Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (35 page)

Or, two terrified kids and their unborn child.
 
In their boots, he'd be scared, he knew that much.
 
After all they'd been through, their reaction would have been instinctual.
 
To survive.
 
Get away.
 

"Who's got the specs on the
Juliett
class?" asked Dillon.

"I do," said Kalla.
 
"Looking at them now, sir."

"Good.
 
How far can they get?
 
Let's map out their possible destinations."
 
There had to be a way to narrow this down.

"Sir?" said Tremblay, raising a hand.

Dillon gave a quick grin.
 
"This isn't a classroom, Mister Tremblay.
 
Go ahead, what's on your mind?"

The young officer quickly lowered his hand, his face flushing.
 
"Sir, doesn't the
Juliett
class use
Hermes
navigation software?"

Kalla was next to Dillon, still tapping at her datapad.
 
She nodded.
 
"He's right, sir.
 
Stock software is
Hermes
."

"Huh," said Dillon.
 
"Good memory, Tremblay.
 
What of it?"

Tremblay gestured toward the Chief standing behind him.
 
"Sir, Chief Black said their life support was offline.
 
The
Hermes
software limits FTL destinations based on available life support."

Dillon saw the Chief nodding behind Tremblay.
 
She seemed genuinely impressed; it wasn't an expression she wore often.

"Damn," said Dillon.
 
"Well done, Sub.
 
You're hired.
 
Calculate the probable survivability for a
Juliett
with two occupants, and give us a list of possible destinations."

As Tremblay began to work at his console, Dillon turned to make eye contact with Kalla.
 
She glanced up from her datapad, mouthing the word 'Wow'.
 
He nodded in response.
 
The new sub-lieutenant's performance was constantly improving; once he finished the hours he needed for his watch-keeping certificate, he'd be well on his way to a promotion.
 
Dillon remembered the eagerness and enthusiasm with which he began his own career.
 
If he had anything to say about it, Tremblay's young career would get off to a better start than his own.

"Sir," said Tremblay.
 
Dillon glanced over and gave a nod.

"Sir, we've narrowed it down.
 
Based on our estimates of their remaining air, there are three destinations in range.
 
Earth, and two numbered systems."

"They're not going back to Earth," said Dillon.
 
"They're looking to get away.
 
What about the other two?"

"Both systems were mapped in Survey Twelve, sir.
 
Named Twelve-Delta and Twelve-India.
 
Both have one world with breathable atmosphere, but only Delta is habitable."

"Any colonies on Delta?"

"No, sir.
 
Not currently.
 
It used to have a mining colony, abandoned fifty years ago."

"Well," said Dillon.
 
"Only one place marked habitable.
 
I think that's where our kids are headed.
 
Thoughts?"

Kalla held up her display, showing data for the two systems.
 
"Looks good to me, sir."

The Chief shrugged.
 
"I'm always in favour of going to places where we don't die, sir."

Dillon looked at Tremblay, who seemed surprised to be solicited for his opinion.
 
"Aye, sir.
 
Delta sounds the most likely."

"Sir!" said the sensors technician.
 
"Tango Two just disappeared.
 
Went to FTL, sir."

Dillon stuck the end of his pen in his mouth.
 
"Hmm.
 
I wonder if Mister Missile has figured out the same thing we have.
 
We might meet them at Delta, so be ready for that.
 
Helm, lay in a course to Twelve-Delta, and get us underway."
 

Ontelis rode the elevator up the side of the Great Dome, his eyes fixed on the half-open scroll he held in his hand.
 
The same images played over and over, every few seconds repeating.
 
The text of the reports was the same every time he read it; but he kept rereading it all the same, as if hoping that the facts would somehow change.

Behind him, through the narrow transparent windows of the elevator, the grounds of the Temple continued to fall farther away.
 
The sky was growing dark blue as if bruised and battered by the storm looming nearer in the sky.
 
The faint hope of an early spring, in the thin shoots of grass down below, was about to be silenced under another thick blanket of suffocating snow.

The elevator stopped, and the door opened to the Chapel of the Pentarchs.

The other four were already there.
 
He had been slow in arriving, his speed sapped away by his mood.
 
Another conversation he didn't want to have, with people he didn't want to see, about truths no one wanted to face.

The backs of the other Pentarchs were turned to him, all of the council members facing the far end of the room.
 
The same images as on his scroll were playing on the wall, larger-than-life views of one disaster after another.

The great Balhammis half-turned at the sound of the elevator, giving Ontelis a brief nod.

Ontelis nodded back, walking slowly across the floor.
 
He had caught himself shuffling earlier, dragging his feet as he paced the length of his office, and now made a point of walking more carefully.

"Grim news," said Balhammis.

"It is," said Ontelis.
 
"We almost had them.
 
Do we know if—"

Balhammis had turned back toward the large display.
 
Again and again, they watched the same ship emerge from dilapidated human space station, before erupting in a massive fireball.
 
"They bought passage on that ship," said Balhammis, his deep voice rumbling and impassive.
 
"And then it exploded."

Pentarch Threnia turned toward the giant, her face was flush with blue; Ontelis could see the barely-contained anger in her eyes, and heard the tightness in her voice.
 
"Were they on the ship, Balhammis, or not?
 
After the explosion, did anyone find—"

"After the explosion, Pentarch Threnia," interrupted Balhammis, "there was complete chaos on the station.
 
