Serengati 2: Dark And Stars

by J. B. Rockwell

  “Whoopee,” Henricksen cheered, lips twisting sourly. “And the bad news?” He raised his head, looking at the camera. “There is a bad news side to this, right?”

  “Cryo tubes are only rated for twenty years of consecutive use.”

  Henricksen barked a laugh. “I’m guessing that means we have a whole host of prolonged hypersleep illnesses to look forward to.”

  “Probably. Baldness. Flatulence. Fingers falling off.”

  “It says that in the database?” Henricksen looked somewhat alarmed.

  “Probably.”

  He squinted, eyeing the camera suspiciously. Logged back into the system and checked the medical records from Sechura’s database himself. “Says here Finlay and I are in perfect health.”

  “Does it?” Serengeti asked innocently. “Sorry. My mistake.”

  Henricksen glowered at the camera. “That’s cruel, Serengeti. Picking on a dog-tired, flash frozen, newly-thawed-out fish stick like that.”

  Serengeti laughed aloud and saw Henricksen smile. A real smile this time—tired and crooked, but a smile just the same. A smile just like she remembered. The way Henricksen used to smile, before everything went to crap.

  “Should we call the bridge crew up?”

  Henricksen tilted his head, considering, fingers trailing across the panels of his Command Post. “Normally, I’d say yes. Problem is, we’re a bit short on staff.” He shrugged his shoulders, looking around the bridge. “Should have three fully qualified shifts to run this bridge, but I’m afraid we’ve got just the one right now.” Another shrug, eyes returning to the camera. “Crew’s still settling in. Best if we give ‘em the night to rest up. Bring ‘em in fresh tomorrow. You okay with that? Mind keeping tabs on things on your own for a while?”

  “Think I’ll manage,” she said, smile in her voice. “Now get out of here before you fall down.”

  Henricksen nodded, rubbing at his eyes. “Finlay. Hey, Finlay,” he called, snapping his fingers at Scan.

  “What?” Finlay blinked owlishly, looking up. “What’s that, sir?”

  “Heading back to my quarters for a while. You gonna stay here?”

  “Thinks so. If you don’t mind, sir.”

  “You’re welcome to it,” he told her. “Just don’t stay too long. I feel like ten-year-old roadkill, and I’m guessing you do, too.”

  Finlay shrugged and nodded, yawning behind her hand.

  “An hour here, no more, understand me? Grab some food and get yourself in your rack. We’ve got crew assignments to make tomorrow and I don’t want you half-asleep on the bridge, drooling all over Serengeti’s shiny new Scan station.”

  “Aye, sir. No drooling, sir.” Finlay tapped two fingers to her temple and turned back to her station, immediately forgetting he was even there.

  Henricksen sighed, sliding his eyes to Serengeti’s camera. “She’s gonna spend the whole damned night here. I know it.” Second sigh—shoulders lifting and sagging—and Henricksen stepped down from his Command Post, heading for the door. “One hour, Finlay,” he called back over his shoulder. “You either leave under your own power or Mighty Mite here,” he waved at Tig sitting quietly to one side, “is authorized to pick you up and carry you like a wee babe back to your quarters.”

  “Aye, sir. Babe, sir.” Finlay waved without looking.

  Henricksen looked back once, smiling fondly, stepped off the bridge and headed down the hall to his quarters.

  Eleven

  The lights came on as soon as Henricksen stepped into his quarters, throwing back the shadows, bathing the silver and black space in a soft, yellow glow. Layout here was the same as on Sechura: large front space serving as study, living room, and dining room all at once, windows filling the far wall, looking out at the stars.

  Doorway to the left, leading to the captain’s master bedroom. Bookshelves across from it, a few odds and ends scattered randomly across its tiers.

  Empty spaces, mostly, and nothing at all fancy about them. Qaisrani filled her quarters with pillows and plush furnishings, but Henricksen preferred more Spartan accommodations.

  Bare metal walls showed through the mostly empty bookshelves. Two square leather chairs sat by the windows, bookending a low-slung table. Desk lurking forgotten by the front door, keeping a tiny dinner table and two very simple, very utilitarian chairs company. The only other thing of note in that room a bar shoved up against one wall.

  Bar Henricksen never used. Hadn’t even bothered stocking since he first came on board.

