Burnt Worlds (31 page)

Singh knew the look.
 
She’d seen it many times before; even once today already.
 
It was the look of someone who had an embarrassing or awkward question to ask.
 
She leaned back, her hands holding the counter’s edge behind her, trying to adopt body language that would seem approachable.
 
She hoped she was getting it right.
 
“Ma’am, anything said in here, stays in here.
 
So please don’t feel embarrassed if—”

The Palani’s brilliant blue eyes flicked up to meet hers, and looked right through her with the calm certainty of a predator.
 
It caught the medic off guard, and she fell silent.

“Master Seaman Singh, I need you to swear to me that this discussion will be private.”

The medic nodded.
 
“Yes, ma’am.
 
I absolutely swear it.
 
A medic is a physician first, and a sailor second.
 
Unless the ship is at risk, anything we discuss will be completely confidential.”

The blue eyes didn’t move from Singh’s.
 
“You understand I will hold you to that.”

“I understand, ma’am. “

The white face relaxed, the blue eyes starting to look around the room again.
 
“So.
 
I am beginning a relationship with a human.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tassali Yenaara looked at her meaningfully.
 
“With the Captain.
 
A physical relationship.”

Singh didn’t blink.
 
“Yes, ma’am.”

The Tassali made a mental note of something.
 
“The difference in body temperature is posing a problem.”

“Yes, ma’am.
 
Human body temperature is thirty-seven Celsius, while Palani body temperature is nine point five.
 
It would be difficult, if not harmful, for both of you.”

“I have raised my temperature to fifteen.
 
I can raise it further through meditation, but it will soon begin to cause problems.”

“Yes, ma’am.
 
Unfortunately, it will mostly be up to you.
 
The human body cannot withstand a significant change in temperature, even if we try to acclimatise.
 
A change of two to three degrees is enough to pose a health risk.
 
Palani can change their body temperature significantly, if given time to acclimatise.
 
But as your temperature rises, your blood becomes less efficient at moving oxygen.
 
You will become lethargic.”

“So,” said the Tassali, “you have been doing research.”

Singh gave a small nod.
 
“You’re one of my patients, ma’am.”

“Is there a solution, then?”

“I can give you an armband, and load it with something that will make your blood more efficient at higher temperatures.
 
As you raise your temperature higher, you will need more and more of it.
 
At thirty-seven degrees, you’d be using a ton of the stuff.
 
And there is a danger, ma'am:
 
if your supply runs out, your body’s oxygen level will crash, causing your system to slow down.
 
You would pass out, and probably suffer widespread cellular damage.
 
It could easily be fatal.”

The Palani had leaned back against the examination bed, her arms crossed in front of her.
 
She was looking down at the floor, deep in thought.
 
She took a deep breath.
 
A smile crossed her face, and she began to slowly shake her head.
 
“By the Divines, Feda,” she whispered, “you task me again.”

A smirk crossed Chief Black’s face.
 
Cho's team had returned from the surface, triumphant and full of data.
 
The ship was underway once again, onward to the next planet, and the crew's spirits were high.
 
She clasped her hands behind her back and started to walk slowly across the bridge.
 
“Okay then.
 
It’s twenty-three hundred, and the Captain has gone nighty-night.
 
Time to slack off?”

The three bridge crew, without looking up from their consoles, answered in unison:
 
“Hell no, Chief!”

Black paused, raising her eyebrows, then continued her stroll across the back of the bridge.
 
“And why is that?”

“Because the Chief never sleeps!” cried the crew.

The corners of her eyes crinkled as her smile grew wider.
 
“Damn right.
 
Carry on.”

Black turned her head to see Atwell’s reaction.
 
The officer was bent over the counter at the back of the bridge, carefully writing in the ship’s paper logbook.
 
She was shaking her head, her lips curled up in a small grin.

Lieutenant Atwell glanced up as the Chief leaned against the counter next to her.
 
She quickly looked back to her writing, her cheeks blushing slightly.
 
“I… I’m not very good at this,” she said.

“What, sir?” asked the Chief.
 
She leaned over to get a closer look.

“Handwriting.
 
This is the only time I ever use it.
 
I feel like a medieval monk, hand-lettering a manuscript.”

“Or a psalter,” offered the Chief.
 
“No idea what it is,” she said to herself, “...but I know monks used to make psalters.
 
Is the ‘p’ silent, or is it more like ‘pih-salter’?”
 
Black thought about this for a moment.
 
“Probably silent.
 
And your writing is fine.
 
The paper log is important,
 
tradition and all that.
 
Like the watch bells, or ‘Roll to Quarters’, or saluting the stern when we come aboard.
 
Plus,” her fingers drew small circles in the air, “all these computers can crap out, but a paper log doesn’t.”

“‘Rum, sodomy and the lash’,” mumbled Atwell, still writing.

The Chief kept watching the bridge crew, but her eyebrows jumped up her forehead.
 
“Yes, please sir,” she said enthusiastically.
 
“Best offer I’ve had all day.”

The officer stopped writing, her face turning bright red.
 
“No, no, no… that was a quote from Churchill, ages ago.
 
He was being dismissive of naval traditions.”
 
She put her hand to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose.
 
“Sorry Chief, I guess I can’t write and think at the same time.”

Black curled her face in an exaggerated frown.
 
“Shame.
 
Went and got my hopes up.”

“And it’s a book of psalms, by the way.”

“Sir?”

“A psalter is a book of psalms.”

The Chief momentarily glanced at her.
 
“You’re kidding, sir.
 
