Hecate Page 16

  “Maybe.” Henricksen tilted his head, thinking. Remembering their introduction to Kinsey. His mention of experimental trials and two burnt out pilots. “Sure is in an all-fired hurry, isn’t he?”

  Bothered him, that. Rushing tech into service never went well. Usually led to disastrous results. People getting hurt.

  Sikuuku tilted his glass, frowning at the contents. Shrugged his shoulders, tracking Petros and Baldini as they walked across the room. “You heard him. Project’s behind schedule. Government’s threatening to pull the funding.” The two pilots exited and he turned his eyes back to Henricksen. “That happens and our billets go, too. We get shipped off to whatever leftover ship has an opening.”

  Henricksen bowed his head, considering the drink in his hands. “Fleet always needs gunners. You’ll land on your feet.”

  “Needs captains, too,” Sikuuku told him.

  Henricksen grunted, lips twisting in a bitter smile. Fleet only need as many captains as they had ships. He might get lucky—boot some poor commander off an Aurora, find an opening on a Titan somewhere. More likely he’d end up in some admin position. Languish stationside for a few years before the Fleet quietly processed him out.

  He closed his eyes, rubbing wearily at his face. Didn’t want that. God he didn’t want to end his career that way. “I’ll talk to Shaw and Karansky. See where they are with the RV-N.”

  Sikuuku nodded, raising his glass in thanks.

  “I want you to up the flight crews’ time in the sims, though. We took it easy on ’em today—”

  “Easy. Right,” Sikuuku grunted. “Five hours in the sims isn’t exactly what I’d call easy.”

  Henricksen shrugged his shoulders, swirling the juice in his glass. “Real thing’s gonna be a whole lot harder.” He glanced up, catching Sikuuku’s eyes. “Run ’em hard in the sims, give ’em a taste of what they’re in for.”

  Sikuuku was quiet a moment, studying Henricksen across the table. “Push ’em too hard and you’ll break some of ‘em.”

  Henricksen nodded slowly. “Rather break ’em than kill ’em.” Didn’t feel good about saying that, but sometimes the lesser of two evils was the best you could do. “You heard Kinsey—that chassis put two pilots in the hospital. Two that we know of. Messed up so bad they had to be medically retired. Can’t live with that,” he said, shaking his head hard. “I won’t put any of this crew into the RV-N until their damned good and ready.”

  “And the ship?” Sikuuku asked quietly. “Train ’em in the sims all you want, but how do you know when the ships are ready?”

  Tough question. Difficult to answer since he wasn’t an engineer. Henricksen’s eyes drifted to Shaw sitting in the corner. Shaw who ran the pit crew, and likely knew the RV-N’s design specs back to front.

  “Shaw’ll know.” He flicked his eyes to Sikuuku, nodded to Shaw in the corner. Just she and Ogawa sitting there now, Taggert and Abboud having left a few minutes ago, ostensibly to go back to the barracks. “Karansky’s Kinsey’s man. Not sure if I can trust what he tells me. But Shaw…”

  No-nonsense woman. Ran her deck gang like a factory. Had no qualms at all about ordering Karansky’s civ engineers around.

  Liked having Shaw in charge of RV-N maintenance. Felt a hell of a lot better about strapping his ass into that pilot mangler they called a stealth ship knowing Shaw and her deck gang had had their hands on it.

  Sikuuku yawned widely, eyes drifting to the bar again.

  “Go,” Henricksen ordered, waving him away. “Keep it to one, though. Need you sharp, tomorrow, ya hear?”

  “Always sharp,” Sikuuku retorted, lips skinning back in a cocksure grin. “Pilot’s a bit rusty but this gunner’s got it goin’ on.”

  “Oh, you’ve got something going on, alright,” Henricksen said sourly. “Just not sure what it is.”

  Sikuuku barked a laugh, flipping an off-handed salute. Shoved back his chair and ambled over to the bar and poured himself a beer.

  Sipped at it, drinking it slowly while he made the rounds of the crew in the mess hall, stopping now and then to swap a few words.

  Henricksen watched him a while, envying him that drink, disgusting as the beer here was. Checked the time and found he had an hour yet before curfew, decided to treat himself to a drink as well.

