Burnt Worlds (4 page)

Out the windows, the stars still reeled drunkenly across the darkness.
 
Chief Black was standing next to the empty Captain’s chair, hands clasped behind her back, watching the bridge crew go about their work.
 
Next to her was Lieutenant Cho with his plastic-wrapped wrist.
 
Tall, athletic, smart and handsome, the sort of young person for whom all things seemed possible.
 
The sort of young person that normally irritated the hell out of Dillon.
 
Damn him for being likeable.

“Captain,” said Cho, with a salute and a flash of his winning smile.
 
The smile didn’t spread to his eyes, which still looked tense.
 
“Lieutenant Atwell is below.
 
She just reported that they’re going to try a restart on the computer.”

Dillon nodded.
 
“Great news, thank you.
 
And we have our hailer back.”

“Aye, sir,” said the Chief. “Critical equipment first.
 
I can’t do my job if I can’t yell at people.”
 

All the displays and consoles suddenly went blank, then began lighting back up one at a time.
 
Cho went to examine the readout scrolling by on one of them.

Chief Black stepped next to the Captain.
 
“It appears the computer is alive, sir.”
 
There was a moment’s pause, and she spoke more quietly, not looking at him.
 
“How you doing?”

“Small steps,” he muttered.

Black turned her head to look past Dillon, at the empty Captain’s chair behind him.
 
“You’ll have to sit there at some point, sir.”

“I know, Chief.
 
I know.”

The deck beneath them trembled briefly, then again, prompting the crew to reach for grab bars.
 
Outside, the reckless gyrations of the stars began to slow down.
 
The spinning patterns became simpler, until the heavens were just rotating about a single point.
 
Then the deck trembled again, and the rotation slowed.
 
As the ship stopped tumbling through space, the view out the bridge windows became still.
 
“Much better,” Dillon announced.
 
“If we can get the galley producing coffee again, I may become an optimist.”

-----

By the middle of the afternoon, the engine compartment had been sealed and re-pressurised, allowing the crew to enter the room and start repairing the machinery.

Dillon stepped into the compartment, following a seaman bearing a large thermos and a stack of mugs.
 
He saw the Dosh look up from the reactor control panel and say something that made three other heads pop up from behind the equipment.
 
They all came forward to where the seaman had put down the thermos and was now pouring out mugs of coffee.
 
Dillon took one for himself and held one out to the red-skinned alien.
 
“Do you like coffee, Head Mechanic?”

The Dosh eagerly grabbed at the mug, flashing his abrupt toothy smile as he accepted it.

“Yes, yes.
 
I thank you, Captain.
 
A good time for a break.”

“Glad to be of service, Head Mechanic.”

The Dosh held his mug in both hands, blowing on the top of the coffee.
 
“Please, Captain, my name is Saparun.
 
Call me Sap.”

“Sure thing, Sap.”

Saparun sipped tentatively at his coffee.
 
The ridges on his head quivered, his eyes fluttered and he gave what could only be a sigh.
 
“They say that humanity’s greatest gift to the galaxy has been its language.
 
That is
pakteta
.
 
Your greatest gift is coffee.
 
It is made of… bliss.”

Dillon stepped aside to make way for the other crew members.
 
“
Pakteta
?”

The Head Mechanic still held his mug to his chin, clutching it like an object of religious devotion.
 
His green eyes met Dillon’s blue, then went back to his coffee.
 
“
Teta
,” he said quietly, “Large herbivore, ten tons, very stupid.
 
Pak
, its waste, it sprays in all directions.”

“Nice,” said Dillon, putting his mug down.
 
He nodded toward the other crewmembers who had been working with Sap.
 
Like the Dosh, they were all wearing overcoats, their large pockets stuffed with handheld devices and tools.
 
“You found assistants.”

Saparun nodded.
 
“Yes.
 
You called for volunteers.
 
Thank you.
 
These three arrived soon after.
 
They are all attentive and eager to learn.
 
I think one is interested in a career in engineering.
 
I think one may be more interested in me.”

“Yeah?”

Sap gave a barely-perceptible shrug.
 
“Time will tell.
 
In any event, they are all well motivated.
 
Probably the circumstances.”

“Maybe so.
 
At the same time, not many humans have had a chance to work with a Dosh.”

The Mechanic was still holding his mug against his chin, his razor-thin lips peeled back to expose his teeth.
 
Looking at the Captain, his eyes fluttered again as he inhaled deeply.
 
The yellow patches on his cheeks began to flush with red.

“Sap, you don’t have to hold it like that —”

“Yes I do,” he interrupted.
 
He inhaled again.

Dillon drank at his coffee and looked around the engine room.
 
The repair bots had done a tidy job of patching the inner and outer hulls, leaving a neat white rectangle of plating.
 
Two structural ribs had been repaired as well, the fabricated white alloy sections matching the shape of the original metal.
 
The port-side engine lay damaged, with a stack of metre-wide capacitors and backup reactors piled in front of it.
 
He nodded toward the pile.
 
“Those all wrecked?”

Sap hadn’t looked away from the Captain.
 
“Yes.
 
All fifteen capacitors and ten out of twelve fusion reactors.
 
They are designed to survive sudden changes in pressure.
 
They did not.”

“Huh.
 
We’ll need to get some more if we ever want to jump again.”
 
He looked over at the main reactor where the crew had been working.
 
There was a tiny blue glow within.
 
“Is… is the reactor running?”

The toothy smile widened.
 
“Yes, Captain.
 
We just started it.
 
It is only at a… low simmer?”

