“Acknowledged. We’re on approach.” Delacroix flicked his wrist, cutting the comms as Aoki tapped the thrusters, moving them closer.
“Wow. That’s ugly.” Finlay nodded to the gnarled shape showing through the windows—a huge chunk of rock split off from an obliterated moon, cube-shaped structures gripping like barnacles across its surface. Checked the data on her panel, frowning at what she found. “Thought you said this was a prison. Data tags all say Meridian Alliance outpost.” She twisted, looking at Henricksen. “That’s fuel depot and resupply, right?”
“Most of the time.” Henricksen nodded. “But you won’t find any ships docking at Faraday to stock up. Never calls itself a prison—star charts list it as an outpost, just like you said—but last time I checked, there were something on the order of five hundred troopers stationed inside that carbuncle out there.”
Far too many for an outpost. Nearly triple the size of the average fringe station.
“‘Course, that was fifty-three years ago,” Henricksen admitted, rubbing at his chin. “And a lotta thing might’ve changed since then.” He chewed his lip, thinking on that as Finlay faced around, staring worriedly at the windows. Keyed into one of the Command Post’s panels and executed a search of the database, examining a schematic of the prison’s innards.
Inside of the prison didn’t look all that much better than outside. Design specs showed a warren of concrete and composite metal holding pens. No windows anywhere, triple-thick pressure doors dividing the prison into little microcosms—one section separated from another. Bulk of those spaces were set aside for human inhabitants—smugglers and militants, anyone else who pissed the Meridian Alliance off. Just one section—a cube-shaped tower sticking up from the station’s stone center—blocked off for AI prisoners. A special holding area with electromagnetic shielding built into the inner walls, preventing prying AI minds from reaching in, and AI prisoners from reaching out.
The Vault, they called it. A bunker where AIs were sent to wither and die.
Serengeti shivered, loathing the place. The very idea of going in there filling her with dread.
Couldn’t image what it felt like, being locked away from the stars. Cut off from every other mind in the universe until the end of time.
Henricksen glanced up, seeming to sense something wrong. Reached for a panel and started typing a message. Wiped it when she sent a calming picture—water over stones, leaves on the wind—and turned toward Delacroix instead. “Comms. What’s the chatter?”
Delacroix stood there, swaying from side to side.
“Comms!”
A wobble of his head, visored face turning Henricksen’s way.
“Goddammit, moonbeam. Poke your head out of the nethersphere once in a while, would you?”
“Aye, sir,” Delacroix said faintly. A flick of his wrist, head tilting as he consulted the universe of Comms. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” He waved vaguely, fingers flicking at the windows, the station outside. “Faraday doesn’t like our orders—keeps complaining about us being late—but that’s about it.”
“Late.” Henricksen grunted. “I’ll give ‘em late. Tell ‘em they can cram it with walnuts. Belay that!” he yelled as Delacroix flicked his wrist.
Delacroix blinked blankly, swaying in place. “Faraday’s directing us to the upper berthings. Space 12.”
That put them right next to the Vault’s tower. That cube-on-cube construction sticking up from the rest of the encrusted rock.
Serengeti sent the information to Navigation, watched as Samara adjusted their course and sent the plot over to Aoki at Engineering.
“You take a look at that?” Henricksen glanced at the camera, nodded to the tower rising above Faraday. The cube-shaped Vault at the top.
“I downloaded the design specs to storage, if that’s what you—”
“It’s shielded,” Henricksen interrupted, giving her camera a meaningful look.
“I know,” Serengeti said quietly.
“Should you…?” He trailed off, eyebrows lifting.
“I’ll be fine, Henricksen.”
“You sure?” He folded his arms, head tilting. “Maybe you should stay here. Let me and Finlay go in with the ‘bots. Put ‘em in drone status, maybe. Run ‘em on manual so you don’t—”
“No,” she told him. “You’re not going in alone.”
They had too much riding on this. Too much at risk for Serengeti to hang back just because some electromagnetic shielding might make her go wonky for a while.
“The robots will have the worst of it. I should be fine.”
