Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (16 page)

"Oh, no," whispered Dillon.
 
He could see it already.

She nodded at him.
 
"For centuries, they have been trying to hand-craft a single perfect example of Palani genetics.
 
The distillation of all our saints and prophets.
 
The epitome of wisdom, of insight, of everything the Temple seeks."

"A prophet?" asked the admiral.

Amba shook her head.
 
"Not just a prophet.
 
A messiah.
 
A chosen one."
 
Her eyes were on the ambassador, and Dillon could see her growing anxiety.
 
"Estelia, tell me:
 
did they do it?
 
Did they truly create the Elanasal Palani?"

Ambassador Estelia seemed to be considering his words for a moment, once again consulting the far wall.
 
"The young man in question," he said with great care, "represents the best candidate thus far—"

"Candidate?" asked Dillon.
 
He couldn't stop the word from tumbling out of his mouth.
 
"Wait.
 
Candidate?
 
How many kids have they already made in a laboratory somewhere?
 
What did they—"

"Hundreds," said the ambassador.
 
"Thousands.
 
I don't know."

"So the ones that weren't up to spec, they just…"

Estelia just watched him, his tired blue eyes showing no expression.

Dillon saw that Amba was still gathering her thoughts; she spoke slowly as she put ideas together.
 
"So.
 
The Pentarch finally came up with a candidate they thought was good enough…"

The ambassador nodded.

"Good enough," she continued, "to go public.
 
Otherwise they wouldn't care if he ran away."

"There have already been rituals performed, yes.
 
The people understand he is a creation, but see it as the triumphant fusion of Palani spirituality and science.
 
They celebrate their new messiah."

"But why," asked Dillon, "would he take off like that, and head to Earth?"

The ambassador said nothing, his eyes going to Amba.  She seemed to understand, and nodded.  "Because," she said quietly, "some of the Pentarch are preaching for war against the humans."
 
Dillon saw a hint of a grin form on her lips.
 
"And their new 'chosen one' has decided to go see these humans for himself."

"That appears to be the case, yes," said the Ambassador.

Dillon was surprised by Amba's laugh.
 
"What arrogance," she said.
 
"Their carefully assembled messiah is wiser than they gave him credit for.
 
Wiser than the Pentarch."
 
She shook her head.
 
"He has gone to meet humans and find out for himself why they deserve to die.
 
What a sensible young man."

Admiral Clarke had been watching them, his eyes darting back and forth between them.
 
"On Earth," he said, "the boy would stick out like a sore thumb.
 
And if something should happen to him—" 

The ambassador shook his head, staring at the admiral.
 
"Oh no, that must not happen.
 
If he were to come to harm at human hands—"

"War," said the Admiral.

All expression had faded from Amba's face, her eyes grown wide. "Holy war," she said.
 
"Genocide."

The Temple of the Divines was the carved marble heart of the Palani people, large enough to house a warship, cavernous enough to have clouds form under its windowed dome.
 
The arches and vaults were covered in gold and platinum carvings of the lives of the Divines and the eternal struggle of the Palani people toward perfection.

Above the central dome, unseen to the common eye, was the smaller Chapel of the Pentarch.
 
Once accessible only to the penitent, up the Five Thousand Steps, now it was reached by elevator, and used exclusively by the Pentarch for their council meetings.

Which was a shame, thought Pentarch Ontelis.
 
Anyone determined enough to ascend those old, worn stairs that wound around the dome deserved to see the marvel at the top. The hand-hewn marble floors were inlaid with complex designs, and the black nelaan-wood panels on the walls were richly accented in gold and blue.  The breathtaking ceiling depicted the Creation, the Betrayal, and the eventual Horlana:
 
the final day, when a perfected Palani people would battle the Horlan for the fate of the universe.

So said the Scripture, at any rate.
 
The eternal pursuit of perfection, for the self and for the race as a whole, hadn't always unfolded the way the Divines had intended.
 
The further they strayed from perfection, it seemed, the more people refused to acknowledge it.

Stifling a yawn, he pulled himself back to the present, where he stood in a circle with the other Pentarchs.
 
Pentarch Fennin was still reciting the many triumphs of his departments.
 
It's not why the meeting had been called but Fennin had insisted, and wouldn't allow other business to proceed until he was done.
 
Appraising Fennin, Ontelis concluded that Palani agriculture and food production was going very well indeed; he appeared surprisingly well-fed, even for Fennin.
 
In fact, the man's blue-and-green robes were struggling to contain the triumph of Palani food production.

Beside Fennin, the red-robed Pentarch Threnia didn't bother to stifle her own yawn.
 
She was never shy about sharing how her sacrifices and burdens were greater than theirs.
 
No doubt her boredom was somehow particularly onerous, compared to everyone else in the Chapel.
 
She'd been complaining — nothing new in itself — about the extra work involved in overseeing the activation and deployment of the fleet.
 
Many old, dormant ships were being upgraded and brought back into service with new automation technologies, their power undiminished despite only needing a tenth of the crew they once did.  It was an incredible amount of work, thought Ontelis — he had once been the military Pentarch, long ago — but no one had asked her to do any of it, just as no one had asked her to begin destroying illegal human colonies.
 
He found it difficult to muster any sympathy for the woman.

The mountain that was Pentarch Balhammis stood still and serene, barely moving.
 
As always, the giant man was like a statue that awaited the sculptor's final touches:
 
his face was blank, lacking any signs of emotion or intent.

Finally, Ontelis glanced to his right, where the dogmatic Pentarch Ivenna watched Fennin with wide eyes.
 
