Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2)

by S. J. Madill

He saw Amba check around before she continued, her voice quieter. "You do not like your new commanding officer?"

  A quick scan of the deck showed no crewmembers within earshot. "I don't mind her," he said with a shrug. "She's a senior captain… the only way to get that rank is to be offered a flag-rank promotion, and to turn it down. She's practically a legend. Just a bit…hard to read, sometimes."

  "You'll be fine. When you're done, you're welcome to come by my cabin."

  With a wink, Amba walked calmly from the hangar deck, smoothly threading her way past the other crew. Dillon began unbuckling his pressure suit.

  * * *

  Dillon laid his hands on the desk and lowered himself into his chair. His cabin's terminal sat in front of him, indicator lights blinking to remind him of the messages that needed his attention. He sat in silence, staring at the screen, before turning his head toward the cabin's window. Filling the view was the brown and blue globe of the planet they orbited. Their survey had given it the romantic name '289-C'.

  He rubbed at the back of his neck, before straightening up in his chair and poking a finger at the terminal. A connection screen popped up, showing the crest of the Third Cruiser Squadron. The holoprojector on his desk whirred to life, resolving itself into the image of a woman. Her grey hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her arms were folded in front of her. She was leaning forward in her chair, filling the display. "Commander Dillon," she said, her voice rough and hoarse. "I was starting to wonder if you'd got lost."

  Great start, thought Dillon. "Senior Captain West, sir. We just returned from the surface."

  The woman didn't blink. "Why are you personally going down to planets, Commander? You have officers. Send them."

  "Yes, sir. They've all been on surface missions, multiple times. I was giving them a break."

  "How many planets have you surveyed?"

  "Seventeen so far, sir."

  "How many are former Daltanin worlds?"

  "All of them, sir. I'm giving them priority. Best chance of useful intel."

  Captain West grunted. "Good. Find anything?"

  "Yes, sir. Some promising leads. Just checked out a foundry where they made that exotic alloy of theirs. I'll be sending full reports by the end of the day."

  The holographic Captain glanced off-screen for a moment before returning her icy glare to him. "Tomorrow will do."

  "Yes, sir." Dillon relaxed a little. A one-day extension for the planetary surveys; that was the nicest thing she'd ever said to him. According to other officers he'd talked to, it might be the nicest thing she'd ever said to anyone.

  West leaned back in her chair, away from her terminal. She kept her arms folded over her chest. "Commander, the Palani just wiped out another wildcat colony in the Burnt Worlds."

  Well, shit. "That's not going to help things, sir."

  "No, it's not. We keep telling those 'Earth First' idiots not to colonise there. The Palani lost a trillion people on those worlds. Seven hundred years is a long time, but that's not the sort of thing you tend to forget."

  "No sir, it isn't. Those worlds will always be Palani, as far as they're concerned."

  "Which brings me to your Palani passenger, Commander. You know I'm not happy with you having your girlfriend aboard—"

  Dillon's face flushed. "Sir," he interrupted, "I don't think that's—"

  Captain West gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "Don't want to hear it, Commander. They can call her 'chaplain', 'cultural advisor', mascot, I don't care." She pointed at her terminal, her finger aimed at Dillon. "There aren't many secrets in the fleet. Everyone knows you and her are so are so far into 'fraternisation land' that you'll need a map to get back out. I don't like it."

  Dillon silently ground his teeth together. He couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make things worse.

  "However," said West, "you've got Admiral Clarke's blessing. So there's nothing I can do about it. But I still don't like it. Do you know why I don't like it, Commander?"

  His jaw was clenched tight, and he could only mutter between his teeth. "No sir, I don't."

  "Because I'm goddamned jealous, that's why. I'd like nothing better than to have my husband waiting in my cabin on the Bonaventure. For god's sake, at least tell me you're being discreet."

  Dillon blinked. Now he wasn't sure whether to be furious, or to break out laughing. He had no idea what West was thinking. "Totally discreet and professional, sir."

  "Do you trust her, Commander?"

  "Absolutely, sir."

