by S. J. Madill
And that had been it. Never mind the highly favourable evaluations from his commanding officers and his peers. Never mind the test scores, the simulator results, the rest of it. Not suitable for command. He’d finally got a follow-up interview with the specialist, to find out why he’d put that into his file. Just the ‘informed impression’ he’d had after their interview. Informed impression. That someone’s career ought to be torpedoed. And that was that.
“Five days,” said Sap.
Dillon looked up. Black was still poking at her datapad, Sap was looking at him, the others were looking at each other or blankly ahead.
He cleared his throat. “Okay. Five days of food, at standard rations. Have you figured out how far from home we are?”
Cho shook his head. “Captain, I’m still having trouble getting any of the stars to match up.”
“You can’t find anything?” asked Atwell.
“Nothing matches,” said Cho defensively. “The computer says we came out where we intended. That makes us about sixty-four thousand light years from home. At maximum speed, that’s twenty-six days and a bit.”
“We’re not doing maximum speed,” said Sap. “A hundred light years per hour is unlikely. The power requirements are different here. I hope to get us to fifty.”
“Then it’s fifty-three days,” said Atwell. “We’ll need to forage, Captain.”
“Yeah,” Dillon nodded. He winced at a pain in his gut. “Cho, build us a course headed toward home, visiting any planet that looks likely to have organic material on it. Don’t be picky; we just need something for the food fabricators to use. Organic material that won’t kill us. Get on that.”
Cho nodded. “Aye aye, sir.”
“I can help with that,” said Atwell.
“No need, thanks,” said Cho.
The Captain looked at Atwell. “You find out far we can stretch what we’ve got. Work with Singh to find out what we can manage and still get nutritional requirements. Feel free to come up with a miracle or two.” He winced again.
“Aye aye, sir. If we go to half rations, we can get ten days at least. With full recycling, I can make it a month, maybe more. You okay, sir?”
Dillon grunted. “I think the Fuckitall’s wearing off. Sap, wring as much out of the engines as you can. Maybe be a bit more Dosh and a little less human in your methods; spare parts are going to be hard to come by. Lee, keep at the repairs. Black, you drive. Atwell, you have the bridge next. I’ll be in my cabin.” He pushed himself up from his chair, suddenly feeling cold, his insides screaming in protest. “Dismissed.”
-----
The idol was smooth and white, expertly carved in marble. Tassali Yenaara held the figure of the Divine Elinth in both hands, one gloved finger tracing a golden vein that ran through the stone. She touched the idol’s cheek, looking at the carved eyes with their expression of endless loss. The figure’s outstretched marble arms reached toward her, their eternal offer of compassion, of welcome and of rest.
She sighed and placed the idol upright on the altar cloth in front of the other Divines. It made a soft chime. So. The idols could not contact Palani Yaal La. Disconnected from the homeworld. Cut off, as the humans say.
After a moment’s hesitation, a projection appeared around her, a recording of the previous view of Resana that she had shared with the Captain. Amba frowned. Not a true vision. A recording. An echo of the past, to be endlessly repeated. She watched the same flock of birds fly past as they had done before. She took a deep breath.
She heard the wardroom door open and turned to look over her shoulder, expecting to see the Captain.
Lieutenant Atwell stood inside the door, rigid in her dress uniform, unmoving but for her eyes that looked around the room, taking in the red and blue Palani sunset that surrounded them.
The Tassali was surprised at herself. She knew that the Captain was unwell, that he would not be attending the ritual. There was no reason for her to have expected it was him coming in the wardroom door, and yet she had.
Their eyes met, and Atwell nodded deferentially. “Ma’am. The Captain has asked me to stand in for him, to represent the ship. He sends his regrets.”
The Palani woman smiled, but hesitated. “He is still unwell?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The Tassali stepped toward the shorter human woman, looking down into her face, studying the furrowed brow and tightness around the eyes. “I appreciate the gesture, Lieutenant. It is worthy and noble. But it is in no way mandatory. You seem uncomfortable, so if—”
“No, ma’am, it’s not that.” Atwell stopped, then abruptly continued, as if exhaling a long-held breath. “I’m honoured to represent the ship. And of course I’m the next most senior officer. It’s just that…” She paused again, her tan cheeks flushing darker.