She had a look of fervent, almost maniacal intent, her eyes drilling into everything they set upon.
 
She had recently taken to shaving her head.
 
Apparently, an obscure commentary on the third book of Divine Elinth suggested that the most faithful should cut their blue locks, letting their gleaming white heads proclaim their virtue.
 
He, himself, had very little time to be reading every last possible text in order to become more holy than his peers.
 
Though he was a religious man, he didn't believe the answers to their problems were through prayer alone.
 
Despite the Elanasal project initially being motivated by the religious castes, it was Palani science — not Palani religion — that had brought results.

Fennin loudly cleared his throat, and Ontelis began to pay attention again.

"With these improved methods, we now produce twice as much food as we need to feed our current population.
 
I have ordered the remainder to be ploughed under, and farms in the Nasaal, Suress and Haladin regions will be inactivated, and allowed to return to their natural state.
 
We will of course manage any climactic effects due to changes in plant diversity and albedo."

Ontelis moved to cut off any discussion before it started.
 
"Thank you, Pentarch Fennin.
 
An informative summary of the continued excellence of Palani resources and infrastructure."

He heard murmurs of agreement, perhaps mixed with relief, from the other Pentarchs.
 
So, he thought, time to get the argument started.
 
The sooner the bitter acrimony and finger-pointing got underway, the sooner it would be done.
 

Ontelis took a deep breath.
 
"Ambassador Estelia has met with the Exile Yenaara, her consort, and two other humans.
 
They are all part of the same human tribe, and we believe them to be sufficiently trustworthy.
 
We believe the Elanasal Palani to be on Earth, and the Exile and her consort will attempt to make discreet contact."

Pentarch Threnia rolled her eyes.
 
"I told you this would happen, Ontelis.
 
Now the prophet is on the enemy homeworld—"

"The humans are not our enemies," he interrupted.

Threnia was unperturbed.
 
"Not yet, perhaps.
 
We should get a team of
Artahel
to Earth undetected, and get the prophet out."
 
She gestured one hand toward the looming Balhammis.
 
"Do your agents know where on Earth he is?"

The giant rolled his head from side to side, closing his eyes.
 
"We have used various methods to narrow it down.
 
We know what city he is in — Ottawa, the ceremonial capital of this human tribe — and we know which district.
 
We are confident of his whereabouts to within several hundred metres."
 
He opened his eyes again.
 
"Efforts are ongoing."

"That is close enough," said Threnia.
 
"We land several teams in that area, and hold off the humans while we search for the Elanasal.
 
It would take less than an hour."

Fennin, rolling up his scrolled reports, waved the tubes in the air in front of him.
 
"Wait, wait."
 
Ontelis sighed.
   

"Are you seriously suggesting," continued Fennin, "we sent an armed mission to the human homeworld?
 
They don't even allow their
own
ships to approach the planet while armed."

"So much the better," said Threnia, a smirk marring her smooth-skinned face.
 
"It will make the task easier."

Ontelis shook his head.
 
"And start a war with the humans," he said.
 
No, he thought, this is not the sort of thinking they needed.
 
"It would be war with all of them, not just this one tribe.
 
Earth is their species homeworld; it is sacred to them."

Threnia gave a dismissive flick of her wrist.
 
"They need to be taught a lesson.
 
And in any event, they are much too fragmented to mount an effective defence against us.
 
Most of their weapons are pointed at each other."

Massive Balhammis gave a deep, throaty grunt of a sound, which Ontelis thought sounded derisive.
 
"You misread the humans, Threnia.
 
They have a curious ability to bind together against a common foe.
 
They have a saying:
 
'me against my brothers; me and my brothers against my cousins; me, my brothers and my cousins against the outside world'."

Pentarch Ontelis waited for Balhammis to finish.
 
"We have already seen," he said, "how the humans are speaking as one voice about the destruction of their colonies.
 
None of them admit the colonies were theirs, but all of them are outraged by our attacks.
 
They are already closing ranks, in their own way."

"It doesn't concern them anyway," said Threnia.
 
She reached up to push a stray lock of blue hair over her ear.
 
"Our policing in the Burnt Worlds is an entirely internal matter.
 
It is none of the humans' concern.
 
Even now," she said, raising one finger in the air.
 
"There are additional ships being sighted among our old territories, some at the very farthest edges of the Burnt Worlds.
 
We need more ships to patrol our frontier systems.
 
I am going to submit a plan for significant new military construction."

"I do not approve," said Ontelis.
 
He glanced sideways at Balhammis, who was shaking his massive head.
 
"No," said the giant.

Ontelis knew that the Pentarch Ivenna, who had remained silent so far, would be an enthusiastic supporter of anything that fuelled her dreams of a righteous crusade.
 
That left the blowhard Fennin as the deciding vote.
 
More funds for the military meant fewer funds for unnecessary improvements in agriculture and infrastructure, for pointless programs that would enhance Fennin's power and prestige.
 
Ontelis looked over at the rotund Pentarch;
 
with his fingers tented and his chest thrust out, Fennin was clearly relishing his role as the deciding vote.
 
"I do not approve," said Fennin.
 
"Significant numbers of the Old Fleet remain dormant, lying in orbit.
 
Reactivating those would be more cost-effective."

Threnia threw up her hands in disgust, making a dramatic show of rolling her eyes again.

"I have a question," said a new voice.
 
Pentarch Ivenna took a half-step forward, her delicate all-white robes whispering about her as she moved.
 
A similar white shawl covered her head.