Serengati 2: Dark And Stars

by J. B. Rockwell

  “Get behind me, Captain,” Houseman warned.

  Henricksen twisted, shaking his head. “You don’t need that, Houseman. This guy’s not gonna—”

  “Captain!” Finlay shouted. “Look out!”

  Henricksen pivoted, grunting as Booker’s wrench clipped him on the side of the head. He dropped like a stone, landing hard on the decking but Booker didn’t even seem to notice. He just snarled and stepping right over Henricksen, slamming both hands into Houseman’s chest.

  “Where were you?” he demanded, spittle flying from his lips. Second hit, shoving Houseman backward. “Where were all you brave soldier boys when my brother’s ship went down? You were supposed to protect them! The Fleet’s supposed to—”

  “Hey!” Finlay slid between Booker and Houseman, cocked her arm back, and slugged the freighter crewman right in the face.

  Bone crunched and Booker screamed, stumbling backward with his hands cupping his face. “You bitch!” he screamed, blood dripping between his fingers. “You broke my nose!” He lunged for Finlay, murder in his eyes, but his buddies finally caught him and pulled him away.

  Houseman suddenly remembered his pistol. Cocked it and moved a step forward, leveling the barrel at Booker and his bunch. “Who’s first?” he shouted. “Who wants to get shot first?”

  “Stand down!” Henricksen pushed himself to his feet, hand pressed to the side of his head.

  Blood there. More blood on his fingers as he pulled that hand away.

  Henricksen grimaced and wiped his palm on his pants leg, looking disgusted with the entire situation. “Put the goddamn gun away, Houseman. You too, Beaulieu.” He stared at Houseman’s partner until she released her pistol, leaving it in the holster, raising her hands to show they were empty. “Man’s pissed,” he said, looking from one trooper to the other. “And probably with good reason. Shooting him ain’t gonna help the situation.”

  “He attacked you.” Houseman flicked his eyes to Henricksen’s blood-soaked hair, the trickle of crimson running down his neck.

  “Winged me, Houseman. That’s all. Ain’t like I’m dead. ‘Sides,” Henricksen hooked a thumb over his shoulder, “Finlay here took care of him. Didn’t ya, Finlay?”

  “Damn straight.” Finlay lifted her chin, looking defiant. “Nobody hits my captain.”

  “Busted his nose up good.” Henricksen smiled proudly. “I’d call it even.”

  Houseman frowned, face conflicted. Glanced past Henricksen to the freighter crew, fingers flexing as he adjusted his grip on the pistol. “But, sir—”

  “Even, Houseman.” Henricksen stepped close and dropped his voice, giving the trooper a flat-eyed stare. “Everyone’s watching us, Houseman.” He turned his head, looking one way and the other.

  Lot of hard eyes and angry face around them. Traffic stopped dead, everyone waiting to see what would happen. A few people retreated, fading into the background in an attempt to stay out of it, but most stayed. Bore witness. Watched the scene play out.

  “This hallway’s a powder keg, Houseman. You primed it, and it’s just about ready to explode. But you put that down,” Henricksen tapped a finger to the trooper’s pistol, “and maybe—just maybe—this whole thing blows over. We go our way, they go theirs.” A nod to Booker and his buddies. “Rest of the station gets back to normal.”

  Houseman shook his head, stubbornly refusing. “He hit you, sir. Can’t let that go unpunished.”

  Idiot.

  “Houseman.” Henricksen stepped in front of the pistol’s barrel, putting his own body between the trooper and Booker. “I’m only gonna say this one more time. Put. The goddamn. Gun. Away. That,” he said, flicking his eyes to the trooper’s pistol, back to Houseman’s face, “attracts attention. Attention we really don’t need right now.” He nodded meaningfully to Serengeti hiding inside Tig’s arachnid-shaped robot body. “You savvy, Houseman?”

  Houseman hesitated, considering the chrome-faced robot, throwing a last, distrusting look the freighter crew’s way. “Yeah,” he said, voice shaking. “Yeah. I savvy.” He lowered his gun and slid it back into its holster.

  Everyone sighed—even Booker—as the tension dispersed. The mood changing immediately once the trooper put his weapon away.

