Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Read online

  The crew suspected, of course; they weren't stupid. They knew what sorts of things would fit in a container and were worth giving up a shuttle for. The sorts of things that filled the hangar bay, and were obsessively secured to the deck.

  Cho walked around the front of the container and inspected the lashing clamps that held it to the deck, before reading the serial number of the second container. Some things were worth quadruple checking. And then checking again. He checked his datapad:

  Launcher: Container-ready, Mk.Ib; includes Torpedo: FTL, Mk.III

  Previously, FTL torpedoes had only been deployed in the most massive warships — like Vanguard, or George Washington — because of the power and handling requirements for the weapons. But now, some evil genius in a lab somewhere had come up with a way to make the whole thing self-contained. The most terrifying naval weapon available, now in a convenient package.

  Inside the container was the torpedo itself: two metres in diameter, and ten metres long. It had no warhead; no explosives, no radioactive isotopes. None were needed. In the back of the containers, behind the torpedoes, were small fusion reactors. For two weeks they had been trickle-charging the torpedoes' capacitors, and now they were ready. The weapons had enough power to launch from the Borealis's hangar, point themselves at an enemy, then make a brief burst of movement at a speed faster than light. That was it. No defensive weapons could track them, no shields could deflect them, no armour could stop them. They would fling themselves at an enemy ship, then stop inside the target, re-entering normal space within the target. The sudden appearance of a torpedo's atoms superimposed on the atoms of the ship's structure; that would do the rest. More antisocial applications of physics, and lucky Borealis had received two of them for her solo trip into Daltanin space.

  Cho never liked it when a deployed prototype was named something like 'Mark III'. It suggested that the initial designs — Mark I and Mark II — hadn't gone well. It made him wonder if everything had been sorted out, or if there were still a few problems that would've warranted another trip back to the drawing board. Would there be a 'Mark IV'?

  He was checking the lashing clamps on the second container when he heard the hangar door open. Over his shoulder, he saw the Captain enter. Under his uniform jacket, Captain Dillon was wearing one of the rare — and much coveted — navy-issue wool sweaters. A pair of gloves were in the Captain's pocket.

  Cho stood up and was about to salute when the Captain waved him off. "How's it going, Lieutenant? You got to work in a hurry. Settled in?"

  "Afternoon, sir." Cho nodded his head toward the containers. "I wanted to be here when these were delivered. I've been making sure they're properly catalogued and secured."

  "Good," said Dillon, looking up at the nearest container. "How many times did you check?"

  Cho felt the red in his cheeks. "Four, sir. So far. But I've—"

  Dillon smiled, shaking his head. "I'm teasing, Cho. I know how you check and double check. Nothing wrong with being certain, especially not for things like these. I bet your time with Sap taught you a few things about process and procedure."

  "It did sir," said Cho. Sap had shown him the value of the calm, methodical approach. The Dosh, it seemed, had a carefully-documented process or procedure for everything. They were an old culture, and had apparently spent a lot of that time writing down what worked and what didn't work. There was a certain freedom to it: if you just followed the directions, you could be confident that everything would go well even if you didn't understand it.

  Dillon had been watching him. "I'm sorry you and Sap didn't get a proper reception when you came aboard."

  "No problem sir. We didn't need a brass band. I'm happy to be aboard, and I think Sap is too."

  "I'm glad to have the two of you back, Cho. Borealis is going to need you. Have you had time to meet everyone? There are a few new faces."

  "I met Sub-Lieutenant Tremblay, sir, just for a few minutes. I looked in on the Chief down in med bay." It wasn't easy, seeing someone so helpless and adrift, someone he always thought of as being indestructible.

  "How was she doing?" asked Dillon. "I haven't been by since I started my watch."

  "I don't know, sir. I just…" Cho trailed off.

  "Yeah," said Dillon, as if in answer to what Cho was thinking. "I sense the hesitation, Lieutenant. The way I figure it, Borealis can't afford to lose one of the best Chiefs in the fleet. If she loses her sight, we can try to find a workaround. But if the ship loses her knowledge, her skills — there's no workaround for that."

