Dirge - Alan Dean Foster [49]
The second officer interrupted him, which while not unprecedented, was unusual. She also sounded worried, but that was normal for Hollis. “Captain, you’d better come up here.”
“Why?” Even as he objected, he was swinging his legs out of the bed. “We made the transition from space-plus without incident, and this system holds no surprises. What’s wrong with the ship?”
“It’s not the ship, sir. At least, Kharall says it’s not.”
“All right, all right!” Grumbling to himself as he slipped into his one-piece duty suit, he damned the regulations that required a vessel’s captain and senior officers to always be available for consultation.
No one confronted him as he made his way via lift and corridor to the bridge. Whatever had upset Hollis, it had not caused any panic on the ship. He encountered no frightened faces, no individuals racing to and fro in panic. This had better be a real problem, he thought irritably, or he was going to have serious words with his second.
Nor did there appear to be any reason for distress on the bridge itself. There was Kharall, bent toward his console as if by bringing his face a few millimeters closer to the readouts he could discern details that would not otherwise be evident. Everyone else assigned to the second shift was in position and to all intents and purposes engrossed in their work. A few chatted softly, their attitudes anything but indicative of imminent disaster. No voices were raised, though the expressions on several faces as he entered were expectant.
Expectant of what? He had no idea yet what was going on, or why Hollis had thought it necessary to summon him from the middle of his rest period. Only one thing was he certain of: He would have some answers very quickly.
Turning slightly to his right, he strode purposefully over to where Hollis was conferring with Meeker, the ship’s communications specialist. Both looked up at his approach. Hollis didn’t wait for the captain to speak.
“We’re a fraction of an au out from Treetrunk, just cutting the orbit of Argus Six, and there’s still no response.”
He replied instantly. “So their beacon’s down.”
“All of them?” She met his gaze unflinchingly. “All three?”
“It’s possible,” he shot back, though internally he was already beginning to argue with himself.
Meeker joined in. She was a small woman with big ears, ragged black hair cropped short in what Trohanov had always thought a very unflattering cut, and she had a surprisingly large voice that was the aural equivalent of her occasional opinions.
“One okay. Two maybe. Three never.”
“Never say never.” Trohanov was not ready to concede, though if professionally challenged he would have been compelled to agree with his communications officer. “Treetrunk’s still a new world, only been settled for a few years.”
“Four,” Meeker corrected him.
“Okay, four, dammit.” Ahead, through the narrow, curved port, could be seen only stars and the still distant dot of Argus V, their destination. “A multiple beacon failure is still possible, especially on a world as recently colonized as this one.”
“There’s no response from the shuttleport at Weald, either.” Meeker was conciliatory but insistent.
“So their communications are down also. It means they’re having some problems, that’s all.” As he spoke he leaned closer to the communications console, studying the readouts closely.
Meeker turned her child-troll’s face up to his. “There’s no background noise. No tridee, no chat, nothing. Not even a hiss. From a communications standpoint, the planet’s dead.”
Her choice of words upset Trohanov, but he didn’t let it show. “Okay, that’s bad. Maybe real bad. Let’s not anybody jump to any conclusions. I’ve known several people who jumped to conclusions and they invariably came to a bad end.”
“What happened to them?” Hollis asked softly.
He flicked deep-set cinnamon eyes at her. “They landed in holes. Maintain preset course for orbital insertion. There’s nothing to suggest we should do otherwise. Keep everyone on alert.”
“What about the rest of the crew?”