Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Page 12

  He already knew the numbers: six casualties. Pakinova and Ryan killed, four others injured. Crewmembers he knew and respected, all coming to harm on his watch. On his ship. He had to face the injured crew, think of something encouraging to say. And the Chief… Taking a deep breath, he tapped the console and stepped through the sliding door.

  The med bay was dark and quiet, eerily so; just the soft hum of ventilation fans and medical pumps. The lights were dim; the brightest illumination came from a console on the counter.

  The two examination tables were occupied, their patients covered in blankets up to their chins; wires and tubes snaked their way from under the blankets to nearby monitors. Beyond, in the glass-walled isolation room, another patient lay suspended in a shallow tank of fluid, surrounded by a maze of plumbing and dimly-lit displays. Two more crewmembers lay on the floor, on thin mattresses. Five patients? And no sign of Singh—

  Dillon's eyes went to the corner of the room, where Amba was rising from a stool near a console. As she crossed the floor toward him, stepping carefully around the person sleeping at her feet, Dillon could see the shadows under her eyes.

  Amba leaned in toward him and touched his arm. Her voice was barely a whisper. "They are stable, Captain. Master Seaman Singh has sedated them." She pointed to the woman lying on the floor behind her. "I encouraged her to have a nap. I will wake her if anything changes."

  Dillon swallowed. Her face was very near to his, and he looked into her eyes. There was fatigue there; he imagined his eyes looked the same. "How is everyone?"

  Amba turned and pointed to the isolation unit. "Seaman Williams received second- and third-degree burns from plasma. She's comfortable in the…" she tapped her thumb and fingertip together, as if grasping at something. "Singh called it… 'dermal fluid'? She will remain there until we return to base."

  "She was on the port gun. Wasn't she wearing her anti-flash gear?"

  Amba nodded. "She was. It didn't protect her properly. Singh had to remove it from her skin, while I kept her calm."

  Dillon shook his head. "God damn it. Too many things going wrong on this ship."

  Amba gestured toward one of the beds. "On the bed there is Seaman Bowman. He received an abdominal injury when thrown against some equipment. It appears he was not strapped in."

  She pointed at the crewmember on the floor by the far table. "Petty Officer Townsend was also on the port gun. He received minor burns and cuts from plasma and spalling. He says he is fine, but Singh has insisted he remain here overnight."

  Amba squeezed Dillon's arm, and looked at the other examination table. She stood aside as he stepped closer.

  The Chief's features were unrecognisable. Deep cuts lined her swollen face and neck, the skin held together with thin lines of adhesive gel. A plastic band lay over her eyes, emitting a soft blue light. Underneath, Dillon could see both her eyes were swollen shut.

  Amba leaned closer to Dillon's ear. "Captain, the Chief took a lot of spalling to her face. Her right eye could not be saved. The other eye is damaged; Singh does not expect she will regain sight. For now, Chief Black is sleeping—"

  "No I'm not," murmured the Chief.

  Dillon felt his throat tighten; words didn't want to come. "Chief?" he croaked.

  "Dillon, that you?" The Chief's voice was weak, and trembled. "Why can't I move?"

  Amba stepped next to the bed and leaned down toward the Chief's face. "Yes, Chief Black, the Captain is here. Master Seaman Singh has chemically paralysed most of your body. She has put optical gel in your eye, and you must remain completely still."

  "'Eye'?" grunted the Chief. "Not 'eyes'?"

  "Just one, Chief Black. I'm sorry."

  The Chief opened her mouth to speak again, but winced as her cheeks tugged at the adhesive. "Will I—"

  Amba finished the thought. "Will you be able to see again, Chief Black? We hope so. We won't know for a while."

  "Oh," said the Chief.

  Dillon thought he knew some of what she was thinking. Without good eyesight, she'd be discharged from the service. It was the only life she'd known, and she'd be cast adrift from it. He'd be adrift too, he realised; in many ways, the Chief provided a safety net for him, and that would be gone. He looked away, cursing himself for thinking selfishly.

  "Hey, Tassali?" asked the Chief.

