Burnt Worlds

by S. J. Madill

  “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.”

  5

  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 t
hey’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.

  And there were the letters. A traditional — and depressing — duty to be performed. The Commodore had offered to take care of it, but Dillon had insisted. Eleven letters, each one unique. As honest as operational secrecy would permit, and as heartfelt as he could muster. He even wrote to the families of the Dosh observers, not knowing what they would think of it. Sap had told him that his people didn’t make a big deal about death. But writing letters had seemed the right thing to do.

  That was last night. He had transmitted the letters, along with other reports, to the Commodore just before midnight. He’d felt himself becoming emotionally drained through the writing, and had expected to fall asleep easily. But sleep hadn’t come.

  At least the memorial service had gone well. Such as it was. That had been the second day after the accident — what everyone had taken to calling it — when the crew had been able to catch its breath from the fear and the uncertainty. While the port-side shuttle bay was still filled with the scattered parts of a shuttle under repair, the starboard-side bay was empty, and it made a decent open space for gathering the crew. Everyone in neat rows in their dress blues, trying to find a way to say goodbye to crewmates they’d spoken to only a few days before. His datapad had very thorough files on the proper procedures and the correct words for him to use, but he’d veered from the script after the first sentence. Dry and generic weren’t his style, and he felt the crew deserved better than that. He just thought it best to let the emotion flow, get it all out; stiff upper lip be damned, he decided, there was nothing wrong with shedding a tear in uniform.

  He'd seen the Dosh standing at the back, respectfully paying attention, though it clearly struck the alien as a curiosity. How, Dillon wondered, can death not mean anything to them? Especially given their long lives; did they never feel the loss of someone they’d known for centuries?

  “Sir?”

  Dillon blinked, and saw PO Lee as if for the first time. The petty officer was shorter than Dillon, with a chest like a bull. His graying black hair and moustache were perfectly trimmed, and he stood as if holding down the deck with his presence. Dillon met the PO’s gaze, and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

  “Sir, we’re approaching the Tashann system. How far out shall we emerge to sublight?”

  “A couple million clicks from the fourth planet. Use your best judgement.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  He watched Lee return to his console, which he tapped at a few times. A small timer appeared on the screen. “Sir, emerging from FTL in forty seconds… mark.”

  “Thank you, Mister Lee. Sensors, tell me all about the place as soon as we get there. Quarter-power only on the active scan; I don’t want to spook the locals.’

  “Aye aye, sir,” came a voice behind a console.

  Dillon turned to look at Chief Black as she shuffled onto the bridge, scratching idly at the back of her head. She seemed to catch herself, and turned the movement into a brief salute. “Good morning, sir,” she said without stopping. “There’s plenty of room in the hold now, sir. Couldn’t sleep, so spent most of dog watch in there with Sterling and Isaacs getting it sorted.” She walked in front of him, causing him to lean back. He stared at the side of her head as she went by.

  “Chief?”

  She stopped next to the helm console and looked over her shoulder at him. “Aye, sir?”

  The Captain spoke carefully, not convinced he was going to make sense. “Chief, is your hair… a bit... purple?”

  “A bit, sir. ‘Indigo Sheen’, number forty-seven. Came out a bit purpler than I’d intended.” She shrugged. “Got bored between watches. Sir.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Dillon could see two crewmembers stop what they were doing to look over at him. PO Lee glanced up from his console, glaring at the crewmembers until they returned to work. Dillon couldn’t fathom why, but apparently this was an issue of some interest. Did the crew need more to do, to keep them busy? Or were they trying to distract themselves by way of self-expression?

  The Chief was still looking at him. “Regs just say it can’t be ‘outrageous’, sir.”

  The Captain stared the Chief in the eye for a few moments. It was far too early in the morning for a hefty moral conundrum. But in the Chief’s eyes he saw, amidst the mischief, a flicker of uncertainty. He nodded slowly, hoping he looked thoughtful and wise. “Chief, you know perfectly well this ship’s colours are blue and white. Purple is one of the colours of the Regina. She’s Borealis’ sister, and a fine ship, but she is crewed by savages and degenerates who cheat at curling. And that’s outrageous.” He pointed at Black accusingly, raising one eyebrow in exaggerated disdain. “So it’s blue yes, purple no.”

  He saw some of the crew grin at that, matching the Chief’s smirk. “Aye aye, sir. For the ship.”

  With a brief flash of light, a planet appeared outside the bridge window. Petty Officer Lee tapped his console. “Tashann, sir.”