  “Home sweet home.” Henricksen stepped inside, letting the door click closed.

  “Place was pretty much a wreck,” Serengeti told him. “But the DD3s straightened things up.”

  Hadn’t planned to—DD3s were maintenance droids and tidying the captain’s quarters wasn’t exactly a high priority item on their list. But Tig talked them into it. Explained how it’d be worth their while.

  “Robots salvaged what they could.” She panned the camera around the room, regretting how empty it was. “Most of your personal possessions were damaged beyond repair, I’m afraid.”

  “’S’alright. Not like I had a whole lot to begin with.” A quick look around the front room and Henricksen stepped over to the bookshelves, reached up, and retrieved a tiny silver starship, pulling it down.

  Memento from his first command. Henricksen turned it over, rubbing a thumb across the inscription on the base. “Glad to see this made it at least.” He smiled softly, looking a bit sad. Reached up and set the starship back on the shelf, spying something else in the process: a glass jar sitting on the shelf closest to the floor.

  He squatted, studying it, considering the seashells and rounded bits of glass inside for a long, long time. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured, scooping it up. Turned it over, contents shifting, clinking softly as he examined the odds and ends inside.

  “DD3s found it stuffed under a chair,” Serengeti said, watching. “I assume it fell off the shelves and rolled under there. Must’ve sat there the entire time I was lost.”

  “Huh.” Henricksen stood, wincing, eyes squeezing closed as he clutched at his head.

  “You look terrible, you know.”

  “Well, I did get hit on the side of the head with a wrench.”

  “Not what I meant.” The gash was ugly enough, but the pallor of Henricksen’s skin, the dark circles under his eyes… “Have you slept at all since they unfroze you?”

  “Some.” He lifted his chin, looking defensive. “’Fraid to,” he admitted, face softening. He touched a finger to the side of his head, probing at the gash in his scalp. “Feels too much like disappearing back into the dark.”

  That she understood. Better than most.

  “You should really do something about that,” Serengeti told him, zooming in on the gash. “I can send one of the TSGs up here—”

  “No. It’s fine.” Henricksen jerked his hand away, set the jar back on the shelf. “I can see to the damn thing myself,” he insisted, turning in a circle, looking around. “There a med kit in here anywhere?”

  “Bathroom.” Serengeti pointed her camera at the bedroom door, traded that camera for another as she followed Henricksen through to the other side.

  More spare furnishings in the bedroom—mattress on a frame, covered in fresh linens. Closet with uniforms, not much of anything else.

  Henricksen walked through it, heading straight for the attached bathroom, which—incidentally—didn’t happen to come equipped with a camera.

  Tried putting one in there once but Henricksen balked. Something about privacy and not wanting an AI watching her while he did his business—a human quirk, she didn’t quite understand.

  She relented anyway, out of respect for Henricksen. Accepted this tiny blind spot inside her. The others scattered throughout her spaces.

  A check of the room as she settled into a camera in Henricksen’s bedroom. One that just happened to give her a partial view of the glass and steel bathroom on one side. Free here, the
shower was mostly hidden—just a vague glass and metal shape to one side—and the commode completely obscured. But the camera gave her a good view of the basin at the room’s center, just inside the door. The medicine cabinet sitting above it—mirror in the center, two others just like it set on hinges, sitting on either side.

  Henricksen stepped inside, leaving the bathroom door open. Caught sight of himself in those mirrors and stopped dead, staring. Seeming troubled by what he saw.

  “Everything alright?” Serengeti called from the bedroom.

  “Fine,” he said, ripping the medicine cabinet open. “I’m fine.”

  Toiletries in there, mostly. Henricksen shoved them out of the way to get at the med kit lurking at the back. Pulled it down and started rooting through the contents, dumping a pile of bandages on one side of the sink, a stack of antiseptic strips, and a styptic pen on the other.

  Dropped the med kit and its remaining contents inside the basin and grabbed the edge of one of the side mirrors, angling it so he could look in one and see the gash in his head reflecting in the other. A few adjustments, giving himself the best view and Henricksen picked up the styptic, pressing it to his head.

