by S. J. Madill
“Are you skipper now, Lieutenant?” asked Murray.
“Yeah,” said Dillon.
“Sir, we heard a tapping from the decon airlock. We looked through the viewport, and one of the Dosh is in there.”
Dillon and Lee looked at each other. “No shit?” said Dillon. “Then let’s get ‘em out. Maybe they can talk their government into not declaring war on us. I’d prefer not to have that on my record.”
“Roger that, sir,” said Lee. The three of them carefully stepped along the corridor, picking their way around damaged equipment and hanging cables. “Do you have any idea,” asked Murray, “if it’s a he or a she? I can never tell with Dosh.”
“Neither,” said Dillon, shaking his head. “They’ve got seven sexes. They don’t have ‘he’ or ‘she’.”
“Seven?” said Murray. “Maybe I should try a few.”
Lee snorted. “Fat chance, Murray. You wouldn’t know what went where.”
“Okay, pipe down,” said Dillon. He had only a small grin on his face, but the tension around his eyes had started to relax. The crew was responding well to the situation, all things considered. As a bonus, they might be able to bring one of the Dosh observers home instead of just sending an apologetic note about getting their senior technical experts all killed. All in all, it felt like they were taking baby steps away from ‘total catastrophe’, toward somewhere like ‘near-total catastrophe’. Then again, the more he thought about it, the less reassuring it felt.
Two other damage control team members were at the airlock. They had the door latch’s access panel taken apart, and one of them was pushing a long wooden stick into the mechanism. The other crewmember saluted as the Lieutenant approached.
Dillon raised an eyebrow. He pointed. “Is that…?”
A feminine mechanical voice came from the breath mask. “Yes, sir, a hockey stick. Sorry sir.” She gestured haltingly toward a nearby locker. “It was the first thing I thought of, and my gear was right there, so—”
“No need to apologise. Well done, carry on.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, are you now the senior officer?”
Dillon nodded. “Yes. I’ve been hearing a lot about that.”
With a yelp of triumph from the other crewmember, the hatch shifted against its seals, drawing a sharp hiss of air. Instinctively, Dillon’s hand went to a grab bar on the bulkhead, and he watched as the door swung open into the passageway.
Out from the airlock stepped a Dosh — a tall, narrow-shouldered humanoid — in a bright red overcoat. Its mottled red and yellow skin glistened in the harsh emergency lighting, and in the glare it blinked repeatedly. Its eyes were like those of a cat, all green iris with wide black pupils. Yellow patches in its skin formed stripes that followed ridges from its forehead up over the top of its head and down the back. Flares in the shoulders of its overcoat spoke of ridges there as well.
Nodding briefly to the team, the alien turned to look at Dillon. It abruptly opened its mouth, far enough to display a dense row of tiny, serrated teeth. Dillon realised it was smiling. Possibly the most unnerving smile he’d ever seen, but a smile nonetheless.
The toothy smile disappeared as it spoke. Its voice was soft, its words slowly and carefully spoken. “Lieutenant. I thank you and your team.” The smile reappeared as it extended its hand.
Dillon shook hands with the alien, surprised at the strength of its grip. “You’re very welcome. We were introduced earlier, but only briefly. Head Mechanic Vish, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Lieutenant. At your service.”
“I’m delighted you’re still with us, Head Mechanic. How did you get to the airlock?”
The smile widened, revealing yet more teeth. “The same thing you are doing now, Lieutenant.” It looked meaningfully where Dillon’s left hand still gripped the grab bar. “A habit: always holding something. When the room opened to space, I held on very tight. Once the air was gone, the airlock opened easily. I let myself in.”
“I commend your calm, Head Mechanic.”
“No, Lieutenant. I was not calm.”
“Then I also commend your honesty. What else did you see?”
The Dosh’s smile disappeared, its quiet voice difficult to hear over the sounds of ventilation fans. “With regret, I saw your Captain and Executive Officer and Engineering crew… leave the ship. My own team members left at the same time. In this way, I witness that you are now the senior person on this ship.”
“Yeah. That seems to be the case,” said Dillon, his own voice becoming quieter.
“I am indelicate, Lieutenant. I know that humans do not respond well to death.” The alien's yellow-striped brow furrowed. “After the airlock was safe, I noted that the repair machines had not deployed. I used my datapad to connect to them, and ordered them to begin repairs. I then contacted my homeworld, and advised my senior researchers of the situation.”
Dillon, his eyes downcast, was lost in thought. “Okay, good. Thank you, Head Mechanic. I think we need to…” He looked up at the Dosh. “You contacted your homeworld?”
