Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Read online

  The tactical display was a jumble of moving symbols, each representing a ship, fighter, projectile, or debris. The shapes that marked the Horlan ships had begun to distance themselves from the melee. They left debris in their wakes as they withdrew, still being battered by fire from the human warships. The Horlan contacts started to disappear from the screen, blipping out as each of them accelerated to light speed and beyond.

  "Fuck," said Dillon. "They're just… they're retreating." As more Horlan ships vanished from the screen, he felt the nervous energy draining from him. Everything had happened so fast, and now it was over, just as quickly.

  Kalla had a note of excitement in her voice. "I think we've won, sir."

  "Yeah," mumbled Dillon. He dropped down into a seat, watching as the last Horlan contacts disappeared from the screen. Where they had been was a sea of debris, through which the remaining human warships were moving. Dozens of large and small ships floated aimlessly, either crippled or dead. Windows began to pop up on the screen, as ships reported their damage and asked for assistance.

  "Yeah," he said again, wiping his face with his hand. It came away with small smears of blood from his scratched cheek. "A few more victories like this, and we'll lose the war."

  CHAPTER 12

  Elan winced. He enjoyed the warmth of Heather's hand holding his, his arm under hers, their palms and forearms touching. But right now, her fingers were clamped around his, holding so tight it hurt.

  They sat together in a wide chair at the back of the darkened Chapel. The Pentarch sometimes invited them to attend their meetings, so the media could show the unity of church and state. They weren't expected to speak at these meetings, but right now, no one was speaking at all. All eyes were on the giant screen on the wall of the Chapel.

  Heather leaned in toward him. Her arm and shoulder were tight, held so rigid for so long that she had begun to tremble. When he looked at the side of her face, he could see the lines of the muscles in her jaw and neck, taut like ropes, her teeth grinding together. She hadn't taken her eyes off the screen for a long time.

  He wished he knew what to say. Simple platitudes made her irritable, and he had nothing of substance to offer. He could only be here.

  Elan sighed and leaned a little closer, feeling more of the weight of her shoulder against his. He returned his eyes to the giant screen on the wall; its glow was the only light in the Chapel. The bright flares of distant explosions gave an eerie, short-lived glow. There was no sound, apart from their breathing and the occasional shifting of the Pentarch in their seats.

  The humans were fighting a battle against the Horlan. The humans hadn't intended it; a group of civilian ships full of refugees had been caught by a Horlan scout group. Human ships had responded, then more Horlan ships had come, then more humans, until it had escalated into a battle of hundreds of ships.

  Now, it seemed, the Horlan were leaving. The images on the screen were a feed from one of the civilian ships, broadcasting into the public internet. The images were poor, but Palani computers were able to study the feed and identify individual ships in the distance. The display provided an estimate of the events unfolding in front of them.

  Wrecked human warships — from single-pilot fighters all the way up to battleships hundreds of metres long — drifted helplessly in space; some tumbled, some vented bright plumes of plasma from ruptured engines. Beyond, the glittering criss-cross of energy weapons flickered in the distance, as the human warships kept up their bombardment of the withdrawing Horlan ships.

  Standing in front of the wall-sized screen, Pentarch Ontelis turned away from the display. His feet shuffling on the floor became the loudest sound in the Chapel. "So," he said, breaking the silence. "It appears the humans have won this battle."

  The great Balhammis, half a metre taller than everyone else, was seated near the wall, curled forward in the chair, looking surprisingly small. "But at great cost," he mumbled.

  The red-robed Pentarch Threnia harrumphed. "Far less than the price we paid. We fought the Horlan hundreds of times, often with the same result. The humans are clumsy and wasteful; clearly they have not learned from our history."

  And, thought Elan, clearly not all of the Pentarch had yet given the humans any credit for their achievements. As long as they continued to see the humans as a lesser species, it would be difficult to work with them as partners. Even if the task at hand was their very existence.

