Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  And that odd, obvious pattern to the seating arrangements…

  Henricksen cast his eyes around, noting that sharp divide again. Civvies sticking to the corners, military claiming everything else.

  Strange dynamic, military and civilians housed together. Surprised Kinsey had done that, to be honest, but then, maybe it wasn’t his idea.

  Only so much space on a station, after all. And the RV-N project allotted just this one section for its personnel.

  Henricksen nodded to a stiff-looking young man walking toward him—plate in one hand, glass of some kind of juice in the other. Waistcoat buttoned tight over a banded collar shirt. Shiny leather shoes, coifed hair slicked back on his head.

  The engineer—he assumed that’s what these civvies were, no other reason to house them here otherwise—blanched and ducked his head, hurrying past Henricksen to the civvie section of the mess hall. Plunked down and started shoveling food in his face, putting his back to Henricksen so he had a plausible reason not to look at him.

  “Wimp.”

  Henricksen moved on, joining the queue at the chow line. Noticed something else while he shuffled his slow way forward, waiting his turn to grab food. Another subtle divide, this one less obvious than that between the civ and military personnel.

  Not the collar devices—everyone wore those, enlisted and officers—nor the uniforms, either. All of the military here wore coveralls except Henricksen and Sikuuku. Every last uniformed person dressed in the same black on black on black. But the mechanic’s uniforms sported a few extra pockets—storage space for hand tools and spare parts the RV-N crews’ flight suits didn’t need. And the mechanics sat separate from the others. Didn’t mingled with the flight crews at all. In fact…

  Henricksen twisted, taking another good look around. “You see that?” He touched at Sikuuku’s arm, nodding to a nearby table, another shoved up against the wall.

  Sikuuku looked at him, and at the two tables, shrugged his burly shoulders and shuffled another step along the line. “Not unusual for the enlisted and officers to sit separate.”

  “Not what I meant.” He caught Sikuuku’s eye, nodded to the room in general. “They’re new. They’re all new.”

  Sikuuku blinked, frowning. “Can’t be. Program’s been running for years.”

  “Maybe.” Henricksen frowned himself, trying to explain what he saw.

  People sitting in pairs, sticking to those pairings rather than surfing the room. Huddled together, all but ignoring the crew at the other tables.

  “Look at ’em.” He waved at the people at the tables. “Military, I mean. Ignore the civvies for now.” Hard to read them. Civvies always seemed distant around the military, no matter what the situation. “Do any of them look all that comfortable to you?”

  Sikuuku paused, considering. Sizing the room up. “No,” he said slowly. “Not really. Chiefs in the corner, maybe.” A nod to the personnel in question—anchors on their collars, heads bowed together, deep in conversation.

  Ignoring Henricksen and Sikuuku for the most part, after that whole “attention on deck” thing they’d started. The only two people in the room, in fact, that didn’t seem all that interested in either of the new arrivals.

  “Rest of ’em…” Sikuuku frowned again, head shaking. “Might be right. Don’t quite have the vibe of crew that’s settled in.”

  Henricksen quirked an eyebrow, giving him a look. “Odd, wouldn’t you say?”

  Sikuuku’s face darkened. “Fucking ridiculous is more like it. And before you ask, he didn’t tell me. I swear. Kinsey said he needed crew, but he didn’t—”

  “’S’alright,” Henricksen told him, raising a hand. “Intel operators always were a bunch of closed mouth assholes.” He smiled ruefully. “Why should Kinsey be any different, just because he’s your friend?”

  “Told you. He’s not my friend.” Sikuuku grabbed a plate and shoved it at the mess cook, snatched it back when he loaded it and moved down the line.

  Henricksen pursed his lips, watching him, letting Sikuuku move ahead. Mad—read that in Sikuuku’s movements. The stiffness of his back. Angry and embarrassed at having talked Henricksen into this assignment only to arrive here and find things decidedly not as advertised.

  Didn’t blame him for being angry. Or for the situation either. Gunner wanted Black Ops and he got it. Just didn’t take into account that Black Ops was about lies and obfuscation in addition to sneaking around.

  So he let Sikuuku move ahead of him, giving him some space. Time to cool down. Grabbed a plate for himself while the gunner chatted up the woman working the dessert section—older lady, handsome, though not quite pretty.