A pih-salter is full of pih-salms?
 
Who comes up with this stuff?”

“It’s from the Greek, I think.”

Black grunted.
 
“Only Greek I know is to yell ‘
Opa!
’ when they set your dinner on fire.”

“Which means…?”

She shrugged.
 
“No idea, sir.
 
Probably something like ‘Help, my dinner’s on fire’.”

With a quiet chuckle, Atwell finished her writing and carefully put the pen back in its holder.
 
She turned herself around and leaned on the counter next to Black.
 
“When
do
you sleep, Chief?”

Black shook her head.
 
“Chiefs don’t sleep when they’re at sea, sir.
 
We wait until we get back to port.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye, sir.
 
Then we go out, get drunk, and go to bed.
 
Maybe more than once.”

Atwell rolled her head to look at the Chief.
 
She let her eyes flit up and down the woman’s length.
 
“More than once, Chief?”

“Aye, sir,” said the Chief.
 
Her face was unreadable, as she watched the crewmember at the helm.
 
“When we get back, I’m going to hit Dief.”

“Diefenbaker Station?
 
That place is a hole.”

Black nodded knowingly.
 
“Aye, sir.
 
I’m going to get drunk out of my mind, and go to bed, repeatedly, until I fall asleep.”
 
Her eyes narrowed in thought as she talked to herself.
 
“Maybe a guy this time.
 
Or one of each.
 
Twins?
 
If we’re getting danger pay, I could do that.”
 
She nodded approvingly.
 
“Nice.”

“You don’t really—”

“As far as everyone knows, I do, sir.
 
And that’s good enough for me.”
 
She smiled at the officer.
 
“You should come along, sir.
 
Dief is outside the fraternisation rules.
 
It’d be good for you.”

“Outside the fraternisation rules?
 
I’ve never heard—”

“That’s what my Chief told me,” said Black.
 
She shrugged, “And you never question your Chief.
 
Besides, it’s not like we’re following the rules now.”
 
She leaned a little closer to Atwell, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial mutter.
 
“There are eleven relationships on the go among the crew, plus two more on-again-off-again soap operas.
 
Frankly, I’m fine with it.
 
We’re a long way from home, and not a hundred percent sure that we’ll ever make it back.
 
We’re not going to prevent it, so I’ll stay on top of it.”
 
She paused.
 
“Figure of speech, sir,” she said, grinning to herself.
 
“So when we
do
get back, come with me to Dief Station, and discover the secret port life of Chiefs.”

“
Eleven
?
 
But…” the Lieutenant trailed off.
 
“I couldn’t possibly.
 
I need to...,” she looked away from the Chief, focusing her eyes elsewhere, “...I need to find a good man, settle down, that sort of thing.
 
You know, family and all.”

When she turned her eyes back, Black was looking at her.
 
“You don’t sound convinced,” said the Chief.
 

The Lieutenant pushed herself upright, stepping away from the counter.
 
She put her hands in her pockets and turned to face Black, mustering a calm face.
 
“Chief, we should probably…”

Black held the officer’s gaze a moment, keeping her face unreadable.
 
After a moment, she nodded.
 
“Aye aye, sir,”
 
she said simply.
 
She stood up straight and stepped over to the cluster of consoles where the crew were working.
 
Glancing back, she saw Atwell standing still, looking forward out the bridge windows.

The Chief cleared her throat, and the three crewmembers looked up at her.
 
“Right then, news update,” she said, looking at each of them in turn.
 
“You were all in your bunks, so you’re more clueless than usual of what’s going on.
 
At current speed, we’ll reach ‘Planet Two’ at thirteen hundred tomorrow.
 
As Able Seaman Pakinova could tell you — but probably hasn’t — we’re now seeing the same thing in the light from Planet Two that we did at Planet One.
 
Seven-hundred-odd years ago, something messed up a perfectly nice planet, and what’s left is dead and nasty.
 
It’s a bit like New Toronto, to be honest.”

“Anyway,” she continued, watching Pakinova roll her eyes while the other two grinned, “we’re going to stop by Planet Two, take a look around, maybe some nice pictures, then set course for Planet Three.
 
From there, we’ll continue moving along the galactic arm in the direction of home.
 
We'll be stopping, in order, at the planets on the Captain’s list of tourist destinations, looking for food.
 
Any questions?”

The three crewmembers answered together, “No questions, Chief.”

Black nodded sagely, glancing over at Atwell, who was still looking out the bridge window.
 
“Okay,” said the Chief.
 
“Carry on.
 
You may resume slacking.”
 
She met the officer’s gaze, and raised her eyebrows in a question.
 
The Lieutenant nodded, giving a brave, tight-lipped smile.

Tassali Yenaara reached out an elegant white-gloved hand and picked up the mug by the handle.
 
She put her other hand under the mug to steady it.
 
The white synthetic-ceramic mug, emblazoned with the ship’s coat of arms, felt clumsy and graceless to her.
 
Her left hand hovering underneath the mug, she raised it to her lips, pursing slightly as she blew on the drink before trying it.

She looked down at the wardroom cook.
 
He was short and lanky, his uniform hidden under the vast blue apron intended for someone twice his size.
 
His boyish face sported a brave attempt at a moustache.
 
A dreamlike look filled his eyes as he grinned at her.
 

Amba smiled back, then took a sip.
 
“Very nice, Mister Thompson.
 
It is much lighter than the other one.
 
What is it called?”

“Darjeeling, ma’am,” he squeaked, then cleared his throat.