Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2)

by S. J. Madill

  Elan climbed onto the bed, over the rumpled heap of blankets and pillows, toward the wall at the far side. He sat down, back straight against the wall, and drew his knees up to his chest. Keeping his feet flat on the mattress, he curled his arms around his knees and shifted until he was comfortable. When he looked up, he saw Heather watching him. A hint of a grin briefly tugged at the corner of her mouth, before being replaced by a stern look and a pointing finger. "Remember, I want to forget you're here. If you interrupt me, I'm going to kick you out."

  "I understand, Heather," said Elan.

  Her face softened, and she smiled. "Good. Glad to hear it." She stood up and stepped over her collection of paint pots, leaning toward the desk and reaching out with one arm. With the sweep of her hand Heather shoved aside a pile of clothes, revealing a small desktop console underneath. She tapped at the screen a few times, and the room was filled with noise. It was music, in its own way: not the delicate harmonics of Palani instruments, or the soaring majesty of a choir; it was a fast, pulsing rhythm with a deep bass beat and a simple, repetitive melody. With a swipe of Heather's finger, the music became much louder, its thunderous beat drowning out the thoughts in Elan's head. All he heard was the beat, all he thought of was the melody. He wondered if he could use its mind-blanking sound as a focus, something to empty his mind and help him to meditate. He focused on it, allowing the music's repetitive din to beat its way into his head.

  Heather's back was to him, and she returned to stand in front of her canvas. She took a step away from it, her feet surrounded by the pots of paint. Letting her arms go limp at her sides, she began to rock her head back and forth. Elan saw the fingers on her left hand begin to move, twitching gently in time with the pounding rhythm.

  At her feet were the pots of paint, each with a brush standing upright. Elan watched Heather's head turn down to study the paints at her feet, then back up at the canvas, then back down again. All the while, her left hand continued to move, fingers opening and closing and making small circles with the beat.

  When she began to move, it was with surprising speed. A brief bending of the knees, and Heather scooped up one of the brushes, swinging it at the canvas like the slashing of a blade. A streak of blue erupted across the canvas and onto the wall. With a backhanded swing, a second line of blue burst onto the white background, a staccato trail of droplets pattering across the wall and around the back of the room. Elan blinked as a drop hit him on the face, but he said nothing.

  Dropping the blue brush towards its pot, Heather swept up another brush before the first had landed. With each new thump of the music, more lines flashed across the canvas, each brought to life by a swing of her arm, as her body moved in time. Elan remained quiet, his thoughts blotted out by the noise, his mind focused on the dance and the spattering paint.

  * * *

  He wasn't sure how long it had been — Elan couldn't see any terminals from where he sat — but Heather had begun to slow. Her arms were moving more sluggishly, and when he caught a glimpse of her face it was flushed red and shining with perspiration.

  Taking a step back to her desk, she tapped something on the console, giving it another swipe of her finger. The music slowed down, becoming quieter. The thundering rhythm gave way to calmer, more complicated instrumental music. Elan felt his heart rate begin to slow, as Heather stepped in front of the canvas, her hands on her hips. Past her he saw the canvas, and the hundreds of scattered lines of different colours that criss-crossed it, each stroke bold and abrupt, like an angry shout. And in front of the canvas stood its creator, deflated, as if she had transferred her energy to the canvas and the walls of the room.

  "Huh," said Heather, breaking her silence. She stepped closer to the image on the wall, stooping to pick up one of her brushes. With gentle care, she pulled it across part of the canvas. A delicate, deliberate curve of blue that crossed several of the angry streaks. She drew another line, pulling the brush in a tight curve between red and green slashes.

  As she continued, Elan concentrated on the image taking form in front of him. With more blue curves carefully added, he saw it. There, amidst the chaos in the painting, was a face. He caught his breath. Sharp cheekbones and deep blue eyes. How could such random lines show so much? It was like his own eyes were looking back at him. Vivid blue eyes, filled with calmness and a gentle curiosity. And yet — lost? Was that him? Was that what Heather saw in his eyes? The eyes in the painting pulled the room toward them, swallowing everything in their field of view, trying in vain to make sense of its world.