  Another crewmember spoke up, excitement in her voice. “We’ve got active sensors on us… seven, eight… thirteen in total. Navigational and general-purpose bands only.”

  “Eighteen ships in proximity, sir. Various classes…” came another voice.

  “Two energy signatures never before seen, sir,” said another.

  Dillon lifted one hand in front of him. “Whoa. Settle down, everyone. One at a time. Lee, who’s here?”

  “Eighteen ships within a hundred thousand kilometres, sir. Mongrels, mostly. Homebuilt. Looks like two ex-Dosh ships, four Sandan ships, three An-El-Bezod, there’s Hasanadali, Jaljal, Uta, Grays, one thing that looks like it’s made out of duct tape, and some sphere that is I-don’t-know-what. All of them fifty metres or less; biggest weapons among them are some class-two lasers.”

  “A quarter our size, got it. What’re they up to?”

  “Four were underway. They all stopped what they were doing and are now coasting. No sudden moves anywhere, sir.”

  “They’re flying casual. Okay. We do the same. Nice and steady. Big gentle turn into a standard orbit.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” said Lee. “Big and gentle, sir.”

  Dillon nodded. “Comms, do we have any hails?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the young woman. “Traffic control channel is asking our intentions. An Uta ship has transmitted a list of minerals they’re selling, and, uh…” she trailed off. Turning in her seat, she faced the Captain. “Apparently that sphere would like to ‘embrace Freem’ with one of us, sir.”

  He couldn’t help but make a face. “Embrace what? No, wait, never mind. Tell traffic control we’re here to buy supplies. Ask if we can send down a shuttle. Be polite.”

  The woman put her hand up to touch her earpiece. “Aye aye, sir.” She grimaced. “The sphere seems... urgent, sir. Should I decline?”

  “What? No. Tell them…” He glanced at Chief Black, whose smirk had spread across her face. “Okay, tell them we must observe the ‘ritual of the purple hair’, and then we’ll get back to them.”

  “Sir?”

  Dillon rolled his eyes. “Make something up, Seaman Pakinova. Respectful and courteous, but delay giving a real answer.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Dillon turned to the Chief. “I’m going shopping with Sap and a couple volunteers. Get Lieutenant Cho up here; he’s in charge. And you…” he pointed his finger at her again, “...your job is to find out all about Freem by the time we get back. I’m tempted to send you over. Who knows? You might have the time of your life.”

  “Aye aye, sir. I’ll take pictures.”

  6

  The shuttle ratt
led ominously as it was buffeted about. Miles of increasingly thick and rain-laden atmosphere reluctantly moved aside to let the small craft glide down to the surface of Tashann.

  Dillon sat on the hard bench, his left hand holding the grab strap over his head. He gritted his teeth with each bounce of the shuttle. Across from him sat Saparun, who had his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest. To the Captain’s right, six of the Borealis crew, led by Petty Officer Lee, sat alongside them. One of the marines was clearly unwell, his face darkening with each lurch of the ship. Another marine — O'Neil, he thought — had slumped back into the corner of the bench near the far hatch. Her body was limp, her head was tilted back, and her wide-open mouth rattled with her snoring. Dillon caught the eye of Lee, and tilted his head toward O’Neil. Lee smiled knowingly and made an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

  The internal speaker chirped. “Landing pad seventeen, now in sight. Clear and clean. Twenty seconds.”

  Dillon and the crew began to stand up, grabbing extra handholds while Lee shoved O’Neil awake. They all wore full-length raincoats, all in the same nondescript grey-brown colour without insignia or rank badges. The coats were light enough to be comfortable, but bulky enough to conceal the armour they wore underneath. Bulky enough as well to hide the holstered pistols they wore at their hips, but not enough to hide the carbines of Lee and O’Neil.

  “Ten seconds,” came the pilot’s staccato voice. “Today’s weather is twenty degrees, with a lovely torrential downpour. We’re in landing bay seventeen, so please remember where we parked. Thank you for flying RCAF, have a nice day. Buh-bye. Contact.”

  The shuttle gave one last bounce, then was still. As the whine of the engines began to fade, the port side hatch slid open.

  The monsoon roared in Dillon’s ears, and in moments the damp reached through to his skin. He pulled his coat’s hood up over his head, and peered out at the downpour.

  The sky was dark and green, and the thick air smelled of rotting vegetation. As he stepped out onto the ground, his high boots squelched into shallow mud. Rain loudly battered against his coat and hood, making it hard to hear.