Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (19 page)

"So…" said Amba, hesitating, "the prophet wants to meet us in front of your old Parliament, at three in the morning, next Friday?"

"Yeah," grunted Dillon.
 
"I don't believe this."

"I do," said Amba.

Dillon took his hand away from his forehead.
 
"You do?
 
Do you know what this sounds like?"

There was a hint of a smirk on Amba's face.
 
"I do, Feda.
 
It sounds like a young man's idea.
 
He's never been out of the temple in his life.
 
He wanted to craft a message that no one in human space would understand if they read it.
 
His options were limited."

"Fair enough.
 
But has the kid been watching old spy movies or something?"

"Worse," said Amba.
 
"Palani religious movies."
 
She shook her head, smiling.
 
"If you ever displease me, I will make you watch one."

Dillon held up his hands in surrender.
 
"Oh, don't worry, I already know not to displease you."  He gestured at the datapad again.
 
"So next Friday, three in the morning, on Parliament Hill on Earth."
 
He shook his head.
 
"I can't believe I'm agreeing to this.
 
We'll probably have to meet under a streetlight or something."
 
He glanced over at her.
 
"Do you have a fedora?"

Amba's eyes shot up to meet his, anger flashing in her eyes.
 
"Pardon me, Feda?" she said slowly.

Dillon winced at the glare; he hadn't expected that.
 
He quickly reached up his hands, miming putting on a hat.
 
"Fedora.
 
An old style of headwear, associated with spy movies."

She looked confused, her head tilting slightly.
 
"Oh?"
 
Her expression softened.
 
"
Oh
.
 
I'm sorry, Feda.
 
I was surprised.
 
That word means something different in Palani."
 
She shook her head.
 
"
Quite
different."

Defence Minister Gibson looked straight into the glare of the lights, his jaw set tight and his knuckles visibly white where they gripped the podium.

"For the third time in two weeks, the Palani regime has brutally attacked a human colony in the Burnt Worlds.
 
All the colonists were murdered in the unprovoked attack.
 
This deliberate campaign of aggression must, and will, have serious consequences.
 
In concert with other human governments, we are forming a broad coalition to respond to the clear Palani threat.
 
The governments of the United States, the United Kingdom, and the Republic of India have already publicly committed to countering this growing threat."

Somewhere amid the harsh light, a reporter raised his hand.
 
"What of the Palani assertions that they consider the Burnt Worlds to be war graves, and that they have warned us for years against colonising?"

Gibson nodded thoughtfully, paused a moment, then began to tap on the podium as he replied.
 
"What's important here is the protection of human lives, in what is essentially a genocidal threat.
 
Regardless of the origin of these human settlements, it remains that these are humans." His eyes scanned the room, as if to make eye contact with the reporters behind the lights.
 
"These colonists are our family, our friends.
 
Our species.
 
Humanity must stand for humanity, or else we will fall."
 
He gave a carefully-measured shrug, opening his hands.
 
"Where do we draw the line?
 
How many dead humans do we permit?"
 
Gibson shook his head, frowning.
 
"None, I say.
 
We are a peace-loving people — everyone knows that — but we will not stand by and allow humans to be murdered by a brutal theocratic regime.
 
We cannot let might make right.
 
We cannot—"

"Asshole," said Heather, as she pushed a button and the screen went blank.
 
She picked up her empty bowl and stood, taking a moment to stretch before padding across the living room floor in her bare feet.
 
She didn't know why she ever turned on the morning news; it was too early in the day for that bigoted sack of shit.
 

Bumping into the corner of the counter as she passed, Heather let out a grunt and started to fumble at opening the dishwasher.
 
Someone moved the counter again.
 
Every morning, it seemed to be in a slightly different place.
 
It lay in ambush, waiting to jump in front of her and bruise her hips again.
 
With a rattle of dinnerware, the dishwasher door fell open.
 
She lazily poked her bowl at the full rack, trying to solve the puzzle of dirty dishes.
 
After fumbling for a while she paused, staring at the dishwasher.
 
God, she hated morning.
 
She had never been very good at them, but today was determined to be particularly hellish.
 
Where was her coffee?
 
Finally, a bowl-sized gap revealed itself in the rack of dishes and she slid the bowl in and closed the door.

Leaning with both hands on the edge of the counter, Heather faced her nemesis:
 
the coffee maker.
 
Once again, she had given it all it desired — ground beans and water — and once again it had chosen to sit there in silence, mocking her.
 
Yet another of the many trials of morning.
 
By god, she thought — human, Palani, Dosh; any god would do — but her mind was a fog today.
 
She yawned.

Heather smelled Lakshmi before she saw her.
 
The scent of vanilla and sandalwood arrived in the kitchen a moment before the black-haired woman was standing next to her.
 
"Oh, sweetie," laughed Lakshmi.
 
"Are you having a bad morning?"

"Yeah," croaked Heather.
 
She hadn't used her voice yet, and it wasn't ready.
 
Her brain was still stuck in a frustrating loop, aware that something wasn't right with the coffee maker, but unable to deploy enough horsepower to actually figure it out.

Lakshmi glanced at the coffee maker, then at her.
 
"Sweetie," she said.
 
Her voice was soothing.
 
"Have you tried turning it on?"

Heather blinked.
 
Jesus fuck
.
 
Leaning forward, she reached out with her right hand and poked the button on the front of the coffee maker.
 
It gave a perky chirp in response.