  This was not what he'd been taught to understand about the humans. Once again, nothing that he'd seen since coming to Earth had matched what he'd been told. He hadn't seen the intense tribalism, the tendency toward violence and selfishness, the brutality that he'd expected. He certainly hadn't expected to see such empathy, expressed through such artistic passion.

  "Oh," said Heather. Her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper. "You're still here. What do you think?" She was standing far back from the painting, her hands once again on her hips.

  Elan blinked, and turned his attention back to the painting. "I had no idea," he admitted. "No idea that any human could express something so real, so alive."

  "Thank you, Elan." She turned toward him. "I, uh, hadn't planned to… oh, you've got paint on you."

  "Yes, I think I do," said Elan. He reached up to touch at the spot on his cheek.

  "No, that won't come off without… here, let me get it." Heather scooped up a rag from the floor, pausing to dip it into one of the pots at her feet. She kicked aside a pile of clutter as she approached the bed, kneeling on the edge of the mattress. Elan felt his heart pounding as she leaned in toward him, cloth in hand.

  He reached for the cloth, but Heather gently batted his hand away. "I put it there, I'll clean it up." She reached up and dabbed at his cheek. "Oh, it's dried," she said, and with her other hand she held the side of his head while she started to scrub. Elan sat still, his lips curling in a grin. This reminded him of having the runes scrubbed from his face after rituals in the Temple.

  "Your hands are hot," he said.

  "And your face is cold," she replied, still scrubbing. "How on Earth did you sit so still for so long?"

  "I have practice," he said. "Some Palani rituals go on for a very long time—"

  "So your family is religious—"

  "—and I didn't want to disturb you."

  Heather let go of his face and leaned back, paint-smeared cloth in her hand. Elan's breath caught when she smiled at him. "You're a really sweet guy, Elan," she said quietly. "I'm glad you're here."

  He felt something swell in his chest, and couldn't suppress the smile spreading across his face. "So am I."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Dillon sat in his chair on the bridge of the Borealis, one leg crossed over the other. In his right hand was a slowly-cooling mug of coffee, ignored while he read the datapad in his left hand.

  "Where's Kalla?" he said aloud, to no one in particular.

  "Sir," said Tremblay, at the supervisory console. "I saw the Executive Officer in the wardroom ten minutes ago. She said she was retiring for the day."

  "Fine, thank you." Dillon swiped his thumb across the datapad. Kalla was always good about reading her messages when she got up; most of these reports could wait until then. With the fleet-wide officer shortage, having someone on each watch meant rarely seeing them in person.

  As he lifted his coffee to his lips, an icon appeared on his datapad display. It blinked, trying to impart its urgency to him. He sighed and set the mug back down, freeing his hand to poke at the datapad. His heart sank as he read. Here we go again. With a light toss, the datapad landed on the shelf next to his chair.

  "Bridge crew," he said with a sigh. "Listen up."

  Tremblay and the two crewmembers stopped what they were doing, turning in their seats to look at up him from their consoles.

  "News update from New Halifax. The Palani have destroyed another w
ildcat colony in the Burnt Worlds. 'Liberty', the place was called. There were no survivors."

  He saw faces growing tense as he continued, "Also, the Palani have reported seeing unauthorised ships at the extreme outer reaches of the Burnt Worlds. They're pretty much saying it had better not be more human colony ships." With one hand he gestured at the nearby datapad. "The words 'or else' weren't used, but I think they're implied."

  It was plain in the faces watching him: three young people growing more and more concerned — scared, even — for their futures. He remembered the first time in his career when things had gone wrong; it had been here, on this bridge. It was a cold moment to realise that the training and simulating were over, that it was now real. All too real; if there was a 'harm's way', they were most certainly in it. Dillon tried to come up with something witty and reassuring. "Don't panic," he said, a smile on his face. "There will be plenty of time for panicking later."

  Their expressions told him that hadn't helped. Time for a different approach. "Anyone have any questions?"

  At the helm console, Seaman Pakinova raised her hand. "Sir? Are there more 'Human First' colonies out there?"

