Burnt Worlds (25 page)

Atwell had a nice singing voice too.
 
For a human.
 
With some gentle coaxing, the Tassali had convinced the Lieutenant to offer a small moment of her own; some well-known part of the farewell ritual of her own faith.
 
After a hesitating start, Atwell had started into a hymn called ‘Amazing Grace’.
 
It was haunting and emotional, a song of forgiveness and redemption.
 
Apparently it had been written by one of Atwell’s ancestors, centuries ago:
 
a slave ship captain who had changed his ways.
 
Amba shook her head.
 
How recently the humans had been savages.
 
How quickly they had developed.

She made a mental note to find the hymn in the ship’s library; presumably they had it somewhere in their storage network.
 
Gathering up the
patala
, she walked quietly from the wardroom, turning in the direction of the senior cabins.

Despite the late hour, a two-person crew was at work in the corridor.
 
An access panel leaned up against the wall, and one of the crewmembers had stuck their head and arms inside the opening in the wall, or ‘bulkhead’, as they called it.
 
Why have one name for every part of the ship when they can confuse the aliens with two or more?
 
The sound of quickly-dripping water came from inside the wall, and the second crewmember gave her a quick nod as he handed a tool to his companion.

Rounding the corner at the bridge, the Tassali started down the corridor where the officers had their cabins.
 
She was looking forward to a cold, leisurely shower, then quiet meditation before retiring.

As she passed the Captain’s cabin, the door chirped.
 
She glanced at the door console, and the red ‘locked’ display had been replaced by a new image she hadn’t seen before.
 
As she heard someone clambering up the stairs far behind her, she leaned closer to look at the display:
 
it was white, with a large red cross in the middle.
 
A cold, dense knot dropped into the pit of her stomach as the words ‘Medical Override’ flashed on the screen.

“Excuse me, ma’am!
 
Coming through!” said a breathless Singh, a case of equipment in one hand, as she skidded to a stop in front of the Captain’s door.
 
Slapping her right hand onto the door console, she barked, “Singh, Master Seaman.
 
Medical override, open!”

The door console chirped and turned green.
 
“C’mon,” said Singh, as she squeezed through the gap of the opening door.

The last remnants of the dream faded away, and Dillon began floating upward toward consciousness.
 
It had been a beautiful dream, he thought, and then corrected himself:
 
no, it had been a sad dream.
 
A funeral or something.
 
For someone; he couldn’t remember who.
 
But the choir had sounded wonderful, like a single voice in harmony with itself.
 
He’d never forget that voice, how it made ‘Amazing Grace’ sound so ethereal, like…

Hold on, the singing’s still going.
 
It’s quieter now, barely more than a whisper, but - wait, am I still at the funeral?
 
What have I done, fallen asleep at someone’s funeral service?
 
Oh god, don’t let anyone see me… did I snore?

He took a deep breath — it tasted clean, antiseptic — and with a mighty push, forced his eyes open.

In front of his eyes was the upper edge of the breathing mask that covered his nose and mouth.
 
“Not again,” he said.
 
It sounded like a whimper, which wasn’t what he’d intended.

He was in his cabin.
 
He’d recognise that ceiling plating anywhere, with its access panels, vents and recessed handholds.
 
The singing stopped, and he heard his own chair squeak as it turned.
 

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he watched Tassali Yenaara quietly close her holy book in her lap.
 
“Pardon, Captain?” she said.

“I said,” he began, but was muffled by the mask.
 
He quickly peeled it off, letting it drop to his chest.
 
“I said, ‘not again’.”
 

One blue eyebrow raised.
 
“You do this often?”

“What?
 
No.
 
Except for once, recently.
 
Anyway.
 
What happened?
 
I was busy throwing up things I never even ate, then cleaned myself up.
 
I think I sat down on the deck in the head, because it was cold.”
 
He paused.
 
“I’m sorry Tassali, that was indelicate.”

The Palani woman nodded.
 
“I understood the reference.
 
Most human swearing revolves around creative descriptions of body functions.
 
For what reason, I can only guess.”

Dillon shrugged.
 
“Seen as dirty, I suppose.
 
How do Palani swear?”

“We do not swear, Captain.
 
Nor do we have body functions.”

“What?”

She gave him half a smile.
 
“It is a common joke among the Dosh.
 
They seem to believe we are humourless and uptight.”

“Ah.”

With another squeak of his chair, the Tassali carefully placed her book down on a blue cloth that was spread on his desk.
 
“Master Seaman Singh rushed here, and bade me come with her.
 
Your blood pressure had dropped very low, she said.
 
Apparently the ship told her.”

Dillon nodded, gathering the mask’s tubing as he sat up.
 
He noticed the armband he was now wearing.
 
A centimetre-thick white plastic bracer that reached from wrist to elbow, with a small display showing his vital signs.
 
“Yeah, the ship does that,” he murmured, feeling a slight tingle as the armband dispensed something into his arm.
 
Saline, said the display.
 
He did feel thirsty, now that he thought of it.

“Does it watch everyone?”

The Captain looked up into the Tassali’s white face, and was caught by the look in her eyes.
 
“The ship?” he stumbled.
 
“Yeah, it watches vital signs, and alerts the medical bay if something goes too far out of whack.”

“What about conversations?
 
Images?
 
Who can see this data?” she asked simply.
 
“Anyone?”

It felt like half his mind was still in a fog, while the other half was screaming at him.
 