  Not that it really mattered. Sikuuku chatted up pretty much anyone who bothered to give him the time of day.

  “’Ere ya are, Cap’n.” The line cook smiled widely—crooked teeth, a couple of them missing. Talked like a pirate—Henricksen wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. Winked at Henricksen as he passed over a plate.

  Beef and bell peppers—standard mess hall fare. Noodles of indeterminate nature. Some kind of freeze-dried, overcooked vegetable that almost resembled squash. Not all that bad, all things considered. Nothing fancy, but better than some stations offered. A vast improvement over the reconstituted stuff they’d been fed on the transport.

  Henricksen nodded his thanks to the gap-toothed cook as he moved on down the line. Scanned the half-dozen desserts on offer while Sikuuku chattered away with his new girlfriend, selecting a slice of cake that smelled strongly of coconut. “Drinks?” he asked, when Sikuuku paused for breath.

  The dessert server smiled, looking him up and down. Pointed to a row of spigots sticking out of the wall. “Water and juices,” she said, and leaned forward, pointed her finger toward the bar. “Beer on tap, so long as you’re not on duty.”

  “Pass for now. Water’ll do just fine.”

  “Your funeral.” The cook shrugged, turning her smile on Sikuuku—knowing, suggestive, hinting that she’d like to lock him in a room and get to know him better. Winked at the gunner—slow closing of one eyelid, lip caught between her teeth—as she leaned across the chow line and slipped a couple of extra cookies onto his plate. “Don’t tell,” she said, laying a finger across her lips.

  “Never do.” Sikuuku returned the smile. The wink for good measure. Gathered up his plate and nabbed a drink—water, just like Henricksen—before turning around and walking over to an empty table. “Still got it,” he said, hooking a chair with his toe.

  Henricksen claimed the chair across from him. “What is it with you and lunch ladies, anyway?”

  “Dunno.” Sikuuku shrugged. “But they’ve got cookies, and they like to give ’em to me.” He picked up a cookie and bit it in half, looking quite pleased with himself. “You. Ensign Boy.” Sikuuku waved to Fisker, pointed to the seat beside him. “Sit.”

  Fisker stopped a few steps away, eyes flicking from Henricksen’s table to the others around it. Nervous about sitting with them—that came through clearly. Nervous about being an ensign sharing dinner conversation with the senior staff. “Not really all that hungry,” he said, setting his plate down on a nearby table. “I’ll roust the rest of the crew while you—”

  “Sit,” Henricksen ordered, kicking the chair out. “Most of the crew’s here, from what I can tell. Rest’ll trickle in when they get hungry.”

  “Yes, sir. If—if you say so, sir.” Another look around the room, as if hoping one of the other crewmembers would save him, and Fisker retrieved his abandoned food. Walked over to Henricksen’s table and slid into the chair beside him.

  Seven

  Fisker devoured his food in silence, each forkful a precisely timed and meticulously executed movement: bite of meat, bite of veg, sip of drink—repeat, and repeat, and repeat again.

  Academy training again, that rhythmic consuming. Eating in perfect squares. Some kind of sick game the command cadre had, making the cadets suffer through meals in that manner. Took a while to break them
of it. Retrain the shiny new ensigns the Academy pumped out to eat like normal people again.

  Stupid tradition. Pointless. A holdover from the old days, like the sharp creases and starched uniforms.

  Sikuuku, of course, found it all highly amusing. Sat there chewing his own food with a big, goofy grin on his face.

  Nudged at Henricksen’s elbow, and started copying the ensign. Exaggerating the movements. Having a bit of fun at his expense.

  “Grow up, would ya?” Henricksen forked a piece of beef into his mouth, giving the gunner a sour look. Chewed and swallowed—synth, for sure, though better than the soy crap, likely some lab-grown type of meat—and snatched up another bite, eyes flicking to Fisker now and then, watching him methodically clean his plate.

  Dessert sat untouched near his elbow. Academy training again. Couldn’t have the cadets spoiling their meal by eating their dessert—that just wouldn’t do.

  “So, was it Sosholo or Yunshinshin?” Henricksen scooped up his knife and sawed through a piece of beef as Fisker froze, eyes lifting, fork half-raised to his mouth.