  "I don't know for sure, Pakinova, but then I'm not told everything. The 'Humans First' types are well-funded, and have no shortage of volunteers. They're hiring independent freighters — Dosh or Jaljal — to drop them off at whichever planet they've chosen."

  "What are they trying to do, sir?" asked Pakinova. "Don't they know the Palani will find them?"

  "I expect their idea is to get a colony up and running quickly. So quickly that by the time the Palani discover it, it's too late to do anything about it. If that's the case, they're underestimating the Palani." Dillon shrugged, opening his hands to the air. "Or, they might be calculating that Earth's governments won't be able to sit by and watch humans die, and will pressure the Palani to leave them alone."

  Tremblay raised his hand. Dillon could see the young Sub-Lieutenant's deep frown. "Sir?"

  "Go ahead, Tremblay."

  "Sir, I read that some of the 'Human First' types want to start a war between the Palani and all of humanity."

  "I read that too, Tremblay."

  "Do you think it's true, sir?"

  Dillon looked at his coffee cup, tracing his fingers around its rim. "Well," he said after a moment's thought, "there are extremists, yes. And likewise, there is a faction among the Palani who are pushing for war. Any time there's a complicated problem, there are always some people who see force as a quick and easy way to resolve the problem. It's easy to dismiss them, but we shouldn't. They're smart people who honestly believe they're doing the right thing. But once the shot leaves the gun, you can't take it back. We need to make sure they don't send us all down a path we'll regret later."

  "Aye, sir."

  Dillon smiled at the bridge crew, who were still watching him. He hoped he looked calm to them. "Any other questions?"

  "No sir," answered the three.

  "Good, carry on then."

  Dillon reached up above his chair, to the communications console hanging from the ceiling. Next to it, a small plastic clip had been attached: a gift from the ship's former engineer, neatly labelled: 'Vish Mk.1a Captain's Pen Holder'. Removing his pen from the holder, Dillon put the end in his mouth. He grabbed his coffee and stood up from his chair, taking one last look at the display before visiting the wardroom. He heard steps behind him, and saw Tremblay approach. "Sir?" said the young officer, his voice quiet. "Do you have a moment?"

  "Absolutely, Sub." Dillon glanced at the ship's clock. "Wasn't your watch over a half hour ago?"

  "Aye, sir. Just finishing some reading. Sir, may I ask your permission for something?"

  Dillon nodded. "Go for it."

  "Sir, remember when we spoke earlier, and I had some questions…"

  "I remember, yes. I still don't have answers to everything."

  "Aye, sir. The Chief told me that, for some questions, I should ask the chaplain — the Tassali — herself. I wanted to ask your permission to go talk to her, sir."

  "You don't need my permission, Sub, but you have it."

  "Thank you, Captain. I didn't want you to think—"

  Dillon gently waved his mug back and forth. "We're all adults here, Sub. You ask her whatever you need to, and she may or may not answer, depending on what she is able to say, or is willing to say, or whatever. It's fine."

  "Aye, sir."

  Dillon turned to leave the bridge for the wardroom, but stopped when he saw Tremblay hadn't moved. The young officer was clearly hesitant about something. "Sub?" asked Dillon. "Was there something else?"

  Tremblay leaned in toward Dillon, his voice much quieter. "Sir, may I ask a hypothetical question?"

  "Ah," breathed Dillon. "I see. Yes, of course. You may ask a hypothetical question. But the answer will probably be hypothetical as well."

  "Aye, sir. Well," began Tremblay haltingly. He'd clearly been mulling something over. "Suppose that a senior NCO was playing pranks on a junior officer. What would happen if the junior officer tried to prank them back?"

  Dillon smiled with relief. For a moment, he'd been afraid that the question was going to be about something thorny, like fraternisation, or misconduct, or the hockey pool. "Well," he said quietly, "hypothetically, there would be a few rules. First, no killing or maiming. Second, don't do anything to the ship that can't be undone without a shipyard. Third, don't end anyone's career. And finally — this is the big one — whatever you do, don't be an asshole."

