by S. J. Madill
She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, taking a stumbling step toward the pile of clothes heaped against the wall. It took several tries to find a shirt that wasn't covered in paint stains. And her pants didn't fit as well as they once did. Five years ago, when she started university, she could wear anything she wanted right off the rack. Not the 'petite' rack, granted… but time marched on. Running her fingers through her mostly-blonde hair, she encountered an insurmountable nest of tangles, and gave up. A brief scan of her desktop produced her knit cap, which she tugged onto her head. She made a promise to herself, to have a proper shower as soon as she'd finished hurting Blaine. She stumbled across the room, avoiding the debris on the floor, and kept her eyes averted from the mirror. A tap on the door console, and the door slowly opened. She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips.
A six-foot-tall god of a man stood in the hallway. Perfectly styled hair, and piercing blue eyes that looked out from chiseled features. A tight black t-shirt hugged his muscled chest, and he wore black jeans with a waist smaller than hers. Blaine had never been to a gym once in his life, never watched what he ate, and seemed to maintain a sexy amount of stubble without ever shaving. A goddamned triumph of genetics, and oblivious to it.
Blaine winced when Heather turned her squinted glare to him. He held out his hands toward her, bearing a mug of coffee. "Peace?" he said. "Four scoops of grinds, one scoop of sugar, and one bloop of that vanilla stuff?"
Without taking her eyes from his, Heather accepted the mug. She grunted as the smell reached her nose. "Blaine, what time is it?"
His face relaxed. Apparently, he thought he was in the clear. All the better, she thought, when she was ready to beat him senseless. He gave a magazine-cover smile. "Eight thirty?"
Heather blew on the coffee, her left hand coming up to join the right in holding the mug. She took a deep breath. "So Blaine, I've been asleep for three hours."
Blaine grimaced, drooping his head and raising his shoulders. "I know, Heather. And I'm so sorry. But this is really important." He started to pick up steam. "Lakshmi got up early, and came to the living room, and remember we left the door unlocked because Carter lost his key? And—"
"God, Blaine, please let there be a point to this."
The perfect face nodded, as Blaine moved into the living room. Lakshmi was on the couch, watching Heather approach.
"So," said Blaine, forging ahead, "Carter didn't come home after all, and when Laks got up, there was… this guy sleeping on our couch. We thought—"
"So throw him the hell out," said Heather, marching farther into the living room with Blaine retreating in front of her. "I'm not the goddamned bouncer—" Her voice trailed off as she followed Blaine's eyes to the figure in the big chair across from Lakshmi.
He was sitting up straight, feet flat on the floor, his hands clasped in his lap like a schoolboy, his grey sweater and pants neat and clean. Vivid blue hair — more ultramarine than cobalt, she thought — lay straight and tidy to his shoulders. His face was utterly white, like carefully smoothed plaster, and his startling blue eyes were watching her. There were no lines on his face; no stress, only calm. He smiled. "Hello," he said. The voice had the sound of several voices at once, in delicate harmony with each other.
Heather stopped mid-stride, her words fading before they reached her lips. Her mug began to slip from her fingers, and she tightened her grip on it. "Hi," she whispered. "You're a Palani." She realised how stupid she sounded; he probably already knew what he was.
The white-faced young man had a beatific smile. "I am," he said, his voice more song than speech. He hesitated before he spoke, as if choosing his words carefully. "I am sorry," he continued, "that you were awoken. I did not intend to cause upset."
She stepped in front of the couch, lowering herself to sit next to Lakshmi, who slid across the cushion to make room for her. "Sorry, Heather," said Lakshmi. "We didn't know what to do. Blaine and I thought—"
"Nah, Laks, it's good," said Heather, not taking her eyes from the blue-haired man sitting across from her. He was still smiling, sitting upright in the big chair. She took a sip of coffee. "Okay," she ventured, "I'm Heather."
"I am Elan," said the Palani. "I have already met Lakshmi and Blaine."
Heather's fingers were tapping on the side of her mug. "So tell me, Elan…" she shook her head. This was ridiculous. "Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here? Why are you in our living room?"
