Serengati 2: Dark And Stars Page 6

  “Me,” she told him. “The new me, anyway.”

  Henricksen blanched, snatching his hand back from the window, wiping his fingers on his pants leg. “What have you done?” he breathed, turning his eyes to Sechura’s camera. “What did you do?”

  “I saved her,” she said bluntly, entirely unapologetic. “The design is a hybrid—Valkyrie chassis augmented to accommodate Dreadnought propulsion, weaponry, and munitions chambers. She’s both and neither now. Not quite Valkyrie, not quite Dreadnought either.”

  A whole new kind of warship. Something the universe had never seen.

  “You butchered her,” Henricksen rasped. “You destroyed what she was and turned her into this—this—” He waved at the windows. “This thing. This—”

  “Monster,” Serengeti said quietly, letting that single word hang in the air. “They turned me into a monster, Henricksen. They stole my beauty and put this horror show in its place.”

  Henricksen winced, eyes flickering to her, face filled with apology. Turned to the windows and was quiet a while. “Why?” he asked, shifting his gaze to the camera’s reflection. “Why did you do it?”

  “When we found Serengeti, she was in pieces.” Qaisrani glared at Henricksen over the rim of her glass—displeased with his tone, at being pushed to the margins of this conversation. “We brought her here. Fixed her. Refitted ever—”

  “Why a Dreadnought?” Serengeti interrupted, moving closer to the camera. “Why this shape of all things?”

  “Valkyrie chassis are in short supply these days,” Sechura told her. “If we’d diverted one, Brutus would’ve noticed.”

  Brutus again. Brutus and that shimmer shield. This mutated mess of a body. Secrets upon secrets, and Serengeti caught up in the middle of them.

  She hated this. She was so tired of all the cryptic bullshit.

  “And what,” Serengeti asked, looking from Henricksen to Sechura’s camera, “does Brutus have to do with this?”

  “That,” Sechura sighed, “is a very long story.”

  “I’ve got time.” Serengeti folded Tig’s front legs, hugging them to his metal chest. “What about you, Henricksen? You got time?”

  “Fifty-three damn years’ worth.” Henricksen turned from the windows, copying Serengeti’s pose. “’Splain that,” he said, hooking a thumb at the image on the windows. “Then Brutus.”

  Sechura sighed again, panning the camera, focusing it on the windows as she gathered her thoughts. “The Dreadnoughts…they aren’t so different from us really. Larger than a Valkyrie. Uglier. But we share the same superstructure. The same composite metal skeleton, if not the same skin. This wasn’t—This wasn’t what I wanted,” she said, tone turning apologetic. “But it was the best we could do. Given the circumstances.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Henricksen growled.

  Silence from Sechura, camera an unblinking eye.

  Qaisrani opened her mouth and then closed it, sunk further into that overstuffed couch. Sat there, sipping at her drink, watching Henricksen and Serengeti at the same time.

  “It means I made things difficult,” Serengeti answered, when it was clear Sechura wouldn’t. “You never planned to haul my body back from the fringes, did you, Sechura?”

  “No,” she admitted, voice grudging.

  “The design changes were an afterthought.”

  “Yes,” she hissed, drawing the word out.

  Henricksen frowned in annoyance, eyes flicking between Serengeti and the camera. “Afterthought? Whaddaya mean ‘afterthought?’ Would somebody please speak plain?”

  “I’m only guessing here,” Serengeti looked over at him, nodded to the windows, “but I’m betting there’s an entire Dreadnought out there somewhere.”

  Qaisrani spluttered, choking on her drink. Coughed into her hand, carefully avoiding Serengeti’s eyes.

  “So, the original plan was…what? Shove my AI into that Dreadnought’s shell? Transplant my AI and leave my wrecked chassis behind?”

  “It wasn’t what I wanted,” Sechura insisted. “If there’d been another way—”

  “Bitch,” Henricksen spat, rounding on the camera. “You black-souled bitch.”

  “You should show some respect.” Qaisrani bristled, eyes lighting with fire.

  “So should she,” Henricksen thundered, bristling right back.

