by S. J. Madill
Eric took a step onto the bottom lip of the ramp, stopping to look up at Maya and Jerry. "Hey," he said.
"Hey," said Maya. Jerry was silent, only glancing up for a moment before going back to staring down at the ramp between his feet.
Eric pointed behind him. "Sap says the Horlan came during the evacuation. We found—"
"Over there," interrupted Maya, not paying attention to him. She gestured toward a corner of the landing pad. "I guess a bunch of people couldn't get to a ship, and were waiting. Looks like the Horlan corralled them into a corner, then…" she went quiet, her eyes still staring into the dark, stained corner in the distance. "Fuck."
Sap cleared his throat, holding up his datapad. His voice was barely more than a whisper. "Miss Maya. I want to record this place, and send images to my government. I won't identify you or your ship."
Maya gave a dismissive wave. "Sure, whatever."
Farther up the ramp, Jerry looked up. "Make it quick, huh buddy?" His voice had lost its usual enthusiasm. "We shouldn't stay here."
"No," said Sap. "No one should."
CHAPTER 8
Dillon sighed, shaking his head at the two sailors in front of him. Both wore clean and crisp uniforms and stood at attention. Chief Black stood beside them, her uniform likewise sharp and correct. It was a bit of a surprise, seeing the Chief in a fresh uniform; somehow, she managed to appear permanently rumpled, regardless of whether she had just begun her watch or had been up for two days straight.
"Pollock," said Dillon. "Wiggins." He reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Normally, he would be in his bunk right now; his watch had ended an hour ago. But the Captain's Mast was always at oh nine hundred, so here he was. "Please tell me how spilling the ketchup ended up with you two tearing the mess apart, trying to beat the shit out of each other."
Able Seaman Pollock spoke up first. "We're very sorry, sir—"
"Shut it!" snapped the Chief, making the bridge crew jump. Dillon leaned back in his chair; it was far too early in the day — or too late, depending on when he started counting — for that sort of volume. But, he thought, Chiefs are Chiefs.
Black wasn't done, either. "The Captain didn't ask if you were sorry! Answer the Captain's question!"
Able Seaman Wiggins licked her lips, apparently determined to try her luck. "Captain sir, it was chow time. Seaman Pollock dropped the ketchup, and bent over to get it. When he did, he bumped into me, and I spilled my beer. I was upset, and I shoved him." She seemed to falter as she spoke. "It all kind of went downhill from there, sir."
Understandable enough, thought Dillon. Everyone was increasingly on edge. He'd been more careful with reading news updates from home; there wasn't much good news to go around. Some of the crew came from the colonies that had been evacuated or destroyed. Asking them to remain calm and professional under so much stress was asking a lot. However, he reminded himself, being professional under stress was part of their job. Part of his job, too.
"Who threw the first punch?" he asked.
The two sailors answered in unison. "Don't remember, Captain sir."
They'd rehearsed this ahead of time. At least they were still capable of teamwork, even if only to save their own skins. That ought to count for something.
Dillon sighed. "You can't remember. Well, you made a hell of a mess out of the messdeck." He turned to Chief Black. "Any property damage, Chief?"
"No, sir. Nothing permanent."
"Pollock and Wiggins," said Dillon. "Anything to say in your own defence?"
"No sir," said Pollock. "I should've shown more discipline, sir."
"Wiggins?"
"Sir, I regret bringing dishonour to the mess and the ship, sir."
"Yeah," breathed Dillon. "Very well, then. This is the first Mast for both of you. Your behaviour up until now has been excellent."
The two sailors looked about to say something, but the Chief was watching them. "Shut it," she growled.
"However," continued Dillon, "I expect high standards that you two failed to deliver. Save your aggression for the enemy."
"Aye aye, sir," said the two seamen.
"Both of you: a week of extra duty keeping the mess spotless. Half wages and no beer ration for the week."
"Aye aye, sir" said the two, though with less enthusiasm.
"We're done here. Chief, record these proceedings in the ship's log. You two are dismissed." He jerked a thumb toward the hatch. "Get off my bridge."