“Should,” Henricksen repeated. “So it’s ‘should’ now.”
“It’s fine, Henricksen.”
“Fine my ass,” he muttered.
“Coming about,” Aoki warned. “Hang on.”
Henricksen grabbed at the panel, holding tight as Aoki fired the maneuvering thrusters, shoving Serengeti’s nose to the side as she slid the ship around the station’s perimeter, angling for their berthing assignment on the back side.
More scans as Serengeti lined herself up with Berthing 12 and eased close to the docks. The station’s sensors crisscrossing her body before dipping into her comms feed and examining the information she spewed out.
“There a problem?” Henricksen asked softly.
Finlay twisted, throwing a worried look his way.
“Not sure,” Serengeti admitted. “Probably just tight security.”
“Probably?”
The scans shut off. Faraday flashed an all clear, granting Serengeti permission to dock.
“See? No problem. Take us in, Aoki.”
“Aye, ma’am. I mean ship. AI?” Aoki slid her eyes to Finlay, cupping a hand around her mouth. “What are we supposed to call her?” she whispered.
“Serengeti. You call her Serengeti. Isn’t that right?” Finlay asked, smiling at the camera.
“Yes, Finlay. Serengeti is just fine. Proximity alert, Aoki.”
“What?” Aoki glanced down, hands lifting as she scanned the incoming data. Spotted the alert in question—berthing ahead, reduction in speed needed to avoid a collision—and ignited the reverse thrusters, slowing the ship, bringing it to a halt.
Docking jets kicked in, firing in tiny bursts. Serengeti swung around, long shape facing head-on to the station, the starboard side airlock on Cargo Bay 2 lined up with Berthing 12’s pressure door.
Another tiny burst and the ship slid sideways, settling gently into place. Mooring clamps locked onto Serengeti’s hull as the station’s airlock extended, sucking tight to Cargo Bay 2’s door. Mechanism’s engaging, mating one to the other.
”Docking complete, sir.” Aoki glanced over her shoulder, nodding to Henricksen at the Command Post. “We’re secure.”
“Neatly done, Aoki. Nice and smooth. Just the way I like it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Aoki ducked her head, flushing, looking incredibly pleased.
Finlay leaned over and punched her on the shoulder. Slapped her a high-five for good measure.
Henricksen watched them, smile playing about his lips. “Our entourage ready?” he asked, turning his eyes to Serengeti’s camera.
“The RPD is already in the cargo bay with the payload. I sent a couple of TSGs down there to help us out as well.”
“RPD.” Henricksen tilted his head. “You’re taking that bruiser on station?”
“What else? Six cases to haul in there, which means we’ll need a sled to pull them on. Takes something big and strong to do that—pretty much describes the RPD to a T. Besides,” she added, smile in her voice, “girl’s gotta travel in style.”
“Dung beetle.” Henricksen snorted. “That’s what you call style?”
“What? It’s rugged!”
“Among other things,” he muttered, eyeing the station outside. “What happens if security doesn’t like your ride?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Henricksen just stared.
“Relax,”
Serengeti laughed. “RPD may not be the usual mode of transport for delivering AIs, but ships use big ‘bots like that to haul cargo all the time.”
“You really think they’ll buy that?” Henricksen folded his arms, looking less than convinced. “You think security will look at that bruiser and see nothing more than a cargo hauler?”
“Why not? I doubt they’ve ever seen an RPD before, so why would they think it’s anything other than what we tell them?”
Henricksen opened his mouth and then closed it, thinking a while. “There’ll be guards on the station—”
“Prison guards, Henricksen. Not troopers. Not warship crew.”
“Meridian Alliance prison guards. No combat experience maybe, but they’ll have had military training.”
“And likely spent the last few years bored out of their minds on this station. Relax,” Serengeti told him. “I doubt they’d recognize an RPD if it stepped on them. All they’ll see is a big bug-shaped ‘bot. They won’t have any idea it’s a combat droid.”
“And if they object on principle? Simply because of the size of that thing?”
