Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (43 page)

Amba had already stepped down from the shuttle, and she helped the blinking Elan from the ship as Dillon offered a hand to Heather, who merely jumped, landing on two booted feet, her officer's overcoat already picking up snow.
 
Their eyes met briefly, and she gave Dillon a tight-lipped grin.

Dillon stood up straight, turning to face the five Pentarchs.
 
He realised he didn't know the protocol for meeting the heads of an alien civilisation.
 
In fact, he was possibly the first human ever to set foot on Palani Yaal La.
 
Behind him was the roar of the sea, crashing against the cliffs.
 
Ahead of him, beyond the Palani, were the carefully-arranged gardens, with the spiky trunks of black-barked trees, their branches drooping down toward the ground.
 
The massive Temple of the Divines lay beyond.

Dillon gave a respectful bow, pausing before straightening up. As the hum of the shuttle's engines faded into silence, only the crashing of the distant waves remained; the air was otherwise still.

"I am Commander Dillon," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the plaza.
 
"Captain of HMCS
Borealis
, of the Royal Canadian Navy.
 
I thank you for allowing us safe passage in your star system, and for inviting us to land on your homeworld, especially in such an honoured and sacred place."
 
And
, he thought,
thank you for not blowing us out of the sky.
 
Of course, maybe that was only because we had your prophet on board
.

"Commander Dillon," said the oldest of the Pentarchs, who stood in the middle.
 
His English was surprisingly good, though his accent made him sound laconic, almost sleepy.
 
"I am Ontelis, elder of the Pentarch of the Palani.
 
We welcome you to Resana."
 
The old man shifted his cold blue eyes to Dillon's left, toward Amba.
 
"Exile.
 
You have returned as well.
 
You are still a child of the Divines; what disagreements we may have can be set aside for today."

Amba gave a nod of her head.
 
"The Pentarch does me a great honour," she said.
 
Dillon knew that voice; he'd heard it before, the way it dripped with sarcasm.
 

The Pentarch seemed unfazed, as he turned toward Elan.
 
The young Palani man, still in an officer's dress shirt and pants, stood quietly in front of the shuttle door, oblivious to the snow that had been blowing around him.
 
At his side stood Heather, bundled up in a scarf, overcoat and gloves, her blonde hair disheveled by the weakening gusts of wind.

"Serene Highness," said Pentarch Ontelis.
 
"You have been returned safely to us.
 
The Divines have been merciful."

Elan's face remained blank as he put his hands together, a brief and smooth gesture, well practiced, that ended in his palms pressed together as if in prayer.
 
"Honoured Pentarch, I give thanks.
 
The Divines have been merciful."

Finally, Ontelis acknowledged Heather's presence, giving a brief tilt of his head toward her.
 
"Serene Highness, who is it that comes with you?"

Elan reached down and took Heather's gloved hand in his.
 

Already, Dillon could see several of the Pentarch react.
 
The bald-headed woman's eyes went wide, and the giant grunted, while the other man and woman began to sputter and gesture.
 
Only the elder Ontelis made no reaction as Elan spoke. "This is Heather Gibson, a human from Earth."
 
Dillon saw the young Palani squeeze her hand.
 
"My partner."

"Partner?" said the bald-headed Pentarch.

The stern-faced woman in red who stood next to Ontelis stared at the elder Pentarch, one arm pointing at Heather.
 
"This is unacceptable," she said, spitting her words.
 
"Ontelis, is this your doing—"

"Out of the question," said the rotund Pentarch in green, while the giant merely glanced from Elan to Heather and then back at the other Pentarchs.

"Now," said Ontelis, holding up his hands defensively.
 
"We need to think about—"

"No!" said the red-robed woman.
 
"We do not.
 
Absolutely not," she said, stomping one foot on the pavement.
 
"Our prophet will not take a barbarian consort—"

Dillon saw the well-fed Pentarch studying Heather with an appraising eye, one finger tapping at his lips.
 
"A concubine, perhaps?
 
Would that work?
 
Present it as a human tribute, perhaps?"

"Definitely not," said Ontelis.
 
"You would insult our guest?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Dillon could see Heather.
 
Her grip on Elan's hand tightened, and a red flush rose in her cheeks as the alien leaders squabbled over her fate.
 
"I'm pregnant," she said quietly.
 
"It's his."

An abrupt silence dropped over the courtyard, a thundering stillness that startled Dillon.
 
All eyes turned toward the blonde-haired human woman.

Ontelis took half a step closer, cocking his head as if to listen more carefully.
 
"Pardon, young woman?" he said to Heather.
 
"What did you say?"

"You heard me," she said.

The red-robed Pentarch spun toward Ontelis.
 
"She lies!
 
It isn't possible."

"Actually, Threnia," Ontelis said to her, a calm seeming to spread to his eyes.
 
"it
is
possible."

Threnia shook her head.
 
"No.
 
I don't accept this.
 
Send it away.
 
This is an abomination.
 
A mockery of our—"

The shorter, rounder Pentarch, next to the giant, was also shaking his head.
 
"The people will not accept this, Ontelis.
 
It is an insult to our suffering.
 
Still, if there were some genetic secrets we could extract—"

"Fuck you!" shouted Heather.

Dillon jolted upright, staring at the red-faced woman.
 
He was about to admonish her, but from the expression on her face, she had barely started.
 
"I am not a womb," she declared.
 
"I am not a goddamned science experiment.
 
Do you hear me?"
 
She jabbed a finger toward the red-robed Threnia.
 
"I am not a consort, or a concubine, or a goddamned tribute from Earth.
 
My name is Heather Gibson, and I am a human being.
 
