Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) Read online

  CHOSEN

  S.J. Madill

  Books by S.J. Madill

  Science Fiction (HMCS Borealis)

  Burnt Worlds

  Chosen

  Fantasy

  Magic Comes to Whiteport

  © Copyright 2016 by S.J. Madill

  All rights reserved

  Registration #1132382, CIPO

  No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, altered, or distributed in any commercial or non-commercial use without the express written consent of the author. Exception is made for quotes used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  My sincere thanks to the Four Readers of the Apocalypse:

  Mike, Lia, DeVerne, and Bill.

  They're a permanent part of the Borealis crew.

  To Mike, my brother,

  who's good at this.

  CHAPTER ONE

  When he came to, the whole house was on fire. Todd Brewster shoved at the smashed wreckage that had fallen on him, and pushed himself up to his hands and knees.

  Thick, acrid black smoke filled the living room. Prefab colonial houses were supposed to be fire resistant, but it was burning just the same. Splintered wood and shards of glass were all that remained of his china cabinet, and he cut his hand as he clawed his way past it. It'd been in his family for six hundred years, and he'd made a point of bringing it with him from Earth. From the old world to the new, just as his ancestors had done.

  Todd ignored the pain in his knee as he crawled through the smoke, each breath catching in his throat and making him cough. Up ahead, there was a rectangle of daylight where the front door used to be. Burning furniture blocked his way, and his eyes stung as he tried to find a path through it.

  The ground jolted under his feet, and he stumbled and fell to the floor. Wall panels leaned inward, roof trusses drooped, and swirls of dust mixed with the smoke hanging in the air. Ahead of him, part of the kitchen wall cracked and fell to one side, allowing him a narrow route toward the light. He sucked in a breath of bitter air and pushed himself forward, ignoring the sharp edges that pulled and tore at his shoulders and arms.

  He tumbled forward through a gap in the wall, and rolled onto the debris-covered front lawn. Mud and sprouts of freshly-seeded grass stuck to his jumpsuit. He tried to gulp down a lungful of clean air but coughed instead, blackened spit coming from his throat.

  The ground lurched again, throwing Todd onto his side. With a loud creak, the end wall of his house collapsed into the inferno, spewing thick black smoke into the clear blue sky.

  Dirt and grit rained down on him, and he covered his face with his hands. From somewhere beyond the wreckage of the house, he heard a scream: a loud wail that was cut short. It sounded like Kate Carver. She'd gone to get the seeders running this morning, to plant twenty hectares of corn. Todd pulled his soot-covered hands from his face, trying to focus his eyes. Mary.

  His wife had gone with Kate to the seeders. Todd struggled to his feet. He staggered sideways, lifting his head to look around.

  Beyond his house were other columns of smoke. Other colonists' houses were on fire. The Fletcher's, the Turner's, the Chilton's, and more. All the silos, the machinery shed, the communications centre; all smashed and burning. Every building, as far as he could see, all in flaming ruins.

  A man's voice called out. "Todd!"

  The man was waving, running across the field toward him. It took a moment to recognise the dirt-covered, bloodied shape of his neighbour Edward, stumbling through the freshly-sprouting wheat. Ed's left arm hung at an awkward angle, and with his right he was waving frantically.

  Todd tried to yell, but could only cough. He spat out more choking soot, and tried again. "Ed!" he croaked, waving his bleeding arm.

  Edward Fuller was halfway across the field. "Todd! Have you seen my Samuel?"

  Todd shook his head. "No," he yelled, his voice still hoarse. "I haven't… where's Mary?"

  "Todd, we need to get to the hangar. Get everyone to the shuttle, get away from—"

  In a blazing column of yellow light, the field erupted at Ed's feet. A fountain of dirt burst upward as the ground jerked, knocking Todd to his knees. Clumps of dirt thumped down all around, mixed with bits of plants and grains of fertiliser. With a dull thud, the charred body of Edward Fuller landed nearby, making one limp bounce before landing again, limbs twisted, lying still.

