Burnt Worlds

by S. J. Madill

  “That was the Bonaventure, one of our biggest cruisers. A crew of five hundred; I know a few of the officers.” He looked up into her eyes. “You know this is futile.”

  “Probably,” she said.

  “This is ridiculous,” he mumbled. He looked at the population display on his left. “All this to defend a population of one.”

  He leaned forward and began entering the children’s names. He tried different combinations of the spouses’ and children’s names. Amba was reading further ahead in the text, looking for clues. “They knew it was a genetically-designed virus,” she said. “They knew that there were others fighting the Horlan — who they called the ‘Spawn’ — and wondered how to contact them. It was a point of dark humour for them,” she said quietly, “that their unknown saviours, in the act of saving them from the Horlan, would kill them all.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Dillon, his tapping at the console coming to a stop. “They killed them all.” He turned his head to look at the display on his left. “That population counter says ‘one’.”

  “Yes,” said Amba, a look of concern on her face. “Her.”

  Dillon shook his head. “No, she’s dead. The population isn’t ‘one’, it’s zero.” He looked back at the console. “So we need to figure out how to tell it.”

  Holding his datapad up so it could translate the changing text on the smaller screen, he tapped at the display, working his way through the system’s different functions.

  “Here,” he said. “This has to do with checking the status of the empire, or civilisation, or whatever.”

  He poked at the screen, and an image of a planet appeared in the display. It paused a moment, then the character for ‘zero’ popped up, and the image of a different planet appeared.

  “Is it going to go through all their worlds?” asked Amba.

  Dillon made a face inside his mask. “Yeah, probably.”

  “What if they had thousands?”

  “Then this might take too long.”

  47

  Atwell reached over her head, punching a button on the ceiling console. “Bridge to Engineering, when do we get our starboard-side thrusters back?”

  She held on to the top of the supervisory console with her other hand, as the view out the bridge windows slid madly past to the left.

  “Anderson here. As fast as we can, sir. Under five minutes.”

  “That’s going to be five long minutes. Do your best. Bridge out.”

  Atwell looked down at the Chief, seated next to her at the console. “You heard that, helm?” asked the Chief. “Right turns only, for five more minutes. Keep the turns as wide as you dare, so the four of them—”

  “Five now, Chief,” said Atwell.

  “—so the five of them don’t try to cut our corner.”

  At the helm console, Pakinova was completely focused on her controls, and only barely nodded to the Chief’s advice.

  “They’re firing!” called the sensor tech.

  The cylinder homeworld slid to the left and downwards out of sight, as the ship banked upward to the right, its inertial compensators howling in protest.

  “Two more coming to pursue, sir,” said the sensors tech.

  “Damn it,” muttered Atwell. “We can’t keep this up all day long.”

  “We have to,” said the Chief.

  “I don’t get it,” continued Atwell. “The other ones we met were so slow they couldn’t keep up with us. These ones don’t even break a sweat. If they could turn or aim worth a damn, they’d have got us ages ago.”

  “Aye to that,” said the Chief. “And I don’t much care for them learning to work together and co-ordinating their fire. Damned unreasonable, sir.”

  The Lieutenant stepped over to stand behind the comms station. “Anything more from the ground team?”

  The tech shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing since the last tight-beam from the shuttle. Lieutenant Cho’s team is back in the lobby, but there’s still no word from the Captain’s team in the basement.”

  “Okay, tell the shuttle crew that there’s no way we’ll be able to land to pick them up. They’ll have to take off and we’ll pick them up at speed, while we’re being pursued by a fleet of these things.”

  “Aye aye, sir. I’ll tell them.”

  “Sir!” yelled Pakinova. “I’ve lost port-side thrusters now!”

  “Fuck!” spat the Chief. “Now we’ve got the turn radius of a battleship. Helm, you’ve still got pitch. Nose up and down all you want.”

  Atwell was back next to the Chief, looking over her shoulder at the console.

  “They’re preparing to fire again, sir!” said the sensor tech.

