Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (38 page)

It was the math of it he hated the most.
 
The damnable calculus of survival.
 
He'd been taught enough of the impossible decisions forced upon Palani leaders in the past.
 
The heartless logic of staying alive, of sacrificing the few for the many.
 
If they left the shelter of this ship, Heather would probably freeze to death within a few hours.
 
But if they stayed, the assassin would definitely kill them both, possibly within minutes.
 
Elan knew it, and from the look in her eyes, so did Heather.
 
He gave a nod, forcing words to his mouth.
 
"Come on," he said.
 
"Bring it, especially the blanket."

Heather shoved the packets into the pockets of her jacket, which she then pulled tight around her.
 
Reaching hand over hand, she hauled herself up beside him, sticking her head out through the top of the ship.
 
Elan heard her loud gasp as the wind hit her face, blowing the frost from her hair.
 
"Oh my god," she mouthed.

Favouring his left arm, Elan pulled himself clear of the hole in the ship's upturned stern.
 
Heather carefully followed him, and together they climbed down the hull, away from the wind, its howling fingers tugging at them as they gingerly stepped onto the still-warm engine pod, then the bent remnant of a wing, then the ground.
 
As Heather clambered down behind him, he began to remove his clothes.
 
The pants, the jacket, the bandages wound around his hands and arms, and the cloth helmet and goggles; everything except his coldsuit.
 
The tight white suit was tattered and torn, his white skin underneath stained blue with bruises and the smears of dried blood.

"What the fuck are you doing?" asked Heather, incredulity on her face.
 
"Get dressed.
 
Are you—"

Elan handed her the coat.
 
"Put these on.
 
You need more clothes."

"But," she began to protest.
 
"You'll—"

He smiled, but it felt like a lie.
 
"I'm a Palani, remember?
 
I come from a place like this."

She reluctantly accepted the coat, and was trying to put it on over her jacket.
 
"But it's not this cold on your homeworld, is it?"

He wanted to lie again, but couldn't.
 
"Almost.
 
But the coldsuit is enough for now."

"Bullshit," she protested.
 
He could see that her fingers were fumbling to fasten the jacket.
 

"Just for now" he said.
 
"Until we find shelter, and you can warm up."

Elan could tell she didn't believe him.
 
She knew as well as he did, that finding shelter was unlikely.
 
"Come on," he said, over the sound of gusting wind.
 
He held out the rest of the clothes for her.

As Heather jammed the hat onto her head and started wrapping her face and neck in the bandage cloth, Elan leaned to peek out from behind the shelter of the ship.
 
The wind had intensified, curling waves of powdered snow around the ship's hull and into new drifts.
 
If they could find a sunny spot out of the wind they might have a chance.
 
For a little while, anyway.
 

He stepped out into the wind, which staggered him sideways.
 
"Let's go," he yelled to the thickly-bundled Heather, who watched him from behind dirty goggles and a mass of wrapped cloth.
 

The wind bit at his bare skin where the coldsuit had torn, its tattered ends slapping against his skin.
 
He'd never been so cold in his entire life.

It had been all of ten minutes, and already the pen was taking a hell of a beating.
 
The end of it, clamped between his grinding molars, was now misshapen and pitted by dozens of teeth marks.

Dillon looked again at the countdown timer on the bridge's displays.
 
Two hours, forty-three minutes to Survey Twelve-India.
 
During which time, the young Palani prophet and his human girlfriend would be stranded, their life support exhausted, while an assassin hunted them.
 
And the assassin's ship was armed, which was more than Dillon could say about
Borealis
at the moment.
 

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, a barely-rhythmic tapping that was making his fingertips numb.
 
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Chief glance at his fingers before refocusing on her supervisory console.
 

Tremblay had gone for coffee; Dillon thought he should've asked the Sub-Lieutenant to get him a refill too.
 
As he reached down and pulled his ceramic mug from the cupholder, it slipped from his fingers, dropping back down and splashing lukewarm coffee everywhere.

With a sharp intake of breath, Dillon jumped to his feet.
 
He snatched the mug and hauled his arm back to throw it; a long line of obscenities immediately formed a line in his throat.

Dillon sputtered, coffee dripping from his hand and sleeve.
 
He froze in place, mug held back ready to throw, and closed his eyes.
 
This wasn't helping.
 
Having a tantrum on his own bridge wasn't going to do a damn thing to help anyone, least of all those kids.
 
He took a deep breath, letting the words on his lips fade away.
 
Opening his eyes, he slowly and deliberately replaced the mug in its cupholder, and began wiping himself off.

He knew perfectly well that everyone on the bridge was staring at him.
 
All eyes would be on the captain, who was stressed and frustrated to the point of lashing out at a ceramic mug.
 
They had no idea how much was at stake, but they'd be able to guess.
 
And they'd guess that the stakes were getting higher.

He sighed and turned toward them.
 
Pakinova, at the helm console, turned back to her display.
 
The sensors tech quickly shifted back around in his seat, doing the same.
 
But the Chief, at the supervisory console, sat quietly, watching him, an expression of infinite patience on her face.
 
Even she didn't know.
 
Their eyes met.
 
After a few seconds, he silently mouthed the words:
Fuck it
.
 
A single eyebrow was raised in response.

"Chief," he said aloud, his mind made up.
 
"Please ask all the officers to the bridge at once.
 
All of them, even the off-duty XO.
 
Quickly."

"Aye aye, sir," said the Chief.
 
