Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2)

by S. J. Madill

  "Ah," she said. "Sub-Lieutenant Tremblay. How nice to see you."

  The young officer blushed, his face reddening. He pulled at the cuffs of his jacket as he stepped forward. His eyes met hers, and he looked away. She knew how most of the crew — male and female — looked at her. Not in an inappropriate way, not any more, but as an exotic outsider. Some stared, some averted their eyes, while some had eyes that wandered. But they all had the same curiosity.

  "Tassali, ma'am," said Tremblay. "Is now a good time, ma'am?"

  She gestured at the cabin's other chair. "Now is an excellent time, Sub-Lieutenant. This is a lovely surprise."

  He moved slowly, his arms stiff against his sides. "Thank you ma'am," he said, taking the offered seat. She watched as Tremblay sat an arm's length from her, clearly self-conscious about being so close. He fidgeted in the chair, sliding it back a few inches on the floor. She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. It was a gesture she'd seen humans use, usually to indicate a level of comfort.

  Tremblay didn't seem ready to speak, so she started instead. "We're heading home a bit early, but nevertheless we're coming to the end of your first deployment. It is a large step in your career, isn't it?"

  The Sub-Lieutenant seemed tense, like a coiled spring. "Aye, ma'am."

  "What are your impressions, Mister Tremblay?"

  "Well, ma'am, I guess I'm surprised by a few things."

  "Oh? What sort of things?"

  "Well," said Tremblay, glancing at the wall as if for answers, "I'm surprised at how casual things are. I mean, some things are strict, like watch times and the like. But other things seem really relaxed, compared to the Academy."

  "That depends on the captain, Mister Tremblay."

  "Please ma'am, call me Eric."

  The Tassali nodded. "Thank you, Eric. And yes, it depends on the captain. Commander Dillon tends to prioritise things: results first, and procedures second. In your career, you will no doubt find other officers who do things differently."

  Tremblay was leaning forward a little, she noticed. He was beginning to relax, and there was something he wanted to ask about. She expected she wouldn't have long to wait.

  "Yes, ma'am. Commander Dillon does seem to be relaxed as long as the results are good." He was watching her, perhaps waiting for a visual cue. She offered a warm smile.

  "So, uh, ma'am, why I'm here is, I have a question about your people."

  "By all means, Eric. But I doubt most Palani would consider me one of their own, not any more. I am very much an exile."

  "Aye, ma'am. I have this theory, ma'am. Here, in this second universe, the Daltanin were attacked and wiped out seven hundred years ago. That's the same time as your own people were attacked by the race you call the Horlan. It's connected, isn't it ma'am? That's why you're here, because of the connection between the two?"

  "As you might say, Eric, that is the 'gist' of it. The Horlan were in both places, attacking both the Daltanin and the Palani, in different universes, at the same time."

  Tremblay leaned farther back in his seat, a hint of a satisfied grin on his face. "I knew it. It makes sense."

  "That's not the only reason, Eric, but it's true."

  He nodded, as the grin turned into the hint of a smirk. "I'm curious about what the connection is, ma'am. There's more to it, isn't there? I've been learning that there's always more."

  "There is," said the Tassali, "It's true. And there's a personal aspect for me. Like I said, I'm an exile from my people. It would be unsafe for me to travel anywhere in Palani space, or anywhere that the Artahel commandoes can reach."

  "Oh, I see, ma'am." He paused a moment. "But with things the way they are — between Humans and Palani I mean — you wouldn't be safe on a human world either."

  "Exactly, Eric. Right now, the only safe haven for a Palani exile is here, aboard a human warship."

  "I hope it remains safe for you here, ma'am."

  Tassali Yenaara smiled at him. Whether he was being kind or naive, she appreciated the sentiment. "I hope so too, Eric. Thank you."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Large white flakes tumbled down through the still air, coating the temple grounds in a fresh blanket of snow. It muffled the sounds from the distant city, giving the day a gentle, sacred hush. Through the fresh snow, the first blue-green shoots of grass struggled to show themselves.

