Serengati 2: Dark And Stars

by J. B. Rockwell

  A crackle of static and a comms channel opened, electronic voice speaking from speakers overhead.

  “Credentials,” the station’s voice demanded.

  A light appeared on the wall, highlighting an access point beneath an activated panel.

  Henricksen walked over to it and slotted the reader into the port. Glanced around—acting all casual about it, smiling pleasantly, nodding to each camera he saw.

  A chime sounded and the panel flashed green. Henricksen snagged the reader, clipping it to his belt.

  “Proceed to the security checkpoint.” Lights appeared on the wall to their left—sickly yellow arrows pointing to the pressure door ahead. “Present your credentials to the guards.”

  The wall panel went dark, arrows flashing insistently until Henricksen got moving. And then they, too, winked out.

  Color disappeared from the corridor, leaving just those grey walls and too bright lights behind.

  Henricksen picked at his blue-and-gold uniform. “Suddenly, I feel conspicuous.”

  Finlay looked down at herself, face pale, eyes worried. Henricksen’s humor completely lost on her. A deep breath and she gripped her rifle with both hands, throwing nervous glances at the two troopers behind her.

  “Steady, Finlay.” Henricksen slid his eyes her way. “Badass bitch, remember? We’ll be in and out of here before you know it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Finlay squared her shoulders and stood up straight, chin lifting, face taking on a haughty ‘I-don’t-give-a-shit’ look.

  “There ya go, Finlay.” Henricksen tipped a surreptitious wink. “Everything alright back there?” He spoke to Serengeti without looking, using the comms unit in his ear so the cameras wouldn’t know who he addressed.

  “Fine so far,” she told him. “This section’s not shielded. Just the main part of the Vault.”

  “Good to know.” He stopped in front of the pressure door, plugged the reader into a data port beside it, and waited while the system scanned their credentials.

  Again.

  That’s four times so far.

  Two sets of scans of Serengeti herself as she came in, two more once they set foot on the station. And a safe bet that whoever was on the other side of that door would want to go through them a fifth time.

  Tight security, even for a prison.

  Especially considering they were Meridian Alliance. For the first time, Serengeti started to have misgivings about this plan.

  Too late now. We turn around now and the station will know we’re up to something.

  The pressure door analyzed their credentials, scanned through them a second time before flashing green and beginning the long, drawn-out process of equalizing the space on the other side.

  Henricksen handed the reader back to Finlay, casually looked Serengeti’s way. “From here on out, you’re just a dumb cargo robot. You got that?”

  “Beep-beep-beep. Yes, Master,” she said in her most monotone, robotic voice.

  “Wise ass.”

  A panel flashed beside the pressure door, mechanism buzzing loudly as the lock clicked over and the hydraulics whirred to life. The huge door split down the middle, heavy panels trundling to the sides, disappearing into the walls.

  Long time for that door to finish opening. Huge mechanism required to move the panels, and they still moved stultifying slow. Made a god-awful sound doing it. A growling, grinding as they slid across the floor, crawled into the walls.

  Thirty seconds they stood there, waiting for the pressure door to fully open. Plenty of space for them to pass through sooner—halfway open and even Serengeti’s RPD could slip through—but with such tight security elsewhere, they didn’t dare. No telling if there was some secondary security protocol that would trigger, waking guns and alarms and god-only-knew-what else if they tried to enter prematurely.

  No sense tempting fate. Rushing things would only draw unwanted attention to themselves.

  Henricksen folded his arms, slouching comfortably, acting all cool and calm. Glanced behind him as the trundling stopped, the pressure door’s mechanism winding down, dropping the corridor back to its usually dull roar.

  A nod to Houseman, Beaulieu at his side, eyes flickering across Serengeti’s RPD’s face. “This is it, boys and girls.” Last look, this one for Finlay, and Henricksen stepped forward, entering a wide, empty space.

  Cube-shaped room, predictably—everything seemed cube-shaped and squared-off around here. Ten meters from one side to the other, another ten across.

  Sealed pressure door on the far side. Squad of six prison guards standing at the room’s center—rifles leveled, grey uniforms blending into the station’s washed-out background of metal and cement walls.

