Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (7 page)

Heather noticed again that Elan's breath smelled of orange blossoms.
 
There was something odd about him; she felt good when he spoke to her.
 
She let her shoulders relax as a feeling of comfort washed over her.
 
Somehow, she knew everything was going to work out; Elan seemed like a great guy.
 
"Fine with me," she said, smiling.
 
Craning her neck, she looked at Blaine and Lakshmi.
 
"How about you two?"

"Sure," said Lakshmi.
 
Blaine just nodded.

"So…" said Heather, letting herself sink farther down into the couch
 
"Lenny's old room is at the back.
 
If we really crank up the air, how cold do you suppose we can get it?"

The door console beeped.
 
Dillon walked out of his cabin's small washroom and glanced at the console, where the clock read 09:00 exactly.
 
Only one person on the ship was that punctual.
 
He tapped a button.

The cabin door slid open, revealing Tremblay in a neatly-pressed uniform.
 
The young officer took a step into Dillon's cabin, and gave a smart salute.
 
"Sub-Lieutenant Tremblay reporting, sir."

Dillon gave a wave in return, and gestured at a chair.
 
"Exactly on time, Tremblay.
 
Have a seat."

"Thank you, sir."
 
The officer sat himself down, his back straight, a datapad in his lap.
 
He held a pen up toward Dillon.
 
"Sir, the Chief said I should bring this to you."

"Ah," said Dillon, accepting the pen.
 
A subtle signal from the Chief, that she'd already seen Tremblay's reports.
 
"Perfect.
 
I was wondering where it had gone."
 
He poked the end of the pen into his mouth, holding it between his teeth.
 
"Do you always do what a chief of the ship tells you to?"

"I do, sir."

"Good," said Dillon, starting to chew on the pen.
 
"That's wise."
 
Chewing on something helped him think.
 
There was probably some complicated psychological reason behind it, but he didn't much care.
 
He pulled his own chair out, and it squeaked as he sat down.
 
"So," he said, gesturing to Tremblay's datapad.
 
"What've you got?"

Tremblay handed over the pad.
 
"Sir, I've finished the survey reports for the last four planets we visited.
 
We're now up to date."

"Outstanding."

"Thank you, sir.
 
Also, I reviewed the logs from the last mission.
 
I've identified places where I, or someone on the team, didn't follow standard procedures.
 
We're especially lax with communications discipline, sir."
 
He gestured at the datapad in Dillon's hand.
 
"It's in the second file there, marked…" He trailed off.
 
Dillon waited to see why Tremblay had interrupted himself.
 
With a slight grind of his teeth, the pen twitched.

"Sir," continued Tremblay, "it's not meant to be incriminating.
 
I'm just cataloguing deviations from process. Is that overstepping, sir?"

Dillon pulled the pen from his mouth and leaned back in his chair, which squeaked again.
 
The kid was hesitating, conscious about how his work might affect others.
 
"Tremblay," said Dillon, "how are you getting along with the Chief?"

Tremblay glanced down at his hands in his lap.
 
"Fine, sir," he said, looking back up.
 
"Though she does sometimes send me on… unusual errands, sir."

Dillon could already imagine the sorts of things Chief Black would dream up; she considered rookie officers to be one of her favourite food groups.
 
He nodded sagely, tenting his fingers in front of him.
 
"Go on, Sub.
 
Tell me about her errands."

Tremblay reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt.
 
"Well, sir.
 
There was the time she had me, uh, verify something in the ship's stores.
 
I spent a morning searching for a 'binnacle calibration tool' before I realised there was no such thing."

"A classic."

"There was the other time, sir, where the hot water was disabled to my cabin.
 
I had nothing but cold water for two days, before I went and asked Engineering.
 
Apparently they were in on it, sir." Tremblay's eyes went back down to his hands.
 
"There were others, sir."

Dillon thought of how the Chief had once fought a battle of pranks against the
Borealis
's former engineer, a Dosh.
 
Finding out that ordinary gin made the alien hallucinate had led to the high point of the Chief's repertoire.
 
But then, those had been different times.
 
They hadn't known if they were going to get home again, and maintaining morale had been a constant struggle.
 

"Sounds like you're getting off light, Tremblay."

"Sir?"

"If I were to guess, the Chief is trying to illustrate how you're sometimes reluctant to bother us with problems.
 
If something's not right on the ship, it's not 'bothering'."

"Aye, sir.
 
I'll do better."

Dillon made a face, shaking his head.
 
"You're not doing poorly, Tremblay.
 
Don't look at it that way.
 
You're doing great.
 
You're well on your way to earning your watch-keeping certificate.
 
It's just a matter of putting in the hours.
 
Everything else is excellent."

Tremblay grinned, and sat a little straighter in the chair.
 
"Thank you, sir.
 
I very much appreciate hearing that."

Dillon swivelled in his chair, reaching out to pick up the mug on his desk.
 
He peered down into it, then took a sip.
 
Cold again.
 
He started to drink it anyway.
 
"So, Tremblay.
 
Any questions or concerns?"

The Sub-Lieutenant bit his lip a moment, glancing past Dillon out the window.
 
"Sir," he began, "I saw that the Palani fleet have destroyed another colony.
 
I'm a bit worried about what it means; I don't understand what's motivating them."

Finishing his cold coffee, Dillon set the empty mug down on the desk.
 
"Yeah.
 
That could become a problem if it continues."
 
