Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (12 page)

Elan looked up at him.
 
"If the early European settlers wanted to build a fort or a shopping mall, and they found an Indian burial ground, they would dig it up and move the bodies.
 
In later times, they might have a token aboriginal representative come to bless the spirits."
 
He cocked his head.
 
"But in the end, the shopping mall still got built."

"So what?" scoffed Carter.
 
"They weren't using the place."

"Yes, they were," said Elan.
 
"They were using it as a graveyard.
 
Are your ancestors buried in graveyards?
 
What if a shopping mall were built on them?"

Carter took a breath to speak, then stopped.
 
Elan watched the tension drain from his face and body.
 
"Well, this is bullshit," said Carter, turning away.
 
He shook his head again, muttering under his breath as he stomped out of the apartment.

*
   
*
   
*

With slow, careful strokes, Heather applied a coat of strong-smelling sealant to her painting.
 
With each movement of the brush, she saw the deep blue eyes that stared out at her from the painting.
 
Eyes wide open to the universe and all it held.
 
Eyes full of wisdom and compassion.
 
She shook her head, as if to rattle the thought loose.

She hadn't intended to paint a face, much less one that looked like Elan.
 
It'd been a vague notion in her head.  Just a dim and unformed mass of colour and emotion that needed to be kicked out of her mind and onto the canvas.
 
But with each splash of the paint, each slashing attack of colour, the shapes had begun to arrange themselves.
 
A few careful lines to connect the thrown paint, and the final shape emerged.
 
Initially, the final image was a surprise to her.
 
But as she worked she realised it wasn't
actually
a surprise to her; just to her waking mind.
 
Clearly Elan had been occupying a part of her thoughts for a few days now.
 
She bit her lip.
 
This was the last thing in the world she needed right now.
 

Heather leaned back and scanned the canvas, checking for runs or drips in the sealant, making sure it had been applied evenly.
 
Those eyes were still watching her.

But then, why shouldn't Elan occupy her mind a little?
 
She'd met an alien once before, at an official function with her father.
 
She'd been a charmingly precocious five-year-old in blonde curls and a cute dress.
 
The Dosh naval attaché was there, with his or her partner.
 
She'd asked if they had any children, and the adults had all laughed.  Then, as usual, she'd been ushered off to sit with her nanny until her father was done. 

But she'd never met a Palani before.
 
Elan was so much more compelling than the Dosh.
 
Part of it was the striking appearance and the harmonic voice.
 
But part of it was just Elan; she knew he'd be just as interesting if he was human.
 
A calm, gentle presence that hid a fast-moving mind.
 
He had a quiet curiosity, with long silences that suggested inattention.  Then he'd say something insightful, something that showed his mind had been leaping from idea to idea all the while.

There was a knock at the doorway, and Heather realised she'd been kneeling on the floor, her brush dripping sealant.
 
She smiled at Lakshmi, who stood in the open door.
 
"Hey," said Heather.
 

"Hey," said Lakshmi, entering the room and closing the door behind her.
 
She wrinkled her nose.
 
"That stuff smells nasty; you should open a window or something."

"Oh," said Heather.
 
She turned her head toward the window behind her bed, at the far end of the room.
 
Outside, the tall towers of the sunshades were slowly opening across the skyline, unfolding like blossoms of gauzy filaments, creating a canopy of shade over the city.
 
"Looks hot today.
 
I don't want it to get disgusting in here."

With a soft thump, Lakshmi sat on the floor, leaning back against the bedroom wall.
 
Heather thought she seemed exhausted.
 
"Laks?" she asked, "You okay?"

Lakshmi reached up both hands, smoothing her long black hair with her fingers.
 
"Oh my god," she moaned.
 
"My brain is fried."
 
She met Heather's eyes.
 
"So.
 
Many.
 
Questions."

"Elan?"

"Yes, Elan.
 
He's… I don't know, he's obsessed with religion or something.
 
He kept asking me questions about Earth's religions.
 
The sorts of questions that piss off millions of people.
 
And half the time, I have no clue what he's even talking about."
 
She shook her head.
 
"And I'm supposed to be the theology major.
 
I should send him to finish my coursework."

"Hmm," said Heather.
 
She was distracted by a drip of sealant falling from the brush onto her knee.
 
Wiping the sealant off with her arm, she leaned forward to place the brush in its holder.
 
"I wonder if that's it?"

"What?" asked Lakshmi.
 
"I think you jumped a couple thoughts ahead of me.
 
You keep doing that."

"Huh?
 
Oh."
 
No one had ever told Heather that before.
 
Was Elan rubbing off on her?
 
She picked up a rag and started to wipe her hands. "I've been wondering why Elan ran away from his home.
 
I mean, I know it's none of my business, but I'm still curious.
 
I wonder if he's from a religious family, and his parents were difficult somehow."

Lakshmi laughed.
 
"You mean, he's shopping around for a new religion?"

"Why not?"

Lakshmi leaned her head back against the wall, gazing at the ceiling.  Like the walls, the ceiling was spattered with a random pattern of errant paint drops.
 
"What happens then?" she asked.  "He becomes a priest?
 
Is Earth ready for a Palani pope?"

Heather snorted.
 
"Pope-lani?"

Lakshmi covered her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle a giggle.
 
"Dalani-Lama?
 
Oh my god Heather, think of all the religious people who would go into conniptions."

