Serengati 2: Dark And Stars

by J. B. Rockwell

  The troopers braced up and saluted, relaxed when Serengeti acknowledged them, assuming parade rest. A touch at the tiny comms units hidden in their ear canals and a message appeared: secure channel, requesting to connect Serengeti’s comms to theirs.

  She paused, taking her time, making a great show of considering that request. “Don’t want to be seen talking to me in public, eh?”

  The troopers looked at each other, shrugged, and tapped at their comms units again.

  “Please,” TIG-996 whispered, front legs cricketing together, cobalt eyes flicking left and right. “Her rules, you understand?”

  Her. Sechura. Serengeti tilted Tig’s head, sensing yet more secrecy. “Why?”

  TIG-996 fidgeted, increasingly nervous. “Please,” he repeated, looking behind him at the two troopers.

  Not so stiff and proper now. Just a sad, harried little robot, sent here at his master’s bidding.

  “Fine,” Serengeti sighed, walling her comms system off. Blocking every other avenue onto her network while she was at it, leaving just a single channel open to Sechura’s troopers. “There. You happy?”

  TIG-996 burbled softly, body bobbing up and down.

  “Follow us,” the trooper on the left said.

  Nametag read Houseman. His partner’s Beaulieu.

  Houseman opened his mouth, then closed it, looking Serengeti up and down. “Act like a robot,” he told her, flicking his fingers as he turned away.

  “And if I don’t?” Serengeti snapped offended, bringing Houseman to a halt. “I’m a Valkyrie-class warship. Last thing I need is a couple of blockheaded troopers leading me about like a dog.”

  She turned right, moving away from the ship, consulting the map of the station she’d downloaded earlier to chart a course to Sechura’s berthing. Made it a few steps before TIG-996 caught up with her, grabbing at Tig’s leg, dragging him to a halt.

  “Please,” her whispered, face lights flashing in discomfited patterns, head pivoting this way and that. He eyed the foot traffic nervously, flinching away from the people passing by, making the rounds of the curved walkway circling around the station’s center.

  Dock workers mostly. Freighter crew sprinkled among them. Civilian station, which meant civilian traffic, Houseman and Beaulieu the only two military in sight.

  “They’re not trying to be rude.” A nod to Sechura’s troopers in their shiny silver uniforms. “They just don’t know any better.” 996 waved at Houseman, offering a sickly smile.

  The trooper stared stonily back, looking increasingly annoyed.

  “Not really much for conversation either,” 996 confided.

  “All the more reason to leave them here.” Serengeti shook the robot off. “I don’t need a chaperone. I can find the way on my own.”

  “Please.” TIG-996 scurried in front of Tig, blocking Serengeti’s way. “You’ll attract attention.” He trilled anxiously, throwing nervous glances at the human traffic around them. “You’re marked as ship’s crew,” he told her, touching the numbers and letters stenciled on Tig’s side. “Robot crew moving about the docks without human minders…” 996 shook his head sharply. “It just isn’t done. Not anymore.”

  “Why not?” Serengeti snapped. “What’s wrong with robot crew?”

  “N-Nothing,” he stammered. “It’s just—It’s just—Not here.” He dropped his voice, eyes flicking to the cameras watching them from above. Cameras that lined the entirety of the walkway, bearing silent witness to everything going on. “Just walk behind the troopers. Ignore them if you want. Pretend they’re some kind of—of honor guard or something. But please, please don’t attract attention.”

  Serengeti almost refused on principle, but it was a petty argument. Nothing really to be gained. Nothing but her own ego at stake. “Fine,” she said, waving Houseman and Beaulieu ahead of her. “Chop-chop. Let’s not keeping Sechura waiting.”

  Tig snickered softly.

  Houseman and Beaulieu looked at each other, shrugged, and turned around. Marched down the hallway like silver-plated wooden soldiers—side-by-side, blank-faced and silent. Ignoring Serengeti for the most part as she and Tig fell in behind.

  TIG-996 trailed after them, burbling softly as he scuttled along. Head twitching, eyes everywhere, shying away from anyone who came too close.

  Odd behavior. Not like a TIG at all. Serengeti kept an eye on him as they walked along. Used the other to check out the station, comparing the layout around her to the schematic she’d downloaded to storage.

