Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  “Something’s not right.” Henricksen shared a worried look with Hecate’s camera. “You keep a close eye on Scan, Duclos, you hear me? This place… I’ve got a severely bad feeling about this place.”

  “Aye, sir. Trying, sir.” Duclose leaned close to Scan’s panels, pouring through the feeds from Hecate’s sensors. “Still having trouble, though. Radiation’s screwing with pretty much everything.”

  “Can you clean up the filters?” Henricksen nodded to the windows in front of him, eyes locked on Hecate’s camera. “Like to know what we’re dealing with out there.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Sir.” Farrow’s head turned, blue eyes hidden behind her Comms visor, straw blond hair tucked neatly behind her ears. “Message from Seychelles. Valkyrie’s compliments, but she’d like to know if we’ve found anything.”

  “Have we found anything yet,” Henricksen muttered, flicking through the camera feeds. “What’s the goddamned hurry? Not like those ships out there are going anywhere.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind, Farrow.” Henricksen sighed, swiping at the panel to shut it down. Straightened and stared at the windows, the ships outside. “Tell her…”

  What? That they were trying? That they couldn’t tell shit about those ships because their sensors were screwed? Nuh-uh. Not disparaging Hecate like that.

  He lifted his eyes to the camera. “Tell her—”

  “I told her we need fifteen minutes,” Hecate interjected. “I fixed the filters, by the way.”

  She shunted Scan’s feeds to the front window and layered them together, added the video from half a dozen cameras to create a single display. Let the feeds run, providing updates in real time.

  Henricksen leaned forward, hands braced against the panel in front of him, drinking all that data in.

  Sensors still fritzed a bit—lot of radiation out there, the filters could only see through so much—but the scans showed the ships clearly. Picked up damage to that Cepheid he’d missed earlier: a huge hole near the engine ports, radiation leaking from its old-as-dirt nuclear propulsion system, surrounding it in a dense cloud.

  “Looks like that’s our suspect.” Henricksen nodded to silver-sided Cepheid. “AI might still be alive, but the crew…” He shook his head hard. “That much radiation, any crew that made it through the attack’ll be dead by now. No way they could survive in that toxic soup.”

  Didn’t explain why those other ships were down, though. Reactor spill was bad, yeah, but space… lot of real estate to play with. No way the reactor on that leaky old tub of a Cepheid took all those other vessels out.

  “What the hell is going on here?” Henricksen murmured, frowning at the ships outside.

  Duclos snuck a glance at Shin sitting Engineering, sharing a worried look. Shared that look with Shaheen on her far side.

  Shin and Shaheen, Helm and Engineering—sing-song names for two joined-at-the-hip crew. Took Henricksen a while to get the two of them straight and keep them straight, despite that Shin—with her copper skin and odd, violet eyes—looked nothing at all like dark-eyed, darker-skinned Shaheen.

  “Henricksen.”

  Hecate’s voice pulled his eyes back to the front windows. “What? What now?”

  “There’s something out there.”

  A blip appeared, flashing on the front windows. Electronic signature glowing ghostly against the glass.

  “Ship?” he asked, pulling the scan data to his panel, scrolling through the reams of information on display. “What the hell?” The blip blinked and faded, flared to life almost a kilometer away. “Hecate? Your sensors buggy or somethin’?”

  “Not sure.”

  Surprising admission. Not one you heard often from an AI.

  Hecate was quiet a moment, running analytics, pouring over every bit of information at hand. Repeated her analysis when the blip blanked and moved again. A third time when it disappeared and jumped almost a kilometer away.

  “What’s going on?” Henricksen demanded. “Is it the radiation? Is it fucking with things again?”

  “No,” she told him. “Not the radiation this time.”

  “Then what? For the luvva god—”

  Perimeter alarms lit up, klaxons screaming as the sensors sucked in information, dumping reams of new data into Hecate’s systems, sending it all to Scan’s board.

  “Ships’ signatures.” Duclos leaned over his panel, sorting like mad. “We’ve got company!”

  “Overlay.” Henricksen snapped his fingers, pointing at the front windows.