  “Steady, helm,” said the Chief. “Wait to see the shot. Steady…”

  The ship lurched violently, causing the crew to grab handholds. “Sorry!” cried Pakinova. “Running into debris!” The bridge echoed with loud crashing noises as metallic debris slammed into the hull and windows with the force of artillery. The view out the window began to curl and spin as Pakinova struggled to keep control.

  Atwell looked at the tactical display, her hands holding white-knuckled to an overhead rail.. “Why haven’t they fired?”

  The sensor tech’s voice was quiet and hesitant. “I don't know, sir!” he said. “Still no shots!”

  “What? Say again, sensors?”

  More debris struck the bridge windows and hull, the terrible noise making everyone wince. Atwell moved along the handrail, hand-over-hand, to stand nearer to the sensor console. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  “Sir, I mean, all the cylinders have stopped. All of them, everywhere. Stopped. Dead in space.”

  “What the hell?” said Atwell. “Helm, here’s your chance to get some distance.” She turned to look at the Chief. “What’s going on, Chief? Why are they stopping?”

  The Chief looked over her display again. “It’s the Captain,” she breathed, her face brightening. “It has to be. They did it.” She jumped to her feet, smiling at Atwell. “They fucking did it!”

  The bridge crew all leapt to their feet, cheering and laughing and throwing their arms around each other, even as the ship lurched and they flailed for handholds. The Chief reached out her arms to hug Atwell who, elation on her face and tears in her eyes, grabbed the Chief into her arms and kissed her on the lips. The Chief was stunned at the depth and passion of Atwell’s kiss, and it wasn’t until they separated that she understood. She gaped at the Lieutenant. “Me?” she said, dumbfounded. “All this time, it was me?”

  Atwell’s face was flushed with excitement, then embarrassment, then excitement again. Tears made their way down her cheeks as she smiled and nodded. “Yes, Chief. You. Always you. If you want—”

  The Chief’s mouth fell open. “Hell yes! Why didn’t you say anything?”

  Atwell grabbed a handhold as the ship lurched again. She shrugged. “I guess I was waiting for the right moment. This'll do. Besides…” she smiled, “…it’s been fun watching you go nuts.”

  “You asshole,” said the Chief. “Sir.” A shake of the head. “Come here,” she muttered, pulling Atwell’s face back towards hers.

  48

  Dillon stepped through the double doors and outside into the fresh air of New Halifax, taking a deep breath. He straightened his uniform jacket and started down the front steps of naval headquarters. Looking at the plaza bustling with people, he breathed deeply again. It was the first time he’d been outside since they’d arrived home two days ago.

  At the bottom of the steps he stopped, turning around when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Commander Dillon.”

  He came to attention and saluted, but Commodore Sinclair waved him off, a datapad in her hand. “You did very well, Commander. And that full third stripe suits you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I do believe, Commander, that was one of the most upfront, frank and bullshit-free debriefings I have ever been in.”

  Dillon hesitated. “Uh,
you’re welcome, sir.”

  “Relax, Commander, it was a compliment. I don’t suppose the bureaucrats are very happy, but you said what needed to be said. Have you thought of what you’re going to do next?”

  “No sir, I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You’ll be interested to know, I have already assigned Lieutenant Cho to his next post.”

  “Sir?”

  “A diplomatic rotation, Commander. He’s accepted a posting as an aide-de-camp. He’ll be personally accompanying the new Dosh scientific liaison. Who I think you know.”

  “That’s an excellent assignment, Commodore. For both of them. Are they still on New Halifax?”

  The senior officer shook her head. “No, Commander. They’ve already left. They’re headed to the agricultural colony on New Bogota. Something technical, about the science of growing coffee beans or something.”

  Dillon smiled. “A shrewd man, that Dosh.”

  “Speaking of crew matters,” she said, holding up the datapad. “here’s something you can take care of. Since the Borealis’s commission technically lasted until this morning, and considering your recent speech about being responsible for your ship and crew, this is your problem to sort out. Head to Hellyer Brig. You’ll have to sign for them.”

