Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2)

by S. J. Madill

  "My secret is revealed," said Elan. "I need to leave now."

  Carter was in his room, watching a display on his wall. "We should open the door," he said. "It's a police officer."

  Elan looked toward the front door, where Heather was at the console. "He's wearing a respirator," she said. Elan's stomach lurched, and he felt his breaths coming faster. If the police officer was wearing a respirator, it was to protect himself from the Iyurele voice. That meant he expected Elan to use the voice. The officer was expecting trouble, Elan thought. Something was going very wrong.

  He took a single step into Heather's room and crouched, scooping a random pile of shoes and clothes into his bag. As he stood back up, he heard the door console chirp; it was a new sound, unlike he'd heard before.

  "What the hell?" said Heather. "He's unlocking it himself?"

  Elan backed out of Heather's room into the hallway. Lakshmi joined Heather, just as the apartment door opened.

  The police officer was tall, with close-cropped hair and a moustache. He filled out his body armour, which shifted as he stepped over the threshold.

  His voice wheezed through the respirator. "Ma'am," he said to Lakshmi, who stood inside the door. Elan could see the man's eyes go past her, trying to scan the inside of the apartment. "I'm going to have to ask you to…" He trailed off as his eyes met Elan's. The brown human eyes went wide, and the man reached for his gun.

  Elan wasn't sure where Heather's fist came from, but it connected with the police officer's respirator. As the man reeled backwards, his arms raised reflexively to his face, Heather shoved past Lakshmi and charged down the hall toward Elan. Her face was white, her eyes wide, and blood was already appearing on the knuckles of her right hand. "Elan!" she cried.

  He turned and started to run, back into his own room, straight for the window. He knew how to open it — had practiced several times, just in case — and the glass easily popped out. As the window fell to the ground outside, a wall of hot air washed into the room, like a blast from a furnace. Elan gasped, and hesitated.

  From outside the room, he heard Lakshmi scream. The apartment echoed with the sharp crack of a gunshot, then another. The man was yelling, his voice incomprehensible through the respirator.

  Heather burst into the room, saw Elan and the open window, and headed right for it. Raising one foot, she pushed off against the top of the mattress, launching herself toward the open window. As the mattress shifted to the side, her body pivoted in the air, and she fell clumsily through the hole in the wall. Elan heard her land with a grunt on the grass outside.

  He'd never been athletic; exercise was considered unseemly for the Elanasal Palani. He knew better than to try some elaborate jump out the window. Tossing the satchel out onto the ground, he paused at the window, placing both his hands on the sill and beginning to lift himself up.

  Heather's face, now flushed with red, appeared in front of his. Her two strong hands grabbed his wrists, and she pulled. His head and body lurched forward, his stomach and legs scraping against the sill. He pivoted forward and tumbled to the ground outside. Heather's grip shifted: she grabbed him under his left arm, hauling him up. He stumbled, trying to get his feet under him and regain his balance. In three staggering steps, he was pulled around the corner of the building and up against the wall outside Carter's bedroom window.

  Elan fell to his knees and gasped to catch his breath. Each gulp of air filled his lungs with fire, and his stomach felt like he'd been punched. His shirt and coldsuit were torn, and his skin was spattered with blue blood where he'd been cut by the windowsill.

  But already Heather was hauling him to his feet, her panting face next to his. "Where do we go?" she gasped.

  His mind was racing. That man back there, dressed like a police officer, meant to kill him. He was sure of it. Seeking revenge, no doubt, for one of the colonists killed by the Palani fleet.

  "Elan!" hissed Heather. She tugged at his arm. "Where do we go? Do we go find the Palani bishop and the navy captain?"

  He gulped in more furnace-like air. "No," he gasped. "People will come here. We can't trust the police." His eyes darted back and forth, his gaze being drawn upward as a ship flew over. "That's it," he said. "We go to the spaceport. Try to find a ship." He started to move, then hesitated. "What about Lakshmi and Carter? What if Blaine comes home now?" The other humans were in danger; he'd heard the scream and the gunshots, and knew what it probably meant. In all likelihood, blood had already been spilled because of him. And if the man with the gun found him, it would be just the first drops of a flood. He suddenly felt stupid, immeasurably stupid, for incurring a risk like this.

