Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Page 17

The man's smile widened, some of the tension fading from his eyes. "Hello, sweetheart." He laughed, the easy laugh of a politician looking for a baby to kiss. "Can I even call you that?"

  "It's just the two of us, Dad. Just us, and all the intelligence people listening in."

  "It's good to see you, Heather. You look beautiful. You look more and more like your mother."

  Heather grinned, glancing away for a moment. He would have to mention Mom. He knew how thinking of Mom made her feel vulnerable. "I miss her, Dad."

  "I do too, sweetheart. Every day." Now, it was his turn to break eye contact. "I've been telling my office to get a hold of you, but after a while I realised that would just annoy you. I needed to call you myself."

  She didn't say anything; she just watched his face in the display.

  "Heather sweetheart, I'm sorry I haven't kept in touch."

  For years he'd ignored her. It had been all about him. He'd do whatever it took to get elected. Then, he'd do whatever it took to get reelected, or to get appointed to the Cabinet. He was determined to become Prime Minister, no matter what it took. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else ever mattered.

  She stared into his eyes. "That's it?"

  "Pardon?" he asked.

  Heather leaned back in her chair, opening her hands in a question. "I said, 'that's it'? You call me up and say you're sorry, and everything is fine again?"

  Her father's mouth fell open. He was clearly at a loss for words; that didn't happen often.

  He cleared his throat. "Listen, I—"

  "No, Dad," said Heather. She pointed a finger at the screen. "Just like always, it's all about you. You think you're going to die, so all of a sudden you want to clear your conscience. After all these years, the only reason you call me is when you want something. You want forgiveness. Fuck that."

  She watched her father's face in the display. The red flush to his cheeks, the pained narrowing of his eyes, all slowly faded away. "Well," he began, "you've got your mother's 'bullshit detector'. You've turned into a hell of a woman—"

  "You have no idea."

  "—I can see what that Palani boy sees in you."

  Heather fought the urge to turn off the console, clenching her fists rather than pounding them down on the desk. "You never saw anything in me because you never looked. And that Palani boy is a good man. Better than you."

  She saw him flinch at that, though he tried to hide it. He was pursing his lips, the way he did when he was genuinely uncomfortable. He didn't like not being in charge. But at least he was listening to her. "Dad, when Mom died, it was like you died too. Except more slowly."

  Her father turned his eyes away from the screen, his holoprojected hand wiping at his mouth. When he spoke, there was a small catch in his voice. "I've been a shitty parent, Heather, I get it. But—"

  "No. No 'buts'." She was shaking her head, her teeth grinding against each other.

  He held up his hand. "Okay, no 'buts'." The insincere smile returned to his face; she knew he was going to try to disarm her anger with humour. "Wow," he chuckled. "Do the Palani know what they're getting into, letting you onto their planet?"

  Heather took a deep breath, and exhaled in a loud sigh. "What do you care, Dad? A few months ago, you were ready to take humanity to war against the Palani."

  The smile faded from his lips, and he seemed to slouch in his chair. "Yeah, I said some stupid things. I admit it: I was only thinking of my career. The polls were suggesting that a hard line would go down well with the public."

  She was about to interrupt him, when he held up a hand. "Yes, when it comes down to it, I was ready to start a war for my career. I won't deny that."

  Heather thought about how that would sound on the evening news. "I'm pretty sure Palani Intelligence just heard that, Dad."

  He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. "I guess they did. So now they know I'm an asshole."

  "They already knew that." Heather watched her father's face; the slump of his shoulders, the tight knit of his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated for a moment before saying anything. "God damn it. I've missed a lot, haven't I?"

  Heather frowned. This didn't feel like winning. But hearing some sincerity in his voice, that was something. It was a start. "Yeah, Dad. You've missed a lot."

  He nodded, watching her through the holoprojector. "I always thought you'd wind up being a hockey player or an artist. You never mentioned wanting to be a Pope."

  A blurted laugh escaped from Heather's lips. "It just kinda happened. Elan showed up out of the blue, and one thing led to another."

  "Yeah, life's like that sometimes, isn't it?"