  "I hadn't thought of it like that, sir. But when the fleet surgeons come to certify everyone—"

  Dillon shook his head. "Senior Captain West already told the fleet surgeons not to bother."

  "So she agrees with you, sir."

  Dillon wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "To a point, I guess. What was the Chief doing when you left?"

  "She had her datapad, and was waiting for a transmission from HMCS Arrow. I didn't even know Arrow was out of mothballs, sir." Cho watched Dillon wipe his forehead again. "Sir, are you alright? I was thinking it was kind of hot in here, but you're dressed like it's cold."

  Dillon just nodded. "Yeah, I'm good. Chief didn't tell you about Arrow's new C.O.?"

  "No. Wait. Is it Atwell, sir?"

  "Right first time, Lieutenant. She went and got herself an extra half-stripe. Got her first command earlier than she planned, I'd say."

  Cho raised his eyebrows. Once, he'd seen Atwell as his main competition aboard Borealis. But that was back when he saw everything in life as a competition, always comparing himself to everyone else.

  "I'm happy for Atwell sir," said Cho. "Though I wish the circumstances were better."

  "Yeah," said Dillon. "I hope she's had a chance to call the Chief. I've had a priority channel held open all day for Arrow, at Atwell's request. Like the rest of us, Arrow is busy as hell, but I know Atwell's sick with worry about the Chief."

  "Aye, sir."

  "So," said Dillon, drawing out the word as he surveyed the containers. "These are the last things to come aboard. Once you've signed off on them, the Borealis will be ready to sail. We'll be on liberty until the rest of the fleet signals it's ready to go."

  "How long will that be, sir?"

  "Two days, I expect. That's the current plan."

  Cho frowned. "Two days liberty, and nowhere to go."

  "Yeah. Borden Station is a bit full."

  "Have you seen it, sir?" Cho remembered the struggle he and Sap had, trying to merely cross Borden Station from one docking ring to the other. Every nook and cranny of the station was packed. Corridors were full of shipyard materials, ships' supplies, bunks for sailors awaiting their assignments, and makeshift offices and facilities. "We landed at Diefenbaker Station, sir, and even it was packed. Stuffed beyond capacity with refugees in transit. The planet isn't accepting any more on the ground, because they don't have food and shelter for them yet. Goes without saying the bars and hotels are all full, if they haven't been outright requisitioned."

  "Well then, everyone will have to make do with a two-day liberty aboard ship. Tremblay has volunteered to stand watch the entire first day, and I've got the second day." He pointed at the datapad Cho was holding. "And as soon as you sign off on these things, you're on liberty too."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Dillon wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Damn, it's getting hot in here." He had a hint of a grin on his face as he turned toward the hangar door. "I'm on liberty now, but you can still contact me. If you do—" he pointed one finger at Cho, "—damn, it had better be good."

  CHAPTER 21

  "Are you cold, Feda?"

  Dillon tilted his head forward, kissing Amba on the temple, her blue hair soft against his cheek. Her skin was cold against his lips, and she smelled of lavender. "I'm fine," he said, though he wouldn't have said otherwise even if he'd been freezing.

  Amba's cabin was the same size and layout as his own; being the ship's
only 'xeno' cabin, it had an airlock instead of a door and additional plumbing in the head, all to accommodate alien guests. For the past few months, it had been hers.

  Dillon was sitting on her bed, his back against the wall. She was sitting between his legs with her back to him, her head leaning against his shoulder as she read a datapad. Her room was cold; at five degrees Celsius it was comfortable for a Palani, and she could relax without her coldsuit. His arms were around her, his gloved hands threaded under her thin robes, resting against the bare skin of her stomach. Her body gently moved as she breathed, relaxing against him as she sighed. It always took a few hours for her to fully relax, to let go of the rigid self-control that she maintained.

  Amba put down the datapad, and leaned her head to the side. She peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. "That sweater must be very warm."