  Heather gave him another shake. "I don't know about Laks and Blaine, Elan. But I don't have a gun, and the real cops aren't here yet. We don't even know who the real cops are anymore. Can you get us into the spaceport? Can you get back in, the way you arrived?"

  "Yes," he said, trying to focus. "We'll try that, and improvise."

  They ran across the grass and down an alley between two houses. Behind him, he heard shouting coming from the apartment. He couldn't make out the words, but the anger was clear enough.

  * * *

  It was incredibly hot in Ottawa. In the shade it was inescapable, but out in the full light of the sun it was downright oppressive. Elan was feeling lightheaded from the sun beating on his head. They continued along the sidewalk, but had slowed down to catch their breath, each inhalation feeling like it was searing his lungs. His torn coldsuit was still working so far, but for how long? He was also worried about being recognised, but there were no other pedestrians and the sparse vehicle traffic was moving fast. If he stayed behind Heather, he hoped no one would get a good look at him.

  Heather held his hand as they walked. Her skin was hot to the touch, but its strength reassured him. All his life, he'd been attended by governesses and acolyte-mothers, who either handled him like a fragile relic, or smothered him in precious clothes and set him aside.

  "Focus, Elan," said Heather. "I know your mind's all over the place."

  "Are you scared?"

  "Terrified," she said, squeezing his hand. "We're two streets away from the apartment. The fake cop could show up at any time. If we see another cop, we don't know if they're real or not. They've gotta figure we're going to head to the spaceport."

  "I know," said Elan. The sidewalk stretched ahead of them, curving around the perimeter of the spaceport. Through the tall fence, they could see ships parked near the edge of the concrete pad: small, clean, bus-like shuttles with short wings. A larger ship, corroded and beaten, squatted nearby, wisps of steam coming from its idling engines.

  "Do you have a plan? Do you know what you'll say?" She kept glancing sideways at his face, as if trying to read his thoughts.

  Elan spotted one of the spaceport's secondary entrances up ahead, with its small guardhouse. Even now, the two guards studied their approach. Heather had hastily pulled on some of her rumpled painting clothes, and his coldsuit was torn and spotted with his blue blood. There was no way they were getting past without being noticed. "Be friendly," said Elan, smiling and waving at the staring guards.

  One of them waved back, and Elan seized the opportunity. He changed course, leaving the sidewalk to approach the guard house. "Heather," he whispered through his smile, "I'm sorry, but I'm going to speak to these people." She gently squeezed his hand.

  Both guards exited the guard house as they approached. On the spur of the moment, Elan decided to affect an accent. It would force the guards to listen more carefully, and perhaps stand closer. "Hello," he said, his voice's harmonics rolling like a song. "I am visiting. I am meeting people." He started to take a deep breath, sucking in the burning air as the Iyurele glands flooded his lungs with their chemistry.

  "Afternoon," said the guard. "I heard about you. Aren't you a long way from home?"

  "I am," said Elan. He kept his voice quiet, gently exhaling as the two guards leaned closer to hear him. "I am not supposed to be here."


  "Well," the guard began, then paused. "You're not doing any harm."

  Elan exhaled again. "Would you two please let us into the spaceport? We'd like to stow away on a shuttle to Unity Station. There's a madman with a gun chasing us."

  The first guard straightened up and put his hands on his hips. "A madman? You'll be in a hurry, then. No shuttles for another hour, though." He smiled, jerking one thumb toward the parked ships. "Only ship leaving soon is that crappy little thing over there. It's an independent freighter. Maybe you could stow away on it?"

  "Thank you, sir," said Elan.

  "Won't you stay a moment?" asked the other guard. He seemed disappointed that Elan was starting to walk past him.

  Elan paused, turning back toward them. "I'm sorry, but we need to go before we get caught."

  "Oh," said the guard. The man's smile returned to his face as a slightly lopsided grin. "That makes sense. Good luck." He slowly raised a hand and waved.

  As Elan turned to walk into the spaceport, he tugged gently on Heather's arm. She took a stumbling step to follow him, and he glanced sideways at her as they walked across the pad toward the idling freighter.

