Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (40 page)

Admiral Clarke shook his head.
 
"No, Commander.
 
The Defence Minister doesn't know.
 
And yes, it might make things easier.
 
And yes, it's above your pay grade.
 
Mine too.
 
There's no secret that there's some disagreements between those two — it's in the goddamned media every night.
 
Not a helpful thing, with fleets forming up on both sides.
 
A lot of cranky people out there, Commander."

"Aye, sir."

Clarke leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on Dillon's through the projector.
 
"Commander Dillon, I have been given very specific instructions.
 
I need you to listen carefully."

Dillon already didn't like the sound of that.
 
He tensed up, reflexively sitting up straight in his chair.
 
"Aye aye, sir."

The Admiral looked away, at his unseen terminal again.
 
"Commander, exactly what time do you have?"

Now Dillon's apprehension was compounded by confusion.
 
All time was centrally synchronised, apart from the traditional mechanical chronometer on the bridge… he checked his terminal.
 
"Eleven forty-one, Universal Time, sir."

"Same here," said the Admiral.
 
"Commander, as I said, I have been given some very specific instructions.
 
Now that I have reviewed your situation, as ordered by the Defence Minister, I must now begin the process to relieve you of command and order
Borealis
back to New Halifax."

Dillon felt the blood drain from his face, a tightness forming in his chest.
 
"I… I understand, sir.
 
I will advise the XO."

Clarke shook his head.
 
"Don't make it worse by breaking more regulations, Commander.
 
Regs clearly say not to divulge orders until they are officially received."

"Of course sir," said Dillon.
 
Once again, he'd made a mess of things.
 
He had expected this would come, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.
 
He'd have to—

"Commander," said the admiral.

"Aye, sir?"

"Do not act on the orders until they are received.
 
I will be transmitting them to
Borealis
at eleven-fifty, by Tunnel channel."

Like warmth from the sun, realisation spread through Dillon, relaxing the dread and tension he felt.
 
He checked the display on his wall terminal.
 
Eight minutes.

"I understand, sir.
 
Was there anything else, sir?"
 
He returned his eyes to the admiral, whose face remained unreadable.

"Nothing else," said the fleet commander.
 
"Clarke out."

As the image faded and the holoprojector's whine began to wind down, Dillon leapt to his feet and barged toward his cabin door.

*
   
*
   
*

Heather had been on warships before.
 
When she was younger — still young enough to be precocious and cute and endearing, as opposed to teenaged and bothersome — her father would take her along on tours once in a while.
 
There would be a band, and crisp uniforms, and salutes and speeches.
 
And cameras.
 
Always cameras.
 
Everything her father did was for the cameras.
 
And as long as the little girl in the cute dress — god, she hated dresses — was adorable for the cameras, she was brought along.
 
But she'd never been aboard a warship while it was moving, doing warship stuff.
 

Here on
Borealis
they'd given her clothes to wear.
 
Apparently she was the same size as a crewmember named Amoroso, whose name was on everything:
 
the denim-blue collared shirt, the dark blue pants with a ton of pockets, and big clunky boots that were way more comfortable than they had any right to be.
 
Someone had handed her a white sweater:
 
an actual, knit-wool sweater.
 
It was way too big for her, but it had helped warm her up in a hurry.
 
Whatever else happened, she was going to find a way to keep the sweater.

She looked again at the captain's door.
 
The small screen still read 'wait'
 
It hadn't been long, and the Captain would know there was someone waiting out here to see him, so Heather just leaned against the wall and tried to be patient.

A few short paces away, two corridors met at the entrance to the bridge.
 
Through the hatchway, she could see the windows at the front of the bridge, their bright displays hovering over the blackness beyond the glass.
 
Out in the dark void, a few of the pinpoints of light were sliding quietly to the sides, as the ship raced through space at faster-than-light speeds.
 
A moment's laughter came from the bridge, followed by talking she couldn't make out.

It was all hard to digest.
 
From chaos and panic and fear, to calm and 'normal', all in the space of a few hours.
 
This very afternoon, she'd crash-landed on a frozen eyeball of a planet, nearly freezing to death while a maniac with a gun chased down her and Elan.
 
And then she'd watched that man die, right before her eyes.
 
She'd never seen a person die before.
 
He was an asshole who was trying to murder them, but at the same time it felt so… personal.
 
One moment, there was a man, the next moment, there was a collapsing body.
 
Now he was just a hundred-kilo pile of what, meat?
   

But, Heather reminded herself, that's what he'd intended to do.
 
Until he'd hesitated, right at the end.
 
She wondered if he'd been thinking the same thing:
 
that it was suddenly all too personal.
 
Was it different for him, once he looked Elan in the eyes and actually talked to him?

With a chirp, the door unlocked and slid open.
 
Already at a jog, the Captain burst from his cabin, skidding to a halt as he spotted her standing next to the door.
 
He was half a head taller than her, and broad-shouldered, with dark brown eyes.
 
Instead of the rumpled denim of the crew, he wore a pressed white shirt, with a banded collar and a black 'tie' stripe down the front.
 
Thick gold stripes were on his shoulder boards.

The Captain seemed confused as he studied her face.
 
"Who are — oh, right," he said.
 
He seemed distracted, and full of energy, almost bouncing on his feet.
 
"Go on in," he said, gesturing to his cabin's open door.
 
"Have a seat, I'll be right back."
 
With a quick glance around him, he took off at a run, his boots pounding on the deck as he ran around the corner to the adjoining corridor.
 
His steps quickly faded, leaving Heather standing next to the doorway, staring in the direction he'd left.
 
She hesitantly stepped into his cabin.

