested, and ready, and firing on all cylinders when in truth you were just barely holding it together. Balanced on a knife’s edge and just about to drop.
A last tug, straightening the jacket, reaching for holster that wasn’t there—old habit, reaching for that pistol, and hard to break after so many years of going just about everywhere armed—and Henricksen vacated his quarters, reader gripped firmly in hand. Navigated the corridors to the mess hall, pausing outside to draw a deep, steadying breath before pushing the double doors open, and wending his way through the gauntlet of crew-crowded tables on the other side.
Sikuuku spotted him as soon as he entered, signaling to Henricksen from a table in the corner—plate piled high with food sitting in front of him, Shawin a surprisingly clean pair of coveralls occupying the chair to his right. Shaw, who was casual as always—foot drawn up and resting on the seat of her chair, arm wrapped around her shin, hand clasping a battered metal mug.
“Good morning, Captain.” Sikuuku waved Henricksen over, pointing to an empty chair. “Starting to wonder where you’d gotten to.” A flick of his eyes to Shaw beside him, lips lifting in a smile. “Thought you might’ve chickened out and ch
anged your mind.”
“Just stopped to freshen up a bit.” Henricksen tilted his head, looking Sikuuku up and down. “See you didn’t bother.”
“Changed my uniform.” Sikuuku winked, smoothing a crease in his jacket. Clean jacket, pants as well—rumpled, the both of them, so likely dug out of the back of a drawer, but clean, nonetheless. Damp hair, so he’d at least showered, but Sikuuku still had that slightly muzzy, slightly too happy look of a man who’d been up on an all-night bender.
“Grab some coffee. You need it,” Henricksen insisted when Sikuuku started to object. “Grab me some while you’re at. And some food. No eggs, though.” Couldn’t stomach the synth protein concoction this station called eggs—a scrambled concoction that tasted of rubber and foam. “Take whatever else they’ve got, but not that.”
A nod and Sikuuku pushed back his chair, turned and headed for the chow line at the back of the hall.
“You two boys have fun last night?” Shaw smiled secretively, sipping the coffee in her mug.
Henricksen grunted, nodding at Sikuuku’s back. “He certainly did.”
Shaw pursed her lips, eyes flicking to the gunner, back to Henricksen’s face. “You treat my girl right, you hear me?”
“I’m not sure what you—”
“You know what I mean.” Shaw set her mug down, wrapped both arms around her shin. “Word’s come down from Kinsey,” she said, dropping her voice, eyes flicking around the room. “You and the others, you’ll be taking the RV-Ns out tout de suite.”
Henricksen frowned. “What the hell does that mean? I thought they weren’t—”
“They aren’t,” Shaw interrupted, eyes snapping back to his face. “We haven’t had time to make the modifications we spoke about. But the AIs know about the problem.”
“This failsafe of yours.” Henricksen shook his head, not liking it. Not liking it at all.
Shaw leaned forward, staring earnestly. “Two-Six and the others, they won’t let your crew fire up the stealth system while the jump drives are active. Not even if they want to.” She paused, searching his face. “They’ll look after your crew, Captain. But I need you to look after them. Can you do that for me? Will you look after Two-Six and the other Ravens?”
“You know I will,” Henricksen said softly.
Surprised she’d even ask that. Shaw knew about Hecate. Knew what her death meant to him.
Shaw held his gaze a moment longer, nodded and sat back. Scooped her coffee mug from the table and sat there, swirling its contents. “So what’s that?” she asked, nodding to the reader in his hand.
“Crew assignments.” He held the reader up, nodding to Sikuuku as the gunner slid an overflowing plate of food in front of him, dropped a steaming mug of coffee beside it. “Time to make a few love connections,” he said, forcing a smile onto his face. He excused himself and walked to the center of the room, stood there, waiting patiently, until everyone quieted. “Alright. Listen up,” he called, turning in a circle, picking the Raven crew out of the crowd. “You’ve all been asking, and you all know I’ve been delaying.”
Crew looked at each other, frowning uncertainly as Henricksen held the reader up, making sure everyone saw it. Set it down on an empty table and moved a step away. Spread his feet wide and clasped his hands behind his back.
Staring at them. Taking a long look around.
“Crew assignments. Who’s interested?”
A collective gasp of indrawn breath—surprised faces everywhere, everyone staring at Henricksen like they weren’t quite sure if he was joking—and crew abandoned their tables, pushing, shoving, almost knocking each other down in their rush to get to that reader first.
Taggert ended up winning. Snatched the reader from the table and clutched it to his chest like a baby as he scooted between the mess hall’s tables and into the rec room, connected the reader to the AV system and projected the crew assignments onto the far wall.
The rest of the crew piled in after him, loudly complaining about the engineering officer’s thievery. But they settled quickly, perching on couches, the pool table, the room’s few chairs to study the five crew rosters in offer. Good natured squabbling giving way to intense discussion—a low murmur of conversation punctuated by brief explosions that drifted clear across the mess hall. Right to Henricksen’s ears.
He smiled, listening to them. Enjoying the banter and bitching—familiar sound, and universal to Fleet crew everywhere. Thought about joining them, being a part of it, but ultimately decided to leave it alone. Retreated to the corner table and breakfast, instead. To a plate all but overflowing with food: the hated eggs he’d specifically told Sikuuku not to bring him, a stack of pancakes, and half a dozen strips of something approximating bacon.