  Elan heard someone humming. He guessed who it might be. Pentarch Ivenna sat smiling near the front, her shaved head gleaming in the glow from the screen. Her eyes were open wide, flitting from the images on the wall, to the edge of a table, to the faces of the others. "It is wonderful," she breathed, her harmonic voice ringing in the air. "Though they walk behind us, the humans walk the same path. They too will learn the cleansing nature of sacrifice. The Divines have chosen them to take part in our destiny."

  Elan sighed. Ivenna lived in a fantasy world, where destiny had already decided everything, and they needed only to wait while it played out. A dangerous delusion, he thought, that was shared by too many people. It abdicated responsibility: if the Palani goal of perfection was pre-ordained and inevitable, why would any one person work hard to achieve it? Easier to just sit back and let it happen.

  The vise-like grip on his hand relaxed, enough for him to stretch his fingers. Heather's warmth still leaned against him, and when he turned toward her, she was staring into his eyes. She wanted to scream, he could see it. The tension in her face, the tightness of her jaw. He rolled his eyes, like he'd learned from her. She nodded, her mouth twisting in a hint of a smile, and her face relaxed a little.

  Elan saw that Ontelis was gathering his thoughts, tapping his chin with one finger, as he often did before speaking. The older man took time to think before starting a new discussion, especially if it was something that would be contentious. Considering that all the Pentarch were here in the Chapel at the same time, anything was bound to be contentious.

  At last, Ontelis raised his head. His chalk face was deeply lined, and over the past months his hair had lost all its colour. He looked as if his centuries of life had caught up to him all at once.

  Ontelis cleared his throat. "The Horlan continue to focus on the human worlds. So far, the enemy has proven weaker and less aggressive than they were seven centuries ago when we faced them alone. But still, we cannot defeat them. Time is short; they may change direction and assault our home worlds at any moment. Let us discuss the options we have been pursuing. Pentarch Threnia?"

  Threnia stepped forward, turning to address her peers. "Eleven volunteer couriers went to the Vaults. Each retrieved their virus sample, and each went alone to the Nuryana outpost beyond the galactic arm. Including couriers, researchers, and support staff, a total of seventy-four volunteers have been sealed into the outpost. They are ready to rebuild the genetic weapon. I propose we order them to do so."

  Mountainous Balhammis rose to his feet, adjusting the tiny glasses on the end of his nose. "How would we deliver it, Threnia? Last time, we delivered the eleven component viruses individually. We infected our own people, and the Horlan became infected as they consumed us. We allowed the Horlan to spread it among their population before we activated it. They would be watching for any of the viruses to reappear. They would take precautions."

  Ontelis shook his head. "Are these Horlan immune? We still don't know how some of them survived."

  "They are not immune," said Threnia, a gleam of triumph on her face. "We know this. My colleague—" she gestured to Balhammis, "— has resourceful people in human space, who have acquired samples of Horlan tissue from recent battles."

  Ontelis nodded slowly. "So we know the bacteria will work."

  "We do."

  "If I may repeat the question of Pentarch Balhammis: how do we prevent the Horlan from detecting the component viruses and taking precautions?"

  Threnia spread her hands. "We don't. We combine the viruses, activate the bacteria, and create warheads pa
cked with the living plague."

  Ontelis's eyes went wide. "That's madness. One weapon, one cell of the plague in the wrong place, and we could wipe out the humans, or the Dosh, or ourselves."

  Threnia nodded. "True. It is a risky endeavour — a last resort."

  "So if we are about to die, we take the galaxy with us?"

  Heather was holding tight to Elan's hand again. She kept looking from him to the Pentarch. He knew she was holding herself in check; inside, she must have wanted to scream, to jump up and rant and rave.

  Ontelis gave a gracious nod to Threnia. "Let us hope it does not come to that," he said. He turned toward Fennin. The rotund, green-robed Pentarch had been uncharacteristically quiet so far. "Pentarch Fennin? What of our other option?"

  Fennin shifted his feet, a wide smile appearing on his face. "I am pleased to report that our better option is underway, and ahead of schedule. The old dreadnought Kahadya is in the final stages of conversion. Ten thousand people have been carefully selected. Once the Kahadya is ready, the ten thousand will be able to board and be frozen in their pods. After they are loaded, the ship can depart."