Dillon had barely begun to turn his chair away, and the Chief was already barking at the guilty parties. She ordered an about-face, followed by loud, expletive-laden marching off the bridge.
He leaned forward in his chair, elbow on the seat arm and his chin resting on his palm. A forgotten cup of coffee sat in its cupholder, and a pen continued to languish, unchewed, in its clip over his head.
Twice in two days, he thought. As the news got worse and worse, the crew was getting more and more frustrated. They were irritable with each other and even with the ship itself, yelling at equipment that didn't work properly. There was muttering about him, too: rumour had it that he wasn't telling the crew everything. They were right: he wasn't. He was receiving updates from headquarters, almost hourly, with the latest bad news Passing it all on would hammer away at morale. And, since internet access had been prohibited on ships while underway, the gaps in information were filled with rumours.
The number of sailors visiting the Tassali had gone up. Amba had been increasingly busy. Everyone needed someone to talk to, some direction in which to vent their anger, frustration, and sadness. She was good at listening — he knew that firsthand — and she was certainly doing her homework: learning about the members of the crew, their families, their faiths and beliefs. She had a genuine interest in each sailor as a person, and the crew was responding to that. He thought Amba was just about the only thing keeping the crew from losing their minds, himself included. He poked at his datapad; Amba was still marked as 'busy'.
"Sir?" came a voice behind him. Dillon looked out of the corner of his eye. "Mister Tremblay?"
Sub-Lieutenant Tremblay was behind him, his hands clasped behind his back. He had a way of standing; Dillon was sure he'd learned it from the Chief. It wasn't just standing upright, it was owning the piece of deck where his feet were planted. Tremblay was becoming one of those officers who had learned how much there was to learn, and that had made a big difference.
"Sir," said Tremblay. "If I may remind you, sir, it's still my watch. You don't have to stay on the bridge, sir."
Dillon reached up and rubbed at the stubble on his cheek. "Do I look that tired, Tremblay?"
"Aye, sir."
He sighed, pushing himself up from his chair. "Carry on." He picked up his datapad and read it again. The indicator hadn't changed; Amba was still busy.
Returning Tremblay's salute, Dillon stepped off the bridge. He realised he'd forgotten his coffee; it had gone cold — if not mouldy — in the cupholder. Clearly, he would need to get a new cup to take to his cabin, so it could go cold and mouldy there.
A few steps to the wardroom door, then across the empty room to the counter. He went through the motions, stirring whitener into his coffee the way he always did, not paying attention to the actual details of what he was doing. Everything seemed to be running on autopilot, coasting toward some ruinous end.
Dillon shook his head. He needed to rattle thoughts like that loose before they settled in his mind and took over. It was just fatigue talking. Fatigue, and stress, and all the rest of it. He didn't even know how long he'd been standing there, stirring a mug of coffee. Cup in hand, he exited the wardroom, headed in the direction of his cabin.
Passing the bridge, he turned into the corridor that held the officers' cabins. At the far end of the corridor, outside Amba's cabin, a figure stood with her back to him. He'd know the Chief's outline anywhere: black hair, broad shoulders, and a uniform that had somehow become rumpled again, in the few short minutes since Captain's Mast. Dill
on was about to speak, but thought better of it. Amba's door chirped and opened, and Dillon watched as the Chief paused, squared her shoulders, and stepped in. As the door closed behind the Chief, Dillon pressed the button to open his own cabin door.
He set his coffee down on his desk, and sat on the edge of the bed. His feet seemed a long way away, he thought, as he reached down and unfastened his boots. With a small kick they were off his feet and toppling over on the deck, and a wave of relaxation flooded over him.
Dillon laid back on the bed. As soon as he closed his eyes, thoughts began to flood his mind. The mental to-do list that waited for him whenever he had a quiet moment. What to do about morale? How long until the jump drive was repaired? What next?
He opened his eyes again. Out of reach, on the desk, sat his fresh mug of coffee, a final few wisps of steam rising above its rim. It was taunting him to get up and make the trek across the cabin to get it. He resolved to do so, in just a moment.
