by S. J. Madill
Carter must have seen the bewilderment in his eyes, because he tried again. "What I mean is, maybe I haven't been all that friendly to you since you got here."
"You do not need to apologise, Carter. It is a difficult time for our peoples."
"Yeah," said Carter, again not meeting Elan's eyes. "I'd like to make a peace offering. I know you want to travel more, so I thought you could use this." Taking a step forward, he dropped a small plastic card on the cabinet next to Elan. "My band travels a bit, and we get a lot of free travel points. I'll never use them, so…" He shrugged.
Elan smiled, giving a slight nod of his head. "Thank you, Carter. That is very generous of you."
"Yeah, you're welcome." Carter turned to leave. "So, uh, I hope you find what you're looking for."
"As I do you, Carter. Thank you again."
* * *
Elan walked from the kitchen, a glass of ice cubes in his hand. He crunched down on the cube between his teeth, and let the cold spread through his mouth. Everything felt slow: his body was sluggish, and he had trouble focusing. He knew his body temperature had been rising too quickly, but he chose to try ice instead of resorting to his coldsuit. He wanted to feel this freedom, this lack of confinement, for just a little while longer. Meditation helped, as it always did, but if he couldn't focus then he wouldn't be able to meditate.
He glanced through the open door of Heather's room as he passed. She was sitting on the floor, staring at the opposite wall where her newest work-in-progress hung. "Hey," she said as he went by.
"Hey," he answered, and kept walking. As he reached the door to his room, he heard her voice again. "Can we talk a bit?"
Elan stopped in the doorway to his room and turned around. He had a few ideas what she might want to talk about, but he wasn't sure which it would be. As he stepped into the chaos of her room, her eyes came up to meet his. Her shoulders were tense, pulled in toward her neck, and deep lines crossed her forehead. He hoped it wasn't because of him. He'd tried not to upset any of the humans in their apartment, and knew of the mixed results. Carter's peace offering seemed sincere, but it wasn't selfless: Elan knew that Carter didn't want him there, so encouraging him to leave matched both their interests.
"Could you maybe close the door, Elan?"
"We're the only ones here—"
"Please?"
Something about the way she said that. The tone, the look; he was familiar with it. Back in the Temple, young acolytes were sometimes brought to him, that he might gain experience dealing with people, in offering wisdom and insightful advice. They always wore the same hesitant smile, of someone wanting to speak of something difficult. Elan reached up to the door panel, pressing the button to close the door and lock it for privacy.
Heather was still sitting on the floor, her back against the wall. "May I sit?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said. With a sweep of her hand, she grabbed and tossed a rumpled shirt that occupied the floor next to her. Elan sat, his back against the wall beside her. Her knees were drawn up against her chest, and he did the same. He popped another ice cube in his mouth. "Ice?"
"No, thanks."
Elan fell silent, sucking on the ice cube, enjoying the coolness spreading through his mouth.
Ahead of him, on the far wall, the white emptiness of a new, blank canvas hung in the middle of the spattered backdrop. The previous painting she'd made — of a face like his — teetered on top of the desk, facing the room.
Heather exhaled. "I'm glad you're getting out and exploring. I know you're eager to learn about Earth, and humanity, and all that."
"There's a lot to learn. And not all of it is in this apartment."
She smiled at that. Elan was glad to see some of the tension leave her face. "Yeah," she said. "I suppose there's a lot more to humanity than the four of us in here with you."
"You could come with me."
She reached over and patted him on the knee. He felt the warmth of her hand through the fabric. "You're sweet, Elan. You really are. But I don't think travelling is for me. I like to stay in one place. I don't want people to know anything about me, not if I can help it. And if I travel…"
"Are you in trouble?"
"No," she said quickly, then slowed. "No. Not really. I guess not. Maybe I'm trying to avoid trouble."
He saw she was thinking about something, choosing her words carefully. There was more to her distress than she let on. If he was patient enough—
"I'm sorry I was pissy when you and Blaine got home. I must've sounded like a parent."
