Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (21 page)

He felt his coldsuit working harder, as the heat from Heather's body warmed him up.
 
She leaned away from him, holding his shoulders with her hands, her eyes gazing into his.
 
"Elan," she said, her voice calm.
 
"How did you do all that travelling — get in to see all those people and places — in one week?
 
Without any identity papers?"

"I asked," he said.
 
He wanted to stop there, to leave the rest of it unsaid, but the question in her eyes made him stumble forward.
 
"And I have a… special way of asking."

Heather smiled at him, her face relaxed despite the red flush to her cheeks.
 
"Thank you for being honest, Elan.
 
I've been reading about the Palani.
 
Do you have the
Iyurele
voice?"

Elan nodded.
 
He was pleased and relieved that he hadn't underestimated her; she was intelligent and wise, far beyond what the Pentarch had claimed about humans.
 
"I do," he said.
 
"Stronger than most."
 
Maybe the strongest ever, he thought; it had worked on his own people, and even on Dosh, who were supposed to be immune.

"Elan," said Heather.
 
Her eyes stared into his.
 
"You used the
Iyurele
voice when you arrived here, didn't you?
 
When you asked if you could stay.
 
I remember smelling oranges on your breath."

"I did," he admitted.

He saw her eyebrows raise a little, and heard the small tremble in her voice.
 
"Have you ever used it with me?"

He knew what she meant, and the answer blurted out of him immediately.
 
"No," he said, shaking his head.
 
"No, Heather.
 
I didn't.
 
I haven't.
 
Not you."
 
He corrected himself; he wanted to be precise.
 
"When I got here, that first night, I needed to stay.
 
I was afraid and didn't know who I could trust.
 
But not since then.
 
Please believe me."

"I do," said Heather.
 
"So help me, I do.
 
And you said you were going to come back, and you did.
 
But," she squeezed his shoulders again, "don't you ever sneak off like that again or I will hunt you down and beat the ever-living shit out of you.
 
And I don't care if it's Varanasi or Mars or beyond.
 
If you need to go somewhere, for fuck's sake tell me, okay?"

Elan could only nod at first.
 
Words seemed to be unwilling to assemble into sentences.
 
"I will," he finally managed.
 
Might as well keep going, he thought.
 
"And I do need to go again.
 
Things are getting worse, Heather, between our people.
 
I need to go home.
 
And I want you to come with me."

Ontelis didn't like Fennin's office.
 
The overfed younger Pentarch had an office that, while the same size as Ontelis', was in an entirely different class.
 
Expensive artwork hung on every wall; whatever wasn't covered in art was covered in commemorative images displaying something spectacular Fennin had done.
 
They were gifts from his underlings, of course, each of them fitting of the word 'spectacular'.
 
The round man in his opulent robes couldn't go a day without making some spectacle of himself.
 
Even the man's desk was absurd:
 
a hand-worked monument to greatness, carved in stone and inset with precious gems.
 
The chairs were uncomfortable, too:
 
entirely too much padding, and bereft of meaningful support.
 
He thought it seemed appropriate.

"I'm sorry, Ontelis," said Fennin.
 
He tented his fingers together as he leaned back in his ridiculous throne-like chair.
 
"Really I am.
 
But I'm voting in favour of Threnia's request."
 
He spread his hands wide.
 
"We simply need to do more to police the Burnt Worlds.
 
There's more human colonies near the Dosh frontier, and reports of unknown ships at the far end of the empire.
 
The humans will have us surrounded if we aren't vigilant."

Still calling it an empire was a bit much, thought Ontelis.
 
A dangerous inability to face reality.
 
They once had been three thousand worlds and over a trillion people.
 
Then, seven centuries ago, the invasion had come.
 
They never knew what the invaders were called; the people called them the
Horlan
, after the mythical monster at the End of Days.  It had taken a century of warfare to fend them off.
 
Or, more accurately, a century of warfare plus a genetically-engineered plague.
 
Now, all but five of the Palani worlds were uninhabited; most were totally devoid of life.
 
And the plague that had saved their civilisation had doomed it, as their fertility rates began to slowly decline.
 

"It's not just about vigilance," said Ontelis.
 
He shifted in the seat, trying to make his back more comfortable.
 
He couldn't stay for long, not like this, which was probably the idea.
 
"It's also about what it looks like.
 
You've heard the rhetoric from the human media.
 
So much anger directed at us.
 
We should work harder to talk to them, not—"

"No, no, no," said Fennin, shaking his head.
 
Ontelis found the tone irritating; Fennin was being condescending and imperious, as if speaking to a schoolchild.
 
"No, Ontelis, what we do in the Burnt Worlds is entirely an internal matter.
 
It's about policing, not foreign policy."

"What if they see it differently?
 
It's their people we're killing."

"If they can't control their own people…"
 
Fennin leaned forward, folding his arms on the desk.
 
"Ontelis, are they even talking to us?"

"No," admitted Ontelis.
 
That couldn't be denied.
 
"None of them have responded to us.
 
Except the one tribe we've been speaking to, the Canadians.
 
They tell us, privately, that they are doing all they can.
 
But they are small, and their allies — much more powerful human tribes — are losing patience."

Fennin opened his hands on the desk.
 
"See?
 
They clearly aren't ready to be reasonable.
 
We need to be firm, Ontelis.
 
We need to protect what's ours."

Ontelis leaned forward in the chair, his hands pushing down on his knees to take some strain off his back.
 
It was making it difficult for him to concentrate.
 
"We cannot afford war with the humans, Fennin.
 
You and I both know that.
 
We might not win."

"Who's talking about war?" said Fennin, looking astonished.
 