  A late spring snowfall was one of Ontelis' favourite times. The balcony of his office in the Temple of the Divines gave him a breathtaking view of the grounds. On three sides, the carefully-sculpted landscape flowed through gardens and plazas to the cliff edges, where the ground dropped away to the crashing sea below. Over the distant wooded hills to the north, one could normally see the tallest spires of the city, with its towers that stretched toward the clouds. But today they were hidden by the snow, giving the Temple a feeling of seclusion.

  Spring was also the time of year he thought about getting old. No, he decided, not getting old; being old. He'd already lived several lifetimes, as his grandparents would have measured it. His hands ached where they grasped the balcony railing; his hips and knees protested if he stood for too long. He often remembered the advice of his grandfather: never grow old. Well, his generation had grown old, and they'd stayed old. A long life does not compensate for a short youth. He gave one last look at the falling snow, then turned and walked back into his office.

  At the far end of the office, his young assistant Lalinn — the blue-robed woman who kept his life organised — was letting herself out. He tutted to himself; he shouldn't even call her that — 'young assistant' — when she was two centuries old. But still, she was young to him.

  A stack of scrolls lay on his desk, each a tightly-wound coil of plastic sheeting. Ontelis picked up the first and held it in his palm, allowing it to relax and unfurl as it recognised his hand. He started to read.

  It was the monthly report from the governor of Eth Yesid, the fourth of the five Palani worlds. More of the same, he thought, tossing the document onto his desk. Eth Yesid had two billion people on it; last month there were fourteen new pregnancies. All of them failed within two weeks. Palani children took eleven months to come to term, and none had made it to the second month, not in over two hundred years. And Eth Yesid was the most fertile of the Palani worlds. Or, he thought to himself, the least sterile.

  The tall office doors opened again, and Lalinn entered, bearing more scrolls. She was smart and talented, and had no trouble finding a partner among the temple staff. Ontelis couldn't remember the man's name. Nice young man, from a good family. The two of them had tried for almost a century to have children. Ontelis remembered her tears of frustration, her stress and anxiety, how days of hope were dashed when a suspected conception came back as a false positive. Now she was too old, and they had given up. So many youthful couples gave up. It made him think of all that could have been.

  "Master Pentarch," said Lalinn, placing the scrolls down on his desk.

  "Lalinn. Any response from the diplomatic office?"

  "They said that the human governments are still ignoring our messages."

  "I see," said Ontelis. Of course the humans were upset. They had every right to be upset; their people had been killed. Now that the impatient Pentarch Threnia had acted on her own — ordering the fleet to destroy human colonies — Ontelis felt the opportunity for peaceful discussion sliding out of reach. He sighed.

  "Master Pentarch," said Lalinn. "There are excerpts from the human media." She picked up one of the scrolls and handed it to him.

  He took it from her, holding it gently in one hand. She seemed to sense his hesitation. "Would you like a summary, Pentarch?" she asked.

  "Yes please, Lalinn."

  "The human governments unanimously condemn the destruction of the human colonies. At the same time, they all take great care to disavow any connection with the colonists, and insist that they are unable to do anything about it."

  Ontelis saw weariness in the young woman's eyes. The path
from weariness to cynicism was a short one. "You sound unconvinced, Lalinn"

  Her face went blank; all expression dropped from her features. Another good heart, closing up against the world. "Perhaps, Master Pentarch. Can I help you with anything else?"

  "No," said Ontelis. "Wait. Yes."

  Lalinn had begun to turn away, but turned back. "Master Pentarch?"

  He licked his lips. Everything seemed so dry all of a sudden. He searched his desk for a glass of water, even though he knew he was just avoiding looking her in the eye. "Lalinn, was I unkind to the Elanasal?"

  "No, Master Pentarch," she said. "You were firm, you set high standards, but you were never unkind."

  "Did I drive him away?"

  She thought about that for a moment. He watched her; she had an expression on her face that he couldn't read. "I think," she said slowly, "I think we all did, Master Pentarch."

  With a brief nod of her head, Lalinn turned and walked toward the office door, her robes swirling around her legs as she walked.

