by S. J. Madill
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.
32
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.
“Darjeeling,” she repeated slowly. “Thank you. May I also have a coffee to take to the Captain?”
“Yes, ma’am, right away,” said the young man, his voice lower, as he quickly grabbed another mug and filled it from the pot. In a fluid motion he added a dollop of whitener and smoothly passed the mug across the counter to her.
“Thank you again, Mister Thompson,” she chimed, heading for the wardroom door with a mug in each hand.
Turning down the corridor toward the bridge, she stepped around an array of cabling, piping and tools that were piled on the floor along the wall. Coming to a sudden halt, she found herself concentrating on the mugs she held, holding her hands still until the liquid stopped moving and threatening to spill out onto her gloves.
“Sorry, ma’am,” came a voice from above.
Looking up, the Tassali saw two members of a maintenance crew, standing on boxes, working on some ductwork above their heads. One of them, his arm jammed into a duct, was looking sideways down at her.
She smiled up at him. “All is well,” she replied, and started off toward the bridge with smoother, more careful steps.
Rounding the corner, she glided onto the bridge. The Captain was facing away from her, talking to the communication console on the ceiling above his chair. Atwell’s voice answered him through the speaker. “...just like the one Cho found on Planet One, sir. Big pile of crystal cubes. Scanner says about four million pieces. We’re setting up to start scanning it all in.”
Dillon must have sensed someone's arrival; without looking, he reached his hand back toward her. She placed the mug in his hand as he spoke toward the console. “Okay then, let me know when you have a time estimate. Anything else?”
“Aye aye sir,” came the tinny voice through the speaker. “And no sir, nothing else.”
“Right then,” he reached his left hand up to the console. “Borealis out.”
He took a tentative sip of his coffee as he turned his chair around. “Thank you— oh, good afternoon, Tassali.”
She smiled demurely. “Captain. Have I come at a bad time?”
He shook his head in response. “No, it’s okay. Atwell and Saparun have taken Lee’s squad down to the planet to look around. It’s much the same as Planet One.” Sipping again at his coffee, he peered over the rim of the mug, his eyes glancing about from under a furrowed brow.
“Something troubles you, Captain?”
“We’re in no danger,” he said quickly. “Not that I know of.” He turned to look at her, staring intently into her eyes as if the answers he sought were written there. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Cho mentioned something this morning that, frankly, bothers the hell out of me. “
Amba was about to speak, but stopped herself. She tried again. “Worse than dead planets, Captain?”
He made a face, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s this…”
Reaching above his head, he poked the communications console again. “Borealis to Atwell.”
The Lieutenant’s response was immediate. “Atwell here, sir.”
Dillon kept watching the Palani woman’s eyes as he talked toward the ceiling. “Atwell, everything’s dead on the planet, right?”
“Aye sir.”
“Any bodies?”
“No sir,” came Atwell’s hesitant answer. “No bodies anywhere, nothing… oh. I get it, sir.”
“Yeah. Keep me posted, Borealis out.”
He pushed a finger at the console again, and leaned forward in his chair. Holding his mug in both hands, he raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “That is the problem. The cities are destroyed, and their wreckage is still there. But there are no remains of the residents. Or animals. Not one skeletal bird, or fish, or insect or plant. Not one shrivelled little bacterium corpse. Nothing.”
The Tassali felt a knot begin to grow in her stomach. “Nothing?” she whispered.
Dillon shook his head. “Not only was all of the planet’s organic life killed, all organic material — alive, dead or otherwise — is gone. So that’s two entire planets, no biomass.”
She looked away from him, focusing on the grey and brown planet that filled the view out the bridge windows. Taking a sip of tea, she had to concentrate to keep her hand from shaking visibly.
The Captain’s voice was quiet. “If you have any happy news, I could use some.”
She relaxed a little. “Actually, yes.” Her cobalt eyes looked sideways at him. “My body temperature is up to twenty-one degrees.”
A grin quickly spread across his face. “Thank you.”
33
Able Seaman Anderson tapped on the display again. It had been several days since Planet Two, and the starboard engine was at it again. It was running perfectly, but a warning message — not even a warning, really, it was more like an informational message — had popped up on the display and refused to be cancelled. He poked the ‘Dismiss’ button, and after several seconds the message came up again.
He looked up from the console, trying to spot his crewmate. Stewart was over by the matter fabricator, looking inside one of the machine’s open access panels. She saw him wave, and began to walk over, wiping her hands on a clean cloth.
