by S. J. Madill
"Hmm," said Heather. She was distracted by a drip of sealant falling from the brush onto her knee. Wiping the sealant off with her arm, she leaned forward to place the brush in its holder. "I wonder if that's it?"
"What?" asked Lakshmi. "I think you jumped a couple thoughts ahead of me. You keep doing that."
"Huh? Oh." No one had ever told Heather that before. Was Elan rubbing off on her? She picked up a rag and started to wipe her hands. "I've been wondering why Elan ran away from his home. I mean, I know it's none of my business, but I'm still curious. I wonder if he's from a religious family, and his parents were difficult somehow."
Lakshmi laughed. "You mean, he's shopping around for a new religion?"
"Why not?"
Lakshmi leaned her head back against the wall, gazing at the ceiling. Like the walls, the ceiling was spattered with a random pattern of errant paint drops. "What happens then?" she asked. "He becomes a priest? Is Earth ready for a Palani pope?"
Heather snorted. "Pope-lani?"
Lakshmi covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle a giggle. "Dalani-Lama? Oh my god Heather, think of all the religious people who would go into conniptions."
There was a knock at the door, and Heather's snickering subsided. "What the hell?" she asked. "Is today party day in Heather's room?" She raised her voice, speaking toward the door terminal. "Come in!"
The door slid open revealing Blaine, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet. His eyes were sparkling, his perfect teeth gleaming with a broad smile. "You two have to see this."
Heather cocked her head, raising one eyebrow. "What have you done, Blaine? You look like you just found a box of kittens."
Blaine waved his hand. "Better than that! So much better. Look, and behold!" he said, making a dramatic flourish with his arms. "My greatest ever cosmetic creation."
Stepping aside, Blaine gestured theatrically to Elan, who stood behind him. A knit cap on his head hid his hair, and revealed his face. His tanned-looking face, and neck, totally covered in makeup; his skin tone now matched Blaine's.
Heather gawked, waiting for words to form. "Oh my god, Blaine."
Elan smiled, a very human smile on a very human face. "This is fun," he said. "Blaine said he's going to take me outside. We're going on a tour of the city."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Exiting FTL in two minutes, Captain."
"Mmm," said Dillon around his pen. "Thank you." He poked again at his datapad, tapping to advance the pages of the document. Tremblay's survey reports for the worlds they visited were exhaustive. They were highly detailed, with maps and lists and links to reams of additional data in the form of sensor logs and analytical results. The reports went on for page after page; it reminded him of the work Lieutenant Cho used to produce, back when he was with the Borealis. Dillon wondered if Tremblay had slept at all in the past few days. The data was expertly compiled, and was ready to be sent to Fleet as it was. But Dillon felt compelled to double-check anything being filed, at least when it was being done in the ship's name. One of Tremblay's comments struck him as overly speculative, and he decided to edit it out. Highlighting things on the datapad interface was always such a pain in the ass.
Before long, he was hunched over the device on his lap, using both hands, his fingers trying to drag across the display in different directions. He became acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look, and wasn't surprised to hear the familiar footsteps of Chief Black approaching his chair.
"Ah," she said, quiet enough that the rest of the bridge couldn't hear. "The quiet dignity of the officer corps. I am inspired, sir."
Still hunched over, he shot a withering glance at her before returning his attention to the datapad. "So help me," he muttered. This machine was not going to get the better of him. Apparently, they were developed by ambidextrous polydactyls.
"Sir," offered the Chief, "Perhaps you should delegate. You know, being the Captain and all…"
"Outstanding idea," breathed Dillon. Leaning back to crack his neck, Dillon sat upright in the captain's chair. He held out the datapad. "Chief of the ship, I order you to highlight and delete the third paragraph."
She solemnly accepted the datapad, giving a nod of her head. "Aye aye, sir." She turned toward the crewmembers at the helm. "Pakinova, come here a sec."
The seaman stood from her seat, manoeuvring past the consoles to stand in front of Black. "Aye, Chief?"
Black handed her the datapad. "Leading Seaman Pakinova, I order you to highlight and delete the third paragraph."