The Tassali nodded sagely, her features softening into a gentle smile. “I understand, Lieutenant,” she began. “You are a religious person yourself, and you feel uncomfortable participating in a ritual of an alien faith. You would not countenance worshiping an alien god.”
Atwell sighed audibly, her shoulders slumping, the tightness in her face relaxing. “Yes, ma’am. But I want to stay. I mean, you’re the closest…” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Maybe I should go.”
The Tassali’s smile grew. “You cannot reach your normal spiritual advisors, and I am the closest thing there is. I understand.”
A relaxed, sheepish grin. “Thank you for understanding, ma’am.”
The Tassali clasped her gloved hands together. “As for our religions being alien to each other, tell me: did your god create the universe?”
Atwell looked taken aback. “What? Uh, yes, ma’am. Well, that’s what the Bible says.”
Hands unfolded, sweeping open. “And my god did too. Well, that is what the Erwa says. So, since there is only one universe, then logically our gods must be one and the same.”
“Ma’am? I don’t know…”
“Is it at least possible? One god, expressed in two different cultures? You have your saints, we have our Divines.”
Atwell's eyes looked at the sunset projection around them, the flock of birds flying by once again. She tilted her head slightly. “I suppose…”
Yenaara spread her hands wide, and offered a slight bow of her head. “Then perhaps that is close enough for now. I would be pleased if you were to join me. Many Palani lost their lives today, and they deserve the correct farewell.” She paused, one blue eyebrow twitching slightly higher. “I promise not to convert you.”
Atwell stood straight, quickly tugging her uniform jacket down tight. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
The white-skinned Palani priestess turned toward her makeshift altar, the reds of the projected sunlight playing across her waves of blue hair.
“Ma’am?” said Atwell. “I commend your calm, ma’am. After today… you don’t seem… I mean, I would be more upset, ma’am.”
The Tassali turned partway toward Atwell, looking out the corner of her cobalt eyes. “Upset? No, no. I cannot be that. And thank you, Lieutenant.”
24
Inside the starboard hangar bay, Head Mechanic Saparun Vish stood watching the humans work. Petty Officer Lee and a team of three crewmembers were carefully inspecting the seams of the huge outer door.
Glancing over his shoulder at the blue Palani escape pod that occupied half of the hangar bay, Saparun crossed his arms in front of him and slowly leaned back against it. Its blue beacon lights still blinked regularly; the humans hadn’t been able to figure out how to turn them off, and decided it didn’t matter that much anyway. They were incredibly bright, but a strip of duct tape over each one did enough to mute the lights’ brilliance.
It occurred to him that he had never seen the humans use duct tape for working on ducts. The ship had a hundred rolls of the ridiculous material in its stores. Every usage was an affront to Dosh standards; an affirmation of mediocrity, an acceptance that, to the humans at least, ‘good en
ough’ was very often just that. And if their slipshod repairs later defeated the shiny grey tape, they might just return with more of the stuff. He began to make a mental list of the ship’s systems currently held together, in whole or in part, by the ubiquitous strips of grey.
A crewmember suddenly pulled her arms apart, loudly unspooling another strip of tape with the unmistakable ripping sound that grated at his nerves. Another length of sticky ‘good enough’ was applied over a seam between plates in the door, where the repair bot’s thin bead of weld hadn’t adhered properly.
Sap silently shook his head, once again remaining silent at the procedural atrocities being committed all around him. But the time they saved, by — as they say — ‘cutting corners’, could not be denied. The human crews accomplished their tasks in a fraction the time it would have taken a comparable Dosh crew. As much as the Dosh Guild of Mechanics denounced human methods, Sap still believed the humans were on to something. How much more could be accomplished in life, if only he’d used a little duct tape now and then? Would that be so wrong?
