Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Page 16

  "Oh?"

  "We will need several days."

  "Ohh."

  CHAPTER 22

  The Borealis always seemed more lonely at night; the lights were dimmed to give the crews' eyes the impression of night. Though almost half the crew was on duty, people on the night watches moved quietly, spoke less, and avoided making noise. Projects likely to make sound were usually delayed until the morning watches. Even though the times of 'day' and 'night' were arbitrary, it remained part of the culture. Part, Dillon, supposed, of being human. Of tricking the animal parts of the human brain into playing along.

  It was a long walk from the wardroom down to the engine room, made longer by carrying two cups of coffee. Halfway along the middle deck, he had begun to question the wisdom of carrying two mugs, instead of a thermos and two empty mugs. See that? That's why you're the captain. He sighed as a few drops spilled from the mug in his right hand.

  The double hatch opened at his approach and he stepped through, into the engine room.

  Three crewmembers were gathered around the starboard FTL engine, working inside an access panel. One of them — was it Rutledge? — was giving the other two some instruction, likely explaining the arcane inner workings of the drive. Yet another of the Navy's technologies: developed by PhDs, built by engineers, and maintained by high-school graduates. Dillon thought that bending the fabric of spacetime was best left to the people with gigantic blackboards in their offices. Trying to explain the thing to an ordinary sailor like himself was like trying to tell a fish about the smell of the number W.

  The three crewmembers came to attention, and he acknowledged with a nod. One of them said something Dillon couldn't hear, and pointed in the direction of the workbench and fabricator at the forward end of the engine room. Dillon nodded again, and carefully negotiated the distance around the machines to the workbench.

  Sap was bent over the bench, face down near the tabletop, working with delicate tools on a tiny piece of circuitry. Around him on the bench, neatly arranged, were the guts of at least two datapads. Dillon set down one of the mugs on the workbench.

  The red-skinned head didn't look up. "I smell coffee," he said, his voice a contented rumble. "And I hear a walking gait I recognise. One moment please, Captain."

  "Sure thing," said Dillon, sipping at his mug.

  After a moment, Sap laid down his tools, arranging them in a straight line on the tabletop. His eyes went to the mug, and as he picked it up he looked toward Dillon. "Thank you, Captain. What is the saying? 'The pause that refreshes'?"

  "People say a lot of things about coffee. Most of it's true." Dillon watched Sap draw the mug to his mouth, his lips parting as he inhaled the steam. The red-faced Dosh sighed, the lines on his face disappearing. Patches of skin on his temples turned yellow as his eyelids fluttered.

  Sap's teeth showed, in what could safely be construed as a grin. "I know that my enjoyment is visible; my physiology does not let me hide my bliss."

  "Nothing to be ashamed of."

  "Oh, I am not ashamed, Captain. I happily share my sincerity with others. But I have been warned against ever playing poker."

  "Yeah, that might be best."

  Dillon nodded toward the workbench. "What are you working on, Sap? Do I need to order more datapads?"

  Sap's eyes followed the direction of Dillon's gaze. "Just a personal project, Captain. Something I am doing in my spare time. I would prefer not to share until I know it will work. And I will only need the two datapads; I think I actually may be able to reassemble one when I am done."

  "Fair enough." Dillon turned around, leaning back against the edge of the workbench. "I didn't get a chance to say 'hello' earlier, Sap. Everything has been busy; there's barely any time."

  "No offence was taken, Captain. After all, there is a war on."

  "You and Cho saw some of it firsthand, I hear."

  "Fortunately, Captain, it was at a distance. Not as much distance as I would have liked, but what can you do?"

  Dillon smiled. Some day, he would like to see a list of Sap's collected English-language sayings, slang, and euphemisms. Sap enjoyed using them about as much as he enjoyed coffee. "Sorry about your coffee plantation, Sap."

  Sap's shoulders raised in an exaggerated shrug. He took another deep breath from the steam. "Thank you, but it is a small thing, all things considered. Many other people have lost more. And much more will be lost before this is over."