  Half a glass only. To settle the godawful curry. Make sure it stayed down.

  Twelve

  Henricksen upped the pace on the flight crews’ training the very next morning. Rousted everyone out of bed at 0530, allowing them thirty short minutes to shower, and eat, and scrub the cobwebs from their brains before shoving them into the trainers—all six crews at once this time—and keeping them there the rest of the day.

  Eight full hours in the sims, with just a short break at mid-day to grab lunch from the chow hall. The few minutes it took the sim to reset between runs to catch their breath, let the adrenaline bleed out.

  Brutal schedule, that day. Hard on the body. Mind as well. Needed to be hard on them, though—nothing at all easy about Black Ops and this experimental ship. A chassis Kinsey freely admitted had already crippled two of his most experienced test pilots. And sneaking around the galaxy trying to act like a ghost…nothing at all easy about that.

  ‘Course, they had the AI to help them. Henricksen still refused to use them—not yet, that time would come—but the other pilots tested them out. He could hear them cutting in during training, shy little voices offering advice when prompted. Encouragement when they thought it needed. Eager, so very eager despite that shyness. Wanting to be part of this whole process, and yet afraid to intrude, which felt…wrong, somehow. That approach, their mannerisms, none of it felt right.

  Part of the reason he avoided them. Hecate was never shy. Didn’t need to be eager, because she knew her place. Staked her claim long, long ago.

  Crew showed her respect, not the other way ‘round.

  But if the flight crews wanted those shy little AI voices in the sims, he wouldn’t begrudge it. Not necessarily a bad idea, familiarizing themselves with the mindset that ran the Raven chassis. Supposed he should, eventually. When the time was right.

  Until then, he focused on training. Running the crews all day with those sprightly little AI voices dipping in and out. Pointed their tired, sore carcasses to the tiny classroom for debriefings afterward. Two full hours of video review with the flight crews critiquing each other while Sikuuku and Henricksen looked on, offering their own thoughts every now and then, but mostly letting the crew do the talking.

  Kept a stiff upper lip and took their own lumps when the time came because, the fact was, Henricksen’s runs had just as many problems as any of the others. Did better on his second day than the first—just one failed mission this time and no simulated deaths—and the third day’s training went even better. A week in the sims and the muscle memory started to return, instincts kicking in, reflexes with them. Training pod felt less and less like simulation, and more and more like the real thing. Its reactions known and expected, if awfully twitchy. His own responses second-nature, adjustments made without even realizing what he’d done.

  Hyperspace jumps felt just as bumpy—rough road through jump in these Ravens, but Henricksen was starting to get things down. Finally catching up with the younger pilots—better believe that felt good. Hadn’t been a half-bad jump jockey once upon a time—pushers weren’t warships, and the Titans and Aurora’s he’d piloted were a far cry from this sharp-sided, on-the-edge-of-chaos stealth ship they’d stuck him in, but he held his own. Taught Petros and Baldini a thing or two while he was at it.

  Petros. Baldini.

  Henricksen shook his head just thinking about the two Sosholo boys. Trouble, the both of them. Reined them in a bit that first week, pushed them hard—pushed everyone hard—to wring the piss and vinegar out of them, clear the egotistical asshole out of their minds. Made some progress, but those two had years of practice being assholes—a mountain of baggage to overcome.

  Would, though—Henricksen
was confident about that. Made it his own personal mission to beat that arrogant Academy crap out of the two pilots. Take some time, though, and likely a whole lot of patience. Maybe more than he had.

  Henricksen was good—very good, wouldn’t have made captain the old fashioned way if he wasn’t—and doggedly persistent. His own kind of asshole when he needed to be. But he wasn’t a miracle worker. Couldn’t fix stupid overnight.

  Luckily, the rest of the crew was solid. Every last one of them. Even Petros and Baldini when they let the attitudes go. Huddled together in the mess hall after training and debrief, swapping stories, congratulating and complaining, pairings starting to develop—pilots and gunners, scan techs and engineering officers—that Henricksen dutifully jotted down.