  He took the offered datapad. “Sir?”

  The Commodore smirked. “There was a ‘Gathering of the Chiefs’ at Dief Station last night.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your very own Chief figured prominently in the night’s events, as well as a female in civilian clothes who, it is rumoured, may be one of Borealis’s officers.”

  “Oh. I see, Commodore.”

  “Apparently, repairs to Dief Station will take some time.”

  “Well—”

  There was a gruff voice to Dillon's left. “I’ll take that.”

  Dillon and the Commodore quickly came to attention and saluted. “Admiral Clarke,” said the Commodore.

  The fleet commander was Dillon’s height, and trim, with thin grey hair and a sun-wrinkled face. His eyes were bright and fixed on Dillon; he nodded as he plucked the datapad from Dillon’s hand. “Commodore. Commander.” He began to tap on the datapad. “I was at a ‘Gathering of the Chiefs’ once, when I was a young lieutenant. Whatever happened, it was worth it.” He handed the datapad back to Dillon, his signature now at the bottom of the screen. “Commander,” said the Admiral, “I appreciated your testimony in there, and your good work during this difficult deployment. Our casualties were light, but we still lost some good ships and crew. It would’ve been worse, it would’ve been a god-awful mess, if it weren’t for your ship and crew.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  “Have you thought about what you’ll do next? The Borealis will need a permanent Captain.”

  “I haven’t really thought about it yet, Admiral.”

  The Admiral waved dismissively. “No rush. You’re taking a month’s leave — the paperwork is in your inbox — and I expect you to come see me when you get back. Oh, and there’s a travel allowance to take that leave anywhere you want.”

  “Thank you, Admiral, but—”

  “For two, Commander.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “On which note, Commander, I appreciate what you've done for us diplomatically. The Dosh want to come and learn more about our methods, and the Palani ambassador has actually spoken to the Prime Minister. In fact, the ambassador is here.” The Admiral nodded back toward the headquarters building. “Inside, in the ‘Iroquois’ room. Here to meet you.”

  “Me, sir? Thank you, sir.” Dillon hesitated. Sir, speaking of Palani, I need to contact—”

  “We already told the Tassali that you were done. She’s on her way.”

  “Sir, thank you for everything.”

  The Admiral scoffed. “Thank me, Commander? I don’t think so. You’re the one who saved our asses. Come see me in a month. Dismissed.”

  Dillon saluted the flag officers, then took the steps two at a time back up to the front door of headquarters.

  49

  Dillon quietly let himself into the conference room. The rows of tables and chairs were empty, and the light reflecting off the wood-panelled walls gave the room a golden glow. A Palani man stood at the wall near the front of the room, examining a painting of an ancient Iroquois village.

  The ambassador was a few inches shorter than Dillon, and thin. He had handsome features, and long blue hair that was streaked with white; his pale white skin was deeply creased around his eyes. He was wearing a neck-to-foot coldsuit, over which his white and blue robes hung to the floor. He turned to look as Dillon approached, fixing him with cobalt-blue eyes that lacked the lustre of others Dillon had seen. “Commander Dillon?” asked the Palani. His voice was higher than expected, but had the same harmony, the same calm.

  Dillon gave a respectful nod. “Ambassador.”

  “I hope your day is pleasant, Commander. I understand you have been busy.”

  “I have, Ambassador, thank you.”

  “I do not wish to keep you, so I will try to be brief.” The Palani took a breath, before starting his carefully-rehearsed speech. “Commander, the recent tragedy would have been far worse, were it not for the actions of you and your crew. You kept the legacy of the Horlan from coming back to haunt us all, for which you are to be commended.”

  “Thank you, Ambassador.”

  The man’s coldsuit creaked as he stepped away from the painting and walked past Dillon. He had a thin, forcibly sincere smile on his face. “Commander.” The ambassador paused, considering his words. “In the process of dealing with this situation, you have learned a great many things about the past of the Palani people.”

