Kinsey barked a surprised laugh and stepped away, his entire demeanor changing in an instant. “Alright. Just so we understand each other.” A flick of his eyes to Sikuuku, before returning his attention to Henricksen. “Come with me,” he said, crooking a finger. Turned around and walked stiff-backed to the windows.
Roll to his gait Henricksen hadn’t noticed earlier. A hitch in his get-along most wouldn’t even pick up.
“Prosthetics,” Sikuuku whispered, nodding at Kinsey’s back. “Leg. Arm. Partial ceramic skull. Had to rebuild it,” he explained, rapping his knuckles against the back of his head.
Henricksen grunted, considering Kinsey standing by the windows. Combat retirement, Sikuuku had said. From the sound of things, Kinsey was lucky to be alive.
Kinsey turned his head, looking over his shoulder. “If you’re done whispering about me you can come join me. There’s something I think you’ll want to see.”
Sikuuku flushed guiltily and hurried over, Henricksen lagging just a few steps behind.
The control room windows sat roughly thirty meters up, looking down on the hangar bay below. Couldn’t see all that much of it, even from here, the darkness that covered it masking everything, even the area right in front of the windows.
“Ready?” Kinsey looked at him, smiling in that stiffly polite way of his. Reached to one side and flipped a few switches, cutting on a bank of lights.
Spotlights shone down from the ceiling, pushing back the shadows. A cavernous space unfolded—tall enough, wide enough, deep enough to hold a couple of Aurora class warships like Hecate. A Valkyrie like Seychelles and a few other smaller ships beside.
But it wasn’t an Aurora Henricksen spotted below him, nor a Valkyrie either. In fact, the ships sitting on the hangar bay’s decking looked nothing at all like any ship he’d ever come across in his life.
Tiny things. Miniscule compared to the Fleet’s warships. Barely a third the size of a Titan, small enough to fit inside a Valkyrie’s belly. And the shape of them…
Sharp-sided and sinister. Dark on dark, invisible in the shadows. A half dozen knife-blade shapes squatting menacingly on the decking, arranged in a circle with their engines pointing toward the center.
Henricksen studied them, feeling cold all over. Wasn’t sure he liked them. Wasn’t quite sure he wanted anything to do with a ship that look like that.
“So that’s them?” Sikuuku stepped close to the windows, nodding to the ships below. “Those are the Ravens?”
Kinsey nodded wordlessly, arms folded, watching Sikuuku and Henricksen both. “What do you think?”
Sikuuku opened his mouth and closed it. Frowned and slid his eyes to Henricksen.
“Not exactly pretty, are they?”
Kinsey scowled, disapproval written clearly on his face. “They’re not supposed to be pretty, Captain. They’re supposed to be stealthy.”
“And?” Henricksen folded his arms, copying Kinsey’s stance. “Are they?”
“Are they what?” Kinsey snapped.
“Stealthy. They better be, ugly as they look.”
Kinsey didn’t answer. Kept his face carefully neutral, though his eyes flashed with fire.
“You don’t know, do you?” Henricksen’s eyebrows lifted. “You burned through a bunch of Meridian Alliance funding making a squadron of stealth ships and you don’t even know if they can do their job.” He barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Hell of an outfit you talked me into, Sikuuku.” He felt the gunner stiffen, saw him flush and drop his eyes. Felt bad about that—hadn’t meant to embarrass him—but apologies would have to wait until later. When Kinsey wasn’t around. “I trust they can fly, at least?”
Kinsey bristled, dark eyes sparkling with anger. “We tested all the avionics. Propulsion engines are solid and we’ve proved the RV-N can successfully transit jump.”
Henricksen waited, knowing there was more. “But?” he prompted when Kinsey stayed silent.
“The systems need tuning.” Kinsey stepped close to the windows, looking down. “Burned out the jump drives the first time through. Lost two pilots trying to get them to pass testing.”
“Dead?” Henricksen guessed.
“Retired,” Kinsey said, looking around.
Which meant disabled. Incapacitated. Broken in some fundamental way that made them incapable of doing their job.
Henricksen shivered. Sometimes dead was preferable. Suddenly this whole project stank. “So the airframe’s unstable. That what you’re telling me?”