Elan flinched as if she'd slapped him; she knew she often spoke before thinking, and sometimes offended people as a result. Lately she'd been trying to be more polite, but this was asking too much. "Look," she tried again, "I'm sorry, but—"
"No," said Elan. Heather felt a brief flash of anger at the interruption, but chose to just glare at him while he continued.
"I understand," he said, in his lyrical voice. "You are right to be suspicious. Our two peoples are not friendly to each other, though I wish it wasn't so."
Elan made a small gesture towards the front door. His hands were perfectly manicured, and he moved with a gentle grace. Heather wondered if he was from a noble family. "Last night," he said, "I landed at the starport, and crossed the street. Yours was the only door not locked."
Heather took a deep breath, and caught the delicate smell of citrus. She found herself relaxing and enjoying the musical sound of his voice. There was something about him that seemed so sincere, so inviting. Maybe, she thought, we should at least give the guy a few minutes to tell his story. "Fine," she said. "Were you a stowaway?"
Elan's brow furrowed, the first lines Heather had seen on that flawless white skin. "I do not understand the word."
"Were you hiding on the ship?"
"Oh," he nodded. "Yes."
"Are you running away from home? Are you in trouble?"
He stopped a moment, before the creases on his forehead relaxed and the smile returned. "Yes, I am running away from home. When they discover I am gone, I will be in trouble."
Heather's fingers stopped tapping at her mug. She turned her head to catch Blaine's eye. He was standing beside the couch, arms across his chest and biting at his fingernails. "Blaine?" she asked. "Could you please start another pot of coffee?"
* * *
When Heather went to the kitchen to get her third cup of coffee, Blaine followed her. She could see him fidgeting, but he waited until she was done stirring before he leaned in to whisper to her. "I want to let him stay," he said. "But we can't, can we? Won't we get in trouble?"
"I don't care," she said. "We're not going to throw the guy out." Heather looked past Blaine and caught a glimpse of Elan sitting on the couch, talking with Lakshmi. He seemed calm enough, she admitted to herself, but he must be terrified. How bad were things on his homeworld? How much trouble was he in? It must have been terrible at home, to make him run halfway across the galactic arm to a strange planet where he was the only one of his kind.
Blaine stepped in front of her, blocking her field of view. She wanted to shove him out of the way, to keep watching the pretty white-skinned man on the couch.
"You saw the news," whispered Blaine. "The Palani attacked another human colony. They're killing humans, Heather. We might go to war with them."
Heather shook her head. "No, no. No government is supporting those colonists, they weren't from any country. They were from 'Earth First'; they're a bunch of racist crazies. They knew as well as the rest of us how the Palani guard all those planets. They deliberately—"
"That doesn't justify killing—"
"I know, Blaine. I know." She ran her fingers through her hair, sliding them under the knit cap on her head. "Look, I'm not an expert. It seems like an asshole thing to do, blowing up a colony. But then I think, imagine if aliens came here and founded a city in the rubble of Delhi or Beijing. Imagine if they just bulldozed the ruins and the graves. We'd be so pissed off, we'd be out of our goddamned minds."
"Okay, okay, fine," said Blaine, raising his hands in surrender. "But before we let him s
tay, shouldn't he tell us everything? He should tell us exactly why he ran away."
"Why?" asked Heather, frowning. "So we can judge him? Decide if his reasons for running away are legitimate by our standards?"
Blaine backed away, bumping into the island counter. "No, no…" he dropped his hands to his sides. "Okay. I'm sorry I mentioned that. It's not our place to judge—"
"You're right. It isn't."
Lakshmi came into the kitchen and headed to the fridge. "I think he's from a religious family," she whispered. She took a clean glass from the counter, and started filling it with ice. "I mentioned that I was studying theology at Carleton," she said, "and next thing I know, he's asking me about Vedic translations." She shook her head. "Some of the stuff he mentioned — I don't think we're covering it until third or fourth year."
Holding up the glass filled with ice, Lakshmi nodded toward the living room. "He says it's hot in here. He's wearing some sort of suit to keep him cool, but I guess it's still pretty warm."
