Burnt Worlds (23 page)

Dillon stared at his display as he fought to clear his head.
 
Atmosphere loss in the hangar.
 
Atmosphere loss in the engine room.
 
Coolant leaks.
 
Jump drive offline.
 
Faults in artificial gravity, primary and secondary weapons, and the main reactor.

He looked up at the rest of the bridge, and saw the crewmembers clinging to their consoles, each of them struggling to understand what had happened.
 
The sensor technician was alert and tapping quickly at her console, and within moments the bridge’s primary display showed a graphic of the ship madly rotating in space, with the enemy a short distance behind.

Chief Black was out of her seat, and had pulled the groggy helmsman up from where he slumped over his console.
 
“Regaining attitude control, Captain!
 
Trying to stop—”

Dillon shook his head.
 
“No, Chief!
 
Belay that!
 
Get us out of here!
 
Maximum speed, any direction, go!”

“Aye aye,” said the Chief.
 
She poked at the console again, and the view out the window slid unevenly to one side.
 
The red glow, like a supernatural fog, began to dissipate, leaving the familiar blackness of space.
 
The ship lurched, the bow pivoting upward.

The sensor tech called out, “The enemy ship has fired, sir.
 
Passed above us.
 
Readings indicate a previous shot hit us, glancing impact aft.”

“Damn it,” said the Chief, leaning past the helmsman to work at his console.
 
She quickly reached down and unbuckled the crewman, rolling him onto the deck before sitting in his chair.
 
“Going manual,” she said curtly, sweeping her fingers across the console.
 

The ship’s spinning began to slow, and the backdrop of stars stopped sliding past the window.
 
The display showed the
Borealis
accelerating away from the enemy ship, the distance between them growing rapidly.

The sensor technician worked quickly at her terminal.
 
“It’s not pursuing us, sir.
 
It’s sitting still.”

Dillon looked at the Chief.
 
“Not pursuing?”

She shrugged, not looking up from the helm.
 
“Maybe they broke something too.”

“Sir, the visible star pattern is unknown,” said the sensor tech.
 
“No navigational beacons, no known pulsars.
 
I’ve got nothing to fix our location, sir.
 
No known reference points.”

Dillon unbuckled from his chair, and looked around for his pen.
 
“Assume we came out where we meant to,” he said, “and start a plot based on that.
 
Keep the nav display up, please.
 
Comms?”

“Nothing, sir,” said the crewmember at the communications console.
 
“No transmissions on any channel.
 
All the Tunnel cells have crapped out, sir, including the Dosh’s.”

“Must’ve lost entanglement when we came through the wormhole,” said the Chief.
 
“And I think the helmsman’s nose is broken.”

Dillon looked over at the crewmember the Chief had rolled onto the deck.
 
Seaman Leduc was now sitting up, his back to the console, his hand holding his blood-soaked face.
 
“I’ve been there,” said the Captain.
 
“You'll be fine.
 
Go see Singh.”

As the crewman stumbled to his feet, the Captain reached over his head and poked at the hailer on the ceiling.
 
His eyes caught those of the Tassali, who was unbuckling herself from the chair she’d been in.
 
He nodded at her; she gave a weak smile and a nod in response.

“Damage control,” said Dillon to the hailer.
 
“Report.”

After a few long seconds, Petty Officer Lee’s voice came through the speaker.
 
“We’re out of danger, sir.
 
Bots are sealing the hull breaches.
 
Everyone had their suits on, so nothing worse than bumps and bruises as far as I know.
 
The door to hangar bay two is wrecked, and the bots are welding it shut for now.
 
But we’re all here.
 
Doing a thorough check now, and I’ll be up with a full report in ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” said the Captain.
 
“Chief, plot a course for human space.
 
Or where human space should be, if we came out where we think we should’ve.
 
You know what I mean.
 
Go to FTL as soon as you can.
 
We’ll be safe then.”

“Aye aye, sir.
 
