Burnt Worlds (3 page)

“Yeah.
 
That seems to be the case,” said Dillon, his own voice becoming quieter.

“I am indelicate, Lieutenant.
 
I know that humans do not respond well to death.”
 
The alien's yellow-striped brow furrowed.
 
“After the airlock was safe, I noted that the repair machines had not deployed.
 
I used my datapad to connect to them, and ordered them to begin repairs.
 
I then contacted my homeworld, and advised my senior researchers of the situation.”

Dillon, his eyes downcast, was lost in thought.
 
“Okay, good.
 
Thank you, Head Mechanic.
 
I think we need to…” He looked up at the Dosh.
 
“You contacted your homeworld?”

The tall alien pulled a datapad out of a pocket of its long overcoat.
 
“Yes, Lieutenant.
 
I was telling them that—”

Dillon’s eyes lit up, and he stared at the datapad.
 
“You have a Tunnel cell in that?”

The Dosh seemed surprised.
 
“Yes, Lieutenant.
 
The other end is at my fleet’s research centre.”
 
It paused a moment.
 
“Ah, I understand: the ship’s communication cells are damaged?”

“Yes, they’re all gone.”

The Head Mechanic gave an exaggerated nod.
 
“Then we must ask my command to let you contact your command.”

“You’ve just saved our lives.
 
Thank you.”

The alien shook its head, vigorously.
 
“I do not deserve thanks.
 
I have great self-interest in this. One other thing, Lieutenant?”

“Yes?”

The smile suddenly returned.
 
“Please ask your crew to refer to me as male.
 
From experience, I know this is a matter of considerable anxiety among humans.
 
Your language does not seem to function properly otherwise.”

Dillon opened his mouth, then closed it again.
 
“Uh, yes.
 
Of course.
 
I didn’t know.”

“I am not actually male, of course.
 
Nor am I female.
 
But on my last human ship I was referred to as female, and I like to alternate.
 
I do not wish to favour one over the other.”

The Lieutenant held back a sudden laugh.
 
“What happens when you meet a former shipmate?”

More teeth showed, and the voice gurgled lightly.
 
“I have fun.”

Four humans and a Dosh were in the Captain’s cabin.
 
They were standing around the late Captain’s desk, which was still covered in her effects.
 
A framed picture of the Captain’s husband sat next to the console.
 
Lieutenant Dillon was uncomfortable to be in here — Captain Patel had been here just hours ago — and he suspected the others were equally ill at ease.
 
But it was the only terminal on the ship that would let a group of people see and be seen at the same time.

Head Mechanic Vish had contacted the Dosh fleet command, who were now connecting them to the RCN command centre back on New Halifax.

After a few delays, glitches and resets, the holographic display coalesced into the image of Commodore Sinclair.
 
Holograph or not, concern was plainly written on the older woman's face.
 
“
Borealis
?
 
Are you receiving?”

“Yes, Commodore, loud and clear.
 
Lieutenant Dillon here, with Sub-Lieutenants Cho and Atwell, and Chief Black.
 
We also have Head Mechanic Saparun Vish, who has agreed to take charge of Engineering.”

The image of the Commodore looked around at the people surrounding the display.
 
“Good.
 
Lieutenant, I was contacted by the Dosh liaison five minutes ago.
 
I know the basics of your situation.
 
What is your current status?”

“We’re dead in the water, but not in danger.
 
Life support is online.
 
Main reactor damaged.
 
We have two backup fusions running, the rest are damaged or offline.
 
Capacitors damaged or offline.
 
FTL engines damaged, jump drive destroyed.
 
Shuttle damaged, main computer damaged, sensors offline.
 
Main armament has no ammo.
 
Beam weapons online but no power.”

The Commodore shook her head.
 
“That’s quite a list, Lieutenant.
 
What can you get back?”

Dillon looked to the Dosh, who leaned forward.
 
The alien’s voice was soft. “Commodore.
 
I am pleased to assist.
 
The ship’s fabricators can make most replacement parts, but not all.
 
We can make any part for the main reactor and the drive engines, so repairing those is a certainty.
 
For the jump drive and main computer, not all parts are available, so repairs are not a certainty.
 
The capacitor cores cannot be replicated and so cannot be repaired.
 
Further study will allow me to refine these conclusions.”

“Thank you, Head Mechanic.
 
Lieutenant, let me know when you’re able to get underway.
 
Have you determined your location?”

Dillon hesitated.
 
“No offence to our Dosh friends, but regs say to treat this channel as unsecure.”

“They do.
 
So no specifics, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”
 
He glanced at Sub-Lieutenant Cho, who had spent twenty feverish minutes doing calculations one-handed on an ordinary datapad.
 
“We stayed on heading, but overshot by about forty light years.
 
I'll send the exact location in an encrypted file.”

“So the accuracy was good.
 
You’ve set an incredible new record for a single jump:
 
ten times greater than ever before.
 
Well done.
 
Of course, that puts you a hell of a long way from home.”

“Yes, Commodore.
 
If we get minimum FTL, we’re looking at almost three hundred days.
 
We hope for better than that.”

“Understood.
 
Keep me informed regularly.
 
Now then, Lieutenant:
 
we need to sort out some details.
 
Are you recording this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well.
 
I need a casualty list.”

Dillon looked down at the list of names on the datapad in front of him.
 
He took a deep breath.
 
“Commander Patel.
 