Apparently he should be taking this seriously.
 
Not taking his eyes from hers, he managed a small shake of his head.
 
“No, no, no.
 
Numeric medical data only.
 
The medical technician can see it if there’s a deviation, or for someone designated a patient.”
 
Like me, he thought.
 
“And the Captain.
 
All access is logged and has to be justified.”
 
His brain was still yelling something at him.
 
“Is there a problem, Tassali?
 
Anything I should know about?”

The perfect white brow had grown a hint of a furrow.
 
“Just you and Singh, and no voice or image?
 
You swear this?”

So that’s what this is about
.
 
“Yes, I swear it.”

Amba relaxed and seemed to deflate, leaning back into the chair.
 
The tension drained from her face, and she suddenly looked away, a blue flush coming to her cheeks.
 
She let out a nervous laugh, then looked down at her hands where they lay in her lap.

“Is everything okay, Amba?” he asked gently.

She gave a wide, easy smile, but didn’t look up.
 
“I am sorry, Feda.
 
I overreacted.
 
I do trust you.”

Dillon leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs.
 
“Your privacy is obviously very important to you.
 
I’ll be mindful of that.”

“Thank you.
 
It is.
 
I sometimes…” she trailed off, then straightened in the chair and looked at him.
 
“I promised Singh I would remain here until you woke up.
 
I expect she now knows that you have.”

The Captain nodded, smiling.
 
“I expect so.
 
Thank you; you didn’t have to.”

The Tassali stood up from the chair, gathering up her
Erwa
in its cloth.
 
She turned to leave, then stopped and looked at him.
 
Almost imperceptibly, she cocked her head.
 
“Yes, I did.”

-----

The wardroom door was closed, and the galley staff had been sent away.
 
The five senior staff watched as Dillon eased himself into the seat at the end of the table, cursing as he banged his armband on the side of the chair.
 

“Good to see you up and about,” said Cho brightly.
 

Atwell glanced at the younger officer but said nothing.

“Thank you, Cho,” said the Captain.
 
“Handy tip for everyone:
 
quadri… whatever, hereafter called Fuckitall, is a bitch.
 
If Singh offers you some, you may push her out the airlock.”

The Chief raised an eyebrow, while Sap smiled over the rim of the mug he held to his lips.
 
“May I have her coffee ration?” he asked.

Dillon began to respond, but was distracted by a soft beep from his armband, and a tingling sensation in his arm.
 
He glanced down at the display, though he already knew what it said:
 
blood pressure, heart rate, blood chemistry, the usual.
 
“If anyone knows how to silence this thing…”

Chief Black, sitting at his left, looked down at his arm.
 
“I could take a look, sir.”
 

He put his arm on the table in front of her, and while she poked at the display, he set his eyes on Cho.
 
“Lieutenant Cho, I understand you have some things to share?”

“Aye, sir,”
 
the young officer nodded, tapping at his datapad.
 
“I’ll show you…”
 
With a small whine, the table’s holographic projector began to start up.
 
The whine became louder, then louder, then abruptly stopped.
 
Cho frowned at it as the sound dwindled into silence.
 
“Or not.
 
Sorry, sir.”

Dillon looked at Lee, who was scowling at the centre of the table where the image should be.
 
He sighed and pulled out his own datapad.
 
“Adding it to the list, sir.”

The Captain returned his gaze to Cho, who continued.
 
“As instructed, we are navigating as if we came out of the jump right where we intended.
 
Except I no longer believe we did.

“It’s about pulsars, sir: rotating dead stars.
 
There are half a million of them in the galaxy.
 
With only a few exceptions, they each rotate at unique but constant speeds, from milliseconds to days.
 
We’ve catalogued them.
 
We know their exact locations and we can use them as landmarks, to tell where we are.
 
Thing is, I can’t find any of them.
 
Not one.”

Atwell stared across the table at him.
 
“What?
 
You can’t find any pulsars?”

Cho frowned at her, and shook his head.
 
“There are pulsars; I’ve found thousands.
 
But not one that we recognise.
 
All the pulsars we see from here, they’re all new.”

Black gave one last poke to the display on Dillon’s armband, and it chirped at her.
 
She patted the armband, looking up at Cho.
 
“I don’t like where this is going, sir.”

The Captain leaned back in his chair, glancing at the display on his armband.
 
Under the chart of medical data was the word ‘Silent’.
 
He grunted, looking up at the ceiling.
 
Some of the ductwork had evidence of new repairs he hadn’t seen before.
 
Without source material for the fabricator, many repairs had to be temporary, make-do affairs.
 
Most of it would have to be redone properly when they had enough source material.
 

“Sir?” asked Cho.

“Yeah,” he responded slowly.
 
“I think we all know how this fits together.
 
Our galaxy didn’t just suddenly replace all its pulsars with new ones.”

A delicate slurping noise from Sap, who was sipping at his coffee.
 
Without putting the mug down, his green eyes glanced around the table.
 
“So,” he said softly, “Different pulsars.
 
Different galaxy.”

Even though they all knew it — had all been thinking it — hearing it out loud still made the room sink into a heavy silence.

Dillon fought against the waves of panic that swept over him.
 
He assumed they could all see it in his eyes, because he could certainly see it in theirs.
 
Cho looked like he was going to be sick.
 
Atwell and Lee looked lost.
 
The Chief was unconsciously pushing her hair back over her ears.
 
Sap had put his coffee down.
 
One by one, everyone was turning to look at him.