“That fab dust gets into everything,” she said, scrubbing at the tip of one finger. “What’s up, Anderson?”
“Well,” he gestured at the screen, “this message keeps coming up. It’s not a ‘critical’ or a ‘serious’ or a ‘warning’, but it still keeps coming up.” He dismissed the window, and it reappeared shor
tly after. “See?”
“Huh,” grunted Stewart. “Just an error code. That might be the one I saw last week. The number looks similar.”
“What was that one for?”
Stewart looked at the ceiling above, squinting one eye shut to help her think. “It was a message saying that the message log was nearly full of logged messages, and would have to delete old messages so it could log the new message.” She looked again at the console. “I’m pretty sure it’s the same one.”
Anderson shook his head. “A message about too many messages? Who comes up with this shit?”
Stewart shrugged. “Just like everything else in the fleet: built by the lowest bidder, who then cuts corners.”
“Bah. This is bullshit. And all it shows is the message code, which we now have to go look up somewhere. Couldn’t they at least have added the code description?”
Another shrug. “We’ll just look it up. Do you have your datapad?”
“No,” frowned Anderson. “They took it and wiped it clean. Needed it to load all that scanned alien DNA.”
“Yeah, mine too. We’ll have to find Saparun’s. Do you know where he is?”
“Nope. I think he said he’d be back around fifteen hundred. Should we get him?”
Stewart looked down at the display, one finger lazily tapping ‘Dismiss’ as the message window appeared again. She sighed. “Yeah, I guess we should. Start with his cabin.”
-----
“Do I look like some sort of information desk?” asked the Chief. “Am I a message service and—” She leaned back from the bridge console, still holding the handset firmly against her ear. “Did you just interrupt me, Anderson?”
The bridge crew began to smirk as the Chief rolled her eyes. The excited squeak of the voice on the other end of the line came through her handset.
“Yeah,” said the Chief, “yeah.” She met the eyes of Pakinova, who was watching her from the helm console. The Chief frowned at her, nodding meaningfully at the helm. Pakinova got the hint, returning her attention to her station.
“Okay, look. I’m surprised the Head Mechanic never covered this, but with these engines, unless they come and tell you there’s a problem, with a thousand messages all at once, then there’s no problem. It’s just a bookkeeping thing.” She paused, listening to the handset. “Fine with me, Anderson. If knowing ‘for sure’ will make you sleep better, with little dreams of giggling unicorns and shit, then be my guest. Try the wardroom, or the medical bay or—” her eyebrows leapt up her forehead. “So help me god, you did not just interrupt me again. Do you have any idea how far my boot will go up your ass, Anderson?” She smirked at the sudden burst of excited squeaking through the handset. “That’s better. Use your judgement. Chief out.”
Calmly putting down the handset, she looked up to see the Captain watching her from his chair at the other side of the bridge. The pen in his mouth tilted upward, along with one eyebrow. Black gave a small, dismissive wave, and the Captain returned his attention to his datapad.
-----
Sap looked around at the small compartment. “I’ve never been down here before.”
Barely two metres by five, the storage & access level was sandwiched between the Engineering deck above and the hangar deck below. A few medium- and small-sized storage cubes were fastened to the deck and the bulkheads. “I’ve seen it on the ship’s schematics,” said the Mechanic.
Cho, slightly hunched over, made his way to the back of the compartment, sitting himself down on a small storage box. He leaned forward and started working at the opening of the larger container next to him. “Yeah,” he said absently, his attention focused on the container. “I found it on the Regina, Borealis’s sister, the first time I ever sailed. When I came aboard Borealis, I came looking for the same space here.” He briefly glanced around. “I like it. It’s the most private spot on the ship.”
The Head Mechanic sat down on another small container next to Cho. “I see,” he said. “So, you seek somewhere quiet, somewhere to retreat?”
Cho shrugged. “I guess so, yeah. Somewhere I can turn off my game face. Just be me. Somewhere I’m not being watched or judged.”
Saparun watched quietly as Cho reached into the large container and pulled out a glass bottle. “Then I appreciate you sharing this with me, Cho. But I wonder: do you feel you are being judged?”
The young officer turned the bottle in his hand so he could see the front. He gently tilted it back and forth, gauging the remaining volume of blue liquid inside. “Of course I am,” he said tersely, then frowned to himself. “Always have been. Atwell’s watching me. The Captain is definitely judging me.” He held the bottle out to Saparun. “From the Greys. Their version of cider. It’s made from something they extract from Earth cows.” He shrugged.
