Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2)

by S. J. Madill

  He sighed and turned toward them. Pakinova, at the helm console, turned back to her display. The sensors tech quickly shifted back around in his seat, doing the same. But the Chief, at the supervisory console, sat quietly, watching him, an expression of infinite patience on her face. Even she didn't know. Their eyes met. After a few seconds, he silently mouthed the words: Fuck it. A single eyebrow was raised in response.

  "Chief," he said aloud, his mind made up. "Please ask all the officers to the bridge at once. All of them, even the off-duty XO. Quickly."

  "Aye aye, sir," said the Chief. Without breaking eye contact, her right hand shot out and grabbed the handset for the hailer.

  Shrill notes pierced through the ship, the simulated bosun's pipe making Pakinova jump in her seat. The sound had barely begun to fade before the Chief's voice boomed through the speakers. "All officers to the bridge at once. Immediate, immediate. All officers to the bridge."

  Within seconds, Tremblay returned from the wardroom, followed closely by Kalla. The XO had obviously still been awake, thought Dillon: not only was she on the bridge in moments, but she was still dressed and tidy, without a hair out of place.

  The two officers stood next to the captain's chair, their eyes on Dillon, confusion written all over their faces. He nodded at them, holding up one finger for patience.

  Before long, the faint, distant pounding of boots on decking grew louder, until the chief engineer entered the bridge. Lieutenant Campbell, wearing her spotless white overalls, halted next to Tremblay, panting, her face as red as her hair.

  "Campbell," said Dillon. "Never see you much. I'd almost forgotten you were aboard."

  "Keeping busy sir," she said. "Sir, is that why—"

  Dillon waved his hand. "No, this isn't about anything like that. Though I will need you, Campbell." He leaned back, trying to see past Tremblay. "Chief of the ship, would you join us, please?"

  Chief Black was already halfway to her feet, and stood next to the engineer. Dillon's eyes met hers for a moment, but her face gave nothing away. He'd known her longer than anyone here — they'd grown up on the same street — and he figured she had an idea what he was planning.

  Dillon sighed. "General Order Five-Seventeen specifically states that all of Her Majesty's Canadian Ships are to deactivate, secure, and seal their jump drives. Jump drive usage is strictly and specifically prohibited until further notice from the Minister of Defence."

  He saw it in their eyes. They knew what he was intending to do. Of course they had, he chided himself: they're all smart people. Very smart. "Lieutenant Campbell, I order you to unseal the jump drive, and prepare it for immediate use. I have specific reason to believe we need to get to our destination immediately. I believe we need to do this to gain control of a situation that, if allowed to continue, could lead to general war between humanity and the Palani empire."

  None of them registered surprise. They kept watching him, expressionless. Even the young Tremblay was taking it in, listening with quiet attention.

  "Just so we're clear," continued Dillon, "this is entirely my idea, and I am taking full responsibility. Any questions so far?"

  Executive Officer Kalla glanced at the other officers before back at Dillon. "Sir, you have information we don't. I don't know what's going on, but I understand the stakes. I'm not going to second-guess you. I'm in." Dillon thought he saw an extra something in her eyes, a suggestion of a squint. He wondered if she was busy rationalising all this, in preparation for the now-inevitable Admiralty inquiry. "Of course, sir," she continued, "I'll have to call this in, let New Halifax know. Regs say I have twenty-four hours to do that."

  Lieutenant Campbell watched the XO, then shrugged and smiled at Dillon. "Fine with me," she said. "I have no idea what's going on outside the engine room, but I can have the jump drive ready in five minutes or less."

  Dillon looked at Tremblay, who hadn't said anything, and was still watching him. "Sub?" he asked.

  The young officer thought about it for a moment before speaking. "Well sir, you wouldn't be doing this if you weren't sure about it. Awaiting your orders, sir."

  Lastly, Dillon turned toward Chief Black, whose face had relaxed, as though relieved of a great weight. He had started to feel it as well; the die had been cast, taking the weight of the decision with it.

  "Aye aye," said the Chief. "I'll enter this into the ship's log, as required. But," she said, a suggestion of a wink in one eye, "I write very slowly. This will take ages."