  "Ten thousand people," said Ontelis, shaking his head. "And how long will be the ship's travel time?"

  "One thousand years. Though, of course, it will monitor for signals prior to that."

  Fennin seemed very pleased with himself, thought Elan. The man prided himself on a job well done, which was understandable, but had he not been thinking about what it meant? A colony ship — the humans might call it an 'ark' — filled with ten thousand frozen Palani, quite likely the last of their people. In a thousand years, what would they return to?

  Balhammis took a step forward, moving with an unexpected grace. "Fennin," he mumbled, "You made public the names of the ten thousand. You ought not to have done that.."

  Fennin gave an insincere smile. "Why not?"

  Balhammis produced a datapad from his flowing robes. "Those on the list are being ostracized. In several cases, there has been violence. And for those not on the list…" he held up the datapad, though Elan couldn't see it from where he sat. "…Suicide, Fennin. Entire families dying together. Twelve thousand yesterday, on Eth Yesid alone."

  "I don't—"

  Balhammis raised his voice, the giant's words filling the Chapel. "This is where our people are, Fennin: We have told them who will survive, and who will not. For those who will not be on the ark, the choice is not whether to die, but when. Should they wait to die at the hands of the Horlan, die when we deploy the plague, or die — now — at their own hands. What choices are these?"

  Heather's voice startled Elan. "You could fight."

  Elan held her hand, but she pulled away from him and sat upright, leaning forward in the chair.

  Patriarch Threnia's eyes shot to Heather; Elan was disappointed by the sneer on Threnia's face. "You weren't asked, Chosen One."

  "I don't care if you asked me or not. I'm right here."

  "Forgive me, Chosen One. You clearly have more to learn about our customs. You need to understand— "

  Heather was on her feet now, taking one ungraceful step forward. "Pentarch Threnia, did you miss the part about your people killing themselves?"

  "Show some respect, human." The Pentarch's voice lost all its harmony, becoming sharp and discordant.

  "What?" said Heather, cocking her head to one side. "Why should I?" She looked from one Pentarch to the other. "You're all worried about respect? Look what you're doing! Humans are being killed by the thousands, and now the Palani are killing themselves just as fast!"

  Threnia snorted. "How could a human understand sacrifice?"

  "For fuck's sake," said Heather, spreading her hands wide. "Are humans not people? They're dying too."

  "It is a necessary expense."

  "Necessary expense?" sputtered Heather. "Necessary? Are you fucking kidding me? Why do the Divines demand their deaths?"

  "Time."

  "Time? For what? For the Palani to finish killing themselves?"

  "No, Chosen One. Time for the Kahadya to be finished, and for the plague to be ready. We cannot win a war against the Horlan. But we do intend to survive it. For that, we need time."

  "And all those who aren't going to be on the Kahadya — they're going to be sacrificed as well?"

  "Ultimately, yes."

  "But—"

  Elan saw the condescension on Threnia's face. "You will be on the Kahadya, Chosen One. All of us in this room will be. You know this. You must come to terms with the idea of sacrifice."

  "If they're all going to die, why not let them die fighting?"

  "They will have that opportunity, when the Horlan get here."

  Pentarch Ontelis's face was downcast, and he faced the floor as he cleared his throat. "Chosen One, please understand, we have not made such decisions lightly. We know full well that the choices we make decide life and death for thousands of others. Millions." He lifted his head, but wouldn't look at Heather. "This is difficult for all of us. Our first duty is to guarantee the existence of the Palani. We cannot do anything to risk that. The ark is not ready; we cannot risk drawing the attention of the Horlan, not yet. Once the ark is safely on its journey, those who remain will be ready to face the final battle."

  Heather was deflating before Elan's eyes. "So many people are going to die."

  Ontelis bowed his head. "Yes," he said, his voice quiet. "But some will live. That will have to be enough."

  "At least give them hope."

  "I'm sorry, Chosen One. There is none."

  Heather turned toward Elan. Her shoulders had sagged, and she gave a weary shake of her head. Elan rose to his feet and stood beside her, taking her hand in his; there was no strength left in her fingers.