Dillon nodded.
 
“I’m impressed.
 
Very well done.”

The two of them stood in silence for a while. Dillon was keeping an eye on the crewmembers nearby, who stood in a small circle drinking their coffee.
 
They laughed at something one of them said, but it seemed self-conscious.
 
He looked at the Dosh, who was still watching him.
 
The alien’s eyes fluttered as he took a deep drink.
 
“How are you?” asked Sap.

Dillon thought for a few moments.
 
“I’m keeping busy.
 
I will process it all later.”

A nod from the alien.
 
“As the immediate fears fade, strong emotions will come to the surface.
 
I have not seen a counsellor on board… a chaplain?”

The Captain rubbed the back of his neck.
 
“Yeah.
 
When there’s no proper chaplain, an officer is usually given the role.”

Sap paused.
 
“You?”

“Yeah.”

“So the crew are well served.”
 
A drink, a flutter of the eyes.
 
“Have you ever met a Palani?
 
They have a priest on every ship.
 
Very high status.
 
They take their priests very seriously.”

Dillon smiled.
 
“I thought the Palani took
everything
seriously.”

“This is true.”
 
Sap drained the last of his coffee, and looked ruefully down into the empty mug.
 
“My own people take things seriously as well.
 
We strive for caution and certainty, and prefer the familiarity of procedure and process.
 
But not in all things.”
 
He set the mug down.
 
“We use humour to offset uncertainty and discomfort.
 
As for you, I understand humans sometimes seek counsel from their elders.”

The Captain’s smile faded.
 
“Apart from the Chief, I’m pretty sure I’m the oldest person aboard.”

“This is not true, Captain.
 
I am three hundred and eighty-four.”

Dillon blinked. “I had no idea.”

Sap hesitated, then carefully patted the Captain’s arm as he turned to leave.
 
“I won’t be far away.”

As the last of the eight bell chimes sounded through the hailer, the ship’s interior lighting finished brightening to its normal ‘daylight’ setting.
 
Lieutenant Atwell rubbed her eyes, then ran her fingers through her short, curly hair.
 
Leaning her diminutive frame on the counter at the back of the bridge, she looked around once more as thoughts of her bunk crept into her mind.
 
Most of the morning watch were already on the bridge, and were in the process of relieving their weary colleagues.
 
Her watch had been peaceful.
 
She’d spent most of it supervising the crew, or reading quietly at a console.

“Deck!” snapped a voice to her right.
 
She instinctively jolted upright to attention even as the Captain’s “Carry on” came from her left.
 

“Good morning, Atwell,” he said cheerily.
 

“Morning, skipper,” she replied, looking up at her commander.
 
He was freshly showered and shaved, but his eyes were dark and rimmed with red.
 
That made three nights in a row - ever since the accident - that he obviously hadn’t slept well.
 
“Have a good night?” she asked politely, though she knew the answer.

“Not really,” he said.
 
“But thanks for asking.
 
What’s our situation?”

Atwell nodded toward the bridge windows.
 
Beyond, the stars were barely moving.
 
“Still underway, still on course.
 
One light year per hour.”

“Still at one?” asked the Captain, shaking his head.
 
“That barely qualifies as forward movement.
 
Did the Dosh say why?”

“Same as before, sir:
 
we’ve got one engine, and it’s running with replicated parts, he doesn’t want to push it yet.
 
Still at a low—”

“Simmer.
 
Yeah.”

“Aye, sir.
 
Simmer.”

“So…”
 
Dillon stopped for a moment, watching out the windows.
 
He sighed and looked down, his eyes following a seam in the floor.
 
After a few moments of silence, he looked back up. “Right, this planet he said we should try… do we know anything about it?”

“Yes, sir, I read everything we had.
 
We just don’t have a lot of information about planets this far out.
 
Beyond Palani space are the Burnt Worlds, and beyond that are the independent states.
 
We’re a bit beyond
that
.
 
No real government out here, just worlds and settlements fending for themselves.
 
A few planetside starports. I doubt they've seen an Earth cruiser before.”

The Captain frowned.
 
“Hadn’t thought of that.
 
We’ll be a bit of a novelty.
 
Okay, when we get there we’ll see how much of a fuss people make, and fake it from there.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And well done, Atwell.
 
Good initiative.”

Atwell gave a wide smile.
 
“Thank you, sir.”

Dillon paused a moment, looking at her.
 
“How’re you doing, Lieutenant?”

She shrugged.
 
“Tired, sir, but well.”

“Fair enough.
 
Okay, thank you Atwell, you’re relieved.
 
To your bunk.”

“Aye aye, sir,” she replied, saluting as she left the bridge.

Atwell was doing fine, Dillon thought.
 
Apart from losing a coin toss that got her night watch for the first week, and having trouble adjusting to the hours, she had been calm and professional—fun, even.
 
More than one of the bridge’s night watch had mentioned how she would periodically break the monotony with a joke, or some trivia she’d learned about other cultures.
 
It had only been three nights, though.
 
He’d seen her praying once or twice, in her off hours; silently reciting prayers while doing something unrelated, like reading her datapad.
 
It seemed to help her.
 
Hopefully, she would be still doing just as well after they’d been out here for a month.
 
Or a year.

The crew was each responding in his or her own way.
 
Dillon had kept the additional role of counsellor; he thought it important that the crew knew
he
thought it was important, and not some lesser job to be handed off to one of the other officers.
 
For every crewmember who came forward to speak with him - and there had been several - he assumed there were a handful who were hesitant.