  “I’m not sure that’s going to do it,” Serengeti told him, watching from the bedroom, studying his reflection in the mirrors’ glass. “Styptic’s meant for shaving cuts, Henricksen. I’m pretty sure you’re going to need stitches for that.”

  “Oh yeah? And what do you know about bleeding?” He froze—hand raised, styptic hanging in mid-air. Grimaced when he realized what he’d just said. “Sorry. Tired.” He nodded an apology to Serengeti’s camera, adjusted the mirror’s angle, and started dabbing at the cut with the styptic again.

  Blood welled around its tip, staining Henricksen’s hair, running down his neck. He kept at it, but the styptic obviously wasn’t working. In fact, Serengeti was pretty sure it was making things worse.

  “The robots are all programmed for basic medical procedures—”

  “No.” Henricksen leveled a flat stare at the camera’s reflection. “No robots.”

  “Alright. How about Finlay?”

  “No,” he repeated, throwing the styptic in the basin. “Last thing I need is some damned nursemaid fawning all over me.” He grabbed up the med kit and picked through it, tossing supplies this way and that until he found what he wanted. “Ah. Here we go.” The med kit clanged loudly as he dropped it back into the basin, toggled the controls on a tiny auto-stitcher, and maneuvered it close to his head.

  Serengeti cringed. “You sure you know what you’re doing with that?”

  “Trust me,” he said, tipping a wink at the camera. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

  Serengeti sighed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  A flick of a switch, and the auto-stitcher started to hum. Henricksen pressed the end to the gash in his head and let it do its thing, wincing now and then as it chattered away—the noise of it like a set of those tiny, ancient, wind-up teeth chewing away at a piece of leather.

  Five seconds and it was over, a dozen or so neat stitches showing darkly beneath Henricksen’s hair. The wound itself cinched tight, just a few dribbles of blood seeping out.

  “Not bad,” Serengeti admitted, examining the final product.

  “Told ya.” Henricksen flashed a grin and turned the spigot, cupped his hands under the faucet to catch the water and splashed it on the side of his head. A bit of dousing and the worst of the blood disappeared. And with the addition of an antiseptic strip slapped over the stitches, Henricksen was ready to go. “There. Whaddaya think?” he asked, turning around.

  Serengeti snickered. “You look funny.”

  Henricksen blushed self-consciously, touching at the antiseptic strip. “It’ll dissolve by morning. Don’t want the damned thing getting infected, after all.”

  “Still,” Serengeti said, laughing softly again. “Sechura just fixed you up and the first thing you do is go and break yourself again.”

  “Yeah, well. You know me.” He ducked his head and started grabbing up bandages, shoving them into the med kit.

  “Yes. Yes, I do,” Serengeti said softly.

  Henricksen grunted, eyes lifting, catching the camera’s reflection in the mirror. Smiled and shook his head as he shoved a last few things into the med kit and put it back inside the cabinet.

  A last check of the stitches, making sure the antiseptic strip was securely in place, and Henricksen walked back into the bedroom. Stopped in the middle and turned his head, considering the closet to one side. “Hang on a sec, would ya?” He waved at the camera and stepped over to it, pulling the closet’s composite metal doors wide.

  A row of fresh uniforms hung on hangars inside, every last one of them black and silver, stitched to Henricksen’s measurements, with Serengeti’s patch on the shoulders and those captain’s stars on the collar. “Your doing?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

  “A captain needs to look the part. I had spare uniforms made up for the crew as well. Had to guess at the sizes, though.” She paused, letting that hang in the air a moment. “You know, because I wasn’t quite sure who…”

  Henricksen nodded as Serengeti trailed off. “To be honest, I wasn’t really sure who’d made it into Cryo myself.” He reached up, tracing the silver thread of a patch with his finger. “Thanks,” he said, nodding to the line of uniforms hanging in the closet. Opened his mouth and then closed it, lips pressing together as he ducked his head. “Thanks,” he repeated, nodding to the camera. Reached for a drawer beneath the hanging uniforms and pulled it open, shoving belts and pins and other miscellaneous uniform items out of the way, digging through two other drawers below it before he finally found what he wanted. “There you are,” he murmured, pulling a wooden box out.

  “What’s that?” Serengeti asked curiously.

  “Hmm?” Henricksen raised his head, blinking slowly, looking a million miles away. “Gift,” he said, holding the box up.