  Todd knelt on the ground, staring at Ed's lifeless body. They'd known each other for years; their families had decided to move to this new colony together. A new life, away from the crowded grey city; a new world with green grass and wide open skies.

  He tried again to struggle to his feet, scanning the horizon for the air defence turrets. Why hadn't they fired? Either they were offline, or nothing had entered the colony's atmosphere. They'd built the defences first, back when they'd arrived in the colony ship. Bandits and slavers were the greatest threat, but easily kept at bay by a few turrets. They'd only been here a month; how would bandits even know to find them? And why were no ships landing?

  Wiping his nose with his dirty sleeve, Todd staggered into the field, his stinging eyes scanning the wreckage of the colony, searching for his wife. For anyone. Everything had fallen silent; all he heard was the cracking of his burning house and the slow hiss of escaping gasses. He needed to find Mary. Find a ship. Get away. Get back to Earth. Somehow.

  It wasn't supposed to be like this. A new life, they'd said. A new life on the offworld colonies. A new life for humanity, deep in the thousands of empty planets in the Burnt Worlds region. Most of the worlds were dead, but a precious few were green, growing, and alive. Garden worlds, worlds like this, lush and rich and ready. Enough space for millions of humans, the future of the human race, away from the choking, crowded homeworlds. The planet had been settled once before, by aliens. A few battered and buried relics were all that remained of those previous colonists, who'd abandoned the planet centuries ago.

  Todd stopped in the middle of the wheat field, amid the thick columns of smoke rising from the colony buildings. He looked again for his wife, for any signs of the other colonists. Fumbling at his belt for his handheld radio, he held it to his ear and pressed the button to talk. "Anyone?" he said, tears welling in his eyes. "Anyone still alive?" Nothing but static.

  From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed reflected sunlight through the rising smoke. Looking up, he saw the ships. Three warships in perfect formation, like colossal scythes floating above the clouds. He knew the shape.

  Palani.

  They'd found Palani artifacts here. The ploughs kept digging them up. Bits of building materials, pieces of statues, some corroded equipment or personal effects. A few bones, even a skeleton or two. They'd cleaned it all and set it aside in a storage container at the edge of the settlement.

  The Palani had left this world, seven hundred years ago, during their great war. While humanity had been exploring the Americas, the Palani had been fighting a war of survival. They'd been annihilated on hundreds of worlds, and had abandoned hundreds more like this one. But they'd never returned.

  Todd saw a flash of blue from the front of the middle ship. A tiny flickering light rapidly approached, cutting through the sky, down toward him. His hand went slack, letting the static-filled radio fall to the ground. He shook his head again and again, as the glittering light drew closer. "They aren't supposed to be here."

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Your Serene Holiness, stop fidgeting.”

  Elan glanced up at the reprimand, but under his veil he made a face. He couldn’t help it; he was bored. Month after month, year after year, the long
line of rituals and lessons stretched back to the earliest days of his childhood. His coddled, antiseptic youth spent learning the dull history of his people and the tedious lives of the long-dead Prophets.

  The Pentarch standing next to Elan was tall and thin, with gold-trimmed blue robes that draped from his shoulders as if hung from a peg. Deep lines etched the man's pure white features, etched like a mountain and the colour of chalk. His blue hair, turning white with age, was pulled back and wrapped into a plait, and his ceremonial headpiece perched on his head. He turned toward Elan, ice-coloured eyes squinting down his sharp nose. “I know you’re making a face at me,” he hissed. “Stop it. And sit up straight.”

  Elan sighed, louder than he’d intended, which got him another disapproving glance from Pentarch Ontelis. He shifted one last time and became still. Blinking himself awake, Elan forced himself to focus on the ceremony.

  The white columns of the Temple of the Divines rose in a circle around him, sweeping upward and merging into graceful arches holding the dome far above. Windowed panels in the dome were open, and snow floated down into the Temple, onto the hundred thousand white-robed faithful gathered around the dais.

