Lot of chatter on comms—Mahal mostly, Scan and the other stations now and then. Too much chatter for Henricksen’s liking—not obnoxious blabbering like Baldini, but noisy just the same. Lot of noise on that channel, especially for Black Ops. Pilot’s job was to listen, take in the information fed to her by the crew, but Mahal’s voice dominated comms, harrying Ahmadi at Scan—he’d replaced Nunez, the one and only change to crew Henricksen had made so far—questioning every bit of information the scan tech brought back.
Missed the first beacon because of it. Got her ship blown to hell and had to restart her run because she was too damned busy questioning her crew to pay attention to her own job.
“Cut it,” Henricksen ordered with the simulation just halfway through.
“You sure?” Sikuuku asked him.
“Yeah. Cut it. She’s making a hash outta this run.”
A touch at the panel and the simulation ended abruptly, leaving the crew confused and complaining. Mahal angry as hell.
“What the fuck, Karansky? Doesn’t any of this shit equipment work?” Mahal ripped off her helmet, glaring at the camera.
“Shit equipment’s working just fine,” Henricksen told her. “Now climb out, Mahal. Need to talk to you a moment. Rest of you stay put. We’ll reset in five.” He cut the comms and waited while Mahal unstrapped from her pilot’s seat, exited the simulator and buzzed through the glass door to the control room, tucking her helmet under her arm as she snapped off a salute.
Tiny woman. Pixie cut hair, pixyish face to match. Dark hair, shot through with orange streaks that definitely weren’t regulation. Blue-grey eyes—striking, piercing—set in a brown-skinned face.
Not what he’d expected, based on all the swearing. Not your typical pilot either, those tending to run at the tall, spindly end of the human body composition range.
Sikuuku looked at him, eyebrows lifting as Henricksen returned the salute, and Mahal settled into a parade rest stance.
“Sorry, sir,” she said, eyes locked onto something just over Henricksen’s shoulder. “About the swearing. Bad habit. Trying to break myself of it.”
“Good luck with that.” Sikuuku folded his arms, leaning against the glass wall. “Better officers than you have tried and failed. My advice—”
“Shut it,” Henricksen snapped, making a chopping gesture with his hand. “Look, Mahal.” He sighed and stepped close while Mahal kept staring at the corner. “Personally, I don’t give two shits about the swearing so long as you keep it clean around the Brass.”
Mahal blinked in surprise, eyes snapping away from the corner, focusing on Henricksen’s face. “You—you don’t?”
“Swearing is swearing,” he shrugged. “Happens all over the Fleet. But you need to cut the chatter. You’re mouthy as hell, Mahal, which means you’re not paying attention to what you’re doing. Now I know you’re upset about Nunez.” He held up a hand to forestall her objections. “But that was my call. You’re shackin’ up on the side and I won’t have your raging hormones distracting you from the mission.”
Mahal opened her mouth to object—hand or no hand, she obviously meant to speak her peace—thought better of it at the last moment and went back to staring at the corner. “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?” she asked tightly.
“Damn fine stick,” he told her.
From the look on Mahal’s face, the compliment seemed to surprise her even more than his acceptance of her swearing.
“Read your record. Saw that bit on Sisyphus. Quick thinking, getting him out. What I saw in there,” he nodded to the simulation room, “was spot on when you weren’t distracted giving Ahmadi the business. So cut the chatter, Mahal.” Henricksen stepped in front of her, setting a hand on Mahal’s shoulder, squeezing it until she looked at him. “You’re their pilot, not their keeper. Crew’s there to help you. You do your job, they do theirs. Got it?”
Mahal thought on that, and nodded. “Yes, sir. Aye, sir.”
“Good. Now get back in there.” Henricksen nodded to the Number Three pod. “Run it again.”
Mahal saluted and spun around, stuffing the helmet over her head. Buzzed through the door and climbed back into the pod, buckling herself in.
“When you’re ready,” Sikuuku called over the control room comms.
Mahal tugged at her harness, ratcheting the straps down. “Scan.”
“Go.”
“Artillery.”
