Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (26 page)

"I don't believe that's accurate, sir.
 
I spoke briefly with—"

"We know it's bullshit, Commander.
 
But their people can watch our media, and the Palani government needs to have an explanation for what they see.
 
This is what they've decided to run with.
 
It says a lot about what they think of us at the moment.
 
They're demanding the boy's immediate return.
 
Apparently, one of the Palani Pentarchs is arguing for an armed rescue mission to get the boy back, just as soon as they find out where he is."

"Even if he's in human space, sir?"

The admiral gave a slow nod.
 
"Yes, Commander.
 
An armed Palani rescue mission, even in human space.
 
That can't happen."

"Aye, sir."

The admiral's projection reached up one hand to rub at the back of his neck.
 
"Bear in mind, however, that the Palani only refer to the kid as a
citizen
of theirs.
 
They aren't making any mention of him having any sort of religious significance.
 
So that remains the big secret, for now.
 
Everyone knows there's a Palani kid somewhere in human space, but only you, the Tassali, the Prime Minister and myself know that he's their prophet.
 
Keep that part under wraps.
 
I think the Palani are keeping it quiet on purpose.
 
They're trying to buy us some time."

Dillon bit his lower lip, trying to think.
 
He checked the console clock on the wall.
 
The Palani couldn't deny the existence of their citizen in human space.  However, they could leave the door open to a peaceful solution, by letting him be returned before his identity became known.
 
But if the boy wasn't returned soon, the hawkish members of the Pentarch might win out.
 
So, too, would the hawkish members of human governments.
 
"We need to get them their prophet back before anyone is the wiser."

"We do, Commander.
 
And we don't have much time.
 
There was an emergency Cabinet meeting this morning, with a lot of shouting between the Prime Minister and the Defence Minister."
 
The admiral gestured at his terminal, out of view of the holoprojector.
 
"Five minutes after the Cabinet meeting ended, I got my orders:
 
mobilise everything that has a gun.
 
Captain West is putting to space right now aboard
Bonaventure
.
 
They're sailing with dockyard workers still aboard and repairs ongoing."
 
He made a gesture toward Dillon.
 
"So she'll be busy for a while.
 
You'll report directly to me."

Dillon felt a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.
 
It felt like two great ships were accelerating toward each other, each unwilling to manoeuvre; everyone was preparing for the collision instead of turning the rudder.
 
And he was right at the bow.

A loud chirp broke his train of thought.
 
Dillon's eyes searched his desk terminal as the holographic admiral did the same at his end.
 
"Mine," said the admiral.
 
Dillon sat quietly, leaning back against his chair, as the admiral read something on his unseen terminal.
 
The older man showed no emotion, his face unreadable.

"Ah," said Clarke.
 
"Naval intelligence has spotted the freighter that left Rockcliffe.
 
Registration matches that of a ship that docked at Alpha Bravo One, about an hour ago."

"Alpha Centauri system?" said Dillon.
 
That meant it took the freighter three hours to make it there, when the
Borealis
could do it in minutes.
 
If the shooter had access to a fast ship, they might have already got there first.
 
"How long can we keep them there, sir?
 
Borealis
still needs to go through Rubicon and get our ammo back."

"Doubt there's much we can do about it," said the admiral.
 
"Alpha Bravo One doesn't talk to Earth governments any more, let alone do anything for us."
 
He pursed his lips for a moment, before giving Dillon a reassuring hint of a grin.
 
"Sit tight, Commander.
 
I'll do what I can do to hurry up Rubicon.
 
Hopefully—"

"You know what, sir?
 
Screw Rubicon."

Dillon regretted it as soon as he said it.
 
He really needed to engage his brain before putting his mouth in gear.
 
The admiral frowned at being interrupted.
 
"Come again, Commander?
 
You have an idea?
 
I can't let you contravene Rubicon."

"Sorry to interrupt, sir, but that's not what I mean."
 
Dillon's mind wavered under the holographic admiral's gaze.
 
He forged ahead.
 
"I suggest that the
Borealis
bypass Rubicon entirely.
 
Go now, sir — right now — to Alpha Bravo One.
 
We can't afford to be chasing these kids all over half the galaxy."

The admiral slowly moved away from the holoprojector, getting smaller in the image as he leaned back in his chair.
 
His heavily-striped arms folded over his chest.
 
"You'd be unarmed, Dillon.
 
Everyone, and I mean everyone, would know that
Borealis
had nothing for self-defence other than decoy launchers and harsh language."

"Aye, sir.
 
But we could be in the Alpha Centauri system in ten minutes."

The admiral stared through the holoprojector at Dillon.
 
The older man was chewing on the inside of his cheek.
 
"We'll get yelled at, Dillon.
 
But you're not breaking any rules, and frankly it's a better idea than a shooting war with the Palani.
 
Go."

"Aye aye, sir."

Elan leaned against the hull of the cargo hold, looking out the small porthole into space beyond.
 
The ship had emerged from FTL travel, and was now approaching the smaller star of the Alpha Centauri system.
 
Feeble beams of orange light came into the cargo hold through round portholes, creating circles of light on the stacked crates.
 
As the ship started to turn, the circles of light slid across the crates and up toward the ceiling.
 

Rising into view was the donut-shaped station called 'Alpha Bravo One': it had been humanity's first outpost in another star system.
 
Now centuries old, the weary structure continued to rotate as it orbited the star.
 