* * *
Dreams of a grassy field were shattered by the loud chirping of the console on his desk. Dillon thought he'd set that thing to be quiet. He opened his eyes and peered over at the display.
Oh, he thought. He had set it to be quiet. But urgent messages overrode that. He shoved himself to his feet.
Somehow, an hour had passed. The coffee now sat, cold and forlorn, on his desk where he'd left it. He nudged the cup out of his way as he pulled back his chair and sat in front of the chirping console.
A message was waiting for him. Gold Channel, it said; encrypted communications over a Tunnel cell.
It was from the Commanding Officer, Second Cruiser Squadron, Scouting Force. Not just 'Senior Captain West', as she usually signed her messages. He felt the familiar weight take shape in his stomach; something big was going on. He tapped at the message header, then glanced at the time on the display as he began to read. "Less than seven hours. We better get moving."
Dillon turned off the terminal and stared at the blank screen. Well, he thought, the crew needed a focus; they wanted to fight. Here it comes.
CHAPTER 9
The Palani doctor's English was very good; he'd clearly been practicing the language. "Chosen One, are you comfortable?"
Elan thought Heather was going to laugh. From where he sat at the edge of the examination room, he could see the sparkle in her eyes. Under her veil, he knew she would be smiling.
Heather shifted on the upright examination bed, as it began to lean backwards. "Doctor, there's very little about this room that is comfortable." She must have seen the concern in the doctor's eyes, because she quickly added, "But I appreciate you asking. Let's keep going."
In the stark white room, there were only Heather, Elan, the chief doctor and an assistant. Four of them, surrounded by banks of consoles and scanning devices. A dozen or more doctors, geneticists, and other experts were outside the room. They awaited their turn to conduct some test or to ask the Chosen One some questions about her pregnancy. After Heather's first medical examination months ago — when she had yelled at the crowd of doctors around her bed — the Palani medical team was now more discreet and respectful.
The bed had stopped reclining, and Heather was leaning far back, staring at the ceiling. Bright lights filled the room like daylight, and the heads of numerous scanners aimed at the reclining bed and its occupant.
As the doctor and his assistant moved around, checking the various consoles, their creaking coldsuits were the only sound. The room was unbearably hot for the Palani: the temperature was high enough to be comfortable for Heather, who wore only her veil and a loose white gown. It covered her from neck to ankles, and draped down from her belly, spilling down off the sides of the bed.
Elan watched as Heather reached up and laid a hand on her abdomen, gently rubbing it in circles. It was a new habit she'd picked up, one that she used when stressed or, more usually, bored.
"Chosen One," said the doctor. Heather rolled her head to look at the man. "Yes?"
"Have you been eating the food that is prepared for you each day?"
"Yes?"
"All of it?"
"Well," she began, and Elan smiled as she continued. "I don't always finish the lumpy red stuff. It tastes like soap. Salty soap."
The doctor looked up from the console, his eyes going from Heather, to his assistant, to Elan. "Dakara," said Elan.
"Yeah," said Heather. "That."
"Ah. I understand, Chosen One." The doctor was speaking carefully, as if assembling each thought before he spoke it. "Please understand, the meals are all specifically prepared. The foods are developed to be properly nutritious for you and your baby."
"I know," said Heather. Elan thought it sounded like a whine. She had told Elan she expected to get in trouble for this. Again.
The doctor had a pained-looking smile on his face. "Chosen One, the dakara has been modified to include cobalt salts. They will be taken up by the baby, but not you."
Elan knew that look in Heather's eyes. She wasn't happy about people making a fuss over her, even though she knew how important she was to the Palani people. "Is there anything I eat," said Heather, "anything at all, that hasn't been genetically adjusted or designed?"
The doctor was shaking his head, turning toward his assistant who also shook her head. "No," said the doctor. "Please understand, Chosen One, your child has different body chemistry than you do. She—"
"I know," said Heather. "You need to keep both of us healthy, with all the right vitamins and minerals, but you can't feed the baby directly; you can only feed me."
