Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2)

by S. J. Madill

  "Fifty three," said Amba. She held up the datapad in her right hand. "Fifty-third verse of the book of Velanni. It speaks of a priestess who left her tribe to join with the warrior-chief of a neighbouring tribe."

  Dillon raised an eyebrow. "Well, that sure as hell isn't a coincidence."

  "I agree. It cannot be random. I therefore assumed whoever wrote the note was someone who knew obscure Palani religious texts very well."

  "And they knew the person who read it would know the texts too," said Dillon. "So, a letter from the prophet to you."

  "So it seems."

  "What are the other two verses?"

  He saw Amba's nose crinkle in a hint of a frown. She wasn't satisfied with what she'd found. But no one else in all of human space had a chance of deciphering it. Who the hell read their own scriptures any more, let alone the obscure edits?

  "It does not translate clearly," said Amba. She showed him the datapad, filled with neatly-lettered lines of Palani text. "The 'infinite gift' probably refers to this verse." She pointed to a specific line of text. "The nearest translation would be 'the hill where time can be seen'."

  "Parliament Hill," said Dillon without hesitation. "In Ottawa, on Earth. The ceremonial capital has the Peace Tower, with a huge mechanical clock."

  "Oh," said Amba, looking back at the text. "Good. It makes sense, then."

  "And the other part?"

  "'Flooded orchard'. I think it refers to the Seventh Vision of Pentarch Nifim." She reached for another datapad, holding it up for him to see. It was an image, a scan of an ancient hand-lettered page. The middle third of the page was a drawn picture of an orchard, trees growing out of what looked like a lake.

  "The verse," she said, "speaks of the moment when leaves begin to fall from the trees."

  "The start of autumn?"

  "Perhaps so."

  Dillon pointed at one of the two datapads on the bed next to Amba's feet. "May I?"

  "Please do."

  He scooped up the datapad, tapping at the display. A search window, a few taps of typing. "Here," he said, handing it back. "This year, autumn begins in Ottawa at two-fifty-three in the morning, one week from tomorrow."

  Amba's eyes went from Dillon to the datapad and back again. He saw her uncertainty, and he felt it too. A headache had started to form, and he reached up to massage his temples. "This is ridiculous," he said after a moment. He tried to think of how he could explain this to Admiral Clarke without sounding like he'd lost his mind.

  "So…" said Amba, hesitating, "the prophet wants to meet us in front of your old Parliament, at three in the morning, next Friday?"

  "Yeah," grunted Dillon. "I don't believe this."

  "I do," said Amba.

  Dillon took his hand away from his forehead. "You do? Do you know what this sounds like?"

  There was a hint of a smirk on Amba's face. "I do, Feda. It sounds like a young man's idea. He's never been out of the temple in his life. He wanted to craft a message that no one in human space would understand if they read it. His options were limited."

  "Fair enough. But has the kid been watching old spy movies or something?"

  "Worse," said Amba. "Palani religious movies." She shook her head, smiling. "If you ever displease me, I will make you watch one."

  Dillon held up his hands in surrender. "Oh, don't worry, I already know not to displease you." He gestured at the datapad again. "So next Friday, three in the morning, on Parliament Hill on Earth." He shook his head. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this. We'll probably have to meet under a streetlight or something." He glanced over at her. "Do you have a fedora?"

  Amba's eyes shot up to meet his, anger flashing in her eyes. "Pardon me, Feda?" she said slowly.

  Dillon winced at the glare; he hadn't expected that. He quickly reached up his hands, miming putting on a hat. "Fedora. An old style of headwear, associated with spy movies."

  She looked confused, her head tilting slightly. "Oh?" Her expression softened. "Oh. I'm sorry, Feda. I was surprised. That word means something different in Palani." She shook her head. "Quite different."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Defence Minister Gibson looked straight into the glare of the lights, his jaw set tight and his knuckles visibly white where they gripped the podium.

