Burnt Worlds (13 page)

“I guess she’s more important than we thought.
 
I wish the Head Mechanic would tell me what he knows.”

The Commodore shook her head.
 
“No interrogating the aliens, Commander.
 
We can't afford to piss off everyone at the same time.
 
The Palani did suggest that the crew of the
Borealis
should — and these are their words — ‘limit their interaction’ with her.
 
They don’t know about the incident you just told me about, but I’m assuming they were referring to that sort of thing.”

“Understood, sir.
 
I’ll try to minimise contact.
 
At the same time, I don’t want us to seem inhospitable.
 
I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Fair enough, Commander.”
 
She looked back down at her datapad, tapping one fingertip on its display.
 
“Next order of business:
 
this theory that the Mechanic has.
 
The Dosh command forwarded me the details through a secure channel.
 
I've looked at it and, frankly, I didn't do well in science class.”

The senior officer leaned back, leaving the edge of the image.
 
It took a moment for the system to refocus, showing her in a high-backed chair.
 
Her head was cocked to one side, and she was absently tugging at her earlobe.
 
“We’re making some assumptions here.
 
We don’t know if the
Borealis
and the Tassali's ship met the same thing.
 
We have no idea where it — or they — are now.
 
They could be anywhere.
 
Either way, they’re a hell of a long way from human space.
 
The Dosh and the Palani know about it, so we’ve done our bit for them.
 
The only common thing we're sure of, is that both ships made long jumps just before being attacked.”
 
She let go of her ear and looked away from him, at something on an unseen wall.
 
“You’re just going to follow the Perseus Arm to get home?”

“Yes, sir.”

Her image looked back at him.
 
“Okay, fine with me.
 
What’s next?”

“Going to see about getting supplies before we enter the Burnt Worlds.
 
The Head Mechanic has suggested a few places.”

The Commodore sighed.
 
“Well, see about getting some main battery slugs, for crying out loud.
 
Though I don’t suppose one-fifty-fives are easy to find out there.
 
And so you know, the Palani are okay with you traipsing through the Burnt.”

Dillon nodded.
 
“Understood, sir.
 
I also floated the idea past the Tassali.
 
They see the Burnt Worlds as the graveyard of their people, so traveling through it is sacrilegious.
 
But apparently that's forgiven if we're doing something for them.”
 
He shook his head.
 
“There’s more to it.
 
Something she's not telling.”

“Interesting.
 
Keep on top of it.”
 
The image paused for a moment, then leaned forward.
 
One holographic hand hovered over a console.
 
“Okay, anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Right then.
 
Behave yourself,
Borealis
.
 
Sinclair out.”

As the image faded and the soft hum of the emitter died down, Dillon put his hands on the desk and pushed himself to his feet.
 
Briefly running his hand through his hair, he stepped out into the passageway and plodded toward the wardroom.
 
As he walked, he slowly remembered that he needed to stand straight and not look as tired as he felt.
 
Glancing around to make sure he was alone in the passageway, he paused to yawn and stretch his arms before entering the wardroom.

Saparun was seated at the long table, hunkered over a bowl of stew.
 
As the Captain sat down beside him, the red-skinned Dosh looked up in surprise, his spoon at the ready.
 
“Captain.
 
You also smelled the meat?”

Dillon unfolded his napkin as the galley mate put a bowl in front of him.
 
“Not really.
 
It’s just a coincidence that I’m hungry at mealtime.
 
Although sometimes I’m not hungry until the middle of the afternoon.”
 
He looked down at his bowl; the smell was starting to register in his mind, and it was drawing him in.
 
“Smells good.
 
Meat, you said?
 
Is this the last of it?”

Sap nodded, scooping at his bowl.
 
“Last of the chicken, someone said.
 
I do not know what beast will perish next.”

The Captain took a tentative mouthful, and was happily surprised.
 
“I thought you normally ate downstairs, Sap.
 
Not that I mind.”

The Dosh didn’t stop eating as he spoke.
 
“The Chief said that food tastes better up here.
 
She said that officer food is seasoned with…” he paused momentarily, trying to remember.
 
“...the blood of the proletariat, I believe she said.”

Dillon nearly spat out his stew.
 
“What?”

The Mechanic merely shrugged.
 
“I do not know what type of beast that is, but there is no blood in this.
 
I now suspect she was being humorous at my expense.”

The Captain nodded gravely.
 
“It’s very possible, Sap.”

Looking down at his empty bowl, Saparun frowned.
 
“I believe the next step is for me to reciprocate.
 
I am eager to put my knowledge of human humour to use.”

The Captain paused and stared at Saparun.
 
“I am impressed and horrified at the same time.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Dillon waggled his spoon in admonishment.
 
“No killing or maiming the crew.
 
And anything you damage, you fix.”

“Your guidelines are reasonable.
 
I will try to follow them.”

Saparun got up and took his bowl over to the counter, leaving the Captain to savour his stew alone.
 
When the Dosh returned, it was with a refilled bowl and a glass of water.
 
The human raised an eyebrow.
 
“No coffee, Sap?”

The Mechanic shook his head, his laden spoon already in his mouth.
 
“No.
 
Too much today.
 
Makes my ridges feel… strange.”

Dillon nodded quietly, finishing off his bowl.
 
“It’s only noon, Sap.
 
How much coffee do you drink, anyway?”

A shrug.
 