Without breaking eye contact, her right hand shot out and grabbed the handset for the hailer.

Shrill notes pierced through the ship, the simulated bosun's pipe making Pakinova jump in her seat.
 
The sound had barely begun to fade before the Chief's voice boomed through the speakers.
 
"All officers to the bridge at once.
 
Immediate, immediate.
 
All officers to the bridge."

Within seconds, Tremblay returned from the wardroom, followed closely by Kalla.
 
The XO had obviously still been awake, thought Dillon:
 
not only was she on the bridge in moments, but she was still dressed and tidy, without a hair out of place.

The two officers stood next to the captain's chair, their eyes on Dillon, confusion written all over their faces.
 
He nodded at them, holding up one finger for patience.

Before long, the faint, distant pounding of boots on decking grew louder, until the chief engineer entered the bridge.
 
Lieutenant Campbell, wearing her spotless white overalls, halted next to Tremblay, panting, her face as red as her hair.

"Campbell," said Dillon.
 
"Never see you much.
 
I'd almost forgotten you were aboard."

"Keeping busy sir," she said.
 
"Sir, is that why—"

Dillon waved his hand.
 
"No, this isn't about anything like that.
 
Though I will need you, Campbell."
 
He leaned back, trying to see past Tremblay.
 
"Chief of the ship, would you join us, please?"

Chief Black was already halfway to her feet, and stood next to the engineer.
 
Dillon's eyes met hers for a moment, but her face gave nothing away.
 
He'd known her longer than anyone here — they'd grown up on the same street — and he figured she had an idea what he was planning.

Dillon sighed.
 
"General Order Five-Seventeen specifically states that all of Her Majesty's Canadian Ships are to deactivate, secure, and seal their jump drives.
 
Jump drive usage is strictly and specifically prohibited until further notice from the Minister of Defence."

He saw it in their eyes.
 
They knew what he was intending to do.
 
Of course they had, he chided himself:
 
they're all smart people.
 
Very smart.
 
"Lieutenant Campbell, I order you to unseal the jump drive, and prepare it for immediate use.
 
I have specific reason to believe we need to get to our destination immediately.
 
I believe we need to do this to gain control of a situation that, if allowed to continue, could lead to general war between humanity and the Palani empire."

None of them registered surprise.
 
They kept watching him, expressionless.
 
Even the young Tremblay was taking it in, listening with quiet attention.

"Just so we're clear," continued Dillon, "this is entirely my idea, and I am taking full responsibility.
 
Any questions so far?"

Executive Officer Kalla glanced at the other officers before back at Dillon.
 
"Sir, you have information we don't.
 
I don't know what's going on, but I understand the stakes.
 
I'm not going to second-guess you.
 
I'm in."
 
Dillon thought he saw an extra something in her eyes, a suggestion of a squint.
 
He wondered if she was busy rationalising all this, in preparation for the now-inevitable Admiralty inquiry.
 
"Of course, sir," she continued, "I'll have to call this in, let New Halifax know.
 
Regs say I have twenty-four hours to do that."

Lieutenant Campbell watched the XO, then shrugged and smiled at Dillon.
 
"Fine with me," she said.
 
"I have no idea what's going on outside the engine room, but I can have the jump drive ready in five minutes or less."

Dillon looked at Tremblay, who hadn't said anything, and was still watching him.
 
"Sub?" he asked.

The young officer thought about it for a moment before speaking.
 
"Well sir, you wouldn't be doing this if you weren't sure about it.
 
Awaiting your orders, sir."

Lastly, Dillon turned toward Chief Black, whose face had relaxed, as though relieved of a great weight.
 
He had started to feel it as well; the die had been cast, taking the weight of the decision with it.

"Aye aye," said the Chief.
 
"I'll enter this into the ship's log, as required.
 
But," she said, a suggestion of a wink in one eye, "I write very slowly.
 
This will take ages."

"Thank you," said Dillon.
 
"Get the remaining shuttle ready to go, and ask Petty Officer Lee to assemble a four-man team.
 
Let me know the moment the jump drive is ready.
 
I'm going to go put my armour on."

Elan knew Heather was in trouble once her lips had turned blue.

They were in the shelter of a shallow gully near a river, underneath a ridge.
 
The wind barely reached here, and the bright blue sun was shining on them.

He'd helped her wrap herself in the shining foil blanket from the ship's survival kit, which crinkled loudly whenever its thin material moved.
 
In her glittering silver cocoon she sat against the short ridge, soaking up what little warmth the sun provided.
 
The wind howled off the top of the ridge overhead, as it roared down the river valley toward the distant sea and the sun.
 
Frequent dustings of snow washed over the lip of the ridge, covering them in layers of gentle powder.
 
Elan hoped that the snow might have hidden their tracks by now.

He lay next to her, naked but for the tatters of his coldsuit.
 
The side of his body was against hers, the foil and cloth between them, though he knew his skin offered no warmth.
 
He hoped his presence would shelter her from the wind and help her stay awake and alert.

She had stopped talking some time ago; they both had.
 
Even though it was unlikely their voices would carry any distance, fear kept them quiet.
 
Her eyes watched his, and it was clear to him that she was suffering.
 
The brief, convulsive shivering of her body against his had torn at his heart.

As for himself, he was safe enough for now.
 
Here, out of the wind, in the full light of the sun.
 
The torn, inactive coldsuit kept out the sharpest bite of the wind.