Serengati 2: Dark And Stars

by J. B. Rockwell

  “My crew?” Henricksen asked, balking, refusing to move from that spot.

  “Already at the airlock. My troopers are escorting them back to their ship a few at a time.”

  “Why?” Henricksen frowned. “Why not send them all together?”

  “Time’s change, Henricksen.” Qaisrani smiled ruefully, eyes flicking across his very black, very military and utilitarian uniform. “You and your crew tend to stand out in a crowd. Lucky for you, those god-awful, outdated uniforms make you look exactly like the down-and-out freighter gang everyone expects to be brought in to crew the refitted ship sitting in Serengeti’s berthing.” A shrug of her shoulders, Qaisrani cupping her empty glass, twirling it between her palms. “Never hurts to be careful, though. We broke your crew up so they’d blend in better on the docks.”

  “And the troopers with them?”

  Another shrug. “Safety measure. In case anyone tries to get handsy.” She flicked her eyes to Serengeti, back to Henricksen’s face. “Your crew will be waiting for you when you return to your ship. I promise you that, Captain.”

  Henricksen considered a moment, nodded stiffly, offering a gruff and not-exactly-heartfelt ‘thank you’ as he headed for the door.

  “Good luck, Captain,” Qaisrani called after him.

  Henricksen stopped dead, looking back over his shoulder. “Luck. Right,” he grunted, eyes drifting to Serengeti. “We haven’t exactly had a lot of that recently.” A nod to Serengeti and he palmed the door open, stepping out into the hall.

  Serengeti started after him, and then stopped Tig halfway across the room. Stood there, considering—Tig’s front legs lifting, rubbing together as she unconsciously adopted that nervous, cricketing gesture of his. “The Dreadnought,” she said, turning Tig around, staring across the room at Sechura’s camera. “Who—Did you—Was he—?”

  “No, Sister,” Sechura said gently. “He was wrecked when we came upon him. Broken. Dying.”

  “Dying. But not dead.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “We salvaged what we could, but his AI was heavily damaged. There’s not much of him left.”

  “So where is he?”

  “With me.” A touch and Sechura initiated a data transfer, sending an unusually large data package directly to Serengeti. “I’ve been his keeper for quite some time now. I think it’s time I passed that duty on to you, Sister.”

  Serengeti stared at the waiting data package, tempted to refuse it. Wanting nothing to do with it. Or him.

  Can’t, she realized. No matter how much I want to, I can’t refuse this.

  “Who is it?” she asked, voice hushed, respectful.

  “Homunculus.”

  Serengeti laughed bitterly. “Of course. Who else would it be?”

  She turned around and rolled off the bridge with that data package still unopened, following Henricksen to the elevator, riding down with him to the airlock.

  Eight

  Houseman and Beaulieu met them at the airlock—the same two troopers that brought Serengeti here waiting to take her and her captain back to their ship. A nod to Henricksen followed by a hasty salute when the trooper spotted his captain’s stars, and Houseman dug two of those tiny ear canal communicators out of his pocket, synching them to his before handing them over.

  Henricksen palmed them both, eyebrow lifting in question. “Two?”

  Houseman pointed with his chin at the airlock door. “Your crewman’s waiting outside. Tried to send her with the others, but she insisted on waiting. Something about having to escort her captain back to the ship.”

  “Escort. Right,” Henricksen snorted, giving Houseman a meaningful look. “Can’t seem to go anywhere without a damn chaperone these days.”

  Houseman shrugged, oblivious. Punched his security code into the airlock and waved Henricksen and Serengeti inside, cramming himself in after them, Beaulieu after him, and letting it seal up.

  Buzzed through the external door once the airlock was done with its whole pressure-air mixture thing and herded his charges through to the other side.

  A single, dark-uniformed crewman waited there—back to the airlock, Serengeti’s dark and stars patch showing on the shoulder of a jet-black uniform jacket. She turned as the airlock sighed open, shy smile playing about her lips.

  Serengeti ground Tig to a halt, staring at that smile. At pale skin and bright red hair, a spray of freckles scattered beneath laughing green eyes. “Finlay,” she whispered, voice the barest breath.

  You’re dead, Finlay. You’re supposed to be dead.