"Aye aye Chief," said Pakinova. She hesitantly accepted the datapad, her brow furrowing as she studied the screen. Even as Dillon began to roll his eyes, he saw the flash of confusion on Pakinova's face. The young helmsman poked twice at the datapad, and handed it back to Chief Black. "Was there anything else, Chief?"
Dillon leaned over in his chair, trying to see the datapad the Chief held in her hand. "That was it?" he asked. "How on Earth did you do that, Pakinova?"
Pakinova smiled at him. "Witchcraft, sir," she said.
Chief Black handed the datapad to Dillon, and he made a face. "Witchcraft, huh? I see the Chief has been teaching you."
"Aye, sir."
Dillon sighed. "Thank you both. Carry on."
He gave his pen a few good nibbles as Pakinova returned to her console at the helm. The Chief was wearing her usual 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' smirk. Actually, she smirked a lot, he thought. Might be one of those things they teach new chiefs: how to always know more than everyone else, and how to look smug about it.
"Out with it, Chief."
The smirk turned into a smile. "Tremblay has done it, Captain."
"Come again? Has he finally snapped? Do I need to order him restrained?"
"No, no. Not yet, sir." She leaned in closer, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially. "At oh three hundred this morning, all hell broke loose in my cabin."
"But Atwell isn't even aboard. You were by yourself." Dillon pursed his lips. "Maybe I don't want to know this."
She ignored him as she forged ahead. "My console started swearing at me," she said, nodding for emphasis. "Loud."
The pen in Dillon's mouth stopped moving. "This is new."
"I know, right? It seems the system had recorded every time I swore yesterday, and played it all back, in order."
"Good lord," said Dillon. Chief Black's repertoire of obscenities was well documented. "How long did it—"
Black held up four fingers. "Four minutes, sir. Four solid minutes of expletives, swearing, cursing and general-purpose potty mouth." She beamed at him. "I almost cried."
"I would've cried for sure."
"I mean, sir, hearing yourself perform like that… it's truly humbling."
"I hope you saved a copy."
"Aye, sir. I already forwarded it to a few other chiefs. Chief Roberts in the Ojibwa thinks he can out-do me." She shook her head. "He can't."
Dillon just stared at her. He was pretty sure there was a right way and a wrong way to respond to this sort of thing. He couldn't imagine what the right way would be. "So… was it Tremblay?"
"Has to be, sir. I'm so proud."
"So what are you going—"
Across the bridge, Pakinova called out from her terminal. "Sir, coming out of FTL now."
"Thank you," said Dillon, turning his chair to face the windows as the Chief returned to her station.
The moving stars skidded to a halt, and the massive, blue-grey orb of the Daltanin homeworld lurched into place off to their right. The distant planet was surrounded by a ring of glittering points of light, as sunlight glinted off the countless orbiting structures and debris that circled the dead world. Vast, kilometres-long stations, ships, and other satellites, their builders extinct for seven centuries. The planet and its sparkling belt slid to the right as Borealis began a gentle left turn. Their course took them toward the system's central star and another, smaller collection of glittering shapes.
"We're being hailed," said the c
ommunications tech. "Vikrant is on station with Restigouche and Antietam. They're expecting us, sir."
"Very well, comms. Extend our greetings. Helm, set us up for a spot at the gate."
"Sir, Vikrant reports the gate is clear at both ends. We can go right through."
"Thank you," said Dillon, reaching above his head to poke at the console on the ceiling. He pushed a button, and a brief whistle sounded through the ship's speakers. "All hands," he said, talking to the console, "we're about to transit the jump gate. Stand by."
Dillon sat back in his chair, crossing his legs in front of him. Out the window, he could see the three patrolling ships and, between them, the swirling sphere of blackness that awaited them. Its surface was perfectly smooth and featureless, save for the occasional flicker of light across its skin; the echo of a distant star on the far side of the jump gate's permanent wormhole. Its edges were rimmed by a shifting red-and-blue glow, the light from nearby stars being stretched into encircling smears. As the Borealis approached, the black sphere grew in the window, until its edges were lost from view. The ship's engines went silent, and Borealis drifted toward the sphere's edge.