  She could catch glimpses of his hands, the way he was awkwardly interlacing his fingers.

  "Look Heather, you can tell me to butt out, but… is he good to you? Are you happy?"

  Thinking of Elan brought a grin to Heather's face. "Yeah, Dad. He's good to me. They all are. They seem kinda uptight when you first meet them, but they're just like us. Some are kinda difficult, but mostly they're good people."

  "But they don't have hockey."

  Heather laughed again. "No, Dad. No hockey, not yet. I need to teach them."

  Her father nodded, his eyes blinking back redness. "I'm glad you're happy, sweetheart. Are you well? How's your baby?"

  Heather patted her belly. "She's good. There's a lot of fuss over vitamins and minerals, since Palani chemistry is different from ours, but so far so good. As for me—" she held up her right hand. "—the wrist, as always. And my back is killing me."

  She saw him smile; it seemed sincere. He nodded, then his gaze went down to his folded hands in front of him. "Look, whatever happens—"

  "No," said Heather, shaking her head. He was still thinking about clearing his conscience; his mind was slipping back to thinking about himself. "There's no 'whatever happens', Dad. We fight the Horlan, and we win. That's it. No weepy bullshit."

  His eyes looked out at her from the display, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Wow," he breathed. "Wow. Okay. No weepy bullshit."

  Admiration wasn't something she'd ever seen from him before. Nor was it something she'd ever expected to see. "Dad, I gotta go. Why don't you call me again sometime?"

  He nodded eagerly. "Yes, I'd like that. When's a good time for you?"

  Heather just shrugged. "It doesn't matter when you call."

  "Why not?"

  "Palani phones are like the phones back on Earth. They only ring when you're in the bath."

  CHAPTER 24

  "Captain on the bridge."

  Dillon stepped onto the bridge, as the crew got to their feet and saluted. He paused inside the hatch, taking a look around before returning the salute. "Carry on," he said.

  The sensors and comms techs were at their places. A new crewmember — Moran — sat at the helm station. The destroyed consoles had been replaced with newer, up-to-date versions, that seemed out of place on the bridge. They weren't working yet, so datapads had been attached to their surfaces, each arranged and configured to work like the controls they replaced.

  Satchkov sat at the supervisory station; behind him, the shipyard had installed an extra seat, secured to the floor. As the crew returned to their seats, Chief Black carefully lowered herself into the new seat, one hand on the back of Satchkov's chair to orient herself.

  "Good to see you, Chief," said Dillon. "Ready to go?"

  She answered without hesitation. "Ready aye ready, Captain."

  Black looked a lot better than she had just a couple days ago. Most of the swelling had gone from her face, leaving just some deep red lines were scars were forming. Her left eye was turning its natural green colour, though still bloodshot. And over her missing right eye, she wore a black eyepatch adorned with a small pin of the ship's crest. "Bold new fashion statement, Chief."

  "Aye, sir. I'm going for the 'Anne Bonny' look, sir. Can we try piracy later, Captain?"

  "Chief, as far as piracy goes, we're the other team. We're the ones who hu
nt pirates, remember? Her Majesty's ships, and all that?"

  The Chief seemed genuinely disappointed. "But sir, could we at least attack a Spanish treasure galleon? You could ask the Queen for a letter of marque."

  Dillon noticed the smiles on the faces around the bridge. It was good to see the Chief back and breaking the tension. "Very well, Chief, I will submit a request up the chain of command, asking that we become privateers, with permission to hunt treasure galleons."

  "Excellent, sir. Thank you."

  Next, thought Dillon, they'd want cutlasses. He climbed up into the captain's chair and settled down. From here, he could look along the front of the bridge. The forward bulkhead, with its row of windows, still wasn't straight. Two window panels still buckled slightly — no more than a centimetre or two — where the ship had been hit. The graphic displays over those windows hadn't been replaced. Below the windows, the massive blobs of damage-control foam had been cut away, and proper metal plates welded to the hull. And, over the entire inner surface of the bulkhead, anti-spalling fabric had been applied. There was no time to replace all of the Borealis' defective armour, so they had settled on the expedience of the fabric. If the ship got hit again, and the armour spalled again, the material should contain the resulting shrapnel-like fragments. That was the idea, anyway.