  Always interesting how that happened. Often times it was crew who didn’t even particularly like each other that clicked in training. The same characteristics that put them at odds in real life making them complementary in the strapped down virtual reality of the sims.

  Three weeks Henricksen worked them, hitting the crews hard. Shoving them in the sim pods early and keeping them there for hours. Debriefs afterward, reviewing the training data in exacting, excruciating detail. Food because the body needed fuel to keep pace with that grueling schedule. Sleep to recharge. Prevent them from completely burning out.

  Curfew to make sure crew got that sleep. Remove the temptation to skive off and get drunk. Mess around in a neighbor’s rack.

  Crew bucked it, of course, not liking that restriction. But a week in and they stopped complaining. Too damn tired. Not even particularly interested after a few days of Henricksen’s training sessions.

  A week in, and 2200 found the mess hall all but deserted, the exhausted flight crews long since gone to their beds. Three weeks in, and the mech gang owned the mess hall from 2000 on.

  Three weeks—that’s all it took to break them. Three solid weeks of sim training, without a single day off.

  “They’re starting to feel it.” Sikuuku nudged at Henricksen’s arm, pointing to Fisker nodding off in a corner—eyes closed, chin resting on his chest, body sprawled in that boneless way only corpses or sleeping people could.

  Rest of the crew in the debrief room didn’t look all that much better. They yawned and rubbed at their faces, blinking bleary eyes. Fighting sleep like Fisker, and yet too damned stubborn to admit they were tired.

  “Think we should call it a night?”

  “Might as well. Crew’s knackered.” Henricksen yawned, stretching in his chair. Winced as abused joints popped and overworked muscles cramped, complaining at the unrelenting abuse. “Could sleep for a week myself,” he admitted. “Get ’em outta here.” He rubbed at his eyes, waved at the people in the room. “Make sure no one skips chow, though.”

  Huge mistake, forgetting to fuel the body. Tired body recovered with enough sleep. Tired, hungry body just ate itself. Eventually collapsed under its own weight.

  “Alright, boys and girls.” Sikuuku walked over to the podium and shut the projector off. “Captain’s decided to take it easy on you bunch of lazybones and set you loose early.”

  A modicum of sleepy cheering greeted that announcement, accompanied by a smattering of lethargic applause.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m just as happy as you.” Sikuuku smiled, hooking a thumb toward the door. “Now get outta here, ya slugs. Grab some chow and some rack time. We’ll be back at it at 0600 tomorrow.”

  Crew groaned, immediately complaining. Apparently they’d expected a lie-in in addition to the early dismissal.

  Huh-uh. Not happening. Henricksen’s charity only went so far.

  He stood, joining Sikuuku at the podium, folded his arms and turned a stony stare upon the room. Kept staring until the grumbling quieted, crew slipping from their seats, slouching toward the door.

  Weary, every last one of them. Heads bowed, shoulders slumping, looking like it took every last bit of energy left in them just to walk across that room.

  Almost felt bad for them—Henricksen knew that feeling himself. Felt half-wasted himself right now, but refused to let on. Refused to admit to himself just how dog-tired exhausted he felt.

  Combat trained you to live with it. Treat that feeling as normal and move on.

  Keep going.

  Fight harder.

  “Taggert.” He crooked a finger at the engineering officer, pointing to Fisker leaning against the wall. “Take him with you.”

  “Poor, wee fella. All tuckered out.” Taggert walked over and shook Fisker awake, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led the mumbling, exhausted ensign out of the room.

  That left Janssen and Adaeze—the usual suspects. Those two pilots always seemed to linger behind the others—heads bowed together, taking one last look at the video captures, discussing some bit of data on a reader shared between them. Hard workers, those two. The best pilots of the bunch. Henricksen rated his own skills about even with Janssen’s, but Adaeze…honestly still chasing Adaeze. Good reflexes on her. Lot of focus. Cool under pressure, seldom if ever rattled.

  Respected that. Respected the hell out of that. But even the best needed to rest now and then.

  “Janssen. Adaeze.”

  The two pilots kept talking, ignoring Henricksen. Probably oblivious to the fact he’d even spoken.