  “Good man.” Henricksen clapped Houseman on the shoulder and turned around, addressing the freighter crew holding tight to Booker. “Get him outta here before he gets himself in trouble.”

  Birdman Nate nodded, glancing at his buddies. “Yes, sir. Think that’s a good idea, sir.” Another nod and they surrounded Booker, grabbing him from both sides, leading him away.

  Booker—idiot that he was—balked after just a few steps, too damned arrogant and stupid to listen to anything but that chip on his shoulder he’d obviously been carrying around for a while. “Bitch busted up my face!” He lowered his hands, presenting the wreck of his nose as evidence.

  Birdman Nate leaned close, squinting his eyes as he inspected Booker’s face. “Sure did. Actually looks better, if ya ask me.” He flashed a smile, tipping a wink at Finlay. “Got a damn fine right hook there, ma’am.”

  “Why, thankee.” Finlay dropped a curtsy. “Thought about popping him one in the nuts, but Papa raised me to be a lady.” She blew on her knuckles, dusted her fingernails across the front of her jacket, looking quite pleased with herself and that punch.

  Nate laughed aloud, flipping an off-hand salute. Nodded to his buddies as he grabbed at Booker’s arm, bundling up the sullen-looking crewman as they hauled him away.

  “That happen often?” Henricksen nodded after the retreating freighter crew.

  Houseman shrugged. “Sometimes. Not here so much.” He waved a hand at the corridor, the oversized canister of station proper showing through one of the windows in the hall. “Some of the other stations aren’t as friendly, but Blue Horizon’s not so bad most days.”

  Henricksen grunted, watching the crowd disperse. “Merchants are angry. Can’t say I blame them.” He threw a look over his shoulder, watching Booker and his minders disappear down the hall. “Fleet’s supposed to protect these people, not—”

  A tremor shook the hallway, throwing Henricksen off balance.

  “You feel that?” he asked, frowning.

  Houseman blinked blankly. “What?”

  “Felt like—”

  Second tremor—stronger this time, the entire hallway shuddering, sending Henricksen stumbling to one side. He fetched up against the wall, grabbing at Finley when she bounced into his arms. Clung to her and the wall supporting the both of them as the walkway bucked and heaved.

  “What the hell was that?” he shouted once everything calmed down.

  Finlay shook her head, staring worriedly down the hall. “Think we should get out of here, sir.”

  “Couldn’t agree more. Houseman!”

  The trooper turned around and started away as another round of trembling shook the station, hallway creaking and groaning, floor lifting beneath their feet. Undulating in an elongated wave that knocked panels from the ceiling and threw people to the floor.

  Finlay lost her balance and knocked into Henricksen, steadied herself against him as he pawed at the wall, fingers wrapping around a take-hold handle riveted to the panels. Houseman and Beaulieu toppled over, but Tig just squatted down and spread his many legs wide, weathering the storm until it finally ended.

  The trembling lasted for several seconds, leaving an odd scent in the air. A mixture of char and chemicals, something that was either lubricant or some kind of oil that drove Tig’s sensors wild. And behind it—a soundtrack to that smell, working its way down the hall—was an ominous groaning coming from somewhere way, way off.

  “That’s not good.” Henricksen reached down, helping Houseman and Beaulieu up. “Finlay. You’re with me. We’re getting out—”

  Boom!

  A concussive blast rocked the station, throwing Henricksen, Finlay, everyone but Tig to the floor. A rush of air followed after—a deafening wind carrying a load of burning h
eat that swirled down the hallway, whipping at clothes, tearing at exposed skin.

  People ran, screaming in terror as the klaxons kicked in and a voice came over the station’s comms systems ordering everyone in the ring walkway back to their vessels. All station crew back to the can.

  “Not good. This is definitely not good.” Henricksen picked himself up, grabbing at Finlay to pull her to her feet.

  “What’s going on?” she asked, looking dazedly around.

  “Explosion.” Henricksen quirked an eyebrow, looking to Serengeti for confirmation.

  She tapped into the station’s central system, searching for information, but Sechura reached her first.

  “Go, Sister. Leave now!” Sechura sent over the Valkyrie comms channel.

  “What’s going on?” Serengeti demanded.

