Burnt Worlds (5 page)

And there were the letters.
 
A traditional — and depressing — duty to be performed.
 
The Commodore had offered to take care of it, but Dillon had insisted.
 
Eleven letters, each one unique.
 
As honest as operational secrecy would permit, and as heartfelt as he could muster.
 
He even wrote to the families of the Dosh observers, not knowing what they would think of it.
 
Sap had told him that his people didn’t make a big deal about death.
 
But writing letters had seemed the right thing to do.

That was last night.
 
He had transmitted the letters, along with other reports, to the Commodore just before midnight.
 
He’d felt himself becoming emotionally drained through the writing, and had expected to fall asleep easily.
 
But sleep hadn’t come.

At least the memorial service had gone well.
 
Such as it was.
 
That had been the second day after the
accident
— what everyone had taken to calling it — when the crew had been able to catch its breath from the fear and the uncertainty.
 
While the port-side shuttle bay was still filled with the scattered parts of a shuttle under repair, the starboard-side bay was empty, and it made a decent open space for gathering the crew.
 
Everyone in neat rows in their dress blues, trying to find a way to say goodbye to crewmates they’d spoken to only a few days before.
 
His datapad had very thorough files on the proper procedures and the correct words for him to use, but he’d veered from the script after the first sentence.
 
Dry and generic weren’t his style, and he felt the crew deserved better than that. He just thought it best to let the emotion flow, get it all out; stiff upper lip be damned, he decided, there was nothing wrong with shedding a tear in uniform.

He'd seen the Dosh standing at the back, respectfully paying attention, though it clearly struck the alien as a curiosity.
 
How, Dillon wondered, can death not mean anything to them?
 
Especially given their long lives; did they never feel the loss of someone they’d known for centuries?

“Sir?”

Dillon blinked, and saw PO Lee as if for the first time.
 
The petty officer was shorter than Dillon, with a chest like a bull.
 
His graying black hair and moustache were perfectly trimmed, and he stood as if holding down the deck with his presence.
 
Dillon met the PO’s gaze, and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.
 

“Sir, we’re approaching the Tashann system.
 
How far out shall we emerge to sublight?”

“A couple million clicks from the fourth planet.
 
Use your best judgement.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

He watched Lee return to his console, which he tapped at a few times.
 
A small timer appeared on the screen.
 
“Sir, emerging from FTL in forty seconds… mark.”

“Thank you, Mister Lee.
 
Sensors, tell me all about the place as soon as we get there.
 
Quarter-power only on the active scan; I don’t want to spook the locals.’

“Aye aye, sir,” came a voice behind a console.

Dillon turned to look at Chief Black as she shuffled onto the bridge, scratching idly at the back of her head.
 
She seemed to catch herself, and turned the movement into a brief salute.
 
“Good morning, sir,” she said without stopping.
 
“There’s plenty of room in the hold now, sir.
 
Couldn’t sleep, so spent most of dog watch in there with Sterling and Isaacs getting it sorted.”
 
She walked in front of him, causing him to lean back.
 
He stared at the side of her head as she went by.
 

“Chief?”

She stopped next to the helm console and looked over her shoulder at him.
 
“Aye, sir?”

The Captain spoke carefully, not convinced he was going to make sense.
 
“Chief, is your hair… a bit... purple?”

“A bit, sir.
 
‘Indigo Sheen’, number forty-seven.
 
Came out a bit purpler than I’d intended.”
 
She shrugged.
 
“Got bored between watches.
 
Sir.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dillon could see two crewmembers stop what they were doing to look over at him.
 
PO Lee glanced up from his console, glaring at the crewmembers until they returned to work.
 
Dillon couldn’t fathom why, but apparently this was an issue of some interest.
 
Did the crew need more to do, to keep them busy?
 
Or were they trying to distract themselves by way of self-expression?
 

The Chief was still looking at him.
 
“Regs just say it can’t be ‘outrageous’, sir.”

The Captain stared the Chief in the eye for a few moments.
 
It was far too early in the morning for a hefty moral conundrum.
 
But in the Chief’s eyes he saw, amidst the mischief, a flicker of uncertainty.
 
He nodded slowly, hoping he looked thoughtful and wise.
 
“Chief, you know perfectly well this ship’s colours are blue and white.
 
Purple is one of the colours of the
Regina
.
 
She’s
Borealis’
sister, and a fine ship, but she is crewed by savages and degenerates who cheat at curling.
 
And
that’s
outrageous.”
 
He pointed at Black accusingly, raising one eyebrow in exaggerated disdain.
 
“So it’s blue yes, purple no.”
 

He saw some of the crew grin at that, matching the Chief’s smirk.
 
“Aye aye, sir.
 
For the ship.”

With a brief flash of light, a planet appeared outside the bridge window.
 
Petty Officer Lee tapped his console.
 
“Tashann, sir.”

Another crewmember spoke up, excitement in her voice.
 
“We’ve got active sensors on us… seven, eight… thirteen in total.
 
Navigational and general-purpose bands only.”

“Eighteen ships in proximity, sir.
 
Various classes…” came another voice.

“Two energy signatures never before seen, sir,” said another.

Dillon lifted one hand in front of him.
 
“Whoa.
 
Settle down, everyone.
 
One at a time.
 
Lee, who’s here?”

“Eighteen ships within a hundred thousand kilometres, sir.
 
Mongrels, mostly.
 
Homebuilt.
 
Looks like two ex-Dosh ships, four Sandan ships, three An-El-Bezod, there’s Hasanadali, Jaljal, Uta, Grays, one thing that looks like it’s made out of duct tape, and some sphere that is I-don’t-know-what.
 