  "For the third time in two weeks, the Palani regime has brutally attacked a human colony in the Burnt Worlds. All the colonists were murdered in the unprovoked attack. This deliberate campaign of aggression must, and will, have serious consequences. In concert with other human governments, we are forming a broad coalition to respond to the clear Palani threat. The governments of the United States, the United Kingdom, and the Republic of India have already publicly committed to countering this growing threat."

  Somewhere amid the harsh light, a reporter raised his hand. "What of the Palani assertions that they consider the Burnt Worlds to be war graves, and that they have warned us for years against colonising?"

  Gibson nodded thoughtfully, paused a moment, then began to tap on the podium as he replied. "What's important here is the protection of human lives, in what is essentially a genocidal threat. Regardless of the origin of these human settlements, it remains that these are humans." His eyes scanned the room, as if to make eye contact with the reporters behind the lights. "These colonists are our family, our friends. Our species. Humanity must stand for humanity, or else we will fall." He gave a carefully-measured shrug, opening his hands. "Where do we draw the line? How many dead humans do we permit?" Gibson shook his head, frowning. "None, I say. We are a peace-loving people — everyone knows that — but we will not stand by and allow humans to be murdered by a brutal theocratic regime. We cannot let might make right. We cannot—"

  "Asshole," said Heather, as she pushed a button and the screen went blank. She picked up her empty bowl and stood, taking a moment to stretch before padding across the living room floor in her bare feet. She didn't know why she ever turned on the morning news; it was too early in the day for that bigoted sack of shit.

  Bumping into the corner of the counter as she passed, Heather let out a grunt and started to fumble at opening the dishwasher. Someone moved the counter again. Every morning, it seemed to be in a slightly different place. It lay in ambush, waiting to jump in front of her and bruise her hips again. With a rattle of dinnerware, the dishwasher door fell open. She lazily poked her bowl at the full rack, trying to solve the puzzle of dirty dishes. After fumbling for a while she paused, staring at the dishwasher. God, she hated morning. She had never been very good at them, but today was determined to be particularly hellish. Where was her coffee? Finally, a bowl-sized gap revealed itself in the rack of dishes and she slid the bowl in and closed the door.

  Leaning with both hands on the edge of the counter, Heather faced her nemesis: the coffee maker. Once again, she had given it all it desired — ground beans and water — and once again it had chosen to sit there in silence, mocking her. Yet another of the many trials of morning. By god, she thought — human, Palani, Dosh; any god would do — but her mind was a fog today. She yawned.

  Heather smelled Lakshmi before she saw her. The scent of vanilla and sandalwood arrived in the kitchen a moment before the black-haired woman was standing next to her. "Oh, sweetie," laughed Lakshmi. "Are you having a bad morning?"

  "Yeah," croaked Heather. She hadn't used her voice yet, and it wasn't ready. Her brain was still stuck in a frustrating loop, aware that something wasn't right with the coffee maker, but unable to deploy enough horsepower to actually figure it out.

  Lakshmi glanced at the coffee maker, then at her. "Sweetie," she said. Her voice was soothing. "Have you tried turning it on?"

  Heather blinked. Jesus fuck. Leaning forward, she reached out with her right hand and poked the button on the front of the coffee maker. It gave a perky chirp in response.

  Beside her, Lakshmi was pouring water into her old-fashioned kettle. "Where are you going today, H?"

  She frowned at Lakshmi. "Huh? I'm not going
anywhere."

  "Oh. I thought, since you had shorts on… aren't you cold? We turned it down in here for…" she trailed off, concentrating on her kettle.

  "Nah," said Heather. "I just really find it hot in here today. And it's fine, I won't catch on fire if you mention Elan."

  Lakshmi's kettle started making ticking noises as it heated up on the stove. She had opened the cupboard, and was rummaging through small colourful boxes of teabags. "Well, I think the friendly little snowman went and used up all my Darjeeling. I don't know how he could drink hot tea, when his body is so cold." She frowned at the cupboard. "So it's just Earl Grey left, I guess. Bleh."