He blinked himself back from his thoughts as someone leaned against the Palani pod next to him. Cho folded his arms to match the Dosh, and grinned as he looked sideways at him.
“Three to four,” said the human officer. “We need to do better.”
Sap looked around him, wondering if he’d missed something. “Pardon me, Lieutenant?” he asked.
Cho nodded at the work crew. “Three people supervising, four people working. It’s not officially a Navy job until there are more supervisors than there are workers.”
“Ah,” said the Dosh. Human disdain for bureaucratic inefficiency was deeply rooted. It fit the human need to complain about things. Perceived inequities, the mythical ‘other guy’ who had an easier job, or was better rewarded, or anything else. He could never be sure how much of it was whining, and how much was small talk for its own sake. Another human idiosyncrasy, that: the discomfort with interpersonal quiet, the need to fill silence with small talk.
“So, how’s it going, Sap?” asked Cho.
The Mechanic smiled broadly, showing his serrated rows of teeth. “It is going well, Lieutenant. I was asked to provide my input for the temporary repair work on the hangar door.”
Cho raised an eyebrow. “I very much doubt your input was, ‘use a lot of duct tape’.”
“No,” said Saparun quietly. “It was not.”
“Is it driving you crazy?”
Sighing, the Dosh turned his head to look at the grinning Cho. Yes, he thought, it was driving him crazy. He wanted to yell and push the humans away. He wanted to do the work myself, properly, according to procedure. The hard way. Not because it made sense, but because he'd spent three hundred years doing it that way. “I am displaying cultural sensitivity, Lieutenant. And, as you would say, ‘keeping my trap shut’.”
“Oh,” said the officer, his grin fading. “That bad, huh?”
Sap shrugged. “It is therapy, perhaps. I think it may be healthy for me. I have decided I am not yet too old to try something new. To climb out of the rut.”
Cho studied Sap for a moment, and Sap studied him back. “A rut?” said Cho. “Is that what it feels like, among your people?”
Another shake of the head. “No, it is only so because I have seen other ways. Dosh spend their lives following well-worn paths in all things. It is stable, free from stress. Safe. Calm.”
“So… we’ve corrupted you?”
Saparun laughed a little, a soft gurgling in his throat. “Corrupted me? No, no. Merely shown me what life can be like if I leave the safety net behind. By accepting more risk, I can have more experiences. Good and bad.”
“Yeah, but sometimes humans accept too much risk.”
“True, Lieutenant. The problem of balance is a universal one.” He paused. “But you did not come here to discuss philosophy.”
Cho looked away, back at the repair team working at the hangar door. “Yeah, I’m struggling a bit with mapping a course to get home. I came to ask about speed. You said we weren’t going to get full speed.”
“That is correct. The engines are… wallowing? Like a waterborne ship ploughing through large waves. It is unusual.”
The human officer glanced back at him. “What? Well, what speed can we maintain? I’ll need a exact number if I’m going to be building a route home. Have to make sure we only steer for planets we can reach before we starve.”
“Ah. That is sensible. I am confident, Lieutenant, that we can maintain thirty-five light years per hour. Perhaps a little more from time to time, but thirty-five to be sure.”
Cho exhaled through pursed lips. “Thirty-five? Ouch. Okay, I’ll work with that. It’ll restrict our search to the most likely-looking planets. And Sap?”
The Dosh raised his brow.
“Just ‘Cho’.”
“Ah, my apologies. Which reminds me, we never did have lunch as we had planned.”
Cho shrugged. “We still can. Midnight okay?”
“Midnight is fine. I will see you in the wardroom.”
The human straightened up, tapping the Palani pod as he turned to leave. “See you then,” he said, a note of cheer in his voice.
Saparun watched over his shoulder as Cho walked toward the passageway at the back of the hangar. The loud screech of duct tape being unspooled caught in his ear, and he silently shook his head. Sighing, he turned back to watch the humans work. Not too late to get out of the rut. Not too late to take some risks, and experience new things.