Two centuries of repairs showed on the outer hull of the station, long since neglected by human governments whose interests had shifted.
 
At some point — Elan didn't remember the details — the station had declared itself independent from Earth, and the event barely rated a mention in the media.
 
Now it sat, mostly forgotten, just a quick trip from Earth.
 
It had become an out-of-the-way location for the sort of trade and commerce that respectable systems didn't encourage.

He had acted stupidly, he knew that.
 
He'd led them into the cargo hold of the first ship he'd seen, without thinking ahead.
 
It had seemed like a simple plan: get on a ship, and ask the pilot to fly them right to
Borealis
.
 
But the ship was already airborne before he discovered the cockpit door was locked, and before he could figure out what to do, they had already accelerated to FTL.  Elan's anxiety hadn't improved when he saw the old yellowed hull of the station come into view.

Heather came shuffling around the corner of the stack of crates, finishing her lap of the cargo hold.
 
She'd reckoned that three hundred laps of the hold equaled a kilometre, and for exercise as much as boredom she had spent the last few hours going around and around.
 
She was gazing down at her feet, plodding steadily ahead like a pack animal on a cart path.
 
There was a sway to her walk, a hint of fatigue.
 
Elan put out his hand to stop her as she went by.
 
It seemed to take her a moment to realise that she had stopped.

"Heather," he said, "we're getting ready to dock.
 
Probably another ten minutes or so.
 
We'll have to be ready to leave when the ramp opens."

"Oh," she said, her voice sleepy.
 
"Will they see us?"

"They know we're here already," said Elan.
 
He'd seen the cameras after takeoff, and had watched them turn to track Heather as she circuited the hold.

"Oh," she said again.

"Are you cold?"

Heather shook her head, glancing up at him.
 
"Nah," she yawned.
 
"I'm fine."

Elan grimaced.
 
"No, you're not.
 
My suit says it's twelve degrees Celsius in here.
 
You should be cold.
 
I think you're not well, Heather.
 
You may be running a fever."

"Oh," she said.
 
Heather's eyes wandered from his, looking around the hold.
 
"Well…," she shrugged, "Shit.
 
I guess I'm not thinking clearly."

"Maybe not."

She managed a thin smile.
 
"You'll look after me, though, right?
 
Don't let me open an airlock or anything.
 
I trust you."

"Thank you," said Elan.
 
He wondered if her trust was well-placed.
 
He'd used the
Iyurele
voice to get them aboard the ship, and it had affected her more than he'd expected.
 
He'd been thinking about the original intention of the
Iyurele
modification — to enhance the effectiveness of religious leadership — and he found it discouraging.
 
It was such a callous use of their religion, such heartless disregard for people.
 
If the Palani faith could only survive by depriving the faithful of their ability to choose, was it worth it?

"Hey," said Heather.
 
The grin tugging at the corners of her mouth was genuine.
 
"It's fine, Elan.
 
Try not to let it bother you.
 
I trust you.
 
Really.
 
I know that you'll only use your voice for the right reasons."

Elan blinked.
 
Sometimes, it seemed like Heather had a power of her own: to read his mind.
 
"How do you know what I'm thinking?
 
Is it that obvious?"

She smiled and stood closer to him, leaning forward to peer out the porthole.
 
"You've apologised every half hour since we left Earth.
 
If you're feeling guilty about something, it's probably that."
 
She gave a weary shrug.

The orange light coming in through the porthole winked out, dropping the cargo hold into darkness as the ship entered the station's shadow.
 
Elan felt a tingle run up his spine as they passed through the landing area's magnetic fields, the ship shuddering as it entered the air of the landing bay.

"We should get ready," said Heather.

*
   
*
   
*

Rod Nelson stuffed the last of the chili dog into his mouth, and wiped his fingers on his overalls.
 
There wasn't a lot to choose from, among the 'street meat' vendors down in the docking bay, but at least Yuri's stall sold identifiable meat.
 
Meat of
what
, Rod never figured out, and was content not to know.

He stepped around the gaggle of maintenance workers that had pulled up some deck plating.
 
While four of them watched with hands on hips, the fifth descended below deck level.  With a brilliant sparkle of light, the worker was trying to weld the same struts they'd welded last week, and every week for the past few years.

Ducking between two stacks of crates, Rod stepped around a maintenance bot that was gamely trying to scrub away a patch of rust on the plating.
 
Good luck with that, he thought.

Movement caught his eye, and he saw a familiar ship coming through the magnetic fields.
 
The
Flying Shite
was back, Dan Engell at the helm, making its twice-a-week trip from Earth.
 
Most responsible spaceports didn't like having the ancient ship — really just a thousand rusty parts flying in close formation — sullying their landing pads.
 
But the
Shite
came and went, week after week.
 
Rod watched it disappear out of sight behind the massive Jaljal freighter that took up half the landing bay.
 
If the cloth-wrapped bugs that owned that thing ever got it going, they promised to move it down to the far end of the landing bay, optimistically called the 'repair yard'.
 
What they did down there was enough to give a Dosh engineer a heart attack, but there were a lot of captains who would put to space in duct tape and spot welds if it saved them a few bucks.

Rod walked around the front of the Jaljal ship, and approached the
Flying Shite
just as Dan was climbing down from the cockpit.
 
As he descended the ladder, Dan reached out a grimy hand and patted the crude painting of a turd that adorned the ship's corroded nose.