Beside her, Lakshmi was pouring water into her old-fashioned kettle.
 
"Where are you going today, H?"

She frowned at Lakshmi.
 
"Huh?
 
I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh.
 
I thought, since you had shorts on… aren't you cold?
 
We turned it down in here for…" she trailed off, concentrating on her kettle.

"Nah," said Heather.
 
"I just really find it hot in here today.
 
And it's fine, I won't catch on fire if you mention Elan."

Lakshmi's kettle started making ticking noises as it heated up on the stove.
 
She had opened the cupboard, and was rummaging through small colourful boxes of teabags.
 
"Well, I think the friendly little snowman went and used up all my Darjeeling.
 
I don't know how he could drink hot tea, when his body is so cold."
 
She frowned at the cupboard.
 
"So it's just Earl Grey left, I guess.
 
Bleh."

Heather's attention remained on the coffee machine, whose timid drips were gradually filling her mug.
 
Before long, Lakshmi's water had boiled and she'd made her tea.  But Heather's coffee continued to drip, drawing out the brutal agony of the caffeine-free start to her day.
 
At long last, the machine chirped and fell silent.
 
Heather reached forward and picked up her mug, careful not to spill any of it as she retreated across the apartment to her room.
 
Once inside, she navigated the flotsam on the carpet, raising the mug to her lips.
 
As if on cue to thwart her, there was movement in the open door.

Carter stood there, his hands in his pockets, glancing around the room.
 
His eyes lingered on the painting on the desk, and its blue eyes that looked out at the room.
 
"So, Heather, can I talk to you for a sec?"

"Sure," she said.
 
Apparently she was meant to have cold coffee today.
 
Doesn't matter, she thought; cold coffee was still coffee.

"Look," said Carter, stepping around the piles on the floor.
 
"I know it's been a tough couple days for you, since he left you but…"  He paused, making eye contact with her as he pulled a hand from his pocket and gently put it on her shoulder.
 
"Sure, I'm an idiot sometimes, but I'm here for you, you know, if you want to talk to someone."
 
He took a step back, shrugging.
 
"Anyway, I'm here."

"Thanks, Carter," said Heather, forcing a smile to her lips.
 
He smiled in return and left the room, turning in the direction of the kitchen.

What an ass
, she thought.
 
Barely two days, and already the insincere, manipulative weasel was trying to work his way back into her life.
 
He'd feign affection and love as much as it took to get what he wanted, from her or anyone.
 
It would be better to be alone.

Heather walked back through the debris on the floor, kicking some of it aside as she approached the door console.
 
She pushed a button, and the door chirped as it locked and set itself to reject entry requests.
 
Poking another button, there was a second chirp as she adjusted the room temperature a little lower.

Turning back to her room, mug in hand, she approached the blank canvas on the wall.
 
It wasn't going to paint itself.
 
Time to get to work.

"About bloody time," said Dillon, settling into his chair on the bridge.
 
"Comms, have you confirmed we have the all-clear to undock?"

"Confirmed, sir."

"Outstanding.
 
Helm, docking thrusters.
 
Take us out, please."

"Aye aye sir," said Pakinova.
 
"Docking thrusters, sir."

The steel wall of the station's docking ring was visible to the left of the bridge, and it appeared to slide farther away as the
Borealis
undocked.
 
As the ship tilted her nose up and began to move forward, the dock slid down and away until the station's entire kilometre-wide docking ring came into view.
 
Barely visible in the distance was the second ring of the station, filled with civilian facilities like docks, warehouses, hotels and offices.

"Sir," said the communications tech, "starport control advises we're the only ship underway in the system.
 
We're free to manoeuvre."

"Very well," said Dillon, reaching for his pen in its overhead holder.
 
"Mister Tremblay, please plot a course to the Sol system, Rubicon Station."

"Aye aye, sir," said the young Tremblay, sitting at the supervisory console.
 
Chief Black stood nearby, watching over his shoulder.

"By the way," said Dillon, beginning to chew at the end of his pen, "did we hear back from Rubicon?"

"No sir," said Tremblay.
 
"No response yet."

"Shit.
 
That probably means they won't be able to expedite us.
 
Let me know."

"Aye aye, sir."

Dillon reached for his mug, and was surprised to find the cupholder empty.
 
He must have come to the bridge without it.
 
Instead, he redoubled his efforts on his pen.

If they didn't get expedited through Rubicon station, it would mean another delay.
 
The station, at Pluto, was run by the United Nations to enforce the Rubicon Treaty's one simple rule:
 
no armed ship may ever approach Earth.
 
So a ship on a goodwill tour of the homeworld had to stop and have all her weapons disarmed, either by off-shipping ammunition or by removing critical components.
 
The normal processing time for disarmament and verification was 48 hours.
 
At this point, their information about the Palani prophet was so dated, he could be anywhere.
 
Never mind finding him before he left; Dillon would to be happy to find the kid before he died of old age.

"So," said the Chief, who had approached without him noticing, "a friendly goodwill visit to Earth.
 
Three-day passes to the surface for everybody.
 
Quite a nice surprise."

"It is," said Dillon.
 
He made eye contact with the Chief, and saw her raise an eyebrow.

"So whatever's going on," she said quietly, "is obviously above my pay grade."

"Oh yes," said Dillon.
 
"Very much.
 
You would be surprised."

"Fine," she said.
 
"So, without giving anything away, do you have any 'completely unrelated and off-topic' suggestions for our visit to Earth?"