Kinsey shrugged and nodded, gave a sharp shake of his head.
Not quite yes, not quite no. An answer that didn’t exactly inspire confidence. Especially since Sikuuku and Henricksen were expected to climb into one of those ugly, pilot-mangling monstrosities down there themselves.
“So what’s to stop me from turning around right now and walking out that door over there?” Henricksen stabbed a finger at the portal in question, Fisker standing guard on the opposite side. “Why should I believe you’ll ever get that shit-show of a spaceship working enough to actually do its job?”
Kinsey turned around, leaning his shoulders against the glass. “I’ve got some of the Fleet’s best and brightest assigned to this project. Engineers, mechanics, pilots.” A pause, eyes locking on Henricksen’s. “You.”
The compliment caught Henricksen by surprise. Didn’t know what to do with it at first, given Kinsey’s stiff, disapproving demeanor. The hint of hostility lurking in his eyes.
He considered the administrator a moment, dipped his head in acknowledgment and received a nod from Kinsey in return.
“We’ve worked out the kinks in the jump drives and mostly have the stealth system up to snuff. But we need pilots to take test runs so we can dial in the rest of the systems and maximize the RV-N’s operational capability.”
“Maximize its operational capability.” Henricksen grunted, lips twisting bitterly. “What kinda military horseshit you tryin’ to sell me, Kinsey?”
Kinsey’s face blanked, eyes hooding. Turning cold, and flat, and dead. “Nothing shit about it, Captain. The ships will fly. They’ll do their job. I just need crew to run them through their paces.”
Henricksen looked at him, and at Sikuuku standing to one side. Stepped to the windows and looked down on the squadron of stealth ships squatting on the hangar bay’s floor.
“I read your record, Henricksen.” Soft voice from Kinsey. Thoughtful, reasoning tone. He moved closer, standing right beside Henricksen, joining him in his study of the hangar bay’s occupants below. “You’re not one to shy away from a challenge. Those stars…” He tapped a finger to his own collar—stiff and civ, no insignia in sight. “You fought for them. Chose combat assignments over admin billets. Chose the warships over politics to move you up through the ranks.” Kinsey’s looked at him, head tilting, smile playing about his lips. “I like that about you, Captain. Most officers I work with are stuck up assholes who can’t see past this,” a touch at his pinstriped suit, “to see this.” He grabbed one hand with the other, twisted and pulled, separating his prosthetic arm at the shoulder. “Lost my arm to the Dark Star Revolution.” He held the limb in question up, letting Henricksen get a good look. Threaded it back into his sleeve and locked it into place. “Lost a leg too. Part of my brain. More men than I can count.” He grimaced, lips pressing in a hard line. “Most of the Fleet thinks we broke the DSR at Kantri, but I’m here to tell you they’re wrong.” Kinsey nodded to the hangar below, the huge doors—closed now, sealed up tight—filling one wall. “Those bastards are out there, Captain. They’re out there and they’re plotting—”
Kinsey broke off, eyes widening, flicking surreptitiously to a camera watching from the corner. A deep breath and he shrugged his shoulders, turned around and walked over to a monitoring station, keying the system on. “They’ll work, Captain. They have to work. We need the Ravens. Now more than ever.”
Henricksen frowned, throwing a worried look Sikuuku’s way. Saw the gunner shrug and shake his head, tattooed face frow
ning right back.
“I run the squadron,” Henricksen said. A statement, not a question, but Kinsey nodded anyway. “I pull the crews at my discretion.”
Kinsey turned his head, showing him one eye.
“I test those ships and find them unsafe, I’m pulling the crews until the engineers and mechanics fix them. I do. My decision, not yours. You say the Ravens are important and I believe you. But I won’t lose crew. I won’t kill this squadron just so those stealth ships can fly.”
Kinsey pursed his lips, thinking, eyes flicking to the camera in the corner. “Alright. What else?” he asked, turning around.
Henricksen straightened, chin lifting. “I crew one of the ships myself. Me and Sikuuku,” he said, hooking a thumb at the gunner. “No goddamn way I’m flying a desk.”
Kinsey considered, dark eyes filled with secrets. “Four man crews on the stealth ships, not two.”