  Sechura sent her a data package—video from Sechura’s hull cameras and the outward facing eyes spread around the station’s perimeter. The Valkyrie herself at the center of those images, sleek-side shape instantly recognizable. And beside her, in berthing H-95, that pre-AI freighter Sechura had sneered at earlier—ancient thing, square-sided, elongated shape.

  A flash of fire and the freighter disappeared, explosion ripping through it, churning the massive ship into a cloud of metal particles. The shockwave hit Sechura and all but rolled her over, shrapnel from the freighter pelting her sides after, rocking the Valkyrie a second time.

  A burst of comms—desperate, dying—and Sechura cut out. But the station cameras kept tracking her. Showed them all the gory details as the Valkyrie’s starboard side ripped open, compartments venting as her hull plating peeled back.

  “Sechura. Sechura!” Serengeti screamed, reaching for her Sister across the Valkyrie network. Searching for her—for any sign of her AI presence—and finding nothing. Nothing at all. “No,” Serengeti breathed, voice filled with mourning. “No, Sister. Not again.”

  More trembling and the station cameras showed the walkway started to crumble, metal twisting, melting as fire erupted near Sechura’s berthing. Blast doors sealed, trying to contain it, trapping the people who weren’t quite quick enough to get out. Henricksen grabbed Tig’s leg and started pulling, but Serengeti pushed away, shrugging him off.

  “Talk to me, Serengeti. What’s happening down there?”

  “Explosion. Sechura’s down.” A last attempt to reach her and Serengeti closed the channel, turned around. “Back to the ship,” she ordered. “We need to get out of here. Now!”

  Houseman and Beaulieu looked at each and took off, heading back toward Sechura.

  To their ship. The wrong ship in this particular instance.

  Henricksen stepped in front of them, shaking his head. “Down means gone,” he said, klaxons shrieking bloody murder in the background. “You can’t go back.” He glanced from one trooper to the other, making sure they got it. “You’re my crew now. Our crew,” he amended with a nod to Serengeti, “unless…” He trailed off, grimacing, eyes flicking to the closed-off end of the hallway. “Move,” he ordered, shoving at them, turning the two troopers around. “Move, goddammit, before we get trapped in this section and stuck on this god-forsaken excuse for a space station forever.”

  Beaulieu capitulated quickly, but Houseman resisted, clearly wanting to go back.

  “I will leave you here, Houseman,” Henricksen warned. “This station is in a world of shit, and I honestly don’t have the time or the patience to argue with some dipshit trooper who can’t seem to get it through his thick skull that the ship he so desperately wants to get back to ain’t really a ship anymore.” He flicked his eyes to Serengeti¸ apology in his face. “So go or stay, Houseman. I don’t particularly care which.”

  Another shove at the trooper, pushing him out of his way. Henricksen flicked his fingers at Finlay and set off for their ship.

  Houseman—idiot that he was—turned in the opposite direction, but Beaulieu grabbed his shoulder and leaned close, whispering urgently until he finally relented. “We’re with you,” Beaulieu said, nodding sharply.

  “Then fall in,” Serengeti told them, spinning Tig around. “We’re getting out of here.”

  Tig took off, heading for home.

  Ten

  Henricksen buzzed through Serengeti’s airlock and onto Level 4, passed through in a hurry—eyes skipping over the shiny new panels, the composite metal decking stretching from wall to wall—and headed for the nearest ladderway.

  “Elevators are operational,” Serengeti reminded him.

  “Right.” He spun around, heading in the opposite direction, pressed at a panel to recall the elevator. “C’mon-c’mon-c’mon,” he muttered, fingers drumming impatiently against his leg.

  The panel flashed green and the elevator doors slid open. Henricksen stepped inside and hit the button for Level 10. Kept hitting it as Serengeti and the others crowded in, muttering curses at the balky elevator until it sealed up and took off.

  More shiny panels greeted them on Level 10. An entire hallway of gleaming surfaces, everything fresh and clean and apparently brand new.

  I wonder how much of this is Homunculus, Serengeti thought as Tig pattered into that hallway.

  Engines were his—she knew that for certain—and the armaments and systems that came with them. Dreadnought stamp on all of it. Dreadnought design through and through. But the circuits and relays, the decking and panels, the miles upon miles of wiring…

  Did all that come from Homunculus? How much of me is Dreadnought? Serengeti wondered, worrying now. Feeling her differences all the more keenly after standing inside Sechura. Watching her sparkling Sister drop out of jump.