“Got the boys ready.” Sikuuku flexed his arms as he raised both fists, kissing the knuckles each. “Ya know, in case there’s a fight.” He winked, smiling, swapping fists for a fork and knife. Set about cleaning his plate, shoveling huge wads of those disgusting, not-quite-eggs into his mouth.
“Thanks,” Henricksen said, carving a pancake into small bites. “Hoping it won’t come to that, though.”
Sikuuku grunted, washing a mouthful of eggs down. Turned his head and slowly set his coffee mug down. “Garrett.”
He tapped the table, catching Henricksen’s eyes, nodding to the rec room doorway as a lone figure emerged.
Mahal, glancing backward. Waiting for Salazar to catch up. Janssen and Fontaine right behind her. The rest of the crew emerging in ones and twos. Finding places at tables, retrieving abandoned utensils. Breakfasts laid out on plates. Everyone shuffling around and making room as flight crews—newly assigned and still in mourning over their fallen members—sat down together and started talking.
About RV-Ns and flying—really flying, their sim days just about done. About One-Eight-Three and that accident—heard that all over the mess hall, it still being fresh in everyone’s minds. About the stars and vectors. Jump points, and way stations, and all the usual things crews talked about.
Engrossed in those conversations. Completely ignoring Henricksen and Sikuuku sitting in the corner.
Not quite the reaction Henricksen expected. Figured at least one of them would ambush their table, demand to know what the hell the two of them were thinking when they came up with those crew assignments.
He glanced at Sikuuku and saw the gunner’s eyes narrow, fork tines tapping contemplatively at his plate.
“Well, now,” he murmured, scanning the room. “That went better than expected.”
“You sound disappointed.” Henricksen chopped another pancake, forking it into his mouth one bite at a time.
“No.” Sikuuku scooped up some eggs, chewed and swallowed, taking his time. “Not disappointed, exactly. Just…surprised, is all. Figured at least Taggert would have a beef.” He quirked an eyebrow, pointing his fork at the untouched yellow mound on Henricksen’s plate. “You gonna eat those?”
“Hell no.” Henricksen shoveled the unwanted eggs onto the gunner’s plate, glad to be rid of them.
“I’m sure there’ll be some horse trading later.” Shaw nodded to the crew sitting around the tables. “Twenty crew. Bound to disappoint somebody. No way around that.”
“Disappointment I can deal with.” Henricksen snagged a pancake from Sikuuku’s plate—payment for the recently donated eggs. “Pissed off could be more trouble.”
“Thought that’s why you had him.” Shaw smiled crookedly, waving her mug at Sikuuku.
Henricksen grunted, nodding, finished his pancakes and cast a thoughtful eye across the people in the room. Conscious of Shaw watching him, sipping at her mug.
“Anyone need a refill?” She held up her empty cup, collecting the others from the table when Sikuuku and Henricksen both nodded. Abandoned her chair and headed back to the chow line and the huge cauldron of coffee that never seemed to run out.
“You think anyone will?” Sikuuku waved his fork, gesturing vaguely.
“What? Ask to be rea
ssigned? Expect so. Be surprised if they didn’t.” Henricksen shrugged his shoulder and snatched up a piece of bacon, sniffed at it and nibbled at a one end.
Smelled real, tasted real, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t. Meat, possibly. Some kind of protein, that much was sure, but bacon meant pig, and pigs—real pigs, not the lab grown synth meat most of the stations served—were damn hard to come by. Expensive as that Scotch Sikuuku denied having. Twice as difficult to secure.
He finished the strip and started in on another before the bacon-but-not-quite-bacon flavor started to turn his stomach. Tossed the remains down and drained the dregs of his coffee, nodding to Sikuuku as he pushed back his chair. “Crew gives you any trouble, you let me know.”
“Wait? What?” Sikuuku glanced up, looking slightly alarmed. “What about—what are you—where the hell are you going?”
“Things to do,” Henricksen said vaguely, turning away.
Sikuuku grabbed his arm, pulling him back around. “Really? That’s all I get?”
Henricksen grimaced, looking away. “Quarters,” he said. “I need to…” He sighed, rubbing at his temple, feeling a headache coming on. “It’s past time we removed the crew’s personals from the barracks, don’t you think?”
Fisker and Adaeze. Grunewald and Abboud. Hadn’t been allowed to touch their belongings before now. Kinsey wanted everything kept as is until the investigation finished up.
Sikuuku winced, snatching his hand back. “Need some help?”
Apology in his voice now. Written across his tattooed face.
“My job,” Henricksen told him. “My responsibility. My crew, and now—”
“Garrett.” Sikuuku caught his eye, gave a sharp shake of his head. “Don’t go down there. You don’t want to start down that road.”
Henricksen dropped his eyes, holding onto it anyway. Wrapping the pain and anger around him like armor. Realized that was stupid—no use at all for martyrs in an operation like this—and sighed heavily, letting it go. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” He sucked in a breath, blew it back out. Glanced up and around, giving the mess hall another look. “Stay here,” he said, nodding to Sikuuku across from him, Shaw to one side. “Cover for me in case—” He grimaced, ducking his head again. “In case anyone asks.”
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