“Lots.
 
Some of the crew have given me their coffee rations.
 
They are thoughtful.”

“They have?
 
How many?”

“Seventeen so far.
 
They see me enjoying the coffee, and they are entertained.
 
I see no reason not to oblige.”

“Huh,” grunted the Captain.
 
“You should find a way to open a coffee shop on your homeworld.”

Saparun bared his teeth in an unusual grin.
 
Dillon thought it looked rueful.
 
“I would be the richest Dosh in the universe.
 
But no, the
Seldik
wishes to ban coffee.
 
They say it is an unnatural and unhealthy influence on our people.”

“
Pakteta
,” said the Captain.

“Indeed.”

Dillon leaned back in his chair, a small grin on his face.
 
He looked up at the ceiling, his blue eyes tracing the pipes and conduits that ran overhead.
 
It was a few moments before he realised that he was fidgeting, drumming his fingers on the table.
 

“You are trying to look relaxed,” said Saparun.
 
“But you are not relaxed.”
 
He pushed away his bowl and folded his arms on the table.
 
“Things are not well?”

Dillon looked across at the Mechanic, his drumming coming to a sudden stop.
 
“Things are well.
 
There’s just a heck of a
lot
of things, all at the same time.
 
Keeping everything straight is sometimes… a challenge.
 
And then complications arise.”

Saparun nodded once.
 
“Ah.
 
The Tassali.
 
She has been through a dreadful event.
 
And now she is far from home, alone among strangers.
 
These things add to her stress and unease.
 
Also, she is Palani.
 
That also adds to her stress and unease.”

Dillon raised an eyebrow.
 
“What?”

“A joke, Captain.”

“Ah.
 
Well, there’s something else, Sap.
 
I get distracted when I talk to her.
 
The Chief mentioned the same thing.”

“Then that confirms my suspicion, Captain.
 
She must be an
Iyurele
, which means ‘one who calms’.
 
One of the engineered variants of the Palani, its traits now passed down through many generations.”

The Captain leaned forward, folding his arms on the table like the Mechanic.
 
“That explains it.
 
Originally bred as priests and counsellors, right?
 
Endorphins in the breath or something?”

“A type of peptide, I believe.
 
Similar to opiates.
 
Numbs pain, creates feeling of contentment and well-being.
 
Makes subjects calmer, more eager to listen.
 
More open to motivation.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.
 
You don’t feel it?”

The Mechanic grunted.
 
“Does not work on Dosh.
 
Can smell it, though.
 
A bit like citrus.”

“Citrus.
 
Okay.
 
If she can affect how people think, then I understand your concern.”

Sap nodded.
 
“A Tassali is not to be trifled with.
 
And it is even more so if she carries mutations like the
Iyurele
.
 
She could greatly complicate things on this ship, if she chose to.”

“Still,” said Dillon, starting to drum his fingers again.
 
“I’ll keep an eye on her.”

Saparun raised his glass to his lips.
 
“As she is you.”

-----

Dillon took a moment to watch his breath, as the airlock cycled and cold air washed over him.
 
After a few breaths, the inner door to the xeno cabin opened, and he stepped in.
 
The Tassali was sitting on a chair, her gloved hands held in her lap.
 
Her brilliant blue hair shone under the room’s soft light, and her eyes watched his.

“Good afternoon, Captain.”

He nodded toward her.
 
“Tassali,” he said.
 
He thought he could make out the faint smell of citrus.
 
“I have some news from my headquarters.”
 

She continued to watch him, but made neither sound nor movement.
 
He continued.
 
“Your government has asked us to head to the Iralan system, in the Burnt Worlds.
 
There, we will meet a Palani flotilla, and we will be able to repatriate you.”

The Tassali nodded slowly, her eyes glancing down at the desk in front of her.
 
“I see,” she said quietly.
 
“Thank you, Captain.”
 
She looked at the desk a while longer, her hands clasped in her lap.
 
“May I ask, Captain, how long it will take us to get to Iralan?”

“Five days.”

Dillon could see a slight flush rising in the skin of her neck, a subtle hint of blue under the porcelain-white skin.
 
He remembered the Commodore’s advice about minimising contact with the Tassali, and he thought about the citrus-scented breath.
 
“Excuse me, Tassali,” he asked anyway, “is something the matter?”

“No,” she said tersely, and too quickly.
 
She flushed even more, her cheeks beginning to run with blue, as he turned back toward the airlock.
 
He reached up one hand toward the door console.

“Yes,” she said.

Dillon’s hand hovered over the console, and he turned his head to look back at her.
 
“Pardon, Tassali?”

Her eyes were wide and bloodshot with blue, and they stared into his with an intensity he hadn’t seen before.
 
Her jaw was set, the muscles of her face and neck pulled tight.
 
He stepped away from the door.

“Yes,” she repeated, her voice tense.
 
“There is something the matter.”

“Okay,” said Dillon, facing her.
 
His mind raced.
 
He started to fiddle with a brass button on his overcoat.
 
“Go on.”

The Tassali looked down at her hands in her lap.
 
“I have no choice,” she said quietly.
 
“I must trust someone, and so I choose to trust you, Captain.”
 
She looked up at him.
 
“With my life.”
 

Dillon cocked his head.
 
“With your life, Tassali?
 
What do you—”

“Captain, please.
 
I am asking you.
 
Do not hand me over to my people.”