  He saw a small grin form on Tremblay's face; it had a mischievous curl to it Dillon hadn't seen before.

  The Sub-Lieutenant gave a brief nod of his head. "Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir."

  "Also," said Dillon, taking his pen out of his mouth and pointing it at Tremblay. "Remember that if your hypothetical NCO were the Chief, you'd be taking on one of the best." He raised his mug in a toast. "Godspeed to you, Sub."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  * * *

  Slender, pure white fingers danced on the desktop, keeping time with the woman's soft singing. Her harmonic voice breezed through the octaves, singing the song she'd known since childhood. A song her mother had sung, so long ago now, of the gentle young maiden who charmed the mountains with her song.

  Tassali Yenaara still remembered her mother's voice; could still see her face. She could clearly recall the scent of her mother's perfume; it was hard to find now, as it was made from the crushed berries of the nearly-extinct valaan tree. It all seemed so very long ago: the rituals of family and kinship; the gatherings and meals of the High Holidays; the procession on Elinth's night. All the long days spent learning about Palani religion, culture, and history. The life she'd once known.

  Putting down her datapad, she looked around at the small cabin. Even now, after a year and a half, she still found herself pausing to reflect on where she was and how it was she'd wound up here. And how totally, completely unlikely it all seemed, sometimes.

  Being born with the inherited genes of the Tassali meant a life of service in the Temple. Being elevated to the full status of the position brought with it some power and responsibility. And travel, too. Twenty long, exciting years with her team of Artahel commandoes, patrolling the thousands of planets of the Burnt Worlds. They were highly trained and endlessly vigilant, protecting the graveyard of the Palani people from artifact hunters and other opportunists.

  And, in so doing, through exploring ancient ruins on long-dead worlds, she came face to face with the past of the Palani people: old knowledge, unknown truths, hidden crimes. Crimes she could not reconcile with her faith; crimes which the Temple did not wish to discuss, which they sought to suppress. But she wouldn't be silenced. Then came the denunciations. The house arrest. The escape into exile, aboard a doomed ship. Days floating in an escape pod, alone, unsure if being found would mean rescue or execution.

  She blinked. Here she was again, forgetting what she should be doing. Instead, she was distracted, staring out the window
at the blackness beyond. The familiar tapestry of unknown stars against the darkness, sliding by as the ship raced through space.

  This ship. The ship that had found her in that escape pod. She'd never met a human before, and then she'd been rescued by them. The humans, and their Captain. The one who had become a part of her life, whom she now called Feda. She smiled to herself. He still didn't know how the Palani word translated, but he'd come to know what it meant.

  Her reflection in the window smiled back at her. The white of her face, relaxed and calm; the blue of her hair, gathered neatly about her shoulders. She wore the diaphanous blue and white robes of a Tassali, and underneath, the gleaming white of her form-fitting coldsuit. Through meditation and occasional use of the coldsuit, she could keep her body temperature at twenty degrees Celsius. That was far higher than the usual nine degrees of the Palani, but still below the human norm of thirty-seven. She could match human temperature for short periods, through intense meditation and some help from drugs. For her Feda she had often done so, but it was difficult, and they had agreed there would be no intimacy while aboard the ship. As he said, it was to be 'strictly business'. But that was difficult, too. Very difficult, at times.

  She let out a yawn and turned back to her desk and the datapads spread out before her. One of the new crewmembers belonged to a subset of Christianity called 'Finnish Lutheran'. As the ship's chaplain, she intended to learn everything about it, to better understand the crewmember's spiritual needs.

  No sooner had she picked up a datapad then there was a chirp from the door console. She glanced at the clock. Her Feda wouldn't be off duty for another five hours.

  "Who is it?" she asked.

  The console beeped at her. It still had trouble understanding her voice sometimes; apparently, her harmonics were too complex for the computer. She leaned forward and tapped a button on her desk console. "Please come in," she said, releasing the button. As the airlock cycled, she gathered up her datapads and cleared the desk. The temperature difference between her cabin and the rest of the ship was only a few degrees, so the airlock finished quickly and the inner door opened.