Blaine raised a finger. "Oh. I read a thing. Their body temperature is, like, nine degrees or something."
There was a chirping sound from the apartment's console. Too late, Heather recognised the sound of the front door opening. "Shit," she said. "It's Carter."
A thin young man entered. He was the same height as Heather, with vintage denim clothes that hung from him. He had slicked-back hair and a week's worth of beard. "Smells like oranges in here," he said. The guitar case in his hand knocked the wall as he turned into the living room, and he froze when he caught sight of Elan on the couch. "What the fuck?"
"Hello," said Elan.
Heather stepped to the front door, closing and locking it. "Carter," she began.
He swung toward her. "Who is this? What's going on?"
"His name is Elan."
Carter pointed. "He's a Palani. Aren't they killing our people?" His eyes went to Blaine and Lakshmi, who stood in the kitchen. "How did he get in here? I want him gone."
"No," said Heather. She waited for Carter to flush red, like he always did when she contradicted him. She didn't wait long.
"No? What do you mean, 'no'? Don't I get a say in this? I stayed with a friend after the gig last night—"
"Sure you did," interrupted Heather. "With a 'friend', just like always."
"— and I come home and now I've got a new room-mate? We're now some sort of drop-in centre for murderers?" He threw up his free hand, waving the guitar case with the other. "See? You're still making decisions for me."
Heather had already clenched her fists before she realised it. She leaned in close, keeping her eyes locked on Carter's. "And you're still sleeping with everything that moves." She saw him wince. At least it meant he'd heard her. "He's a runaway, Carter. Like me. He stays."
Carter shook his head, lowering his arms. He shrugged his shoulders inside his jacket, scowling at Blaine and Lakshmi before his eyes stopped on Elan. "Fine. Whatever. Just stay out of my way." He walked through the living room, shaking his head, and went down the hall toward his room.
Heather reached up both hands to her head, pulling her cap off as she raked her fingers through her hair. She walked over to the couch, letting herself drop onto it with a loud sigh. When she looked up, Elan was watching her with those cobalt-blue eyes.
"So…" she began.
"So…" said Elan. "That was Carter. I understand his unhappiness. My people are not well-liked on Earth."
"Yeah, you could say that."
"Also, you and he have some history together."
Heather closed her eyes, drooping her head as she nodded. "Yeah, you could say that too." Mostly, she thought, the history of a bad idea. A bad idea mixed with poor judgment and too many issues. "Look," she said. "Don't worry about him. He makes a lot of noise, but nothing ever comes of it."
The couch shifted, and Lakshmi sat cross-legged beside her. The glass of ice was on the coffee table, and Elan reached forward to pick it up. "Thank you," he said. "While I was in transit, I spent time meditating. It helped me to raise my body temperature to twenty degrees."
Blaine's voice came from behind Heather. "You can do that?"
"I can," said Elan, popping an ice cube into his mouth. "Perhaps a little higher. I will only be on Earth a few days." He took a deep breath, and exhaled. "I will try not to be a burden. Please let me stay."
Heather noticed again that Elan's breath smelled of orange blossoms. There was something odd about him; she felt good when he spoke to her. She let her shoulders relax as a feeling of comfort washed over her. Somehow, she knew everything was going to work out; Elan seemed like a great guy. "Fine with me," she said, smiling. Craning her neck, she looked at Blaine and Lakshmi. "How about you two?"
"Sure," said Lakshmi. Blaine just nodded.
"So…" said Heather, letting herself sink farther down into the couch "Lenny's old room is at the back. If we really crank up the air, how cold do you suppose we can get it?"
CHAPTER SIX
The door console beeped. Dillon walked out of his cabin's small washroom and glanced at the console, where the clock read 09:00 exactly. Only one person on the ship was that punctual. He tapped a button.
The cabin door slid open, revealing Tremblay in a neatly-pressed uniform. The young officer took a step into Dillon's cabin, and gave a smart salute. "Sub-Lieutenant Tremblay reporting, sir."
Dillon gave a wave in return, and gestured at a chair. "Exactly on time, Tremblay. Have a seat."