  Dillon nodded. “I have.”

  The ambassador glanced at him, then kept walking across the front of the room. “You showed a great deal of discretion, Commander, in what you said openly in the debriefing. I assume that the rest — the details that you did not discuss out loud — were instead communicated to your commanders in a separate, secret manner.”

  “That is a fair assumption, Ambassador.”

  The Palani man stepped closer to Dillon, awkwardly clasping his hands in front of him. “Commander. I hope that, as you go forward in your career, you will continue to exercise the same level of discretion with the truths you have learned. Whatever you may think of the crimes committed by our ancestors, we have always—”

  The two of them turned as the conference room door opened and Amba entered. She wore no coldsuit, her gleaming white robes flowing about her legs as she strode gracefully toward them. Beneath her waves of blue hair, held in place by a golden tiara, her face was beaming, shining and slightly flush with blue. Her brilliant eyes went straight to Dillon, and when they met his, she smiled.

  Amba walked directly to the Commander, placing one gloved hand on his shoulder and leaning in to give him a brief, deep kiss on the lips. “Feda,” she said quietly, her breath hot and sweet. “Your Admiral told me they were done with you. Is it my turn now?”

  “I’ve missed you,” whispered Dillon. “We can go as soon as…,” he nodded in the direction of the ambassador.

  As if noticing him for the first time, Amba turned to look at the Palani man, who was bowing deeply to her. “Delan Estelia,” she said calmly. “an Ambassador now. I have not seen you in some time.”

  The ambassador bowed more deeply. “Baleth aasal Yenaara Tassali, sid eth—”

  “Do not be rude. Speak in the trade language, so everyone in the room can understand.”

  The ambassador hesitated, then began again. “Revered Tassali of Yenaara. I am pleased to meet you again. I apologise to the Commander for any perception of rudeness.”

  Dillon shrugged. “No offence taken.”

  Ambassador Estelia straightened, nodded to Dillon, and looked up at the Tassali standing in front of him. He appeared to think for a few moments before speaking. “Revered Tassali, I was just speaking to the Commander, thanking him for the
great service he has done for the Palani and all the people of the galaxy.” The ambassador’s eyes searched Amba’s, but she remained silent. He forged ahead. “Revered Tassali, you and the Commander here, you have both come into possession of certain difficult truths about Palani history.”

  “Yes,” said Amba. “As I recall, I was being hunted because of it. You may remember how I had to flee the homeworld to avoid being murdered.”

  The ambassador’s face flushed with blue. “Yes,” he said carefully. “That was, in retrospect, overly zealous.”

  “Indeed.”

  The Palani man was quiet a moment, blinking once, his face holding a practised smile.

  “Revered Tassali, as I was just saying to the Commander, I hope in future he — both of you — will be able to use discretion regarding those secrets. For the sake of the Palani people.”

  “At the moment, Ambassador, I have no need to tell anyone.”

  Ambassador Estelia nodded. “Perhaps that is the best that can be hoped for,” he smiled. He produced a small datapad from his robes. “Revered Tassali, I have here a message from your father. He invites you to return home. The Pentarch has agreed that all will be forgiven. All you have to do is—”

  “No.”

  The ambassador hesitated. “...If I may, Revered Tassali, you haven’t heard—”

  “Ambassador, if there are conditions of any kind, the answer is ‘no’.”

  “But… but do you not wish to come home?”

  “My home chased me out, Ambassador. I have found a new one. One that does not expect me to beg.”

  “Well…,” muttered Dillon, but stopped when Amba glanced at him and smirked.

  The Ambassador quickly looked back and forth from Amba to Dillon. “Yes. About that. Revered Tassali, it makes some of the Pentarch uncomfortable, the idea of a Tassali… being with a human. If you were to consider—”

  Amba’s face became more flush with blue, her skin glistening. Dillon heard the soft hiss of a medical armband giving an injection.