Ontelis was disappointed by the insincerity.
 
"Ontelis old friend, there are other steps on the road between peace and war.
 
It doesn't have to be one or the other."
 
He gave a condescending smile.
 
"We'll show the humans our resolve, and they will come around.
 
I've already told Threnia that the military will get no support from me, not beyond this specific step.
 
Are you well, Ontelis?"

The older Pentarch was rising to his feet, arching his back to straighten it out.
 
He hated this damned office, and it did little to improve his opinion of its occupant.
 
"I'm well enough, thank you," he said.
 
He took a few tentative steps, pushing a clenched fist against the small of his back.
 
"The Exile and the human commander have nearly reached Earth.
 
Hopefully they can make contact with the Elanasal, and we can get him back without incident."

Fennin heaved himself to his feet, hands still on his desk.
 
"See, Ontelis?
 
You have faith in the Exile and the human; faith enough for us all.
 
Go and rest.
 
It will all turn out for the best."

Ontelis managed a brief smile, and turned to start the long trek back to the office door.
 
He couldn't resent Fennin, though he wanted to.
 
Fennin was like so many of their people, who saw the gradual decline of their civilisation all around them but chose not to notice it, focusing only on themselves.
 
Ontelis didn't feel anger; mostly, he just felt sadness.

Dillon poked the last of the doughnut into his mouth as he stepped through the bridge hatch.
 

"Captain on deck," said the Chief, which brought the crew to attention.
 
Dillon waved them off as he climbed into his seat.
 
"Mister Tremblay," he said.

"Sir?" asked the Sub-Lieutenant, remaining at attention.

"Mister Tremblay, thank you for your work preparing us for Rubicon."

"Aye, sir.
 
Thank you sir.
 
I'm glad we finally got through.
 
It took much longer than I expected."

"Yeah," said Dillon, licking sugar off his fingers.
 
"I didn't know the Americans had moved their 'Fleet Week' to mid-September.
 
As soon as we saw that big fat carrier lined up ahead of us, I knew we'd be waiting for ages."
 
He shrugged.
 
Hurry up and wait, the ancient naval tradition.
 
"How long until Earth?"

"Two minutes, Captain."

"Very well, carry on."

Dillon saw the Chief nod at someone entering the bridge, and he pivoted his chair to see.
 
Amba smiled as she approached him, standing next to his seat.
 
"Good morning, Captain."

"Good morning, Tassali.
 
Here to see the approach to Earth?"

"I am.
 
There is much I would like to see."

"There won't be much time," said Dillon.
 
"Just seventy-two hours from noon today, ship time."

The ship's FTL engines disengaged with a pulsing sensation that made it feel like the deck had shifted under their feet.
 
Outside the front windows, Earth leapt into view.

Broad blue oceans reflected the light of the Sun, outlining the dull brown-grey continents.
 
There were white swirls of clouds and storms, and the slightest hint of white at the north pole, the visible remnant of once-mighty sheets of ice.

Around the tilted equator, a sparse ring of glittering lights circled the planet, the reflected sunlight from countless orbiting objects.
 
In the distance, straight ahead of
Borealis
, were the tiny blinking navigation lights of another ship.

"Many contacts," said the communications tech.
 
"Greetings from Unity Station, RCN Command, and USS
Elaine Crawford
, who just got here ahead of us.
 
Unity Station has provided docking assignment, sir."

"Very well.
 
Helm, start us on docking approach to Unity Station, following the instructions from traffic control."

"Aye aye, sir."

Dillon nodded toward Tremblay.
 
"Where are you going to be headed for your leave, Sub?"

The young officer was staring out the windows, a smile on his face.
 
"Everywhere, sir.
 
I'm a history buff, so I'll be spending most of my time in transit.
 
London, Paris, Juno Beach, Vimy Ridge, then Ottawa.
 
Maybe New York if there's time."

The Captain raised his eyebrows.
 
"All in seventy-two hours?
 
Impressive, Mister Tremblay.
 
Will there be pictures?"

"Absolutely, sir."

Dillon turned toward Chief Black.
 
"What about you, Chief?"

Her face lit up, a wide smile showing her teeth.
 
"Are you kidding, sir?
 
It's the middle of Oktoberfest.
 
The real thing.
 
In Munich.
 
I'm going there, finding a beer tent, and staying there until you send the MPs to get me."
 
She looked around the bridge.
 
"I've invited certain bridge crew to come along and be educated, but they're all chicken."

Dillon squinted one eye shut, peering at the Chief.
 
"I'm trying to imagine you in a dirndl.
 
It's a terrifying vision."

Black grabbed her mug and pretended to throw it at him, as she approached his chair.
 
She leaned in toward him.
 
"You need me to come with you?" she asked quietly.
 
Dillon shook his head.

Tremblay must have seen them speaking, as he piped up.
 
"So where are you going, sir?
 
Any special plans?"

Dillon stopped, smiling at Amba before turning back to Tremblay.
 
"The Tassali has never been to Earth, so I'm giving her a personally-guided tour of Ottawa."
 
He hoped to hell that the Palani prophet would still be there.
 
It had been six days since Amba had received the message.
 
While they had every reason to hope the kid intended to keep his meeting — and they hoped they had interpreted it correctly — the truth was, nothing was for certain.
 
Five days was a hell of a head start for someone on the move.
 
The kid could be anywhere on Earth, or in the Sol system, or as far away as Dosh space by now.
 
It was becoming more and more like a fool's errand.
 
But if the Palani had engineered the young man to be smart, he might well surprise everybody.
 
Of course, it left open the question of what to do next, if they managed to find the prophet.
 
Unless the super-clever messiah had figured that out, too.