  “I’m—I’m sorry.” Fisker blinked, lowering his fork, folding his hands in his lap. “Was what, sir?”

  “You’re Academy. I can tell that from your collar.” Henricksen pointed his fork’s tines at Fisker’s crisply pressed uniform, collar points the very picture of starched perfection, the rest of it just so. “Can always pick you Academy boys out ‘cause you’re uniforms are so goddamned purty.” He smiled crookedly, applying fork and knife to an innocent piece of synth meat. The tines speared it, holding it place while the knife slid through the piece of meat, scraping sharply against the plate beneath. “So was it Sosholo or Yunshinshin that spat you out?” Henricksen asked, lifting a bite to his mouth.

  “N-Neither, sir,” Fisker stammered, flush creeping up his cheeks.

  “Neither? Really?” Henricksen chewed and swallowed, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “But you are Academy.”

  Fisker licked his lips, head dipping. “Saint-Cyr, sir. Graduated last spring.”

  “Saint-Cyr?” Henricksen stared, honestly surprised. “Didn’t know that Old Earth Academy was still running.”

  Long history to that place. The fact that Henricksen—who’d never seen Old Earth, nor particularly cared to—even knew about it spoke volumes about its reputation.

  He slid his eyes to Sikuuku, giving the gunner a considering look. “Sounds like you and Ensign Fisker here have something in common.”

  “You’re—you’re from Earth, sir?” Fisker looked desperately hopeful.

  Not many Earthers out here, so far from that old home world. Hard for them to fit in with others in the Fleet because of it. That, and the stigma most held against them. Stupid thing, really. Result of the ties back to Old Earth loosening over the years. Cradle of humanity it might be—the genesis of the Meridian Alliance and part of it still, but time passed, and Earth… Earth became separate. Different. Ancient and outdated, military minds running centuries behind the far flung ships of the Fleet.

  And now here came Fisker—young and naïve, an ensign so eager to please.

  “I am,” Sikuuku told him—solemn now, the laughter and teasing entirely gone. He snatched up his napkin, wiping at his lips before tossing it back down. “But I’m not a sir. Chief Gunner’s Mate.” He tapped the stars and anchor on his collar, the winged badge on his chest. “You call me Chief, Fisker, and I call you Ensign. You do that and we’ll get along just fine.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, aye, sir. I mean, Chief.” Fisker blushed even brighter. Started to salute before realizing that wasn’t needed and nervously shoving his hand back down.

  “There ya go.” Sikuuku winked and leaned over, punching Fisker lightly on the shoulder. “Now grab me a beer, Ensign. It was a long, boring trip in and I could severely use a drink.”

  Fisker pushed back his chair, abandoning his knife and fork and the remains of his meal as he headed for the bar to one side.

  “Grab one for the Captain while you’re at,” Sikuuku called after him.

  “And one for yourself,” Henricksen added, killing the mess hall conversation for the second time that evening. “What?” he asked, as heads lifted, eyes turning his way. “Can’t a guy buy an ensign a beer?”

  Silence from the crew around them, everyone frowning and glancing at each other like they had no idea what to do. Silence that stretched on and on forever, blanketing the room.

  And then a chief burst out laughing—squared-faced woman tucked up at a table in the corner, brown hair the color of tree bark pulled back in a messy ponytail, blue eyes like a stormy sky—and the entire mood of the room changed.

  “Spill some for me while you’re at it, Fisker!” she cheered, holding up her mug. “In fact…” A smile and the chief climbed up on her table, lifting her glass high. “Drinks are on me tonight, boys and girls. Everyone gets a round!” She waved grandly, laughing at the jeers and catcalls, bowing at the waist to acknowledge the ironic clapping as she climbed back down.

  Not exactly a magnanimous offer, buying the crew drinks. Beer came free on the station, after all. Still, it was the thought that mattered, more than the actual expenditure of funds.

  Fisker busied himself at the bar as the conversations around the room resumed, voices filling the mess hall with low, droning buzz. No bartender here, which mean everything was self-service. And Fisker, by default, voted to serve everyone on the chief’s behalf.

  He filled up mugs, pouring foaming beer from a spigot, lining up a half dozen at a time. Shucked around the bar to deliver that first round to the nearest tables before hurrying back to pour more suds.