  "It is," he murmured into her hair. "I made a few stops around the ship before coming here, and I was roasting."

  "I appreciate it, Feda. It's nice to relax without the coldsuit. I'm sorry there wasn't time to bring my body temperature up for you."

  "I'm sorry I can't move my temperature at all. I'm only human."

  Her body shifted against his as she shrugged. "Nobody's perfect." She smiled and went back to reading her datapad.

  Dillon couldn't read the Palani text on her datapad. He could make out a few words he recognised, but not enough to understand it, so he focused on the video clip. It showed yet another giant ritual in the Temple of the Divines. The human 'Chosen One' — Heather Gibson, who had been adopted by the Palani based on her unintentionally fulfilling a vital prophecy — was reciting some parts of Palani scripture. Apparently, she had gone off script; at least, that's how it looked, based on the confused and astonished faces on the priests and attendants around her. "Has Heather caused some trouble?"

  Amba's hair rubbed against his cheek as she nodded. "She has indeed. She and the Elanasal have publicly refused their spots on the ark ship, and have vowed to stay on the homeworld and fight to the end."

  "Wow. The Pentarch must have lost their minds."

  She shrugged against him again. "In my opinion, Feda, that happened centuries ago."

  "Huh. So what's the fallout?"

  From the tugging of the muscles on her cheek, Dillon could tell Amba was grinning. "It seems the Pentarch completely misread the mood of the Palani people. Despite centuries of obsessive introspection, there is still some fight left in them."

  "Really? I don't mean offence, but the Palani philosophy always seemed one of… fatalism, I guess. Like they're so used to pain and sacrifice, now they're always waiting for the pain to begin."

  "I'm not offended, my love. The Pentarch would be, but then they choose to be offended by a great many things. No, I think you are largely correct. The people have been told that they're almost certainly doomed. That's not difficult for a Palani to accept. All Heather did was remind them that they could choose how they met their doom."

  "Fighting, instead of just waiting."

  "And, of course, by choosing to fight, they create a chance to win. A possibility, however slight, of victory."

  "Yeah. 'Almost no chance' is still better than 'no chance'."

  "Mmm," she hummed, putting down the datapad. Her stomach moved against his hands as she took a long, deep breath. She let it out in a sigh, settling back into him. "Tell me Feda, what about us? All of us? Will Borealis make it back?"

  If Senior Captain West was right, they were going to lose the jumpgate. That was almost a certainty. The Horlan couldn't jump — as far as anyone knew — but they seemed to be able to detect when a human ship jumped, especially a long jump. The Borealis would go through the jumpgate to Daltanin space, then round up the science vessels. From there, the only way home would be by making her own jump, duplicating the uncertain feat from a year and a half ago. "I believe we'll get back. But I don't know what will be waiting for us. We'll be out of touch while we're in Daltanin space, and won't know the progress of the war. We could come home and find out we lost."

  Amba's head moved as she nodded. "I guess that's something, then. I can't help feeling we're not going to see anyone again, once we leave." She slid her right hand along his arm, holding his hand against her stomach. "Did you ever hear back from your sisters, Feda?"

  "No," said Dillon. He was disappointed by that. Even though they never talked any more, he'd sent Maureen and Jane letters a few days ago. He couldn't say what was going on — or hint at what the Borealis was about to do — but he'd hoped they would respond. It may well be the last chance to hear from them. But then, he thought, Amba was in much the same boat. "Did you hear from your father? Or your brother or sister?"

  "Nothing," said Amba. There was a sadness in the chords of her voice. "All of them refused my letters. It's as if I have ceased to exist in their eyes."

  "Even after we brought the Elanasal Palani to the homeworld? You were in the news media—"

  "Nothing, Feda."

  He gave her a gentle squeeze. "You told me, once: 'never face death with words left unspoken'. You spoke; you did your part."

  "It is true, I suppose. Just because I speak, it does not oblige them to listen. I just wish…" she trailed off, silent for a moment before giving a single shake of her head.

  "I wish, too," said Dillon.

