Burnt Worlds (7 page)

The two of them fell silent.
 
Dillon watched the Dosh look down at the floor, then at his hands that were tightly clasped in front of him.
 
The mottled face was still tense.

“Sap,” said the Captain.

“Yes?”

“Sooner or later, we’ll have to tell our bosses.”

“Please, Captain, not yet.
 
There is not enough evidence.
 
It is speculation.
 
My command would see it as unprofessional.
 
Highly unprofessional.”

“Okay, Sap.
 
Just let me know everything.
 
Okay?”

“Yes, Captain.
 
And thank you.”

Dillon rolled his head against the bulkhead in a slight nod.
 
He quietly sighed, and turned to look out the shuttle door.
 
The rain had begun to slacken, and in the distance they could see the lights of cargo movers coming down the road.

High on the wardroom wall, the mechanical clock ticked quietly away, counting off the late hours of night.
 
The ship’s lights were a dim glow, part of their artificial cycle of night and day.
 
Dillon sat alone at the long wooden table of the officer’s mess, a datapad on the table before him.
 
Classical music wafted quietly from the speakers, almost drowned out by the noise from the ventilation duct.
 
Somewhere in the system, a fan had begun to rattle.
 
No one had been able to trace it down yet, and it was getting louder.
 
He tried to ignore it.
 

Dillon glanced at the glass that sat next to his datapad.
 
A few bits of foam were all that remained of his beer.
 
Before leaving New Halifax, they hadn’t loaded enough to provide the crew with their daily ration.
 
But the messes’ fridges had still been stocked from
Borealis
’ previous journey, and it had been one of those days.
 
There had been a lot of 'those days' recently.
 
The supplies they’d picked up on Tashann a few days ago weren’t working out as well as they’d hoped.
 
The amorphous matter for the fabricators wasn’t of high quality, and a lot of it had been wasted fabricating replacement parts that failed as soon as they were installed.
 
The Kenma grain meal had been universally reviled by the crew, even though it didn’t cause any digestive problems.

A few things had somehow gone right though, which was reassuring to both Captain and crew.
 
Despite the fabricator problems, Sap had eventually been able to get the port side engine running.
 
Though his caution continued, they managed to increase the ship’s speed to 10 light years per hour; at this rate, the trip home would only take six months.
 
Dillon and the other officers, with Sap’s input, were still working on an exact route, deciding which systems to stop at for periodic replenishment of food and supplies.
 
Once they got through the Burnt Worlds, they hoped things would get easier.
 

The Commodore was satisfied, maybe even pleased, with their progress so far.
 
She was particularly happy about Sap’s ability to get the ship’s systems running as well as he had.
 
Admiral Clarke had sent words of encouragement, as had the chain of command up through the Defence Minister, the Prime Minister and the Palace.
 
Making a single jump of thirty-five thousand light years was a great scientific and technological achievement, and was being carefully kept out of the news.
 
No need for everyone else to learn about it just yet.

Dillon hadn’t mentioned Sap’s theory to the Commodore.
 
Like the Mechanic had said, it was only speculation. So for now he just made sure to document the theory, along with everything else that was going on, in the diary he had started.
 
It seemed likely that there would be an inquiry when they got back, and he thought it wise to write everything down rather than depend on his memory.
 

Somewhere along the line, Dillon had traded his datapad stylus for one of the ink-filled pens intended for the paper logbook.
 
Chewing on the end of the pen, he flicked back and forth on his datapad.
 
Sap’s analysis of the jump drive’s parts was meticulously detailed, but there wasn’t enough evidence to point to any one reason for the explosion.
 
Lieutenant Cho had pulled the sensor logs for the time of the accident, but the data was very clear:
 
they had been the only ship in the system at the time.
 
The start and end points of the jump had been carefully chosen by the fleet’s top jump-technology specialists:
 
always in open space, in regions dense with dark energy, where the jump drives would be most efficient.
 
The areas were all thoroughly mapped; there were no obstructions, no hazards.
 
It was all routine; all across human space, ships made jumps dozens of times a day without incident.
 
Dillon’s ice-blue eyes flicked to his glass, which was still empty.
 
He continued chewing mercilessly on his pen.

The speaker on the wall chirped.
 
“Bridge to wardroom,” said Lieutenant Atwell.
 
“Is the Captain there?”

He leaned back in his chair, and poked the comm terminal.
 
“Captain here.
 
What’s up, Atwell?”

“Sir, we’ve got a distress signal.
 
It’s not far away.”

“Out here?
 
Huh.”
 
He looked again at his empty glass.
 
“On my way.”

-----

“As you were,” said Dillon pre-emptively, as he stepped onto the bridge.
 
PO Lee had started to open his mouth to speak, but turned it into a grin instead.
 
“Sir.”

Atwell was hunched over the communications console.
 
“Sir.
 
The Dosh command passed this to us.”

The Captain looked over her shoulder as she continued.
 
“It’s Palani.
 
An automated distress beacon from an escape pod.
 
They don’t have any ships this side of the Burnt Worlds, so they asked the Dosh for help.
 
The Dosh don’t have any ships out this way either, but they know we’re out here, so they sent it to us.
 
We’re the only ship within a thousand light years.”

He read the message transcript on the screen.
 
“Palani?
 
Out beyond the Burnt Worlds?
 
Huh.”

The message streamed by again; small video windows showed the accompanying messages from the Dosh command.
 