Lieutenant Commander Sayed.
 
Lieutenant Lefebvre.
 
Petty Officer Silverman.
 
Able Seamen Woronuk, van Doorn, MacDougall, Peters.
 
From the Dosh: Head Academician Tahara Pent, Academicians Inulsi Lock and Setana Wult.”

The Commodore was quiet.
 
“Recorded.
 
Eleven casualties.”

“Yes, sir.”

The woman looked away for a few moments, and appeared to slump a little.
 
She picked up a sheet of paper in one hand and straightened in her seat.
 
“Very well.
 
Formalities.
 
The first part gets actual paper, with ink.
 
Apparently I’m supposed to read it out or it doesn’t count.”
 
She cleared her throat.
 
“‘Victoria the Third, by the Grace of God, of Canada and her other realms and territories Queen…,’” whereupon she sighed and gave up.
 
“So on and so forth… Fredrick James Dillon, blah blah, Lieutenant Commander, effective immediately.
 
Well done.
 
An extra half-stripe.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The senior officer waved dismissively and put down the paper.
 
“Don’t thank me.
 
You were on the July list anyway; I’m just moving it up.
 
Entirely deserved, even without the current situation.
 
And Sub-Lieutenants Cho and Atwell are acting Lieutenants for the duration of the mission.”
 
She looked straight at Dillon.
 
“But this isn’t just about pay raises.
 
Second bit of business, I’m making you Captain of the
Borealis
.
 
I should read it out as well, but I’ll just mail it to you.
 
Read it out yourself.
 
Again, it’s effective immediately.
 
So move in to the Captain’s cabin; the combination to the safe is…uh… seven seven three four five.”

The Chief, the Dosh and the two new Lieutenants were all looking at Dillon.
 
Some of the tension had drained from their faces.
 
The Dosh looked like he was grinning; his rows of tiny white teeth stood out against his red skin.
 
Dillon hoped that their relief was for the same reason as his anxiety:
 
after so much uncertainty, decisions were being made and things were going to be done.
 
Problem was, he was going to be the one doing them.

The Commodore forged ahead.
 
“Third thing:
 
also effective immediately, the
Borealis
is out of the Reserve squadron and into full commission.
 
You’ll have to travel through Palani space to get home, and they get all bothered about that sort of thing.
 
So that’s full pay for everyone; I’m tacking on hazardous-mission pay as well, considering the circumstances.”

“Thank you, sir.
 
That will do a lot for morale.”

She nodded.
 
“That’s the idea.
 
So here are your orders, Captain:
 
bring the
Borealis
and her crew safely home.
 
Chart your own course, use your own discretion.
 
Regular updates will be expected.
 
In the Captain’s safe is a credit disc.
 
Use it to buy whatever you need, we’ll honour any purchase that's within reason.
 
If you get the jump drive working again, let me know.
 
Do you understand these orders, Captain?”

Dillon hesitated, sensing his voice wasn’t ready yet.
 
“Yes, sir.”

“Good.
 
I’m going to go see Admiral Clarke.
 
Congratulations, good luck, carry on.
 
Sinclair out.”
 

As the Commodore’s image abruptly dissolved, the new Captain’s companions quietly congratulated him, with pats on the back and encouraging smiles.
 
They trooped out of the cabin, while Dillon, stone-faced, tried to be gracious and reassuring.

The door slid shut, and he dropped down into the desk chair.
 
He put his elbows on the desktop and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

A frantic stream of thoughts ran through his mind.
 
In the space of a few heartbeats, they had gone from a glorious technical triumph — the longest jump ever achieved — to a staggering disaster.
 
He had barely time to walk the length of the ship, gathering details of the situation and forming the beginnings of a plan.
 
The looks on the faces of the crew had been plain to see.
 
Crewmates and friends, gone in the blink of an eye, torn out into the vacuum of space to die, gasping, in the frozen void.
 
He’d tried to calm the worst of the crew’s anxiety, to postpone the grieving and the despondency, to think of something to say that would prevent crushing guilt and depression.
 
He looked down at the desktop, his eyes slow to focus, his thoughts sluggish.
 
Between his fingers, he saw the clock display:
 
it was just after eleven-thirty in the morning.

Dillon exited the Captain’s cabin —
his
cabin — and began the short walk forward to the bridge.
 
He’d had a few minutes to himself, to gather his scattered thoughts, and to push his emotions away.
 
There just wasn’t the time for that now.
 
He’d made a promise to himself to fall apart, properly fall apart, when they got home.
 
But not now.
 
He had a mental list of the things that needed to happen, and the order in which they had
to happen.
 
There were — now — forty-one people on this ship other than himself, and they were all going to be looking to him to have the answers.
 
To have the plan.
 
To hold it all together.
 
He just wasn’t sure how…

His train of thought was broken by two sharp whistles from the ceiling.
 
A familiar female voice came from the hailer.
 
“All hands, all hands, this is the Chief.
 
Borealis
has a new Captain, a new commission, and new orders.
 
Everything’s been posted in the wardroom and in both messes.
 
Also, the hailer is working again, so if you don’t hear this, contact the bridge.
 
That is all.
 
Chief out.”

He stopped mid-stride, shook his head, and walked the rest of the way to the bridge.
 
“Deck,” said someone, and the crew began to stand at attention until Dillon waved them off.
 
“We definitely don’t have time for
that
,” he said tersely.
 
“Carry on.
 
Chief?”