“Huh,” said the Mechanic. “Contraband.” He accepted the bottle in his red-skinned hands, turning it over to get a better look at it. “Very nice stuff.” His green eyes looked up at Cho. “I know there is friction between you and Atwell. She is your senior, so in many ways she’s competing against you for promotion. But at the same time, you’re both equally needed for this ship to get home. Maybe some of her attention is motivated by the ship, and not by some sort of personal agenda.”
Cho shrugged, watching the bottle in Saparun’s hands.
“As for the Captain,” said the Mechanic, carefully unscrewing the cap, “it’s his job to judge you. It’s not about judging your value as a living person, but judging your performance as an officer.”
Cho tilted his hands up in a gesture of surrender, as Saparun sniffed at the bottle’s open top. He nodded. “I know this stuff.”
Tilting back his head, the Mechanic took a sip. He leaned his head left and right, letting the blue drink move around in his mouth. “Nice,” he said approvingly. “Though how they get this from Earth animals, I have no idea.” He passed the bottle back to Cho, looking him in the eye as he did. “So,” asked the Dosh, “why do you compete all the time? Why the need to put on a… what did you say… ‘game face’?”
Another shrug. “Always have. I was the adopted kid; my brother — my parents’ real son — had all the breaks. If I wanted to be seen, I had to be big enough, good enough, that I wouldn’t be hidden behind him. We were always compared. I knew it wasn’t going to stop, so I had to get away. I’ve always been judged. I get the Captain doing it; it’s his job, like you said. But everyone else does it too.” He swirled the bottle around in his hand, looking down at it. “Except you, Sap. You don’t. Thank you for that.”
The Mechanic nodded. “I do not consider myself qualified to judge people. Nor would I want to.” He stopped at the sound of someone walking on the deck above. He cocked his head to one side, listening carefully. “Anderson,” he said, “has returned. He has not been successful in finding me.”
Cho looked up at the ceiling. “Huh? You can tell who it is?”
Saparun nodded. “Oh, yes. Everyone has a unique gait, an individual way of moving. I take some pride in knowing people by their footsteps.”
“Why would that be useful?”
The Dosh smiled at the human. “I believe I have mentioned how my people have a fondness for practical jokes. This is a defensive skill.”
“Defence? From what?”
“Clearly, you have never met my… sister.”
“Oh,” said Cho. He continued to look at the ceiling, pausing only to take a sip from the bottle. “So, should you go see why Anderson is looking for you?”
The red-skinned alien shook his head. “No need. It is a trivial matter, though it is clearly driving Anderson and Stewart to distraction.”
“How do you know it’s trivial?”
The Mechanic smiled. “So many questions today.” He patted his hand against the large front pocket of his red work coat. “I have programmed the system to alert my datapad if there is a serious problem. My datapad remains silent, so the problem cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I see. That’s smart
.”
Saparun smiled. “Thank you. Also, I haven’t purged the message log in four days. The system will begin to create messages about the log being close to capacity. That particular message is vague, so it will drive Anderson and Stewart quite insane. At least, until they figure out what the message means.”
Cho squinted at him. “You’re pranking them?”
The Mechanic gave a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t think I would call it a prank. A mere moment’s amusement on my part. Perhaps a small test of their patience and resourcefulness.”
“Oh.” Cho took another drink, watching the Dosh. “Wait. I didn’t know you had a sister.”
Another smile. “Well, not a sister as such. Or a brother, to be accurate. A sibling, let’s say.”
“Fair enough. But didn’t you two compete? For careers, or attention, or whatever?”
The Mechanic looked up again, his eyes following the footsteps on the deck above. “Not really.” He held out his hand, waggling his fingers. After staring for a moment, Cho handed him the bottle. Peering into the top for a moment, Saparun took another drink. “Dosh don’t compete for careers. That has been mostly eliminated.”
“Nice,” said Cho quietly.
“Every seven years — that’s every nine or so Earth years — all Dosh usually take a series of tests. Not all at once, obviously. Anyway, these tests measure skills, aptitudes, talents, personality, beliefs, everything. From this, we are provided guidance for our lives. Careers, hobbies, sports, companionship and romance, place of residence, even holiday destinations. We can get useful and highly accurate guidance as to what might be suitable or preferable for us.”
Cho held out his hand, imitating Saparun’s finger-waggling gesture. “We have aptitude tests,” he said, “but nothing that good.”
The Mechanic nodded. “Imagine how good those tests become, after carefully improving and refining them over a thousand years or more.”
