Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (13 page)

"I would've cried for sure."

"I mean, sir, hearing yourself perform like that… it's truly humbling."

"I hope you saved a copy."

"Aye, sir.
 
I already forwarded it to a few other chiefs.
 
Chief Roberts in the
Ojibwa
thinks he can out-do me."
 
She shook her head.
 
"He can't."

Dillon just stared at her.
 
He was pretty sure there was a right way and a wrong way to respond to this sort of thing.  He couldn't imagine what the right way would be.
 
"So… was it Tremblay?"

"Has to be, sir.
 
I'm so proud."

"So what are you going—"

Across the bridge, Pakinova called out from her terminal.
 
"Sir, coming out of FTL now."

"Thank you," said Dillon, turning his chair to face the windows as the Chief returned to her station.

The moving stars skidded to a halt, and the massive, blue-grey orb of the Daltanin homeworld lurched into place off to their right.
 
The distant planet was surrounded by a ring of glittering points of light, as sunlight glinted off the countless orbiting structures and debris that circled the dead world.
 
Vast, kilometres-long stations, ships, and other satellites, their builders extinct for seven centuries.
 
The planet and its sparkling belt slid to the right as
Borealis
began a gentle left turn.  Their course took them toward the system's central star and another, smaller collection of glittering shapes.

"We're being hailed," said the communications tech.
 
"
Vikrant
is on station with
Restigouche
and
Antietam
.
 
They're expecting us, sir."

"Very well, comms.
 
Extend our greetings.
 
Helm, set us up for a spot at the gate."

"Sir,
Vikrant
reports the gate is clear at both ends.
 
We can go right through."

"Thank you," said Dillon, reaching above his head to poke at the console on the ceiling.
 
He pushed a button, and a brief whistle sounded through the ship's speakers.
 
"All hands," he said, talking to the console, "we're about to transit the jump gate.
 
Stand by."

Dillon sat back in his chair, crossing his legs in front of him.
 
Out the window, he could see the three patrolling ships and, between them, the swirling sphere of blackness that awaited them.
 
Its surface was perfectly smooth and featureless, save for the occasional flicker of light across its skin; the echo of a distant star on the far side of the jump gate's permanent wormhole.
 
Its edges were rimmed by a shifting red-and-blue glow, the light from nearby stars being stretched into encircling smears.
 
As the
Borealis
approached, the black sphere grew in the window, until its edges were lost from view.
 
The ship's engines went silent, and
Borealis
drifted toward the sphere's edge.
 

"I hate this part," mumbled Dillon through his teeth.

All noise ceased and, after a moment, everything went black.
 
Dillon became disoriented.
 
There was a flash, and a moment's sensation of an angry, seething red glow that filled his mind.  Then he felt the numb sensation of reality seeping back in and reimposing itself.  His senses returned, slowly at first, and then in a flood.

He was in his seat on the bridge.
 
His pen was in his mouth, and his hands were gripping the arms of his chair.
 
His stomach gave an uneasy lurch, and he had to concentrate to keep the room from moving.
 
To his right, Black was straightening up from where she leaned over her station.
 
Pakinova looked completely unfazed, and the other crewmembers were taking a few seconds to reorient themselves.
 

"What fun," he said.
 
"Status check."

Chief Black blinked at the console in front of her, as if it had just materialised.
 
"Aye sir," she said, her eyes scanning the readouts.
 
"Looks like we're all good."

"Very well.
 
Comms?"

"We're picking up new 'Tunnel' cells sir," said the technician.

"Sensors?"

"Sir," said the crewmember at the sensors station.
 
"Many contacts, sir.
 
Lead patrol ship is
John F. Kennedy
, sir.
 
Present are her group, plus the
New York
group, plus a British squadron, an Indian squadron, and support ships."

"Hell," whispered Dillon.
 
That was a lot of hardware to defend the Milky Way's end of the wormhole.
 
The Palani had demanded — repeatedly — that the wormhole be shut down, with the usual unspoken 'or else'.
 
Apparently, some people were taking it seriously.
 
"Comms, send our regards to all ships present, but we need to be on our way.
 
Helm, plot a course for New Halifax, and get us underway."

"Aye aye, sir," said Pakinova.
 
"Course entered for New Halifax.
 
At best FTL, we'll be there by nineteen-thirty hours today."

"Thank you, helm.
 
Take us home."

It was late afternoon in Ottawa.
 
The city's massive sunshades were folding themselves like flowers at sunset, letting the waning rays of the sun slide in and set the city aglow.

Elan walked alongside Blaine, the two of them climbing St. Laurent Boulevard, now only a few steps from the apartment.
 
Normally, Blaine walked briskly around the apartment, but today he'd slowed down to match Elan's own slower, almost processional, gait.
 
For that, Elan was thankful.
 
It had been a busy day, and he was exhausted.
 
Although he'd been meditating to raise his body temperature to an unprecedented thirty-two degrees, Ottawa had been much hotter than that.
 
Today had been like taking a day-long tour of a furnace, and despite his coldsuit working at maximum power, it had been a physical ordeal.

The makeup on his face started itching hours ago, but Elan hadn't touched it.
 
He wondered just how much he needed it; as long as he was with Blaine, no one seemed to see him.
 
His hair was gathered up under the knit cap he wore on his head, and his hands were covered by so-called 'athletic gloves'.  Blaine had assured him this was the current style; the clothes he'd lent him fit comfortably, despite Elan being shorter.

Next to the sculpted perfection of Blaine, he was virtually invisible.
 
Total strangers, male and female alike, found ridiculous excuses to stop and talk to the human.
 