  Henricksen cleared his throat—loudly—coughing a few times for good measure. Smiled good naturedly when he finally had their attention, and pointed to the reader in Janssen’s hand. “Shut it down. That’s enough for tonight.” Janssen opened his mouth to object, but Henricksen cut him off with a raised hand. Stepped around the podium and yanked the debriefing room door open. “Out,” he ordered, pointing to the sim room on the other side. “Now. Food, sleep, get back at it tomorrow.”

  Janssen shared a look with Adaeze, yawned and nodded—pale face ghostly with exhaustion, dark circles showing under his eyes. He scooped up the reader and twitched his fingers at Adaeze, jerked his head toward the door before heading across the room, Adaeze following a step behind.

  “You too, Chief.” Henricksen crooked a finger at Sikuuku standing at the podium.

  “Thought we might stay a while. Talk about crew assignments.” Sikuuku nodded to Janssen and Adaeze—still fixated on that reader and whatever analytical package or test report they’d been going over before Henricksen kicked them out. Waited until they exited before turning his eyes Henricksen’s way. “Four weeks, remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  Kinsey’s timeline, not Henricksen’s. A bogus, arbitrary number that failed to take into account whether or not the RV-N itself was ready. They’d already burned through three of those weeks in sim training, swapping crew around each day in search of six perfect combinations that probably didn’t exist. Honestly could’ve used three more, but they were up against it now. Just about out of time and definitely testing Kinsey’s patience.

  “Later,” Henricksen promised.

  “When?” Sikuuku folded his arms, chin lifting, giving Henricksen his stubborn look. “Crew’s getting antsy. They’re tired of the constant changes.”

  “I know.” Henricksen sighed, closing his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Believe me, I am too.”

  “You’re avoiding this,” Sikuuku accused.

  Some truth to that. More than Henricksen wanted to admit.

  “Later, alright? Let’s just grab a drink in the mess hall. I’m sick to death of this goddamn room.”

  Sikuuku pursed his lips, considering, mouth twitching at the corners. “Think I’m that cheap of a date, eh?”

  “Know you are.” Henricksen smiled. “Out. Now,” he said, pointing through the door. “Before I change my mind.”

  “Aye, sir. Drinks ahoy, sir.” Sikuuku tapped two fingers to his temple and slipped past Henricksen into the sim room, waiting for him on the other side.

  Shut everything down and locked the room up before taking off. Caught up with Adaeze and Janssen in the control room—the two of them walking a
nd talking with that reader between them, making a slow job of it as a result.

  “Enough of that.” Henricksen snatched the reader from Janssen’s hand, powered it down and passed it to Sikuuku so he couldn’t just turn it back on. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed you two sneaking back into the debriefing room after chow call.”

  Janssen had the decency to blush. Adaeze just smiled, entirely unapologetic.

  “Mess hall,” he said, shoving them toward the door. “Drinks are on me.”

  “Drinks?” Janssen perked up noticeably. “As in more than one?”

  “Just so long as you don’t get sloppy. Now march,” Henricksen ordered, hustling them out the door.

  Just a short walk back to the berthing section, but four tired, slow moving crew turned it into an epic slog. Henricksen ended up walking side-by-side with Adaeze, making small talk to pass the time while Sikuuku followed after, admiring the view of the pilot’s behind.

  Henricksen glanced over his shoulder, giving the gunner a stern look, but Sikuuku kept right on staring—smiling unabashedly as they ambled along. A sigh and Henricksen left him to it. Figured Adaeze would deck him if she got offended—not exactly a shrinking violet, that one.

  “Noticed that little maneuver of yours back there,” he said, in his most casual, just-two-pilots-talking voice. Strolled along beside with his hands in his pockets, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Adaeze saw right through it, smiled innocently back. “Oh yeah? And what maneuver was that?”

  “That slingshot business. Using the asteroids’ pull and your maneuvering jets to hopscotch around the boulder field.”

  Adaeze flushed—dark face deepening a shade—and ducked her head, lips twisting. “Noticed that, did you?”

  “Neatly done,” he told her, tipping an invisible cap. “Been a long time since I saw anyone try something like that.”