Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (5 page)

Yet unexpectedly brave, thought Ontelis.
 
They had underestimated their creation, and were now being punished for their hubris.
 
He should have known; hubris always led to problems.

The sound of gentle breathing reminded him that he wasn't alone. Pentarch Balhammis stood behind him; despite the man's size, his calm and quiet way often made Ontelis forget he was there.

Balhammis, the snow-topped mountain:
 
a two-metre-tall leviathan, with delicate glasses on his nose and white hair on his head.
 
His ancestors had been Ensannon, an engineered subspecies of Palani built millennia ago, bred for combat.
 
Now the trait was inherited, like eye colour.
 
Or
was
inherited, thought Ontelis, back when anyone inherited anything.

Balhammis turned over the note he held, the piece of paper tiny in his large hands.
 
He turned it over, checking the back of the page as if hoping to find more writing there.

"Well?" said Ontelis.
 
The huge man had taken a long time to read such a short note.
 
But Balhammis was known for his careful, considered way of thinking.
 
Ontelis reminded himself to be patient, despite his irritation.

The massive Palani looked down at him.
 
When Balhammis spoke, his voice was a deep strum.
 
"Well indeed," he said.
 
"Your pet has escaped its pen."

"Pet?" said Ontelis.
 
"You supported the Elanasal project."

"I did," said Balhammis, pausing to take a deep breath.
 
"As did my predecessor, and her predecessor.
 
We supported it, as we always have.
 
Supporting the search for the Elanasal, the Chosen One, has become…" he paused a moment, his mouth moving as if chewing at something.
 
"… an article of faith.
 
We never expected it to succeed."

"But it did," said Ontelis.
 
This giant could be so capricious at times.
 
One moment he stands by you, the next moment he pretends to forget your name.
 
"We used a new technique—"

"So you have told me," thrummed Balhammis.
 
"Again and again.
 
After three thousand years with other methods, your new method succeeds on the fourth attempt.
 
A remarkable achievement, as I've said before."

Ontelis stared at the taller Pentarch.
 
When did success become a cause for suspicion?
 
Were they so set in their ways that they expected to fail at something simply because they always had?
 
It was time to move beyond old ideas.
 
There was too much at stake.

He pointed at the handwritten note in Balhammis's hand.
 
The young Prophet's calligraphy was excellent, worthy of being displayed, if not for what it said.
 
"The Prophet doesn't agree with going to war against the humans."

Balhammis dropped the note on the desk, and shook his massive head.
 
"That is not what he said, Ontelis.
 
Read it again."

"I have read it," Ontelis snapped back.
 
"Repeatedly.
 
His exact words were that he 'doesn't understand the need' for war with the humans.
 
Right now, that is not our concern.
 
We must find him, and I believe he is headed for human space."

"Agreed," said Balhammis.
 
He raised his thick white arms and plucked the eyeglasses from his face.
 
"The Prophet is wise indeed:
 
he wishes to learn more about the humans.
 
Going straight to their homeworld would be… the direct approach."

"It is foolish.
 
I have already told our ambassador to make contact with people we can trust."

Balhammis continued examining his glasses.
 
"The Exile and her consort?"

"Yes."

"You decided to trust the Exile with such a crisis?"

Ontelis rolled his eyes.
 
"You tell me, Balhammis, who else there is.
 
How many agents do you have in human space?"

"I cannot tell you—"

It was always the same from Balhammis:
 
know everything, and tell nothing.
 
Ontelis waved a hand.
 
"You can dispense with your game, my friend.
 
You have no agents among the humans.
 
None."

The giant sighed.
 
"Yes.
 
None.
 
Though we are enjoying some success with inorganic methods."

"I know, I know.
 
I was at the council meeting where you told us.
 
At least you respect the council enough to give us half the truth.
 
Not like Threnia, who ordered the fleet to start blasting human colonies without telling the rest of us.
 
This is not how the Pentarch Council should function."

"How fortunate," said Balhammis, his voice growing deeper, "that we have your example of virtue to show us the way."

Ontelis ignored this, instead tapping one bony white hand on the desk as he tried to concentrate.
 
The other Pentarchs would have to be told
something
, of course.
 
Threnia and Ivenna were enthusiastic — to varying degrees, and for their own reasons — about the Elanasal project.
 
To them, it was an important symbol.
 
It was a way to show the Palani people — and the galaxy as a whole — the clarity of their purpose, and then truth of their teachings.
 
And, not coincidentally, to demonstrate the superiority of Palani science.

But the Elanasal could be more than that.
 
The boy could be more than just a symbol of the Palani future.
 
According to the countless tests they had subjected him to, he
was
the Palani future.
 
The only viable future for his people.

Surely, thought Ontelis, the boy would come back.
 
How could he not?
 
This was his home; these were his people.
 
Even without knowing everything about how he was created, he would certainly see his significance to the Palani people.
 
Wouldn't he?

Balhammis' voice was a deep rumble.
 
"Your thoughts, Ontelis?"

Ontelis lifted his head up, feeling the bones in his neck creak in protest.
 
Balhammis was quiet and calm, watching him.

"The boy is wise," said Ontelis.
 
"I should have told him more."

"Perhaps," said Balhammis, carefully putting his glasses back on.
 
"I look forward to what you will tell the rest of the Pentarch.
 