  The deck, ceiling, bulkheads and fixtures were still pitted and scratched. The fragments of armour had been dug out, and sharp edges had been smoothed. But the quick coat of paint hadn't been enough to cover all the ship's scars. Everything was good enough, and that would have to do.

  "Chief of the ship, report ready," said Dillon. His hand went to his seat's cup holder, which was empty. Once again, he'd come to the bridge without his damn coffee. Seemed too early to be going senile, he thought. He was tempted to 'volunteer' a crewmember to go get coffee for him, but they were all busy enough, and they never made it quite the way he liked it.

  "Stand by, Captain," said the Chief. She leaned forward, putting a hand on Satchkov's shoulder, speaking into his ear. "What's red?" she asked.

  "Damage control, Chief, and—"

  "Check damage control bot three."

  "That's red."

  "Yeah, bot three's never ready. Override it."

  "Aye aye, Chief. Damage control now all green."

  "What else?"

  "Ammo handling, Chief."

  "Is it ammo handling to port-side main?"

  "Aye."

  "Portside main gun is gone, remember? Override."

  "Got it, Chief. Entire board is green."

  Chief Black sat up straight, turned in the direction of Dillon's seat. "Captain, the ship reports all ready."

  "Outstanding. Undock us whenever you're ready. Comms, ask Borden traffic for clearance. Helm, once undocked take us to a safe distance, and prepare the ship for FTL."

  With a brief chorus of acknowledgements, the bridge crew set about their business. Dillon was content to sit and watch them; with a good crew, everyone doing their part, even the largest ship seemed to run itself.

  "Docking clamps, Chief," said Satchkov.

  "Check aft clamp number three. It lies. Ask it to latch, then unlatch it again."

  "Aye, Chief… okay, now it says it's unlatched. We're good."

  Dillon turned his seat to look out the windows, as the ship drifted back from the docking ring of Borden Station. Next to her was Regina in the next berth, then Canmore, Nanaimo, Brossard, and the larger Bonaventure. A line of ships, nose in to the station like animals at a feed trough, stretched off around the docking ring. Hundreds of metres above was the second ring, where the normal lineup of commercial ships had been evicted, replaced by dozens more warships all the way around the ring. At the station's hub, the hotel spires and business towers were all brightly lit. Their original suites and offices were now filled with the haphazard organisation of war: suites full of supplies, penthouses full of bunked sailors, conference rooms full of hospital beds.

  As the Borealis swung her bow around, away from Borden Station, the rest of the fleet came into view. Clusters of warships moored together side by side, like giant pontoon rafts. Entire squadrons were together: nearest was a group of seven Indian battlecruisers, with a line of American battleships beyond. Above them, the giant British dreadnought was moored with her escorts; the smaller ships docked to her sides looked like pilot fish following a shark. Further in the distance, beyond the groups of destroyers and frigates, the carriers roamed with their escorts, providing a fighter screen to confront any uninvited guests. So far, the only guests had been civilian freighters, packed with refugees, that stumbled into the fleet anchorage because they didn't know where else to go.

  "Sir," said the comms technician. "Borden traffic has given us clearance. We're free to move out, find a lane, and go to FTL."

  "Thank you," said Dillon. "Drive nice, Mister Moran. Nothing fancy."

  The young helmsman, his back to Dillon, nodded. "Nothing fancy, aye sir."

  Dillon's nose caught the twin smells of coffee and lavender. He turned his chair around to see Amba, who had entered the bridge without him noticing. She smiled, her coldsuit creaking as she held up a mug of coffee toward him. He reached up to take the mug from her. "Thank you, Tassali. You read my mind."

  Across the bridge, the Chief perked up. "Did you bring enough for everyone, ma'am?"

  "No," laughed Amba. "I did not, Chief Black. I apologise."

  Black made a show of shaking her head. "Really, ma'am. Playing favourites."