"I wouldn't know."
She turned her head toward him. "You 'wouldn't know'? You never met your parents?"
"No," he shook his head. "Never did."
"Well… sometimes parents can be overrated."
Elan crunched down on the ice cube in his mouth, starting to chew at it. "Yours were?"
Heather shrugged. "Mom died young. Dad was a politician — still is — so I never saw him much." She motioned toward the skates in the corner, under a pile of clothes. "I played hockey. He'd come along, news cameras in tow, and cheer me on when I did well. When I had a bad game, he'd wait until the cameras were gone, then yell at me for making him look bad." She held up her left arm, twisting her wrist about. "Then I broke this, and couldn't play at that level any more. Suddenly he was always too busy. When I was old enough, I just left. I wonder if he's even noticed."
She became quiet, her eyes going to the painting on the desk. She sat in silence for a while, studying the picture. "Elan, why are you in my mind so damn much?"
"Because you put me there."
Heather didn't look away from the painting. "Am I in your mind too?"
The answer fell out of him. "Yes."
He wanted her to turn toward him, so he could see her eyes and what her face was saying. She sighed, a shuddering exhale that went through her entire body. "I'm shit at this," she said.
"At what, Heather?"
After a few moments of silence, she turned to face him. Her eyes were shot with red, but her brows were pulled together. "Elan... all the men in my life, they only stick around as long as it suits them. Then they leave and find someone else. I'm so sick of it. I'd rather be alone than go through that shit again. But…" She shook her head. "But now you're stuck in my damn head. I don't have time for this." Her hand waved toward the empty canvas on the wall. "I create. That's what I do, it's what I want to do. I'm just starting to sell." She gestured toward him, speaking more quickly, stumbling over her words. "And now you. Why you, why now? There's no way it could work. You're from a different—"
"Heather," said Elan.
She stopped, and stared at him. "What?"
"I need to do this. I need to learn about humanity. I need to understand."
Heather reached up and put a hand on his cheek; it was hot on his skin. She shook her head, one corner of her mouth slowly pulling into a grimace. "Fuck," she said at last, "I make bad choices, you know that?" Her eyes gazed into his. "Elan, will you come back when you're done? Come back to me?"
The warmth of her hand, and the determination in her eyes, made his throat tighten. This human woman wanted to be with him, not the Prophet. It sent a thrill through him, and as much as he knew it was unwise, it was still something he wanted. Even as he nodded, he realised it was a mistake doomed to failure. "Yes," he stammered, the words reluctant to come. "I will come back."
Her hand pressed against the side of his face, her hot fingertips pulling against his cheek. "Don't just say it, Elan. Promise me, damn you. Be different from everyone else. Mean it."
Now the words came out too quickly, before his rational brain could intercede. His mind rushed ahead, forcing the words from his mouth. "I promise. I mean it."
Heather's eyes searched his, as if she was trying to read everything inside his head. In the heat-fogged parts of his mind, he understood that he'd just made things more complicated. Problems, questions, and concerns were already piling up, demanding answers. But as Heather tu
rned her body toward him, her face next to his, he forgot about the future for a moment. Her hand was so hot against his face; he couldn't think of anything else. "Damn you, Elan," she hissed at him, "Show me you mean it."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Buffeted by high-altitude winds, the shuttle cut its way through the clouds. Nose down in the thickening air, its engines whined as they worked to slow the descent. Below, a grid-like patchwork of square green fields stretched for miles across the fertile land of New Halifax. The straight lines of the transport network crossed over the fields, converging on a single point on the coast.
Dillon stood at the shuttle's hatch, looking out the small window. The cluster of distant white structures began to resolve itself into the sprawling complex of the Navy's command centre and the city beyond. Holding the grab bar on the ceiling, he leaned back from the window. The only other occupant of the shuttle's passenger bay was quiet, sitting with her blue and white robes gathered around her. Amba wore her tiara on her head and long white gloves on her hands. She was watching him, her blue eyes bright despite the shuttle cabin's dim light. "You are nervous, Feda."
