Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (10 page)

Tremblay raised his hand.
 
Dillon could see the young Sub-Lieutenant's deep frown.
 
"Sir?"

"Go ahead, Tremblay."

"Sir, I read that some of the 'Human First' types want to start a war between the Palani and all of humanity."

"I read that too, Tremblay."

"Do you think it's true, sir?"

Dillon looked at his coffee cup, tracing his fingers around its rim.
 
"Well," he said after a moment's thought, "there are extremists, yes.
 
And likewise, there is a faction among the Palani who are pushing for war.
 
Any time there's a complicated problem, there are always some people who see force as a quick and easy way to resolve the problem.
 
It's easy to dismiss them, but we shouldn't.
 
They're smart people who honestly believe they're doing the right thing.
 
But once the shot leaves the gun, you can't take it back.
 
We need to make sure they don't send us all down a path we'll regret later."

"Aye, sir."

Dillon smiled at the bridge crew, who were still watching him.
 
He hoped he looked calm to them.
 
"Any other questions?"

"No sir," answered the three.

"Good, carry on then."

Dillon reached up above his chair, to the communications console hanging from the ceiling.
 
Next to it, a small plastic clip had been attached: a gift from the ship's former engineer, neatly labelled:
 
'Vish Mk.1a Captain's Pen Holder'.
 
Removing his pen from the holder, Dillon put the end in his mouth.
 
He grabbed his coffee and stood up from his chair, taking one last look at the display before visiting the wardroom.
 
He heard steps behind him, and saw Tremblay approach.
 
"Sir?" said the young officer, his voice quiet.
 
"Do you have a moment?"

"Absolutely, Sub."
 
Dillon glanced at the ship's clock.
 
"Wasn't your watch over a half hour ago?"

"Aye, sir.
 
Just finishing some reading.
 
Sir, may I ask your permission for something?"

Dillon nodded.
 
"Go for it."

"Sir, remember when we spoke earlier, and I had some questions…"

"I remember, yes.
 
I still don't have answers to everything."

"Aye, sir.
 
The Chief told me that, for some questions, I should ask the chaplain — the Tassali — herself.
 
I wanted to ask your permission to go talk to her, sir."

"You don't need my permission, Sub, but you have it."

"Thank you, Captain.
 
I didn't want you to think—"

Dillon gently waved his mug back and forth.
 
"We're all adults here, Sub.
 
You ask her whatever you need to, and she may or may not answer, depending on what she is able to say, or is willing to say, or whatever.
 
It's fine."

"Aye, sir."

Dillon turned to leave the bridge for the wardroom, but stopped when he saw Tremblay hadn't moved.
 
The young officer was clearly hesitant about something.
 
"Sub?" asked Dillon.
 
"Was there something else?"

Tremblay leaned in toward Dillon, his voice much quieter.
 
"Sir, may I ask a hypothetical question?"

"Ah," breathed Dillon.
 
"I see.
 
Yes, of course.
 
You may ask a hypothetical question.
 
But the answer will probably be hypothetical as well."

"Aye, sir.
 
Well," began Tremblay haltingly.
 
He'd clearly been mulling something over.
 
"Suppose that a senior NCO was playing pranks on a junior officer.
 
What would happen if the junior officer tried to prank them back?"

Dillon smiled with relief.
 
For a moment, he'd been afraid that the question was going to be about something thorny, like fraternisation, or misconduct, or the hockey pool.
 
"Well," he said quietly, "hypothetically, there would be a few rules.
 
First, no killing or maiming.
 
Second, don't do anything to the ship that can't be undone without a shipyard.
 
Third, don't end anyone's career.
 
And finally — this is the big one — whatever you do, don't be an asshole."

He saw a small grin form on Tremblay's face; it had a mischievous curl to it Dillon hadn't seen before.

The Sub-Lieutenant gave a brief nod of his head.
 
"Aye aye, sir.
 
Thank you, sir."

"Also," said Dillon, taking his pen out of his mouth and pointing it at Tremblay.  "Remember that if your hypothetical NCO were the Chief, you'd be taking on one of the best."
 
He raised his mug in a toast.
 
"Godspeed to you, Sub."

"Aye aye, sir."

*
   
*
   
*

Slender, pure white fingers danced on the desktop, keeping time with the woman's soft singing.
 
Her harmonic voice breezed through the octaves, singing the song she'd known since childhood.
 
A song her mother had sung, so long ago now, of the gentle young maiden who charmed the mountains with her song.

Tassali Yenaara still remembered her mother's voice; could still see her face.
 
She could clearly recall the scent of her mother's perfume; it was hard to find now, as it was made from the crushed berries of the nearly-extinct
valaan
tree.
 
It all seemed so very long ago:
 
the rituals of family and kinship; the gatherings and meals of the High Holidays; the procession on Elinth's night.
 
All the long days spent learning about Palani religion, culture, and history.
 
The life she'd once known.

Putting down her datapad, she looked around at the small cabin.
 
Even now, after a year and a half, she still found herself pausing to reflect on where she was and how it was she'd wound up here.
 
And how totally, completely unlikely it all seemed, sometimes.

Being born with the inherited genes of the Tassali meant a life of service in the Temple.
 
Being elevated to the full status of the position brought with it some power and responsibility.
 
And travel, too. Twenty long, exciting years with her team of
Artahel
commandoes, patrolling the thousands of planets of the Burnt Worlds.  They were highly trained and endlessly vigilant, protecting the graveyard of the Palani people from artifact hunters and other opportunists.

