by S. J. Madill
Ontelis held his shoulders where they were, though he wanted to slump. He forced a smile to his face, though he wanted to cry. Even now, a tightness in his chest was making him pause before he spoke. Here, in this room, he was watching the decline of his people. "I have great faith," he said carefully, though his voice cracked once, "In the wisdom of the Prophet."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Early morning had a way of filling the senses. The smell of the damp in the air, the hiss of water on the road and the drumming of raindrops on the umbrella. Lights were blurred in the haze, and puddles were filled with the mesmerising patterns of ever-changing ripples.
Elan stepped sideways around a puddle. It was time to go, he had decided. Thanks to the makeup on his face, he could now move freely around Earth without risk of being recognised. It was time to explore, to find the answers he sought.
Once again, Elan found himself thinking of Heather. Only a few hours ago he'd untangled himself from her snoring embrace, and returned to the dark silence of his own room. Moving quietly in the light of the full moon, he'd put on his coldsuit and got dressed, packing the few extra clothes Blaine had lent him. He'd taken the time to double-check his coldsuit; even if he didn't activate it, he figured he should have it on. While the morning was raining and blessedly cool, he didn't know where he would be by day's end. He might not have the opportunity to put on the suit discreetly, if the need arose.
The hardest part had been trying to decide if he should leave a note for Heather. A few words, to let her know that he meant everything he'd said. To let her know that he intended to come back and, if circumstances and the universe permitted it, he would.
But being in charge of his own life wasn't something he was used to, and he doubted it would last. He would have to return to the homeworld, to Palani Yaal La. The Pentarchs would only tolerate his disappearance for so long. Eventually they would have to produce him to their people, or explain his absence. There were, after all, three billion Palani looking to him for salvation.
With a loud hiss of tires on pavement, a car went by in the road next to him. Water leapt up from a puddle, splashing down upon the sidewalk and his feet. It made him stop, and jolted him from his daydreaming.
Was this really about leaving? About going out and seeing the world of the humans, as he'd originally planned? Because the starport was five minutes from the apartment, and instead he'd wandered downtown, a half hour's walk in the opposite direction.
No, he decided, it wasn't just about leaving. It was also about leaving her. He'd met four humans in his time here, and they were completely unlike what he'd been led to believe. He'd seen videos, recorded by Palani scouts on previous visits to Earth — back before the Horlan, before the Burning — when the Palani could travel the galaxy at will. In the old videos, the humans lived in primitive conditions. The powerful ruled from stone fortresses, their brutal will enforced by steel swords. The poor lived in something akin to slavery, with the constant fear of hunger, disease, and violence. The religions of the day provided little relief, and instead focused on providing legitimacy for the ruling elite. It all seemed so barbaric, compared to the Palani's soaring cities, elegant starships, and rich, peaceful culture.
But these four humans seemed more akin to Palani than to their own barbaric ancestors. Not saints by any means, but still capable of intelligence, imagination, caring, and a host of strong emotions. And one of them, with her incandescent passion, her sputtering frustration and stubborn hope, was so completely, furiously human. Disarming and compelling; she was a woman who would fight to the bitter end for something — or someone — she believed in. It was unlike anything he'd experienced before in his soft, insulated years in the Temple, and it was something he wanted in his life.
In the end, he'd decided to leave a note. Heather so longed for certainty and commitment in her life. He had left four simple words, in his careful calligraphy's best approximation of English characters. Four words, to tell her how he felt. He hoped it translated well.
That had given him a thought. It was probably a bad idea, but one that had taken root in his mind and wouldn't let go. He looked up at the blocky entrance of the building next to him. Its bland, concrete sides were darkened with rain, the letters of its sign glistening and wet: Ottawa Public Library. A smaller sign in the window said, Free Net Access. Elan approached the doors and they opened for him, as he tried to figure out how to close his umbrella.