The tall alien pulled a datapad out of a pocket of its long overcoat. “Yes, Lieutenant. I was telling them that—”
Dillon’s eyes lit up, and he stared at the datapad. “You have a Tunnel cell in that?”
The Dosh seemed surprised. “Yes, Lieutenant. The other end is at my fleet’s research centre.” It paused a moment. “Ah, I understand: the ship’s communication cells are damaged?”
“Yes, they’re all gone.”
The Head Mechanic gave an exaggerated nod. “Then we must ask my command to let you contact your command.”
“You’ve just saved our lives. Thank you.”
The alien shook its head, vigorously. “I do not deserve thanks. I have great self-interest in this. One other thing, Lieutenant?”
“Yes?”
The smile suddenly returned. “Please ask your crew to refer to me as male. From experience, I know this is a matter of considerable anxiety among humans. Your language does not seem to function properly otherwise.”
Dillon opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Uh, yes. Of course. I didn’t know.”
“I am not actually male, of course. Nor am I female. But on my last human ship I was referred to as female, and I like to alternate. I do not wish to favour one over the other.”
The Lieutenant held back a sudden laugh. “What happens when you meet a former shipmate?”
More teeth showed, and the voice gurgled lightly. “I have fun.”
3
Four humans and a Dosh were in the Captain’s cabin. They were standing around the late Captain’s desk, which was still covered in her effects. A framed picture of the Captain’s husband sat next to the console. Lieutenant Dillon was uncomfortable to be in here — Captain Patel had been here just hours ago — and he suspected the others were equally ill at ease. But it was the only terminal on the ship that would let a group of people see and be seen at the same time.
Head Mechanic Vish had contacted the Dosh fleet command, who were now connecting them to the RCN command centre back on New Halifax.
After a few delays, glitches and resets, the holographic display coalesced into the image of Commodore Sinclair. Holograph or not, concern was plainly written on the older woman's face. “Borealis? Are you receiving?”
“Yes, Commodore, loud and clear. Lieutenant Dillon here, with Sub-Lieutenants Cho and Atwell, and Chief Black. We also have Head Mechanic Saparun Vish, who has agreed to take charge of Engineering.”
The image of the Commodore looked around at the people surrounding the display. “Good. Lieutenant, I was contacted by the Dosh liaison five minutes ago. I know the basics of your situation. What is your current status?”
“We’re dead in the water, but not in danger. Life support is online. Main reactor damaged. We have two backup fusions running, the rest are damaged or offline. Capacitors damaged or offline. FTL engines damaged, jump drive destroyed. Shuttle damaged, main computer damaged, sensors offli
ne. Main armament has no ammo. Beam weapons online but no power.”
The Commodore shook her head. “That’s quite a list, Lieutenant. What can you get back?”
Dillon looked to the Dosh, who leaned forward. The alien’s voice was soft. “Commodore. I am pleased to assist. The ship’s fabricators can make most replacement parts, but not all. We can make any part for the main reactor and the drive engines, so repairing those is a certainty. For the jump drive and main computer, not all parts are available, so repairs are not a certainty. The capacitor cores cannot be replicated and so cannot be repaired. Further study will allow me to refine these conclusions.”
“Thank you, Head Mechanic. Lieutenant, let me know when you’re able to get underway. Have you determined your location?”
Dillon hesitated. “No offence to our Dosh friends, but regs say to treat this channel as unsecure.”
“They do. So no specifics, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.” He glanced at Sub-Lieutenant Cho, who had spent twenty feverish minutes doing calculations one-handed on an ordinary datapad. “We stayed on heading, but overshot by about forty light years. I'll send the exact location in an encrypted file.”
“So the accuracy was good. You’ve set an incredible new record for a single jump: ten times greater than ever before. Well done. Of course, that puts you a hell of a long way from home.”
“Yes, Commodore. If we get minimum FTL, we’re looking at almost three hundred days. We hope for better than that.”
“Understood. Keep me informed regularly. Now then, Lieutenant: we need to sort out some details. Are you recording this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. I need a casualty list.”
Dillon looked down at the list of names on the datapad in front of him. He took a deep breath. “Commander Patel. Lieutenant Commander Sayed. Lieutenant Lefebvre. Petty Officer Silverman. Able Seamen Woronuk, van Doorn, MacDougall, Peters. From the Dosh: Head Academician Tahara Pent, Academicians Inulsi Lock and Setana Wult.”