And, in so doing, through exploring ancient ruins on long-dead worlds, she came face to face with the past of the Palani people:
 
old knowledge, unknown truths, hidden crimes.
 
Crimes she could not reconcile with her faith; crimes which the Temple did not wish to discuss, which they sought to suppress.
 
But she wouldn't be silenced.
 
Then came the denunciations.
 
The house arrest.
 
The escape into exile, aboard a doomed ship. Days floating in an escape pod, alone, unsure if being found would mean rescue or execution.

She blinked.
 
Here she was again, forgetting what she should be doing.
 
Instead, she was distracted, staring out the window at the blackness beyond.
 
The familiar tapestry of unknown stars against the darkness, sliding by as the ship raced through space.

This ship.
 
The ship that had found her in that escape pod.
 
She'd never met a human before, and then she'd been rescued by them.
 
The humans, and their Captain.
 
The one who had become a part of her life, whom she now called
Feda
.
 
She smiled to herself.
 
He still didn't know how the Palani word translated, but he'd come to know what it meant.

Her reflection in the window smiled back at her.
 
The white of her face, relaxed and calm; the blue of her hair, gathered neatly about her shoulders.  She wore the diaphanous blue and white robes of a Tassali, and underneath, the gleaming white of her form-fitting coldsuit.
 
Through meditation and occasional use of the coldsuit, she could keep her body temperature at twenty degrees Celsius.  That was far higher than the usual nine degrees of the Palani, but still below the human norm of thirty-seven.
 
She could match human temperature for short periods, through intense meditation and some help from drugs.  For her
Feda
she had often done so, but it was difficult, and they had agreed there would be no intimacy while aboard the ship.  As he said, it was to be 'strictly business'.
 
But that was difficult, too.
 
Very difficult, at times.

She let out a yawn and turned back to her desk and the datapads spread out before her.
 
One of the new crewmembers belonged to a subset of Christianity called 'Finnish Lutheran'.  As the ship's chaplain, she intended to learn everything about it, to better understand the crewmember's spiritual needs.

No sooner had she picked up a datapad then there was a chirp from the door console.
 
She glanced at the clock.
 
Her
Feda
wouldn't be off duty for another five hours.

"Who is it?" she asked.

The console beeped at her.
 
It still had trouble understanding her voice sometimes; apparently, her harmonics were too complex for the computer.
 
She leaned forward and tapped a button on her desk console.
 
"Please come in," she said, releasing the button.
 
As the airlock cycled, she gathered up her datapads and cleared the desk.
 
The temperature difference between her cabin and the rest of the ship was only a few degrees, so the airlock finished quickly and the inner door opened.

"Ah," she said.
 
"Sub-Lieutenant Tremblay.
 
How nice to see you."

The young officer blushed, his face reddening.
 
He pulled at the cuffs of his jacket as he stepped forward.
 
His eyes met hers, and he looked away.
 
She knew how most of the crew — male and female — looked at her.
 
Not in an inappropriate way, not any more, but as an exotic outsider.
 
Some stared, some averted their eyes, while some had eyes that wandered.
 
But they all had the same curiosity.

"Tassali, ma'am," said Tremblay.
 
"Is now a good time, ma'am?"

She gestured at the cabin's other chair.
 
"Now is an excellent time, Sub-Lieutenant.
 
This is a lovely surprise."

He moved slowly, his arms stiff against his sides.
 
"Thank you ma'am," he said, taking the offered seat.
 
She watched as Tremblay sat an arm's length from her, clearly self-conscious about being so close.
 
He fidgeted in the chair, sliding it back a few inches on the floor.
 
She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.
 
It was a gesture she'd seen humans use, usually to indicate a level of comfort.

Tremblay didn't seem ready to speak, so she started instead.
 
"We're heading home a bit early, but nevertheless we're coming to the end of your first deployment.
 
It is a large step in your career, isn't it?"

The Sub-Lieutenant seemed tense, like a coiled spring.
 
"Aye, ma'am."

"What are your impressions, Mister Tremblay?"

"Well, ma'am, I guess I'm surprised by a few things."

"Oh?
 
What sort of things?"

"Well," said Tremblay, glancing at the wall as if for answers, "I'm surprised at how casual things are.
 
I mean, some things are strict, like watch times and the like.
 
But other things seem really relaxed, compared to the Academy."

"That depends on the captain, Mister Tremblay."

"Please ma'am, call me Eric."

The Tassali nodded.
 
"Thank you, Eric.
 
And yes, it depends on the captain.
 
Commander Dillon tends to prioritise things:
 
results first, and procedures second.
 
In your career, you will no doubt find other officers who do things differently."

Tremblay was leaning forward a little, she noticed.
 
He was beginning to relax, and there was something he wanted to ask about.
 
She expected she wouldn't have long to wait.

"Yes, ma'am.
 
Commander Dillon does seem to be relaxed as long as the results are good."
 
He was watching her, perhaps waiting for a visual cue.
 
She offered a warm smile.

"So, uh, ma'am, why I'm here is, I have a question about your people."

"By all means, Eric.
 
But I doubt most Palani would consider me one of their own, not any more.
 
I am very much an exile."

"Aye, ma'am.
 
I have this theory, ma'am.
 
Here, in this second universe, the Daltanin were attacked and wiped out seven hundred years ago.
 
That's the same time as your own people were attacked by the race you call the Horlan. It's connected, isn't it ma'am? That's why you're here, because of the connection between the two?"