  Captain West leaned forward again. She was close enough to her terminal that Dillon could see the lines in her holoprojected face. Her eyes bored right through him; he wasn't sure if that was due to the projection or if that's how they really looked. He realised she'd been studying him as well.

  She nodded. "Good, Commander, I'm glad you trust her. Because you and the Tassani, er—"

  "Tassali, sir. Means something like 'bishop'."

  "Right. Tassali it is. You and the Tassali are to come to New Halifax as soon as Borealis can make it here."

  "Yes, sir. We'll get underway at once. May I ask the nature of our visit, sir?"

  Holographic hands opened to the air as the squadron commander shrugged. "Goddamned if I know. The Palani ambassador wants to meet with you two. Has to be in person."

  "Something about the wildcat colonies, sir? They want us to do something?"

  "Could be. They're still demanding we shut down the jump gate. Maybe it's about that."

  "The Palani don't usually tell us 'lesser races' what their reasons are."

  "No, they don't. So get Borealis back here, Commander. Normal faster-than-light travel only. Apart from the gate, all jump travel is still prohibited; that order comes from the top. The science types are concerned that jumping has more risks than we thought."

  "Aye, sir. At maximum FTL, we should be there in eight days."

  West nodded, then fell silent, pursing her lips. "Between you and me, Commander? Keep your jump drive in proper working order." She shrugged. "You never know."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  A holographic finger reached out of view at the display's bottom. "All for now. West out."

  The projector went dark, its whine fading as it started winding down. Before long, it was silent against the ship's normal mutter of background noises. Dillon leaned back in his chair, staring out the window again.

  His previous commanding officer, Commodore Sinclair, had been easier to read. Right now, she was assigned to a committee, deciding what to do with the new worlds they'd discovered here beyond the jump gate. Not a cluster of uninhabited worlds — as the media said — but an entire universe; many of the new planets contained ruins of the Daltanin civilisation. The Daltanin had been wiped out by the Horlan, the same species that attacked the Palani seven centuries ago. Many of the Daltanin planets were still guarded by automated defences, eternally protecting their dead worlds.

  The new boss, Captain West, was the commanding officer of the heavy cruiser Bonaventure. But when the jump gate had opened, the robotic Daltanin ships flooded through, and Bonaventure had been damaged in the battle to stem the tide. Dozens of other ships — Canadian, American, British, Indian, Dosh — were also damaged or destroyed, until the crew of the Borealis had landed on the Daltanin homeworld and deactivated the defences.

  Captain West was right about Tassali Yenaara, of course. Borealis had rescued her, adrift and alone. Amba — her first name — had come to trust Dillon, as he had grown to trust her. Before long, it had become something more. Apart from their Ambassador, Amba was the only Palani living in all of human space. Her perspective on the Palani and their history were enough for Admiral Clarke to see her as a valuable asset. Valuable enough to turn a blind eye to her presence on a warship.

  Dillon poked at his terminal again. After a few moments' pause, a woman's voice came from the speaker. "Bridge. Chief Black here."

  He smiled. "Chief? When did you get up?"

  "Chiefs
never sleep, sir. I've told you this before."

  "It's still witchcraft. Are we ready to get underway?"

  "Aye, sir. We are."

  "Very well. Set a course to the jump gate, then to New Halifax, and get us underway."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Dillon paused a moment, his eyes wandering toward the window. "Who's my relief? Who's got next watch?"

  "Kalla, sir. Your watch should've ended thirty minutes ago."

  "Thanks, Chief. Captain out."

  Taking one last glance out the window, Dillon pushed himself to his feet. As soon as he handed off to Kalla, the next few hours would be his. Time enough. A smile spread across his face as he walked to his cabin door.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pentarch Ontelis dismissed the servants, watching as the last of the young acolytes backed away from the bedchamber. Once the door had closed, he turned around to face the room.