"I am," replied Dillon. "I'm worried about what's going on."
"Of course," she agreed. "That's natural. It's informative that your commander specifically requested my presence."
"True," said Dillon. "And yet…" Wheels spun madly in his head, as he imagined what might develop, none of those possibilities very promising. Amba was still waiting for him to finish his sentence, but he could only shrug.
"And yet, Feda?" she said.
Dillon shook his head, trying to rattle his thoughts into place. "Maybe I'm overthinking this. But if something special is going on, why has everything been so damned ordinary today? No special fuss about docking at Borden station. We had to wait in line with the other ships. No screw-ups either, which is a nice change. They told us to drop everything and rush home, then they treat our arrival as routine. Conspicuously routine."
"You are right," said Amba. "You are overthinking things."
He smiled at her, sitting serenely on the bench. She had this way of preparing herself — he called it her 'game face', a phrase she found exasperating — of getting herself ready for interacting with other people. Not just the ritualised washing, which he'd seen numerous times in their offshore moments together. It was in the way she meditated, the way she drew herself inward. Her calm spread, until the lines on her face disappeared, the tension drained from her body, and she became a picture of poise and grace. Although she assured him she still felt stress and upset as much as he did, he never saw it on her. Even now, the way she folded her hands in her lap was graceful, calm and elegant. He'd pay good money to learn how to be so calm.
"A penny for your thoughts, Feda?" She was smiling at him. "Is that the saying?"
"Yeah," he said. "Amba, would you show me how to meditate some time?"
Her smile stretched into her eyes. "Happily, my love. But we will need more time than a single shuttle ride. Perhaps when our job is done, and we have some leave time together."
"I'd like that," said Dillon. "Just as soon as—"
There was a chirp from the wall console, and the pilot's clipped voice cut in. "Vulture to first-class lounge: contact in five. Your boss is outside, sir."
"Thank you, Vulture," said Dillon to the blinking console. He inspected his uniform, brushing specks of dust from his jacket. As the shuttle touched the ground and its engines slowed, Amba stood up, smoothing her robes with one fluid motion of her hands.
The shuttle's hatch slid open and the bright light of day spilled into the cabin, bringing a strong breeze of warm, earthy air with it.
Senior Captain West stood ten paces away from the shuttle, her arms folded across her chest. She was shorter than Dillon, with pronounced lines around her eyes and greying blonde hair. As Dillon and Amba stepped down from the shuttle, she unfolded her arms and approached.
Dillon straightened up and gave his best parade-ground salute. "Commander Dillon, reporting as ordered, sir."
West paused before returning the salute. Her eyes squinted to thin slits against the daylight, but he could see the hazel-tinted gaze flick from him to Amba, then back. "You're exactly on time, Commander. Welcome."
"Captain West," said Dillon. "This is the Tassali Yenaara. Tassali, this is Senior Captain West."
Captain West gave a curt nod of her head. "Pleased to meet you, your Grace."
"Senior Captain West," said Amba, her harmonic voice like a song. "I am likewise pleased to meet you. You are greatly respected by the crew of the Borealis."
"I am?" said West. She glanced back at Dillon. "What the hell have you been telling them?"
"I've been understating it, sir."
"I bet you have," said West. "Come with me."
West set off at a march across the landing pad, steering toward the main headquarters building. Dillon took a few quick paces to catch up, falling into step beside her. On the other side of West, Amba appeared, also keeping pace.
"So here's the deal," said West. She spoke as she returned the salutes of a group of technicians passing them. "I'll expect you to come make a full report later, Dillon. But not now."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Right now, you two have a meeting to attend."
"Sir? Just the Tassali and I?"
West didn't look at him as she walked, her eyes instead drawn to some sailors loading crates into a parked shuttle. "Should be using a loader," she muttered. "Anyway," she said, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of a shuttle flying overhead. "Yes, just the two of you. Whatever it is you're going to be doing, someone has decided that it's above my pay grade." Dillon saw her shrug at that. "I don't care," said West. "If the Admiralty wants to give you something to do, that's fine with me. I've got enough on my plate as it is."