“Here’s a radical idea: How about you try reasoning with them?”
Henricksen turned toward the camera, giving her a sour look.
“Look. They can’t expect a couple of TSGs and a few puny humans to move that stack of transport cases around. We have to bring a big ‘bot with us. If they question you, just tell them that.”
Henricksen frowned doubtfully, sighed, and shook his head. “Not worth worrying about, I guess. We’ll just burn that bridge when we come to it. See how things work out.”
“Just like the good old days.”
“Yeah. ‘Spose so.” He smiled crookedly, shutting down his panels. Stepped down from the Command Post and headed for the door. “Finlay! Let’s go!” he called, looking back over his shoulder.
“Coming!” Finlay wiped her panel and bounded to her feet, double-timing it across the bridge.
“Head on down to the airlock.” Henricksen palmed the door open, hooked a thumb at the corridor outside. “Houseman and Beaulieu should already be there. They’ll have a uniform for you to change into.”
Finlay grimaced, looking askance at the blue and gold get-up Henricksen wore. “Pistol, too?” she asked, eyes drifting to the matte-black firearm strapped to Henricksen’s hip.
“Do you one better. Grab a rifle from the small arms locker on your way.”
“Rifle?! Yes, sir!” Finlay flashed a smile and snapped off a salute, stepped out the door and disappeared down the hall.
Henricksen stared after her, turned around, and tucked one arm under the other, finger tapping against his lips as he surveyed the crew left on the bridge. “Who do you think we should leave in charge?” he murmured, eyes settling on Serengeti’s camera.
She considered the question, studying the bridge crew herself. Delacroix was out of the question for obvious reasons. And Bosch…well, Serengeti knew from experience that leaving a gunner in charge generally was not a very good idea.
No impulse control. Tended to use the guns to solve everything.
She turned the camera, stopping on Aoki at Engineering before moving on to Samara at Navigation.
Henricksen quirked an eyebrow. “Samara, eh? Alright. Samara!” he called. “You’re it. You’ve got the con while we’re gone.”
“Aye, sir.”
Samara preened proudly. Aoki looked overwhelmingly relieved.
Henricksen pivoted, stopped and stared at the empty seat by Scan. “First order of business, Samara: find someone to fill in until Finlay gets back.”
“Aye, sir,” she said, frowning at Finlay’s station. Opened her mouth and then closed it, brows pulling downward. “Do you…Did you have anyone particular in mind?”
“Not a clue,” he said, flashing a smile. “But pick me a good one. Helluva thing having a shitbird sitting Scan.”
“Yes, sir.” Samara wrung her hands, staring queasily at Finlay’s station as Henricksen exited the bridge, heading for Cargo Bay 2.
Twenty-Seven
The Meridian Alliance operated dozens of space stations across the length and breadth of the galaxy, and private corporations owned dozens more. Nearly one hundred and fifty stations, all told—five times the number of terraformed, colonized planets in human-controlled space.
Not a one of them what you’d call plush, though. Fancy or even inviting. Most of the stations followed Blue Horizon’s layout: can shape in the middle, ship’s berthings arranged in a ring around it, expansion involving adding more cans above and below that initial pod.
Simple design. Practical, if not particularly pretty. Stations started out as waypoints and fuel stops, science outposts, that kind of thing. But as trade grew and traffic increased, the stations expanded their operations, offering more…pleasurable amusements. Bars, because humans loved their liquor. Restaurants and strip clubs, hotels and markets soon after.
Legal business, for the most part. Operations running the gamut from sleazy to pretty darn nice. None of them what you’d consider sumptuous or well-appointed—space stations were built to be durable, after all, not luxurious. Private owners tried, concealing the station’s backbone of hard plastics and composite metals under layers of sim-wood and faux velvet—fakes, but good fakes, recreated from samples stolen from Old Earth. Spent a lot of money on those refits, too. Problem was, the smell of a space station still lingered beneath it all. Distinctive. Different from the smells of ships and planets. Station was oil and electricity, cold and unwashed bodies. That fake pine scent the atmospheric systems pumped into the air to try to cover the stench.