  She was staring at him through glassy, heavy-lidded eyes that seemed unable to focus, and a grin was stuck to her lips. As they approached the freighter, she suddenly noticed the ship. "Oh," she cooed. "Are we stowing away on this?"

  A lump formed in Elan's throat. She'd breathed the Iyurele as well, as he knew she would, and now she followed him, stripped of her free will. With just a few words, he could rob someone of who they were, even if only for a few minutes. It had never bothered him before, but this was different. This wasn't some stranger; this was Heather he'd done it to. He knew he would have to use it again — and he understood it was necessary — but it didn't seem right that he should have such power.

  Up ahead, a technician emerged from the freighter's rear ramp, poking at a datapad. As sirens began to wail in the distance, Elan smiled at the technician and took a deep breath.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Traffic was stopped on St. Laurent Boulevard, cars idling in the tree-lined street. Wherever the sun broke through and reached the ground, waves of heat rose from the pavement. Up ahead, red and blue lights sparkled in the intersection, where police vehicles were preventing traffic from entering the side street.

  Dillon stepped out of the car into the hot, thick air, motioning for Amba to follow him. They kept to the shade of the trees as they walked up the sidewalk toward the crowd of emergency personnel. The calls of birds were mixed with the staccato chatter of police radios. Armoured officers, their weapons at the ready, watched in all directions.

  The Tassali stayed in step beside him as he approached the police line. Several officers noticed her, and a sergeant came to meet them at the barricade. He was short and stocky, with a craggy face. One hand held his armoured helmet, while he wiped at his forehead with the other. "Well," he said, "I don't need to see your I.D., I guess. My boss said you'd probably come. You're looking for the Palani kid?"

  "We are," said Amba. Dillon could see the anxiety on her face, etched in the lines around her eyes.

  "Look," said the sergeant. "We've still got an active scene here. Seems like when the news got out that your fella was here, some wacko showed up in a fake uniform. He must've been listening to calls or something. Anyway, he shot up the place, but a neighbour said he saw the Palani kid and a girl running away. We haven't found them or the gunman." He nodded toward the cluster of officers nearby. "Not yet. We've got a perimeter set up, so…"

  "Goddamn," said Dillon. "Casualties?"

  "Two," said the sergeant. He shifted his helmet to his other hand, and wiped at his brow with his sleeve. "One male, one female. They're at Montfort hospital, but they ain't gonna make it."

  From behind them, a tall, handsome young man approached, his hands covering his mouth. He was hunched forward, tears streaming down his face, and his fashionable clothes were a rumpled mess. He held out both hands toward the Tassali and tried to speak, babbling through racking sobs. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I told Elan he should see the world, and they found him—"

  Dillon watched, raising an eyebrow, as Amba took the young man's hands in hers; she so rarely touched anyone. Her voice was soothing and gentle, like a lullaby. "You call him Elan? Are you a friend of his?"

  The tall man sniffled, blinking his red eyes as he gazed into hers. He was squeezing her gloved hands. "Yes, ma'am," he said, his voice brittle. "I'm Blaine. He lived with us for a couple weeks. And now—"

  "It's not your fault, Blaine," said Amba. "Did he say where he was going?"

  "He… he said he was going to head home." Blaine tried to choke back loud sobs. "Oh god, Laks and Carter—"

  "Blaine," said Amba, putting Blaine's hands together between hers, "What about the young human woman he was with?"

  "Heather," said Blaine. "They were… they were together."

  Amba's eyebrows rose up her forehead and she leaned forward, tilting her head towards Blaine's. "'Together'? You mean they were in a relationship? Romantically?"

  Blaine nodded. Dillon saw the young man staring at the Tassali's eyes, apparently unable to look away. He knew the feeling.

  Amba turned her head toward Dillon. "Commander," she said.

  He snapped back into focus. "Yes?"

  "A romantic relationship," said Amba. She said it carefully, her words landing with a thud. "The Elanasal Palani. In a romantic relationship. With a human woman."

  Dillon's mouth opened in a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. Sometimes, things just went from bad to worse. And sometimes, they went from worse to catastrophic. "Great," he said, shaking his head. "Wonderful."