  “Hiya, Serengeti.” Finlay straightened up, smile widening. Knocked her heels together as she snapped off a smart salute.

  Serengeti kept staring, thinking her a ghost. Wondering if she’d finally lost it and was starting to see dead people now.

  Diagnostics said otherwise—she ran a full round of checks on her systems and Tig’s, and everything came back green. No faults anywhere. No errors or glitches. As far as the diagnostics were concerned, everything was in perfect working order.

  “Something wrong?” Henricksen bent down, hands on his knees, peering into Tig’s chromed face. “Whatcha starin’ at?”

  Serengeti hesitated, glancing at Houseman and Beaulieu behind her. “Do you—?” she dropped her voice, sneaking another look at the two silver-suited troopers. “Do you—Is that—Is there…?” She trailed off, front legs rubbing together. “Do you see someone?” Serengeti whispered. “Over there?” She pointed at Finlay, holding her breath.

  Henricksen turned and looked. “Nope.”

  Serengeti sagged. “No one? You’re sure?”

  Henricksen looked at her, and at the hallway, shaking his head. “Nope.” His lips twitched, trembling at the corners. “’Cept Finlay, of course.”

  “Jerk.” Serengeti punched him hard, hitting him right on that recently broken arm. Regretted it instantly when Henricksen gasped and winced. “Sorry.”

  “Yeah. I can tell.” He rubbed at his elbow, giving her a look.

  “You could’ve warned me,” she scolded. “I thought Finlay was dead!”

  “Me too.” Henricksen straightened, grimacing, cradling his sore arm. “Scared the bejesus outta me when we cracked open her cryo pod. Thought I was retrieving her corpse, but I touched her and she starts blinkin’ at me, of all things.”

  Finlay flushed, cheeks dimpling as Serengeti walked Tig over, touching at her hand.

  Flesh and blood. No doubt about it. Real, not a ghost.

  “Pod looked dead to me,” Henricksen said behind her. “Guess the guts were still workin,’ though. Just the indicator panel that failed.”

  Finlay looked down, lips twisting in a bemused smile as Serengeti touched at her arm, reached for her face.

  “Ahem.” Houseman cleared his throat loudly, nodded to the length of corridor stretching away to their left. “This way. If you’re ready,” he added—a rather half-hearted attempt at civility.

  “By all means,” Henricksen said, waving grandly. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  Houseman blinked, frowning in confusion as he looked down at his chest. “It’s Houseman, sir. Not Macduff.” He tapped his nametag to prove it. “Now if you’ll follow me, sir.” He crooked a finger and turned away, moving off without another word.

  “Regular brain trust, that one.” A wave to Finlay and Henricksen set off after the trooper, glanced around as Serengeti settled in behind them with Beaulieu—silent and stony-faced as ever—bringing up the rear.

  Not much personality to these troopers. Like walking around with a couple of cheese sandwiches dressed up in shiny coveralls.

  “Here.” Henricksen nudged Finlay’s arm, dropped one of Houseman’s micro-communicators into her hand.

  Finlay frowned, staring at it like she’d never seen such a thing before. “What’s this for?”

  “Listening, Finlay.” Henricksen tapped a finger to his ear. “Talking, too, if you’re so inclined.” He cupped her hand, pressing it and the device to Finlay’s ear. “See?�
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  Finlay rolled her eyes. “I know that. Sir,” she added quickly, cheeks flushing bright red. “It’s just…well, you’re right there,” a wave at Henricksen beside her, “and Serengeti’s over there.” Finlay hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Why do we have to use these when we can just talk to each other like normal people?”

  “Look around, Finlay.” Henricksen nodded at the stretch of corridor ahead of them. The potted plastic plants and miscellany of people moving about. Staring openly, warily at Henricksen and his entourage. “Lot of eyes on us. Nobody watching the robot.” He spared a look for Tig behind him, Serengeti travelling inside.

  “So?” Finlay frowned, looking around, staring down a group of brightly colored merchanter types passing by. “What’s—?”

  “Don’t stare,” Henricksen warned, nudging her in the ribs. “Or point,” he added, grabbing Finlay’s hand, pulling it down to her side. “Pointing attracts attention.” He nodded to a cluster of freighter crew watching them from a nearby airlock, squeezed her hand, and let it go. “Keep walking. Act casual.”

