Burnt Worlds (51 page)

“Okay, tell the shuttle crew that there’s no way we’ll be able to land to pick them up.
 
They’ll have to take off and we’ll pick them up at speed, while we’re being pursued by a fleet of these things.”

“Aye aye, sir.
 
I’ll tell them.”

“Sir!” yelled Pakinova.
 
“I’ve lost port-side thrusters now!”

“Fuck!” spat the Chief.
 
“Now we’ve got the turn radius of a battleship.
 
Helm, you’ve still got pitch.
 
Nose up and down all you want.”

Atwell was back next to the Chief, looking over her shoulder at the console.

“They’re preparing to fire again, sir!” said the sensor tech.

“Steady, helm,” said the Chief.
 
“Wait to see the shot.
 
Steady…”

The ship lurched violently, causing the crew to grab handholds.
 
“Sorry!” cried Pakinova.
 
“Running into debris!”
 
The bridge echoed with loud crashing noises as metallic debris slammed into the hull and windows with the force of artillery.
 
The view out the window began to curl and spin as Pakinova struggled to keep control.

Atwell looked at the tactical display, her hands holding white-knuckled to an overhead rail..
 
“Why haven’t they fired?”

The sensor tech’s voice was quiet and hesitant.
 
“I don't know, sir!” he said.
 
“Still no shots!”

“What?
 
Say again, sensors?”

More debris struck the bridge windows and hull, the terrible noise making everyone wince.
 
Atwell moved along the handrail, hand-over-hand, to stand nearer to the sensor console.
 
“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“Sir, I mean, all the cylinders have stopped.
 
All of them, everywhere.
 
Stopped.
 
Dead in space.”

“What the hell?” said Atwell.
 
“Helm, here’s your chance to get some distance.”
 
She turned to look at the Chief.
 
“What’s going on, Chief?
 
Why are they stopping?”

The Chief looked over her display again.
 
“It’s the Captain,” she breathed, her face brightening.
 
“It has to be.
 
They did it.”
 
She jumped to her feet, smiling at Atwell.
 
“They fucking did it!”

The bridge crew all leapt to their feet, cheering and laughing and throwing their arms around each other, even as the ship lurched and they flailed for handholds.
 
The Chief reached out her arms to hug Atwell who, elation on her face and tears in her eyes, grabbed the Chief into her arms and kissed her on the lips.
 
The Chief was stunned at the depth and passion of Atwell’s kiss, and it wasn’t until they separated that she understood.
 
She gaped at the Lieutenant.
 
“Me?” she said, dumbfounded.
 
“All this time, it was me?”

Atwell’s face was flushed with excitement, then embarrassment, then excitement again.
 
Tears made their way down her cheeks as she smiled and nodded.
 
“Yes, Chief.
 
You.
 
Always you.
 
If you want—”

The Chief’s mouth fell open.
 
“Hell yes!
 
Why didn’t you say anything?”

Atwell grabbed a handhold as the ship lurched again.
 
She shrugged.
 
“I guess I was waiting for the right moment.
 
This'll do.
 
Besides…” she smiled, “…it’s been fun watching you go nuts.”

“You asshole,” said the Chief.
 
“Sir.”
 
A shake of the head.
 
“Come here,” she muttered, pulling Atwell’s face back towards hers.

Dillon stepped through the double doors and outside into the fresh air of New Halifax, taking a deep breath.
 
He straightened his uniform jacket and started down the front steps of naval headquarters.
 
Looking at the plaza bustling with people, he breathed deeply again.
 
It was the first time he’d been outside since they’d arrived home two days ago.
 

At the bottom of the steps he stopped, turning around when he heard a familiar voice behind him.
 
“Commander Dillon.”

He came to attention and saluted, but Commodore Sinclair waved him off, a datapad in her hand.
 
“You did very well, Commander.
 
And that full third stripe suits you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I do believe, Commander, that was one of the most upfront, frank and bullshit-free debriefings I have ever been in.”

Dillon hesitated.
 
“Uh, you’re welcome, sir.”

“Relax, Commander, it was a compliment.
 
I don’t suppose the bureaucrats are very happy, but you said what needed to be said.
 
Have you thought of what you’re going to do next?”

“No sir, I haven’t decided yet.”

“You’ll be interested to know, I have already assigned Lieutenant Cho to his next post.”

“Sir?”

“A diplomatic rotation, Commander.
 
He’s accepted a posting as an aide-de-camp.
 
He’ll be personally accompanying the new Dosh scientific liaison.
 
Who I think you know.”

“That’s an excellent assignment, Commodore.
 
For both of them.
 
Are they still on New Halifax?”

The senior officer shook her head.
 
“No, Commander.
 
They’ve already left.
 
They’re headed to the agricultural colony on New Bogota.
 
Something technical, about the science of growing coffee beans or something.”

Dillon smiled.
 
“A shrewd man, that Dosh.”

“Speaking of crew matters,” she said, holding up the datapad.
 
“here’s something you can take care of.
 
Since the
Borealis
’s commission technically lasted until this morning, and considering your recent speech about being responsible for your ship and crew, this is your problem to sort out.
 
Head to Hellyer Brig.
 
You’ll have to sign for them.”

He took the offered datapad.
 
“Sir?”

The Commodore smirked.
 
“There was a ‘Gathering of the Chiefs’ at Dief Station last night.”

“Oh.”

“Your very own Chief figured prominently in the night’s events, as well as a female in civilian clothes who, it is rumoured, may be one of
Borealis
’s officers.”

“Oh.
 
I see, Commodore.”

“Apparently, repairs to Dief Station will take some time.”