  The congregation spoke as one voice, reciting the verses of the ritual; soft harmonic syllables echoing off the walls with a rhythm like the beat of a vast drum. But there was no movement; apart from the falling snow, the ancient Temple was still. On any other day, there would be the distraction of hovering cameras, broadcasting the ceremony to the Five Worlds. But not today, out of deference to Elan.

  Or more accurately, he thought, out of deference to his DNA. Decades of genetic research had resulted in him: the distillation of the genes of the Prophets of old. He knew perfectly well: his mother was a test tube and his father was a micro-syringe. The scientists and priests often wondered how that knowledge would affect him. Elan didn't understand why it should.

  In the Temple's central aisle, a cadenced formation of priests approached, their cobalt-blue robes swirling around them as they moved. On their shoulders they bore a gilded frame, from which hung yet another ancient ceremonial robe. The fragile robe's sleeves and tassels swayed as it was carried up the stairs to the dais and Elan.

  He felt an irresistible urge to fidget again. On the alabaster-white skin of his forehead, the priests had drawn intricate runes in blue paints made from cobalt salts. The vibrant blue of the runes matched the colour of his hair, and irritated his skin. Elan looked around the hall to find something to distract him from the itching.

  A woman’s rich, deep voice abruptly filled the temple, startling him. Elan concentrated on the words of Threnia, the second Pentarch, while the formation of robe-bearing priests slowly climbed the stairs of the dais.

  “Seven centuries have passed since our victory over the Horlan. Seven centuries since our Great Sacrifice. Seven centuries since a trillion Palani gave their eternal lives to defeat the darkness. Seven centuries, and still we remember. We remember the loss of our brothers and sisters. While the younger races forget, we remember.

  “Where once we strode across the galaxy like the Divines, we now huddle on our five sacred worlds, and we remember. Even as the lesser races insult us, and disrespect our Great Sacrifice to save the galaxy, we remember.”

  Elan resisted the urge to raise his eyebrows. That last part was new. This was the fifth Ritual of Enrobing this year, and this was the first time he'd heard the Pentarchs speak of any insult or disrespect from the lesser races. How were they disrespecting the Palani?

  He peeked up and saw Pentarch Ontelis staring down at him. So, thought Elan, he waits for my reaction. The remarks weren’t a surprise. Deliberate. Planned. To change the tone of popular discussion. Politics.

  The phalanx of priests stopped in front of him, still bearing the gilded frame with the ancient ceremonial robe. From this distance, he could see the faded blue fabric, its once-intricate embroidery now frayed in places. Elan discreetly squared his shoulders, and resolved to be patient. Only two more hours to go.

  * * *

  Two and a half hours later, Elan had a chance to relax. The attending priests, having removed the last of the ceremonial robes and garments, bowed as they withdrew from the antechamber. With reverence and humility, they carried away the ancient — and, to Elan, a bit musty — relics.

  He rubbed absently at the itchy skin on his forehead, where the runes had been washed off. There was a separate ritual for that, of course. An ancient ritual, a deep and profound meaning, for every activity in his day.

  One last ritual lay between him and a quiet evening. A ritual in the form of a circular hole in the floor, two metres across, covered with a thin sheet of ice. Stepping to the edge of the bath, he reached out with his right foot and poked at the ice with his toes. The sheet of ice broke into pieces, revealing the crystal clear water underneath. Elan removed the veil from his face, letting the delicate cloth fall to the floor. He shrugged off his thin white robe and stepped down into the frigid bath, smiling as the water rushed up his naked chalk-white skin. Elan sat on the submerged stone bench, the water coming up to his chin.

  Bits of ice bobbed around Elan as he leaned back against the wall of the bath. He exhaled in a long sigh, allowing his eyes to flutter shut. The water lapped against him, caressing him. It was exquisite. Calming. He sighed; obviously, this calm couldn’t last. Someone would remind him of his sacred duties.

  “Serene Holiness,” came the voice of Pentarch Ontelis from behind him. “The Pool of Ul-Nassa is not your personal relaxation pool. The Erwa tells us…” Elan mouthed the words as the Pentarch continued. “...it is the site where, far from the ancient shore, Ul-Nassa chose to be martyred rather than forsake the Divines. As her sacrifice purified the waters, so does the water purify those who bathe in it. Are you mocking me, young man?”

