Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (20 page)

Dillon watched out the bridge windows as the sphere of New Halifax slid out of view.
 
"Yeah," he nodded.
 
"I can't really say anything about that —"

"How about," she interrupted.
 
"we make sure we're ready to get everyone back aboard and underway on short notice?"

"Yeah," said Dillon.
 
"That's always a good idea."

Chief Black nodded, turning to look out the bridge windows with him.
 
She folded her arms across her chest, taking a moment to survey the rest of the bridge crew.

Dillon knew that expression.
 
In response to something 'going on', she was now in the process of crafting some ideas of her own.
 
"Chief?" he asked.

Black kept her eyes forward, staring out the window.
 
Her voice was unusually quiet, blending in with the bridge's normal background noise.
 
"Rubicon, sir.
 
Just thinking about disarming ourselves, and the time to re-arm.
 
Forty-eight hours each way."

"We will not violate Rubicon.
 
We will not take weapons to Earth."

She shook her head.
 
"Of course not, sir.
 
I was just wondering if there was a way we could accelerate the re-arming process on the way out."

"By 'accelerate', do you mean 'subvert'?"

"Nothing illegal, sir, nothing in violation of treaty.
 
Not technically."

"Ah," said Dillon.
 
"Technically legal.
 
The very best sort of legal."

Black shrugged.
 
"Just thinking of the ship, sir."

"I know, Chief."
 
Leaning forward to look around her, Dillon motioned to Tremblay.
 
"Excuse me, Sub-Lieutenant.
 
Could you join us for a moment?"

Tremblay stood up from his console and in five quick strides was next to Dillon and Chief Black.
 
"Sir?"

"Tremblay, are you familiar with the Rubicon protocols?"

"We studied it, sir.
 
But I've never actually been to Earth."

"Good," said Dillon.
 
"It'll be a first for you then."
 
He pulled the pen from his mouth, and pointed at Tremblay with the chewed end.
 
"When the UN people come aboard to oversee our disarming, they're going to bring their rulebooks with them and go through them line by line."

"I understand, sir."

"So I want you to go get your own copy of the Rubicon rulebook, and go through it in detail.
 
Do anything you can do prepare the ship before we get there.
 
I want our passage through Rubicon — both inward and outward — to be as fast and bullshit-free as possible."

"Aye aye, sir.
 
Thank you for the opportunity."

Dillon waved a hand.
 
"You won't be thanking me when we get there, Tremblay.
 
It's a bit of a pain in the ass.
 
What's our ETA for the Sol system?"

"Eleven-thirty tomorrow, sir."

"Very well," said Dillon.
 
"You've got until then.
 
Feel free to recruit a warm body or two to help out.
 
Either I or the Chief will be along later to check in."

"Aye aye, sir.
 
I'll use the starboard hangar, sir."

"Fine. Carry on, Tremblay."

Dillon and Chief Black watched as the young officer grabbed his datapad and left the bridge.

"Inspired choice, sir," said the Chief.

He pointed his pen at her.
 
"I understand the temptation you're feeling, so let me be clear:
 
no pranking or otherwise messing with Tremblay until he's done."

"Spoilsport.
 
Sir."

Elan pushed the button next to the apartment's front door.
 
It was a blisteringly hot day, and as much as he was looking forward to seeing Heather again, he was also looking forward to just being inside.
 
It had only been seven days, but it seemed longer.
 
Each day had been longer than the last, as thoughts of returning became larger and louder in his head.

The door slid open, revealing a smiling Lakshmi.
 
"Oh my god!" she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him inside.
 
"You're back!
 
I knew you'd come back."

Elan smiled in return, stepping into the living room.
 
It was blessedly cool inside, cooler than he remembered.

"Where did you go?" asked Lakshmi.
 
She was already in the kitchen, filling a glass with ice cubes.
 
"What did you see?
 
And where did you get that scarf?"

He fingered the bright silk fabric that hung around his neck.
 
The blue matched his hair, and was decorated with delicate patterns in gold thread.
 
"A nice woman gave it to me," he said, "in Varanasi."

Lakshmi stopped, holding the glass of ice out toward him.
 
"What?" she said, her eyes wide.
 
"You went to Varanasi?
 
In India?"

Elan took the glass, and held it in both hands.
 
He savoured the coldness of the ice against his fingers.
 
"Yes," he nodded.

She stared at him.
 
"Holy shit, Elan.
 
You've got to tell me everything."
 
Her broad smile grew even wider.
 
"But I imagine you want to see Heather first."

"I do, yes.
 
Is she home?"

"She is," said Lakshmi, gesturing beyond Elan toward the bedrooms.
 
"I think she's asleep.
 
She's been sleeping a lot; she's got a cold or something."

"Oh," said Elan.
 
If he'd known she was getting sick, he would've stayed; it wouldn't have been right to leave her like that.
 
But, he chided himself, he hadn't known.

"Don't worry about it, Elan.
 
It's just a bug.
 
She'll feel like crap for a few days."
 
She chuckled.
 
"I doubt you could even catch it from her."

That made him relax a little.
 
Despite centuries of medical research, humans still got minor viruses from time to time.
 
They called it 'getting a bug' or 'having a cold'.
 
As if coldness was an illness.

He unslung the pack he'd been carrying on his shoulder, and reached inside for something.
 
"I'd like to use the bathroom first.
 
I've been wearing this makeup every day for a week."

She grinned at him, making a shooing motion with her hands.
 
"Go.
 
Clean yourself up, then go surprise Heather.
 