  Stony-faced guards. Soldiers-cum-sentries, faces half-hidden by opaque visors. Heads engulfed in matte black helmets with integrated comms.

  No nametags here. No patches or collar devices or anything else to mark the prison guards from the blank walls around them. Just those oh-so-deadly, oh-so-serious looking rifles pointing at Henricksen and his entourage.

  Well, at the humans, anyway. Mostly, they ignored the robots. Robots were just robots, after all. Humans, on the other, were targets. And potentially dangerous. Not to be trusted.

  “Credentials,” one barked, gloved hand peeling away from his rifle, fingers flicking impatiently.

  Henricksen tilted his head, giving the guard a flat-eyed stare. Held out his hand and waited while Finlay retrieved the reader, slapping it against his palm. He nodded to her without looking, making a great deal of going over the device. Checking the data on it himself before offering it to the waiting guard.

  The trooper took it, staring at Henricksen from behind his visor. “The ‘bots?” A nod to the RPD behind Henricksen, the pair of TSGs on either side of it.

  “Cargo haulers. Their data’s in there along with the info for the ship and crew.” Henricksen jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Houseman and Beaulieu behind him, the airlock down the hall. “And me, of course,” he added, tapping the nametag on his chest.

  Fake name. Well, real name, but not his. Same for Finlay and the others, though Henricksen, being captain, was the only name that mattered. The only one they’d likely check.

  Records showed Homunculus’s captain as Franz Austerlitz. Serengeti wasn’t quite sure Henricksen looked like an Austerlitz, to be honest. Then again, she wasn’t quite sure what an Austerlitz did look like.

  The guard frowned at Henricksen—the first sign of any emotion on his half-hidden face—and bowed his head, tapping at the reader, scrolling through the data it displayed. Homunculus’s orders—real ones from several months ago—the inventory of AIs they’d brought with them—real names again, fake AIs inside the crates—just about everything they could ever want to know about the vessel parked in Berthing 12.

  The same information Faraday’s systems had already gone over several times now.

  The guard looked up from the reader, moved a step to one side, examining Serengeti’s RPD. The sled she pulled behind her. The crates of fake AIs.

  Serengeti tensed, thinking he meant to open them and confirm the contents. The replicants were quality, some of the best counterfeits money could buy, but she knew they wouldn’t pass more than a cursory inspection.

  Henricksen cleared his throat loudly, flashed his friendliest smile when he had the guard’s attention. “Scanner of yours ain’t gonna work. Shielded,” he explained, nodding to the cases. The same electromagnetic shielding built into the walls of Faraday’s Vault. “Keeps ‘em quiet during transport. Makes sure we don’t have any…slip-ups, if you know what I mean.” A wink and he nodded sagely, tapping a finger against the side of his nose. “’Course. You boys probably already knew that.” He folded his arms and rocked back on his heels, waggling a finger at the troopers around him. “I’m sure you see this kinda thing all the time.”

  Silence for a moment, the trooper with the reader touching at the side of his helmet—telltale sign of communications—w
hile the others just stood there, doing a fair impersonation of statues.

  “Wait here,” the trooper with the reader said.

  A nod and he brushed past Henricksen, returning to his fellows. Touched at his helmet again, murmuring into a hidden microphone as the other guards gathered round, adopting that same fingers-to-ears listening posture.

  Houseman shuffled his feet, adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, fidgeting nervously, eyes flicking around the room.

  “Still, Houseman,” Henricksen murmured.

  Houseman froze, spots of color blooming on his cheeks. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Henricksen looked at him—at all of them, making sure everyone kept it cool.

  “It’s just…” Houseman again. Boy was just itching to get yelled at. “Do you really think this’ll work, sir?”

  Kept his voice down—give Houseman credit for that—but Serengeti still expected an explosion. Almost fell over in surprise when Henricksen smiled.

  “’Course it’ll work. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years as captain, it’s that people will believe just about anything if you present it with enough bluster and blow.”

  Houseman didn’t quite look like he believed it. “Yes, sir,” he said queasily. “If you say so, sir.”