“Alright. Sikuuku here will pick the others.”
“I will?” Sikuuku blinked, obviously surprised.
“Anything else?” Kinsey asked him.
“I choose my ship.” Important an AI and captain got along. The AI he chose would run the squadron, every bit as much as himself. “Don’t wanna end up with some big-brained asshole as a partner.”
Sikuuku choked and turned around, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Kinsey stared at them, face unreadable, eyes flicking from Henricksen to Sikuuku and back again. “Done,” he said. “But lose the uniforms.”
Henricksen touched Hecate’s patch on his shoulder. Protective of it. Loathe to give it up.
“Your days with Hecate are over, Captain. Time to get over her and move on.” Kindly voice this time. Another chink in Kinsey’s armor, this one letting a fleeting look of commiseration slip through. He looked away, tugging at his cuffs and collar, and when he looked back he was all business again. “You’ll find fresh uniforms in the barracks, along with everything else you need. I’ve billeted you in the administrative quarters—”
“No,” Henricksen said quietly, and saw Kinsey’s face darken, eyes flashing in annoyance. “Appreciate the offer, but I prefer to stay with the crew. Assuming there’s room, of course.”
Kinsey glared at him, jaw clenched tight. “As you wish,” he said, nodding stiffly. “Fisker will fetch whatever you need. Goodnight, gentlemen.” He flicked his fingers, dismissing them. Ending their audience just like that. “I’ll see you here at 0700 tomorrow morning.” A nod and Kinsey turned back to the windows.
Henricksen gathered up Sikuuku and headed for the door, leaving Kinsey standing there, staring through the glass.
Six
Fisker pushed away from the wall as Henricksen and Sikuuku stepped out of the control room, braced up hard and saluted for all he was worth.
Held that stance for a long time—stiff as a board, eyes almost-but-not-quite looking at Henricksen, hand slanted precisely across his brow, moving not so much as a whisker until Henricksen acknowledged him. Tapped two fingers to his temple and told the ensign to stand at ease.
Very prim and proper, this shiny new ensign. Not really Henricksen’s style—rank and respect was one thing, but prim and proper smacked of useless posturing and nonsense—but he forgave the formality in this case. Ensigns were supposed to be prim and proper. Fleet Academies beat deferential into them. Officer Candidate Schools tried—Henricksen himself suffered through a whole host of instruction focused on knife and fork training—but most of it never stuck. Academy grads, though…took to it like ducks to water. Preened, and postured, and polished themselves blue in the face.
Few years in the Fleet, though, and they lost most of that prim and proper. The over-starched shirts and perfectly creased pants. Fleet expected honor, respect for rank and service. Fleet didn’t care much about starch and creases.
Starch and creases didn’t win battles. Keep ships from getting blown apart.
“This way, sirs. If you wouldn’t mind.” Fisker smiled his nervous smile, nodding to Henricksen and Sikuuku both before setting off down the stairs.
Escorted his two charges back down the hallway bordering the hangar deck—wall of windows on the left, plasmetal panels on the right—stopping at pressure door halfway along its length.
Ancient thing, straight on the sides, rounded at the top and bottom. Oversized wheel in the center in addition to the heavy latch, and the security system panel set in the wall to one side.
“Wagon wheel.” Sikuuku grunted, sliding a sidelong a look Henricksen’s way. “Haven’t seen one of those in a while.”
Old style fitting, phased out a century and more ago. Wheel used to crank the door closed and seal it tight against the frame’s gaskets. Heavy latch to lock it and suck everything up tight.
Slow to secure, those heavy, ancient portals. Not what you wanted in an emergency. On the plus side, the system held its pressure, even after a catastrophic power loss.
Surprised Henricksen that they hadn’t replaced them, though. Wheels tended to fail. Metal rusted—steel here, not the more modern, composite metal materials adopted across the galaxy fifty plus years ago. Bent and twisted. Got stuck at the most inopportune times.