Wreckage from the Bezod ship struck the dock area, causing additional death and destruction.
 
We have lost contact with all our agents on the station except one:
 
they have not yet been able to confirm whether the Elanasal and the human were on the ship."

Ivenna's smooth white head was turned up toward the display, a smile on her face.
 
"No," she said.
 
Ontelis thought she sounded half asleep.
 
"No," she repeated.
 
"The Most Holy was not aboard.
 
He cannot have been.
 
The Divines protected him."

"I hope so," whispered Ontelis.
 
If humans killed the Elanasal Palani… He shook his head; he needed to stop thinking about that.
 
"I have heard from Ambassador Estelia.
 
The Exile and Commander Dillon believe the prophet is still alive, and are still pursuing him."

Threnia scoffed out loud, gesturing at the screen.
 
"It matters not," she said.

On the wall of the chapel, the images changed.
 
A serious-looking human government official, his hands white as he clutched at a podium, was denouncing the Palani people as a whole.
 
Ontelis had learned the English language used by the humans — ridiculous as it was — and the other Pentarch had studied it, as well.
 
But even without knowing the language, the messages were clear enough.
 
The Pentarch were now referred to as a 'repressive theocratic regime' by the human defence minister.
 
Another commentator called them a 'criminal junta' whose actions were 'thuggish and uncivilised' in eliminating illegal human colonies.

Ontelis felt his ire rising, in spite of himself.
 
Thugs?
 
Uncivilised?
 
The Palani had already been in space for a thousand years before they found the humans.
 
On their first discreet visit, the most 'civilised' of the human cultures were building giant stone pyramids to help their kings safely reach the afterlife.
 
While the Palani explored the cosmos, bringing art and culture to the endless void, the humans lived in squalor, the strong and powerful using violence to subjugate and enslave the weak.

His shoulders felt unnaturally heavy.
 
He reached up his fingers to pinch at the bridge of his nose.
 
How his head ached, how his heart ached for what was to come.

Ontelis watched as new images showed on the giant displays.
 
Streets on human planets, filled with noisy protesting people, waving placards calling for violence against the Palani.
 
Some of the signs — some poorly written in Palani script — denounced the Palani people and called on them to overthrow the Pentarch.
 
Racist chants filled the air over the sound of yelling and the wail of police sirens.

After a few long moments, Threnia gestured again, and the chapel went quiet.
 
The room fell into silence, even as the hate-filled human faces continued to shout at them through the display.

Balhammis turned his head to look down at Ontelis.
 
"Have the human governments responded to your attempts to communicate?"

Ontelis smiled up at his old friend.
 
There was sadness in the giant's eyes.
 
He gave a pained smile in return; a wordless apology to the giant.
 
Ontelis shook his head.
 
"No, Balhammis."

Pentarch Threnia stepped in front of the display, turning to face the rest of the Pentarch.
 
"The humans," she said, an angry tension in her voice, "are becoming increasingly toxic and hostile.
 
It would be foolish to hold out much hope for peace."
 
Her eyes went to each of them in turn, to emphasise her point.
 
When her eyes met Ontelis', he saw pity in them.
 
That made it worse; that made his failure seem complete.
 
When your opponent pities you, how poorly have you done?

Threnia must have seen something in his eyes, because her tone abruptly softened.
 
"I regret this situation.
 
But in order to protect our people from the threat of human aggression, I propose that we begin an emergency mobilisation.
 
All available funds must be diverted to ensure that we can prepare as many ships as possible, to defend the home worlds."
 
She looked around again, this time avoiding Ontelis' eyes.
 
"Are we agreed?"

One by one, the others agreed, leaving only Ontelis.
 
His eyes were back on the display, seeing the same angry human faces shouting at the camera, holding the same cruel messages on their signs.
 
The Palani people would have seen these images.
 
Those who hadn't, soon would.
 
They would see the hatred in the humans' eyes, and they would feel afraid.

"I approve," he said quietly.

"How long now?" asked Heather.

Elan heard the fatigue in her voice.
 
He felt it too.
 
At least he thought he did; everything had become a little uncertain in his mind.

Heather had turned the pilot's seat to the left, facing the same display he'd been staring at on the wall.
 
He sat on the floor beside her chair, leaning against the opposite wall, hugging his knees to his chest.

He struggled to focus on the display.
 
Sleep was beckoning his mind, but his heart was pounding in his chest and it was unsettling.
 
He vaguely knew it all had to do with the loss of life support; that there was too much carbon dioxide in the shuttle's air.
 
There was a name for it in the human language, but he couldn't remember it.

Right, he thought.
 
The time.
 
Heather asked about the time.

Putting one hand on Heather's arm, he pulled himself forward to study the screen.
 
"About a minute," he said.
 
He leaned back.

"Thank god," said Heather.
 
She was slumped in the chair, head bobbed to one side, her eyes closed.
 
"This has been the longest six hours of my life."
 
She paused, and Elan saw her jaw moving as if she were chewing on something.
 
"No offence," she said, "it's not the company.
 
It's just…"
 
she trailed off, not bothering to finish her sentence.

"Oh," he said out loud.
 
"A minute.
 
Better sit up."
 
He grabbed at the arm of her chair, pushing her arm aside, and pulled himself all the way to his feet.
 
The effort left him panting, his heart thundering in his ears.
 
"C'mon," he said, pushing at the pilot's seat.
 
"Turn back to face the front.
 
You'll have to do pilot stuff."