  Familiar configuration, Blue Horizon following the ‘can-and-ring’ design common to most deep-space stations. A tube-shaped walkway circled around the station central with dozens of airlocks set on one side, blank walls and branching corridors leading away on the other.

  Branching corridors, set at even intervals—more walkways, leading to the massive, metal cylinder of the station proper, small cylinders bolted onto it, expanding the station over time. Airlocks at their ends, isolating the station from the walkway ringing round it. Protecting it from catastrophic depressurization. More airlocks along the walkway itself, isolating one segment from another for exactly the same reason.

  Accidents happened, after all, despite all their technology. Less often now than in the early years of deep space colonization, but they did happen.

  Space was merciless. Vacuum a stone-cold killer. An uncontrolled breach could destroy the whole walkway in an instant. Take the station with it.

  Serengeti followed behind the troopers, charting their progress toward Sechura. Six airlocks and a fair amount of walking later, the troopers finally halted, depositing Serengeti in front of berthing H-96.

  Sechura’s name showed above it, glowing in bright blue letters hovering just above the airlock door. Curious, Serengeti queried the station’s systems, and found her own airlock blank, nothing but the word ‘salvage’ showing above that door.

  “Salvage?” Tig sounded offended. “What do they mean, ‘salvage’?”

  “Better than wrecked Valkyrie,” Serengeti said dryly.

  Tig muttered unhappily, obviously not so sure. Wonked at Houseman when he gave him a look and finally shut it down.

  Houseman stared a moment longer, making sure he stayed quiet. Flicked his fingers at Beaulieu, glancing from his partner to Tig as she keyed her comms unit, speaking in low tones to someone inside the ship.

  A brief exchange of information and the lock popped open. Beaulieu moved aside as Houseman waved Tig and 996 in. Stepped in after—both trooper together, side-by-side like two shiny blocks of stone—and sealed the lock up, let the pressurization routine run.

  More silver uniforms waited on the opposite side of that airlock. More stony faces and matte-black pistols. Gaudy silver uniforms shimmering in the ship’s interior lighting.

  “Welcoming party,” Tig muttered, wisely keeping to internal comms. “Aren’t we lucky?”

  “Shush,” Serengeti warned as Sechura’s troopers surrounded them, herding them to the elevator, riding it up to Level 10.

  Marched Tig and Serengeti past the bridge to the captain’s quarters. Stopped there and waited while Houseman swapped a few words with someone over his earpiece. Nodded and buzzed Serengeti inside.

  “Good luck.” TIG-996 touched at Tig’s leg, shrugging apologetically.

  “Weirdo,” Tig muttered, as 996 scuttled away. “Think his programming’s gone wonky.”

  “Maybe,” Serengeti murmured, staring after him. Or maybe he knows something we don’t.

  996 ducked into a ladderway, disappearing from sight.

  Serengeti kept staring a moment, puzzling over the robot’s parting words. Stepped through the doorway when Houseman coughed politely. Heard it lock up behind her—Houseman and the other troopers remaining outside—as she nudged Tig forward, stepping from the entryway into the heart of Sechura’s captain’s quarters.

  Typical layout to that suite of rooms—the exact same set-up you’d find on any Valkyrie in the fleet. A tiny entryway led to a large
, central space—bar to the left, shelving on the right, the one filled with bottles and glasses, the other overflowing with trinkets and knick-knacks and other bric-a-brac. And across from the door, a wall of windows, triple-thick, reinforced, floor to ceiling panes of glass looking out on the stars.

  Serengeti paused there, staring at the moment. Drinking in the sight of those stars. Moved on, noting a door beside the bar—single bedroom behind it where the captain lay down to sleep at night. A desk sat just outside the entryway, ancient and oversized, surface cluttered with yet more baubles and shiny, useless things. Table and chairs further in, heavy and wooden, old as the desk nearby. Long lengths of silk pending from the ceiling, draped across the bookshelves, filling the space between. A leather couch—burgundy in color, brass rivets showing at the seams—set beneath the windows with two matching chairs—also leather, also burgundy, similarly riveted—parked across from it.