  Amba looked down toward their feet. "Did you go to see the Chief? Last I saw her, she was very quiet, clutching a datapad, hoping to hear from Lieutenant Commander Atwell."

  Dillon nodded, his cheek rubbing against her hair; it felt like silk against his skin. "I stopped by med bay on my way here. Singh was outside the door, doing some paperwork. She said the call had finally come through from Atwell, and she'd left the Chief alone so she could talk."

  "Is that the first time they'd spoken since the Chief was injured?"

  "Yeah. I've been keeping Atwell up to date, but she's a new captain, on a ship working up its readiness; she won't have much spare time."

  Amba was quiet for a while, her fingertips rubbing against the back of his gloved hand. "I'm glad they got a chance to talk."

  The two of them were quiet, the only sounds in the room were their breathing and the distant hum of ventilation fans and the other machines of a living ship. Dillon closed his eyes and leaned back his head, resting it against the bulkhead. He concentrated on the feeling of her cool weight against him, and her fingertips drawing circles on the back of his hand. But he couldn't relax, not the way he'd like to. Tremblay deserved a medal for volunteering to stand watch for the first full day of liberty, allowing all the other officers to enjoy the day off. But tomorrow Dillon would return the favour by being on watch himself. He'd be on the bridge, watching the hours tick by as they waited for the other ships in the fleet to finish making repairs and taking on supplies. The waiting was the worst part. It was impossible to relax. Especially when waiting for some dark and fearsome unknown, like a pitched battle, or being all alone in Daltanin space.

  He opened his eyes as Amba began to move. She carefully rolled over on her side, her shoulder against his stomach, her hip between his knees. She put one hand flat on his chest, as if possessively, and looked up into his eyes. Though her face was serious, there was a familiar glint in her eyes.

  "You're handsome," she declared. She reached her hand up to run her bare fingers through his hair. They were like ice on his skin, but he didn't mind.

  "Thank you. And you're breathtaking."

  Her eyebrows came together a moment, as she focused on her fingers. "You have several more grey hairs."

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  "Does the process speed up?"

  "No, I don't think so. But it feels like it."

  "Oh. You are self conscious about it."

  "It's a reminder of growing old."

  "Nonsense, Feda. You are thirty-eight. That's thirty-two in Palani years."

  "Then I'll start using a Palani calendar. How old are you in Earth years?"

  "I told you once. I be
lieve it is two hundred and sixty-four. Sixty-five?" She studied his face, the frown reappearing on her forehead. "It now bothers you, Feda? Our age difference?"

  Dillon shook his head. "No. Not the differences in how old we are today. What bothers me is thinking about the time we have left. I have, what, another hundred years left at most, whereas you—"

  Her hand was on his shoulder. "It's true, no Palani has died of old age in several centuries. Feda, I do not think either of us will live very long lives. Maybe not much longer at all. I accept that."

  "There's that Palani optimism again," said Dillon.

  "On the contrary, Feda. I consider myself uniquely fortunate. Everyone is losing so much, and leaving so much behind. Like our families, for instance: we may never see them again. But when we leave, I will be bringing with me everything I care about."

  "Yeah," said Dillon. He wrapped his arms around her, suppressing the lump in his throat that tried to keep him from speaking. "That makes two of us."

  Amba smiled up at him before resting her cheek on his chest, her arm curling around his side. "I wish I had known we would have this time together. I would have raised my temperature." She playfully scratched his side with her fingers. "I want to cow around."

  Dillon laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the small cabin. "I think you mean 'horse around'. And yes, I want to."

  She frowned up at him. "I have seen cows and horses. The saying makes no sense."

  "So then, what would the Palani say?"

  "We would say that we are going to insal fedora eth, ele an-kaha."

  Dillon raised his eyebrows. "Heavens, that sounds serious. I remember I said the English word 'fedora' once, and you gave me a hell of a look."

  "In this case, it is used in its proper obscene context."

  "So what does it mean?"

  Amba looked up at him. Her eyes were sweet but her smile was wicked. "When we return, my love, I will show you."