Burnt Worlds (2 page)

The bridge crew stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him.
 
The dozen faces, some of them bruised or bandaged, all of them drawn and lined with worry, watched him with an intensity he’d never seen before.
 
Not in simulations, or vids, or in the impassioned lectures by training officers who’d been through a day like this.
 
Dillon paused, partly to make sure he had their attention and partly to make sure his voice would be there when he started talking again.
 
He glanced at the old-fashioned mechanical chronometer on the bridge’s rear bulkhead, and was pleased to see it tick.
 
At least something was still working.

“Chief of the ship, record in the log:
 
as of now, ten-oh-nine hours standard, Tuesday the tenth of March, twenty-three oh three, on the apparent death of Captain Patel and Executive Officer Logan, I am temporarily assuming command of this vessel.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said the Chief, clear enough for everyone to hear.

“Everyone, we have power and we have life support.
 
We’re in no immediate danger.
 
Let’s figure out what works and what doesn’t, what we can fix and what we can’t.
 
Don’t rush.
 
Be thorough.
 
You all know your business, so I’ll leave you to it.
 
I’m going to check below.
 
Carry on.”

“Aye, sir,” said the Chief again.
 

Dillon accompanied her to the back of the bridge, where she unlatched and opened the cover of a thick, old-fashioned paper book.
 
Turning it to the bookmarked page, she picked up an archaic ink-filled pen and began to make an entry.
 
The Lieutenant leaned in to watch her.
 
“Don’t know if that helped,” he muttered.
 
“You have the bridge; I’ll be back once I know what’s going on below.”

Black didn’t look up from her writing.
 
She was struggling to make her handwriting legible.
 
“Understood.
 
It probably helped a little.
 
Keep calm…” she glanced sideways at him, “...sir.”

“I’m trying to,” he muttered.

A reassuring smirk appeared on her face.
 
“You can do this.”

Dillon's voice hissed through clenched teeth. “I
have
to do this.”

The Chief paused from her writing, and turned her head to look at the Lieutenant.
 
“Dillon,” she whispered, her voice firm.
 
“I’m on your team, remember?
 
Remember Billy Ridell, holding your face in the snow?”

Dillon paused a moment, staring at her.
 
After a moment, a small grin pried up the corners of his mouth.
 
“Yeah.
 
I was in fourth grade; you were in eighth.
 
Best snowball throw in history.”

She tapped the pen on the tip of her nose.
 
“Boom,” she whispered.

Dillon nodded, taking a deep breath.
 
“Carry on, Chief.”

“Aye, sir.”

Stepping off the last step at the bottom of the stairs, Dillon made his way aft toward the Engineering compartment.
 
Anxious-looking crewmembers stepped aside to let him pass, as he clambered through narrow hatchways and stepped over loose equipment on the deck.
 

The air further aft was increasingly hazy and acrid with the smell of smoke and burnt plastic.
 
Ahead of him, members of a damage control party, dressed in flame-proof suits and respirators, were setting up portable air scrubbers in the passageway.
 
One of them stood and saluted as Dillon approached.
 
He waved it off; now wasn’t the time for that sort of thing, but he understood the impulse.
 
Reverting to their training was healthy.
 
It kept them busy, kept them from thinking too much about what had happened or the situation in which they now found themselves.
 
Which was just as well, because the situation was a hell of a mess.
 
The simulators could replicate a ship falling apart in a hundred different ways, but not the tightness in his chest as he moved along the passageway, silently acknowledging each grim face that greeted him.
 

One suited crewmember, gold crowns on his sleeves, stepped forward as Dillon approached.
 
Petty Officer Lee’s voice sounded machine-like, the speaker in his respirator cutting off his words.
 
“Lieutenant sir.
 
You now in charge?”

Dillon nodded.
 
“Yeah, looks like it.”

“Aye, sir.
 
Let me show you Engineering.”

Lee led him toward the darkness at the far end of the passageway, where the air was thicker still.
 
Portable lights had been hooked to the bulkheads, providing spots of intense illumination amid the darkness.

Several of the lights shone on the hatch to the Engineering airlock.
 
A thick line of hardened foam around the edge of the door showed where damage-control robots had neatly sprayed leak sealant.

Tapping his gloved hand on the hatch’s small window, Lee motioned for Dillon to look.

Normally, the airlock had a second hatch ten feet further in.
 
That hatch was missing, as was most of the bulkhead it had been attached to.
 
Cables dangled in the open space, beyond which lay the damaged engine room.

Inside, to his left, a row of emergency lights provided faint illumination, shining over the starboard side engine.
 
Hazy cones of light glinted off the debris that floated around the compartment.
 
It was just bits of metal and composite, but in his mind, Dillon imagined he could see it move.
 
His heartbeat began to pound in his ears again as he imagined the Captain and the XO, the Engineers and the Dosh observers, suddenly being ripped out through a massive hole in the hull, struggling to breathe as they tumbled away from the ship.

Dillon gave his head a quick shake, as if to jar the thoughts loose.
 
He looked around again, and could make out the damaged main reactor, surrounded by a crowd of footlocker-sized backup reactors and capacitor banks.
 
A half-dozen of the small reactors were floating off the deck, tethered only by their cabling; two of them were fully lit.

He turned to Lee, stabbing at the glass with his finger.
 
“Those unsecured reactors… are they…?”

Lee nodded slowly, his metallic voice coming through the respirator.
 
“All that’s keeping the lights on, sir.”

Dillon looked back through the tiny window.
 
To the right of the reactors, he could see the battered port-side engine.
 
The jump drive had been next to the engine, but only twisted mountings remained.
 