“Go.”
“Engineering.”
“Green across the board.”
“Ready,” Mahal called, and grabbed the stick as the simulator started, pod bucking as simulated engines kicked in.
Mahal’s run went better the second time—better, but not flawless. Still plenty of room for improvement. Baldini was quieter his second time through, but just as aggressive. Obviously needed lots of work.
Henricksen hoped swapping out crew would help with the situation. Honestly, though, he really wasn’t sure. Adaeze on the other…
Adaeze stood head and shoulders above both of them. Needed practice, just like the rest of the pilots, this being a completely new ship, but she picked up on the RV-N’s idiosyncrasies much more quickly than the others. Learned from her mistakes and didn’t make them again.
Four full simulation runs he put those crews through before swapping them out. Watched dog-tired personnel drag themselves from the simulators and stumble across the monitoring room as two fresh crews arrived to replace them.
“Should probably get in there ourselves,” Sikuuku noted as Janssen’s crew strapped down in one pod and Petros’s in another. “Could use the practice. Well, not me, of course,” he amended, flashing a smile. “You, on the other hand…”
“You callin’ me rusty?”
“Well, it has been a few years.”
Henricksen grunted, eying the two crewmen in the corner, patiently waiting their turn in the mill.
Rusty wasn’t the half of it. Last time he piloted a ship was twelve years ago. Twelve years and four rotations. And that was an Aurora. Nothing at all like the experimental ship recreated in this sim.
Henricksen chewed his lip, watching Janssen launch his first run. “Get a fix on Janssen and Petros first. Then we’ll swap in.”
Sikuuku nodded, setting the system to capture the data. Watched it with Henricksen—quiet, the two of them, just observing for now.
Predictable results from the first go-round, Petros as much of a train wreck as Baldini, Janssen as solid as Adaeze.
“Satisfied?” Sikuuku scooped two helmets from the shelf, tossing one to Henricksen, keeping the other for himself. Waved to Abboud and Taggert—scan tech and engineer, respectively—as he opened the door on the simulation room and climbed into the Number Four pod. “Let’s go, Captain,” he called, poking his head out. “I’m sure these junior officers are just dying for you to show them how it’s done.” He winked, smiling mischievously as he ducked back into the pod.
“Pain in the ass,” Henricksen muttered, turning his helmet over, studying the scar-faced reflection showing on the visor’s glass.
Twelve years. That’s a lotta rust.
Hoped he still had it. Hoped he didn’t make a fool himself in front of the crew. No way around it, though. And only one way to find out if he still had the right stuff.
“Never shoulda let Sikuuku talk me into this.” A last look at the simulator room and Henricksen stuffed the helmet onto his head, pushed through the glass door and climbed into the Number Four pod.
Ten
Simple layout to the RV-N bridge pod—stations set in a diamond pattern placing the Pilot’s station front and center, slightly forward of the others, with Scan and Engineering to left and right, Artillery backing it up behind. Gimbaled pod for the gunner—same design used on every last one of the Fleet’s warships—it’s oversized orb crowding the others stations. Consuming a good half of the available space.
Blood-red lights, just like in the control room, turning the crew into soft-edged shadows, the stations i
nto fortresses in which they hid. Hum of machinery in the air, greeting Henricksen as he stepped into the doorway. Bass thrum of engines—simulated, like everything else since the pod had none, nor needed any—an undercurrent to the higher pitched buzz of the electronics powering the diamond-patterned stations.
Smell of metal and electronics, cold and plastic filling his nose. Familiar scents. Clinical and antiseptic. The scent of every starship bridge everywhere recreated here. Duplicated to perfection, right down to the hard, uncomfortable seats. The harness that gripped and strangled, wrapping over shoulders, binding securely at the waist and chest.
Real. So very, very real, the layout of that bridge. The sim made to look, and feel, and even smell like an honest-to-goodness warship, not just a machine for training. And the lighting inside it… that glow. That blood-red glow.
Reminded Henricksen of Hecate. Of the emergency illumination flooding her bridge as she slid into combat and the stars outside lit up with plasma fire.
