by S. J. Madill
Burnt Worlds
S.J. Madill
© Copyright 2014, 2015 by S.J. Madill
All rights reserved
Registration #1110357, CIPO
No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, altered, or distributed in any commercial or non-commercial use without the express written consent of the author. Exception is made for quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
This is all Lia’s fault.
She made me start writing again.
Mike, DeVerne, and Jaye read it and gave feedback. Their honest comments are more valuable than days of self-editing.
Mom and Dad believed I could, and should. So I did.
I’m so lucky to share a universe with these people.
To Dad,
who took his kids to see a movie.
1
Despite the chaos around him, Lieutenant Dillon didn't want to wake up. The right side of his face felt warm and sticky against the smooth surface where it rested. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but might have been better had there not been red lights blinking in front of him. He tried to focus his eyes and remember what the red lights were for. He thought they might be something important.
Dillon tried to take a breath and tasted copper and smoke. He coughed. Was something on fire? He wondered if he should move his head, but the thought of it brought a dull, throbbing drumbeat of pain.
The noises around him gradually became clearer, and he realized that people were yelling. They sounded muffled, as if they were coming from a long way away.
Dillon became aware of someone's face leaning into view — a woman. She looked familiar. He had the feeling he knew her from somewhere.
The woman said something he couldn’t make out, then looked away, speaking to someone outside of his field of vision. Even so close, the people talking sounded like they were underwater. He wondered if that was a bad sign.
There was a brief flicker of light, and Dillon's neck tingled. Someone grabbed his head and pulled it up, unsticking him from the smooth surface and its blinking red lights. Another hand appeared, holding a clear mask over his nose and mouth. The pungent smell of medicated oxygen assaulted his nose, and he took a deep breath. As he exhaled and took another, consciousness started to flood toward him. The murky sounds around him turned into a rush and then a roar, and in a wave it all came together.
“Lieutenant!”
He looked down at the control panel in front of him. Partly-dried blood was smeared across the middle of it. Rows of red lights blinked, indicating the many things that were malfunctioning.
“Lieutenant! Sir!”
Dillon pivoted in his seat, putting a hand on the panel to steady himself. Bringing his head up, he saw a new face. She was crouched in front of him, holding a medical scanner, her dark brown eyes intently studying his. She looked bruised and dishevelled, and he wondered if he did too.
Dillon tried to speak clearly, but his voice was a croak inside the mask. “Master Seaman Singh.”
Singh nodded, looking at something on his forehead. “Sir. Welcome back. You’ll be fine.” She turned off the scanner, grabbed a bag of equipment and stood up. Nodding at someone nearby, she quickly moved away.
Chief Petty Officer Black came and stood in front of Dillon. She was tall and lean, with green eyes and disorderly black hair. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, her lips twitched into a smirk. “You’ve looked better, Dillon,” she drawled. “Sir.”
He pulled the mask away from his face. “Chief. What’s going on? We came out of the jump, I remember some clapping…”
Black nodded. “And then the engine room exploded. I think you were unbuckled; everyone who wasn’t strapped in got smacked to the floor. Or console, in your case, sir. My scanner said your vitals were fine, so I left you for the medics. You've been out for five minutes or so.” She glanced away for a moment. “Among the living, we’ve got broken bones, concussions, a lot of bruising.”
“You just left me for the medics? You’re shit at this.”
The Chief just shrugged. “You were fine, and I was busy yelling at people until life support came back.”
The Lieutenant nodded. “Ah. Okay, point taken, fair enough.” Then his mind replayed what she’d said, and it was like a sudden punch in the chest. “Wait. ‘Among the living’?”
The smirk faded. “Aye, sir. The explosion breached the hull, port side. Vented Engineering to space.”
Dillon brought his hand up to rub his neck, but stopped when he saw his fingers smeared with half-dried blood. “The Captain…”
“Aye, sir. The Captain, the XO, all of Engineering, and those Dosh observers. They didn’t have a chance.”
“Fuck.”
“Aye, sir.”
Dillon sat back in the chair, holding one palm outward as if to fend her off. “Wait. Let me think.” he muttered.
The Chief’s smirk returned for a moment. “If I may, sir: things are stable. We’ve got life support, but not much else. You go hit the head for a minute and wash up. Trust me on this; you look like shit. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”
Dillon slowly stood up, his hand grabbing at the console to steady himself. He was slightly taller than the Chief, and he watched her watching him. “Okay,” he said slowly.
The Chief leaned closer, nodding toward the bridge hatch. “We can do this, Dillon,” she murmured. “One step at a time.” She still had the smirk on her face, but it wasn't in her eyes.
-----
Less than a minute later, Lieutenant Dillon re-entered the bridge, turning slightly sideways to move his shoulders through the hatch. His straight brown hair was wet, and with his palms, he smoothed it back from his temples. His bruised face had been hastily cleaned, and his ice-blue eyes looked out from under his furrowed brow. Around him, crewmembers were clustered at red-lit consoles and open access panels, their handheld datapads displaying the arcane details of wiring diagrams and low-level system procedures. Everyone glanced up at him, and he quickly waved them back to their work.
