Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (9 page)

She jerked her thumb towards the wall.
 
"That blank sheet is called a 'canvas', but it's not made of canvas.
 
It's also synthetic."
 
She glanced up at him before continuing.
 
"It's on the wall because I want the paint to dribble downward after it hits the canvas.
 
I like the effect it produces, but it means I need to make the paint more runny."

Heather looked up at the spattered paint around the room.
 
"The room is a mess, and I don't care.
 
Unless I apply a sealant, all that paint will come off with water.
 
I leave it the way it is, because it reminds me that I can be productive."
 
She shrugged.
 
"Some days, it makes it easier for me to get started."

She turned to look at him.
 
"That's it.
 
Any questions?"

"No," said Elan.

"Good.
 
Now go park yourself somewhere.
 
I want you to be a hole in the room."

"I will.
 
Thank you, Heather."

Elan stepped forward, his bare feet on the cool floor, and navigated his way across the room.
 
Each step was carefully placed, to avoid clothes or art supplies or other clutter on the floor.
 
It was an alien environment to him; as alien as any foreign planet could be.
 
In many ways, it was the opposite of every place he'd ever known in his life.
 
Nothing was tidied or put away.
 
A complete lack of order, of propriety.
 
The smell of the paint, the visual chaos of the room, it was all strangely exciting.
 
A glimpse into a world without rules, or duties, or order.
 
There was a tightness in his chest, as part of his mind screamed at him to panic and run, or tidy up, or both.
 
At the same time, part of him wanted to laugh at the absurd freedom of it all.

Elan climbed onto the bed, over the rumpled heap of blankets and pillows, toward the wall at the far side.
 
He sat down, back straight against the wall, and drew his knees up to his chest.
 
Keeping his feet flat on the mattress, he curled his arms around his knees and shifted until he was comfortable.
 
When he looked up, he saw Heather watching him.
 
A hint of a grin briefly tugged at the corner of her mouth, before being replaced by a stern look and a pointing finger.
 
"Remember, I want to forget you're here.
 
If you interrupt me, I'm going to kick you out."

"I understand, Heather," said Elan.

Her face softened, and she smiled.
 
"Good.
 
Glad to hear it." She stood up and stepped over her collection of paint pots, leaning toward the desk and reaching out with one arm.
 
With the sweep of her hand Heather shoved aside a pile of clothes, revealing a small desktop console underneath.
 
She tapped at the screen a few times, and the room was filled with noise.
 
It was music, in its own way: not the delicate harmonics of Palani instruments, or the soaring majesty of a choir; it was a fast, pulsing rhythm with a deep bass beat and a simple, repetitive melody.
 
With a swipe of Heather's finger, the music became much louder, its thunderous beat drowning out the thoughts in Elan's head.
 
All he heard was the beat, all he thought of was the melody.
 
He wondered if he could use its mind-blanking sound as a focus, something to empty his mind and help him to meditate.
 
He focused on it, allowing the music's repetitive din to beat its way into his head.
 

Heather's back was to him, and she returned to stand in front of her canvas.
 
She took a step away from it, her feet surrounded by the pots of paint.
 
Letting her arms go limp at her sides, she began to rock her head back and forth.
 
Elan saw the fingers on her left hand begin to move, twitching gently in time with the pounding rhythm.

At her feet were the pots of paint, each with a brush standing upright.
 
Elan watched Heather's head turn down to study the paints at her feet, then back up at the canvas, then back down again.
 
All the while, her left hand continued to move, fingers opening and closing and making small circles with the beat.

When she began to move, it was with surprising speed.
 
A brief bending of the knees, and Heather scooped up one of the brushes, swinging it at the canvas like the slashing of a blade.
 
A streak of blue erupted across the canvas and onto the wall.
 
With a backhanded swing, a second line of blue burst onto the white background, a staccato trail of droplets pattering across the wall and around the back of the room.
 
Elan blinked as a drop hit him on the face, but he said nothing.

Dropping the blue brush towards its pot, Heather swept up another brush before the first had landed.
 
With each new thump of the music, more lines flashed across the canvas, each brought to life by a swing of her arm, as her body moved in time.  Elan remained quiet, his thoughts blotted out by the noise, his mind focused on the dance and the spattering paint.

*
   
*
   
*

He wasn't sure how long it had been — Elan couldn't see any terminals from where he sat — but Heather had begun to slow.
 
Her arms were moving more sluggishly, and when he caught a glimpse of her face it was flushed red and shining with perspiration.

Taking a step back to her desk, she tapped something on the console, giving it another swipe of her finger.
 
The music slowed down, becoming quieter.
 
The thundering rhythm gave way to calmer, more complicated instrumental music.
 
Elan felt his heart rate begin to slow, as Heather stepped in front of the canvas, her hands on her hips.
 
Past her he saw the canvas, and the hundreds of scattered lines of different colours that criss-crossed it, each stroke bold and abrupt, like an angry shout.
 
And in front of the canvas stood its creator, deflated, as if she had transferred her energy to the canvas and the walls of the room.

"Huh," said Heather, breaking her silence.
 
She stepped closer to the image on the wall, stooping to pick up one of her brushes.
 
With gentle care, she pulled it across part of the canvas.
 
A delicate, deliberate curve of blue that crossed several of the angry streaks.
 
She drew another line, pulling the brush in a tight curve between red and green slashes.

As she continued, Elan concentrated on the image taking form in front of him.
 
With more blue curves carefully added, he saw it.
 
There, amidst the chaos in the painting, was a face.
 
