Burnt Worlds Read Online Free PDF

planetside starports. I doubt they've seen an Earth cruiser before.”
    The Captain frowned.   “Hadn’t thought of that.   We’ll be a bit of a novelty.   Okay, when we get there we’ll see how much of a fuss people make, and fake it from there.”
    “Aye, sir.”
    “And well done, Atwell.   Good initiative.”
    Atwell gave a wide smile.   “Thank you, sir.”
    Dillon paused a moment, looking at her.   “How’re you doing, Lieutenant?”
    She shrugged.   “Tired, sir, but well.”
    “Fair enough.   Okay, thank you Atwell, you’re relieved.   To your bunk.”
    “Aye aye, sir,” she replied, saluting as she left the bridge.
    Atwell was doing fine, Dillon thought.   Apart from losing a coin toss that got her night watch for the first week, and having trouble adjusting to the hours, she had been calm and professional—fun, even.   More than one of the bridge’s night watch had mentioned how she would periodically break the monotony with a joke, or some trivia she’d learned about other cultures.   It had only been three nights, though.   He’d seen her praying once or twice, in her off hours; silently reciting prayers while doing something unrelated, like reading her datapad.   It seemed to help her.   Hopefully, she would be still doing just as well after they’d been out here for a month.   Or a year.
    The crew was each responding in his or her own way.   Dillon had kept the additional role of counsellor; he thought it important that the crew knew he thought it was important, and not some lesser job to be handed off to one of the other officers.   For every crewmember who came forward to speak with him - and there had been several - he assumed there were a handful who were hesitant.
    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