Where the drive should have been, there was a gaping hole in the hull, its edges bent slightly outward.
 
Beyond, he could see into space, where the stars continued their erratic dance.
 
Four pairs of small green lights moved methodically around the edges of the hole.

He looked back at Lee.
 
“Damage control bots — how’re they doing?”

Lee offered a nod. “First thing they did was get the fabricator going, sir; not sure where they got that idea.
 
They’ve been using it to make plating and supports.
 
At the rate they’re going, the compartment should be sealed in under an hour.”

“What’s your plan then?
 
Get gravity back in there?”

Lee shook his head.
 
“No sir, first we secure the reactors to the deck, and anything else that’s floating in there.
 
Then we get the gravity going, ‘cos the fusions don’t like zero gee.
 
Then a pressure test, then atmosphere, then…”
 
He shrugged, offering a thin smile.
 
“I dunno, wallpaper I guess.
 
Sir.”

Dillon mustered a grin in return, and patted the man on the arm.
 
“Carry on, Lee.
 
When we get home, the first round’s on me.”

Nodding, Lee looked past him as another suited crewmember approached.
 
“Murray,” said Lee, “what’s up?”

“Are you skipper now, Lieutenant?” asked Murray.

“Yeah,” said Dillon.

“Sir, we heard a tapping from the decon airlock.
 
We looked through the viewport, and one of the Dosh is in there.”

Dillon and Lee looked at each other.
 
“No shit?” said Dillon.
 
“Then let’s get ‘em out.
 
Maybe they can talk their government into not declaring war on us.
 
I’d prefer not to have that on my record.”

“Roger that, sir,” said Lee.
 
The three of them carefully stepped along the corridor, picking their way around damaged equipment and hanging cables. “Do you have any idea,” asked Murray, “if it’s a he or a she?
 
I can never tell with Dosh.”

“Neither,” said Dillon, shaking his head.
 
“They’ve got seven sexes.
 
They don’t have ‘he’ or ‘she’.”

“Seven?” said Murray.
 
“Maybe I should try a few.”

Lee snorted.
 
“Fat chance, Murray.
 
You wouldn’t know what went where.”

“Okay, pipe down,” said Dillon.
 
He had only a small grin on his face, but the tension around his eyes had started to relax.
 
The crew was responding well to the situation, all things considered.
 
As a bonus, they might be able to bring one of the Dosh observers home instead of just sending an apologetic note about getting their senior technical experts all killed.
 
All in all, it felt like they were taking baby steps away from ‘total catastrophe’, toward somewhere like ‘near-total catastrophe’.
 
Then again, the more he thought about it, the less reassuring it felt.

Two other damage control team members were at the airlock.
 
They had the door latch’s access panel taken apart, and one of them was pushing a long wooden stick into the mechanism.
 
The other crewmember saluted as the Lieutenant approached.

Dillon raised an eyebrow.
 
He pointed.
 
“Is that…?”

A feminine mechanical voice came from the breath mask. “Yes, sir, a hockey stick.
 
Sorry sir.”
 
She gestured haltingly toward a nearby locker.
 
“It was the first thing I thought of, and my gear was right there, so—”

“No need to apologise.
 
Well done, carry on.”

“Yes, sir.
 
Sir, are you now the senior officer?”

Dillon nodded.
 
“Yes.
 
I’ve been hearing a lot about that.”

With a yelp of triumph from the other crewmember, the hatch shifted against its seals, drawing a sharp hiss of air.
 
Instinctively, Dillon’s hand went to a grab bar on the bulkhead, and he watched as the door swung open into the passageway.

Out from the airlock stepped a Dosh — a tall, narrow-shouldered humanoid — in a bright red overcoat.
 
Its mottled red and yellow skin glistened in the harsh emergency lighting, and in the glare it blinked repeatedly.
 
Its eyes were like those of a cat, all green iris with wide black pupils. Yellow patches in its skin formed stripes that followed ridges from its forehead up over the top of its head and down the back.
 
Flares in the shoulders of its overcoat spoke of ridges there as well.

Nodding briefly to the team, the alien turned to look at Dillon.
 
It abruptly opened its mouth, far enough to display a dense row of tiny, serrated teeth.
 
Dillon realised it was smiling.
 
Possibly the most unnerving smile he’d ever seen, but a smile nonetheless.

The toothy smile disappeared as it spoke.
 
Its voice was soft, its words slowly and carefully spoken.
 
“Lieutenant.
 
I thank you and your team.”
 
The smile reappeared as it extended its hand.

Dillon shook hands with the alien, surprised at the strength of its grip.
 
“You’re very welcome.
 
We were introduced earlier, but only briefly.
 
Head Mechanic Vish, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.
 
At your service.”

“I’m delighted you’re still with us, Head Mechanic.
 
How did you get to the airlock?”

The smile widened, revealing yet more teeth.
 
“The same thing you are doing now, Lieutenant.”
 
It looked meaningfully where Dillon’s left hand still gripped the grab bar.
 
“A habit:
 
always holding something.
 
When the room opened to space, I held on very tight.
 
Once the air was gone, the airlock opened easily.
 
I let myself in.”

“I commend your calm, Head Mechanic.”

“No, Lieutenant.
 
I was not calm.”

“Then I also commend your honesty.
 
What else did you see?”

The Dosh’s smile disappeared, its quiet voice difficult to hear over the sounds of ventilation fans.
 
“With regret, I saw your Captain and Executive Officer and Engineering crew… leave the ship.
 
My own team members left at the same time.
 
In this way, I witness that you are now the senior person on this ship.”