  "Commander?" said the police sergeant. "No disrespect, but you and the, er, bishop, you probably shouldn't stay here. The shooter is still at large, and you might be targets. Especially her."

  That made sense, thought Dillon. If some lunatic was out to kill a Palani, they might try again, especially after their first attempt failed.

  "Sergeant," said Dillon, "I expect the Palani youth is trying to get home. Have you checked the spaceport? Grounded all departures?"

  The sergeant nodded. "We sent that call a few minutes ago. They're locked down. There's no way the kid can get past security."

  "He can," said Amba from a few feet away. "I assure you, sergeant, he very much can."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ontelis glanced up from his desk as his assistant Lalinn entered his office. She bore a scroll in her hand and from the way she avoided eye contact with him, he knew she didn't want to give him whatever news she carried.

  He carefully put down his stylus, and clasped his hands together on the desk. The scroll he had been reading began to roll itself back up, curling itself into a tube and withdrawing to the edge of his work space.

  "Bad news, Lalinn?"

  "Yes, Master Pentarch," she said, holding the scroll out toward him. "Human media is reporting shooting on their homeworld. A camera showed a Palani man in the area of the shooting."

  Ontelis paused, his hand stopping in mid air, fingers hanging next to the offered scroll. "Oh," he said quietly, then took the scroll. As he put it down on the desk, it began to unroll. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lalinn turn to leave. "Please, stay a moment," he said. The young woman turned back toward him, creases of worry etched onto her porcelain face.

  Giving her a thin smile, he turned back to the scroll. Lines of text were mixed with video images; recordings played as he read through the report. Human media was reporting a young Palani man caught on surveillance cameras, running through the too-green grass of a residential area. With him was a human female with golden hair, perhaps the same age as him. They were both underdressed, not surprising given the extraordinary temperatures — lethal to an unprepared Palani — in the human city. According to the report, the two were fleeing a residence where a shooting had occurred. Several people had been
injured, and whether the Palani and the gold-haired woman were victims or perpetrators was not known.

  Ontelis realised he was rubbing his hands on his legs, repeatedly smoothing the fabric of his robes. Forcing himself to stop and concentrate on calming his breath, he reached up and tapped one finger on the scroll. The pictures were of excellent quality, but the two fleeing figures were only in it for a few moments. The images paused mid-motion, and with a gesture from Ontelis' thin fingers, the picture expanded to fill the scroll.

  There was no doubt — that was the Elanasal. His face was clearly visible to the camera as he turned to say something to his human companion.

  Ontelis leaned forward. The prophet was wearing his coldsuit under some light clothing, which was badly torn on the front. The coldsuit was damaged as well; there appeared to be bloody scratches on the Elanasal's stomach. Perhaps from fleeing the building? Obviously the Most Holy was not the perpetrator of violence, but was fleeing from it. But what about the human girl?

  He looked up at Lalinn, one finger still pointing at the image. "Do we know who this human is?"

  Lalinn shook her head, her hands held together behind her back. "No, Master Pentarch. Shall I ask the intelligence services for information?"

  "Yes, please," said Ontelis. He let the image run again, looping through the same few seconds of motion. "But they won't have anything."

  "I understand, Master Pentarch." She became quiet, but Ontelis had heard the question in her voice. "Yes, Lalinn," he said. "It's the Elanasal Palani."

  "The public will have seen this, Master Pentarch. They will know that a Palani is on Earth, fleeing from an attacker."

  "Yes," he said. He leaned carefully back in his chair, eyes wandering toward the window and the bright sky beyond. Thin slices of light had begun to sneak through, as the sun moved slowly across the sky. "Yes. But they must not know it is the Elanasal. We will say…" He thought about that for a moment. Palani didn't go to Earth, any sooner than they would rush to visit the cannibalistic Nii, or dive into the bottomless fluids of the Freem. Human barbarity was a well-known fact. Or, he thought, it was taught as a well-known fact. "We will admit that it is a Palani youth. However, we will stress that it is a confused young man who has run away from home, and needs our help and understanding. Just an ordinary frightened boy."