Hecate

by J. B. Rockwell

  Pusher technique, what she’d executed. Designed to save fuel. Practical maneuver, considering the pushers lived and died by the bottom line, but risky as all get-out. Especially if you didn’t quite know what you were doing.

  Mess up your timing, and you’d slam the ship head-on into a rock. Get it wrong, and it’d cost you a whole lot more than you bargained for. Take your ship and your life.

  “Last I checked, Academy didn’t teach their pilots techniques like that.” Henricksen stopped at the pressure door and entered his credentials, waiting for Adaeze’s answer.

  “No,” she admitted. “It doesn’t.” Adaeze folded her arms, head tilting. “Which makes me wonder how you know about it, Captain.”

  “Pusher,” he told her, pointing a thumb at his chest. “You?”

  “Merchant transport.” Adaeze lifted her chin, flashing a proud smile. “Fifth generation star hauler.”

  Henricksen grunted, surprised. Impressed all over again. “Fifth generation. Lot of investment.”

  “A bit,” she nodded.

  “So, why’d you leave?”

  Adaeze barked a laugh and grabbed the door, pulling it open. Stepped through and held it as Henricksen followed after. “Four sisters. All of them older. All of them working that ship.”

  “Ouch.” Henricksen winced in commiseration.

  “Tell me about it.” Adaeze rolled her eyes, throwing a look over her shoulder as Sikuuku and Janssen stepped through, letting the pressure door clang closed. “Drea was eldest, which meant she’d be captain once Momma stood down. The others…” She shrugged, eyes flicking to Henricksen walking beside her. “Well, when you’re fifth in line, you can’t expect to get any of the cherry assignments. Momma said something about putting me in charge of the cargo hold so I skipped out.” Adaeze smiled widely. “Applied to the Academy on Greshalon. Got out as soon as I could.”

  “Bet that didn’t make Momma none too happy.”

  Adaeze laughed again—a good, rich sound. “No. It most certainly didn’t.”

  “This. All this.” Henricksen waved at the hallways around them, the pressure door behind, the hangar deck on the other side. “Fleet’s not forever. Ever think about going back?”

  Adaeze stopped dead, smile slipping, looking back at Janssen again. “Nothing to go back to.”

  “I’m sure Momma wasn’t that mad.”

  “Not Momma.”

  Adaeze looked at him and Henricksen’s heart sank. “Shit. What happened?”

  “DSR.” Adaeze kept staring—eye to eye, not wavering one bit. “Ship was on a run to Androneer. DSR…” A flicker of something and she ducked her head, toe digging at the decking. “Wasn’t much left by the time the DSR were done.”

  Shit.

  Henricksen sighed, hand lifting, rubbing at his face. There’d been something in her record, but he hadn’t remembered. Not until now. “I’m sorry, Adaeze. I didn’t—”

  “Don’t be,” she told him, raising a hand. “Past is past. Nothing to be—”

  “Sir!” The doors to the mess hall banged open, light and noise spilling into the corridor along with a frantically waving Fisker.

  Terrible timing, that ensign. Probably the worst moment he could have interrupted.

  “What is it, Fisker?” Henricksen growled.

  “There’s a fight.” Fisker flinched as the sharp sound of shattering glass washed over him. “Hurry, sir!”

  “Aw, hell.” Henricksen sprinted down the hallway with Adaeze running as this side.

  Sikuuku lumbered after them—moving surprisingly quickly for someone so burly, completely outpacing long-legged Janssen with his graceful, loping strides. The four of them burst through the door in a tight knot, sweeping Fisker along with them. Swarmed into a room turned to bedlam—tables knocked over, plates and glassware lying shattered on the decking, civvies fleeing in a hurry, bumping into Henricksen and the others in their rush to get out.

  Military clustered at the mess hall’s edges, watching the conflagration from a safe distance, looking slightly put out. And at the center of it all, two uniforms, grappling amidst the devastation. Baldini was one of them—no mistaking that bald-headed sparkplug of a pilot—and the other one of Shaw’s bunch. A hulking lump of flesh named Bent, or Brent, or something equally short and descriptive. The two men latched on to one another, throwing punches as they tumbled about the room. Petros following them like some kind of referee, shouting encouragement to egg Baldini on.

