Burnt Worlds (8 page)

“I expect so, Captain.”

“Right then.
 
Singh?”

The medical tech was holding her scanner in front of her, pointing it at the pod and looking intently at the display.
 
She glanced over at the Captain.
 
“Only one, sir.
 
Alive and well, I think.”

Dillon stopped and stared at her.
 
“What?
 
A twenty-person pod, and only one aboard?”

“Aye, sir.”

He looked back at the pod.
 
“Huh.
 
There’s a story here.”
 
Rolling this over in his mind, he absently brushed dust from his gold-striped epaulets.
 
“Everyone looking sharp?
 
Right.
 
Go ahead and knock.”

One of the suited hangar crew, her helmet removed, gave three sharp raps on the door of the pod.
 
Almost immediately, a row of small lights turned blue amid the brief hiss of escaping air.
 
The door pulled itself into the pod and disappeared in the darkness inside.
 
Dillon quickly glanced at each of his crew in turn, then stood quietly and waited.

Slender, white-gloved hands grasped the sides of the door frame.
 
Long, cobalt-blue hair flowed out from under a white scarf, framing a feminine human-like face with utterly white skin and eyes the same vivid cobalt blue.
 
On the woman’s brow was a delicate gold circlet with bright red stones.

Sap made a small noise, and leaned forward toward Dillon.
 
His voice was a whisper, barely audible but unmistakably urgent.
 
“
Tassali
.
 
Priestess.
 
Nobility.
 
No physical contact.”
 
His green eyes were wide, and the yellow patches on his cheeks were slightly flushed with red.
 
Dillon looked sideways at him for a moment.

The Palani woman stepped out of the pod and straightened.
 
She was taller than most of the humans; broad-shouldered and feminine.
 
Her form-fitting tunic, breeches and high boots were all of the purest white, and her pristine cloak flowed out of the pod door and gathered silently around her.
 
Her face was tilted upward, and brilliant blue eyes glared out from her alabaster face.

The voice was melodious and complex; several sounds harmonising together.
 
“Humans,” she declared.
 
It sounded like a sigh.

Dillon stepped forward and gave a quick nod of the head.
 
“Tassali.
 
Welcome aboard HMCS
Borealis
.
 
I am Lieutenant-Commander Dillon, Captain of this vessel.”

The blue eyes turned and stared through him; his train of thought fell off its rails.

“You honour me with my title,” she said, forming her words carefully and precisely.
 
“I am Tassali Yenaara, in service of the Five Divines.
 
Am I rescued, or captured?”

The human blinked, unable to conceal his surprise.
 
“Pardon?
 
No, no.
 
Tassali Yenaara, you are not a prisoner.
 
You are our honoured guest, until we can return you safely to your people.
 
Do you need medical attention?”

The Palani woman looked around at the others present in the hangar bay.
 
She stared for a moment at Chief Black’s dark blue hair.
 
Then she saw the Mechanic.
 
“Dosh,” she said simply.

Sap gave a short bow.
 
He licked his lips, fumbling over his words.
 
“Tassali.
 
You… you are safe among these humans.”

She looked back at Dillon.
 
“You have my gratitude, Lieutenant Commander Dillon.
 
I do not require medical attention.
 
But it is too hot for me in this chamber.
 
I must move to a colder place.
 
Quickly.”

The Captain smiled at the Tassali, finding himself pleased to be speaking with her.
 
Her voice was strangely soothing.
 
He had a hundred questions he wanted to ask.
 
But not now, he told himself.
 
“We have a cabin prepared for you, Tassali, at a more comfortable temperature.
 
If you’ll follow me…?”

Dillon half turned and stepped toward the hangar exit.
 
The Palani smoothly swept one arm to her side, pointing behind her.
 
“In the survival ship are my things.
 
I will need them.”

The Captain looked at one of the crewmembers, and nodded toward the pod.
 
He then headed for the doorway, and the Tassali calmly followed him out into the corridor.

The rest of the crew stayed in the hangar bay, clustered around the alien pod.
 
Everyone seemed to exhale at the same time, looking around at each other, then at Chief Black, whose face grew a smirk.
 
“Well,” she said cheerily.
 
“This should be fun.”

The holographic image of the Commodore watched as Dillon tapped at his desktop terminal.
 
“We answered the distress signal, sir, as I mentioned… I’ve just sent you an encrypted file listing everything we picked up.”

The woman nodded at him, looking sideways at her own terminal, out of view of the holoprojector.
 
“Understood, Commander.
 
What encryption key?”

“One-time key ‘
Borealis
four-seventeen’, sir.”

The Commodore tapped at her unseen terminal.
 
“Four seventeen,” she repeated.
 
“Here we are…”
 
She quickly looked at Dillon.
 
“That’s it, Commander?”

Dillon nodded.
 
“Yes, sir.
 
One pod recovered, with one passenger.”

Commodore Sinclair thoughtfully tapped two fingers against her desk.
 
“You realise, Commander, this is a very big deal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are you getting along with your guest?”

“So far so good, sir.
 
Minimal contact.
 
Very minimal.
 
The passenger has been made as comfortable as we can manage, and is keeping to themselves.”

“I’ll tell Admiral Clarke, and we’ll get in touch with your passenger’s people.
 
We’ll find out how to go about taking the passenger home.
 
They might want to arrange a rendezvous.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Commander,” said the Commodore, her brow furrowing.
 