  Sechura was Valkyrie and looked it—looked like what a Valkyrie should be.

  “Something wrong?” Tig whispered across internal comms.

  Everything, Tig. More than you’ll ever know.

  “Nothing,” she told him, keeping that melancholy thought to herself. “Just…Too many ghosts is all.”

  Tig hooted softly—a low tone full of apology and commiseration. Stopped at the bridge door while Henricksen entered his credentials, following the captain and Finlay inside, Houseman and Beaulieu stepping in behind them, pulling the door closed.

  Dark inside, but then, the bridge usually was. Pin lights activated as they entered, filling the circular space with a dim glow. Illuminating five stations set in a semicircle at the front of the bridge, close to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the captain’s Command Post looming behind them—a multi-paneled, octopus-like configuration nearly twice the size of any of the other stations.

  “Stand here,” Henricksen ordered, pointing Houseman to one side of the door and Beaulieu to the other. “Right here, you understand? And don’t move. Last thing I need is you two bumbling around my bridge while we’re making an emergency exit.”

  “Aye, sir.” Beaulieu saluted smartly, pushing Houseman to one side of the door while she took up position on the other.

  A nod and Henricksen turned around, hurrying across the bridge to Engineering as Finlay slid into Navigation beside him.

  Systems came to life, panels flashing, data scrolling in long strings, providing reams of information on the ship’s operating status, the vessels in port around them, the traffic moving in and out of the station. Finlay shunted it all to one side, bypassed the usual start-up tests and diagnostic routines, and dove straight into the central Navigation system while Henricksen keyed into the main engines, cycling the power to full, consulting Finlay’s panel now and then.

  “You know what you’re doing?”

  Finlay shrugged. “Started out sitting Nav. Got tired of all the math, though.” She flashed a smile. “Scan’s more fun.”

  “Guess that depends on your idea of fun,” Henricksen grunted, digging through the directories, searching for the airlock connectors and mooring clamp controls.

  Took him a few tries, but he eventually found them. Managed to disconnect them and sever Serengeti’s ties to the station without making too much of a hash of it
.

  Finlay watched him, frowning worriedly as he fumbled at Engineering’s panels. “Do you know what you’re doing, sir?”

  “Used to. Been a long time, though.” Henricksen scanned the panel in front of him, opening and closing data windows. “I don’t suppose…”

  “Huh-uh.” Finlay shook her head. “When it comes to engines, you’re on your own.”

  “Great,” Henricksen muttered, stabbing at a button, cursing when an error appeared.

  “I’ll talk you through the basics.” Serengeti parked Tig to one side, flipped to a camera and looked down on the bridge’s circular space. “Just keep your eyes on the panel and follow my lead.”

  “Right.” Henricksen leaned forward, eyes locked onto the panel in front of him as Serengeti navigated to the maneuvering jet controls, flipped them wide open, and pushed away from her berthing.

  Finlay tapped into Scan when they started moving, throwing a map of the station and its security perimeter onto the front windows, adding the vessels at dock, those heading off into space. “Ships moving around us.” Finlay highlighted two freighters berthed in Serengeti’s section, beacons moving as they pushed away from station, came about, and made for open space.

  “Explosion’s got everyone spooked.” Henricksen spared a look for Serengeti’s camera. “Make sure we don’t run into someone, Finlay.” He glanced over at her, smiling his crooked smile. “Just got Serengeti fixed. Can’t go bashing her back up again on our first trip out of port.”

  “Aye, sir. No crashing, sir.” Finlay moved the star charts and navigation data to her right-hand panel, devoting the left to Scan’s data.

  Lot of data there. Lot of moving parts to keep track of.

  Serengeti set a sub-mind to monitor the traffic around Blue Horizon and help Finlay out. Opened a comms channel and listened to the chatter on station, the messages passing between the ships in port.

  Confused communications. Conflicting reports cobbled together from multiple sources. Some claimed the DSR rigged that ancient freighter to blow. That they detonated a bomb inside it with the specific intent of taking out the Valkyrie in berthing H-96.