  “On it.” A touch at Scan’s panel and Duclos shunted the data to the curving wall of glass at the front of the bridge, three dimensional schematic flashing with multi-colored lights as Scan tagged each signature, assigning it to one of the ships outside.

  Fourteen ships in total. Fourteen of the twenty wrecked vessels drifting in space. Not a one of them actually moving—not yet, anyway—but live, suddenly. Powered up, when before they seemed stone cold dead.

  Two

  “Friendlies?” Henricksen asked, lifting his eyes to Hecate’s camera.

  “No telling,” she answered, adding data tags to the schematic on the front windows, highlighting a dozen in quick succession.

  Energy signatures only at this point—no ships’ beacons. Not from the Cepheid, the dozen plus one ships around it. Just the telltale signs of engines and armaments powering up, readying themselves for God only knew what.

  What the hell are they up to? Henricksen wondered, chewing at his lip. “Farrow. Alert the Valkyrie.”

  “Aye, sir. Reinforcements, sir?”

  Henricksen considered, studying the schematic. The vessels floating serenely outside.

  “Sir?” Farrow prompted, visored face turning his way.

  “Your call,” he said, eyes lifting to Hecate’s camera.

  “No, Farrow,” she answered. “No reinforcements just yet. Tell Seychelles we’ve got ships’ signatures and we’re investigating. Ask her to stand by.”

  “Aye.” Farrow flicked her wrists, cables snaking from the ports sunk in her flesh to the Comms station at which she stood. A second flick opened a channel to the Valkyrie, Farrow’s soft voice murmuring to someone on the other end.

  “You sure about this?” Henricksen pitched his voice low so only Hecate would hear. “Smarter to just back outta here.”

  “Brutus sent us here to investigate. Look for survivors—”

  “Brutus’s orders stopped at investigate,” Henricksen corrected. “Seychelles added the ‘search for survivors’ part.”

  “Thought you were bucking for captain, Henricksen, not sea lawyer.”

  Icy undercurrent to Hecate’s voice now. A hard tone she used rarely. One that brooked no argument. Accepted no excuses.

  “The debris outside indicates those ships ran into trouble. Got themselves pretty beat up in the process. But ships’ signatures means ships with power, Henricksen. Could be there’s crew out there. An AI in need of rescue.”

  Henricksen cocked his head, eyes flicking from the windows to the camera. “So why didn’t we see them? Why didn’t the sensors pick up on those energy signatures before now?”

  “Shielding, if I had to guess. Probably shut down everything but the basic functions—atmospherics, environmentals, short range scans. Charged the hull plating to hide the energy signature the ships’ systems put out. Pulled in tight to make themselves electronically invisible.”

  “So, what? They’re hiding out here?”

  “Wouldn’t you? DSR drops in on them and tears hell out of their ships. Take what they want and leave the rest stranded.” The camera whirred softly, zooming in and back out. “You were merchanter once.”

  “Pusher. There’s a difference.”

  Not much, but there was pride. Pushers were blue collar, unlike those merchanter elitist pricks.

  “Semantics, Henricksen. You know what happens.” She turned the camera, pointing it at the front windows. “Call for help
and maybe the DSR comes back and finishes them off. Hide out here and fix things, maybe they can limp their way to the nearest port. Come out of this with their lives intact.”

  Henricksen rubbed his chin, thinking that over. “Not like the DSR to leave survivors.”

  Or ships, for that matter. Usually they took everything, pressing functioning ships into service, chopping the rest up for parts. Destroyed what they didn’t need or couldn’t use to cover their trail. Make sure no one else could make use of the scrap either.

  Simple, efficient operations. Say one thing about the DSR: they were champion scavengers. Made the most of the leftovers they came across. Which made the situation here all the more worrisome because it just didn’t fit their MO.

  “This stinks, Hecate. This whole thing stinks.”

  “No argument here. But if there are people on board, AI that need rescuing…”

  “Yeah,” Henricksen said softly. “Yeah.” He sucked in a breath and blew it back out, scrubbing fingers through his short-clipped hair. “Sikuuku.” He glanced at Artillery, catching the gunner’s visored eyes. “Not quite sure what’s going on here, but those ships out there seem content to sit for now. Anything changes, you see anything move, you blast it, understand? Weapons free. Fire at will.”