"I hate this part," mumbled Dillon through his teeth.
All noise ceased and, after a moment, everything went black. Dillon became disoriented. There was a flash, and a moment's sensation of an angry, seething red glow that filled his mind. Then he felt the numb sensation of reality seeping back in and reimposing itself. His senses returned, slowly at first, and then in a flood.
He was in his seat on the bridge. His pen was in his mouth, and his hands were gripping the arms of his chair. His stomach gave an uneasy lurch, and he had to concentrate to keep the room from moving. To his right, Black was straightening up from where she leaned over her station. Pakinova looked completely unfazed, and the other crewmembers were taking a few seconds to reorient themselves.
"What fun," he said. "Status check."
Chief Black blinked at the console in front of her, as if it had just materialised. "Aye sir," she said, her eyes scanning the readouts. "Looks like we're all good."
"Very well. Comms?"
"We're picking up new 'Tunnel' cells sir," said the technician.
"Sensors?"
"Sir," said the crewmember at the sensors station. "Many contacts, sir. Lead patrol ship is John F. Kennedy, sir. Present are her group, plus the New York group, plus a British squadron, an Indian squadron, and support ships."
"Hell," whispered Dillon. That was a lot of hardware to defend the Milky Way's end of the wormhole. The Palani had demanded — repeatedly — that the wormhole be shut down, with the usual unspoken 'or else'. Apparently, some people were taking it seriously. "Comms, send our regards to all ships present, but we need to be on our way. Helm, plot a course for New Halifax, and get us underway."
"Aye aye, sir," said Pakinova. "Course entered for New Halifax. At best FTL, we'll be there by nineteen-thirty hours today."
"Thank you, helm. Take us home."
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was late afternoon in Ottawa. The city's massive sunshades were folding themselves like flowers at sunset, letting the waning rays of the sun slide in and set the city aglow.
Elan walked alongside Blaine, the two of them climbing St. Laurent Boulevard, now only a few steps from the apartment. Normally, Blaine walked briskly around the apartment, but today he'd slowed down to match Elan's own slower, almost processional, gait. For that, Elan was thankful. It had been a busy day, and he was exhausted. Although he'd been meditating to raise his body temperature to an unprecedented thirty-two degrees, Ottawa had been much hotter than that. Today had been like taking a day-long tour of a furnace, and despite his coldsuit working at maximum power, it had been a physical ordeal.
The makeup on his face started itching hours ago, but Elan hadn't touched it. He wondered just how much he needed it; as long as he was with Blaine, no one seemed to see him. His hair was gathered up under the knit cap he wore on his head, and his hands were covered by so-called 'athletic gloves'. Blaine had assured him this was the current style; the clothes he'd lent him fit comfortably, despite Elan being shorter.
Next to the sculpted perfection of Blaine, he was virtually invisible. Total strangers, male and female alike, found ridiculous excuses to stop and talk to the human. They might drop something in the street, or ask for directions, or use a pet animal called a 'dog' as an excuse to initiate conversation. It had happened five times during the day, and each time the people only acknowledged Elan in the context of determining if he and Blaine were romantic partners. He'd enjoyed the amusing looks of relief and hope when Blaine introduced Elan as his 'cousin from offworld'. In a very broad sense, he had begun to feel he was.
A final turn, and the two of them started the last hundred metres to the apartment. A shuttle passed overhead, its engines whining as it climbed into the sky. Elan watched it ascend, its path curling up toward the heavens.
"How you doing, Elan?" asked Blaine, snapping him out of his daydream.
"I'm tired, Blaine. And this makeup is itchy. But it's worth it."
"Oh?" asked Blaine, surprised. "Itchy? I should've thought of that. I'll get you some non-allergenic cosmetics in case you want to do this again." Blaine's brilliant smile flashed his way. "You're such a trouper, Elan, marching around the city all day long."
"Thank you," said Elan, slowing as they reached the apartment door. "You have been kind to spend the day showing me around."
Blaine opened the door, gesturing for Elan to enter. "No problem. It was fun."