  "Yeah," said Dillon. He set his mug down on the bench beside him, folding his arms across his chest. At the starboard side of the engine room, Master Seaman Rutledge continued his instruction. Dillon couldn't hear what was being said, but he could see the faces: young faces paying close attention, concentrating on every word being spoken.

  "They are afraid," said Sap.

  "I hate to say it, but they should be."

  "Their lives have been thrown into disarray, Captain. Nothing is certain for them; nothing but the present, the current moment in front of them."

  "Yeah. I've been thinking that. Keeping them busy is helpful, in a way. Give them something meaningful to do, and they can busy themselves with it, lose themselves in it."

  "I agree," said Sap. "Something certain. Something to keep them from thinking about the uncertainty."

  Dillon just nodded. A few hours ago, he'd reluctantly left Amba's cabin to start his watch. It freed up Tremblay, so the young officer could enjoy the second day of on-ship liberty. But Tremblay hadn't been in any hurry to leave the bridge. Without anything meaningful to occupy his free time, it might be a long day.

  He could see that Sap was watching him, his green eyes peeking over the top of the mug.

  "A penny for your thoughts, Sap?"

  Sap's smile broadened, revealing the full width of his serrated teeth. "I have used that saying before, Captain. It is one of my favourites. Though I hope our thoughts are more valuable these days."

  "They are."

  The Dosh mechanic shifted, leaning up against the workbench next to Dillon. His arms were still raised to his mouth, cradling the steaming mug.

  "I think," said Sap, "that we are all headed into the unknown. But in many ways, the unknown that Borealis faces is better than that faced by the other ships in the fleet."

  "How so?"

  "We have been to Daltanin space before. Not much of it, but some. According to the scientific teams, there are no Horlan there, so we will be safe from them. As for those who remain here, the future is filled with war, and battle, and loss. And the outcome is by no means certain. No," said Sap, lowering his mug. "Our situation is preferable. Enviable, perhaps."

  "I suppose that's true."

  "The crew are responding to it, Captain, even if they do not know it. Take these two, for instance." He leaned his mug in the direction of the two crewmembers listening to Rutledge. "Sharma and Satchkov. They were both previously assigned to the port-side main gun. But the gun no longer exists. They could have waited to be given a new assignment, but they did not. All the members of the gun crew have actively sought other tasks; these two came here, offering to help. I believe Sharma wishes to become an engineer. Satchkov, I believe, is interested in broadening his knowledge of the ship's systems."

  "Good. That's an excellent level of initiative. I was going to speak with you, Tremblay, and Cho about the gun crew's new assignments. Looks like it's almost sorted itself out."

  Sap nodded, pausing to take a sip. "They have the ship, and they have each other. But I suspect some of them have little else left in their lives. We should be mindful of their emotional health. For many of them, I expect despair is not far away."

  "Yeah," said Dillon. He knew morale was going to be a problem. In some ways, he looked forward to reaching Daltanin space. If they were isolated from home, they'd also be isolated from the endless litany of bad news and worse news.

  "Also, Captain, I would not tell your grandmother how to suck an egg, but—"

  Dillon stared at Sap. "What?"

  Sap he
sitated. "Oh. Perhaps I used that saying incorrectly. I meant, I would not intend to tell you how to do your job."

  "Ah. Go on, Sap."

  "Captain, I would suggest that the Chief's injury has affected the crew a great deal, perhaps even more than the unfortunate deaths. Dead crewmembers are mourned, then the pain of their loss begins to fade; injured crewmembers remain with them, a constant and fresh reminder of loss and danger. For many of the younger crew, the Chief is their mentor. They appear to have thought of her as invincible; a constant. A part of the ship as sure and certain as the deck."

  "I've been thinking about that." It had been plain enough to see: most of the crew had been to visit the Chief in med bay. Despite the brave faces and encouraging words, many of them had come away unsettled. "I've been mulling over an idea; I already discussed it with Cho, Tremblay, and Lee. If you don't mind, I'm going to reassign Satchkov."

  Sap's eyebrow ridge lifted in surprise. "Indeed, Captain? Master Seaman Satchkov is working hard… is this in reference to the Chief?"