Fisker shuffled his feet, waving vaguely at the door. “Space was available. And Kinsey—Mr. Kinsey wanted to be close to the hangar.” A shrug of his shoulders, making it clear it wasn’t his idea, and Fisker flashed that nervous smile, keyed into the security system and spun the wheel when it popped. Grabbed the latch and yanked, leaning backward as he hauled the heavy door open. “RV-N staff only,” he said, glancing at Henricksen and Sikuuku behind him. “Mr. Kinsey will issue you a security code tomorrow. Only works here, though.” He pointed to the security panel beside the door, nodded to the hall stretching on the other side—double doors at the end of it, crossing corridors to the left and right. “And the hangar deck, of course.”
Second nod, this one to the wall of windows behind them, the darkened, cavernous space looming on the other side.
Henricksen considered the way ahead, the hangar deck where the RV-N’s squatted. “What about the rest of the station?”
Fisker shrugged, smile turning apologetic. “Not allowed. You’ve got the run of the RV-N spaces and the hangar deck, the control room above. But the rest of station…” He hesitated, cheeks flushing beneath the freckles. Looked both ways—up the beside-the-hangar-deck corridor and down—dropping his voice as he leaned close. “Dragoon’s carved up into sections. Each one more hush-hush than the last. Not even sure what else is going on here, to be honest. Ensign,” he explained, touching a finger to the single gold bar on his collar. “They don’t tell me all that much.”
“No,” Henricksen murmured, sliding his eyes Sikuuku’s way. “I suppose they don’t.”
Sikuuku grunted, offering nothing more than that, while Fisker licked his lips, growing increasingly uncomfortable the longer they stood there in the hall.
“If—if you don’t mind, sirs?” He stepped aside, holding the door open as he waved Henricksen and Sikuuku through. Stepped in after—knee bending, foot lifting as he crossed the elevated threshold—and pulled the door to. “This way,” he said, stepping around his two charges to move ahead of them. Chattering a blue streak as he gave them the nickel tour of their new home. “Billets for the civilians down there.” He flipped a finger at a crossing corridor—one of two coming in from the left, stagger-stepped, matching corridors leading off to the right. “Engineers and science staff,” he explained at Henricksen’s raised eyebrow look. “Military across the way.”
“Barracks?” Henricksen asked him.
“For the enlisted,” Fisker nodded. “Suites for the officers. Shared, mostly,” he added, eyes flicking to Sikuuku’s collar, the tattoos covering his face.
Sikuuku grunted, lips twisting. “Civ and military.” A glance at Henricksen, offering a crooked smile. “Everyone packed in together. Isn’t that nice?”
Surprising, really. Not often the suits and uniforms bedded down to
gether. Some separation here, but still…
Interesting. Not what Henricksen expected.
He waved Fisker ahead, ambling along behind him as they worked their way down that long, central corridor—a square-sided, square-cornered tube burrowing deep into the station proper. Blocked at the end by those wide, double doors. Grey everywhere—walls, ceiling floor—and plasmetal and carbon weave concrete. Drab, durable materials stretching as far as the eye could see.
He glanced down a crossing corridor—lefthand side, the hallways on either side of the center thoroughfare set at stagger-steps to each other—and counted a dozen doorways spaced along its length. Thick, heavy looking portals. Same latch-and-wheel construction as the pressure door behind them.
Original station, Henricksen thought, spying the same configuration in the next corridor, stretching off to his right. Original fittings. Probably easier to add on new spaces than rehab and upgrade this little rabbit warren of rooms.
Fleet did that, more often than not. Built a small station and added on other sections as they needed them, expand the entire complex over time. But the seed remained, if you could find it. Spaces with old style construction, just like this one. Everything ponderous and durable, almost prison-like in its simplicity. And the smell…
Same smell as the rest of the station, but stronger. More pungent. A touch of damp in the air, like it was seeping from the walls. A stink distinctive to abandoned stations. To spaces left to molder and rot.
Reminded Henricksen of Grandee, that oldest of old stations. A fringe trading post established before the fringe moved a few hundred thousand lightyears outward. Visited that station a few times, back in his pusher kid days. Remembered the day word came across the wire that they’d lost it—explosive decompression, catastrophic compartment failures across the length and breadth of its structures. Core held, but the atmosphere didn’t. At least, not long enough to keep the people inside alive.
Grandee smelled just like this place. Henricksen slowed, looking around. Same taint. Same moldering stink.
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