Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (25 page)

"He can," said Amba from a few feet away.
 
"I assure you, sergeant, he very much can."

Ontelis glanced up from his desk as his assistant Lalinn entered his office.
 
She bore a scroll in her hand and from the way she avoided eye contact with him, he knew she didn't want to give him whatever news she carried.

He carefully put down his stylus, and clasped his hands together on the desk.
 
The scroll he had been reading began to roll itself back up, curling itself into a tube and withdrawing to the edge of his work space.

"Bad news, Lalinn?"

"Yes, Master Pentarch," she said, holding the scroll out toward him.
 
"Human media is reporting shooting on their homeworld.
 
A camera showed a Palani man in the area of the shooting."

Ontelis paused, his hand stopping in mid air, fingers hanging next to the offered scroll.
 
"Oh," he said quietly, then took the scroll.
 
As he put it down on the desk, it began to unroll.
 
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lalinn turn to leave.
 
"Please, stay a moment," he said.
 
The young woman turned back toward him, creases of worry etched onto her porcelain face.

Giving her a thin smile, he turned back to the scroll.
 
Lines of text were mixed with video images; recordings played as he read through the report.
 
Human media was reporting a young Palani man caught on surveillance cameras, running through the too-green grass of a residential area.
 
With him was a human female with golden hair, perhaps the same age as him.
 
They were both underdressed, not surprising given the extraordinary temperatures — lethal to an unprepared Palani — in the human city.
 
According to the report, the two were fleeing a residence where a shooting had occurred.
 
Several people had been injured, and whether the Palani and the gold-haired woman were victims or perpetrators was not known.

Ontelis realised he was rubbing his hands on his legs, repeatedly smoothing the fabric of his robes.
 
Forcing himself to stop and concentrate on calming his breath, he reached up and tapped one finger on the scroll.
 
The pictures were of excellent quality, but the two fleeing figures were only in it for a few moments.
 
The images paused mid-motion, and with a gesture from Ontelis' thin fingers, the picture expanded to fill the scroll.

There was no doubt — that was the Elanasal.
 
His face was clearly visible to the camera as he turned to say something to his human companion.

Ontelis leaned forward.
 
The prophet was wearing his coldsuit under some light clothing, which was badly torn on the front.
 
The coldsuit was damaged as well; there appeared to be bloody scratches on the Elanasal's stomach.
 
Perhaps from fleeing the building?
 
Obviously the Most Holy was not the perpetrator of violence, but was fleeing from it.
 
But what about the human girl?

He looked up at Lalinn, one finger still pointing at the image.
 
"Do we know who this human is?"

Lalinn shook her head, her hands held together behind her back.
 
"No, Master Pentarch.
 
Shall I ask the intelligence services for information?"

"Yes, please," said Ontelis.
 
He let the image run again, looping through the same few seconds of motion.
 
"But they won't have anything."

"I understand, Master Pentarch."
 
She became quiet, but Ontelis had heard the question in her voice.
 
"Yes, Lalinn," he said.
 
"It's the Elanasal Palani."

"The public will have seen this, Master Pentarch.
 
They will know that a Palani is on Earth, fleeing from an attacker."

"Yes," he said.
 
He leaned carefully back in his chair, eyes wandering toward the window and the bright sky beyond.
 
Thin slices of light had begun to sneak through, as the sun moved slowly across the sky.
 
"Yes.
 
But they must not know it is the Elanasal.
 
We will say…"
 
He thought about that for a moment.
 
Palani didn't go to Earth, any sooner than they would rush to visit the cannibalistic Nii, or dive into the bottomless fluids of the Freem.
 
Human barbarity was a well-known fact.
 
Or, he thought, it was
taught
as a well-known fact.
 
"We will admit that it is a Palani youth.
 
However, we will stress that it is a confused young man who has run away from home, and needs our help and understanding.
 
Just an ordinary frightened boy."

"We will lie, Master Pentarch?"

"We will," he said.
 
He hardly heard his own words.
 
How low would they have to go?
 
What other compromises would be needed to avoid a war?
 
He knew this feeling:
 
it was one of those moments when he felt a tick of the clock, another step toward being old.
 
He would have to tell the other Pentarch.
 
Threnia would call for an armed rescue mission.
 
Apart from the pacifist Balhammis, the others would probably support the idea.
 
So, he thought, he could no longer stop it.
 
Instead, he could only attempt to delay it.
 
He could stall, to allow the Exile and the human commander time to find the Elanasal first.
 
He hoped that would be enough.

Dillon stepped through the hatch and onto the bridge.
 
"Is everyone aboard?"

"Good afternoon, sir," said Lieutenant Kalla, stepping down from the captain's chair and giving a brief salute.
 
She pulled a datapad from her pants pocket.
 
"No sir, we still don't have everybody aboard yet."

"We don't?
 
Damn it," said Dillon, checking the mechanical clock on the bridge's aft bulkhead.
 
"Four hours, and we don't have everyone.
 
When I said I wanted everyone ready to leave Earth on short notice, I didn't mean four hours."

Kalla poked at her datapad as she came to stand next to him.
 
"For a three-day leave, sir, regs say 'short notice' is six hours.
 
We're ahead of schedule."

"I know, I know."
 
He knew he should've specified 'immediate' or 'prompt'.
 
But it had been important to maintain the fiction.
 