Elan stepped into the apartment and was greeted by a wall of cool air. As it washed over him, he felt invigorated, his anxiety draining away with it. No more worrying about the heat, or the makeup, or somehow being noticed—
"Where the hell have you two been?"
Heather stood in the hallway, her hands on her hips, the very image of a disappointed Palani Pentarch, or one of Elan's nannies back in the Temple.
"Hi mom," said Blaine, waving as he walked to the kitchen.
Elan pulled off the knit cap, letting his hair fall to his shoulders. "We went to Byward Market, and Parliament Hill, and Sparks Street, and the Museum of Civilisation, which was very interesting. Then we—"
Heather's head had drooped, and she was pinching at the bridge of her nose with her fingers. "What is the matter, Heather?" asked Elan.
She looked up at him, giving a slow shake of her head. "Look, Elan. Are you sure that was a good idea? If someone figured out who you are—"
"Yes, I do," he said. He didn't want her to worry, but being able to get out was exactly what he needed. In a way, it was why he came all this distance. Sitting in one apartment wasn't how he was going to learn about Earth, and humans, and their beliefs. And even though the company of these humans had been perfectly hospitable, he needed to meet many more humans than just these four.
The urge to scratch at his face was becoming unbearable. "Is the shower room available?"
"The bathroom?" sighed Heather. "Yeah."
Blaine gave a short laugh from behind him. "Hey, don't use all the cold water."
* * *
Blaine hadn't told him the makeup would be so difficult to get off. Elan had assumed that standing in the shower and rubbing his face with soap would be sufficient, as apparently it was for the rest of them. But no, he had to scrub. He'd found a strange abrasive cloth hanging in the shower, and spent ten minutes scrubbing at his face and neck. Around his eyes was particularly difficult, and he had resorted to scratching away the makeup with a fingernail. At least, he reasoned, the colour wouldn't come off in the rain. There was a small mirror in the shower, and he took one last look at his raw, blue-flushed cheeks. Turning off the shower, he stepped out.
Elan grabbed a fresh towel and patted himself down, as a puddle of water formed on the floor at his feet. He found himself humming the hymns for the Ritual of Cleansing, slowly drying his arms and legs in their specific order. He knew he wasn't doing it right; n
ormally there was a team of a half-dozen acolytes waiting to do it for him whenever he emerged from the bath. But he knew the hymns; they were as familiar to him as his own skin.
He wasn't sure how to clean his coldsuit, so he'd taken it into the shower with him. It now hung on a hanger, like a shiny white pelt, dripping into the same puddle on the floor. He hadn't taken it off since leaving the homeworld. The way it held him tight and gently pushed back against his every move, was something he'd grown accustomed to. As much as it offered security, it represented containment, too. Now he stood, naked, in a bathroom on a foreign planet, and felt strangely free. For the moment, his body was his own. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt.
He picked up the borrowed pair of Blaine's designer jeans, their too-long legs rolled up into cuffs. As he pulled them on, he felt the rough woven fabric against his skin. He had to tug at the waist band to fasten the button, and negotiated the zipper's metal teeth with great care. But as much as the jeans tugged and pinched at him as he moved, they yielded. Their resistance was a token at most. Elan pulled a tee-shirt over his head — it was black, with the logo for some music group on it — and opened the door, stepping barefoot into the hallway. He didn't see anyone, so he walked the few steps to his room and turned to face the mirror.
"Hey," came a man's voice. Elan turned to see Carter's thin frame leaning in the doorway. He always had two days' worth of beard growth, though he never seemed to shave. Elan wondered if there was a device to achieve this. "Hello, Carter," he said.
"Look," said Carter, glancing down at the floor. "I know we haven't gotten off on the right foot—"
Elan stared at him. The human language — adopted by the galaxy as the trade language, mostly because all the major races could pronounce the sounds — was bizarre at the best of times. It had few consistent rules, and its spelling and pronunciation seemed arbitrary. But confusion turned to utter bafflement when humans started to use their impenetrable euphemisms, sayings, and 'figures of speech'.