All of them fifty metres or less; biggest weapons among them are some class-two lasers.”

“A quarter our size, got it.
 
What’re they up to?”

“Four were underway.
 
They all stopped what they were doing and are now coasting.
 
No sudden moves anywhere, sir.”

“They’re flying casual.
 
Okay.
 
We do the same.
 
Nice and steady.
 
Big gentle turn into a standard orbit.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Lee.
 
“Big and gentle, sir.”

Dillon nodded.
 
“Comms, do we have any hails?”

“Yes, sir,” said the young woman.
 
“Traffic control channel is asking our intentions.
 
An Uta ship has transmitted a list of minerals they’re selling, and, uh…” she trailed off.
 
Turning in her seat, she faced the Captain.
 
“Apparently that sphere would like to ‘embrace Freem’ with one of us, sir.”

He couldn’t help but make a face.
 
“Embrace
what
?
 
No, wait, never mind.
 
Tell traffic control we’re here to buy supplies.
 
Ask if we can send down a shuttle.
 
Be polite.”

The woman put her hand up to touch her earpiece.
 
“Aye aye, sir.”
 
She grimaced.
 
“The sphere seems... urgent, sir.
 
Should I decline?”

“What?
 
No.
 
Tell them…”
 
He glanced at Chief Black, whose smirk had spread across her face.
 
“Okay, tell them we must observe the ‘ritual of the purple hair’, and then we’ll get back to them.”

“Sir?”

Dillon rolled his eyes.
 
“Make something up, Seaman Pakinova.
 
Respectful and courteous, but delay giving a real answer.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dillon turned to the Chief.
 
“I’m going shopping with Sap and a couple volunteers.
 
Get Lieutenant Cho up here; he’s in charge.
 
And you…” he pointed his finger at her again, “...your job is to find out all about Freem by the time we get back.
 
I’m tempted to send you over.
 
Who knows?
 
You might have the time of your life.”

“Aye aye, sir.
 
I’ll take pictures.”

The shuttle rattled ominously as it was buffeted about.
 
Miles of increasingly thick and rain-laden atmosphere reluctantly moved aside to let the small craft glide down to the surface of Tashann.

Dillon sat on the hard bench, his left hand holding the grab strap over his head.
 
He gritted his teeth with each bounce of the shuttle.
 
Across from him sat Saparun, who had his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest.
 
To the Captain’s right, six of the
Borealis
crew, led by Petty Officer Lee, sat alongside them.
 
One of the marines was clearly unwell, his face darkening with each lurch of the ship.
 
Another marine — O'Neil, he thought — had slumped back into the corner of the bench near the far hatch.
 
Her body was limp, her head was tilted back, and her wide-open mouth rattled with her snoring.
 
Dillon caught the eye of Lee, and tilted his head toward O’Neil.
 
Lee smiled knowingly and made an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders.

The internal speaker chirped.
 
“Landing pad seventeen, now in sight.
 
Clear and clean.
 
Twenty seconds.”

Dillon and the crew began to stand up, grabbing extra handholds while Lee shoved O’Neil awake.
 
They all wore full-length raincoats, all in the same nondescript grey-brown colour without insignia or rank badges.
 
The coats were light enough to be comfortable, but bulky enough to conceal the armour they wore underneath.
 
Bulky enough as well to hide the holstered pistols they wore at their hips, but not enough to hide the carbines of Lee and O’Neil.

“Ten seconds,” came the pilot’s staccato voice.
 
“Today’s weather is twenty degrees, with a lovely torrential downpour.
 
We’re in landing bay seventeen, so please remember where we parked.
 
Thank you for flying RCAF, have a nice day.
 
Buh-bye.
 
Contact.”

The shuttle gave one last bounce, then was still.
 
As the whine of the engines began to fade, the port side hatch slid open.

The monsoon roared in Dillon’s ears, and in moments the damp reached through to his skin.
 
He pulled his coat’s hood up over his head, and peered out at the downpour.
 

The sky was dark and green, and the thick air smelled of rotting vegetation.
 
As he stepped out onto the ground, his high boots squelched into shallow mud.
 
Rain loudly battered against his coat and hood, making it hard to hear.

Through the murk, he could see a head-high wall that went right around the shuttle, marking the edge of the circular landing bay.
 
A single arched gap in the wall showed the exit.
 

The Captain turned to the crew, who had debarked from the shuttle and were cautiously spreading out.
 
“Lee!” he shouted, loud enough to be heard above the pummelling rain.

One of the raincoats turned toward him.
 
“Sir?”
 

“Lee, I want two with the Head Mechanic and me.
 
You stay here with the rest.
 
I’ll let you know when to expect us back.
 
As for unexpected visitors, be nice with the locals but don’t take any shit.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And no one wanders off.”

“Aye, sir.”

Dillon started to say something else, but stopped himself.
 
“And you know what you’re doing, so I’ll shut up now.
 
Carry on.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Dillon couldn’t see the PO’s face, but he expected the man was grinning.
 
Lee quickly pointed to two of the crew, then at the Captain.
 
The two marines stepped up.
 
“Sir,” said one.

“I can’t see you for all this rain.
 
Who we got?” asked Dillon.

“O’Neil, sir!” said one.

“Graham, sir,” said the other.

“Right.
 
With us.”

The Captain started walking toward the arched gap in the wall.
 
Sap fell in quietly beside him, and the two marines came behind.
 
Their footsteps squished in the muck, and the shuttle quickly faded to a dark silhouette in the green murk behind them.