  “You two.” Henricksen flicked his fingers at Sikuuku and Janssen, waving them to one side. “Take Shaw’s man. Adaeze and I will handle Baldini.”

  They split as they left the doorway—Janssen and Sikuuku moving left as ordered, converging on one combatant while Henricksen and Adaeze went after the other.

  Always dicey, coming in on an active fight. Sikuuku grabbed Shaw’s man by one arm and pulled him around, nearly getting socked in the face for his trouble. Luckily, Bent—Henricksen was pretty sure it was Bent—pulled his punch at the last moment, realizing who’d grabbed him, and lowered his fist to his side. Baldini, though…pilot was far gone. Swinging blindly, too pissed off to even recognize faces anymore. Henricksen ducked, shoving at the pilot, grunted when a blow landed on his shoulder, another on his chest. Finally managed to get a good grip on Baldini and started to pull him away, while those ham-sized fists kept swinging away.

  One caught his ear, sparking a flash of pain, raising a ringing that reverberated around his head. Henricksen ducked the next punch, narrowly avoiding another blow. Saw Baldini’s other fist come around and yelled a warning, but he was already too late.

  The pilot’s fist caught Adaeze squarely on the cheek, spinning her around, sending her stumbling away.

  “Shut it down! Shut it down!” Henricksen shoved at Baldini, leaning hard against him as he spat curses and threw punches, doing his best to hold the struggling pilot back. “Adaeze!” He turned his head, trying to find her, risking a blow himself to make sure she was alright. “You okay?”

  “Son of a bitch.” Adaeze winced, hand pressed to her cheek. Rounded on Baldini with her eyes flashing with anger.

  Two quick steps brought her right in front of him, perilously close to those windmilling fists of ham. It also brought Baldini close to her, but in his blind rage, he never realized the danger. Never even noticed her arm cocking backward. Not until Adaeze’s fist mashed into his face.

  “Guh!” Baldini stumbled a step, blood dribbling from his lips. Snarled and reached for her only to freeze up in horror when he finally saw her—really saw her and realized just who had hit him. Actually backed up a step when he spied the black and blue mouse rising on Adaeze’s cheek. “Shit,” he breathed, shoulders slumping, fists dropping to his sides.

  “What the fuck, Baldini?” Knocked the fight right out of Baldini, that one punch, but from the look of fury on her face, Adaeze was just getting started. “What is your major malfunction, you jackass, crack-whacker?”

  “I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

  “The hell!” Adaeze lunged at him, fingers curled, ready to latch onto Baldini’s neck and strangle the shit out of him.

  Henricksen stepped between them with his arms spread wide, struggling to hold the two of them back. “Little help?” he called.

  Chairs scraped across the floor, uniforms converging, hands grabbing at the two combatants to pull them apart.

  “I didn’t—I wasn’t—” Baldini shook his head, eyes wide as dinner plates. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t give a fuck what you meant.” Adaeze lunged again and came up against a wall of uniforms. Feinted left and dodged right, thinking to get around them and take Baldini from the side. Stood on her tiptoes when that didn’t work and yelled over their heads, spitting curses like a sailor. “You punched me in the fucking face, you fucking gorilla!”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Baldini insisted, pointing accusingly at Shaw’s man. “He’s the jackass—”

  “Shut it, Baldini!” Henricksen
snapped. “You too, Adaeze. We got enough anger in this room right now, the last thing I need is the two of you getting into a dust-up as well.”

  Adaeze stiffened, thunderclouds gathering on her face. She spat on the floor and whirled around, stalked across the room and barged her way through the mess hall doors.

  “Fisker.” Henricksen waved the ensign over. “Fix her a plate. Bring it to her room.”

  “But that’s—that’s not—”

  “I know it’s against regs. Just do it,” Henricksen ordered.

  “Aye, sir.” Fisker skittered across the room, gathering up food from the chow line before following Adaeze out the door.

  “Right.” Henricksen turned around, staring the two combatants down. “Now I’m gonna ask this once, and I want a straight answer: what the hell is this all about?”

  Brand—that was Shaw’s man, Henricksen could read the nametag now—and Baldini both started pointing fingers, shouting angrily at each other as they traded accusations.

