Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (30 page)

Amba was already waiting for him.
 
She was leaning against the wall, wrapped in her bulky overcoat, the hood pulled over her head.
 
"Feda?" came her voice from the darkness inside the hood.
 
"Did you find anything?"

He shook his head.
 
"No, nothing.
 
Two frightened kids aren't enough to be noticed around here."
 
He gestured back toward the street.
 
"And I keep thinking some of these people know something.
 
The gang that runs this station ought to be able to help somehow."

"I doubt it," said Amba.
 
"They wouldn't have seen much either.
 
Have you seen any cameras?"

Dillon studied the ceiling, with its twisted maze of pipes, wires and bent plating.
 
"I've seen where cameras used to be," he said, "but no cameras."

"Exactly," said Amba.
 
"So, what next?"

"You're asking me?"

"You're the captain, Feda."

"Nice," he muttered.
 
As always, it was the Captain's job to pull all the right answers out of his ass.
 
He'd spoken to Lee five minutes ago, and got much the same response:
 
we don't know what to do, give us an idea.
 
Right now, ideas were in short supply.

"If they want off this damned place," he said, "they'll need to find a ship.
 
Whether they buy a ticket or the prophet kid just talks his way aboard, or whatever, they'll still need to know which ship.
 
Have you asked anyone about how to get passage?"

"I did," said Amba.
 
Her overcoat moved as she gestured with her hand.
 
"I've been referred to three different people, and have also been warned about all three of them.
 
But it sounds like most of the ship brokers are in an area called the Greenhouse."

"Great," said Dillon.
 
"That's our plan, then.
 
We find the Greenhouse."

He turned around and walked back to the alley entrance, pulling his coat tighter around him.
 
The bulky lines of his armour showed under the draping fabric of the coat, while the same coat hung limp from Amba's unarmoured shoulders.
 
Glancing behind him to make sure she was following, he stepped out into the fray of the street.

There was barely room to manoeuvre in the street, with a solid mass of people moving at the same time.
 
Most of them threaded past each other with the strange grace of city dwellers, but some moved without subtlety, shoving others aside and ignoring the shouts thrown at them.
 
Dillon pushed into the crowd with his shoulder, cleaving his way through the waves of people like a ship through ocean swells.
 
In his wake, the narrower Tassali travelled smoothly, following close behind him before the mass of humanity closed the gap again.

When they came to the stairs, no amount of finesse could speed them through the mob of people moving up and down.
 
Most people kept to the right, creating an upward flow on the outside of the stairwell, but some coming down were trying to shove their way against the upward flow.
 
People slammed into Dillon's shoulder, their surprise turning to anger and then deference as they realised the large-coated man was armed and armoured.
 
A few traded glares, others muttered curses, but all continued on their way.

Two decks up, they emerged onto the landing.
 
"That was unpleasant," said Amba.
 
"I can't imagine living here."

Dillon was forging on ahead, and turned his head to speak.
 
"I don't know if 'living' is the right word."
 
He gestured in front, where the curved floor of the deck rose up out of sight.
 
"I see some signs up there.
 
Less traffic, too.
 
We might—"

Amba grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop.
 
The people in the corridor parted, passing them like a river around an island.
 
"What is it?" he asked.

She pointed toward a hatchway at the side of the hallway.
 
Faded red paint was still legible.
 
"The medical clinic?" asked Dillon.

"If he was injured in any way — if either of them were — they might have come here.
 
It wouldn't take long to ask."

"Sure, makes sense."
 
He gestured deferentially.
 
"Lead the way."

Inside, four very sick-looking people slumped in bedraggled heaps on the benches along the outer walls.
 
Amba walked right past them, headed to the reception desk.
 
"We need to see the doctor right away," she said as she reached the counter.
 

Dillon approached the counter, but took a step back when he caught the strong scent of citrus.
 
"You're not—"

"I am," said Amba, not turning away from the round woman at reception with a distant look in her eyes.
 
"She's with a patient," said the woman, her voice no more than a whisper.
 
"You should wait in room two."

"Thank you," said the Tassali, turning on one booted heel and striding toward the hallway.
 
Dillon took a few quick steps to get ahead of her.
 
"The doctor won't be able to tell us much," he said, opening the second door.

"I know," she replied, following him into the room.
 
It was stark and barren, with only a stainless steel table and a few fixtures around the walls.
 
The smell of disinfectant hung in the air.

"Well," said Dillon, lowering his hood.
 
"At least it's clean."

Amba pulled down her hood as well, her blue hair falling onto her shoulders.
 
"Feda, I fear this is taking too long.
 
We're always a step behind the Elanasal."

"Agreed," said Dillon.
 
They needed to find a way to outflank the young prophet and his girlfriend.
 
"Maybe we should get heavy-handed with this station.
 
Stop all outgoing flights, insist on scanning every ship.
 
Make up some crap about customs or something—"

The door swung open, and a dark-skinned woman in a white coat entered.
 
She glanced up at Dillon, then came to a halt when she saw Amba.
 
"Oh," she said, letting the door close behind her.
 
"Well, there's no way
this
is a coincidence."

"It isn't," said Amba, taking a step closer to the doctor.
 
"There was a Palani boy here earlier, wasn't there?
 
With a human girl?"

The doctor raised her hands in front of her, as if in surrender.
 