  “I do,” Henricksen said brightly. “I most certainly do. Now chin up, Houseman. Back straight. Show ‘em your best ‘I’m-an-asshole’ face.”

  “Yes, sir.” Houseman went blank and serious, copying Beaulieu beside him.

  “That’s not quite—” Henricksen paused, eyes flicking to the troopers as their hands dropped away from their helmets, visored faces turning their way. “Good enough.” He clapped Houseman on the shoulder, arranging his lips in a pleasant smile as the lead guard stepped in front of him, rifle leveled at his chest.

  “Your orders are out of date.” A nod to the pressure door behind him. “Sergeant’s coming down to verify them. Stand by.”

  The guard stepped back and went still again, lips moving now and then as the voice in his ear passed instructions and the trooper answered back.

  Houseman shifted, throwing a panicked look Henricksen’s way. “Sir—”

  “All good, Houseman. It’s all good,” Henricksen said confidently. He folded his hands, clasping them loosely behind his back. Whistled tunelessly, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. But the whistling stopped when the pressure door opened, a squat, piggy-eyed guard in a too-tight uniform waddling through to join them. “Shit,” he said softly.

  “You know him?” Finlay whispered.

  Henricksen gave her a look. “’Course I don’t, Finlay. Been frozen for fifty goddamn years.”

  “Fifty-three,” Serengeti corrected.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Henricksen muttered. “I don’t know this particular guy,” he said, nodding to the new arrival, “but I know his type. Generally, they’re assholes.”

  Finlay snickered.

  “Guy that fat’s been workin’ a desk for a while, which means he’s pompous and self-important, and used to running the show.” Henricksen chewed his lip, watching the portly guard waddle over, face flushed an alarming shade of red, uniform so tight the collar cut into his neck. “This is gonna be a little harder than I thought.”

  “Time to pull out some of that famous charm of yours,” Serengeti quipped.

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Well, well, well.” The sergeant parked his portly girth in front of Henricksen, sweat beading on his florid face, baby fine hair the color of straw stuck wetly to his head.

  Crumbs covered his uniform, dusting the top edge of a nametag—‘Proctor’ stamped into its surface.

  Serengeti groaned, imagining a hundred different ways Henricksen could butcher that to have a little fun.

  “What do we have here?” Proctor folded his arms—well, he tried to but his arms were so stubby and the rest of him so fat that the best he could manage was tucking his hands into his armpits—and looked Henricksen up and down, lips curling in a sneer. “If it isn’t the cap’n, hisself. What an honor, your honor.” He twirled a hand, offering an awkward, mocking bow.

  Crumbs cascaded to the floor, dusting the metal with dried-up food particles.

  Henricksen smiled widely. “Pulled you away from your dinner, I see?”

  Friendly smile, pleasant voice, but Serengeti knew Henricksen well enough to pick up the mockery behind both. “Not exactly the kind of charm I was thinking of,” she said sourly.

  Henricksen twitched his shoulders, offering the tiniest of shrugs.

  Proctor harrumphed loudly, pawing at his uniform jacket, shaking free more crumbs. “Reader,” he barked, snapping his fingers until the squad’s leader handed the device over. A touch at one corner powered it on. The sergeant barely looked at it before shutting it back off, holding it up, and shaking it in Henricksen’s face. “These orders are—criminy!” He shoved Henricksen aside, pushing through Finlay and the others to get at Serengeti’s RPD. “What the hell is this?” he demanded, stabbing a finger at the RPD’s mandibled face.

  “Cargo hauler.” Henricksen pasted the friendly smile back onto his face. “Dumb as shit but damned useful.”

  “Cargo hauler?” Proctor leaned close, squinting suspiciously as he looked the RPD up and down. “Butt ugliest ‘bot I’ve ever seen.”

  Henricksen shrugged. “Hangs out in a cargo bay all day. Doesn’t need to be pretty.”

  “’Spose not.” Proctor turned around, blinking slowly. Keyed the reader—RPD already forgotten—and made a cursory review of their data. Shouldered past Henricksen as he walked back to the squad guarding the room.

  “Told you,” Serengeti murmured, voice issuing from the communicator in Henricksen’s ear.