* * *
Heather stood on a street corner, rain streaming down her face. She'd pulled a cap over her hair and put on a raincoat before heading out into the rain. The cap was now soaked, and the raincoat was leaking.
She wanted to scream. When she'd woken up, Elan had been gone. His gentle, cool form was missing from the bed and from the apartment. All he'd left was a note: I will come back. What bullshit was that? Every man in her life had promised to come back, or to be faithful, or any one of a thousand other things to keep her waiting for them. Like leaving a book on the shelf, in case they felt like looking at it for a moment, some day in the future. But none of them did; none of them had kept their word.
Heather looked up into the falling rain, letting it patter against her face and run down her cheeks and neck. At least no one could see the tears trickling from her eyes. She could just stay here, in the rain, until all of her problems washed away.
For over an hour, she'd been out looking for him. The makeup and clothes were gone — as well as Blaine's favourite umbrella — so she knew it wasn't just a stroll in the rain. He really was leaving. He'd be going by ship, she figured, to somewhere else on Earth or on another human planet. She'd walked all the way around the perimeter of Rockcliffe Spaceport, peering through the fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of him sneaking aboard a ship. But all she'd managed to do was look suspicious. The police officer who pulled up had been sympathetic, but what could she tell him? That she was looking for an alien, wearing makeup, who was trying to stow away on a ship? No, she'd just told the officer about her friend — with his hair dyed blue — who had a fondness for ships. The cop had taken down her name and offered to keep an eye out for her 'friend', but she knew he didn't believe her. She was probably on a list now, of suspected troublemakers and/or lunatics.
And wasn't she? Standing on a street corner in the pouring rain, staring up at the sky and dying to shout profanities at the universe. She'd done the same stupid thing she always did with men, and somehow expected it to have a different outcome. Wasn't that one of the definitions of insanity? She should probably get herself locked up, for her own good.
Her hands were sore, and she realised she'd been clenching her fists. Painfully opening them, she reached up with cramped arms and dragged her soaking wet cap, dribbling with water, off her head.
Turning her gaze down to the sidewalk, she started walking. The rain poured down on her head, running in rivulets through her tangled mess of hair. It trickled down her shoulders to her back, where it soaked through the ineffective raincoat.
She'd wanted him to be different. He was the most unique guy she'd ever met. Always so calm, so kind, so gentle. He had a serenity about him that she admired and craved. And last night together, she'd poured all her frustrations, anxieties and desperation out to him, expecting him — defying him — to push her away. But through it all he'd stayed the same, his coolness embracing her as she'd exhausted all her energy and tension. She'd been so drained she could barely think, and had drifted easily into a deep sleep. And then she woke up and found him gone.
Heather needed to believe he was different. She shook her head; he had better be, she thought, or I'll kill the little white bastard myself. She started walking faster, turning in the direction of home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dillon slowly cracked his eyes open. He had no idea what time it was, but the ceiling above his head wasn't the ceiling of his cabin. His mind groaned to life, trying to remember the previous day.
There was the meeting with Admiral Clarke and the
Palani ambassador. The Palani prophet had gone missing, and was believed to be on Earth. Borealis was being sent to find him and take him home safely. But the sudden change in Borealis' mission had to appear mundane, so they'd invented a maintenance issue. That meant a 48-hour leave at New Halifax, for the entire crew, and there wasn't a single hotel room available planetside, so here he was…
The room's entire end wall was a vast window, and light spilled in as the planet of New Halifax slid into view. As Borden Station rotated, the planet continued to fill the window, its blue seas and swirling white clouds stark and beautiful against the star-studded backdrop of space. Reflected light from the planet washed across the ceiling, chasing away the dark shadows that fled into the corners.
Cool, smooth skin shifted against his own, and he lifted his head from the pillow, peering down toward his chest. Long, cobalt-blue hair spilled over his chest like a silken cloth, and slow curves of white skin were curled up alongside his own. One arm was curled over him, the hand laying possessively on his chest. Now he remembered the rest of the evening, and a smile spread across his face. If only he could keep the world away, and stay here a while longer: only a while, like, say, the rest of his life. He had a feeling it would be a very long time before they would have days like this again; for now, they would have to make do with a few hours.