"Thank you, sir." The officer sat himself down, his back straight, a datapad in his lap. He held a pen up toward Dillon. "Sir, the Chief said I should bring this to you."
"Ah," said Dillon, accepting the pen. A subtle signal from the Chief, that she'd already seen Tremblay's reports. "Perfect. I was wondering where it had gone." He poked the end of the pen into his mouth, holding it between his teeth. "Do you always do what a chief of the ship tells you to?"
"I do, sir."
"Good," said Dillon, starting to chew on the pen. "That's wise." Chewing on something helped him think. There was probably some complicated psychological reason behind it, but he didn't much care. He pulled his own chair out, and it squeaked as he sat down. "So," he said, gesturing to Tremblay's datapad. "What've you got?"
Tremblay handed over the pad. "Sir, I've finished the survey reports for the last four planets we visited. We're now up to date."
"Outstanding."
"Thank you, sir. Also, I reviewed the logs from the last mission. I've identified places where I, or someone on the team, didn't follow standard procedures. We're especially lax with communications discipline, sir." He gestured at the datapad in Dillon's hand. "It's in the second file there, marked…" He trailed off. Dillon waited to see why Tremblay had interrupted himself. With a slight grind of his teeth, the pen twitched.
"Sir," continued Tremblay, "it's not meant to be incriminating. I'm just cataloguing deviations from process. Is that overstepping, sir?"
Dillon pulled the pen from his mouth and leaned back in his chair, which squeaked again. The kid was hesitating, conscious about how his work might affect others. "Tremblay," said Dillon, "how are you getting along with the Chief?"
Tremblay glanced down at his hands in his lap. "Fine, sir," he said, looking back up. "Though she does sometimes send me on… unusual errands, sir."
Dillon could already imagine the sorts of things Chief Black would dream up; she considered rookie officers to be one of her favourite food groups. He nodded sagely, tenting his fingers in front of him. "Go on, Sub. Tell me about her errands."
Tremblay reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt. "Well, sir. There was the time she had me, uh, verify something in the ship's stores. I spent a morning searching for a 'binnacle calibration tool' before I realised there was no such thing."
"A classic."
"There was the other time, sir, where the hot water was disabled to my cabin. I had nothing but cold water for two days, before I went and asked Engineering. Apparently they w
ere in on it, sir." Tremblay's eyes went back down to his hands. "There were others, sir."
Dillon thought of how the Chief had once fought a battle of pranks against the Borealis's former engineer, a Dosh. Finding out that ordinary gin made the alien hallucinate had led to the high point of the Chief's repertoire. But then, those had been different times. They hadn't known if they were going to get home again, and maintaining morale had been a constant struggle.
"Sounds like you're getting off light, Tremblay."
"Sir?"
"If I were to guess, the Chief is trying to illustrate how you're sometimes reluctant to bother us with problems. If something's not right on the ship, it's not 'bothering'."
"Aye, sir. I'll do better."
Dillon made a face, shaking his head. "You're not doing poorly, Tremblay. Don't look at it that way. You're doing great. You're well on your way to earning your watch-keeping certificate. It's just a matter of putting in the hours. Everything else is excellent."
Tremblay grinned, and sat a little straighter in the chair. "Thank you, sir. I very much appreciate hearing that."
Dillon swivelled in his chair, reaching out to pick up the mug on his desk. He peered down into it, then took a sip. Cold again. He started to drink it anyway. "So, Tremblay. Any questions or concerns?"
The Sub-Lieutenant bit his lip a moment, glancing past Dillon out the window. "Sir," he began, "I saw that the Palani fleet have destroyed another colony. I'm a bit worried about what it means; I don't understand what's motivating them."
Finishing his cold coffee, Dillon set the empty mug down on the desk. "Yeah. That could become a problem if it continues." His fingertips held the empty mug by the rim, rotating it on the desktop. "The Palani used to have three thousand inhabited systems. For millennia, they ran this part of the galaxy. Then, seven hundred years ago, while our ancestors were trying to colonise the Americas, an alien race invaded. The Palani called them the Horlan, a monster from their mythology."