  “Alright, alright, alright! Shut it!” Henricksen glared them into silence. “Shaw!” he called, looking to her usual place in the corner. “What are these two idiots so worked up about?”

  “Sims. Weebles there,” Shaw winked at Baldini, puckered up her lips when he bristled and blew him a kiss, “seems to think Brand’s been shirking his duties. Falling behind on patching the sim software or some such.”

  “Sims?” Henricksen folded his arms, staring at Baldini. “That’s what this about?”

  “Goddamn things keep repeating,” Baldini grumbled, glaring at Brand on the opposite side of the room. “I told that monkey wagon the software’s shit—”

  “You shut that down right now,” Sikuuku thundered, but Baldini kept right on going.

  “I don’t know why we’re still in the damn sims anyway. We’ve got the real thing—”

  “Shut. It. Down,” Sikuuku snarled, getting right in Baldini’s face.

  Baldini started to raise a fist, realized that was a huge mistake and settled for glowering instead, squinching up his face to make sure everyone knew he was unhappy.

  “This repeating thing.” Henricksen waited until Baldini looked at him. “Explain.”

  “Algorithms.” Baldini flicked his fingers. “Supposed to drive randomized scenarios, but the stupid things keep repeating. Spitting out that one section over and over again.”

  Henricksen went cold all over. He’d noticed, hadn’t he? Noticed it more and more in just the last week. “The asteroid field,” he said numbly and saw Baldini grimace, nod his bald head.

  Remembered Taggert remarking on that same fact when he first got here and wished now that he’d paid more attention.

  “Random my ass,” Baldini muttered.

  “He spoke to you about this?” Henricksen flicked his eyes back to Shaw.

  “He did. And I had Brand take a look at it. Twice,” Shaw said, showing him two fingers.

  “And?”

  “Everything patched and perfect. If there’s a flaw in the software, it’s the engineers’ fault, not my guys. They build the shit, we just install it.”

  Henricksen chewed his lip, thinking. “I’ll talk to Kinsey about it.”

  Shaw dipped her head, raised her beer in thanks.

  “You two.” Henricksen pivoted, looking from Baldini to Brand. “Stay away from each other. Don’t have to like each other, but the last thing I need is fist fights in the mess hall after eight bloody hours in the sims.” He turned his head, looking from one face to the other. “You two apes think you can manage that, or do I need to assign a chaperone to make sure you behave?”

  Brand flushed and dropped his eyes, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. Baldini stiffened, eyes blazing. Spun on his heel and stalked into the rec room, presumably to murder pool balls for an hour or two before curfew.

  “Want me to go talk to him?” Sikuuku curled a hand into a fist, smacked it against his open palm.

  “No. Don’t get me wrong—boy could severely use an ass whoopin’ to drive that shit-stick attitude out of him—but there’s been enough punches thrown tonight. Let him take out his frustrations on those pool balls. We’ll work on the rest another time.”

  Sikuuku shrugged, clearly disappointed. “If you say so.”

  “I do,” Henricksen nodded, eyes flicking to Baldini as the pool balls in the next room cracked. “How about that drink?” he suggested, nodding to the bar across the room. “Round for the crew, while you’re at it.”

  Hadn’t done that since they first arrived. Couldn’t buy drinks too often or they’d grow to expect it, but gestures were important. A good way to settle nerves jangled by Baldini’s fist fight.

  “Done and done.” Sikuuku started to smile, stiffened and turned as the mess hall doors opened and a very starched, very stiff and uncomfortable looking petty officer stepped inside. “Company,” he said, nodding to their visitor by the door.

  “Hollings.” Henricksen nodded to Fisker’s replacement—Kinsey’s new aide-de-camp. “Is it Friday already?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Hollings shrugged apologetically. “Mr. Kinsey sent me in case you forgot.”

  Had, actually, though Henricksen wouldn’t admit it. Kinsey invited him to dinner every Friday evening—a social visit cum business meeting in which the administrator peppered Henricksen with questions, grilling him over an opulent dinner in his quarters.

  Meant to impress him, those meetings, but mostly they just pissed Henricksen off. Not fair, mixing soft surroundings with hard questions. Inviting someone to dinner only to give them the fifth degree.