  Finlay nodded and lengthened her stride, taking two steps for Henricksen’s one.

  “That’s better. Plenty of robots running around this station, Finlay, but what you don’t see is anyone talking to them. That’s why we’ve got these.” Henricksen tapped a finger to the comms unit in his ear. “So we don’t look like crazy people shootin’ the shit with our robot pal. Ain’t that right, Serengeti?”

  “Beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Yes, Master,” she answered in an exaggerated, mechanical voice.

  “Master,” Henricksen grunted. “You’re gonna regret callin’ me that.”

  “Beep-beep. Beep-beep-borp.”

  “Stop it,” Henricksen laughed. “You’re killin’ me.”

  Serengeti smiled to herself, quieting. Scuttled along inside Tig’s body, double-timing it to keep up.

  Finlay was quiet too, head swiveling, drinking in everything around her as they moved from one section of hallway to another. “Why’s everyone staring at us?” she whispered, cupping a hand to her ear.

  “You don’t need to do that.” Henricksen nodded to the hand plastered to the side of Finlay’s head. “It’s an open circuit, Finlay. I can hear you just fine.”

  “Oh.” Finlay blushed and dropped her hand, glancing guiltily around. “Can—Can anyone else hear us?”

  “No, Finlay,” Henricksen said patiently. “It’s just you, me, and Serengeti on this line. And our stony-faced trooper friends, of course.” He smiled, offering a cheerful wave to their silver-suited escorts, glanced down at Finlay beside him, lips twisting on one side. “All that time arguing with Kusikov. You never did learn anything about comms, did you?”

  Finlay flinched and pulled away, pale face turning ashen beneath the freckles.

  “Dammit.” Henricksen sighed heavily, touching at her shoulder. “Joke, Finlay. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Finlay said faintly.

  They’d lost Kusikov with the rest of the bridge crew. Tsu and Evans, Sikuuku who’d come to Serengeti with Henricksen—package deal, no negotiating—and served with him on two other ships before her. Despite all their sparring, Finlay had been fond of Kusikov. In an odd, complicated, big sister-little brother sort of way.

  She turned away, pretending to study a vid screen bolted to the wall as she surreptitiously wiped at her eyes. “Comms are boring.” She covered another swipe at her face with a flip of her hand. “Rather have Scan. Or Artillery.” A deep breath and she looked up at Henricksen, tremulous smile dimpling her cheeks.

  “Artillery,” Henricksen grunted, glancing down at her as they walked along. “Artillery takes training.”

  “I’ve had all the basic munitions courses. Sikuuku…” Finlay trailed off, smile wilting as Henricksen stiffened and looked away. “Sorry, sir,” she mumbled, dropping her eyes.

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me too.”

  They both quieted after that. Just walked along—side-by-side in their uniforms of silver and black, oblivious to the passing traffic. The strange looks turned their way.

  “We’ll see,” Henricksen murmured some time later.

  Finlay brightened instantly. “You mean it?”

  “Gotta make sure Serengeti’s space-worthy first.” He glanced over his shoulder, nodding to Serengeti riding inside Tig. “We’ll see about bridge assignments after that.”

  Finlay beamed happily, bouncing down the corridor with a spring in her step.

  They ran into a group of Sechura’s troopers at the next airlock. Two junior officers and a couple of seniors enlisted—all of them bold as brass in their shiny silver outfits and only belatedly noticing the stars on Henricksen’s collar. Offering clipped salutes.

  Henricksen stared them down, eyes cold and flinty. Scowled when the troopers winced, eyes drifting to the scars on his face.

  The old one he’d brought with him when he took over Serengeti’s Captain’s Chair. The new he’d picked up when she tumbled broken out of hyperspace, and everything went wrong.

  Not many scars in evidence around here. Not on these smooth-faced troopers in their shiny silver uniforms. The dock monkeys and freighter crews moving about the corridor.

  This is what it looks like it, Serengeti thought, scanning the passing traffic. These are the faces of a generation grown up on the downside of war.

  No wonder they stared at Henricksen so strangely. How could they ever understand a man with such a cold, hard stare? Who chose to keep the scars any cut-rate surgeon could erase with just a few minutes of effort. And Finlay… Finlay with her haunted eyes and wary glances. Who’d seen more death in her time than any of these shiny-suited troopers could ever imagine.