Dillon took a few steps toward the empty Captain’s chair to the left of the bridge. “Chief, a moment of your time, please,” he said. He was pleased to sound more in-control than he felt. Looking out the bridge windows didn’t help; the stars in the heavens pivoted and wheeled drunkenly about, whirling in giddy circles as the ship tumbled through space. His stomach began to spin, and he looked away from the window as Chief Black walked up to him.
Her eyes gave him a quick once-over. “Much better, sir,” she said quietly.
The Lieutenant nodded self-consciously. “Thanks, Chief. Where are the department heads?”
“Sir, I sent Sub-Lieutenant Cho to sickbay, on account of his broken wrist. I suspect he went to the gear locker instead. He was looking for a hand-held nav computer, to figure out where we are.”
“So we don’t know where we are. Got it.” Dillon found himself starting a mental checklist. He was already dreading how long that list would be and how he’d keep track of it all. “How about Atwell?”
“Sub-Lieutenant Atwell is in the electronics suite, trying to get the computer working...or sensors. Anything, really, sir.”
He nodded, mentally fighting an urgent need to fidget. “We don’t know if we’re going to run into anything. Got it,” he said. “Okay, let’s call home…” he trailed off as Black slowly shook her head. “Don’t tell me,” he said, “we have no Tunnel cells?”
The Chief shook her head again. “Comms hub is next to Engineering, and—”
“Got it, can’t call home,” Dillon interrupted. He sighed, looking up at the ceiling. He puffed his cheeks as he exhaled. “Jump drive
gone, I assume.”
“Scrap, sir.”
“FTL drive?”
“Offline, sir. Probably damaged, since—”
“Power?”
“Primary reactor offline. We’ve got two backup fusions going, which is enough for life support, but we don’t know if we’ll be able to repair—”
Dillon interrupted again. “Yeah, since Engineering is vented to space. Got it.” Black raised an eyebrow at him, which he chose to ignore. “Sublight?” he asked.
Black replied calmly, watching his face as she spoke. “Offline, sir.”
He sighed heavily. “Manoeuvring thrusters…” he glanced out the window again at the reeling backdrop of stars, “…wait, never mind. Sorry I asked. Shuttle?”
“Up against the wall of the hangar, sir. Extent of damage unkn—”
His voice edged louder. “Why wasn’t it secured?”
The Chief lowered her voice, giving him a meaningful look. “It was secured, sir. It broke its moorings in the explosion. The hangar crew is working on it.”
Dillon forced himself to stop, take a deep breath, and slow himself down. His heart was still hammering in his chest, and the nausea refused to subside. He wanted to tell Captain Patel or the XO about all this, to be given something to do, but instead he replayed in his mind every unkind thought he’d ever had of them. He thought about every time he’d ever wished for more responsibility.
Dillon put his hand to his forehead and smoothed back his hair. “Okay. Okay. Understood. How about weapons? I know we didn’t ship slugs for the main guns, but how about the beam weapons?”
Chief Black nodded. She was watching Dillon, her brow creased, her bright green eyes searching his face. He became conscious of his clenched jaw and quickened pulse. She spoke calmly. “Beam weapon diagnostics check out, sir. They weren’t charged, so we don’t know for sure, but they say they’re good. Of course, we didn’t bring the gun crews.”
Dillon exhaled loudly. “Yeah. A nice day for a drive. Just an easy long-jump test, to impress our Dosh friends. Skeleton crew only, quick jump, out and back before lunch. Dammit. Typical fucking Monday.”
“It’s Tuesday, sir.”
Dillon blinked, then made a face. “And now I’ve lost a day.”
“No sir, it’s been Tuesday all morning. Your orders, sir?”
“Okay, we need to…wait a minute.” He reached up to the intercom on the ceiling, and stabbed a button with his finger. The silence from the speaker continued unabated. Dillon looked at the Chief. “No hailer?”
“No hailer, sir,” came the Chief’s calm reply.
“So, my audience is whoever…” he cleared his throat, and started again, loud enough for the entire bridge to hear. “Crew of Borealis, listen up.”
The bridge crew stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. The dozen faces, some of them bruised or bandaged, all of them drawn and lined with worry, watched him with an intensity he’d never seen before. Not in simulations, or vids, or in the impassioned lectures by training officers who’d been through a day like this. Dillon paused, partly to make sure he had their attention and partly to make sure his voice would be there when he started talking again. He glanced at the old-fashioned mechanical chronometer on the bridge’s rear bulkhead, and was pleased to see it tick. At least something was still working.
“Chief of the ship, record in the log: as of now, ten-oh-nine hours standard, Tuesday the tenth of March, twenty-three oh three, on the apparent death of Captain Patel and Executive Officer Logan, I am temporarily assuming command of this vessel.”
“Aye aye, sir,” said the Chief, clear enough for everyone to hear.
“Everyone, we have power and we have life support. We’re in no immediate danger. Let’s figure out what works and what doesn’t, what we can fix and what we can’t. Don’t rush. Be thorough. You all know your business, so I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to check below. Carry on.”
“Aye, sir,” said the Chief again.