  “You sure?” he asked, lifting the targeting visor away from his eyes. “Colony ships out there.”

  “Yeah,” Henricksen said quietly. “Fuckers back at Trisserine looked like colony ships, too. And look what happened to Bertram.”

  Freighter, carrying armaments to resupply the Meridian Alliance depot orbiting above the planet. Bertram went nuclear—waylaid and obliterated when the DSR realized they couldn’t take him—destroying the payload he carried, and the ship right along with it.

  Hecate was en route when the distress call came in. Arrived too late to save Bertram, but just in time to blow holy hell out of the DSR ships that took him down. Destroyed three of their ships before the rest vanished, jumping away to hide in deep space.

  People on Tesserine were grateful—weapons manufactories down there, figured if the DSR got those munitions, they’d turn them on the surface and kill everyone—which made the Fleet Brass happy. Grateful citizens didn’t cause problems, after all. And having a few less DSR ships in the galaxy to deal with… well, that was always a good thing.

  Besides, Fleet liked victories. Even Pyrrhic victories, like Tesserine.

  “Ship moves, it dies, ya hear me, Sikuuku?”

  “Aye, sir. On it.” Sikuuku tapped two fingers to his temple and flipped his visor back down. Pivoted the gimbaled Artillery pod, bringing the targeting system on-line.

  “Sir.” Farrow again, wrists bent, fingers plucking at invisible strings as she navigated the comms channels her visor laid in front of her eyes. “Seychelles is asking for an update.”

  “Stand by,” Henricksen told her. “Shaheen. Move us closer to that freighter.” He pointed at the ship in question—a huge thing, square sided and oblong drifting a few kilometers off their starboard bow.

  “Aye, sir.” Shaheen tagged it, nodding, feathering the maneuvering thrusters to adjust Hecate’s course and bring her alongside.

  “Duclos. Run the sensors in a broad spectrum scan.”

  “Aye.”

  “Farrow.” A nod to the collection of ships outside. “Try hailing them again.”

  “Aye, sir. Just need a minute.” Farrow’s head tilted, lights flashing behind her visor. A flick of each wrist and her fingers started moving, making those odd, plucking gestures as she scrubbed through the channels, searching for open lines. “Nothing,” she reported, shaking her head. “Static. Some feedback from the radiation, that’s about it. If there are people out there, sir, they’re not talking. Or can’t,” she added, lips twisting. “DSR…” Her head turned, finger lifting her visor to reveal startling blue eyes. “They may have trashed the comms system, sir, before they left those ships for dead.”

  Translation: there might be people on those ships. Live people, for all they knew, looking to them for help.

  It fit the DSR pattern. Made sense in a horrible sort of way.

  “Damn,” Henricksen sighed, rubbing at his face. “God damn.” A glance at the windows and he turned his gaze Farrow’s way. “Keep an ear to the channels. Let me know if you pick anything up.”

  “Aye, sir.” Farrow dropped her visor back into place, retreating into the comms system’s cocoon.

  “Henricksen.” Hecate flashed a screen on the Command Post, shunting a data package to the center panel. “Found something. Your freighter,” she explained as Henricksen swiped at the panel, scrolling through the information on display.

  “Engines are intact.” Henricksen frowned, finding yet another thing about this ship that just didn’t make sense. “Why the hell would they—”

  “Movement! We’ve got movement!” Duclos pointed to the windows as the Perseid slid forward, banked hard to port and headed their way.

  “Son-of-a—Sikuuku! Blast that fucker!”

  “With pleasure.” Sikuuku keyed the targeting system, pod slewing around as he gripped the firing sticks with both hands. A squeeze of the triggers and he unloaded on the approaching vessel, spewing out stuttering strings of cobalt blue plasma rounds that kissed the Perseid’s hull, scoring the composite metal just as the vessel jumped away.

  “Scan! Duclos! Where’d it—”

  Perimeter alarms went haywire as the Perseid reappeared—a fast-moving blur of composite metal and burnt out engines plowing bow-first into Hecate’s port-side rear quarter.