I chose Elan, and he chose me, and we chose to come here.
 
This is his home, and I want to be with him, and our child needs your help to survive."

Pentarch Threnia glowered at Heather with undisguised contempt.
 
"A human being, you say?
 
You'll find that doesn't hold a lot of weight here.
 
We—"

"Ontelis," said the giant, and the others fell silent.
 
Dillon was amazed at how calm and gentle the massive Palani man was.
 
He probably wouldn't even fit through a normal doorway.

The elder Pentarch turned toward the giant.
 
"Yes, Balhammis?"

"How did this happen?"

The older Pentarch's shoulders slumped, and Dillon felt like he was watching the man age before his eyes; he seemed to deflate as he exhaled.
 
"It was the Elanasal project, Balhammis.
 
We were unable to complete it.
 
Palani DNA is too damaged now, too… broken.
 
It was impossible."

Balhammis slowly swept one hand, gesturing toward Elan.
 
"But here he stands, Ontelis.
 
You succeeded."

Ontelis shook his head.
 
"No, we didn't.
 
Large portions of our DNA were unviable.
 
So we spliced in DNA from an… alternate source."

The word tumbled from Dillon's mouth before he realised it.
 
"Human."

"Yes," said Ontelis.
 
"We used portions of human DNA to complete the genes for the Elanasal."
 
He gave Elan a rueful smile. "I'm sorry.
 
I should have told you."

"So," said Threnia, "our Elanasal, our Chosen One, is not entirely Palani?"

"Is that what defines us?" asked Ontelis.
 
"We share some DNA with tree-dwelling
vanara
, does that make us any less Palani?"

The rotund Pentarch waved his hand dismissively.
 
"That isn't the point, Ontelis.
 
The task of the project was to produce the Elanasal Palani, the Prophet, the Chosen One for our people, as foretold by scripture.
 
To move the race forward, as is required.
 
We have been deceived."

"No," began Ontelis, desperation robbing the harmony from his voice.
 
"That's not—"

"They must leave," said Threnia.
 
"We tell the people that the Elanasal has died, or ascended.
 
It matters very little.
 
He cannot stay, and he certainly cannot stay with her.
 
It is out of the question."

"Agreed," said the sputtering round Pentarch.
 
"The project is over.
 
We do not have an Elanasal Palani, we do not have a Chosen One.
 
We shall revisit the project later," he said, frowning at Ontelis.
 
"Under new leadership, perhaps."

The giant was slowly shaking his head.
 
"You two speak hastily.
 
We must build a bridge with the humans.
 
This is our opportunity.
 
This is where we choose peace, or war."

Ontelis said nothing, looking from Elan to the Pentarchs.
 
He was slowly shaking his head, grief written on his face, the face of a defeated man.
 
"Well, Ivenna?" he said at last, turning toward the bald-headed woman who had remained silent.
 
The one who stood, staring wide-eyed at Elan.
 
"What say you, Pentarch Ivenna?"

A smile twitched at the corner of the woman's face, as she stepped toward Elan.
 
Dillon didn't like the look in her eyes.
 
Something wasn't right about her.
 
It was the look of madness, the wild-eyed stare of a fanatic.

The wind gusted, snapping the woman's pure white robes around her, the hiss of snow mixing with the distant crashing of the sea.
 
The woman stopped in front of Elan, her eyes darting between him and Heather, who still stood next to him, their hands held tightly together.
 
Dillon saw the resignation on Heather's face; she had begun to accept the disaster that awaited her.

"Tassali Amba Yenaara," said Ivenna, her voice an uneasy harmony.
 
"You were once among the most knowledgeable about our scripture.
 
Were it not for politics, you would be in line for my position."

Dillon saw Amba's surprise at being addressed.
 
She hadn't expected to be a part of the conversation, let alone be consulted.
 
"Pentarch Ivenna," she said.
 
"You honour me.
 
Thank you."

The bald Pentarch's lopsided smile returned to her lips.
 
"Tassali, what does scripture say of the Chosen One?"

Amba thought a moment, and Dillon could see she was uncomfortable with the answer she was about to give.
 
"'Chosen by fate and circumstance, to lead the Palani people out of darkness.'"

"Indeed," said Ivenna.
 
"'Chosen by fate and circumstance.'"
 
She smiled at Elan, a distant sadness in her eyes.
 
"This one was manufactured.
 
Not chosen by fate and circumstance.
 
He is not the Chosen One.
 
He never was."

Dillon's stomach turned into a lead-filled pit.
 
That was it.
 
Two votes to three.
 
All that remained was to somehow negotiate a way off the planet, to get
Borealis
on its way home before things got further out of hand.
 
He licked his lips, mind racing to think of what to say.

Pentarch Ivenna turned away from Elan, her eyes coming to rest on Heather.
 
"This one.
 
She was chosen by fate and circumstance.
 
She is the way forward for our people.
 
In her body, she carries proof of this truth."

Behind Ivenna, Dillon could see Pentarch Threnia becoming apoplectic, her gloved hands clenching into fists.
 
"Impossible!" the woman shouted.
 
"She is not the Elanasal Palani!
 
A barbarian?
 
Have you lost your senses, Ivenna?"

The white-clad Pentarch Ivenna stared at Amba, her wild eyes meeting the Tassali's calm gaze.
 
"Scripture," said the Pentarch, "does not say that the Elanasal Palani and the Chosen One are the same person."

Dillon saw the smile that had begun to form on Amba's face.
 
It was calmer and more measured than the beaming smile of triumph on the bald-headed Pentarch.
 
"A way forward for our people," recited Amba.
 
"A road out of the darkness."