The Palani kid's presence on Earth was now all over the media, and neither the police nor the intelligence services knew where he was.  They hadn't found him, or the human girl with him, or the guy who shot up the neighbourhood.
 
The best lead they had was a couple of gate guards at the Rockcliffe spaceport who vaguely remembered seeing a white-skinned kid, but couldn't elaborate.
 
That was enough for the Tassali; she was now convinced the Palani prophet had tricked the spaceport employees into letting them board a ship.

"Kalla?" asked Dillon, climbing into his chair.
 
"Double check the sensor logs, will you?
 
Rockcliffe spaceport departures, today between eleven-thirty and noon."

"Aye aye sir," she said.

It was Kalla's first tour as a ship's 'XO', or second-in-command.
 
Dillon had already submitted several performance reviews for her.
 
He was determined to make sure merit was recognised, and Kalla had it.
 
With a two-crew system to keep
Borealis
running day and night, he really only saw her when they handed the bridge off to each other.
 
But he'd spent a lot of time talking to crew on the night shift, and they were impressed with her, especially her knowledge of regulations and protocol.
 
It was as if she'd memorised the whole damn book.

Across the bridge, the communications tech looked up from his console.
 
"Sir, incoming message from traffic control—"

"I've got it," said Kalla over her shoulder.
 
She glanced up at Dillon, then back to her datapad.
 
"Sir, it says the Brits have found our Lieutenant Campbell.
 
She was in the middle of a loch in Scotland, shovelling coal aboard a steam-powered museum ship.
 
Her datapad was non-functional."
 
She swiped at her datapad with two fingers.
 
"So, as soon as the RAF delivers our chief engineer to us, we'll have everybody accounted for.
 
ETA is ten minutes, sir."

"Have them bypass the station and dock with us directly," said Dillon.
 
He noticed he was drumming his fingers on the arm of the captain's chair.
 
Once again, everything was taking too damn long.
 
"And what about that sensor log?"

"Still shows the same, sir," said Kalla.
 
"Only one ship left Rockcliffe spaceport within that time window.
 
Lightning
class, registration 'Foxtrot Sierra one three'."
 
Dillon saw the question in her eyes.
 
"Think they're on it, sir?" she asked.

Dillon shrugged, making a face; he wanted to throw up his hands and start yelling.
 
"Goddamned if I know, XO.
 
Did the freighter file a flight plan?
 
Let me guess: no?"

Kalla was poking at her datapad again.
 
She spent more time staring at that thing than at the world around her.
 
But she sure as hell got stuff done with it.
 
"No flight plan, sir.
 
It's an indie ship, so—"

"Yeah," said Dillon, checking the clock again.
 
"I know.
 
Uninsured indie freighters can opt not to file a flight plan."
 

"True," said Kalla.
 
"But departures are filed.
 
If we know about the freighter, sir, then the shooter could also find out."

"And possibly get to the destination before us.
 
Maybe even be waiting for them."
 
He resumed drumming his fingers.
 
"Why the hell didn't those kids just come to us?"

"No shuttles were available after the shooting started, sir.
 
Not from Rockcliffe, not until mid-afternoon."
 
She cocked her head slightly to one side; Dillon had noticed she seemed to do that whenever she engaged her imagination.
 
He couldn't wait to play poker against her.
 
"Scared to death, sir.
 
I guess.
 
Took the first ship to anywhere."
 
Kalla paused, turning her eyes toward him.
 
"I can't say I would've done any differently, sir."

"Yeah," he said.
 
He remembered all the times he'd felt frightened and in over his head.
 
It wasn't always possible to trust you'd make the best decisions, with fear pushing itself into the front of your mind.
 
Short-term survival goals trump everything.

"Sir," said the comm technician, "incoming transmission."

"Got it," said Kalla, eyes on her datapad.
 
"Holo transmission, sir.
 
Gold channel.
 
Message wrapper says that it's Admiral Clarke."

"Oh, great," said Dillon, getting up from his chair.
 
"And now the boss is checking in on our complete lack of progress."
 
He gestured toward Kalla.
 
"I'll take it in my cabin.
 
XO, the bridge is yours.
 
Get everyone aboard, then undock us and head to Rubicon as fast as you dare."

*
   
*
   
*

The door to Dillon's cabin closed behind him as he dropped into the chair beside his desk.
 
With a few taps on the desk terminal, the holoprojector came to life, the whine of its motor rising in pitch until he could no longer hear it.
 
A grainy cloud of blue light sparkled to life above the projector, resolving itself into the head and shoulders of Admiral Clarke on New Halifax.
 
"Commander Dillon," said the admiral, his voice sounding clipped and tinny through the speakers.

Dillon leaned forward, his forearms on the edge of the desk.
 
"Afternoon, Admiral."

"What's
Borealis
up to, Commander?"

"Sir," said Dillon, "we're waiting for our chief engineer to get aboard, then we're headed to Rubicon Station.
 
We should be underway within the next fifteen minutes."

The holographic admiral nodded at him, glancing at something unseen on his desk.
 
"So you'll be at Rubicon by sixteen-thirty or so."
 
He glanced back at Dillon.
 
"I'm waiting for word back from Rubicon.
 
I'm trying to pull some strings to get
Borealis
through the process in record time."

"Aye, sir.
 
That would help."

Clarke put his hands on the desk in front of him, his fingers interlaced.
 
"A lot has been happening in the past few hours, Commander.
 
The Palani now claim that their citizen was kidnapped by humans and brought to Earth against his will."