They might drop something in the street, or ask for directions, or use a pet animal called a 'dog' as an excuse to initiate conversation.
 
It had happened five times during the day, and each time the people only acknowledged Elan in the context of determining if he and Blaine were romantic partners.
 
He'd enjoyed the amusing looks of relief and hope when Blaine introduced Elan as his 'cousin from offworld'.
 
In a very broad sense, he had begun to feel he was.

A final turn, and the two of them started the last hundred metres to the apartment.
 
A shuttle passed overhead, its engines whining as it climbed into the sky.
 
Elan watched it ascend, its path curling up toward the heavens.

"How you doing, Elan?" asked Blaine, snapping him out of his daydream.

"I'm tired, Blaine.
 
And this makeup is itchy.
 
But it's worth it."

"Oh?" asked Blaine, surprised.
 
"Itchy?
 
I should've thought of that.
 
I'll get you some non-allergenic cosmetics in case you want to do this again." Blaine's brilliant smile flashed his way.
 
"You're such a trouper, Elan, marching around the city all day long."

"Thank you," said Elan, slowing as they reached the apartment door.
 
"You have been kind to spend the day showing me around."

Blaine opened the door, gesturing for Elan to enter.
 
"No problem.
 
It was fun."

Elan stepped into the apartment and was greeted by a wall of cool air.
 
As it washed over him, he felt invigorated, his anxiety draining away with it.
 
No more worrying about the heat, or the makeup, or somehow being noticed—

"Where the hell have you two been?" 

 Heather stood in the hallway, her hands on her hips, the very image of a disappointed Palani Pentarch, or one of Elan's nannies back in the Temple.

"Hi mom," said Blaine, waving as he walked to the kitchen.

Elan pulled off the knit cap, letting his hair fall to his shoulders.
 
"We went to Byward Market, and Parliament Hill, and Sparks Street, and the Museum of Civilisation, which was very interesting.
 
Then we—"

Heather's head had drooped, and she was pinching at the bridge of her nose with her fingers.
 
"What is the matter, Heather?" asked Elan.

She looked up at him, giving a slow shake of her head.
 
"Look, Elan.
 
Are you sure that was a good idea?
 
If someone figured out who you are—"

"Yes, I do," he said.
 
He didn't want her to worry, but being able to get out was exactly what he needed.
 
In a way, it was why he came all this distance.
 
Sitting in one apartment wasn't how he was going to learn about Earth, and humans, and their beliefs.
 
And even though the company of these humans had been perfectly hospitable, he needed to meet many more humans than just these four.
 

The urge to scratch at his face was becoming unbearable.
 
"Is the shower room available?"

"The bathroom?" sighed Heather.
 
"Yeah."

Blaine gave a short laugh from behind him.
 
"Hey, don't use all the cold water."

*
   
*
   
*

Blaine hadn't told him the makeup would be so difficult to get off. Elan had assumed that standing in the shower and rubbing his face with soap would be sufficient, as apparently it was for the rest of them.
 
But no, he had to scrub.
 
He'd found a strange abrasive cloth hanging in the shower, and spent ten minutes scrubbing at his face and neck.
 
Around his eyes was particularly difficult, and he had resorted to scratching away the makeup with a fingernail.
 
At least, he reasoned, the colour wouldn't come off in the rain.
 
There was a small mirror in the shower, and he took one last look at his raw, blue-flushed cheeks.
 
Turning off the shower, he stepped out.

Elan grabbed a fresh towel and patted himself down, as a puddle of water formed on the floor at his feet.
 
He found himself humming the hymns for the Ritual of Cleansing, slowly drying his arms and legs in their specific order.
 
He knew he wasn't doing it right; normally there was a team of a half-dozen acolytes waiting to do it for him whenever he emerged from the bath.  But he knew the hymns; they were as familiar to him as his own skin.

He wasn't sure how to clean his coldsuit, so he'd taken it into the shower with him.
 
It now hung on a hanger, like a shiny white pelt, dripping into the same puddle on the floor.
 
He hadn't taken it off since leaving the homeworld.
 
The way it held him tight and gently pushed back against his every move, was something he'd grown accustomed to.
 
As much as it offered security, it represented containment, too.
 
Now he stood, naked, in a bathroom on a foreign planet, and felt strangely free.
 
For the moment, his body was his own.
 
A few more minutes wouldn't hurt.

He picked up the borrowed pair of Blaine's designer jeans, their too-long legs rolled up into cuffs.
 
As he pulled them on, he felt the rough woven fabric against his skin.
 
He had to tug at the waist band to fasten the button, and negotiated the zipper's metal teeth with great care.
 
But as much as the jeans tugged and pinched at him as he moved, they yielded.
 
Their resistance was a token at most.
 
Elan pulled a tee-shirt over his head — it was black, with the logo for some music group on it — and opened the door, stepping barefoot into the hallway.
 
He didn't see anyone, so he walked the few steps to his room and turned to face the mirror.

"Hey," came a man's voice.
 
Elan turned to see Carter's thin frame leaning in the doorway.
 
He always had two days' worth of beard growth, though he never seemed to shave.
 
Elan wondered if there was a device to achieve this.
 
"Hello, Carter," he said.

"Look," said Carter, glancing down at the floor.
 
"I know we haven't gotten off on the right foot—"

Elan stared at him.
 
The human language — adopted by the galaxy as the trade language, mostly because all the major races could pronounce the sounds — was bizarre at the best of times.
 
It had few consistent rules, and its spelling and pronunciation seemed arbitrary.
 
But confusion turned to utter bafflement when humans started to use their impenetrable euphemisms, sayings, and 'figures of speech'.