  "It is."

  Sap nodded. "Ah. An apprentice, to serve the master. There is wisdom in that, Captain. Was Petty Officer Lee not interested? He is the next most experienced enlisted person."

  "No, I asked him. The Chief of the ship can't go on away missions, and Lee doesn't want to give that up."

  "I see, Captain. I wonder how Chief Black would perceive this idea?"

  Dillon finished his coffee in one long swig, peering down into the empty mug. "Ultimately, Sap, it's for the good of the ship. But all the same, I hope she understands." Pushing away from the bench, Dillon stood up, half-turning toward Sap. "Good luck with your project, whatever it is. Shall I see you in the wardroom later?"

  "It is a certainty, Captain. And good luck with your project as well."

  As Dillon stepped away from the workbench, the three crewmembers raised their heads. Dillon pointed at Satchkov, then curled his finger inwards, beckoning him over.

  The tall Satchkov lumbered over toward him, moving with all the grace of someone who was using borrowed limbs. Dillon found himself looking up at the sailor; the man was easily a head taller than he was, with short hair standing atop his head that made him seem even taller than that.

  The sailor saluted. "Master Seaman Satchkov, sir."

  "Satchkov. Come with me."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Dillon led the way out through the double doors of the airlock, into the quieter passageway beyond. The long-legged sailor marched beside him, their boots on the deck the loudest sound in the darkened passageways.

  "Satchkov, I've got officers and petty officers saying good things about you. You did good work on the port-side gun, and you're showing good initiative now. Well done."

  The seaman's voice was surprisingly quiet. "Aye, Captain. Thank you, sir."

  "I'm told you're interested in more responsible roles in your future, Satchkov. Where do you intend to go in the Navy?"

  "I'm not just here for the war, sir. I'm here for the long run. I'd like to make Chief one day."

  Dillon looked up at Satchkov as they passed the stairs leading to the upper deck. "Good. You're getting a chance to do exactly that. I'm going to assign you to the Chief as her, let's say, apprentice."

  Satchkov hesitated at that, cocking his head as if he hadn't heard properly. "Aye, sir. An 'apprentice', sir?"

  They stopped outside the closed door of the ratings' mess, and Dillon faced Satchkov. "Look, Satchkov, this ship has a Chief. She's the best in the fleet, and I won't let anyone say otherwise. We need her knowledge and her skills on the bridge, but she's at a bit of a disadvantage. Do you see where I'm going?"

  "Aye, sir. You need me to work alongside the Chief, and be her eyes."

  "Good. Yes. And not just on the bridge."

  "Aye, sir. So not just an apprentice, sir." A grin grew at the corner of Satchkov's mouth. "Perhaps a bit of a personal valet, sir?"

  Dillon took a deep breath, and exhaled it as he thought. "Satchkov, you are… whatever the Chief needs you to be. I want her on my bridge. How you accomplish that will be between the two of you. If that means helping her find the head, then guess what?"

  "Aye, sir. The head it is, sir."

  "Outstanding. I'm glad you understand." Dillon pointed to Satchkov's sleeve. "And you'll need a third chevron on those sleeves. You'll be a Petty Officer, second class."

  "Aye aye, sir! Thank you, sir."

  Dillon waved his hand, shaking his head. "You'll be cursing me soon enough. Any questions?"

  "No, sir. Permission to speak freely, sir?"

  "Granted."

  "Sir, the crew sees the loyalty you're showing the Chief. I think they respect it, sir."

  "Thank you, Satchkov. In the days to come, this ship — and each other — will be all we've got. We need to have each others' backs."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  CHAPTER 23

  She should've known. People always called at the worst possible moment.

  It took almost half an hour after a ritual ended, for Heather and her handmaidens to make their way down to the Pool of Ul-Nassa. They had to remove all the remaining trappings and artifacts, then undress her, then help her waddle to the heated side of the sacred Pool and get in.

