Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (23 page)

The bottom fell out of Elan's stomach.
 
"I was wrong, then.
 
Not hours, just minutes."
 
He felt a flush of anger grow in his chest, followed by disappointment and frustration.
 
He pushed against the wall to get to his feet.
 
"I'm going to go pack.
 
You should too, if…"

But Heather had already stormed by him, still in her underwear, headed out the bedroom door with the datapad in her hand.
 
Elan followed her into the hall, turning toward the small room he'd been using.
 
He left the door open as he quickly put his few things in his satchel.
 
He'd known this time would come, but had hoped it would be tonight, on his own terms.
 
Now he would have to improvise.
 
He began to wonder where he had gone wrong, how he had been identified.

Heather was in the room next door, but her shouting filled the apartment.
 
"What the fuck, Carter?
 
You sold him out, didn't you?"

Elan couldn't see Carter, but he heard the man's voice.
 
"It's for the best," said Carter.
 
He didn't sound apologetic.
 
"I'm doing what's best for him, and for you.
 
You'll understand someday—"

"Who the fuck let you choose what's best for everyone, Carter?"

"I know you're upset, Heather, but—"

"You're goddamned right I'm upset, you sack of shit!
 
I'm—"

All the voices went silent, and Elan's heart seemed to stop in an icy chill, as the sound of the door chime rang throughout the apartment.

In the glare of the sun, Dillon squinted at Amba, his hand shading his eyes.
 
"How's your coldsuit holding up?"

She was a vision of blue and white, her tiara sparkling in the sunlight.
 
She turned toward him and smiled, but it stopped just short of her eyes.
 
He could see the discomfort written on her face.
 
"Could we find shade, Feda?
 
I fear I am asking too much of my coldsuit."

"Of course," said Dillon, leading the way north across the wide green lawn.
 
Ahead of them, the Houses of Parliament stretched across the top of the hill, dominated by the thin sandstone spire of the Peace Tower.
 
Other regions of the city were shaded by the giant parasol-like structures that unfolded over the skyline, but there were none on Parliament Hill.

He slowed his walk to Amba's pace.
 
Once the sun had come out, she had begun to wilt.
 
Initially, he'd suggested staying to indoor sites, but she'd insisted they make the visit.

Few people were about; it was mid-morning on a weekday, so most of those on Parliament Hill worked there.
 
All the same, several people had approached the two of them.
 
Naval uniforms were nothing new to Ottawa, but a Palani Tassali was.
 
She handled each person they met with her usual calm grace.
 
Dillon felt stiff and awkward when trying to make small talk.
 
A few civilians had given decidedly unfriendly looks, he'd noticed, but that was to be expected.
 
Relations with the Palani continued to deteriorate, and there were always those unable to see past the white skin and blue hair.
 
It was just as well that Chief Black hadn't come with them; one nasty look from a civilian, and she would've had them doing pushups amid a colourfully-delivered tirade.
 
She took care of her own, that one.

Walking under the archway at the base of the Peace Tower, Amba headed for a stone bench and sat down.
 
The security guards at the doors to Parliament were busy with a tour group, but one of them nodded their way.  Dillon returned the gesture before sitting next to Amba.

She was taking deep breaths, inhaling slowly and exhaling quickly.
 
Her face was shining as she turned toward him.
 
"I'm fine, Feda.
 
Just a bit warm."

"Then let's stay here a moment."

"Yes, please."

Dillon watched her eyes look up at the sculpted stone arches that supported the tower.
 
The pained expression on her face dissolved into her public smile as a security guard approached them.
 
"Excuse me, sir," said the guard.
 
He had the bearing of someone who had been in the military, and seemed for a moment like he was about to come to attention.
 
"Are you Commander Dillon from the
Borealis
, sir?"

"I am," said Dillon, standing up and reaching out his hand.

The guard grasped Dillon's hand in a firm handshake.
 
"I am honoured to meet you, sir."
 
He gave a slight bow of the head to the seated Tassali.
 
"Your worship, ma'am."
 
He was still shaking Dillon's hand.
 
"Name's Owens, sir.
 
I was aboard
Bonaventure
at the jumpgate.
 
You — both of you — and your crew saved all of us.
 
Thank you."

Keeping a smile on his face, Dillon cringed on the inside; he hated being singled out.
 
Like everyone else in the fleet, they'd just been scrambling like mad to stay alive.
 
It hadn't felt heroic at the time, and certainly not now.
 
"It was a team event, Owens.
 
We were doing our jobs, just like you.
 
Glad you're in one piece."

With one last shake, the guard let go of Dillon's hand and motioned toward the doors of Parliament.
 
"Sir, I'd be honoured to give the two of you a tour."

Dillon turned back to ask Amba.
 
Her eyes were losing their sparkle, her lids heavy, and her shoulders were beginning to slump.
 
When she saw him looking, the tight expression in her face changed into a smile.

"You know what, Owens?" said Dillon.
 
"I think the heat is getting to the Tassali.
 
We should've come in January, when it's more her kind of temperature."

"Oh," said the guard, his smile fading.
 
"I understand, sir.
 
Is she unwell?
 
Is there anything I can do?"

"Could you call a car for us, Owens?
 
An air-conditioned one?"

"Of course, Commander.
 
Right away, sir."

As Owens turned away and climbed the stairs, Dillon sat down next to Amba.

"I'm sorry, Feda," she said.
 