  "Yes, Chief Black?"

  "Anyone else listening? Just you and Dillon here, right?"

  Amba turned her head toward Dillon. He quickly scanned the other faces in the room; no one had any signs of being awake. He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he whispered, just enough for the three of them to hear. "It's just us, Chief. Everyone else is out cold."

  "Thanks, Dillon. So, ma'am?"

  "Yes?"

  "Could you please tell me everything's gonna be okay?"

  "I don't understand, Chief—"

  Dillon had never heard the Chief speak so quietly. "Except use your Palani voice thing, you know… so I believe it? Please, ma'am?"

  The pain Dillon saw in Amba's eyes grew along with the lump in his throat. She nodded down at the Chief. "Of course, Chief Black."

  "Linda."

  Amba nodded again. "Of course, Linda."

  As Dillon backed away, Amba leaned in close to the Chief's battered face, and took a deep breath. She exhaled, and the delicate scent of citrus filled the air. Very softly, Amba started to sing.

  CHAPTER 15

  With a graceful bow, the attendant closed the door. At last, thought Elan, a few precious hours without constant accompaniment and supervision. No scrutiny, no judgment, just Heather and him.

  He removed his veil and laid it on the small table next to the door. Like all the other furniture in Heather's suite, the table was ornate, handcrafted, and ancient.

  His armband hissed as it injected him with temperature-regulating chemicals. He couldn't remember the name of the drug, but he remembered the human — Singh — who had made the armband for him. The Pentarch had questions, of course, when they had seen it. They thought it was clumsy, and ugly, and its purpose struck them as inappropriate, perhaps even sacrilegious. For him, of all people, to choose to raise his body temperature to match the human. Through meditation and the medication he could manage it, but more than once it had been suggested that he was wasting his time, or setting a bad example. They always had some reason, he thought, why seeing the world from the 'other' point of view was a bad idea. Whatever they needed, he supposed, to help them avoid confronting their real reasons.

  "Elan?" called Heather from the next room.

  "I am here," he called back. He picked up the two full glasses from the table, and carefully walked across the room. He didn't want to spill a drop on the priceless rug, or the priceless chair, or any of the priceless things that furnished the room. The rug under his bare feet gave way to polished hardwood, and he turned through the doorway.

  Though she had a suite of rooms to herself, Heather only used one. At her insistence, the irreplaceable furniture had been removed, replaced by simpler, more practical things. It was still opulent by human standards, but sturdy enough for someone who lived with non-Palani abandon.

  Heather was on the settee, a cushion under her back and her feet propped up on an embroidered footstool. Normally she liked to curl her legs up under her on the couch, but as her belly continued to swell it had become uncomfortable. She never looked comfortable any more. But her smile still lit the room for him when she saw his face.

  Other voices were speaking: the sounds of a Palani drama playing on the screen, which went silent at a gesture from Heather. "Hey you," she said.

  "Hey yourself," he said. He always gave her that reply; she thought it sounded funny coming from him.

  She nodded toward the glasses he carried. "Is that turnip juice?"

  Elan shook his head. She was getting more comfortable with the language; enough to become playful with it. "You mean turna juice?"

  Heather took a glass from him. "Yeah, that. This stuff is awesome." With h
er other hand, she patted the seat of the settee next to her. Elan smiled as he sat, sliding sideways until his hip was against hers.

  She paused mid-sip. "You're warm. You don't have a coldsuit on."

  "No, I don't," he smiled.

  Heather took another sip of the turna juice, savouring it in her mouth before swallowing. "Thank you, Elan. I know it's a lot of effort for you, meditating and stuff to raise your body temperature."

  "It is worth it," he said.

  She leaned closer, her shoulder against his. She didn't seem hot to the touch, not now; her skin was smooth and warm. He enjoyed the connection, however small; he longed for the sensation of touch that was so rare in his world. He smiled as a thought came to him. "I do not wish to hurry the baby, but I look forward to when we can be together."

  Heather put her free hand on her belly. "Isn't where all this started?"