  Amba glanced at Dillon, her eyebrows raised in a question. She nodded sideways, in the direction of the Chief.

  Dillon took a sip of his coffee, making a thumbs-up gesture with his other hand. He didn't know if it was an act for the benefit of the crew, but the Chief was immersing herself into her modified role as best as she could. Time would tell.

  A light flashed on the comms console on the ceiling above Dillon's head. He put down his coffee and picked up his datapad, tapping at it while Amba walked around behind him to stand at the window.

  Dillon read the priority message, and felt the familiar cold weight appear in the bottom of his stomach.

  Fuck.

  He stabbed one finger into the console above his head, and the shrill sound of a synthesised bosun's pipe pierced the air. "All hands, this is the Captain. The Horlan are at the jump gate right now. All previous plans are off; the combined human fleets — they're calling it the 'Grand Fleet' — are to get underway at once. Our orders haven't changed. We're still going through the jumpgate, if it's operational when we get to it. Stand by for action stations. Captain out."

  With his last words still echoing in the air, Dillon turned toward the Chief. She — and the rest of the bridge crew — were focused on him. "Chief of the Ship, sound 'Beat to Quarters'. Bring the Borealis to action stations."

  "Aye aye sir," said the Chief. She calmly turned toward Satchkov, who was staring wide-eyed at her. With a quiet, measured voice, she began giving him instructions, speaking in his ear as his fingers moved across the controls.

  Again the shrill bosun's pipe sounded. The sharp 'tap-tap-roll' of the synthesised drums reverberated throughout the ship, as the lights in the corridors went from white to red.

  The hundreds of ships of the combined human fleet were sliding by as Borealis passed through them en route to a safe FTL departure area. Dillon could see the other ships coming to life. Docking lights went out, being replaced by blinking navigational and running lights. The open exhausts of engines started to glow; the same deep blue light came from the sterns of vessels all around them. The rafts of lashed-together ships began to come apart, as squadron mates undocked from each other and put some distance between them. Ahead, some of the groups of smaller ships were getting underway, turning away from the crowd. A delicate dance began, as hundreds of ships, from ten-metre fighters up to kilometre-long dreadnoughts, came to life and began to move. It was the largest fleet in all of human history, and within the next few hours they'd find ou
t if it was enough.

  Chief Black spoke above the sound of the drums and the chatter of the ship's departments reporting in. "Captain, we have reached safe distance and are free to accelerate to FTL."

  "Go to FTL. Then I want everyone to get their suits on and get strapped in. Today's the day we win or lose."

  CHAPTER 25

  "Arriving at the jump gate in one minute," said Satchkov.

  Dillon took one last look around the bridge. Everyone had their vacuum suits on and sealed. One of PO Lee's damage control teams had been through, checking suits and making sure everyone was properly secured.

  "Time, Mister Satchkov?" asked Dillon.

  "Fifteen seconds, sir."

  The comms tech glanced up at Dillon from over his terminal. "Captain, the faster-FTL ships have already arrived. They report being engaged by the Horlan."

  "Thank you, Comms. Everyone, look sharp. Helm, this is your day to shine. We're not here to fight, we're here to get through to the jumpgate. Ideally, without being scanned, followed, or shot at."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  With a sigh from the engines, the stretched stars rebounded to single points. After a moment's hesitation, the screen lit up with contacts. Hundreds of dots spattered across the large displays at the front of the bridge, and small windows of text began to populate the names of ships.

  Dillon's eyes scanned the growing field of contacts. Groups of destroyers and frigates, in tight formations, were already moving to the attack. The Indian battlecruisers were in the forefront with them, their dots advancing across the display toward the crowd of dots that marked the Horlan fleet. Ships from all human nations were arriving: not just friends and allies, but rivals and enemies alike. Dillon pursed his lips, doing a quick mental count: there were still a lot more Horlan ships here than he'd expected. And where the hell was the jumpgate?

  Then he saw it, a single icon at the far end of the screen, with a comms relay next to it. There was a lot of space between there and Borealis's current position.

  "Why the hell are we back here? We're supposed to FTL right up to the damn jumpgate."