"The coldsuit can't do it.
 
I should've brought the armband."

"Doesn't matter," said Dillon, taking his datapad out of his coat pocket.
 
"We'll come back another time.
 
Right now, the most important thing is that we be ready for the meeting tonight."
 
He read the notifications that were popping up on his datapad.
 
"Oh, goddamn," he breathed.

Dillon glanced up as Amba turned her head toward him.
 
Behind her, a self-driving government car was coming up the long, curving avenue.
 
"Feda?" she asked.

He turned the datapad toward her.
 
"Cat's out of the bag."

She stared at him.
 

"The secret is out," he corrected.
 
"The media knows there's a Palani kid in Ottawa."

Amba nodded, but continued to stare at him, trying to form words.
 
He watched her, but his mind was already in gear, trying to figure out what to do next.
 
The plan had been laughable to start with, but now it was turning into a fiasco.
 
No more meeting under a streetlight at three in the morning; now they needed to find this kid immediately.
 

Dillon stood up, quickly brushing off his uniform as the car rolled to a stop next to them.
 
He wanted to throw something, to rage and scream, but instead he gritted his teeth and kept a pleasant smile firmly planted on his face.
 
He held out his hand to Amba, guiding her to the car's open door.
 

"Feda," she said, "where is he?
 
We need to get to him."

"Rockcliffe, it said," sighed Dillon.
 
"Near the spaceport.
 
I'll try to get some details while we're on our way.
 
Otherwise, we'll just follow the crowd of media."

Elan was just leaving his room, bag in hand, as the door chime sounded again.
 
Heather passed by him as Lakshmi emerged from her room.
 
"What's going on?" she asked.

"My secret is revealed," said Elan.
 
"I need to leave now."

Carter was in his room, watching a display on his wall.
 
"We should open the door," he said.
 
"It's a police officer."

Elan looked toward the front door, where Heather was at the console.
 
"He's wearing a respirator," she said.
 
Elan's stomach lurched, and he felt his breaths coming faster.
 
If the police officer was wearing a respirator, it was to protect himself from the
Iyurele
voice.
 
That meant he expected Elan to use the voice.
 
The officer was expecting trouble, Elan thought.
 
Something was going very wrong.
 

He took a single step into Heather's room and crouched, scooping a random pile of shoes and clothes into his bag.
 
As he stood back up, he heard the door console chirp; it was a new sound, unlike he'd heard before.

"What the hell?" said Heather.
 
"He's unlocking it himself?"
 

Elan backed out of Heather's room into the hallway.
 
Lakshmi joined Heather, just as the apartment door opened.

The police officer was tall, with close-cropped hair and a moustache.
 
He filled out his body armour, which shifted as he stepped over the threshold.

His voice wheezed through the respirator.
 
"Ma'am," he said to Lakshmi, who stood inside the door.
 
Elan could see the man's eyes go past her, trying to scan the inside of the apartment.
 
"I'm going to have to ask you to…"
 
He trailed off as his eyes met Elan's.
 
The brown human eyes went wide, and the man reached for his gun.

Elan wasn't sure where Heather's fist came from, but it connected with the police officer's respirator.
 
As the man reeled backwards, his arms raised reflexively to his face, Heather shoved past Lakshmi and charged down the hall toward Elan.
 
Her face was white, her eyes wide, and blood was already appearing on the knuckles of her right hand.
 
"Elan!" she cried.
 

He turned and started to run, back into his own room, straight for the window.
 
He knew how to open it — had practiced several times, just in case — and the glass easily popped out.
 
As the window fell to the ground outside, a wall of hot air washed into the room, like a blast from a furnace.
 
Elan gasped, and hesitated.

From outside the room, he heard Lakshmi scream.
 
The apartment echoed with the sharp crack of a gunshot, then another.
 
The man was yelling, his voice incomprehensible through the respirator.

Heather burst into the room, saw Elan and the open window, and headed right for it.
 
Raising one foot, she pushed off against the top of the mattress, launching herself toward the open window.
 
As the mattress shifted to the side, her body pivoted in the air, and she fell clumsily through the hole in the wall.
 
Elan heard her land with a grunt on the grass outside.

He'd never been athletic; exercise was considered unseemly for the Elanasal Palani.
 
He knew better than to try some elaborate jump out the window.
 
Tossing the satchel out onto the ground, he paused at the window, placing both his hands on the sill and beginning to lift himself up.

Heather's face, now flushed with red, appeared in front of his.
 
Her two strong hands grabbed his wrists, and she pulled.
 
His head and body lurched forward, his stomach and legs scraping against the sill.
 
He pivoted forward and tumbled to the ground outside.
 
Heather's grip shifted: she grabbed him under his left arm, hauling him up.
 
He stumbled, trying to get his feet under him and regain his balance.
 
In three staggering steps, he was pulled around the corner of the building and up against the wall outside Carter's bedroom window.

Elan fell to his knees and gasped to catch his breath.
 
Each gulp of air filled his lungs with fire, and his stomach felt like he'd been punched.
 
His shirt and coldsuit were torn, and his skin was spattered with blue blood where he'd been cut by the windowsill.
 

But already Heather was hauling him to his feet, her panting face next to his.
 
"Where do we go?" she gasped.

His mind was racing.
 
That man back there, dressed like a police officer, meant to kill him.
 
He was sure of it.
 
Seeking revenge, no doubt, for one of the colonists killed by the Palani fleet.