  Elan clamped his mouth shut, hesitating long enough to give himself away. He turned to face the Pentarch, who stood by the door. The man was thin and stiff, and as still as a marble statue.

  “Master Pentarch,” said Elan, the soft tones of his voice forming their own harmony. "The verses of the sacred Erwa are songs to my ears, and I remember them well. Was it not you who taught me so?”

  “It was. And you know what you should be doing.”

  Elan nodded. “I do. The Ritual of Cleansing must be undertaken," he recited, "in its full form, after the Rituals of Enrobing. And, of course, I will do so. I sought only to relax a moment, to clear my mind.” He smiled sweetly and, he hoped, sincerely. It was a game, the same game they'd played for years. Master and student, mentor and novice, old and young. An endless game, as much a contest of endurance as of memory and intellect.

  The Pentarch approached the edge of the pool, his steps slow and careful. He seemed oldest when he walked, his gait made uneven by a knee that pained him. “Of course, Serene Holiness.” Ontelis paused, brushing an invisible speck from his elaborate blue robes. Elan chose not to roll his eyes; the Pentarch’s habitual gesture told him what came next.

  “Serene Holiness,” began the Pentarch as if on cue, “you have, of late, begun to develop a somewhat rebellious nature. It is unseemly of you. Might I say, even irreverent.”

  Elan said nothing; he knew the Pentarch wasn’t done yet.

  “It was not unexpected,” said the older man. “It is perfectly normal for a young Palani man to go through such a period of contrariness, of exploring his limits.” The Pentarch was watching him, his eyebrows raised and his nose upturned. “But more is expected of you. You are not to be like the rest of our people. You are to be more than that. You are to be better; to be something others can aspire to. Perfect, like the Prophets of old, whose blood you carry.”

  “Perfect?” scoffed Elan. Again with the unachievable expectations. “Like Jaherimsa the Pure, with his eleven lower-caste concubines, or—”

  “Stop that,” barked the Pentarch. “You know which tales are suitable to be repeated, and which are not. You of all people should see the value in the Prophets a
s moral, rather than literal, ideals. If not for your own sake, Serene Holiness, you must behave appropriately for the sake of the Palani people. Now more than ever, and certainly in the dark days ahead.”

  Elan thought a moment. “Master Pentarch, I have a question about that.”

  "Do you indeed?"

  “Today,” continued Elan, “during the ritual, Pentarch Threnia added a new part to her homily. She spoke of the insults and disrespect of the lesser races.”

  Ontelis nodded once. “So, you were paying attention. It is true: the younger races in the galaxy are as brash and insolent as yourself. They, like you, need to mature, to learn lessons.”

  “That sounds ominous, Master Pentarch.”

  The older man held his gaze. “Perhaps it does. One of the lesser races in particular, the Humans, they insult us daily, regularly offending us with greater and greater outrages. They build colonies in the Burnt Worlds, in the graveyard of our people. It cannot continue.”

  “I hope we can avoid conflict.”

  The Pentarch gave a thin, insincere smile. Elan remained quiet, awaiting the inevitable condescension.

  “Serene Holiness, your optimistic and peaceful nature serve you well. But, if you will permit my gentle chiding, it is naïve. Aggression and violence is the nature of Humans. We can postpone conflict, but not indefinitely.”

  “I do not understand, Master Pentarch. Why?”

  “Because it is inevitable, Serene Holiness. In the centuries since our Great Sacrifice, when we gave a trillion lives to save the galaxy, our people have paused for breath. In that time, lesser, more aggressive races have quickly risen to prominence, seeding themselves on worlds regardless of our expectations. In time, they may begin to think of themselves as our equals." The Pentarch spread his hands, grinning as if sharing a private joke. "It is laughable, I know, but not of our doing. Our great sacrifice created a vacuum in the galaxy, into which all manner of opportunists have flowed.”