Dillon poked at the screen, and the playback stopped.
 
“Call them back, Atwell.
 
Tell them we’re on our way at our best speed.”

“Yes, sir.
 
We have the exact coordinates, and there’s already a course laid in.
 
Four hours at current speed.”

“Outstanding.
 
Stellar work.
 
Go ahead and change to the new course.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dillon stepped over to the Captain’s chair, and poked several times at a terminal on the ceiling.
 
“Bridge to Head Mechanic.
 
Sorry to wake you, Sap, but we need more speed.”

He listened to the speaker until he heard a mumbled response, then let go of the button.
 
Outside the bridge windows, the stars all shifted silently to the left as the ship made its turn.
 
He thought for a moment about a tiny escape pod, full of frightened people, sitting somewhere out there in the coldness and emptiness.
 
“Atwell?”

“Sir?”

“Who’s in the aft officer’s cabin?”

“Sir?
 
Is that the xeno cabin?
 
With the airlock, variable climate and the weird extra plumbing in the head?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“No one, sir.
 
We’re using it to store… personal effects.”

He grimaced.
 
“Ah.
 
Well, send someone to move the boxes to one of the other empty officer cabins.
 
Then give it some quick housekeeping; see how many we can bunk there.
 
Palani like it cold; what temperature should we set the cabin to?”

Atwell shook her head.
 
“I'm not sure, sir.
 
Their body temperature is nine Celsius, so I’ll set the cabin to seven.”

“Okay.
 
Check atmospherics as well; I think they prefer more oh-two.
 
Or less, I don’t know, I haven’t taken the course yet.
 
Look it up and set the cabin, please.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And ask the hangar crew to have the starboard bay ready for recovery.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“And tell Master Seaman Singh to be ready for possible Palani injured.
 
Cool off the xeno lab in the med bay.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dillon stood for a moment, looking out the bridge window.
 
The stars stopped moving sideways as the ship completed its turn.
 
Behind him was the sound of Atwell starting to do a dozen things at the same time.
 
She was really good that way; competent, without drama.
 
Born to do this.
 
He nodded, pleased with himself, then realised he was still walking around with a pen in his hand.
 
He stuck the end of it between his teeth, and put his hands in his pockets to stop them shaking.

-----

“Hangar team ready?” asked Chief Black.

She was standing in the control room at the front of the starboard hangar, looking out the large window.
 
The Captain and the Head Mechanic were behind her.
 
On the other side of the window, the ramp was wide open and the hangar was exposed to space.
 
With the gravity off, the four suited crewmembers floated along the walls where they clung to handholds.
 
A massive cargo net was stretched across the middle of the hangar.

Framed in the hangar bay opening, a hundred metres out into space, was the Palani pod.
 
It lazily tumbled end over end, but remained otherwise still as the
Borealis
matched its speed and heading.

The four crewmembers gave thumbs-up signs for the Chief to see.
 
She held her hands hovering over the console in front of her.
 
“Okay,” she said, “bridge, give me helm control.”

Lee’s voice came through the speaker.
 
“You have the helm, Chief.”

Black’s fingers began to tap at the console, her eyes fixed out the window.
 
“Skipper,” she said casually, “without some attitude control from them, we can’t correct all the tumble.
 
I’ll try to catch them mid-spin, but they’re probably going to whack the deck a bit.”
 
She paused a moment, fingers still tapping.
 
“Sir.”

Dillon kept his hands clasped behind his back.
 
“Understood, Chief.
 
Go ahead and scratch the paint.”

“Aye aye,” she said quietly.

The pod, three metres square and twice as long, kept turning.
 
The light from the nearby star glinted off its blue metallic surface, lighting up the urgent-looking alien script along the sides.
 
Brilliant white beacon lights flashed in unison from the corners.
 
It was clean and unblemished, without a scratch or mark anywhere on it.
 
Dillon wondered if it had been launched early, before its parent vessel had foundered.

“There,” said Chief Black, stabbing the console with her index finger.
 
As the cruiser moved toward it, the pod seemed to suddenly leap into the hangar bay, launching itself into the capture net.
 
As it got tangled up in the mesh, it stopped tumbling.
 

“Who’s awesome?” Black said to herself, then tapped the console again.
 
“Pod captured.
 
Helm returned to bridge.
 
Closing hangar door.
 
Hangar crew, get it right side up and we can start gravity.”

“Be gentle, Chief,” said the Captain.
 
“The people in there have had a rough day.”

“Aye, skipper.
 
I bet they have.”

With the hangar bay door closed and the pod righted, Black started pumping atmosphere into the hangar.
 
When she started slowly restoring gravity, the pod floated down to the deck along with the suited crew, who set about untangling the capture netting that was wound around the shining blue lifeboat.

“Brilliant, Chief.
 
You’re hired.
 
Let’s go.”

Dillon led the way out into the corridor, where others were waiting next to the hangar airlock.
 
“So, apart from the Head Mechanic, who here has met a Palani?”

The crew remained silent, looking sideways at each other.
 

“Me neither,” said the Captain.
 
“So everyone behave yourselves.
 
First impressions and all that.”
 

The airlock’s indicator turned green and it slid open.
 
The hangar was cold as they entered, and the air had a synthetic smell to it.
 
Dillon tugged at his white tunic to straighten it, then jammed a finger into the banded collar and ran it around his neck.
 
“What’s that smell, Sap?
 
Propellant from the pod?”