  "It didn't start there," said Elan, taking a drink. "It started with me sitting on your couch in Ottawa, and you being tired and cranky."

  She gave him a playful nudge. "You know what I mean."

  He watched the screen for a while. It was an older movie, one of the classics of Palani performance. As with most Palani movies, he expected Heather would find it boring. 'Mind-numbingly dull' was how she had described one dramatic masterpiece.

  "Wait," he said. "Didn't you have English text added to movies for you?"

  "I did. I've been trying to watch them without the subtitles. Most of them move so slowly, I've been able to keep up."

  "I'm impressed," said Elan. Most races of the galaxy — humans included — had found Palani to be impenetrably difficult to learn. In some cases, like the Dosh, they'd been asked to stop trying to learn it; their attempts to create the necessary sounds were so crude as to be offensive. But Heather had been determined, and was picking it up.

  She made a gesture in the air, and the sound returned to the movie. The brave heroine was just starting her lengthy monologue about the value of sacrifice and dedication.

  Heather's mouth was next to his ear. "Are they listening?" she whispered.

  He whispered back. "The Pentarch's people? Probably."

  Her breath was hot on his face. "What are we going to do?"

  Elan turned his head to look at her. Her eyes didn't have the mischievous glint he was hoping to see. Instead, her brow was wrinkled and she was biting her lip. "What?" he asked. "Tonight?"

  She rolled her eyes, confirming his thought. "No, not that. I mean, what are we going to do about the war, and everything? It's so frustrating, Elan. It feels like the Pentarch have given up. They're just going to sit here and wait for the Horlan."

  "They are," he said. She frowned at him. Seeing she wasn't happy with that answer, he continued. "The Horlan haven't come yet. We don't know why, but they're focusing on the humans. That gives us time, as long as we don't attract their attention."

  "I know that, Elan, but—"

  "Heather, I know you don't like it." The expression on her face made that clear enough. "The Pentarch are looking at a bigger picture: if we lose this war, how do we keep from going extinct? We're building an ark ship, but it takes time. The ship has to leave before the Horlan come here. Otherwise, it's all for nothing."

  "But what of everyone else, Elan?" There was a red flush to her cheeks; she was speaking above a whisper. "We can't give up on them, we can't just write them off. Entire families killing themselves, Elan. It's wrong."

  "It is." He watched the heroine on the screen. She was at the climactic part of her speech, enthralling the village with her devotion; in a moment, they would all spontaneously dedicate themselves anew to the service of the Divines. "I just want the three of us to be together, Heather."

  "I do too, Elan."

  He turned away from the Palani heroine on the screen, toward the human leaning against him. She was watching the screen, still chewing at her lip. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

  "I'm thinking about this stupid movie. Look at her, getting those people all excited."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the rapturous Palani villagers gathering around the heroine, preparing for their spontaneous burst into song.

  Heather tilted her head a little, not taking her eyes from the screen. "When I was at that art gallery, there was a lot of recent work being shown. I did a bit of a walkabout, talking to a few of the artists, and some of the public, too." She chuffed. "Tried to, anyway. The handmaidens helped translate. All those people… they didn't seem like they were all ready to die, Elan. Not at all."

  Elan remained quiet, watching the display as the villagers started to sing and the musical number became ever more extravagant.

  Heather pointed at the screen. "When the movie started, this village was surrounded by bandits. Now look at them: everyone's ready to sing and dance. They just needed that one girl… what's her name?"

  "Yaella."

  "Right. Yaella. The village just needed her to stand up and say something." She turned her face toward him, a smile brightening her face. "I can do that."

  CHAPTER 16

  As quietly as he could, Eric shut the maintenance hatch. It was dark and hard to see, and he wanted to avoid waking up any of the refugees.

  At 'night' — ten hours each day when they turned the lights down — most of the refugees slept. They lay on the deck of the cargo space, shoulder to shoulder and head to head. He'd imagined it would be quieter at night, but he had been surprised by the snoring. Out of the fifty-five refugees they'd taken on board, four of them were champion snorers. Each raucous snort, sounding like rattling hull plates, would wake up one or more of the other refugees. They would then lie awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling for a time before drifting off again.