  "Thank you," said Dillon. "Get the remaining shuttle ready to go, and ask Petty Officer Lee to assemble a four-man team. Let me know the moment the jump drive is ready. I'm going to go put my armour on."

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Elan knew Heather was in trouble once her lips had turned blue.

  They were in the shelter of a shallow gully near a river, underneath a ridge. The wind barely reached here, and the bright blue sun was shining on them.

  He'd helped her wrap herself in the shining foil blanket from the ship's survival kit, which crinkled loudly whenever its thin material moved. In her glittering silver cocoon she sat against the short ridge, soaking up what little warmth the sun provided. The wind howled off the top of the ridge overhead, as it roared down the river valley toward the distant sea and the sun. Frequent dustings of snow washed over the lip of the ridge, covering them in layers of gentle powder. Elan hoped that the snow might have hidden their tracks by now.

  He lay next to her, naked but for the tatters of his coldsuit. The side of his body was against hers, the foil and cloth between them, though he knew his skin offered no warmth. He hoped his presence would shelter her from the wind and help her stay awake and alert.

  She had stopped talking some time ago; they both had. Even though it was unlikely their voices would carry any distance, fear kept them quiet. Her eyes watched his, and it was clear to him that she was suffering. The brief, convulsive shivering of her body against his had torn at his heart.

  As for himself, he was safe enough for now. Here, out of the wind, in the full light of the sun. The torn, inactive coldsuit kept out the sharpest bite of the wind.

  Elan wasn't sure how long it had been. Probably no more than a few minutes, though he had no frame of reference. On a tidally locked planet like this, the sun never moved in the sky; there was no change from day to night. There was nothing to suggest the passage of time apart from the slow sculpting of the snow around them, and the movement of clouds far overhead, headed outward from the sea toward the frozen horizon behind them.

  However long it had been, he'd come up with the beginnings of a plan. It gave him something to think about and, he hoped, it might give Heather a moment of hope; something to hold on to.

  A gust of wind threw his snow-flecked hair in front of his face, and he pulled the blue locks away from his eyes as he leaned in toward Heather. Her eyes, all that was visible under the layers of cloth, watched him.

  With one finger, Elan gently reached up and tugged the cloth away from her nose and mouth, before nudging it back into place. "Your lips aren't blue any more, Heather. You have a bit more colour, too. Are you feeling warmer? Even a little?"

  She gave a brief nod, which was interrupted by a shiver.

  "Good," whispered Elan. He could barely hear his own voice, over the roar of the wind above them and the hiss of shifting snow all around. "I saw the assassin's ship land, but I haven't seen it take off again. If you feel up to it, later on we could try to find his ship and steal it."

  Even though she didn't say a word, Elan knew that look in Heather's eyes: she was staring at him like he'd just declared his intention to grow a second head. "No, really," he said quickly. "If the assassin is out looking for us, his ship might be unguarded. We could try to sneak up on it."

  She was shaking her head. Her voice was quiet, but he could still make it out against the sounds of the wind. "You're nuts."

  "Well," he said, "we could wait until he leaves, then go back to our ship. It's shelter, and w
e could try to coax some heat out of it. I don't know if there's still batteries or not, but we could try to fix the communications. You know, send a signal of some sort to—"

  Elan heard something. He froze in mid-sentence. Heather's wide eyes told him she'd heard it, too. A footstep in the snow, on the ridge up above them. Elan couldn't bring himself to move; fear held him in place.

  There it was again. Another footstep, crunching in the snow mere metres above their heads. Then another. Several? Elan wondered if it was more than one person. He slowly turned his head, trying to see past the lip of the ridge above them, as fresh waves of powdered snow rolled over the edge and sprinkled down into his face and eyes.

  Louder footsteps. Faster. Two, three, then a loud sound of scraping, of snow being crunched as it was shoved aside. The sound moved; it was behind him now. He turned to look.

  Five metres away, a man was getting up to his feet. Tracks in the snow showed where he'd just slid down the slope from the ridge above. He was tall, dressed in an old environment suit, his body and helmet covered in snow. The man spun around a moment, then bent over and shoved both hands into the snow at his feet. As he straightened up, he pulled a laser carbine out of the snow, which he took in both hands and slowly pointed toward Elan and Heather.