  Short hop, Henricksen’s brain registered in the instant before the Perseid hit.

  Hyperspace engines primed but minimally loaded, not yet capable of true jump. Turning that ship into an oversized missile that skewered Hecate like a spear, slewing her offline.

  Henricksen slammed against the Command Post’s panels, breath driven from his body in a rush. Grabbed at the nearest panel and held on for dear life as Hecate shuddered and shook around him, bridge lights flashing and flaring before cutting out entirely, plunging the room into darkness.

  Panels dying with them, silencing the klaxons mid-shriek.

  Three seconds—that’s how long it took the emergency systems to kick in. Three long, terrifying seconds of pitch black silence: fans dead, heat dead, environmentals completely shut off. Three pulse-pounding, sick with fear seconds before the lights came back on—auxiliary illumination bathing the bridge in a blood-red glow—and the atmospherics soon after.

  A puff of cold air ruffled the hair atop Henricksen’s head, swirled and stroked at his cheeks. Lights flashed as the Command Post rebooted, panels flickering across the bridge as, one by one, Hecate’s stations came back online. He killed the klaxons when they resumed their incessant blatting—hell on the ears, those shrieking sirens, and he didn’t need them to know they were in deep shit—and almost wished he hadn't

  Without them, he could hear the ship itself screaming. Hecate’s chassis groaning as it twisted. Hull splitting, compartments venting their contents into space.

  “Damage report!” Henricksen forced his hands open and straightened, wincing at the pain of bruised ribs. Scanned the bridge and found crew scattered across the decking, pitched ass-over-tea-kettle onto the floor.

  Scared crew, the lot of them. Wide-eyed faces turned bloody in the red glow of emergency lighting. Farrow crawled around, searching for her lost visor, climbed unsteadily to her feet when she found it and slipped it over her face. Duclos clutched his shoulder, jaw clenched tight as he pulled himself into the seat in front of his station, breath hissing between his teeth as he worked away on the panels. Shaheen…actually, Shaheen seemed to be alright, but Shin just sat in front of her station—hunched over, cradling an oddly cocked hand against her stomach. And to one side, just over Henricksen’s shoulder, the familiar sound of swearing—Sikuuku cursing a blue streak as he kicked at the pedals controlling the gimbaled Artillery pod’s movements. A pod that, based on the volume
and quantity of swearing, stubbornly refused to budge.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” Sikuuku yelled, voice filled with frustration. “I got no firing solution, Commander. Targeting system’s a complete loss. Cannons are pointing—aw fuck, I have no idea what the cannons are pointing at, but it ain’t at those ships, that’s for sure.” He punched a panel, flicking at switches, jammed the maneuvering pedal with his foot and bashed at the controls with both fists, but the pod remained stuck. “God fucking dammit,” he screamed. “Move, you piece of fucking shit, move!”

  “Hecate!”

  “Diagnostics are showing a mechanical failure. I’ve got a couple of TSGs on their way to the bridge to try and fix it.”

  “And until then we’ve got no guns. Fuck. Fuck me,” Henricksen breathed, staring out the windows.

  Hell of a thing, being defenseless. Especially when there was a hand-me-down, refitted warship stuck in your side.

  He called down to maintenance, summoning a couple of techs to the bridge to help the TSGs out. Might just get in the robots’ way but many hands made light work and all that and he wanted as many hands up here as he could get. And while he waited, there was the hull damage to consider. That self-same, hand-me-down ship poking rudely from Hecate’s side.

  He accessed a panel, pulling the feeds from the external cameras to it so he could get a sense for the damaged outside. Video showed the Perseid stuck tight—nose buried up to the bridge pod in Hecate’s rear quarter, cracks spidering outward in jagged lightning bolts from the impact point. Splits in Hecate’s skin appearing. Fractures that joined and divided, splitting and splitting again.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  “Shin. Damage report.” Henricksen barked.

  “Aye, sir.” Shin called up the monitoring system, alerts flashing everywhere. Yellow and orange boxes marking damaged areas that remained intact, red boxes flagging compromised sections of the ship. She skipped over the former, focusing on the latter for now. “Hull breach, port side aft. Levels 3 through 8.”