  A woman sat on that couch—brown skin, rounded features, jet-black hair pulled back in a tight bun. Silk uniform of maroon and gold hanging loose around a plump body. Stars on her collar—captain’s stars, and this her suite of rooms.

  Man sitting in the chair across from her. Dark hair buzzed short, shaved up the sides in classic military style. Crescent of pale skin peeking above the collar of a dark jacket. A hint of a black on black uniform wrapped around him, but not much else. Not with his back to the door.

  The woman looked up, frowning darkly as Tig entered. Stood, murmuring an apology to her companion, as she skirted around his chair, stalking across the room. “What are you doing here?” she demanded—cold, unfriendly, just this side of rude.

  Tig bristled, instantly offended, but a touch and he subsided. Kept his mouth shut while Serengeti did the talking.

  “I was invited,” she said, voice cold as hoarfrost. Hard as winter ice. “By your boss, as it happens. Surprised you didn’t know that,” she added, letting a hint of haughtiness come through.

  “How dare you,” the woman seethed, eyes flashing with anger.

  “Oh, she dares,” a voice said, laughter drifting from the speakers set in the ceiling. “She does dare, that’s for sure.” More laughter—Sechura’s mocking amused tones instantly recognizable—as a camera pivoted, turning toward the door. “You always did know how to make an entrance, Sister.”

  “Sister?” The woman blinked in confusion, looking from the robot in front of her to the camera watching from above. “Sister? This is Serengeti.”

  “Obviously not,” Sechura drawled. “But she’s in there. The wrapper’s just for show.”

  The woman blanched, eyes widening. “Apologies,” she whispered, pressing her hands together as she sketched a bow.

  Odd gesture, that. Prayer-like and ancient. Hadn’t seen that one for a while. Odder still to see it coming from someone in the military, Fleet being all about sirs and salutes and such. And that oh-so-elegant uniform—a sugary confection had no place in the military at all.

  Serengeti threw a sidelong look at the camera. Really, Sister. You couldn’t do better than this?

  Private communication, sent across the Valkyrie channel so only the two of them could hear.

  We can’t all have dashing captains like your Henricksen, Sechura told her.

  “Jabirah Qaisrani.” A touch of the woman’s hand to her chest as she straightened, head dipping, offering an apology to Serengeti and the camera watching them from above. “I think you already know my dinner guest.” Qaisrani turned, beckoning to the man sitting by the windows. Waved him over as he stood and turned, glass in hand.

  Steel grey eyes and sharply angled features. Scars showing whitely against a pale-skinned face.

  Of course she knew him. She’d know her captain anywhere.

  “Henricksen,” Serengeti whispered, hardly daring to believe it. Staring and staring for a very long time.

  Six

  “Long time, no see, Serengeti.” Henricksen smiled, lopsided grin twisting his face.

  He still wore his uniform—silver on black, snug pants and short-waisted jacket, both made of sturdy cotton canvas, not frou-frou silk or that silver synth crap the troopers wore.

  Pistol on his hip, captain’s stars flashing at his collar. Serengeti’s dark and stars patch showing on his shoulder, silver nametag pinned to his chest.

  And those scars on his face that most would’ve erased. Scars that made him look grim as death.

  She’d missed those scars dearly. That pale face with its crooked smile.

  Henricksen looked just as she remembered. Less bloody than when they parted and more tired—tired as hell, actually, and wincing when he moved—but she was damn glad to see him. Had dreamed of this day for decades now.

  “You’re looking well,” Serengeti said carefully. She caught Henricksen’s eyes, nodded meaningfully to the camera. Followed that look up with a slight shake of Tig’s head.

  Henricksen’s smile slipped, eyes sliding to the camera. Line creasing his brow as he nodded, acknowledging the warning. “Drink?” he asked, grabbing a bottle from the table.

  “No. I don’t think so.” Serengeti smiled.

  “Me either.” He tossed back his drink and slammed the glass down, depositing the bottle beside it. “That rotgut’ll kill ya.”

  “It’s not rotgut.” Qaisrani sniffed, obviously insulted. Looked downright apoplectic when Serengeti brushed past her, joining Henricksen at the windows. “It’s brandy, Captain. A very fine vintage, as it so happens, and quite expensive.”