  Gone. The Elanasal Palani. The Chosen One from scripture, descendant of the Prophets, the hope of his people, had left of his own accord. Ontelis sighed, surveying the bedchamber. Once again he had to remind himself, the Elanasal was not just a collection of titles; he was a young man. He had been carefully engineered, one DNA strand at a time, to a specific blueprint. As near to a perfect Palani as their technology would permit, and even that was subject to some compromises. Still, a young man. A boy, in many ways. Wise and intelligent, but uncertain and afraid.

  Yet unexpectedly brave, thought Ontelis. They had underestimated their creation, and were now being punished for their hubris. He should have known; hubris always led to problems.

  The sound of gentle breathing reminded him that he wasn't alone. Pentarch Balhammis stood behind him; despite the man's size, his calm and quiet way often made Ontelis forget he was there.

  Balhammis, the snow-topped mountain: a two-metre-tall leviathan, with delicate glasses on his nose and white hair on his head. His ancestors had been Ensannon, an engineered subspecies of Palani built millennia ago, bred for combat. Now the trait was inherited, like eye colour. Or was inherited, thought Ontelis, back when anyone inherited anything.

  Balhammis turned over the note he held, the piece of paper tiny in his large hands. He turned it over, checking the back of the page as if hoping to find more writing there.

  "Well?" said Ontelis. The huge man had taken a long time to read such a short note. But Balhammis was known for his careful, considered way of thinking. Ontelis reminded himself to be patient, despite his irritation.

  The massive Palani looked down at him. When Balhammis spoke, his voice was a deep strum. "Well indeed," he said. "Your pet has escaped its pen."

  "Pet?" said Ontelis. "You supported the Elanasal project."

  "I did," said Balhammis, pausing to take a deep breath. "As did my predecessor, and her predecessor. We supported it, as we always have. Supporting the search for the Elanasal, the Chosen One, has become…" he paused a moment, his mouth moving as if chewing at something. "… an article of faith. We never expected it to succeed."

  "But it did," said Ontelis. This giant could be so capricious at times. One moment he stands by you, the next moment he pretends to forget your name. "We used a new technique—"

  "So you have told me," thrummed Balhammis. "Again and again. After three thousand years with other methods, your new method succeeds on the fourth attempt. A remarkable achievement, as I've said before."

  Ontelis stared at the taller Pentarch. When did success become a cause for suspicion? Were they so set in their ways that they expected to fail at something simply because they always had? It was time to move beyond old ideas. There was too much at stake.

  He pointed at the handwritten note in Balhammis's hand. The young Prophet's calligraphy was excellent, worthy of being displayed, if not for what it said. "The Prophet doesn't agree with going to war against the humans."

  Balhammis dropped the note on the desk, and shook his massive head. "That is not what he said, Ontelis. Read it again."

  "I have read it," Ontelis snapped back. "Repeatedly. His exact words were that he 'doesn't understand the need' for war with the humans. Right now, that is not our concern. We must find him, and I believe he is headed for human space."

  "Agreed," said Balhammis. He raised his thick white arms and plucked the eyeglasses from his face. "The Prophet is wise indeed: he wishes to learn more about the humans. Going straight to their homeworld would be… the direct approach."

  "It is foolish. I have already told our ambassador to make contact with people we can trust."

  Balhammis continued examining his glasses. "The Exile and her consort?"

  "Yes."

  "You decided to trust the Exile with such a crisis?"

  Ontelis rolled his eyes. "You tell me, Balhammis, who else there is. How many agents do you have in human space?"

  "I cannot tell you—"

  It was always the same from Balhammis: know everything, and tell nothing. Ontelis waved a hand. "You can dispense with your game, my friend. You have no agents among the humans. None."

  The giant sighed. "Yes. None. Though we are enjoying some success with inorganic methods."

  "I know, I know. I was at the council meeting where you told us. At least you respect the council enough to give us half the truth. Not like Threnia, who ordered the fleet to start blasting human colonies without telling the rest of us. This is not how the Pentarch Council should function."

  "How fortunate," said Balhammis, his voice growing deeper, "that we have your example of virtue to show us the way."

