Burnt Worlds (29 page)

He looked back down, clasping his hands together.
 
He suddenly didn’t know what to do with them.
 
“Cho took a team down to the surface.
 
We can't talk to them, so we have to wait for them to get back.”

“Yes, Feda.”

“Atwell's got the bridge.”

“Yes, Feda.”

Dillon nodded.
 
“Everything's fine.”

The two sat in silence.
 
He could hear the fan rattling again.
 
It was the same one they could hear in the wardroom; it was somewhere in the ventilation ducts on this deck.
 
The rattle came and went, but generally it was getting worse.
 
And some of the plumbing in the head had taken to making small clicking noises as it heated up or cooled down.
 
When the cabin was still, and sleep was successfully eluding him, these sounds might as well be the deafening roar of a waterfall.
 
Water?
 
A memory fell into place.

“That was it.
 
Waters,” he said decisively, to the deck down between his feet.

“Pardon?”

He didn’t look up.
 
“Waters.
 
That was the name of the evaluation officer.
 
I was trying to remember it.
 
He was right.
 
I’m not cut out for this.”

Amba shook her head at him.
 
“Sometimes, Feda, you are difficult to follow.
 
You are not cut out for what?”

“For command,” he said.
 
“For starters, I have no idea how we’re going to get home.
 
I don’t even know if it’s possible.
 
We might not even be in the Milky Way any more.
 
Can’t tell the crew, they’d lose it.
 
They’d all give up, wouldn’t know what to do.”

Raising his head, his eyes met hers.
 
She remained quiet, watching him.

He shrugged.
 
“Yeah, I know.
 
Like me.
 
No idea what to do.”
 
He tried to suppress a grimace as his stomach cramped painfully.
 
“I mean, I’m just making everything up as I go along.
 
Hoping no one notices.
 
But, people are getting killed.”
 
Eyes clamped shut as another sharp pain knifed through his stomach.
 

He held his hands uncertainly in front of him, cradling an unseen face.
 
“O’Neil, she was right here, right next to me.
 
She was the first one to react to the ambush.
 
I saw her, her head…”
 
He wanted to wipe the memory from his mind.
 
His face reddened at the impulse, and he shook his head.
 
But what the fuck do we know about suffering and loss?
, he thought.
 
We lost one person.
 
Seven centuries ago, Amba’s people...
 
“How do you even do it?”

The Palani woman watched him, a quizzical look on her face.

He had a dozen different things he wanted to say all at once, and the words tumbled out of him.
 
“I mean… a
trillion
people lost.
 
It would’ve been, what, ninety-nine percent of your race?
 
But you kept…” his hands made small gestures, as if to shake the words loose from his head.

“Living?” asked Amba.

Those blue eyes had a way of breaking through him.
 
“Yeah,” he said.

“The dead were dead,” she said, her eyes not leaving his.
 
“The living were living.”

His face must have expressed his bafflement, because after a moment she continued.
 
“The living were still living.
 
Still able to fight, or laugh, or kill, or love.
 
Still able to choose.
 
And they chose to keep going.”

Her knees were close together, and on them rested her white-gloved hands, loosely clasped together.
 
He found himself staring at them; it was easier than looking into her eyes.
 
“It’s not the choosing that’s the hardest,” he mumbled.

The fan in the ceiling started a new and more ominous rattle.
 
He tried not to think about it.
 
“It’s the responsibility.
 
Knowing that the choices have consequences.
 
That the choices affect people.”

“Yes,” she said, giving a slight nod.
 
“After the
Horlan
left, and my people came to terms with what had happened, almost everyone in a position of power... had problems.
 
The suicide rate grew a hundredfold.
 
Four of the Pentarch died within the year, by their own hands.”

Dillon looked up at her, studying her face.
 
“So the fifth Pentarch, that was the leader your people needed?”

She shook her head.
 
“No, she went mad.
 
Quite mad.”

As he frowned, she quickly continued.
 
“Our religion held us together.
 
It allowed us to step away from responsibility we couldn’t bear.”

“That seems a strange thing for a priestess to say.”

“Not at all.
 
It is the purpose of religion, and the intent of the Divines:
 
to shoulder the burdens that mortals cannot carry, to suffer that which would break us.
 
The old Pentarch were broken not because they had made the decisions, but because they had felt they were to blame.”

“So,” he said carefully, “Those who survived, who weren’t broken, were the ones who didn’t feel responsible for anything?”

Amba shook her head again.
 
“No.
 
They just made choices.
 
To feel responsible for the things they can control, and to let go of the things they cannot control.
 
We are all still responsible.”

“For what?”

She smiled, still gently shaking her head.
 
With a small movement of her feet, the chair rolled toward him, her knees sliding between his.
 
Her hands reached up and touched his cheek, sending an exciting tingle of coolness through his face.

The white face leaned close.
 
“By the Divines, Feda, you do task me.”

“Uh…”

She gave his face a gentle squeeze.
 
“For each other.
 
For those we care about.
 
We wish for them to be happy, and we do what we can to make them so.
 
But it is up to them to choose their own paths.
 
We are only responsible for our own actions and feelings, for the people we choose to care about.”

Those brilliant blue eyes were inches from his, and he couldn't look away.
 
Gentle waves of cool citrus scent brushed his face as she breathed.
 
He wanted her to stay.
 