  Heather's attention remained on the coffee machine, whose timid drips were gradually filling her mug. Before long, Lakshmi's water had boiled and she'd made her tea. But Heather's coffee continued to drip, drawing out the brutal agony of the caffeine-free start to her day. At long last, the machine chirped and fell silent. Heather reached forward and picked up her mug, careful not to spill any of it as she retreated across the apartment to her room. Once inside, she navigated the flotsam on the carpet, raising the mug to her lips. As if on cue to thwart her, there was movement in the open door.

  Carter stood there, his hands in his pockets, glancing around the room. His eyes lingered on the painting on the desk, and its blue eyes that looked out at the room. "So, Heather, can I talk to you for a sec?"

  "Sure," she said. Apparently she was meant to have cold coffee today. Doesn't matter, she thought; cold coffee was still coffee.

  "Look," said Carter, stepping around the piles on the floor. "I know it's been a tough couple days for you, since he left you but…" He paused, making eye contact with her as he pulled a hand from his pocket and gently put it on her shoulder. "Sure, I'm an idiot sometimes, but I'm here for you, you know, if you want to talk to someone." He took a step back, shrugging. "Anyway, I'm here."

  "Thanks, Carter," said Heather, forcing a smile to her lips. He smiled in return and left the room, turning in the direction of the kitchen.

  What an ass, she thought. Barely two days, and already the insincere, manipulative weasel was trying to work his way back into her life. He'd feign affection and love as much as it took to get what he wanted, from her or anyone. It would be better to be alone.

  Heather walked back through the debris on the floor, kicking some of it aside as she approached the door console. She pushed a button, and the door chirped as it locked and set itself to reject entry requests. Poking another button, there was a second chirp as she adjusted the room temperature a little lower.

  Turning back to her room, mug in hand, she approached the blank canvas on the wall. It wasn't going to paint itself. Time to get to work.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "About bloody time," said Dillon, settling into his chair on the bridge. "Comms, have you confirmed we have the all-clear to undock?"

  "Confirmed, sir."

  "Outstanding. Helm, docking thrusters. Take us out, please."

  "Aye aye sir," said Pakinova. "Docking thrusters, sir."

  The steel wall of the station's docking ring was visible to the left of the bridge, and it appeared to slide farther away as the Borealis undocked. As the ship tilted her nose up and began to move forward, the dock slid down and away until the station's entire kilometre-wide docking ring came into view. Barely visible in the distance was the second ring of the station, filled with civilian facilities like docks, warehouses, hotels and offices.

  "Sir," said the communications tech, "starport control advises we're the only ship underway in the system. We're free to manoeuvre."

  "Very well," said Dillon, reaching for his pen in its overhead holder. "Mister Tremblay, please plot a course to the Sol system, Rubicon Station."

  "Aye aye, sir," said the young Tremblay, sitting at the supervisory console. Chief Black stood nearby, watching over his shoulder.

  "By the way," said Dillon, beginning to chew at the end of his pen, "did we hear back from Rubicon?"

  "No sir," said Tremblay. "No response yet."

  "Shit. That probably means they won't be able to expedite us. Let me know."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Dillon reached for his mug, and was surprised to find the cupholder empty. He must have come to the bridge without it. Instead, he redoubled his efforts on his pen.

  If they didn't get expedited through Rubicon station, it would mean another delay. The station, at Pluto, was run by the United Nations to enforce the Rubicon Treaty's one simple rule: no armed ship may ever approach Earth. So a ship on a goodwill tour of the homeworld had to stop and have all her weapons disarmed, either by off-shipping ammunition or by removing critical components. The normal processing time for disarmament and verification was 48 hours. At this point, their information about the Palani prophet was so dated, he could be anywhere. Never mind finding him before he left; Dillon would to be happy to find the kid before he died of old age.

  "So," said the Chief, who had approached without him noticing, "a friendly goodwill visit to Earth. Three-day passes to the surface for everybody. Quite a nice surprise."

  "It is," said Dillon. He made eye contact with the Chief, and saw her raise an eyebrow.

  "So whatever's going on," she said quietly, "is obviously above my pay grade."

  "Oh yes," said Dillon. "Very much. You would be surprised."

