Burnt Worlds (38 page)

“Ah, God damn it,” she grunted.
 
“Everyone okay?”

No answer.
 
She looked at the communications console on her wrist; the display was dark.

As the stars tumbled around her, and she felt a tug on the line, she kept poking at the display with her other hand.
 
Nothing happened, and as she began to give up on it, she noticed a tiny red ball float by.
 
A single drop of the most beautiful red, formed into a sphere, bubbling slightly as it gently moved through her field of view.

Bending awkwardly to look down, she saw a deep gash in her suit, through which were dribbling perfect little red drops of blood.
 
She clamped her free hand over the gash, as the pain finally hit her.
 
She cried out, the sound deafening within her helmet.

There was another tug on the line, and a hand touched her shoulder, pushing on her, turning her around.
 
Through the corner of her mask not covered by her gloved hand, she could make out the visored helmet of Petty Officer Lee.
 
A strip of wide grey tape was wrapped around the left sleeve of his suit, and inside his helmet she could see him grinning at her, offering a wink.
 
Silent in the vacuum, he held up a roll of tape.
 
Tearing off a length, he nodded meaningfully at the part of her mask covered by her hand.

Over Lee's shoulder, she could see the shuttle moving sideways toward them, its wide open door a welcome sight.
 
Atwell managed a grin.

Dillon slid a finger across his terminal’s display, and the supply inventory disappeared from view.
 
He reached for his coffee, bringing the mug to his lips.
 
It had gone cold again; he sighed and drank it anyway.

Yesterday’s events had turned out well, despite the few minutes of terror.
 
All of Atwell’s crew had been picked up by the shuttle.
 
There were a lot of bumps and bruises, a lot of damaged suits — masks especially — and a lot of rattled nerves.
 
But everyone had made it back to the
Borealis
in good order, and had been patched up by Singh in time to watch the damaged cylinder ship’s final moments, as it drove itself without hesitation into the churning inferno of the system’s bluish-white sun.

Afterwards, Cho had departed with his own team, down to the surface of Planet Seven.
 
The life there, while different from anything they’d seen before, was compatible enough to be used in the ship’s organic fabricator for food and — said a very proud Sap — even for some simple medications.
 
According to the scanners, some of the plant life was sufficiently compatible to be safely eaten as food, without processing.
 
The black leaves of the foliage must have been off-putting, because there hadn’t yet been any volunteers.
 
Dillon expected it was only a matter of time before someone in the junior mess made a big enough wager to motivate someone to try.

Upon returning with the first shuttle-load of biomass, the hangar had been sealed off, to quarantine the alien material.
 
But the seals in the hangar had promptly failed, letting air from the hangar — with who-knew-what spores or bacteria — spread through the ship.
 
No strange effects as yet; none of the crew had 'exploded or dissolved into paste’, as the Chief had cheerily put it.
 
She actually sounded the slightest bit disappointed about it.
 

A great many shuttle trips later and the ship’s hangar was packed to bursting with biomass from the planet.
 
Most of it had been rendered down into the usual fabricator-fuel sludge, but some had been chilled or frozen intact.
 
Once the quarantine had failed, Dillon had assented to bringing a couple of plants on board, in pots of Planet Seven dirt, to put into terrariums to see what they did.
 
The Chief was hoping they’d turn into triffids.

He’d reviewed the video captured from the suits of Atwell’s team.
 
The symbols that had lit up inside the cylinder’s inner chamber were of particular interest to him.
 
He assumed it was the language of the civilisation that created the cylindrical ships, but the
Borealis
’s computers hadn't been able to make head nor tail of it.
 
Considering the DNA image it had shown, he could only assume the symbols had something to do with detecting foreign life aboard.
 
It might even explain the ship driving itself into the sun — an automated contingency, perhaps, for preventing capture by foreign beings.
 
Or it could have been a malfunction.
 
Sap said there were things he wanted to look at more closely, but he hadn’t reported back as yet.

They now had enough supplies to do for months, which was a massive relief.
 
Apart from the officers, he’d never told the crew how bad it was, though he knew the weeks of half rations must have been a pretty clear sign that the larder was nearly bare.

There had even been time, before leaving Planet Seven’s system, to bring aboard a few small samples of the debris that had been orbiting the planet.
 
There were two distinct types of material:
 
one was obviously smashed pieces of the cylinder ship, and the other was presumably from the wreckage of whatever the cylinder had been fighting.
 
Curved, amorphous, with oddly-formed layers and patches of different elements and metals.
 
A layer of iron, then a layer of selenium, or a patch of molybdenum; it seemed like it had been assembled at random.
 
Samples of this odd new material were now lying in the hangar bay, awaiting the inquisitive eyes and instruments of Sap and the Engineering staff.
 
Quarantine hadn’t worked, so there wasn’t much sense being shy.
 
A few crewmembers had been down to take a look at the samples, but no one wanted to actually handle it.

They plotted a course for Planet Eight.
 
Hopefully, the Burnt Worlds would be just beyond.

Problem was, he didn’t think they would find the Burnt Worlds.
 
Despite the optimism of the other officers, Dillon was fairly certain that they were not, in fact, anywhere near where they hoped they were.
 
Nowhere near home, and nowhere near anything familiar.
 
If they were only a few thousand light-years from the Burnt Worlds, then they should be able to see the light from those worlds from a few thousand years ago, and the billions of Palani who, at that time, inhabited all those worlds at the height of their civilisation.
 
But long-range scans of available light showed nothing.
 
A few pleasant garden worlds among the rocks and gas giants, but there were no hundreds of settled worlds giving off signs of advanced civilisation.
 