"Aye, sir."
West cocked her head toward Amba. "Since you're invited, ma'am," she said, "it doesn't take a genius to figure out that this has something to do with the Palani. So, Commander, if you can, maybe let me know if a war's going to start. I'd appreciate advance notice of that sort of thing."
"Aye aye, sir," said Dillon.
The three of them entered the headquarters building. As the door closed behind them, the noise of the landing pad was abruptly replaced by the silence of the corridor. Their boots echoed as they walked past the paintings, flags and artifacts of the navy's past.
"You know," said West after a while, "I may have just failed at cultural sensitivity." She turned her head toward Amba. "I apologise, ma'am. Making a smartass remark about war with your people was in bad taste."
Tassali Yenaara gave a tilt of her head. "I had not thought of it, Senior Captain West. I am an exile. My homeworld's government does a lot of things I don't agree with." She paused a moment. "As the saying goes, 'don't worry about it'."
"Huh," said West. "Alright." Dillon noticed a grin tugging at the edge of West's mouth.
They rounded a corner, to see two armed sailors flanking a meeting room door. A third person was with them, a captain, dressed like Dillon but with a fourth stripe on his sleeves, and around his shoulder the braided gold rope of an aide-de-camp. He glanced up as they approached, his eyes widening as he stared at the Tassali before looking away.
The three officers exchanged salutes. "Admiral Clarke is inside," said the aide-de-camp, without introduction. "You're on time, Commander. Go right in." He nodded to Amba. "Your Grace."
Captain West took a step back. "This is as far as I go, Dillon. Whatever the big boss is up to, it's for you and the Tassali only. Come see me when you're done, if your orders permit." Another brief exchange of salutes, and West turned on the heel of her boot, marching back the way they'd come.
"Commander. Tassali," said the aide. The door to the room slid open, and he gestured toward it. "If you would, please. The Admiral is waiting."
Dillon walked between the two sailors at attention and into the room, with Amba close behind him.
/> There was a familiar voice as the door closed. "Tassali, Commander, come in. Right on time. Please join us."
Admiral Clarke, the Chief of the Naval Staff, was still fit and trim, but his coarse, short hair now had more grey, and the lines around his eyes seemed deeper. Next to him stood a Palani man: Dillon knew him too. "Admiral," said Dillon. "Ambassador." Off to his right, Dillon heard the soft rustle of Amba's robes. "Greetings to you, Admiral. Aasal, Ambassador Estelia," she said.
The two men were at the far end of the meeting room, away from the tables and chairs. Admiral Clarke leaned against a counter at the side of the room. The Palani ambassador, his blue hair run through with white, stood straight and still, his tired eyes watching Dillon. "Aasal, revered Tassali. Greetings, Commander. I am pleased — personally — to see you are both well."
"Thank you," said Dillon.
The Admiral pushed away from the counter, taking a weary step forward. "Commander, you've probably figured out by now that there's something going on that involves the Palani."
"Aye, sir."
"Just so we're clear, Commander: what we're going to be discussing is not to leave this room. Not Captain West, not your executive officer, not your chief, not your crew; nobody. The only other person in all of human space who knows about this is the Prime Minister. Not even the Defence Minister or the Cabinet know about this, and frankly they'd be furious if they did. If anyone else wants to know, refer them to me. Are we clear?"
"Aye sir," said Dillon. Amba nodded in agreement.
"Good." Admiral Clarke turned to the ambassador. "Your Excellency, go ahead."
Ambassador Estelia gave a deferential nod. "Thank you, Admiral Clarke." He bowed toward Dillon and Amba, and paused before he spoke, as if collecting his thoughts. "I have learned in my time in this post that some humans are capable of considerable discretion. You two have learned some dangerous truths about the Palani people. How the genetic weapon we created to defeat the Horlan was successful, but accidentally infected and killed a second civilisation, that we now call the Daltanin. A great crime that, if known, would cause permanent damage to Palani society."