  “For me?” she teased.

  “No,” he said quietly. “’Fraid not.” He touched a hand to the box’s top, tracing the smoothness of the wood. Turned around and ambled out of the bedroom, heading for the windows, setting the box on the low-slung table sitting beneath the stars.

  Serengeti flicked to a camera in the corner, studying Henricksen as he stood by that table—head bowed, fingertips resting lightly on the wooden box’s lid.

  Dark wood—Andrulian heartwood, maybe. One of those other old Earth walnut hybrids that were popular a century or so back. Two now, she supposed, given the time they’d both lost.

  “It’s pretty,” she told him.

  “Sikuuku gave it to me. To commemorate my assignment.” He glanced at the camera, smiling sadly. “Big day, getting selected to fill a Valkyrie’s Captain’s Chair.” The smile wilted, Henricksen’s eyes dropping back to the case, finger tracing a swirl in the wood’s grain. “You were supposed to be here,” Serengeti heard him whisper. “You were supposed to share this with me.”

  He drew a breath—deep and shaky—and blew it back out, hand clenched into a fist pressed tight to his leg. A last touch at the wooden lid and Henricksen flipped the case open, revealing a velvet-lined interior cradling a clear glass bottle filled with some amber-colored liquid. A matching pair of cut-glass tumblers sitting to either side.

  “Whiskey?” Serengeti guessed.

  “Better.” Henricksen pried the bottle free and held it up to the camera. “Scotch. Aged 75 years.”

  “Must be worth a fortune.”

  “Probably.” He cupped the bottle in both hands, considering it a moment. “What the hell,” he decided, breaking the seal, spinning the cap off. Plucked a tumbler from the case and filled it half full. Paused, eyes flicking to the case and the single glass resting there, and grabbed it up too, splashing a healthy dose of Scotch inside. “Hate drinking alone,” he said, sparing a look for the camera as he reached inside his jacket, lifting a silver chain over his head. Held it a while, staring thoughtfully at the pen
dant resting on his palm.

  Shell pendant—one Sikuuku used to wear. The chain his too, retrieved from his dead body.

  Henricksen wrapped his fingers around it, lips pressed in a hard line. Opened his hand and dropped the pendant into one of the glasses, watched it sink to the bottom. “Wish you were here with me,” he murmured. “I wish—” He broke off, grimacing. Scooped up his glass and raised it in salute before downing the contents in one gulp. “Damn that’s good.” He reached for the bottle, refilling his glass.

  That second drink disappeared almost as quickly as the first, and the third not long after that. Serengeti watched in silence all the while, reading anger in the set of Henricksen’s shoulders. The way he tossed back that third drink—hardly even tasting it—before pouring himself a fourth.

  The way his eyes flicked to that pendant each time he filled his glass.

  “Sand dollar, right?”

  Henricksen froze, glass half-lifted to his lips.

  “The shell.” Serengeti zoomed in on Sikuuku’s pendant. “It’s called a sand dollar, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly, lowering his glass, clutching it against his stomach. “Sikuuku’s sister gave it to him before he left home. Supposed to be good luck or something.”

  “He was from Earth, then?”

  Didn’t need his answer—Sikuuku’s records told her as much—but Serengeti knew Henricksen’s moods, especially the black ones. Knew that talking was sometimes the only way to get him out of it. Help him work through the anger. The bitterness and regret.

  Henricksen sipped at his drink, enjoying it this time rather than simply tossing it down. “Not many are these days,” he told her. “Least, not in the ranks.” His lips twisted, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. “Fleet prefers Academy. Officers from Suchalon and Argentia. Enlisted from Diaspora and Trimark, the other Core planets. Earth…well, Earth’s way out now, isn’t it? Humanity moved on and left it behind.” He waved vaguely, dropping his eyes, considering the Scotch in his glass. “Father was a fisherman of all things. Did you know that?” He slid his eyes to the camera, turned his gaze on the windows. “Sikuuku hunted fish in the ocean before he came out here to hunt ships among the stars.” He grunted, staring a moment, quiet for a long, long time. “Shoulda stayed,” he rasped, finishing his drink. “Fishermen don’t get blown to bits by goddamn cannons at the ass end of the universe.”