  "Fine," she said. "So, without giving anything away, do you have any 'completely unrelated and off-topic' suggestions for our visit to Earth?"

  Dillon watched out the bridge windows as the sphere of New Halifax slid out of view. "Yeah," he nodded. "I can't really say anything about that —"

  "How about," she interrupted. "we make sure we're ready to get everyone back aboard and underway on short notice?"

  "Yeah," said Dillon. "That's always a good idea."

  Chief Black nodded, turning to look out the bridge windows with him. She folded her arms across her chest, taking a moment to survey the rest of the bridge crew.

  Dillon knew that expression. In response to something 'going on', she was now in the process of crafting some ideas of her own. "Chief?" he asked.

  Black kept her eyes forward, staring out the window. Her voice was unusually quiet, blending in with the bridge's normal background noise. "Rubicon, sir. Just thinking about disarming ourselves, and the time to re-arm. Forty-eight hours each way."

  "We will not violate Rubicon. We will not take weapons to Earth."

  She shook her head. "Of course not, sir. I was just wondering if there was a way we could accelerate the re-arming process on the way out."

  "By 'accelerate', do you mean 'subvert'?"

  "Nothing illegal, sir, nothing in violation of treaty. Not technically."

  "Ah," said Dillon. "Technically legal. The very best sort of legal."

  Black shrugged. "Just thinking of the ship, sir."

  "I know, Chief." Leaning forward to look around her, Dillon motioned to Tremblay. "Excuse me, Sub-Lieutenant. Could you join us for a moment?"

  Tremblay stood up from his console and in five quick strides was next to Dillon and Chief Black. "Sir?"

  "Tremblay, are you familiar with the Rubicon protocols?"

  "We studied it, sir. But I've never actually been to Earth."

  "Good," said Dillon. "It'll be a first for you then." He pulled the pen from his mouth, and pointed at Tremblay with the chewed end. "When the UN people come aboard to oversee our disarming, they're going to bring their rulebooks with them and go through them line by line."

  "I understand, sir."

  "So I want you to go get your own copy of the Rubicon rulebook, and go through it in detail. Do anything you can do prepare the ship before we get there. I want our passage through Rubicon — both inward and outward — to be as fast and bullshit-free as possible."

  "Aye aye, sir. Thank you for the opportunity."

  Dillon waved a hand. "You won't be thanking me when we get there, Tremblay. It's a bit of a pain in the ass. What's our ETA for th
e Sol system?"

  "Eleven-thirty tomorrow, sir."

  "Very well," said Dillon. "You've got until then. Feel free to recruit a warm body or two to help out. Either I or the Chief will be along later to check in."

  "Aye aye, sir. I'll use the starboard hangar, sir."

  "Fine. Carry on, Tremblay."

  Dillon and Chief Black watched as the young officer grabbed his datapad and left the bridge.

  "Inspired choice, sir," said the Chief.

  He pointed his pen at her. "I understand the temptation you're feeling, so let me be clear: no pranking or otherwise messing with Tremblay until he's done."

  "Spoilsport. Sir."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Elan pushed the button next to the apartment's front door. It was a blisteringly hot day, and as much as he was looking forward to seeing Heather again, he was also looking forward to just being inside. It had only been seven days, but it seemed longer. Each day had been longer than the last, as thoughts of returning became larger and louder in his head.

  The door slid open, revealing a smiling Lakshmi. "Oh my god!" she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him inside. "You're back! I knew you'd come back."

  Elan smiled in return, stepping into the living room. It was blessedly cool inside, cooler than he remembered.

  "Where did you go?" asked Lakshmi. She was already in the kitchen, filling a glass with ice cubes. "What did you see? And where did you get that scarf?"

  He fingered the bright silk fabric that hung around his neck. The blue matched his hair, and was decorated with delicate patterns in gold thread. "A nice woman gave it to me," he said, "in Varanasi."

  Lakshmi stopped, holding the glass of ice out toward him. "What?" she said, her eyes wide. "You went to Varanasi? In India?"

  Elan took the glass, and held it in both hands. He savoured the coldness of the ice against his fingers. "Yes," he nodded.