  “Brandy, my ass,” Henricksen snorted. “Fancy bottle, I’ll give you that.” He nodded to the bottle in question, half-filled with some amber-colored liquid. “But I’ve drunk enough cut-rate liquor to know bathtub whiskey when I taste it.”

  Qaisrani scowled, face turning purple. She stalked back to the couch and sank down, scooping up a glass. Set it to her lips, sipping delicately, staring daggers at Henricksen all the while.

  “Peace, Qaisrani,” Sechura murmured from above.

  Qaisrani turned her head, considering the camera. Nodded and leaned back, propping herself up with the couch’s menagerie of overstuffed pillows.

  Languid repose. One arm draped across the back of the couch, the other holding the glass. Swirling the contents as it dangled from her fingers. And that silk uniform. The overstuffed couch overflowing with pillows. Knick-knacks crowding the shelves.

  Comfortable surroundings. Every last bit of it Qaisrani’s own choice. And herself reclining against those pillows—a soft woman grown accustomed to her comforts.

  Serengeti eyed her disapprovingly. Captains were seldom soft. The demands of command typically burned that right out of them. Curious, she queried Qaisrani’s record. Pretty standard stuff, for the most part. No special assignments, nothing all that outstanding. Just smart choices and following opportunities. A steady, deliberate path to command.

  Lay that beside Henricksen’s jacket and you found two captains who couldn’t have been more different. Henricksen’s advancement followed a string of combat vessels and deep space patrol ships. That stint with the Ravens before he came to the Valkyrie corps.

  Time promoted Qaisrani. Henricksen fought and bit and kicked his way to Serengeti’s chair. A hard path. One that scarred him physically. Turned him bitter and cynical. Argumentative at times.

  Not the captain for everyone, but given the choice, Serengeti would take Henricksen over Qaisrani every damn time.

  “I brought your robot back.” Serengeti tilted Tig’s head, looking up at Sechura’s camera.

  “Thank you.” Polite tones from Sechura—overly polite to Serengeti’s ears, just like Qaisrani’s greeting. Her fake smile and courtly manners. “Sorry you had to walk so far to come see me. Not our usual berthing,” she explained. “Mix-up at the stationmaster’s office. They parked some rust bucket freighter next to us just to make matters worse. Pre-AI,” she said, words tinged with distaste. “Amazing they still run those.”

  “Some people don’t have a choice,” Henricks
en told her, quiet voice cutting in. “Life’s tough on the fringes. Sometimes you have to take any ship you can get.”

  “Sounds like you’ve had some experience, Captain.” Smile in Sechura’s voice. A hint of interest and amusement. “Surprising, really. I’ve read your record and I don’t seem to remember—”

  “Enough chit-chat,” Serengeti interrupted, disliking where this conversation was going. Sick to death of all this playing at being polite and tip-toeing around. “I came here for Henricksen and some answers. Not a load of bullshit and false pleasantries.”

  Qaisrani choked on her drink—surprised, offended—but Sechura just laughed.

  “Blunt as always, Sister. I always liked that about you.” The camera twitched, pointing at Henricksen. “Your captain is there for the taking. Returned to you in better shape than I found him, I daresay.”

  Henricksen grimaced, touching at his arm.

  “As for the rest of it…” The camera twitched again, focusing on Tig. “The pleasantries are real, Sister. I have missed you these last fifty-odd years.”

  She sounded it—Serengeti detected genuine fondness in Sechura’s voice.

  “You have questions, and I have answers. So fire away, Serengeti. Ask me anything. There are no secrets here.”

  “Alright. Let’s start with an easy one.” Serengeti blanked one of Tig’s eyes, reversing the camera behind it, projecting that multi-angle, composite video she’d pieced together earlier onto the floor-to-ceiling windows of Qaisrani’s quarters. “Tell me, Sister,” Serengeti said softly. “Tell me about this.”

  She didn’t—not right away. Sechura’s camera just stared at that image in silence while Qaisrani squirmed and Henricksen moved closer, taking a good, long look.

  “Never seen this model before. Almost looks like a Dreadnought, but…” He trailed off, tracing the ship with his finger. “Lines aren’t quite right. What is this?” he asked, looking over at Serengeti. “What am I looking at?”