  “If you’ll come with me?” Hollings held the door open, nodded the hallway on the other side.

  “Rain check,” Henricksen said, glancing at Sikuuku beside him. “Looks like you’ll have to have that drink on your own.”

  “But—but the assignments!” Sikuuku fished a reader from his pocket. “You can’t keep avoiding this,” he said, holding it up.

  “Not avoiding it,” Henricksen assured him. He waved at stiff-shirted Hollings, shrugging helplessly as he joined him by the mess hall doors. “Duty calls, Sikuuku. I’ll be back later.”

  “Where are you going?” Sikuuku demanded.

  Henricksen flashed a smile, glancing back over his shoulder. “To meet with Kinsey. I’ve got a scintillating evening of rubber chicken and boring conversation ahead of me and I don’t want to miss a minute.”

  Truthfully he wanted to miss all of it, but the Friday evening meetings were Kinsey’s one requirement. The only demand he’d place on Henricksen outside of that four-week timetable.

  A timetable now three weeks gone.

  Henricksen grimaced, eying the crew scattered across the mess hall, wishing he had just a few more weeks. “I’ll be back late,” he said, nodding to Sikuuku as he faced around. “Don’t wait up.”

  “And the beer?” Sikuuku called after him.

  “Put it on my tab.” Henricksen waved without looking, following Hollings out the door.

  Thirteen

  Long, winding path from the RV-N project’s section of the station to the berthings for the station’s senior staff and high ranking administrators. One musty, grey corridor giving way to another, until Hollings buzzed them through a security door, leading Henricksen into a section of the station that was obviously, entirely different.

  The smell of the place was the first clue—no mildew odor in the air, not anywhere in this section—and the look of it, the feel of it…

  Different. All so very different.

  Corridors widened, swapping the gathering thunderheads of blank, grey walls for a soft white of puffy clouds. The buzzing electric lights, which swarmed like angry bees across the rest of the station, quieted here. Became moths gathered around candle flames. Butterflies fluttering in the early morning sun. More than that, more than anything, it was quiet here. Not silent—no station ever was—but as close to noiseless as an active station ever got.

  Buffers in the walls,
he supposed, muting the constant hum of machinery to a whispering, soothing purr. Environmentals chuffing discretely, breathing pine-scented air through the compartments and corridors while simulated sunshine filtered from above.

  Soothing, so very soothing, this section of the station. These opulent, well-appointed spaces where the Fleet Brass and senior civilian administrators all lived. And oh how Henricksen hated it. The forced mingling and polite smiles, the endless rounds of saluting as he walked the softly carpeted halls. Environmentals might cover the mildew stench pervading the rest of the station, but this section stank just the same. Reeked of wealth and privilege, leaving a pusher kid turned starship captain like Henricksen feeling decidedly shabby in comparison. A ragged scarecrow in his uniform of black on black.

  Hollings stopped in front of a brass and steel door, wood trim banding the edges, and pressed a finger to an old fashioned doorbell set in the wall. Clasped his hands behind him and waited, nodding politely to Henricksen until the intercom buzzed and Kinsey’s voice came through.

  “Yes?”

  Bored tone. Entirely unfriendly.

  Hollings smiled and nodded, eye flicking to a spot just above the door where a discretely hidden camera lurked. “Evening, sir. Captain Henricksen’s arrived.”

  A pause—nearly five seconds—before Kinsey answered. “Send him in.”

  The intercom clicked, abruptly cutting off. A soft whir and a light appeared—red and glowing—just beside the door. Hollings waited, rocking heel to toe, heel to toe, until the red light turned green, door lock chiming politely as it clicked over and invited them in.

  “There you are, sir.” Hollings grabbed the latch and pushed the door open—held it open, standing just to one side.

  Henricksen looked at him, and at the open doorway, wanting nothing more than to turn around and head back. “Don’t suppose I could get you to join us?”

  “Sorry, sir. Afraid it’s just you, sir. Mr. Kinsey’s orders.” Hollings shrugged apologetically, nodded to Kinsey’s rooms inside.

  A last glance down the corridor, staring longingly at the security door that brought them here, and Henricksen stepped inside, letting Hollings pull the door to, lock clicking as it closed.