He caught his breath.
 
Sharp cheekbones and deep blue eyes.
 
How could such random lines show so much?
 
It was like his own eyes were looking back at him.
 
Vivid blue eyes, filled with calmness and a gentle curiosity.
 
And yet — lost?
 
Was that him?  Was that what Heather saw in his eyes?
 
The eyes in the painting pulled the room toward them, swallowing everything in their field of view, trying in vain to make sense of its world.

This was not what he'd been taught to understand about the humans.
 
Once again, nothing that he'd seen since coming to Earth had matched what he'd been told.
 
He hadn't seen the intense tribalism, the tendency toward violence and selfishness, the brutality that he'd expected.
 
He certainly hadn't expected to see such empathy, expressed through such artistic passion.

"Oh," said Heather.
 
Her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper.
 
"You're still here.
 
What do you think?"
 
She was standing far back from the painting, her hands once again on her hips.
 

Elan blinked, and turned his attention back to the painting.
 
"I had no idea," he admitted.
 
"No idea that any human could express something so real, so alive."

"Thank you, Elan."
 
She turned toward him.
 
"I, uh,
 
hadn't planned to… oh, you've got paint on you."

"Yes, I think I do," said Elan.
 
He reached up to touch at the spot on his cheek.

"No, that won't come off without… here, let me get it."
 
Heather scooped up a rag from the floor, pausing to dip it into one of the pots at her feet. She kicked aside a pile of clutter as she approached the bed, kneeling on the edge of the mattress.
 
Elan felt his heart pounding as she leaned in toward him, cloth in hand.

He reached for the cloth, but Heather gently batted his hand away.
 
"I put it there, I'll clean it up." She reached up and dabbed at his cheek.
 
"Oh, it's dried," she said, and with her other hand she held the side of his head while she started to scrub.
 
Elan sat still, his lips curling in a grin.
 
This reminded him of having the runes scrubbed from his face after rituals in the Temple.
 

"Your hands are hot," he said.

"And your face is cold," she replied, still scrubbing.
 
"How on Earth did you sit so still for so long?"

"I have practice," he said.
 
"Some Palani rituals go on for a very long time—"

"So your family is religious—"

"—and I didn't want to disturb you."

Heather let go of his face and leaned back, paint-smeared cloth in her hand.
 
Elan's breath caught when she smiled at him.
 
"You're a really sweet guy, Elan," she said quietly.
 
"I'm glad you're here."

He felt something swell in his chest, and couldn't suppress the smile spreading across his face.
 
"So am I."

Dillon sat in his chair on the bridge of the
Borealis
, one leg crossed over the other.
 
In his right hand was a slowly-cooling mug of coffee, ignored while he read the datapad in his left hand.

"Where's Kalla?" he said aloud, to no one in particular.

"Sir," said Tremblay, at the supervisory console.
 
"I saw the Executive Officer in the wardroom ten minutes ago.
 
She said she was retiring for the day."

"Fine, thank you."
 
Dillon swiped his thumb across the datapad.
 
Kalla was always good about reading her messages when she got up; most of these reports could wait until then.
 
With the fleet-wide officer shortage, having someone on each watch meant rarely seeing them in person.

As he lifted his coffee to his lips, an icon appeared on his datapad display.
 
It blinked, trying to impart its urgency to him.
 
He sighed and set the mug back down, freeing his hand to poke at the datapad.
 
His heart sank as he read.
 
Here we go again
.
 
With a light toss, the datapad landed on the shelf next to his chair.

"Bridge crew," he said with a sigh.
 
"Listen up."

Tremblay and the two crewmembers stopped what they were doing, turning in their seats to look at up him from their consoles.

"News update from New Halifax.
 
The Palani have destroyed another wildcat colony in the Burnt Worlds.
 
'Liberty', the place was called.
 
There were no survivors."
 

He saw faces growing tense as he continued, "Also, the Palani have reported seeing unauthorised ships at the extreme outer reaches of the Burnt Worlds.  They're pretty much saying it had better not be more human colony ships."
 
With one hand he gestured at the nearby datapad.
 
"The words 'or else' weren't used, but I think they're implied."

It was plain in the faces watching him: three young people growing more and more concerned — scared, even — for their futures.
 
He remembered the first time in his career when things had gone wrong; it had been here, on this bridge.  It was a cold moment to realise that the training and simulating were over, that it was now real.  All too real; if there was a 'harm's way', they were most certainly in it.  Dillon tried to come up with something witty and reassuring.
 
"Don't panic," he said, a smile on his face.
 
"There will be plenty of time for panicking later."

Their expressions told him that hadn't helped.
 
Time for a different approach.
 
"Anyone have any questions?"

At the helm console, Seaman Pakinova raised her hand.
 
"Sir?
 
Are there more 'Human First' colonies out there?"

"I don't know for sure, Pakinova, but then I'm not told everything. The 'Humans First' types are well-funded, and have no shortage of volunteers.
 
They're hiring independent freighters — Dosh or Jaljal — to drop them off at whichever planet they've chosen."

"What are they trying to do, sir?" asked Pakinova.
 
"Don't they know the Palani will find them?"

"I expect their idea is to get a colony up and running quickly.
 
So quickly that by the time the Palani discover it, it's too late to do anything about it.
 
If that's the case, they're underestimating the Palani."
 
Dillon shrugged, opening his hands to the air.
 
"Or, they might be calculating that Earth's governments won't be able to sit by and watch humans die, and will pressure the Palani to leave them alone."