A blinking light slowly invaded his thoughts, and he looked at the bedside table where his datapad awaited him. Green light: waiting messages, but nothing urgent. Quarter past eight in the morning, it said.
"Good morning Amba," he said to the blue hair.
The cool skin shifted, the weight moving as she stirred. "…'Nsal 'neth."
"Pardon?"
He could feel her cheek move against his chest, as she took a deeper breath. "I said…" she mumbled, her words a harmonic hum, "…something rude. Go back to sleep, love."
"It's after eight. You never sleep this late."
Amba sighed, slowly beginning to stretch her legs against his. She didn't move her face. "I never stay up this late, either." She fell quiet again, and Dillon wondered if she'd fallen back to sleep. "I want to stay right here, Feda."
Dillon reached up his hand, and began to run it through her hair. "Your temperature got really high last night."
"Mmm. Your fault."
"Where's your armband?" asked Dillon, looking to the table on her side of the bed. "The medical one. You get lethargic if you heat up without getting some thermoxyn."
"S'on the floor, Feda." Her voice had reverted to a slurred mumble.
"You're all droopy," he said.
"No," she said, feigned petulance in her voice. "I'm elegant."
Dillon tousled her hair, nodding toward her bedside table. "Yellow message light for you, Amba. You should probably check it."
He felt her body slowly become tense, starting with her toes and up her legs, as she unfurled into a long, full-body stretch. Her hands reached above her head, trembling fingers messing his own hair before she clenched her fists. Amba let out a moan that evolved into a long, deep sigh, as the length of her body relaxed all at once. She rolled over toward him, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before rolling the other way, onto her side, one clumsy arm reaching toward the bedside table.
Dillon turned the other way, grunting as he heaved his legs over the side and shoved against the bed to stand up. The evidence of the previous evening lay on the floor all around, and he surveyed it for a moment before stooping to pick up the matching white bathrobes. They were the absurdly thick cotton robes only found in hotels, with embroidered logos and voluminous hoods. Taking a moment to turn one the right way up, he put it on and tied the tasseled gold rope around his waist. He yawned as he worked to straighten the other robe, walking around the foot of the bed to Amba's side.
She had retrieved her medical armband from the floor and was sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to wrap it around her wrist. Her normally-graceful fingers fumbled with the clasps, and Dillon could see the lines of concentration etched into her brow, over the heavy-lidded eyes. "Feda," she said, still trying to work the armband's closure.
Dillon draped the bathrobe around her shoulders, then sat on the bed beside her. He put his hands on hers and steadied her weak, trembling fingers, closing the armband. It gave a chirp, followed by the soft hiss of an administered injection.
"You're more lethargic than I thought," said Dillon. "You mustn't let yourself heat up without the thermoxyn. Palani blood just isn't efficient at high temperatures—"
"I know, Feda. I know." Amba squinted up at him with bleary blue eyes. "Thank you." She picked up her datapad from where it sat next to her on the bed. "I glanced at this first message, and thought I was hallucinating. It makes no sense." Her hand, still unsteady, offered him the pad.
Dillon took the datapad and read the message, sent to the Tassali's naval account from an anonymous address. He read the contents aloud. "'Golden warrior, fifty-three. Infinite gift, nine. Flooded orchard, forty-two.'" He looked up at her. "Now I feel like I need some thermoxyn myself. What the hell is this?"
Amba was sitting up a little straighter, the fingertips of one hand rubbing gently at her eyes. "I don't know, Feda. Something is familiar about it, but I don't know what." She gestured at the datapad with her other hand. "The message was sent yesterday morning. The other message is from Naval Intelligence, apologising for holding the message for a day, and asking if I could explain any of it." She shrugged. "They're quite polite, at least."