But later, you gotta tell me everything about your trip."

*
   
*
   
*

The door to Heather's room closed behind him.
 
He thought for a moment, then pushed the button to lock it and make it ignore intrusions.
 
He wanted to make sure he and Heather could have some privacy for whatever happened next.
 
He hoped she wasn't mad at him for leaving; he wouldn't have blamed her if she was, especially considering what he knew about her history.

The room was brightly lit by sunlight flooding in through the window.
 
The same clutter of clothes and other debris lay on the floor and every horizontal surface in the room.
 
A new painting hung on the wall, with empty and half-empty pots of paint scattered on the floor around it.
 
The white canvas had been attacked by colour; the slashes of paint, the spattered patterns from each swipe of the brush, were more curved, the lines drooping downward.
 
There was less energy in each stroke; the passion was different, less pronounced.
 
Or, he thought, she may just have been physically tired or unwell.
 
A few brighter colours, though.
 
He shook his head.
 
Best not to try to read too much into it, especially when he could just talk to the artist instead.
 
He looked over to the bed.

Heather lay flat on her back, her arms and legs immodestly splayed across the bed.
 
She wore only a paint-spattered t-shirt and shorts; the blankets had been kicked off and were a mass of rumpled cloth at the foot of the bed.  Her arms, legs and face shone with perspiration, and her hair was plastered to her head with sweat and piled on the pillow like a tangled halo.
 
She wasn't snoring, which was a surprise, but her chest rose and fell evenly as she breathed.

The opposite of elegant and demure, thought Elan.
 
She slept with the same committed abandon she put into everything.
 
Not just sleeping as a biologic imperative, but as an art form, an event to be experienced to the fullest.
 
She covered the bed like a starfish, leaving very little room for anything else.

Elan sat on the edge of the bed, next to her hip, being careful to move the bed as little as possible.
 
He watched her face, the thread of hair stuck in the corner of her mouth that moved as her lips moved, the subtle twitches of her breath.
 
Was she speaking in her dream?
 
Was she talking to someone?
 
Maybe to him?

He tried to decide how to wake her up.
 
He'd never deliberately woken someone up before.
 
Was there a gentle way to do it, that would leave their dream intact?
 
"Hello Heather," he whispered.
 
His harmonic voice sounded loud in the silent room, like a chord struck on an instrument.

Heather's face twitched and she licked her lips, sputtering as she blew the hair from her mouth.
 
Her eyes opened, thin slits underneath her heavy lids.
 
"Mmm?" she hummed.
 
Hazel eyes struggled to focus, until they made eye contact with his.
 
"Elan," she breathed.
 
"You came back."

"I did," he said.
 
"Like I promised."

"You came back," she repeated.
 
Reaching out with both hands, she grabbed at his arm and pulled herself up.
 
She curled her legs underneath her as she wrapped her arms around him.
 
"You wonderful, white-skinned asshole," she said into his ear as she embraced him, putting her head on his shoulder.

Elan reached one arm around her, putting it round her back and shoulder.
 
Her skin was boiling hot to the touch, far more than before.
 
Radiant warmth spread through him as she leaned into him.
 
"Oh god," she said.
 
"You're so nice and cool.
 
I wanna hold you forever, crawl inside you and wear you like your coldsuit."

Pulling on his shoulder, she twisted him toward her, and he shifted himself on the bed, pulling his legs underneath him and holding her chest to his.
 
"Are you unwell, Heather?" he asked.
 
He'd never felt her so hot as now, as she clung to him like a drowning woman clutching a life preserver.

"Just a bug," she muttered into his shoulder.
 
"I'm okay.
 
Just stay here a while."

He felt her exhale, her whole body relaxing with a sigh.
 
"So," she said, her voice slurred against his skin, "where did you go?
 
What did you see?
 
Did you find what you were looking for?"
 
She paused a moment, taking another breath.
 
"I'm sorry.
 
Too many questions at once.
 
Just talk to me.
 
Tell me everything, just don't move until you've cooled me off."

"I went to Varanasi," he began.
 
"I saw thousands of pilgrims, and spoke to their holy people.
 
I bathed in the Ganges — with my clothes on, of course."
 
He thought of the beautiful temple of Shiva, the steps down to the river, and the countless ghats, all glowing in the light of dawn.
 
And the unspeakable heat at the height of day chased him indoors.
 
"In Amritsar," he continued, "there is a beautiful golden temple on the water.
 
Every day, they provide meals for half a million people, without regard for race, religion, caste or class.
 
Everyone is welcome, everyone is equal.
 
I liked that."
 
He thought of the great hall full of people, sitting on the floor, eating a simple meal together.
 
The sense of shared humility and gratitude had nearly brought him to tears.

Heather still clung to him, but wasn't leaning on him as much as she had been.
 
She was gaining her strength, squeezing his shoulders a little.
 
He tried to remember where he had gone next.
 
"In Lhasa, I spent an afternoon with the Dalai Lama.
 
He knew who I was, despite the makeup.
 
What a thoughtful young man he is, so very gentle and wise.
 
I think I would like to see him again sometime.

"Then Medina, and Jerusalem, then Rome.
 
Such contrasts, among religions that share so much.
 
Jerusalem was stark, reverent, and contemplative.
 
The Wailing Wall was simple and quiet, compared to the majesty of the Vatican.
 
In all the Abrahamic faiths, there is this great humility, this great simplicity, side by side with larger-than-life gold-plated monuments.
 
I had the most enjoyable conversations with scholars from so many faiths.
 
There were so many nice people."