  The two captains glared at each other—murder in their eyes, hands curled into fists, on the edge of coming to blows. Serengeti scuttled between them, making calming gestures with Tig’s legs. And then Sechura laughed, easing the tension, giving everyone an excuse to back down.

  “You’re wasting your breath, Qaisrani. You can’t demand Henricksen’s respect. You have to earn it. Isn’t that right, Captain?”

  Henricksen shrugged, arms folding. Winced and rubbed at his elbow.

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” Serengeti rolled close, inspecting the appendage in question.

  “Broke it, remember?” Henricksen looked down at her, nodded to the camera. “Sechura’s got an ace med crew. Fixed it right up. Used one of those osteo-stimulator things to knit the bones back together in just a couple of days. Stuck my face back together with some kinda high-tech glue while they were at it.” He touched at a scar on his temple. “Healed up in a jiffy. Still ugly as sin, though. What’re ya gonna do?” He smiled crookedly, brushing Tig’s leg from his arm.

  “I get the face.” She lined Tig’s face lights up, flashing a quick smile. “But why does your arm still hurt?”

  Henricksen’s leaned against the windows, lips twisting sourly. “Funny thing, that. From what Qaisrani here tells me, they picked Cryo up a good six months ago. Kept us frozen until last week though.” He looked at Sechura’s captain, reclining so comfortably on her pillows—eyes flat, voice empty, face a complete blank. “Not quite sure why. Guess it was just too much trouble to have a busted-up crew from a busted-up Valkyrie wandering around Sechura’s shiny-ass halls.”

  Tig snickered, obviously enjoying the show.

  This time, Serengeti didn’t shush him. A pissed-off Henricksen was quite entertaining as long someone else was the focus of said pissed-offedness.

  “We have limited supplies and limited berthings,” Qaisrani told him, blinking like a wise old owl. “We kept you frozen out of practicality, Captain, not malice. Certainly not because we were embarrassed to have you on board.”

  “Right.” Henricksen grunted, straightening, turning away from Qaisrani as he contemplated the stars outside.

  Serengeti watched him a while, sensing anger in the set of his body—the angle of his shoulders, the ramrod stiffness of his back. “What’s going on, Sechura?” She moved Tig closer to the camera, looking up at her. “Brutus, this abomination…” she waved at the picture of herself on the windows. “I want answers, Sechura. And you can skip that ‘it’s a long story’ bullshit you sold me before.”

  Sechura chuckled, and then laughed aloud, startling everyone in the room.

  “What’s so goddamn funny?” Henricksen growled, twisting around.

  “You. The two of you, actually.” Sechura swiveled the camera from Henricksen to Serengeti. “What’s that saying you have? Something about two peas in a pod?”

  Henricksen glowered, eliciting another laugh. Confusing him. Confusing Qaisrani, who lowered her drink, squinting, giving Henricksen a probing look.

  “I thought to have you as captain once, Henricksen. Did you know that?”

  Henricksen blinked, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

  “I see now that that would’ve been disastrous,” Sechura admitted. “But the two of you…” Another soft chuckle. “You’re made for each other.”

  “Me and her, eh?” Henricksen waggled his thumb, pointing at himself and Serengeti. “Two blunt, surly bastards destined to be together.” He dropped his arms, taking a step toward the camera. “What the hell does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”

  Sechura laughed even louder. “See what I mean?”


  Henricksen scowled, turning back to the windows. “Stop stalling,” he muttered, staring at the camera’s reflection.

  Sechura quieted, laughter disappearing. “I wasn’t stalling, Captain. Just trying to make conversation.”

  “Brutus,” Serengeti prompted, putting herself between Henricksen and the camera. “You want to make conversation, you start there.”

  “Not exactly the type of conversation I had in mind, Sister. Fine,” Sechura sighed, when Serengeti just shrugged. “I’d thought to ease into this, but that’s obviously not what either of you want.”

  A touch came—featherlight and tickling—and a request from Sechura with it. Wanting access to Serengeti’s network. To share a packet of information.

  “Easier if I just show you,” Sechura explained.

  Serengeti considered the request then allowed it, initiating the connection herself. Shivered as an enormous data package came through—video images with audio overlays, decades of recorded transmissions harvested from restricted Fleet archives.