Truth was, they weren’t in the right place.
 
He had no idea where they were, and no idea how to get home.

He pushed that out of his mind.
 
Things were going well, all things considered.
 
The ship and crew were largely intact, and there hadn’t been a violent mutiny yet, so he couldn’t be doing
that
bad a job.

Dillon realised he’d opened a photo album on his desk terminal, with images he’d brought with him.
 
Sackville, his sisters, Chief Black, a few friends he’d lost touch with.

He stopped at the picture of his teenaged self, in the back yard of the house on Victoria Street, with his elderly grandparents.
 
They’d taken him in when his parents died, and despite their frailty they had thrown all their energies into his care, for as long as they were able.

Nan had worked at the shipyard, which was where she’d met Gramps.
 
They never wanted adventure or excitement, and were content to spend their lives on the ground, enjoying simple things.
 
Their daughter — Dillon’s mother — had been the opposite: an explorer with restless feet who joined the Navy the day she turned eighteen.
 
He had never heard his grandparents complain about it.
 
When his mother had married his father, his grandparents must’ve hoped she would settle down, but she stayed with the fleet, eventually making Petty Officer while Dillon’s father raised two girls (and, some time later, Dillon himself) and ran a consulting business from home.

When his parents suddenly decided to take their first-ever real vacation, just the two of them going to Earth for a month, Dillon was pretty sure his mother had decided to retire from the Navy.
 
But on their way up to the New Halifax station, their shuttle had a core failure, and that was that.
 
He’d been at home by himself, looking forward to a month of having the house to himself, when the police had come to the door, his grandparents arriving right behind them.

They’d never pressured him, his grandparents.
 
They already knew he had a keen interest in space, but he’d been uncertain about his future.
 
When his sister Maureen came to visit, she often had Linda Black in tow, the girl from a few doors down who’d grown up with his sisters and had been around enough to be nearly a sister as well.
 
In many ways, she was more a sister than Jane or Maureen.
 
She’d always stop by when she had leave, and it was from her that he got the idea of joining the Navy.

His grandparents were happy for him when he gained his commission, but they always seemed a bit sad as well, though they never said anything.
 
He always told them he’d be a ship Captain one day, and they’d smiled for him and told him they were already proud of who he had become.
 

Dillon leaned back in his chair, his hand still holding the empty coffee mug.
 
Pulling his eyes away from the smiling faces of his grandparents, he looked around him at the cabin.
 
His
cabin.
 
The
Captain’s
cabin.

He looked back at the picture, at the eyes of his grandparents.
 
“I did it,” he said quietly, a smile growing on his face.
 
“Not the way I wanted to, but…”
 
He poked the terminal, shutting it off, and rose to his feet.

-----

Dillon was happily surprised; he had barely finished pressing the button on the door console when the door began to open.
 
He stepped into the airlock, and was surprised again when the inner door opened immediately.
 
No cycling of the airlock, no change in temperature.
 
He stepped into the cabin, pausing when he heard soft singing from off to his right.

The Tassali came out from her cabin’s small head, her loose white robes reaching down to the floor.
 
Her bare arms were held in front of her, her hands carefully and precisely patting her arms with an embroidered blue cloth the same colour as her hair and eyes.
 
Her hair fell in cascades over her shoulders, and her brilliant eyes sparkled as she glanced at him, a smile on her lips.
 
She continued singing quietly to herself, in calm, measured verses she obviously knew well.

“Oh,” said Dillon, “sorry.
 
I didn’t know you were in the middle of—”

She shook her head and smiled as she paused between verses.
 
“Please,” she said, “come in.
 
I am nearly done.
 
Talk to me, I will listen while I finish.”
 
She began to sing another verse, resuming the gentle movements of her hands and arms.
 
Twisting her body slightly, she nodded toward the back of the cabin, a smile and a meaningful look on her face.

Dillon smiled, taking another step into the cabin.
 
He turned and leaned against the bulkhead, clasping his hands in front of him.
 
“Well,” he said slowly, hesitant to talk over the sound of her voice, “we’re fully stocked with biomass and we’re underway.
 
We’ve brought some small samples of the two ships’ wreckage into the hangar so we can study it.
 
Whatever the cylinder was fighting was strange stuff:
 
it’s like random layers of different metals all stuck together in blobs.
 
Weird.”

She glanced at him, one eyebrow raised briefly.
 
As she sang the Palani verses, she slid the embroidered blue cloth gracefully around her forearms in time to the words.

“I…,” he began, “I want to thank you.
 
Several of the crew have mentioned coming to you, seeking your advice as chaplain.
 
You’ve learned about their beliefs, and have been sharing your wisdom and insight.
 
You’ve been a huge support, a source of strength for them.”
 
He smiled.
 
“And for me.”

Her hand movements slowed, her song coming to an end, standing in the middle of the room with the blue cloth held between palms pressed together.
 
“As my people say, no one needs to thank a bird for flying.
 
This is what I do.
 
You are welcome.”
 
She closed her eyes, standing perfectly still.
 
“That,” she said gently, “was a prayer to Shialna; we give thanks to him for the day that has passed, and the joys and challenges it brought us.
 
Next, we sing a prayer to Elinth, to welcome the coming night and the peace, stillness, and mystery it brings.”

Turning her palms over, she began to sing anew, an even, practised rhythm.
 
Dillon couldn’t understand the words, but the rise and fall of the Tassali’s harmonic voice was soothing, like a lullaby.
 
As she sang, she slowly turned where she stood, her hands moving in time to the words, carefully folding the cloth in a series of precise steps.