  The man wore a respirator, and Elan could see his face: bright red, stung by the cold. The eyes were those he'd seen at the apartment in Ottawa. Tears were in the man's eyes.

  Elan shifted in front of Heather, as the man's voice wheezed and clicked through the respirator. "Get away from the hostage, snowflake." The tip of the carbine nudged to one side, reinforcing the command.

  "She's not a hostage," said Elan. Behind him, he felt Heather's body move. She was starting to squirm; he wondered if she was working herself free from the blanket, getting ready to try something. He hoped she wouldn't. Keeping himself in front of Heather, Elan slowly got to his feet, his hands held out from his sides.

  The man steadied his feet and held the weapon still. The muzzle was pointed right at Elan's chest. "Not a hostage?" said the man. "Then she's a traitor."

  "What have we done to you?" asked Elan. He knew what the answer was going to be, but he wanted to get the man talking. Something, anything; Elan's desperate mind sought to delay the inevitable.

  The man's voice was cracking through the respirator. "You killed my brother," he said. Elan could see tears growing heavy in the man's eyes. "Todd Brewster. He was on 'Freedom' colony. Went there with his wife Mary." The man sniffled, the sound causing the respirator to click. "They were peaceful people. And you murdered them! You goddamned—"

  "I didn't kill him," said Elan, even though he knew interrupting the man was a mistake. "I never even met him. So why do we have to die?"

  The wind was picking up; sheets of snow blew over the ridge, curling around Elan and the man with the gun.

  The armed human took a step closer, boot sinking deep into the snow, billows of white blowing around him. "You're all the goddamned same! You think you own the galaxy. You think you can tell everyone what to do." His voice rose to a shriek, the tip of the carbine waving about as he gestured. "You bastards need to pay. For Todd. For Mary."

  Behind him, Elan heard Heather move again. She was climbing to her feet, the foil blanket crinkling noisily. "So," said Elan, "you're going to stop the killing, by killing? Is that how we'll achieve peace between our people, by slaughtering each other?"

  The man held the carbine in one hand, gesturing back up the ridge toward the way they'd come. Wind blew around him, freezing his tears to his reddened cheeks, snatching away his angry words as he spoke. "Todd was my brother, you fucking monster. My brother! I can't—"

  Glittering red light erupted from the side of the man's helmet, spewing a burst of ceramic and crimson. A soft grunt came from the respirator, as the man's fingers went slack and the carbine slipped from his grasp. A bolt of brilliant orange light appeared from the top of the ridge, striking the side of the man's body with a sickening crunch. The man's body jerked awkwardly as his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground amid the crimson-flecked snow.

  An eerie silence followed. Even the roar of the wind seemed to fade for a moment. Elan felt Heather close behind him, and heard the catch in her breath. He stared at the man's body, still and silent on the stained ground, tiny wisps of condensation rising from the holes in his helmet and suit. He felt like he was going to be sick.

  There was more movement above him, at the top of the ridge. Five people in identical armoured suits, all holding weapons, approached the edge. With them, next to one of the bulky armoured suits, was a slender female figure. She was dressed in white and blue Palani robes that twisted and snapped around her in the wind.

  A clear voice broke the silence, coming from one of the armoured men. "Elanasal Palani? Heather Turnbull?"

  Elan nodded, but couldn't find any words. He just pitched forward onto his hands and knees, as his stomach cramped painfully. Behind him, he heard Heather's voice. "Yeah," she said, her voice strong in the swirling air. "That's us. You Commander Dillon?"

  "I am, miss. HMCS Borealis, at your service. Lee, get the shuttle over here."

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  On Dillon's desk, the glowing light of the holoprojector arranged itself into the shape of Admiral Clarke. The fleet commander was speaking before he was fully visible. "Commander Dillon."