Dillon accompanied her to the back of the bridge, where she unlatched and opened the cover of a thick, old-fashioned paper book. Turning it to the bookmarked page, she picked up an archaic ink-filled pen and began to make an entry. The Lieutenant leaned in to watch her. “Don’t know if that helped,” he muttered. “You have the bridge; I’ll be back once I know what’s going on below.”
Black didn’t look up from her writing. She was struggling to make her handwriting legible. “Understood. It probably helped a little. Keep calm…” she glanced sideways at him, “...sir.”
“I’m trying to,” he muttered.
A reassuring smirk appeared on her face. “You can do this.”
Dillon's voice hissed through clenched teeth. “I have to do this.”
The Chief paused from her writing, and turned her head to look at the Lieutenant. “Dillon,” she whispered, her voice firm. “I’m on your team, remember? Remember Billy Ridell, holding your face in the snow?”
Dillon paused a moment, staring at her. After a moment, a small grin pried up the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. I was in fourth grade; you were in eighth. Best snowball throw in history.”
She tapped the pen on the tip of her nose. “Boom,” she whispered.
Dillon nodded, taking a deep breath. “Carry on, Chief.”
“Aye, sir.”
2
Stepping off the last step at the bottom of the stairs, Dillon made his way aft toward the Engineering compartment. Anxious-looking crewmembers stepped aside to let him pass, as he clambered through narrow hatchways and stepped over loose equipment on the deck.
The air further aft was increasingly hazy and acrid with the smell of smoke and burnt plastic. Ahead of him, members of a damage control party, dressed in flame-proof suits and respirators, were setting up portable air scrubbers in the passageway. One of them stood and saluted as Dillon approached. He waved it off; now wasn’t the time for that sort of thing, but he understood the impulse. Reverting to their training was healthy. It kept them busy, kept them from thinking too much about what had happened or the situation in which they now found themselves. Which was just as well, because the situation was a hell of a mess. The simulators could replicate a ship falling apart in a hundred different ways, but not the tightness in his chest as he moved along the passageway, silently acknowledging each grim face that greeted him.
One suited crewmember, gold crowns on his sleeves, stepped forward as Dillon approached. Petty Officer Lee’s voice sounded machine-like, the speaker in his respirator cutting off his words. “Lieutenant sir. You now in charge?”
Dillon nodded. “Yeah, looks like it.”
“Aye, sir. Let me show you Engineering.”
Lee led him toward the darkness at the far end of the passageway, where the air was thicker still. Portable lights had been hooked to the bulkheads, providing spots of intense illumination amid the darkness.
Several of the lights shone on the hatch to the Engineering airlock. A thick line of hardened foam around the edge of the door showed where damage-control robots had neatly sprayed leak sealant.
Tapping his gloved hand on the hatch’s small window, Lee motioned for Dillon to look.
Normally, the airlock had a second hatch ten feet further in. That hatch was missing, as was most of the bulkhead it had been attached to. Cables dangled in the open space, beyond which lay the damaged engine room.
Inside, to his left, a row of emergency lights provided faint illumination, shining over the starboard side engine. Hazy cones of light glinted off the debris that floated around the compartment. It was just bits of metal and composite, but in his mind, Dillon imagined he could see it move. His heartbeat began to pound in his ears again as he imagined the Captain and the XO, the Engineers and the Dosh observers, suddenly being ripped out through a massive hole in the hull, struggling to breathe as they tumbled away from the ship.
Dillon gave his head a quick shake, as if to jar the thoughts loose. He looked around again, and could make out
the damaged main reactor, surrounded by a crowd of footlocker-sized backup reactors and capacitor banks. A half-dozen of the small reactors were floating off the deck, tethered only by their cabling; two of them were fully lit.
He turned to Lee, stabbing at the glass with his finger. “Those unsecured reactors… are they…?”
Lee nodded slowly, his metallic voice coming through the respirator. “All that’s keeping the lights on, sir.”
Dillon looked back through the tiny window. To the right of the reactors, he could see the battered port-side engine. The jump drive had been next to the engine, but only twisted mountings remained. Where the drive should have been, there was a gaping hole in the hull, its edges bent slightly outward. Beyond, he could see into space, where the stars continued their erratic dance. Four pairs of small green lights moved methodically around the edges of the hole.
He looked back at Lee. “Damage control bots — how’re they doing?”
Lee offered a nod. “First thing they did was get the fabricator going, sir; not sure where they got that idea. They’ve been using it to make plating and supports. At the rate they’re going, the compartment should be sealed in under an hour.”
“What’s your plan then? Get gravity back in there?”
Lee shook his head. “No sir, first we secure the reactors to the deck, and anything else that’s floating in there. Then we get the gravity going, ‘cos the fusions don’t like zero gee. Then a pressure test, then atmosphere, then…” He shrugged, offering a thin smile. “I dunno, wallpaper I guess. Sir.”
Dillon mustered a grin in return, and patted the man on the arm. “Carry on, Lee. When we get home, the first round’s on me.”
Nodding, Lee looked past him as another suited crewmember approached. “Murray,” said Lee, “what’s up?”