The Commodore was quiet. “Recorded. Eleven casualties.”
“Yes, sir.”
The woman looked away for a few moments, and appeared to slump a little. She picked up a sheet of paper in one hand and straightened in her seat. “Very well. Formalities. The first part gets actual paper, with ink. Apparently I’m supposed to read it out or it doesn’t count.” She cleared her throat. “‘Victoria the Third, by the Grace of God, of Canada and her other realms and territories Queen…,’” whereupon she sighed and gave up. “So on and so forth… Fredrick James Dillon, blah blah, Lieutenant Commander, effective immediately. Well done. An extra half-stripe.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The senior officer waved dismissively and put down the paper. “Don’t thank me. You were on the July list anyway; I’m just moving it up. Entirely deserved, even without the current situation. And Sub-Lieutenants Cho and Atwell are acting Lieutenants for the duration of the mission.” She looked straight at Dillon. “But this isn’t just about pay raises. Second bit of business, I’m making you Captain of the Borealis. I should read it out as well, but I’ll just mail it to you. Read it out yourself. Again, it’s effective immediately. So move in to the Captain’s cabin; the combination to the safe is…uh… seven seven three four five.”
The Chief, the Dosh and the two new Lieutenants were all looking at Dillon. Some of the tension had drained from their faces. The Dosh looked like he was grinning; his rows of tiny white teeth stood out against his red skin. Dillon hoped that their relief was for the same reason as his anxiety: after so much uncertainty, decisions were being made and things were going to be done. Problem was, he was going to be the one doing them.
The Commodore forged ahead. “Third thing: also effective immediately, the Borealis is out of the Reserve squadron and into full commission. You’ll have to travel through Palani space to get home, and they get all bothered about that sort of thing. So that’s full pay for everyone; I’m tacking on hazardous-mission pay as well, considering the circumstances.”
“Thank you, sir. That will do a lot for morale.”
She nodded. “That’s the idea. So here are your orders, Captain: bring the Borealis and her crew safely home. Chart your own course, use your own discretion. Regular updates will be expected. In the Captain’s safe is a credit disc. Use it to buy whatever you need, we’ll honour any purchase that's within reason. If you get the jump drive working again, let me know. Do you understand these orders, Captain?”
Dillon hesitated, sensing his voice wasn’t ready yet. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’m going to go see Admiral Clarke. Congratulations, good luck, carry on. Sinclair out.”
As the Commodore’s image abruptly dissolved, the new Captain’s companions quietly congratulated him, with pats on the back and encouraging smiles. They trooped out of the cabin, while Dillon, stone-faced, tried to be gracious and reassuring.
The door slid shut, and he dropped down into the desk chair. He put his elbows on the desktop and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.
A frantic stream of thoughts ran through his mind. In the space of a few heartbeats, they had gone from a glorious technical triumph — the longest jump ever achieved — to a staggering disaster. He had barely time to walk the length of the ship, gathering details of the situation and forming the beginnings of a plan. The looks on the faces of the crew had been plain to see. Crewmates and friends, gone in the blink of an eye, torn out into the vacuum of space to die, gasping, in the frozen void. He’d tried to calm the worst of the crew’s anxiety, to postpone the grieving and the despondency, to think of something to say that would prevent crushing guilt and depression. He looked down at the desktop, his eyes slow to focus, his thoughts sluggish. Between his fingers, he saw the clock display: it was just after eleven-thirty in the morning.
4
Dillon exited the Captain’s cabin — his cabin — and began the short walk forward to the bridge. He’d had a few minutes to himself, to gather his scattered thoughts, and to push his emotions away. There just wasn’t the time for that now. He’d made a promise to himself to fall apart, properly fall apart, when they got home. But not now. He had a mental list of the things that needed to happen, and the order in which they had to happen. There were — now — forty-one people on this ship other than himself, and they were all going to be looking to him to have the answers. To have the plan. To hold it all together. He just wasn’t sure how…
His train of thought was broken by two sharp whistles from the ceiling. A familiar female voice came from the hailer. “All hands, all hands, this is the Chief. Borealis has a new Captain, a new commission, and new orders. Everything’s been posted in the wardroom and in both messes. Also, the hailer is working again, so if you don’t hear this, contact the bridge. That is all. Chief out.”
He stopped mid-stride, shook his head, and walked the rest of the way to the bridge. “Deck,” said someone, and the crew began to stand at attention until Dillon waved them off. “We definitely don’t have time for that,” he said tersely. “Carry on. Chief?”
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 displa
ys 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.”