  Fifty-three years’ worth of data downloaded to Serengeti’s database in one big lump. A chopped-up, abbreviated version with it that she loaded to Tig’s camera, turning that projector on the glass.

  Seven

  A battle came first—starships arrayed along two sides, bright lines of fire passing between them.

  “You asked me about Brutus,” Sechura began, choosing her words carefully as the images played out. “Brutus changed after the battle near Hon-shen-shura.”

  Hon-shen-shura. Where it all began. The beginning of the end that lasted fifty-three years before Seychelles finally arrived, and life began again.

  Serengeti watched that long-ago battle play out on the windows. Reached in, and froze the feed as a Valkyrie exploded—sleek-sided shape connecting with a long-nosed Aphelion, destroying both ships in an instant. “Seychelles,” she whispered, voice breaking.

  I miss you, Sister. Every day.

  “Seychelles was just one of many we lost that day, Sister. We entered that battle with three hundred and forty-two ships, and ran away with our tails stuck between our legs. Just two hundred and six of our vessels left.” Sechura reached for her, touching at Serengeti’s mind. The two of them sharing Seychelles’s last moments together.

  Mourning together, in the way only two Valkyrie Sisters could.

  “We should’ve jumped away,” Henricksen said bitterly. “But Brutus was too damned pig-headed to listen to reason.”

  “We should have,” Sechura agreed. “And Brutus knows it. I think he knew it as soon as that second Aphelion appeared. He was commander in charge, trusted with the execution of a major operation, and he failed. Horribly. He carried that failure back with him. Never quite let it go.”

  Henricksen looked around, considering the camera. Nodded once—respect and acknowledgement, a complex mix of emotions wrapped up in that one simple gesture—and turned his eyes back to the windows. Watched the images closely as Sechura advanced the feed, moving past that awful moment when Seychelles exploded and died. Speeding the whole thing up to leave Hon-shen-shura behind.

  Jumped from one battle to another and another—the composition of the Fleet changing with each iteration, but not the subject. Not the violence and death. And at the heart of it all, Brutus. Always Brutus commanding the Meridian Alliance fleet.

  Henricksen folded one arm under the other, wincing as that sore elbow bent. Curled a hand into a loose fist and pressed it against his lips as he studied the images flickering across the windows.

  Didn’t say anything—not for a long, long time. Just stood there, watching. Absorbing one battle after another, brow wrinkled in concentration. And then the arms unfolded, hand reaching as the feed skipped ahead again. Fingertips brushing at the glass.

  “He’s hunting, isn’t he?” He turned his head, looking up at Sechura’s camera. “All these years. All this time. But Brutus hasn’t given up hunting those damn DSR ships from Hon-shen-shura.”

  “No,” Sechura said quietly. “He hasn’t. He’s obsessed with them. Always searching, wasting Fleet resources trying to ferret them out.” She was quiet a moment, camera turning toward the glass. “Fractured the fleet in the process.” A note of anger crept into Sechura’s voice. A hint of disgust. “Diverted ships from planetary patrols and shipping lane surveillance to chase after these…phantoms.”

  “That’s not what the Fleet’s about.” Henricksen dropped his hand, shaking his head. “Fleet’s job is to protect, to serve the people and planets of the Meridian Alliance.” He raised his head, looking right at the camera. “It’s not supposed to spend all its time chasing some raggedy-ass rebellion across the length and breadth of the galaxy just because some whack-job AI’s got a personal vendetta.”

  “I think he believed in that once. Just like the rest of us. But Hon-shen-shura…” Sechura trailed off, sighing heavily. “Brutus changed after that disastrous battle. He got so caught up in that failure—his failure—that he forgot why the Fleet came to be in the first place. Stupid really,” she grunted, letting the video run. “We crushed the Dark Star Revolution a decade ago. There’s just pockets of resistance left now, and they’re not even all that much trouble anymore. Make a run on our munitions stores now and then. Fuel depots, that kind of thing, but they’re not really much of a threat these days. But Brutus still goes after them.” Sechura sighed again, a hint of bitterness creeping into her tone. “I’ve seen him abandon patrols and send an armed host halfway across the galaxy just to take on a few dozen ships.”