-----
Tassali Yenaara quietly closed the cabinet door, looking around the wardroom to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. The ritual of farewell had gone smoothly, as it should; she’d performed it enough times to know the steps and the invocations. She could do most of the Palani rituals and liturgies, end to end, without even stopping to think about it. The thought made her frown.
It was nice to have Lieutenant Atwell present. The human woman had stood respectfully throughout the service, even through the parts that were in the Palani tongue. According to Atwell, the rituals of her own faith were usually conducted in an ancient religious language. So perhaps not understanding the Palani service was not uncomfortable for her.
The Palani hummed contentedly to herself as she carefully bundled up the idols, wrapping each in its own cloth and placing it into the patala, the small storage chest. Atwell had remarked on her singing voice, which she had found beautiful and ‘captivating’. Obviously. The Tassali genes were crafted to have a calming, inspiring and yes, captivating voice. She could not be otherwise any more than a human could have blue hair. Apart from the Chief, of course.
Atwell had a nice singing voice too. For a human. With some gentle coaxing, the Tassali had convinced the Lieutenant to offer a small moment of her own; some well-known part of the farewell ritual of her own faith. After a hesitating start, Atwell had started into a hymn called ‘Amazing Grace’. It was haunting and emotional, a song of forgiveness and redemption. Apparently it had been written by one of Atwell’s ancestors, centuries ago: a slave ship captain who had changed his ways. Amba shook her head. How recently the humans had been savages. How quickly they had developed.
She made a mental note to find the hymn in the ship’s library; presumably they had it somewhere in their storage network. Gathering up the patala, she walked quietly from the wardroom, turning in the direction of the senior cabins.
Despite the late hour, a two-person crew was at work in the corridor. An access panel leaned up against the wall, and one of the crewmembers had stuck their head and arms inside the opening in the wall, or ‘bulkhead’, as they called it. Why have one name for every part of the ship when they can confuse the aliens with two or more? The sound of quickly-dripping water came from inside the wall, and the second crewmember gave her a quick nod as he handed a tool to his companion.
Rounding the corner at the bridge, the Tassali started down the corridor where the officers had their cabins. She was looking
forward to a cold, leisurely shower, then quiet meditation before retiring.
As she passed the Captain’s cabin, the door chirped. She glanced at the door console, and the red ‘locked’ display had been replaced by a new image she hadn’t seen before. As she heard someone clambering up the stairs far behind her, she leaned closer to look at the display: it was white, with a large red cross in the middle. A cold, dense knot dropped into the pit of her stomach as the words ‘Medical Override’ flashed on the screen.
“Excuse me, ma’am! Coming through!” said a breathless Singh, a case of equipment in one hand, as she skidded to a stop in front of the Captain’s door. Slapping her right hand onto the door console, she barked, “Singh, Master Seaman. Medical override, open!”
The door console chirped and turned green. “C’mon,” said Singh, as she squeezed through the gap of the opening door.
25
The last remnants of the dream faded away, and Dillon began floating upward toward consciousness. It had been a beautiful dream, he thought, and then corrected himself: no, it had been a sad dream. A funeral or something. For someone; he couldn’t remember who. But the choir had sounded wonderful, like a single voice in harmony with itself. He’d never forget that voice, how it made ‘Amazing Grace’ sound so ethereal, like…
Hold on, the singing’s still going. It’s quieter now, barely more than a whisper, but - wait, am I still at the funeral? What have I done, fallen asleep at someone’s funeral service? Oh god, don’t let anyone see me… did I snore?
He took a deep breath — it tasted clean, antiseptic — and with a mighty push, forced his eyes open.
In front of his eyes was the upper edge of the breathing mask that covered his nose and mouth. “Not again,” he said. It sounded like a whimper, which wasn’t what he’d intended.
He was in his cabin. He’d recognise that ceiling plating anywhere, with its access panels, vents and recessed handholds. The singing stopped, and he heard his own chair squeak as it turned.