Good night."
 
He bent forward at the waist in a polite bow, looming over Ontelis.

Ontelis returned the bow, and watched as Balhammis walked to the door, barely clearing the top of the doorway as he left.
 
The man moved like his mind worked, Ontelis mused.
 
Silently and gracefully, in ways completely unexpected for an Ensannon.
 

Lowering himself into the Prophet's desk chair, Pentarch Ontelis picked up the handwritten note.
 
He turned it over in his hand before reading it again.

There was a hesitant knocking at the door, far away.
 
"Heather?" came a familiar voice.
 
"You gotta get up."

Her mind jerked toward the surface, even as she struggled to swim deeper back into sleep.

More knocking; it sounded closer now.
 
"Heather?"

Blaine's voice.
 
Every sentence was a question.
 
Heather struggled to find a word, something to make Blaine and the door-knocking go away.
 
"Murder," she mumbled.
 
She snorted, trying to inhale through the one nostril that wasn't mashed against the pillow.

"What?
 
What did you say, Heather?"

She could feel the fingertips of her right hand brushing the floor.
 
Her left leg was cold, hanging outside the warm cocoon of blankets.
 
With great effort, she moved her head closer to the edge of the pillow.
 
"I will murder you, Blaine."

"Come on, Heather.
 
Get up.
 
It's really important."

Now she felt the stiffness in her shoulders.
 
Her left wrist began to throb; the slow, steady ache that never went away.
 
And her bladder was making itself known.

Heather took a deep breath.
 
"God
damn
it, Blaine!" she yelled at the door.
 
With a sweep of her arm, she threw back the covers.
 
The rush of cold air invaded, extinguishing any hope of drifting off again.
 
No going back now, she thought.
 
"Damn it," she repeated, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
 
Her shoulders and wrist protested as she shoved down on the mattress, pushing herself to sit upright.
 
The light of day assaulted her eyes, bringing with it the throb of a headache.
 
She curled forward, clamping her hands over her face and leaning her elbows on her knees.

Blaine knocked again.
 
Normally he had the good sense to steer clear of her in the morning, at least until she'd had a cup or two of coffee.
 
Apparently he'd now grown tired of life and wished to die a messy death at her hands.
 

"Heather?" he called through the door.
 
"You getting up?"

"Yes!" she yelled into her hands.
 
"Jesus, Blaine.
 
I will murder you, right in your perfect goddamned face, if you don't—"

"Okay," came the defensive voice through the door.
 
"Okay.
 
I'm sorry.
 
It's just that we really need you out here.
 
There's—"

"Blaine," she called out, trying not to yell again.
 
"Is the house on fire?"

Silence.
 
That had made him think.
 
"Well, no," he said at last.

"Then it can wait, Blaine.
 
I'll be out in a minute."

Heather exhaled, withdrawing her hands from her face and surveying the room around her.
 
The facing wall was spattered and streaked with slashes and blobs of dried paint.
 
On the wall was a new, blank synthetic 'canvas'; it continued to taunt her every time she looked at it.
 

Desk, cabinet, and floors, all covered in a random collection of paints, brushes, tools, datapads, and clothes.
 
In the corner stood her hockey sticks, currently serving as additional clothing storage.
 
Somewhere underneath were her skates, no doubt rusted by now, waiting to be strapped on once again.
 
Her wrist ached just thinking of them.

She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, taking a stumbling step toward the pile of clothes heaped against the wall.
 
It took several tries to find a shirt that wasn't covered in paint stains.
 
And her pants didn't fit as well as they once did.
 
Five years ago, when she started university, she could wear anything she wanted right off the rack.
 
Not the 'petite' rack, granted… but time marched on.
 
Running her fingers through her mostly-blonde hair, she encountered an insurmountable nest of tangles, and gave up.
 
A brief scan of her desktop produced her knit cap, which she tugged onto her head.  She made a promise to herself, to have a proper shower as soon as she'd finished hurting Blaine.
 
She stumbled across the room, avoiding the debris on the floor, and kept her eyes averted from the mirror.
 
A tap on the door console, and the door slowly opened.
 
She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips.

A six-foot-tall god of a man stood in the hallway.
 
Perfectly styled hair, and piercing blue eyes that looked out from chiseled features.
 
A tight black t-shirt hugged his muscled chest, and he wore black jeans with a waist smaller than hers.
 
Blaine had never been to a gym once in his life, never watched what he ate, and seemed to maintain a sexy amount of stubble without ever shaving.
 
A goddamned triumph of genetics, and oblivious to it.

Blaine winced when Heather turned her squinted glare to him.
 
He held out his hands toward her, bearing a mug of coffee.
 
"Peace?"
 
he said.
 
"Four scoops of grinds, one scoop of sugar, and one bloop of that vanilla stuff?"

Without taking her eyes from his, Heather accepted the mug.
 
She grunted as the smell reached her nose.
 
"Blaine, what time is it?"

His face relaxed.
 
Apparently, he thought he was in the clear.
 
All the better, she thought, when she was ready to beat him senseless.
 
He gave a magazine-cover smile.
 
"Eight thirty?"

Heather blew on the coffee, her left hand coming up to join the right in holding the mug.
 
She took a deep breath.
 
"So Blaine, I've been asleep for three hours."