He wanted her to get closer.
 
Somewhere in the background, his mind was telling him what a bad idea it was; how it would interfere with the mission.
 
Which, he considered, had already gone to hell
.
 
I want this.
 
He hesitantly reached his hands up towards hers.
 

The words tumbled out of him.
 
“I would choose you.”
 
He swore inwardly for sounding so ridiculous.
 
His heart began to hammer erratically in his chest; his urge to run was refused by his rigid muscles.

Her voice was a brief melody.
 
“I know, Feda.”

With a slight tilt of her head, her lips brushed against his.
 
A feeling like he’d jumped into a frozen lake.
 
A sudden shock of icy thrill — of being alive — washed over him.
 
An overwhelming wave of fear and joy swept away his mind’s feeble protests.
 
Thoughts that
this is wrong
were roughly shoved aside by reflex.

She backed away a short distance, the chair squeaking in protest.
 
In one smooth movement, her legs swung around his, shoving his knees together, and she slid forward to sit on his lap.
 
Leaning forward, her lips lightly touched against his.
 
She sighed contentedly.

He hesitantly brought his arms around her, his hands drawing her closer.
 
Amba slid further forward until her body pressed against him, her mouth more confidently exploring his, her hands moving up his arms to his shoulders.

Dillon pulled her closer still, feeling the coldness of her against him, the press of her breasts against his chest, her thighs around his.
 
He moved on instinct, his thoughts receding into the distance as his mouth moved hungrily to her neck.
 

Leaning her head to one side, she exposed her neck to him.
 
She ran her hands around to the back of his head, pulling him closer as his hands explored her back and moved around to her sides, tracing the curves of her body through her taut coldsuit.

Amba’s breathing had become heavy already, her chest heaving and her sweet breaths coming long and forceful.
 
Dillon’s fingers were becoming numb, his lips and face losing sensation, as small shivers rippled through his body.
 
While his right hand held the small of her back, his left hand clumsily slid under her robes, cupping her breast through her coldsuit, searching for the suit’s seam.

Her hands gripped his shoulders and she leaned back, her hips sliding away from his body, putting space between them.
 
Groggy from the cold, Dillon moved his trembling hands back around to pull her nearer, but she shook her head.

Confused and uncertain, he blinked at her.
 
Her eyes were wide, her lips and cheeks were flushed with blue, and her exposed skin had a glossy sheen of perspiration.
 
She panted heavily, her body rocking as she breathed, and she smiled broadly at him.
 
A laugh escaped her, a bright and shining tune.
 
“Feda,” she chuckled, “Your lips are blue.”

He shivered, his hands twitching.
 
“Y-yeah?”

She took deep breaths, trying to slow her breathing; the smile remained on her face, and her eyes sparkled as she looked at him.
 
“By the Divines, you are aflame.
 
It is like embracing a furnace.”

Dillon grinned, his teeth chattering.
 
“I was thinking…” he tried to slow his breathing as well, “…more like an icicle.”

Amba laughed again.
 
“Okay,” she said as her breathing slowed.
 
“Okay.”

“Okay,” repeated Dillon.

She held him gently, keeping the distance between them.
 
“We will need a way past this.”

“Yeah.”

“I suppose,” she said conspiratorially, “we could ask Singh.
 
She might have some medical advice.”

Dillon nodded, fighting the urge to shiver.
 
“We can trust her.
 
Ship’s medics respect privacy.
 
If she had to tell anyone, it’d be the Captain, so…”
 
His face suddenly clouded with doubt.
 
“You know, I never even thought to ask—”

“Yes,” she interrupted.
 
“Humans and Palani are…” she grinned, “surprisingly similar.
 
Similar enough.”

“You did research?”

The Tassali raised an eyebrow.
 
“I have seen your race’s public data network.
 
It is difficult
not
to find… research.”
 

“That’s it!” cried Cho.

Saparun smiled but said nothing, his attention fixed on the screen of his datapad.
 
He quietly tapped at the screen, glancing periodically up at the door in the alien building.
 

With one finger, he flicked away another sternly-worded warning message about the datapad’s battery usage.
 
The ‘device overheat’ indicator was now refusing to be dismissed, blinking angrily in the middle of the screen.

Through the soles of his boots, he felt a small quiver in the ground.
 
The door had moved, not enough to see, but enough to cause a cloud of dust to leap from the surface of the building and be quickly borne away on the breeze.

An exuberant slap on the back almost made him drop his datapad.
 
“Fantastic!
 
Sap, you’re a genius!”

“This is true,” he said with a toothy smirk.
 
He quickly powered down his datapad before it was drained completely.
 
“So.
 
Six
 
internal gravity latches, made of ferrous metal.
 
Unlatched by using strong magnetic fields, but only in a certain order.”

Cho stood next to him, his right hand on his hip and his left holding two now-dead datapads.
 
He was slowly shaking his head, his eyes wide with wonder.
 
“Wow.
 
This is huge.”

Lee, carbine on his back, walked up beside them.
 
“Got it, eh?
 
Well done, sir.
 
Shall we start on the other building?”

“Yes, go ahead,” said the Lieutenant.
 
He turned to look at the Mechanic.
 
“What’s the order, Sap?”

“Start at the top, Petty Officer Lee.
 
Then,” he gestured in the air, thinking as he drew circles with his hand.
 
“Counter clockwise?”