  Ontelis ignored this, instead tapping one bony white hand on the desk as he tried to concentrate. The other Pentarchs would have to be told something, of course. Threnia and Ivenna were enthusiastic — to varying degrees, and for their own reasons — about the Elanasal project. To them, it was an important symbol. It was a way to show the Palani people — and the galaxy as a whole — the clarity of their purpose, and then truth of their teachings. And, not coincidentally, to demonstrate the superiority of Palani science.

  But the Elanasal could be more than that. The boy could be more than just a symbol of the Palani future. According to the countless tests they had subjected him to, he was the Palani future. The only viable future for his people.

  Surely, thought Ontelis, the boy would come back. How could he not? This was his home; these were his people. Even without knowing everything about how he was created, he would certainly see his significance to the Palani people. Wouldn't he?

  Balhammis' voice was a deep rumble. "Your thoughts, Ontelis?"

  Ontelis lifted his head up, feeling the bones in his neck creak in protest. Balhammis was quiet and calm, watching him.

  "The boy is wise," said Ontelis. "I should have told him more."

  "Perhaps," said Balhammis, carefully putting his glasses back on. "I look forward to what you will tell the rest of the Pentarch. Good night." He bent forward at the waist in a polite bow, looming over Ontelis.

  Ontelis returned the bow, and watched as Balhammis walked to the door, barely clearing the top of the doorway as he left. The man moved like his mind worked, Ontelis mused. Silently and gracefully, in ways completely unexpected for an Ensannon.

  Lowering himself into the Prophet's desk chair, Pentarch Ontelis picked up the handwritten note. He turned it over in his hand before reading it again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There was a hesitant knocking at the door, far away. "Heather?" came a familiar voice. "You gotta get up."

  Her mind jerked toward the surface, even as she struggled to swim deeper back into sleep.

  More knocking; it sounded closer now. "Heather?"

  Blaine's voice. Every sentence was a question. Heather struggled to find a word, something to make Blaine and the door-knocking go away. "Murder," she mumbled. She snorted, trying to inhale through the one nostril that wasn't mashed against the pillow.

  "What? What did you say, Heather?"

  She could feel the fingertips of her right hand brushing the
floor. Her left leg was cold, hanging outside the warm cocoon of blankets. With great effort, she moved her head closer to the edge of the pillow. "I will murder you, Blaine."

  "Come on, Heather. Get up. It's really important."

  Now she felt the stiffness in her shoulders. Her left wrist began to throb; the slow, steady ache that never went away. And her bladder was making itself known.

  Heather took a deep breath. "God damn it, Blaine!" she yelled at the door. With a sweep of her arm, she threw back the covers. The rush of cold air invaded, extinguishing any hope of drifting off again. No going back now, she thought. "Damn it," she repeated, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her shoulders and wrist protested as she shoved down on the mattress, pushing herself to sit upright. The light of day assaulted her eyes, bringing with it the throb of a headache. She curled forward, clamping her hands over her face and leaning her elbows on her knees.

  Blaine knocked again. Normally he had the good sense to steer clear of her in the morning, at least until she'd had a cup or two of coffee. Apparently he'd now grown tired of life and wished to die a messy death at her hands.

  "Heather?" he called through the door. "You getting up?"

  "Yes!" she yelled into her hands. "Jesus, Blaine. I will murder you, right in your perfect goddamned face, if you don't—"

  "Okay," came the defensive voice through the door. "Okay. I'm sorry. It's just that we really need you out here. There's—"

  "Blaine," she called out, trying not to yell again. "Is the house on fire?"

  Silence. That had made him think. "Well, no," he said at last.

  "Then it can wait, Blaine. I'll be out in a minute."

  Heather exhaled, withdrawing her hands from her face and surveying the room around her. The facing wall was spattered and streaked with slashes and blobs of dried paint. On the wall was a new, blank synthetic 'canvas'; it continued to taunt her every time she looked at it.

  Desk, cabinet, and floors, all covered in a random collection of paints, brushes, tools, datapads, and clothes. In the corner stood her hockey sticks, currently serving as additional clothing storage. Somewhere underneath were her skates, no doubt rusted by now, waiting to be strapped on once again. Her wrist ached just thinking of them.