“This has to go well.
 
Do you understand how important this is?”

“Aye, sir.
 
I understand.”

She nodded.
 
“It's important that you do.
 
I realise this is a lot of additional responsibility that you didn’t ask for.”

Dillon shrugged.
 
“It’s part of the job, sir,” he said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

“Exactly.
 
I need you to be up for this, Commander.
 
I can tell that you’re under a lot of stress.”

“Sir?”

The holographic Commodore pointed at him.
 
“You’re chewing that pen to bits.”

Dillon suddenly realised he had a pen in his mouth, and was chomping on it.
 
“Oh,” he said, suddenly self-conscious.
 
“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it, Commander.
 
Me, when I get stressed, I mostly take it out on datapads.
 
It’s human enough, but just be aware of it.
 
Keep in mind that it might be visible to the crew.”

“Yes, sir.
 
I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

The Commodore leaned back, the holographic image adjusting to keep her visible.
 
“Normally, officers would get years of extra training before being put in a command role, but it’s been dumped in your lap.
 
All things considered, Commander, you're doing fine.”

Dillon nodded.
 
“Thank you, sir.”
 
He didn’t entirely believe the Commodore; he expected his faults were clear for everyone to see, and she was just reassuring him to keep things from getting worse.
 
Which was really all he was hoping for: to get the ship and its crew home without making things a lot worse than they already were.
 

“Commander,” said the woman.
 

Dillon blinked and looked into her holographic eyes.

“Seriously,” she continued.
 
“You’re doing fine, Dillon.
 
You have good officers and NCOs backing you up.
 
Count on them, lean on them, put them to work.
 
Your job is to keep calm and keep everything moving.
 
And you can contact me at any time.”

“Yes, sir.
 
Thank you, sir.”

“Good.
 
Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well,” said the Commodore, leaning forward toward her unseen terminal.
 
“Sinclair out.”

Dillon sat back in his chair as the whine of the holoprojector began to wind down.
 
He rubbed his hands against his face, trying to keep his mind from going in too many directions at once.
 
He put his hands down, reaching out for his coffee cup.
 
It had become empty somehow; he didn't remember drinking it.

Sighing heavily to himself, he grabbed the empty mug and stood up, tapping the door control as he left his cabin.

He had only taken a few steps toward the wardroom and its promise of fresh coffee, when he heard raised voices off to his right, in the direction of the bridge.
 
It sounded like the Chief was giving someone some high-volume life lessons.
 

No, he corrected himself, there were two raised voices.
 
Either two peers were having it out, or someone was being insubordinate.
 
Neither idea sounded very promising to him, so he quickly took the few short steps toward the bridge.

“Deck!” shouted Seaman Pakinova from the helm.
 
Everyone on the bridge stood to attention as he entered.
 
“As you were,” he said curtly, and the crew returned to their posts.

In the centre of the bridge stood his two officers, Lieutenants Cho and Atwell.
 
They were barely a pace apart from each other, both standing stiffly, faces flushed with red, chests heaving as they breathed quickly.
 
They both looked at him with wide eyes; partly out of anger, he thought, but mostly out of fear.
 
The bridge fell silent, quiet enough for him to hear the ticking of the mechanical clock on the aft bulkhead.
 
His stomach sank, and he felt his shoulders begin to slump.
 
Even as he sighed, he realised that everyone on the bridge could see his disappointment.

“Good evening,” he said quietly.
 
“Mister Cho, Mister Atwell, is everything in order?”

The two officers responded in unison.
 
“Aye, sir.”
 
He could hear the tension in their voices.

He nodded slowly, looking from one to the other.
 
“Glad to hear it,” he said simply.
 
“We’ll talk later.”

Resisting the urge to throw his favourite mug, he turned and walked from the bridge.
 
He needed a fresh cup more than ever.

Chief Black's voice made Dillon start.
 
“Sir, you left your stylus with the paper log.”

“I did?”

Black pointed at the pen he held between his teeth.
 
“Sir, you took the pen and turned it into a chew toy.
 
I need the ink pen for the paper log.”

“There's a spare in the cabinet,” Dillon said.
 
A defiant grin come across his face.
 
“This one is mine.”

Black sighed.
 
“Fair enough, sir.”
 
She nodded at his datapad.
 
“Anything good?”

Sighing, Dillon handed the pad to her.
 
“Trying to find out what the hell a Tassali is.
 
Some sort of priest or faith healer.
 
We’ve got files on most Palani variants, but not much about that one.”

Black flicked through the pages.
 
“I knew they made different flavours of themselves, sir.
 
Ages ago.
 
Really went wild with genetic engineering and stuff.
 
There’s the big ones: thick-boned and heavily muscled.
 
And the lean, nimble ones, and the super smart ones.
 
One other variant was supposed to be radiation-proof, which is neat.
 
Now the traits are inherited, like we inherit eye colour.”

“Or hair colour,” said the Captain with a grin.
 
“So, what’ve we got?”

The Chief gave back the datapad.
 
“We’ve got a few tons of wreckage in the hangar, sir.
 
The bulk of her ship is falling into the gravity well of that gas giant.
 
When it broke up, the debris kept its forward speed.
 
Must’ve been going flat out.
 
Judging by the trajectories of some other wreckage, they were manoeuvring violently beforehand.
 
They tried like hell to get away from something.
 
It was quick, though, sir.”