Dillon studied the message details. "It's definitely addressed to you."
"I don't understand, Feda. Who would want to—"
"Oh," said Dillon, jerking his head up. The sudden interruption made Amba stop and stare at him. "What is it, Feda?"
"Who," he asked slowly, "would want to anonymously contact the only Palani living in human space?"
She shook her head. "I can't think clearly, Feda. I don't know…" Her eyes widened. "Oh," she said. "Maybe the only other Palani living in human space."
* * *
Three hours later, Dillon returned to the hotel. He smiled at the front desk clerk as he walked by on his way to the elevators. The attractive young woman gave a wide smile and a wave. Arriving at the elevators, one of the doors chirped and opened for him, then closed behind him after he entered. The car started to ascend, and Dillon gazed out the transparent back of the elevator, at the space station's main ring dropping into the distance below. Beyond was the familiar sphere of New Halifax, and by leaning to his left, he could see where Borealis was docked against the station's military ring. Other ships were docked beside her: her sisters Winnipeg and Aurora, plus a half-dozen destroyers in a row. Beyond the smaller ships was the heavy cruiser Bonaventure. Her truncated hull glittered with the light of welding lasers as shipyard robots continued to repair the big vessel.
With the ships so easily visible, secrecy was impossible, so the job of concealing the truth instead became one of deception. Borealis had made an early return to New Halifax for maintenance on her FTL engines. While the work was being completed, the crew had been given the normal 48-hour leave, and Dillon had just made an inspection visit. When done, Borealis would be leaving for Earth, for a routine show-the-flag event, where the crew would be able to enjoy a brief visit to humanity's homeworld.
Except, of course, it was all a pack of lies. The Borealis' engines were fine; the friendly visit to Earth was so he and the Tassali could safely locate and extract the Palani prophet.
Unfortunately, it also meant they couldn't deviate from the normal schedule. If maintenance rushed to let the Borealis get underway sooner, it would alert the nation's friends and rivals, causing suspicion.
They would be getting to Earth in four more days, to follow up on information that was already a week old. He had a growing fear that this wasn't going to end well; there was no way the prophet would still be in the same place after all this time.
The elevator doors opened, and Dillon started the brief walk down the h
allway. There was an empty food tray outside the room he shared with Amba, and the 'do not disturb' indicator was lit on the door console. He waved the keycard at the door, which unlocked and opened.
Inside, the room's previous disarray was gone. No clothes on the floor, everything neatly folded and put away. The bed was made, and sitting at its head was Amba, her knees folded up against her chest and her bare white feet flat on the bed. She wore her robes, neatly gathered around her, and her hair and tiara were perfectly in place. Several datapads were on the bed around her, and she was holding one in each hand. Their soft amber glow lit her face.
Dillon quietly pushed the button to close and lock the door, while unbuttoning his uniform coat. He draped the coat over the back of a chair and approached the bed. Amba turned her face toward him, but her eyes didn't follow until he was standing next to her. "Feda," she said, tilting her mouth up toward him.
"Hello there," he said, leaning in for a kiss. "Ship's right where I left it. They don't need me for anything, and if they do, they know where to reach me."
"I'm glad you're back, Feda," said Amba. "Have you eaten?"
"I grabbed something on the way to the ship," he said, motioning back the way he'd come. "There's a Tim's on the concourse. So what have you found?"
Amba put down the datapad in her left hand, patting the mattress next to her. "Sit here. I worked on a — what would you call it — a hunch? One of the phrases reminded me of a story in a Palani religious text. 'Golden Warrior', it said, which made me think of the story of Velanni."
Dillon had kicked off his boots, and was climbing onto the bed. "Velanni?"
"Yes. It is a very obscure text, no longer part of the main body of scripture. It was edited out centuries ago."
"Huh," said Dillon, sliding sideways to sit next to Amba. Her medical armband hissed as he leaned back against the headboard. "What about the number part?"