  She sighed, looking back at the five silent Pentarch. "I… I'm sorry. I apologise for my outburst. I should rest."

  As the Pentarch gave them a deferential bow — Threnia with a smirk on her face — Elan led Heather to the door of the Chapel. Heather's steps were slow and awkward, and it took a few moments to cross the floor and enter the elevator.

  As the door closed behind them, Heather shook her head. "I'm so tired, Elan. I don't want to keep fighting them. This is…" she gave a weak shrug. "Is there anyone here who hasn't given up already?"

  CHAPTER 13

  Eric pulled himself up the ladder from the hold to the crew deck. Jerry had called over the loudspeaker to tell them they were almost at the refugee meeting point, and Eric wanted to be on the bridge when they arrived.

  The corridor on the crew deck was very narrow. Kitchen and docking hatch on one side, lounge and lavatory on the other, then two small doors to Maya and Jerry's cabins. Ahead was the door to the cockpit.

  Sap was already there, leaning against the door frame. Maya and Jerry were in the pilots' seats, surrounded by the rugged, unsophisticated bank of displays and controls. Unusual for a ship this size, the normal segmented cockpit windows had been replaced by a single-piece bubble canopy. It was streaked and scratched, but the view outside was breathtaking.

  The stretched lines of stars pulled by them on all sides: the longer lines, sliding by quickly, were the nearer stars. Stars farther away appeared shorter, and moved more slowly. For those most distant objects, the single pinpoints of light didn't appear to move at all.

  Jerry tilted his head to acknowledge Eric. "Good timing," he said. "We're nearly there."

  With a gentle creaking of the hull, and the momentary feeling of falling that passed as quickly as it came, the stars jolted to a stop.

  On the console between Maya and Jerry, the navigational displays lit up. The small screens filled with dots that continued to multiply as a column of text scrolled upward.

  Jerry's eyebrows crawled up his forehead as he leaned toward the screen. "Easy there champ," he said to the computer. He gave the console a gentle pat. The screen kept spattering new dots across the map, until it abruptly halted with a disgruntled beep. "Huh." Jerry tapped at the display. "It stoppe
d at sixteen million. That's the maximum number of contacts it can track."

  "Debris?" asked Sap.

  "I bet it is. There's been a hell of a fight here."

  Maya was leaning toward the side window, peering out. "Is the battle over?"

  "Far as I can tell, yeah," said Jerry. "We're still a long way away."

  "Take us closer. I want to see."

  "Sure, boss. But whoever's left is gonna see us."

  Jerry sat upright in his seat, and put his hands on the controls. With a murmur from the engines, the deck shifted under their feet and the ship began to move.

  Sap took a short step into the cockpit, kneeling in front of the navigation display in the middle of the console. "I can set this to show contacts by decreasing size. It would help us understand what happened here."

  Jerry shrugged. "Be my guest, buddy. No sense tracking every loose nut and bolt out there."

  Sap's red fingers reached out and touched the screen. With a few taps, the system gave a conciliatory beep, and began redrawing the contacts. Large objects were individually labelled.

  Eric peeked over Sap's shoulder, while Maya leaned in to get a closer look. She clamped her hand over her mouth. "Oh my god," she gasped.

  Jerry was watching his own display, stealing an occasional glance at the centre screens. "What do you see?"

  Sap made a tutting sound. "Wrecks. Alabama. Charlottetown. Glorious. Most of Ramillies. Part of Vikrant. Cruisers and destroyers, some fighters. A number of Horlan wrecks too, though I'm not sure which parts belong with which. There are several operational warships as well, plus salvage ships and shuttles." Sap poked at the screen, zooming in on a part of the map. "Civilian freighters beyond. Thirty-seven of them, all with disabled engines."

  "Life signs?" asked Eric.

  "I cannot tell from this distance."

  "What about Borealis?" Eric couldn't take his eyes off the screen. Never had he seen so many wrecks in one place. A wide field of debris and wreckage laid out on the display, still too far away to see with the naked eye.