Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (14 page)

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 turned 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."

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.