  “Shut up,” he muttered, giving her a sour look.

  “What was that?” Proctor whirled around, frowning thunderously. “What did you say to me?”

  Henricksen smiled brightly. “Everything in order there, Corporal?”

  Proctor stiffened, eyes widening in outraged offense. He lifted a pudgy finger, tapping the chevrons on his arm. “It’s Sergeant, Captain. Not corporal.”

  “’Course it is, Corporal!” Henricksen’s smile widened, showing off every last tooth in his head. “Now if you’re done playin’ Tiddlywinks with my ‘bot there, Porkins, I’d like to dump this cargo in your Vault and get my ship back in service.” He rocked back on his heels, arms folded, smiling away.

  Proctor glowered darkly, hands clenched into fists at his side. “It’s Proctor, not Porkins.”

  “Proctor. Gotcha.” Henricksen pointed his finger like a pistol, cocked it, and fired.

  Proctor’s frown deepened. He stabbed at the reader, making a last few checks of their data. “These orders are ancient. You’re months overdue.”

  Henricksen shrugged again—casual as always, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. But he leaned forward, balancing on the balls of his feet. Taking on a hunter’s stance as a hunter’s edge crept into his smile. “Been off the grid a while,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? Why?”

  “Orders.” Henricksen rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Brutus,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “Brutus, eh?” Proctor chewed on that a while, eyes flicking from the guards behind him to the cameras watching silently from above. He marked something on the reader, turned it around, and handed it back. “Paperwork’s not in order—”

  “The hell it isn’t.” Henricksen’s smile slipped, ice creeping into his voice. “Dates are off, but all the forms and data are in there, so don’t you go telling me—”

  “I’m impounding the shipment. Sir,” Proctor added, lip lifting in a sneer.

  Henricksen’s face went blank, eyes gone flat and cold. He stepped close to Proctor—so close the sergeant blanched and backed up—leaned down and got right in his face. “You listen to me, you little puke. Brutus says deliver these AIs, I deliver ‘em.” He stabbed a finger at th
e RPD behind him, the security-coded cases on the sled. “So, no, Sergeant. You’re not impounding my delivery.” He grabbed the reader from the sergeant’s hands, wiped the entry Proctor had just made before turning the device around, and slamming it against the sergeant’s chest. “Now sign the damn paperwork, Pork Rind, so I can dump this trash in the Vault where it belongs and get the hell outta here.”

  Serengeti laughed softly. “Now that’s the charmer I know.”

  “Damn straight.” Henricksen shoved the sergeant hard, pressing the reader against his chest. “Sign, Pork Pie.”

  Proctor licked his lips, eyes flicking to the camera. “Fine,” he huffed, taking the reader from Henricksen’s hands. “But I’m filing a complaint with Brutus. And if my superiors ask—”

  “Yeah-yeah-yeah. If your superiors complain, you just point them to me, Porkster.”

  Proctor’s face purpled. He gripped the reader with both hands, scrolled to the appropriate section, and pressed his thumb to the authorization block to accept Henricksen’s delivery. “This way,” he said, waving his hand. Wheeled around and stumped over to the pressure door on the far side of the room, leaving the others to follow behind.

  “Told ya.” Henricksen winked at Houseman, nudging him in the side. “Bluster and blow works every time.”

  He swaggered after Proctor, flicking his fingers at Finlay as he passed. A nudge from Serengeti’s RPD and Houseman and Beaulieu belatedly joined them, letting her and the two TSGs bring up the rear.

  Didn’t like the troopers, those TSGs. Glanced nervously at them as they scurried by.

  The guards, for their part, barely seemed to notice. They just waited for the ‘bots to scuttle past before turning as a unit and lining up in a line. Forming a wall behind Henricksen and the others while Proctor entered his code at the pressure door.

  “Looks like we’ve got an escort,” Serengeti noted.

  Henricksen glanced over his shoulder, frowning at the armed guards behind them. “Might have to do this the hard way,” he murmured, finger tapping against the butt of his pistol.

  “It’ll attract attention.”

  Henricksen twitched his shoulders. “Don’t see much choice.”