It wasn't very large; only a few paces across, enough room for an L-shaped desk against one wall, two chairs, a bed, and a doorway to a tiny bathroom.
 
On the desk, the round holoprojector frame was still winding down, its high-pitched whine diminishing into silence.

Heather pulled a guest chair away from the wall, and sat down next to the captain's desk.

It was so different from her own desk back in the apartment.
 
No piles of clothes, no stacks of art supplies or books or miscellaneous crap.
 
The Captain had a terminal and a stack of datapads, all turned off.
 
There was a pen — it was an actual ink-filled pen instead of a stylus — with one end looking like it had been attacked by a squirrel.
 
There were markings on the desk: brown circles of dried coffee, left from uncountable mugs.
 
A picture in a frame: a child and two old people standing in front of an old house.
 
And, on its own beside the terminal, a small object made of cloth.
 
Heather leaned a little forward, to get a better look at it.
 
It was blue and white, small enough to fit in the palm of the hand.
 
A delicate sculpture, made of carefully curled and folded cloth; she wondered how it was made, and how it kept its shape.
 
It was the shape of an animal; four legged, with a tail, a bit like a dog or a horse.
 
She'd never seen such beautiful sculpture done with cloth before.
 
Was it Palani?

Behind her, she heard the sound of approaching bootsteps — at a leisurely walk this time — and the Captain walked into the cabin, closing the door behind him.

"Sit, sit," he said, as she started to stand up.

The cabin seemed full all of a sudden; the Captain had a relaxed energy to him, and a broad smile on his face as he dropped into the chair behind his desk.
 
In his right hand were four shiny metal tubes, each the size of a thick pen, which clattered as he put them down on the desk.
 
He picked one back up and leaned in his chair, sighing as he began to unscrew the end of the tube.

Heather thought he seemed relieved, like someone who had just had a great weight lifted from his shoulders.
 

"So," he said, pulling the end off the tube.
 
It gave a tiny chirp.
 
"Let me know if you see any entangled anti-protons go by."

He might as well have said it in Swahili, for all the sense it made to her.
 
"Pardon, Captain?"

He dropped the tube on the desk, and picked up another.
 
"These are Tunnel cells," he said, starting to unscrew the end of the second tube.
 
"They let the ship communicate securely, regardless of distance.
 
We use them—"

Heather felt her eyes open wide.
 
"Tunnel cells?" she said, sounding more astonished than she'd intended.
 
What was this guy doing, breaking all the Tunnel cells?
 
"But Captain…"

He nodded at her, and the same easy smile that had seemed so relaxed a moment ago now seemed devilish, almost manic.
 
First an assassin, now a certifiably-crazy warship captain?

"In five minutes," he said, matter-of-factly, "an order will be transmitted to this ship, from the Defence Minister, ending my career and ordering the ship back to New Halifax."
 

"But," said Heather, pointing at the cylinders on the desk.
 
"The ship won't receive the transmission."

Captain Dillon nodded again, pausing to listen carefully as he removed the end from the second cylinder.
 
He smiled when it chirped at him.
 
"Exactly.
 
Instead, we're going to keep going to Palani Yaal La.
 
If I can get the three of you there safely, I'm hoping we can prevent a war."

Well, thought Heather, that made sense.
 
Maybe not a lunatic after all.
 
So the relief she saw on his face, that was fatalism?
 
"Wait," she said.
 
"Three?
 
You know?"

His smile faded a little.
 
"I do.
 
Me, and Tassali Yenaara, and, I can only assume, Petty Officer Singh in the medical bay.
 
No one else."

"What the fuck?" she said aloud, then caught herself.
 
"Sorry, Captain—"

"Don't be.
 
This is a warship; we've heard that word before."

"— But really?
 
Singh told you?
 
Why would she—"

Dillon was waving his hand, the empty cylinder catching the light.
 
"No, no.
 
Singh didn't tell us.
 
Not her.
 
She's good."
 
He tossed the empty cylinder onto the desk, where it rattled against the others.
 
"No, it was on the station.
 
We needed to find you."
 
The smile was gone from his face now, as he turned his chair to face her across the desk.
 
He clasped his hands together in front of him.
 
"We were desperate to find you two, Heather.
 
You were running as fast as you could, but we couldn't keep up.
 
We talked to the doctor on the station."
 
He pursed his lips a moment, his eyes briefly glancing away.
 
"We extracted information from her involuntarily.
 
She told us more than we wanted — or needed — to know."
 
He unclasped his hands, opening them on the desktop.
 
"Look.
 
I wanted you to know that I knew, and that I'm sorry we did that.
 
We felt we had no alternative."

"Extracted?" said Heather, rolling the idea around in her head.
 
Thoughts of medieval torture came to mind.
 
Or forcibly injecting the doctor with something, or…
 
"Oh.
 
The Tassali used the
Iyurele
breath thing on the doctor, didn't she?"

"Yeah."

"I get it," said Heather.
 
They hadn't exactly been making it easy for anyone to follow them.
 
They'd just been scrambling headlong from one desperate idea to the next.
 
"Elan used it too," she said quietly.
 
"It's powerful, and he was making it seem so easy."
 
She turned her eyes away, toward her hands in her lap.
 
She never knew what to do with her hands; she'd usually grab something like a paintbrush, and fiddle with it while she talked or thought.
 
"I know Elan doesn't like using it," she said, looking back up at the Captain.
 
"I think I still have one secret you don't know, though.
 
It's why I came here.
 
To tell you."
 
If this Captain was going to be throwing away his career for her, he deserved to know everything.
 
"That, and to thank you for rescuing us.
 
I know you're going to get in trouble for this."