“Well—”

There was a gruff voice to Dillon's left.
 
“I’ll take that.”
 

Dillon and the Commodore quickly came to attention and saluted.
 
“Admiral Clarke,” said the Commodore.

The fleet commander was Dillon’s height, and trim, with thin grey hair and a sun-wrinkled face.
 
His eyes were bright and fixed on Dillon; he nodded as he plucked the datapad from Dillon’s hand.
 
“Commodore.
 
Commander.”
 
He began to tap on the datapad.
 
“I was at a ‘Gathering of the Chiefs’ once, when I was a young lieutenant.
 
Whatever happened, it was worth it.”
 
He handed the datapad back to Dillon, his signature now at the bottom of the screen.
 
“Commander,” said the Admiral, “I appreciated your testimony in there, and your good work during this difficult deployment.
 
Our casualties were light, but we still lost some good ships and crew.
 
It would’ve been worse, it would’ve been a god-awful mess, if it weren’t for your ship and crew.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

“Have you thought about what you’ll do next?
 
The
Borealis
will need a permanent Captain.”

“I haven’t really thought about it yet, Admiral.”

The Admiral waved dismissively.
 
“No rush.
 
You’re taking a month’s leave — the paperwork is in your inbox — and I expect you to come see me when you get back.
 
Oh, and there’s a travel allowance to take that leave anywhere you want.”

“Thank you, Admiral, but—”

“For two, Commander.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“On which note, Commander, I appreciate what you've done for us diplomatically.
 
The Dosh want to come and learn more about our methods, and the Palani ambassador has actually spoken to the Prime Minister.
 
In fact, the ambassador is here.”
 
The Admiral nodded back toward the headquarters building.
 
“Inside, in the ‘Iroquois’ room.
 
Here to meet you.”

“Me, sir?
 
Thank you, sir.”
 
Dillon hesitated.
 
Sir, speaking of Palani, I need to contact—”

“We already told the Tassali that you were done.
 
She’s on her way.”

“Sir, thank you for everything.”

The Admiral scoffed.
 
“Thank
me
, Commander?
 
I don’t think so.
 
You’re the one who saved our asses.
 
Come see me in a month.
 
Dismissed.”

Dillon saluted the flag officers, then took the steps two at a time back up to the front door of headquarters.

Dillon quietly let himself into the conference room.
 
The rows of tables and chairs were empty, and the light reflecting off the wood-panelled walls gave the room a golden glow.
 
A Palani man stood at the wall near the front of the room, examining a painting of an ancient Iroquois village.

The ambassador was a few inches shorter than Dillon, and thin.
 
He had handsome features, and long blue hair that was streaked with white; his pale white skin was deeply creased around his eyes.
 
He was wearing a neck-to-foot coldsuit, over which his white and blue robes hung to the floor.
 
He turned to look as Dillon approached, fixing him with cobalt-blue eyes that lacked the lustre of others Dillon had seen.
 
“Commander Dillon?” asked the Palani.
 
His voice was higher than expected, but had the same harmony, the same calm.

Dillon gave a respectful nod.
 
“Ambassador.”

“I hope your day is pleasant, Commander.
 
I understand you have been busy.”

“I have, Ambassador, thank you.”

“I do not wish to keep you, so I will try to be brief.” The Palani took a breath, before starting his carefully-rehearsed speech.
 
“Commander, the recent tragedy would have been far worse, were it not for the actions of you and your crew.
 
You kept the legacy of the Horlan from coming back to haunt us all, for which you are to be commended.”

“Thank you, Ambassador.”

The man’s coldsuit creaked as he stepped away from the painting and walked past Dillon.
 
He had a thin, forcibly sincere smile on his face.
 
“Commander.”
 
The ambassador paused, considering his words.
 
“In the process of dealing with this situation, you have learned a great many things about the past of the Palani people.”

Dillon nodded.
 
“I have.”

The ambassador glanced at him, then kept walking across the front of the room.
 
“You showed a great deal of discretion, Commander, in what you said openly in the debriefing.
 
I assume that the rest — the details that you did not discuss out loud — were instead communicated to your commanders in a separate, secret manner.”

“That is a fair assumption, Ambassador.”

The Palani man stepped closer to Dillon, awkwardly clasping his hands in front of him.
 
“Commander.
 
I hope that, as you go forward in your career, you will continue to exercise the same level of discretion with the truths you have learned.
 
Whatever you may think of the crimes committed by our ancestors, we have always—”

The two of them turned as the conference room door opened and Amba entered. She wore no coldsuit, her gleaming white robes flowing about her legs as she strode gracefully toward them.
 
Beneath her waves of blue hair, held in place by a golden tiara, her face was beaming, shining and slightly flush with blue.
 
Her brilliant eyes went straight to Dillon, and when they met his, she smiled.

Amba walked directly to the Commander, placing one gloved hand on his shoulder and leaning in to give him a brief, deep kiss on the lips.
 
“Feda,” she said quietly, her breath hot and sweet.
 
“Your Admiral told me they were done with you.
 
Is it my turn now?”

“I’ve missed you,” whispered Dillon.
 
“We can go as soon as…,” he nodded in the direction of the ambassador.

As if noticing him for the first time, Amba turned to look at the Palani man, who was bowing deeply to her.
 
“Delan Estelia,” she said calmly.
 
“an Ambassador now.
 
I have not seen you in some time.”

The ambassador bowed more deeply.
 
“
Baleth aasal Yenaara Tassali, sid eth—
”

“Do not be rude.
 
Speak in the trade language, so everyone in the room can understand.”