  She sighed. No sooner had her butt settled on the submerged bench, with the warm water embracing her, than a handmaiden had returned to tell her she had to get back out. There was an incoming call from Earth, on a secure channel. In response to Heather's incredulous outburst, the charming handmaiden Kani had politely clarified that no, she "wasn't fucking kidding". Maybe, Heather thought, she should try harder to moderate her language.

  Fat chance of that, she mused, as four sets of strong hands helped her out of the pool. The cold of the room stung her naked skin; all she wore was the hastily-donned veil, and it was barely above freezing in the room.

  All she had to do was stand still, as the handmaidens set about drying her off. The heated towels were a joy on her skin; gentle hands patted the thick cloth against her as two cold hands on her back held her upright. She still wasn't used to the idea; she'd been able to bathe, dry, and dress herself since she was a child, and — belly notwithstanding — she still was. Sure, it was ritual for the Chosen One to be attended to by handmaidens, but it was weird.

  The handmaidens were quick and professional, helping her into her robes, followed by the seemingly-endless sacred accessories: a diamond-and-sapphire tiara, wide necklaces, gold rings, and jewelled bracelets.

  Only another half dozen to go. "Is there still time, Kani?"

  The handmaiden gave a nod, as she fitted a bracelet around Heather's wrist. "There is still time, Chosen One. They will wait for you."

  "Really? That would be new."

  "Yes, Chosen One, 'really'. They said they would wait as long as was needed."

  "Huh," grunted Heather. If she'd known that, she wouldn't have hurried to get out of the Pool. She started walking toward the door, her handmaidens taking up their positions around her. The journey to her private apartments would take five minutes at least, probably closer to ten. It was getting harder to stay on her feet for long periods. Not because of her belly, not by itself, but because her back was getting worse.

  "Kani, where is the Elanasal?"

  "Chosen One, the Elanasal is still in the Temple. He should be finished with the Ritual of Aasan in fifteen minutes." Kani went quiet, walking beside Heather, but didn't take her eyes off Heather's face. "Chosen One? Would you wish that the Elanasal join you when he is done? Or, we could delay this task, if you prefer."

  Heather smiled at Kani, though it was hidden by the veil. "Sarasa, Kani. Thank you. You're very kind. But no, I can do this by myself. I will see the Elanasal later."

  Arriving at her private apartments, the opening of the door released a wall of warm air. The handmaidens stayed behind as Heather entered the apartment, the door closing behind her.

  "Hello, Heather's place," she said to the ornate walls and furnit
ure. This was the only place on the planet where she couldn't see her breath; where she could just be herself. She felt that if she talked to it, it might become more familiar, more hers. But then, someone or something always came along to invade her solitude. Like now.

  Placing her hands on furniture for support as she went by, Heather crossed the little-used receiving room, into the bedroom at the back. Her sanctuary.

  Laid out much like her old apartment on Earth, it had a bed, a desk, and wide open spaces. There was the settee, where she and Elan sat together, sometimes watching movies — or what passed for movies here on the Palani homeworld. Behind the couch, the far wall was a blank space, ready for painting; she kept promising herself she would start again.

  The room was unusually clean; a fit of domesticity had come over her, for which she had no explanation. The open curtains let daylight spill into the room, chasing away the shadows.

  Heather approached her desk. A single row of gemlike buttons was set into the back edge of the desk; one of them was blinking, its gentle yellow glow lighting the desk's wood surface. Heather pulled out the carved chair and lowered herself into it, still watching the blinking gem. Sighing, she reached forward and touched it.

  An image appeared in the air before her, hovering over the desk. Palani text, warning her about security, and surveillance, and to be careful about what was discussed. Then a second screen appeared, declaring the channel to be the highest level of security available, and that she could speak freely. The mixed messages seemed somehow appropriate.

  As the text faded, Heather reached up and pulled the veil from her face, placing it down on the desktop. She looked back up just as a human face appeared. The man was handsome, with dark hair going grey at the sides, an expensive suit, and a deep tan. Behind him was the view of a wood-panelled office on Parliament Hill, in Ottawa, back on Earth. There was a smile on his face, showing his perfect white teeth, but it wasn't sincere; the tightness around his eyes told her more than anything else did.

  "Hi, Dad."