More than that, there was the noise of a station. The hum and whir of machinery pumping artificial air and artificial heat around its spaces. Maintaining artificial gravity day and night. Fake. Sim-wood panels and faux velvet couldn’t cover that over either. Then again, a few days on station and most people stopped noticing the noise. Hardly even mentioned the smell.
Human adaptation. Amazing sometimes.
Serengeti herself had seen just about every space station the galaxy had to offer during her time in the Fleet. So she knew what expect when the airlock opened, and she got her first look at the station on the other side.
And yet, despite that, Faraday still managed to surprise her. Simple and durable was one thing. Faraday crossed over into stark and bleak. A reminder that this particular space station was a prison first, and a Meridian Alliance outpost second. Those other things not at all.
“Well now. This is lovely.” Henricksen stepped into the hallways, adjusting his gun belt for the dozenth time. Looked left and right, examining the square-sided corridor basting in a stew of brightest bright white light. “Place could severely use an interior decorator.” He turned his head, looking at the RPD behind him, part of Serengeti’s consciousness riding inside it. “Whole color palate available and they go with grey on grey. Embarrassing, even for the military. Lacks imagination, going with just one.”
He glanced down as Finlay stepped up beside him, Houseman and Beaulieu just a step behind. Two TSG helpers waited in the airlock, throwing nervous glances at Serengeti’s RPD. The multi-wheeled sled attached to her hind end by a hitching mechanism the TSGs themselves had hastily welded to the RPD’s ass.
Crew normally used the sled to move cargo around Serengeti’s insides. Hitching mechanism was a simple set-up—ring sticking from the RPD’s back end, oversized carabiner-style clamp attached to the front of the sled, one sliding into the other—but maneuvering the sled, especially around corners, took a bit of getting used to. Especially since the driver was an AI warship.
Didn’t help having those crates stacked atop of it. Containment cases, replicant AIs stored safely inside. Durable cases, delicate contents. Made her nervous, pulling them. Scared of bumping into things and tipping the sled over. Spilling the crates with their precious cargo onto the floor.
Henricksen and his entourage moved forward, and Serengeti followed—two st
eps forward, two steps left, trying to avoid Henricksen and the others bunched up in the center of the hallway as she extricated the sled from the airlock.
Another step, and the sled bumped against the lock’s frame, metal sides screeching angrily as they scraped through the open doorway.
Henricksen winced, glancing sharply around.
“Sorry.” Another step, more scraping. Serengeti looked behind her and saw the sled was almost clear.
Screech! Screech-screech-screech!
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
A last tug and the sled cleared the airlock. Serengeti executed a twelve-point turn, moving the RPD back and forth, back and forth until the ‘bot and the sled lined up.
Henricksen gave her a look.
“What? It’s my first time pulling cargo.”
“I can see that.”
“Oh, like you could do any better.”
Henricksen grunted and turned around, orienting himself in the hallway.
Reinforced walls of concrete and composite metal crowded close about them. The low-throated growl of heavy machinery issued from somewhere deep inside the station’s rock center, filtering through the ducting—dull grey tubes screwed tight to the ceiling, running the length of the hall.
No windows anywhere in that hallway—Serengeti assumed that was for security reasons. No fake potted plants stuffed in corners, either. No artwork or advertisements covering the starkly grey walls. Faraday wasn’t meant to be pretty. It wasn’t even meant to be inviting. It was meant to hold prisoners. For the entirety of their lives.
“Which way?” Finlay whispered, flicking her eyes left and right.
Left was a long length of corridor, curving gently out of sight. Airlocks set at regular intervals along one side, cameras watching from above. Right offered more corridor, and a pressure door at the end.
Huge thing. Tall and wide. Built big enough for cargo to pass through.
“Just a guess, but…” Henricksen pointed a finger at the pressure door. “Got that reader?”
Finlay handed it over without a word, eyes flicking up and down the hall as Henricksen consulted the map.
Serengati 2: Dark And Stars Page 28