  "Admiral sir," said Dillon. He hadn't been looking forward to this part; he'd spent the hour since they returned to the ship pacing the floor of his cabin. Even through the projector's imperfect image, he cold see the Admiral's usual calm had been upset. The older man seemed determined not to let it show, keeping his heavily-striped sleeves crossed on the desk in front of him. Or, Dillon wondered, perhaps the clear view of all that gold braid was to remind him who was in charge.

  "Commander," said the Admiral, pausing for a breath. "An hour and a half ago, we received telemetry from the Borealis that your jump drive had been used. Would you care to explain why this is? Is our telemetry faulty?"

  "No sir," said Dillon. "Your telemetry is correct. I had the jump drive unsealed, and I ordered a jump. It was in contravention of General Order Five-Seventeen, and it was my responsibility."

  Admiral Clarke gave a brief nod, apparently satisfied by that. Dillon always found it difficult to read people over a holographic channel. A projected image helped show body language, but on faces such as the Admiral's — where emotions rarely visited — it mattered little. The admiral sighed, one arm reaching out of view before returning with a mug. "I've just spent ten minutes being yelled at by the Defence Minister. I didn't much enjoy it, Commander."

  "No sir. I regret causing that, sir."

  "Mmm. I've been ordered to remotely disable the Borealis's jump drive, which I have done. I'm now to review your conduct regarding the incident. I suppose you and I are doing that now." The holographic admiral slowly took a sip from his mug, then put it down on the desk. "What is the current situation at your end, Commander? Speak freely, this is a gold-rated channel."

  "Aye, sir. We jumped to planet Twelve-India, where the assassin had chased the Palani prophet and his human girlfriend. We arrived in time to stop the assassin from killing them."

  "'Stopped', as in killed?"

  "Aye, sir. Turns out he was a relative of one of the colonists the Palani killed at 'Freedom' colony."

  The Admiral glanced away at an unseen terminal, then turned back to Dillon. "Intel suspected that. Poor bugger. Are the two kids safe?"

  "Aye, sir. Both are aboard and in the medical bay. They're fine, sir. We cooled off the xeno room in med bay, and the Palani kid is in there. The human girl — Heather — has bounced back from mild hypothermia, and is up and about." Dillon scanned his desk, looking for his pen. "Master Seaman Singh wouldn't say anything specific, but she said there were no health dangers for any of them. I take that to mean the girl is still pregnant with the prophet's child."

  "Huh," said the Admiral. "I honestly do
n't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing."

  "Me neither, sir."

  "Very well, Commander. I see that Borealis is underway at the moment. Where are you headed?"

  There was a chirp from the wall console above Dillon's desk, indicating someone was requesting entry to his cabin. The tag reader wasn't working again, he thought. He reached up and pressed the 'wait' button on the console. Whoever it was, there was no way they outranked an admiral.

  "Sir," he said to the holograph, "we're en route to Palani Yaal La. ETA is thirteen thirty tomorrow, sir."

  "Thirteen thirty," repeated the admiral. "I will tell the Palani ambassador, and then the Prime Minister."

  "Sir?" asked Dillon. "Has the Prime Minister not told the Defence Minister about any of this? I know it's above my pay grade, but it might make things easier if—"

  Admiral Clarke shook his head. "No, Commander. The Defence Minister doesn't know. And yes, it might make things easier. And yes, it's above your pay grade. Mine too. There's no secret that there's some disagreements between those two — it's in the goddamned media every night. Not a helpful thing, with fleets forming up on both sides. A lot of cranky people out there, Commander."

  "Aye, sir."

  Clarke leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on Dillon's through the projector. "Commander Dillon, I have been given very specific instructions. I need you to listen carefully."

  Dillon already didn't like the sound of that. He tensed up, reflexively sitting up straight in his chair. "Aye aye, sir."

  The Admiral looked away, at his unseen terminal again. "Commander, exactly what time do you have?"

  Now Dillon's apprehension was compounded by confusion. All time was centrally synchronised, apart from the traditional mechanical chronometer on the bridge… he checked his terminal. "Eleven forty-one, Universal Time, sir."

  "Same here," said the Admiral. "Commander, as I said, I have been given some very specific instructions. Now that I have reviewed your situation, as ordered by the Defence Minister, I must now begin the process to relieve you of command and order Borealis back to New Halifax."