  Eric carefully threaded his way between the rows of sleeping people. He couldn't remember how long it had been since they'd picked them up — three days, or maybe four — but they should now be mere minutes from New Halifax.

  An elderly woman stopped mid-snore, her gasping halt breaking the rhythm and waking a few of her neighbours. Several sets of sleepy eyes struggled to focus on Eric as he stepped past them.

  Maya, Jerry, and he had done all they could to make the trip bearable, but it was Sap who had held it all together. He'd made the ship's single toilet sufficient for fifty-nine people, and had kept the air breathable. The unbearable humidity caused by so many people breathing in the same space had been solved at the same time as the drinking-water problem. Water extracted from the air was purified and fed back into the tank.

  Eric reached the bottom of the ladder, and began to climb up to the catwalk. Up until a week ago, this past year travelling with Sap had been the best year of his life. The older Dosh had such endless reserves of patience and tolerance, always taking the time to explain what he was doing and why. Sap had no sense of competition: everything he did was in a spirit of cooperation. It was unlike Eric's experience growing up, and he preferred it. He thought the galaxy needed less 'every man for himself' and more 'we're all in this together'.

  He crept along the catwalk, trying to avoid the metallic creaking noises it always made. Below him were the rows of sleeping refugees, their faces obscured in the dark. Eric thought of the others, on the disabled ships they'd lleft behind. The American warship had assured them that rescuers were on their way, that everyone would be accounted for. But it might be days for those people. Days in a damaged ship, possibly with failing power or life support. Waiting in the most utter darkness as the air grew thicker, colder, and more foul.

  At the end of the catwalk, Eric entered the crew area. On his right was the kitchen, where a man stood nursing a mug of water. He gave Eric a tight-lipped smile, then looked away.

  To Eric's left, the crew lounge — really just a table with some bench seats. Three elderly people slept on the benches, too frail to go up and down the catwalk ladder.

  Beyond were the cabins, one on each side. To his right was the starboard cabin. It had been Maya's, but it now housed two mothe
rs with newborns. On the left, Jerry's cabin was where the Nova Cat's crew now slept. Jerry and Sap would be asleep now, the latter no doubt face down on his bedding, snoring like a gurgling drain. Eric walked past the cabin doors, and into the cockpit at the end of the corridor.

  Maya was in the right hand seat, slumped against the side of the chair, her eyes shut and her mouth open. Well, thought Eric, someone ought to be flying the ship. He put his hand on the back of the empty left-hand seat, and climbed into the chair, settling onto the cushion. A quick scan of the displays showed that everything was running normally; New Halifax was only a couple minutes away. No sense waking everyone; even once they arrived, he doubted they'd be able to land right away. They might not even be able to land at all; they might be redirected to one of the stations in orbit, or even a different planet.

  "Ow, my neck," said Maya. She rubbed her neck while twisting her head back and forth. "My own fault for falling asleep on watch," she muttered. "Some captain I am, huh Eric?"

  He gave her a wide grin. "My captain in the Navy used to doze off in his chair sometimes."

  "If the Navy does it, I guess it's okay then." She squinted at the displays in front of her, rubbing her eyes. "Oh, cool. Good timing. We're almost there." She smiled and cocked her head. "I didn't think we'd pull this off."

  "What? You didn't think we'd get all these people here?"

  Maya shrugged. "Not really. I mean… it's just so many people. I'm used to carrying valuable or fragile cargo in the hold, but not people. This is different."

  "Now you sound like a captain."

  She shook her head. "Nah. Just a brat that inherited a free ship."

  With a beep from the console, the FTL drive disengaged. The high-pitched whine that had been constant for the past days fell away, leaving an eerie silence.

  Ahead of them was the blue-and-green orb of New Halifax. Swirls of white clouds swept across its surface, and orbiting around its equator was a thin glittering belt of ships, space stations, and satellites. Eric could make out the rings of Borden station. The docking points were full of ships, and long rows of other vessels lay nearby.