  Civvies watched it all from their corner, looking increasingly uncomfortable the more drinks Fisker handed out. Finished up their meals in a hurry and quietly retreated, slipping circumspectly through the mess hall’s double doors.

  Henricksen noted it, and considered saying something to Kinsey. Decided to leave it alone for now. Until he got the lay of the land.

  “Ensigns.” Sikuuku snorted, smiling to himself as Fisker bustled about. “Adorable.”

  “Prettier than you. That’s for sure.”

  “I’d say cook over there feels differently.” Sikuuku scooped up a cookie and bit into it, chewing slowly, smug smile playing about his lips. “Don’t see you gettin’ any free cookies, old man.”

  “Nothin’s free, Akiwane.” Henricksen slid his eyes to the cook at the dessert station, tilted his head, giving Sikuuku a meaningful look. Sat back when Fisker dropped three mugs in front of him and plunked down, scooching his chair close to the table. “Much obliged, Fisker.” Henricksen snagged a glass and raised it in salute.

  Fisker smiled sheepishly—pleased and embarrassed at the same time. Glanced around and saw everyone drinking—Henricksen and Sikuuku included—and, with the slightest of hesitations, collected the third from the table, pulling it toward his plate.

  “Finish your meal first,” Henricksen told him. “Young buck like you, drinking beer on a half-empty stomach.” He shook his head hard. “Be drunk inside of a minute. Probably dancing on the table, causing all kinds of ruckus.”

  “No, sir. Never.” Fisker looked mortified that he’d even suggest such a thing. He pushed the mug away, sending it sliding across the table on an express trip to the floor.

  Henricksen snagged it just as it reached the edge, stopping it dead with his fingers. “Joke, Fisker.” He caught the ensign’s gaze and held it, pushed the mug of beer back to him, setting it beside Fisker’s half-full plate. “Beer’s on Chief.” A nod to the woman in the corner, drink clasped firmly between both hands. “But you eat first, ya hear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Fisker eyed the beer mug sweating on the table. Picked up his fork and finished his meal under Henricksen’s watchful gaze.

  “Atta boy.” Henricksen sat back, smiling, sipping at his beer.

  Awful stuff they served here. Typical mess hall half-piss, half-water swill. But it was beer, and he was thirsty. Besid
es, crew was watching. And appearances mattered.

  “So, who is she?” he asked, nodding to the table in the corner. The chief who’d bought everyone beer.

  Fisker twisted, taking a look. “Shaw. Runs the mech gang on the hangar deck. They do maintenance and adjustments on the RV-Ns.”

  “Know what she’s doing?”

  Fisker shrugged, forking a last bite into his mouth to clear his plate. “Kinsey recruited her off of Cerberus.”

  “Cerberus.” Sikuuku whistled appreciatively. “I’d say that’s a “yes”.”

  Henricksen grunted noncommittally, eyeing Shaw in the corner as he took another pull at his beer.

  Second sip tasted no better than the first one. Henricksen grimaced, swallowing it down. Caught Shaw’s eye when she looked over at him, dipped his head and raised his beer in acknowledgment as she smiled and returned the gesture.

  “What about her tablemate?” Henricksen asked, nodding to the dark-haired woman sitting next to Shaw. Slight and slim, skin the color of burnt umber, eyes like amber nuggets. “What can you tell me about her?”

  “Chief Kapoor.” Fisker frowned, thinking. “Came in last week. She and Shaw were stationed together somewhere.” Another frown, Fisker’s eyes dropping to the table as he dredged something from his memory banks. “Dreadnought, maybe? I want to say Gorgon, but I’m not sure that’s right.”

  “She’s flight crew?” Sikuuku turned around, inspecting the chief sitting with Shaw. Examining her in an entirely different light.

  “Scan tech,” Fisker told him. “You’ll like her.” Quick smile—lips lifting then dropping again.

  “Oh yeah?” Sikuuku folded his arms, giving Fisker a flat-eyed look. “Why’s that?”

  “Well, she’s—” Fisker swallowed hard, coughed and tried again. “It’s just that she’s—”

  “Bossy and blunt and knows how to keep her crew in line? That what you’re trying to say?”