Hecate.
Henricksen locked up tight, hand gripping the doorframe, breath quickening as combat instincts kicked in. Memories of smoke and fire setting his pulse to racing as a blinding explosion seared across his brain.
He closed his eyes, caught up in that memory. There and not there—just like when it happened. Watching from afar as Hecate floated amongst the stars and shredded ships in those last few moments before she died.
Not real, he told himself. Not now.
Didn’t want those memories. Didn’t want to lose them and forget her either, but he didn’t need them right now.
Not the time for that. Definitely not the place. Couldn’t afford to get lost in the past when there was crew here that needed him. Training to be done.
A deep breath—in and out, echoing and amplified in the confines of his helmet—and Henricksen shrugged his shoulders, shaking the memories off. Smothered the combat instincts under a mantle of calm, letting the adrenaline work its way through his system. Take the jittering twitch of his fingers with it.
Training run, he reminded himself, taking another deep breath. Learn the machine. Dust off the skills. That’s it.
No death and destruction. Not here. Not today.
“Captain?” Sikuuku kept his tone carefully neutral—none of the joshing, good natured heckling now. “You comin’?” he asked, the slightest hint of worry coming through.
Sensed something wrong. Knew Henricksen well enough, long enough to know when something wasn’t quite right.
Henricksen shook himself, grateful for the helmet hiding his face. Knowing he looked like hell at the moment. “Yeah. Sorry.” He scanned the bridge pod, noting how tight it was—one station running into another, seating arrangements requiring an order of operations to how the crew entered—the closeness of the windows, the diamond-shaped arrangement that no warship ever employed.
Different from Hecate. Ship’s bridge—no doubt about that—but not Hecate’s. Not the same.
He pushed away from the doorway, grabbed the sim pod’s hatch and pulled it closed. Slid between the tightly packed stations, squeezing through the gap between Artillery and Engineering to get at the Pilot’s seat.
Plunked down and buckled the harness, pressure suit adjusting as the straps slid into place. Long time since he’d worn such a thing. No need for a pressure suit on a warship where the movements were slower, the stressors shared out across the ship’s larger mass. Forgot how damned uncomfortable the things were, binding everywhere, squeezing at sensitive bits. Materials were better these days—some kind of high-tech, carbon-latex, spun metal weave—but they pinched and flattened just like the old ones, pressing at somewhat…intimate places.
He wriggled in his seat, trying to get more comfortable. Tugged at the pressure suit’s seams digging painfully into his flesh.
Sikuuku snickered behind him, obviously enjoying the show. “Something wrong, Captain? Got ants in your pants or somethin’?”
“Damn thing’s givin’ me a wedgie.” Henricksen grabbed the crotch of the pressure suit and yanked hard, giving his nether regions some well-needed relief.
“That’s it, Captain. Show that suit who’s boss.”
“Quiet, you.” Henricksen twisted, thumping a fist against the outside of Sikuuku’s pod. Faced around and surveyed the Pilot’s station, studying the set-up of the sim.
Twin panels in front of him with access to all the ship’s systems. Shouldn’t need it—that’s what the other crew was for—but a pilot survived on a constant flow of information. And in space, just about everything could and did go wrong.
Single control stick he gripped with both hands—wide and flat with curving handles he wrapped his fingers round. Display in front of him where the front windows should be, simulated stars showing while the system waited for the program to start.
Henricksen stared at them a moment, knowing they were fake, comforted by their presence just the same.
Loved the stars. Born to them. Lived the bulk of his life among them. Couldn’t imagine being stuck on a station or some dirt ball planet. Spending the last of his days standing still. Looking upward and outward, wishing he was out there again.
A hand landed on Henricksen’s shoulder, startling him out of his reverie. “You do remember how to start this pig, don’t you?” Sikuuku kept his voice light and teasing, but the worry was back, running just beneath.
“Yes, mother.” Henricksen shrugged the gunner’s hand from his shoulder, flicked at switches, activating his station.
Checked and rechecked the harness to make sure all the straps were nice and tight—last thing he needed was to be thrown out of the Pilot’s seat mid-simulation.