  Ontelis lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. On his desktop, several gems were giving a soft glow, indicating more communications requests. He chose to ignore them for now, instead leaning farther back into his chair. The same chair, in the same office, that he'd been in for hundreds of years.

  There was a difference, he decided. A difference between having a future, and just having a past that never ended.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Elan sat cross-legged on the couch, next to Lakshmi. He was wearing so-called 'blue jeans' for the first time in his life, and they were uncomfortable. He assumed it was because of his coldsuit underneath. Constant meditation allowed him to maintain his body temperature, but the room was still much too warm for him to go without the suit. He and Lakshmi were both barefoot, with her caramel-coloured feet next to his porcelain-white toes. It felt very grounding; two people from different cultures relating as equals.

  "Here," said Lakshmi. She leaned toward him, showing her datapad. "The Roman god called 'Mithras'". She scanned a few lines, as Elan read over her shoulder. "Wow", she said. "You're right."

  Reaching forward, Elan pointed at the display. "There are similarities," he said, "in the details between the life of Mithras and that of Jesus. More similarities than random chance would suggest. Was this deliberate? Did people of the period try to merge belief systems?"

  Lakshmi shook her head. "A lot of people would argue one way or the other." She frowned. "I just don't know, Elan. There are so many questions. I'd love to take you to meet my theology professor."

  "Yes," said Elan, putting his hands in his lap. "I would like to talk to them. But I don't see how that would be possible. As soon as I stepped outside this apartment, someone would see a Palani." He slumped in his seat. There were a great many things about this trip he hadn't anticipated. If he had been less impulsive, he could've been better prepared. "I think," he said slowly, "I may not have thought my plan through. Not as much as I should have." He shrugged, raising his shoulders as he'd seen the humans do when they were uncertain. "I suppose I was naive, to think I could just show up and look around."

  "Why do you want to learn so much about our religions, Elan?"

  He turned toward Lakshmi; she was watching his face, and he became conscious of his own body language. Humans did a lot of their communication through subtle gestures and poses, much more than the Palani, and it was like having to master an additional language. "I have questions," he began. "Questions about my own religion. I've never been exposed to any other system of belief. I want to learn more about what humans believe, what they think, and who they are."

  Carter's voice came from the hallway. "You want to know how humans think?" He barged into the living room, coming to stand in front of the couch. Elan could see the tension on Carter's flushed face, and leaned farther back into the couch, raising his hands in front of him. The man was furious about something, thought Elan, and though he doubted he had done anything offensive, he expected he was about to become the target of Carter's anger.

  A red-faced Carter jabbed a finger toward Elan's chest. "I'll tell you what we think. I think we're fucking sick of the Palani." He pointed at the wall, and the blank television screen. "I just saw the news: you snow-white bastards just wiped out another human colony."

  Lakshmi held one defensive hand in front of Elan, leaning forward toward Carter. "You bigoted asshole, Elan hasn't done anything!"

  Carter took a half step back, holding his arms wide in a sweeping gesture. "Why are you even here? Seriously, why did you come to Earth? What do you want?"

  Elan said nothing. There was no sense in engaging with someone so angry. Nothing he could say would change Carter's mind, and there were many ways to make things worse.

  "What's the matter, huh?" spat Carter. "You got nothing to say?"

  Lakshmi was on her feet, standing between Carter and Elan. "Knock it off, will you?"

  Elan sighed and dropped his head, closing his eyes. He'd been afraid of this, but had hoped to avoid it. A deep breath, a few words in the Calming Voice, and this would all be smoothed over. But it wouldn't last, and if they found out about the Voice they would be angry. Maybe he'd made a mistake leaving the Temple. Maybe he shouldn't have come to Earth. He was a virtual prisoner in this apartment; if he stepped outside, there would be many Carters, furious at the Palani for their perceived aggression, and his presence would only provide a focus for their anger. Both races were so determined to be right, to be justified in their anger, they refused to consider the other's point of view.

  "Indian burial grounds," he said.