"Look, I don't know if you're their parents or what, but I can't say anything."

Amba nodded, turning away and taking a deep breath before facing the doctor again.
 
"We don't have time for this, doctor."

Dillon put his hand to his mouth, as a powerful wave of citrus-scented air wafted by him.
 
It was stronger than he'd ever smelled before when she used the voice.
 
"Amba—"

"Please, doctor.
 
Was there a Palani boy in here earlier?
 
With a human girl?"

Dillon shook his head repeatedly, trying to clear his mind.
 
He saw the doctor's face relaxing, a thin smile spreading across her lips.
 
"Yeah," she said, "It's fine.
 
I guess this must be important.
 
I'm happy to help."

"Is the boy injured?"

"Don't think so," said the doctor.
 
"No, it was the human girl who needed to see me.
 
She's pregnant with his child."
 
The doctor's smile broadened.
 
"Cross species conception.
 
What're the chances?"

Dillon was having trouble processing what he'd heard.
 
It made no sense, and he thought of asking when Amba turned toward him, her face slack.
 
Her eyes were wide; maybe he'd heard it right.
 
"Isn't that impossible?" he said.

"It can't be," whispered Amba, before turning back to the doctor.
 
"It's not possible."

The doctor's hands were fumbling at her coat pocket, trying to pull out a datapad.
 
"I know," she said, chuckling.
 
"They said that, too."
 
She tried to look at the display with unfocused eyes, and Amba snatched it from her, staring at the screen.
 
"What—"

"Don't worry about it," said the doctor.
 
She sounded reassuring.
 
"It can't come to term.
 
Once she miscarries, the girl will be fine."
 
She bobbed her head from side to side, as if weighing possibilities.
 
"The sooner the better, really."

"No," said Amba.
 
"This is…" she shook her head.

Dillon had been fighting to collect his thoughts.
 
Everything seemed to be moving too quickly for him.
 
There was something they needed to do.
 
Something urgent.
 
Amba would know what it was; he just had to listen to her.
 
At last, an idea revealed itself.
 
"The kids," he said, the words forming reluctantly.
 
"Where did they go?"

The doctor was babbling happily now, grinning like she was among old friends.
 
"Oh, them?
 
They wanted to go to the Palani homeworld.
 
They said they were going to the Greenhouse to book a ship.
 
I think they were going to see Beatty."
 
She nodded thoughtfully.
 
"Nice kids.
 
I hope it works out for them.
 
But she really needs to get rid of it soon, or she's going to get sick."

The smell of citrus still in the air, mixed with the cloying aroma of disinfectant, made Dillon's head spin.
 
The room had started to move, swaying from side to side.
 
He needed to get out of here.
 
He couldn't piece everything together, but hoped that fresh air would help.
 
Summoning his legs to obey him, he took one step toward the door, then another, passing by Amba and the doctor.
 

Amba was smiling at the doctor.
 
"You know what would be helpful?" she said, as if conspiring.
 
"Doctor, it would be very helpful if you forgot we were ever here.
 
We would appreciate that."

"Yeah," slurred the doctor.
 
"That would be great."

Dillon reached the door, fumbling at the handle with a clumsy hand.
 
Something grabbed at his hood, quickly pulling it up over his head.
 
A white-gloved hand reached past him and opened the door, and he was guided out of the clinic.

*
   
*
   
*

Mere steps from the clinic door, they could see the Greenhouse entrance.
 
Dillon felt like the walls of the station were still moving, and he stepped into a shadowed alcove between two doors.
 
Amba was behind him, and he turned to look at her.
 
Her white face was heavily shadowed by the overcoat's hood, and her dark-circled eyes showed no sparkle from under her furrowed brow.
 

"Wow," he mumbled.
 
"You really let the doctor have it."

"I did," said Amba, "and I knew it would affect you, too.
 
I'm sorry.
 
Are you well, Feda?"

"I— I'm not sure," he ventured.
 
"But that didn't seem right."

The lines in her brow deepened.
 
"Pardon, Feda?"

There was a tiny part of his brain, hidden behind a citrus-scented fog, that was screaming at him to shut up, but he forged ahead anyway.
 
"I don't know, but… it wasn't right, Amba.
 
It violated their privacy.
 
And the doctor has a code of ethics.
 
You can't just—"

She cut him off, a sharp edge to her voice.
 
"Yes, I can.
 
And I did.
 
And I will again, I expect, before long."

"No, wait…" he protested, ignoring the screaming part of his brain.
 
"We can't.
 
It's just
wrong
, Amba.
 
If we give up who we are, if we do the wrong thing—"

The Tassali held up one hand, shaking her head.
 
"My love, you know I adore you.
 
You know I respect you.
 
But you're not thinking properly.
 
Please trust me.
 
This is—"

"What I feel about you doesn't enter into it.
 
It's about principles.
 
It's—"

"By the Divines, Feda, you task me.
 
No
.
 
This is about preventing a war."

Ideas clicked into place in Dillon's mind, as if part of his brain was saying 'I told you so' to the rest of him.
 
"But—"

"Listen," she hissed, leaning in closer.
 
"Fredrick James Dillon, listen to me."

Dillon's mind abruptly went silent.
 
The fog in his mind was still clearing, but he understood the need to concentrate.
 
He stared into her eyes, and nodded.