Plotting a course for where we think human space might be, even though we’re not entirely sure, sir.
 
Course laid in, engaging FTL now.”
 
With one finger, she stabbed her console.
 
As it lit up red, she frowned.
 
“Uh, FTL didn’t work.
 
Trying again, sir.”

Dillon watched as the Chief poked tentatively at the helm console.
 
With a slight pop, the hailer above his head awoke with Saparun’s voice.
 
“Engineering reporting.”

“Lovely to hear from you.
 
Everyone okay down there?”

“Yes, Captain.
 
Thank you.
 
I regret the jump drive is not okay.
 
Neither are most of the capacitors.
 
The light-speed engines are operational.
 
Artificial gravity is reporting a fault.
 
I have determined this is due to a slight change in the gravitational constant of the universe.”

“Come again?”

“Captain, gravity is imperceptibly stronger here.
 
However, assuming it is consistent, we can compensate.”

Across the bridge, the Chief smiled.
 
“That’s it!
 
Stronger gravity.”
 
She kept working at the helm.

“Okay, that’s impossible, but we don’t have time for that right now,” said Dillon.
 
“Compile a report of what works and what doesn’t.
 
Saparun, Lee, Cho, Atwell:
 
on the bridge in ten minutes with your reports.”

With a triumphant gleam in her eye, Chief Black gave her console one last dramatic poke of her finger.
 
The ship’s engine noise grew to a constant hum as the stars out the window stretched into lines.
 
“We’re at FTL, sir.
 
One light year per hour.”

“Good.
 
Thank you, Chief.
 
As long as we’re in FTL, we should be safe.
 
Though we have no idea where we are.”

“Toto,” said the Chief, “I've a feeling we're not in—”

“No,” interrupted the Captain.
 
“Don’t you dare say it.”

“Five days,” said Atwell.

Dillon slowly put his datapad down on the wardroom table, and looked up at the people sitting around it.
 
Everyone was looking at him.
 
Sap was calm, which was hardly a surprise.
 
It took a hell of a lot to get the Dosh to lose his calm.
 
Back on Oronezu, he’d been shot in the gun hand.
 
Rather than jump around and shout — as Dillon was sure he himself would have done — Sap had merely reached down, picked up the gun with his off hand, and kept on firing.
 
Was it a cultural thing?
 
Billions of cool, orderly Dosh going about their lives without getting worked up about anything?
 

Cho might’ve been the sort to jump around shouting, but so far he’d been keeping his enthusiasm in check. He had only been with the fleet a few years, and had been making great strides in his career.
 
A lot of energy and drive.

Which, Dillon thought, is not to say that Atwell didn’t have energy and drive.
 
She had been every bit as productive, with a lot of initiative.
 
Just quieter about it.
 
He had a feeling that something was bothering her lately.

Early out of the Academy, Dillon had been like Atwell in some ways.
 
The drive to excel, the initiative to get things started, the energy to get things done.
 

He looked at Black, who was poking at something on her own datapad.
 
Normally she and Lee wouldn’t be in the officers-only wardroom, but he’d invited them.
 
Given the shortage of officers, he needed the petty officers to take more responsibility.
 
Mostly, he wanted Black there.
 
She’d been his main source of support all the way through the Academy.
 
For the three years of the course, she’d kept in constant contact, offering advice and encouragement, telling him he’d make a good officer and would be her boss one day.
 
He probably wouldn’t even have entered the service if it weren’t for her; without seeing her prosper in the Navy, he would likely have kept on his own, working at meaningless jobs, an uncertain future ahead of him.

But then there’d been the evaluation.
 
Second year in the fleet, himself a competent lieutenant with good chances for promotion and a long career.
 
Or so he'd thought.
 

He couldn’t remember the asshole’s name.
 
Career evaluation specialist, come in from New Halifax to pass judgement on the new crop of officers.
 
After an hour-long interview that seemed to have gone well, the note had gone into his file:
 
not suitable for command
.
 

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.