  Carter and Lakshmi both froze, slowing turning to stare at him. "What?" asked Carter.

  "The graveyards of Earth's aboriginal peoples," said Elan. "They used to be called 'Indian Burial Grounds'."

  "So what?" asked Carter. The man shook his head, confusion draining the red from his face. "What the hell are you even talking about?"

  Elan looked up at him. "If the early European settlers wanted to build a fort or a shopping mall, and they found an Indian burial ground, they would dig it up and move the bodies. In later times, they might have a token aboriginal representative come to bless the spirits." He cocked his head. "But in the end, the shopping mall still got built."

  "So what?" scoffed Carter. "They weren't using the place."

  "Yes, they were," said Elan. "They were using it as a graveyard. Are your ancestors buried in graveyards? What if a shopping mall were built on them?"

  Carter took a breath to speak, then stopped. Elan watched the tension drain from his face and body. "Well, this is bullshit," said Carter, turning away. He shook his head again, muttering under his breath as he stomped out of the apartment.

  * * *

  With slow, careful strokes, Heather applied a coat of strong-smelling sealant to her painting. With each movement of the brush, she saw the deep blue eyes that stared out at her from the painting. Eyes wide open to the universe and all it held. Eyes full of wisdom and compassion. She shook her head, as if to rattle the thought loose.

  She hadn't intended to paint a face, much less one that looked like Elan. It'd been a vague notion in her head. Just a dim and unformed mass of colour and emotion that needed to be kicked out of her mind and onto the canvas. But with each splash of the paint, each slashing attack of colour, the shapes had begun to arrange themselves. A few careful lines to connect the thrown paint, and the final shape emerged. Initially, the final image was a surprise to her. But as she worked she realised it wasn't actually a surprise to her; just to her waking mind. Clearly Elan had been occupying a part of her thoughts for a few days now. She bit her lip. This was the last thing in the world she needed right now.

  Heather leaned back and scanned the canvas, checking for runs or drips in the sealant, making sure it had been applied evenly. Those eyes were still watching her.

  But then, why shouldn't Elan occupy her mind a little? She'd met an alien once before, at an official function with her
father. She'd been a charmingly precocious five-year-old in blonde curls and a cute dress. The Dosh naval attaché was there, with his or her partner. She'd asked if they had any children, and the adults had all laughed. Then, as usual, she'd been ushered off to sit with her nanny until her father was done.

  But she'd never met a Palani before. Elan was so much more compelling than the Dosh. Part of it was the striking appearance and the harmonic voice. But part of it was just Elan; she knew he'd be just as interesting if he was human. A calm, gentle presence that hid a fast-moving mind. He had a quiet curiosity, with long silences that suggested inattention. Then he'd say something insightful, something that showed his mind had been leaping from idea to idea all the while.

  There was a knock at the doorway, and Heather realised she'd been kneeling on the floor, her brush dripping sealant. She smiled at Lakshmi, who stood in the open door. "Hey," said Heather.

  "Hey," said Lakshmi, entering the room and closing the door behind her. She wrinkled her nose. "That stuff smells nasty; you should open a window or something."

  "Oh," said Heather. She turned her head toward the window behind her bed, at the far end of the room. Outside, the tall towers of the sunshades were slowly opening across the skyline, unfolding like blossoms of gauzy filaments, creating a canopy of shade over the city. "Looks hot today. I don't want it to get disgusting in here."

  With a soft thump, Lakshmi sat on the floor, leaning back against the bedroom wall. Heather thought she seemed exhausted. "Laks?" she asked, "You okay?"

  Lakshmi reached up both hands, smoothing her long black hair with her fingers. "Oh my god," she moaned. "My brain is fried." She met Heather's eyes. "So. Many. Questions."

  "Elan?"

  "Yes, Elan. He's… I don't know, he's obsessed with religion or something. He kept asking me questions about Earth's religions. The sorts of questions that piss off millions of people. And half the time, I have no clue what he's even talking about." She shook her head. "And I'm supposed to be the theology major. I should send him to finish my coursework."