"Yes," said the doctor, sounding relieved.
"And I'm being an ass."
"What? No, Chosen One, you are not being… an 'ass'. We need to do more to make the food palatable."
"Look," said Heather, rubbing at her belly. "I just don't like dakara. Could you give me the cobalt in a pill or something? Or maybe put it in the binva? I love that stuff. I could eat a ton of it."
The doctor perked up at that. "Yes, Chosen One. I will give you a pill for now, and we will see about the binva." He glanced down at the console next to the bed. "Are you getting exercise, Chosen One? Your blood pressure continues to rise."
"It's getting difficult," said Heather. "I can't even walk properly any more. I just waddle like a duck."
The doctor squinted, his brows furrowing. "I don't know what a 'duck' is, Chosen One. But I understand 'waddle'. I would like to give you a small bracelet to wear. It will track your blood pressure and other things. Is that acceptable?"
"Sure," said Heather. "What colour is it?"
The doctor blinked. "Colour, Chosen One?"
"Yeah. Everything on this planet is white or blue. There's not enough red and green around here. Especially green."
"I'll see what I can do, Chosen One." The doctor hesitated, his eyes going from Heather to Elan and back again. "There is another matter, Chosen One. It is about intimacy."
Heather raised her eyebrows. "Intimacy?"
"Yes," said the doctor. He pursed his lips for a moment before continuing. "Chosen One, your pregnancy is going admirably well, but it is still at risk. You must continue to avoid strenuous activity. Most especially, you must not engage in sexual intercourse."
"Oh," said Heather, her eyes seeking out Elan's. He gave an apologetic smile and a shrug. She was quiet for a moment then, with a grin, she turned back to the doctor. "Well, crap," she said. "You're no fun."
The doctor had a pained look on his face. "It's for the best, Chosen One. I'm sorry."
"I understand," said Heather. The grin faded from her lips. "Doctor? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Chosen One."
Heather had both hands on her belly now, rubbing methodically. "Doc, have you been talking to human doctors?"
"I have, Chosen One. There are several that I speak to regularly. Their knowledge of human physiology is of course better than mine. They have been very helpful and pleasant."
"Are any other Palani scientists talk
ing to human scientists? I mean, are we sharing ideas back and forth?"
"I don't think so, Chosen One." The doctor seemed uncomfortable with the topic, even as he continued. "The Pentarch has decided… to be selective in how we interact with the humans."
"So, enough to keep me and our baby alive, but nothing else?"
"I do not know for sure, Chosen One, but I suppose so."
"Don't you think that's bullshit, doc? We're all fighting the Horlan, shouldn't we be sharing everything we know?"
The doctor was keeping his eyes on the console in front of him, but Elan could see his discomfort. "Chosen One, please. I am just a doctor. The Pentarch sets policy. I do not know—"
"I'm sorry," Heather sighed, giving a brief shake of her head. "I shouldn't have backed you into a corner like that. If I have a question for the Pentarch, I should ask them."
"Thank you, Chosen One. Let me get you that monitor bracelet."
"Yeah," said Heather. She rolled her head toward Elan, her eyes seeking his. "And then it's time for the Parade of Scientists. Throw open the doors and bring in the first contestant."
CHAPTER 10
The cockpit of the Nova Cat was too small for four people. Jerry and Maya were in the two pilots' seats, turned inward to face each other. Eric stood at the back of the cockpit with Sap, leaning against the hatchway frame.
"Look," said Jerry, gesturing with his hands. "All I'm saying is, you still got that debt to take care of. If you miss a payment, the bank will take the ship, then we'd be refugees like everyone else."
"I know, Jerry," said Maya. She was still staring down at the deck, slouched in the co-pilot's seat with her arms folded across her chest. "This ship is all I have. But I have to do something. Anything." She nodded toward the canopy, and the stars beyond. "Millions of people are suffering. We can make a difference. Even a small one." She looked at them, her eyes going from one to another. "Screw the bank, right?"