His fingertips held the empty mug by the rim, rotating it on the desktop.
 
"The Palani used to have three thousand inhabited systems.
 
For millennia, they ran this part of the galaxy.
 
Then, seven hundred years ago, while our ancestors were trying to colonise the Americas, an alien race invaded.
 
The Palani called them the Horlan, a monster from their mythology."

"I read about that, sir.
 
The Palani nearly lost."

"Yeah.
 
The fight went on for decades.
 
The Palani lost everything but five little planets.
 
Thousands of worlds, wiped out.
 
Most of them are still devoid of life, but a few have recovered and are inhabitable again."

"So why haven't the Palani resettled all their old worlds?"

"I don't know for sure," said Dillon, staring at his mug.
 
"And the Tassali is reluctant to speak of it.
 
The Palani are skilled geneticists, and they defeated the Horlan using a bioweapon.
 
But despite their knowledge, their population just never seemed to recover."

"Seems a shame, sir, letting all those garden worlds lie empty like graveyards."

"Shame?
 
Well, Tremblay, the 'Earth First' types agree with you.
 
They'd say that humanity needs the living space.
 
But those worlds are still graveyards."

Tremblay was leaning forward.
 
"What about this place we're in now, sir?
 
This second universe, with the extinct Daltanin?
 
I heard that the Horlan invaded here too, and wiped these people out."

Dillon nodded.
 
"Yeah.
 
Something like that."
 
He glanced over at Tremblay, who was watching him.
 
Dillon remained quiet.
 
He figured it was only a matter of time before Tremblay asked the question hanging in the air.
 
Well, thought Dillon, one of the many questions, anyway.

Tremblay had cocked his head slightly to one side.
 
"There's more to it, isn't there, sir?"

"There's always more to it, Sub."

"And it's miles above my pay grade, right sir?"

"Oh, yes.
 
Above mine, too."

"Sir," said Tremblay, choosing his words carefully, "does it have to do with
why
the Tassali is on board with us, here in Daltanin space?
 
Is it all connected?"

Dillon grabbed his mug and stood up, sending his chair backwards with a final, loud squeak.
 
"Well," he said, "time for some fresh coffee.
 
I drink too much of this stuff.
 
We haven't had decent coffee since Sap left."

Tremblay was quickly on his feet as well.
 
Dillon thought the expression on the young officer's face had changed.
 
"I think I understand, sir.
 
About things being connected, sir.
 
Permission to be dismissed?"

"Good," said Dillon.
 
"You're dismissed.
 
And… Sub?"

The Sub-Lieutenant paused as he was turning to the cabin door.
 
"Sir?"

"Between you and me, Sub?
 
Keep asking questions.
 
Never stop.
 
Just understand, you can't always get answers."

"Aye aye, sir."

*
   
*
   
*

Empty mug in hand and pen in mouth, Dillon walked into the wardroom.
 
Chief Black was stirring her newly-poured cup of coffee.
 
Her hair was dark and close-cut, and her bright green eyes looked up at him as he entered.
 
"Captain, sir."

Dillon reached for the pot of coffee on the counter.
 
He watched her stirring her mug, the metal spoon clinking against the ceramic.
 
"Morning, Chief," he said.
 
"Why do you always stir your coffee?
 
You never put anything in it."

The Chief stopped stirring, staring at the dripping spoon she'd pulled out of the mug.
 
"Huh.
 
Habit, I guess, sir.
 
Used to take cream, then ran out of cream once."
 
She held the spoon out toward him.
 
"Weird."

With a flourish, Dillon added a dollop of whitener to his cup, and took the spoon the Chief offered him.
 
"You know, I think young Tremblay is on to you, Chief."

Black blew across the top of her mug, raising an eyebrow.
 
"Is he, now?
 
Did he give you his list of procedural infractions, sir?"

"Yeah."
 
Dillon stirred in silence for a moment, concentrating on not touching the spoon to the mug.
 
"He's right, of course."

"He is, sir.
 
We've strayed so far from the textbook, I don't even think we know where the book is any more."

Putting the spoon on the counter, Dillon took a preliminary sip of his coffee.
 
It felt strange, almost alien, to have coffee while it was still hot.
 
"We're on deployment, a long way from a classroom."

"Aye, sir."

"Still," said Dillon, "he needs to know that he's being taken seriously.
 
I don't want to discourage his attention to detail.
 
He's very sharp."

"Aye, sir."

"Tell you what," he said, sipping again, "let's tighten up our radio procedures, at least for open channels."

Black nodded, a smile appearing at the corner of her mouth.
 
"Aye aye, sir.
 
I will yell at people accordingly."

"Good, good," said Dillon, turning to lean against the wardroom counter. Chief Black took a cookie from the jar and popped it in her mouth, leaning next to him.
 
She wiped her sugary fingers on her uniform pants.

"Chief—" began the Captain.

"I know, sir.
 
I know," she said, now wiping the sugar off her pants.
 
"Habits."

Dillon shook his head.
 
"Don't let the crew see you doing that."

"All the crew ever sees is my usual perfection, sir."
 
For a few moments, the two stood in silence, nursing their mugs.

"Hey," said Dillon.
 
"You heard from Atwell?"

Her face lit up in a smile.
 
"Aye, sir.
 
I got a message from her yesterday."

"You've got that look again, Chief.
 
Was it a naughty message?"

"Parts of it."

"Good," said Dillon.
 
"How's life in the academy?
 
Is she enjoying her posting?"