Rusty was one thing, careless was just embarrassing.
Silence all around him as Henricksen settled in. Bridge crew watching and waiting—dark shapes in black-on-black uniforms, glossed helmets like obsidian hiding their faces, obscuring their heads.
Nervous crew—he sensed that about them. Felt the tension crackling in the air. Honestly couldn’t blame them since he’d been there himself, once upon a time. Ten years he’d been commander in charge of his own ship—long enough to become comfortable with the responsibility, not so long that he’d forgotten the feeling that came with being a junior officer confined in close quarters with a superior. And a new one at that.
They’d get over it soon enough, though. Once the newness worse off. And if they didn’t, he’d swap them out. Shuffle them over to another crew with one of the other pilots.
Nervousness had its benefits—kept the crew sharp and watchful, mindful of their responsibilities—but unconstrained anxiety led to mistakes. Couldn’t afford that with a new chassis. Especially one designed for stealth missions.
Henricksen leaned to one side, flicking more switches, running through the entire pre-flight check while Sikuuku tested out the Artillery pod behind him, Navigation and Engineering came to life. Paused, considering, as a prompt appeared asking if he wanted to run the AI.
Sim allowed for it—fake AI, like everything in here—but Henricksen opted against it. Toggled the default setting off. A prompt appeared immediately, asking him if he wanted to connect to one of the Raven AI—real ones this time, snuggled inside those stealth ship bodies in the hangars—presenting a list of ship’s registries to choose from.
Henricksen hesitated, considering, knowing some of the other crews went that route. Not a bad idea, actually—gave them a chance to interact with that mindset, figure out just what kind of AI they were dealing with—but right now…not what he wanted. Hard enough adjusting to a new AI after Hecate. Didn’t want to waste time interacting with an AI that wasn’t even real, wasn’t quite ready to start over with a mindset he didn’t know. Besides, AI tended to be chatterbugs, and overly helpful. Stepped on toes and generally got in the way. Rather learn the RV-N’s quirks without it. Mess things up on his own rather than with some AI’s help.
He banished the prompt, opting for full manual as he settled into his seat, giving h
is harness a last good yank. “Scan.”
“Go,” Abboud answered, helmeted head turning, one side bathed in the light of Scan’s multi-colored panel, the other reflecting the bridge pod’s blood-red glow.
“Artillery.”
“Go,” Sikuuku called, adjusted his targeting visor, linking it to the RV-N’s main gun.
“Engineering.”
“Go.” Taggert touched at his panel, cycling the engines, bass thrum settling into a deep-throated roar.
Simulated sound to go with the simulated vibrations. Everything cutting edge, state of the art and very, very real.
“Glad to see they didn’t cut corners,” Henricksen murmured.
“Sir?” Taggert’s head pivoted, visored face staring in the semi-dark.
“Nothing, Taggert. Just talking to myself.” Henricksen touched at the panel in front of him, reviewing the mission plan for the simulation. A blessedly simple mission plan, as it turned out—in and out, snagging some data along the way.
Exactly what a rusty pilot needed for his first run. Luck of the draw the system spitting that one out, considering the simulations were created at random, and this mission just one of a million combinations available. Couldn’t help but wonder if the system was somehow looking out for him, though. Throwing him a bone so he wouldn’t make a complete fool of himself on this, his very first run with his new crew.
“Looks like we’re in luck, boys and girls.” Henricksen pushed the mission specs to the other stations. “Skulk run. Nice little op to cut our teeth on.
“Skulk run. Seriously?” Sikuuku sounded offended. But then, Taggert and Abboud didn’t seem all that enthused either.
Skulk run meant hours of sheer boredom, especially for a gunner. Ship came equipped with weapons in case something went wrong—something usually did, things hardly ever went to plan—but they were primarily meant for defense. Small caliber, mostly. Plasma cannons and rail guns, which were nothing to sneeze at—powerful enough if they found the right target, but not really meant for a head-to-head contest with a warship. Even the cobbled together, secondhand vessels the DSR used.
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