There was a knock at the door, and Heather's snickering subsided.
 
"What the hell?" she asked.
 
"Is today party day in Heather's room?"
 
She raised her voice, speaking toward the door terminal.
 
"Come in!"

The door slid open revealing Blaine, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet.
 
His eyes were sparkling, his perfect teeth gleaming with a broad smile.
 
"You two have to see this."

Heather cocked her head, raising one eyebrow.
 
"What have you done, Blaine?
 
You look like you just found a box of kittens."

Blaine waved his hand.
 
"Better than that!
 
So much better.
 
Look, and behold!" he said, making a dramatic flourish with his arms.
 
"My greatest ever cosmetic creation."

Stepping aside, Blaine gestured theatrically to Elan, who stood behind him.
 
A knit cap on his head hid his hair, and revealed his face.
 
His tanned-looking face, and neck, totally covered in makeup; his skin tone now matched Blaine's.

Heather gawked, waiting for words to form.
 
"Oh my god, Blaine."

Elan smiled, a very human smile on a very human face.
 
"This is fun," he said.
 
"Blaine said he's going to take me outside.
 
We're going on a tour of the city."

"Exiting FTL in two minutes, Captain."

"Mmm," said Dillon around his pen.
 
"Thank you."
 
He poked again at his datapad, tapping to advance the pages of the document.
 
Tremblay's survey reports for the worlds they visited were exhaustive.
 
They were highly detailed, with maps and lists and links to reams of additional data in the form of sensor logs and analytical results.
 
The reports went on for page after page; it reminded him of the work Lieutenant Cho used to produce, back when he was with the
Borealis
.
 
Dillon wondered if Tremblay had slept at all in the past few days.
 
The data was expertly compiled, and was ready to be sent to Fleet as it was.
 
But Dillon felt compelled to double-check anything being filed, at least when it was being done in the ship's name.
 
One of Tremblay's comments struck him as overly speculative, and he decided to edit it out.
 
Highlighting things on the datapad interface was always such a pain in the ass.

Before long, he was hunched over the device on his lap, using both hands, his fingers trying to drag across the display in different directions.
 
He became acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look, and wasn't surprised to hear the familiar footsteps of Chief Black approaching his chair.

"Ah," she said, quiet enough that the rest of the bridge couldn't hear.
 
"The quiet dignity of the officer corps.
 
I am inspired, sir."

Still hunched over, he shot a withering glance at her before returning his attention to the datapad.
 
"So help me," he muttered.
 
This machine was not going to get the better of him.
 
Apparently, they were developed by ambidextrous polydactyls.

"Sir," offered the Chief, "Perhaps you should delegate.
 
You know, being the Captain and all…"

"Outstanding idea," breathed Dillon. Leaning back to crack his neck, Dillon sat upright in the captain's chair.
 
He held out the datapad.
 
"Chief of the ship, I order you to highlight and delete the third paragraph."

She solemnly accepted the datapad, giving a nod of her head.
 
"Aye aye, sir."
 
She turned toward the crewmembers at the helm.
 
"Pakinova, come here a sec."

The seaman stood from her seat, manoeuvring past the consoles to stand in front of Black.
 
"Aye, Chief?"

Black handed her the datapad.
 
"Leading Seaman Pakinova, I order you to highlight and delete the third paragraph."

"Aye aye Chief," said Pakinova.
 
She hesitantly accepted the datapad, her brow furrowing as she studied the screen.
 
Even as Dillon began to roll his eyes, he saw the flash of confusion on Pakinova's face.
 
The young helmsman poked twice at the datapad, and handed it back to Chief Black.
 
"Was there anything else, Chief?"

Dillon leaned over in his chair, trying to see the datapad the Chief held in her hand.
 
"That was it?"
 
he asked.
 
"How on Earth did you do that, Pakinova?"

Pakinova smiled at him.
 
"Witchcraft, sir," she said.

Chief Black handed the datapad to Dillon, and he made a face.
 
"Witchcraft, huh?
 
I see the Chief has been teaching you."

"Aye, sir."

Dillon sighed.
 
"Thank you both.
 
Carry on."

He gave his pen a few good nibbles as Pakinova returned to her console at the helm.  The Chief was wearing her usual 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' smirk.
 
Actually, she smirked a lot, he thought.
 
Might be one of those things they teach new chiefs:
 
how to always know more than everyone else, and how to look smug about it.

"Out with it, Chief."

The smirk turned into a smile.
 
"Tremblay has done it, Captain."

"Come again?
 
Has he finally snapped?
 
Do I need to order him restrained?"

"No, no.
 
Not yet, sir."
 
She leaned in closer, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially.
 
"At oh three hundred this morning, all hell broke loose in my cabin."

"But Atwell isn't even aboard.
 
You were by yourself."  Dillon pursed his lips.  "Maybe I don't want to know this."

She ignored him as she forged ahead.
 
"My console started swearing at me," she said, nodding for emphasis.
 
"Loud."

The pen in Dillon's mouth stopped moving.
 
"This is new."

"I know, right?
 
It seems the system had recorded every time I swore yesterday, and played it all back, in order."

"Good lord," said Dillon.
 
Chief Black's repertoire of obscenities was well documented.
 
"How long did it—"

Black held up four fingers.
 
"Four minutes, sir.
 
Four solid minutes of expletives, swearing, cursing and general-purpose potty mouth." She beamed at him.
 
"I almost cried."