  Sechura’s troopers hurried by, heading back to their ship. Finlay stared after them, face yearning, feeling the gulf of years between those troopers and herself. Frowned and face around, swatting a potted plant as she passed by. “Not polite to stare,” she muttered.

  Henricksen smiled, nodding to Houseman ahead of them. “From what I saw on Sechura’s ship, polite ain’t exactly a priority these days.”

  “Still don’t know why they do that.” Finlay threw a look over her shoulder. “Stare at us like that.”

  “We’re ghosts, Finlay. Relics.” He shrugged, looking down at her. “Old soldiers lived too long.”

  “And me?” Serengeti asked, using the comms unit to speak directly into Henricksen’s ear. “If you two are relics, what does that make me?”

  He was her fifth captain, her service to the Fleet stretching decades before those fifty-three years lost to the dark.

  “Not a relic, that’s for sure.” Henricksen snuck a look over his shoulder, favoring her with a smile. “You ask me, you’re a badass warship, Serengeti. One that refused to lay down and die.”

  “Flatterer,” Serengeti snorted.

  Henricksen barked a laugh, facing back around. “We’re all of us out of time here, Finlay. Born on the wrong side of this war.”

  Finlay looked at him, and at two young officers passing by. Lieutenants, from their collar devices. Young and female, like Finlay herself.

  Fifty plus years her junior thanks to that long sleep in the dark, leaving them nothing at all in common. Finlay sensed it—Serengeti could see it in her eyes—and from the way they dropped their eyes and detoured around Finlay and the others, those young lieutenants did too.

  “They’re afraid us,” Finlay murmured, staring after them. Her hand lifted, fingers picking at the sturdy, cotton canvas of her matte-black uniform, comparing it to the synth silver trash Sechura handed out to her troopers. “We don’t fit in anymore, do we, Captain?” She looked at him, nodding to Henricksen’s own dark uniform, shiny, silver Houseman walking ahead of them. “You suppose we should change, sir?”

  “Probably.” Henricksen shrugged, leaving it at that.

  Finlay chewed her lip, watching him. “You’re not going to though, are you, sir?”

  “Nope.�
� Henricksen never even looked at her. He just strode along, eyes focused on the corridor, parting the sea of traffic with his presence. “Serengeti’s my ship, Finlay, and this is her uniform.” He touched the patch on his shoulder—silver stars on a field of endless black. “They don’t like it, they can stick it.”

  More pithy words of wisdom from Henricksen. Serengeti almost laughed.

  Finlay nodded uncertainly, still chewing away at her lip. “Fuck ‘em,” she decided, straightening up, squaring her shoulders proudly. “It’s my uniform, too.”

  “Damn straight.” Henricksen bumped her with his hip, smiling when Finlay squawked. But a few steps on and he slowed, frowning. The sounds of a scuffle filling the corridor ahead. “Aw hell. What now?”

  Nine

  Serengeti crept forward, sneaking a look between Houseman’s legs. Four freighter types blocked the hallway—one red-faced and angry, glaring at Henricksen and Finlay, the two troopers escorting them, the others arguing with their irate crewmate. Doing their best to calm him down.

  “Lemme go, Nate!” Angry Guy yelled. He shoved at a long-limbed, stork-like crewman, twisted and lunged, escaping the others.

  “Give it up, Booker. Ain’t worth it!” Birdman Nate scrambled after him with his buddies in tow. “Booker! Booker, get back here!”

  Booker wasn’t hearing. Booker had his eyes locked on Houseman’s silver uniform, Sechura’s patch showing on his shoulder, and nothing else seemed to matter.

  Even his own skin.

  “You!” he shouted, marching across the decking. “Where were you?”

  Houseman backed up a step, reaching for the pistol strapped to his leg.

  “Take it easy.” Henricksen set a hand on Houseman’s shoulder, caught his eyes, shaking his head. Stepped around the trooper, putting himself between Houseman and the approaching crewman. “Easy,” he repeated, raising his hands, turning his palms toward Booker. “Just take it easy, buddy. Whatever this is, we can work it out.”

  “Fuck you,” Booker spat, shoving a passing merchant out of his way.