  Henricksen shared a look with Serengeti, lips pulling downward in a frown. “Last I checked, Cerberus was in charge of the Fleet, not Brutus.” He paused, head tilting, letting the unspoken question hang in the air. “Where is he?” he asked, when Sechura remained silent. “Why doesn’t he put a stop to all this?”

  “Gone,” Sechura told him.

  “Gone?” Henricksen’s frown deepened. “What do you mean ‘gone?’ He’s the goddamn Admiral of the Fleet! He can’t just up and take off. Where the hell’s he gone to?”

  “No one knows for sure.” Qaisrani cupped her drink in both hands, spinning the glass between them. “There are rumors, of course…” She trailed off, looking up at the camera. “Best if we just show you. Let the images speak for themselves.”

  A nod from Qaisrani and Sechura jumped the feed ahead, skipping over another few battles before stopping again.

  No Brutus this time. No Meridian Alliance fleet facing off against DSR ships. Just two vessels showed on the windows—slick transports like the bureaucrats used for official business making a slow approach to a massive, gun-thick monster that could only be Cerberus.

  Distinctive outline to the Citadel. Fortress shaped, like its namesake. Tiered structures stacked one on top of another sitting above and below a wide, central ring. Oversized guns and towering communications arrays rising like towers from those spinneret points.

  Nothing at all in the universe that looked like Cerberus. He was the one and only, the first and last Citadel the engineers built. Massively complex, exorbitantly expensive, meaning there likely would never be another like him. Ever.

  Sechura enhanced the audio feed as communications came through—chatter passing back and forth between the two transports, queries sent to Cerberus as they approached.

  Queries Cerberus never answered. The Citadel just hung out there, silent as a tomb, giving no indication whatsoever that he even knew those ships were there.

  Frustrated, the hailing vessels moved closer, spitting out shuttles—tiny silver specks looking impossibly small and incredibly vulnerable as they closed the gap between the transports that spawned them and the oh-so-silent Citadel ahead.

  More communications—the transports calling insistently, refusing to give up—and then a mass of shrieking feedback blotted the audio track out.

  Henricksen winced, clapping his hands over his ears as Cerberus—silent, unmoving to this point—suddenly came to life.

  W
eapons systems activated, spewing out chattering waves of plasma fire that snuffed the shuttles out. The transports survived a few seconds longer, but Cerberus’s guns found them before long. Struck true, and tore them apart.

  The feed ran on, showing clouds of debris drifting. Cerberus’s guns glowing bright blue for a moment or two before shutting back down.

  “What just happened?” Henricksen whispered, pale, shaken. “Those were transport vessels. Bureaucratic transport vessels. They don’t carry any weapons.”

  “No,” Sechura agreed. “They don’t.”

  “You’re telling me Cerberus fired on unarmed transport vessels carrying a bureaucratic delegation.” Serengeti could hardly believe it. Wouldn’t have believed it without that video as evidence.

  “No one can explain it.” Qaisrani leaned against her pillows, sipping her drink. “Some say he’s gone mad.”

  “He’s a goddamn AI,” Henricksen growled. “AI don’t go mad.”

  “Anything can go mad,” Serengeti murmured, earning herself a strange look. She started to explain, and then let it go, realizing Henricksen would never understand.

  Fifty-three years alone…she’d learned a few things in all that time. Learned things about herself during those long years in the dark.

  “So who’s in charge?” she asked, turning away from him, looking up at Sechura’s camera. “With Cerberus gone, who’s in charge of the Fleet?”

  “Who do you think?” Sechura ran the video feed forward, skipping rapid-fire through another dozen battles. Brutus playing center stage in every last one of them, surrounded by Meridian Alliance ships.

  “No,” Serengeti breathed, shaking Tig’s head. “Brutus? How did that happen?”

  “The Fleet needed a commander.” Qaisrani spun her glass between her palms, face unreadable, dark eyes filled with secrets. “Brutus stepped in to fill the gap.”

  Serengeti rounded angrily on the woman reclining on the couch. “And you just let him? Why didn’t someone stand up to him? Challenge him for leadership of the Fleet? Where were you, Sister?” she demanded, turning Tig’s eyes back to the camera. “Where were our Sisters—?”