Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Page 3

  "Feda," she said, her harmonic voice breaking the silence.

  "Hey. You busy?" The airlock door closed behind him as he stepped into the cabin.

  She motioned to the chair opposite her. "You are here. Everything else can wait."

  "Thanks," said Dillon, slumping into the chair. He leaned back his head, opening his mouth in a wide yawn. "I'm off watch, and I'm tired. How was your day?"

  Amba took a deep breath through her nose, stifling a yawn. That was another peculiar human trait: their yawns were contagious. "Feda, it is quarter to nine in the morning. My day has barely begun. I am finishing paperwork from yesterday."

  Dillon squinted at her, his heavy eyelids blinking. "Today's still Tuesday, right?"

  She shook her head. "No, my love. Wednesday."

  "Wow, I'm in bad shape." Dillon leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, staring down toward the floor. "I was just talking to the boss."

  "Senior Captain West?"

  "Yeah. I'm going to schedule a meeting for the officers, later this morning. You're included."

  "Oh," said Amba. She bit at the inside of her lip, careful not to let it show. "Another meeting. Closed doors?"

  Dillon didn't look up from the floor, but moved his head in a nod. "Closed and locked."

  With a push of her foot against the floor, Amba rolled her chair closer to Dillon's. She leaned forward like him, her forearms on her knees and her face near his. "Is it bad, Feda?"

  He started, as if surprised that she was suddenly so close. Dillon raised his head; his heavy-lidded eyes gazed into hers. "Yeah. It's getting worse." He had a smirk on his lips. "Amba," he said, "why the hell did we make such a stupid rule? Why did we agree to remain chaste and professional while we're deployed?"

  Amba smiled at him, reaching up to put one hand on his shoulder. Through the gold-striped epaulets and the heavy overcoat, she could feel the rigid tightness of his shoulder. She thought of all the long nights, with her lying alone in her cabin and her Feda lying in his, and only their principles keeping them from each other. Principles and patience, both of which she was finding more difficult to maintain. "For the crew, Feda," she said. "For the ship. We'll have our time again."

  "Yeah," he yawned. "For the ship."

  It ached to pull her hand away, and it was a struggle to sit up straight. "How bad are things?"

  Dillon sat up as well, his hands going to his pockets as if searching for something. Probably that ridiculous pen, she thought: he chewed mercilessly on it whenever he was trying to think; a pacifier for a ship's captain.

  "Well," he said, bringing his hands to his face and rubbing his eyes with his palms, "the Horlan destroyed three more planets today. All harvested, like the others. Nineteen planets are being evacuated, but there aren't enough civilian ships to move all the people. And it's impossible to co-ordinate them all." He pulled his hands from his face, his eyes blinking against the light. "Yesterday, seven civilian ships full of refugees had gathered and were waiting to form a convoy headed to Earth. The Horlan caught them."

  "By the Divines," said Amba. She pursed her lips, careful to keep her fears from showing on her face.

  He made little poking motions with one finger. "One shot to each ship, to knock out the engines. Then the Horlan came closer, and…" he opened his hands, as if to shrug, "started harvesting. Taking the ships apart, bit by bit, in space. Parts of ships and people, tossed into the Horlan holds like they were lumps of ore." He shook his head. “Christ.” Dillon leaned back in the chair, his eyes searching the room before coming back to hers. "So…"

  "Feda," said Amba, "are we not fighting back?"

  "Oh, we are," he said. He moved his hands in the air, mimicking two ships chasing each other. "They show up, we fight them, we lose some ships, they withdraw. They show up again, we fight again, we lose more ships, they withdraw." His hand went to his shirt pocket again, where his pen would normally be. "Their ships are living things; if they survive a battle they heal in a few days or weeks, and come back good as new. But we can't do that. Replacing the ships takes months or years. Replacing people…" He gave a small shrug, waving one hand as if shooing away a fly.

  She knew the gesture: it was him moving a thought to the background of his mind; a worry to be resumed later. Dillon forced a smile to his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "How's the crew?" he asked.

  Amba was thankful for the change of subject, to something she had some small control over. "More visits this week, compared to last week. Some family issues, a little more friction with other crew members." The wisp of blue hair had fallen in front of her eyes again, and she reached up to push it back. "They are bored, Feda. They yearn for something to do. Something meaningful, some way to make a real contribution to the war." She felt the smile fade from her lips, and knew he'd seen it. "They want to fight the Horlan, Feda. They're young. They don't know what battle is like, but they're burning to make a difference."

  She watched Dillon's chest heave as he took a deep breath, which he exhaled in a giant sigh. "They want to fight, do they?" He nodded slowly, looking back down at his hands. "They'll all get a chance, before this is over."

  CHAPTER 3

  Heather's back was killing her. She arched her back, trying to keep her balance as she leaned from her ever-growing belly. No longer able to walk properly, she'd been reduced to an inelegant waddle.

  Everywhere she went, she was attended by four Palani handmaidens. Stunningly beautiful young women, all of them with porcelain-white faces and cobalt-blue hair. One of them now turned toward her, a hint of concern on her delicate features. "Are you not comfortable, Chosen One?"

  The handmaiden's English was surprisingly good; all the handmaidens had learned the language. Hearing their beautiful, harmonic voices stumble over slang and old sayings was one of Heather's few sources of mirth. She'd managed to get one of them to say 'asshole', in reference to a particular Earth politician. Hearing the word pronounced with such musical harmony made her smile every time she thought of it.

  She needed to stop calling the handmaidens 'young', or 'children', even though that was the custom. The youngest of the handmaidens was two hundred and seventy, in Earth years. Palani science had extended their life expectancy to uncharted lengths, but their birth rate had collapsed.

  A stab of pain distracted her, running up her back all the way to her shoulders.

  "Chosen One?" asked the handmaiden.

  Heather's eyes met those of the handmaiden, her face veering closer as she lurched around a corner. "Bavan," said Heather. Sorry. That might have been the first word of Palani that she'd learned. They'd been cold to her, at first. Suspicious of this unknown human woman who'd appeared on the Palani homeworld and been proclaimed the 'Chosen One' from their ancient scriptures. They'd become more tolerant and patient with her, once she'd taken an interest in their language and customs. And why shouldn't she take an interest? If this was her new home — whether she'd intended it or not — then these would be her new people. How could she not learn their language?

  Another spike of pain in her back pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked ahead up the corridor. Only another fifty metres to go, her and her handmaidens.

  Kani, Yana, Izori, and Varada. Heather was getting better at telling them apart, despite their identical hairstyles and blue robes.

  Beside her, Kani smiled. "Please, Chosen One, you do not need to make apology. The Temple is a long way to walk, for a mother carrying a child."

  "Sarasa," said Heather. Thanks. That was the second word she'd learned. And Kani was right, the Temple of the Divines was huge: hundreds of metres long. Cold, too; there were few rooms that weren't open to the outside. To the Palani, snow coming into the room was considered good luck. Hell, she thought, they considered that 'room temperature'. Here she was, a warm-blooded woman from a hot planet, living on this world of near-perpetual winter. They'd been good about it, though: at any given time, they made sure she was weighed down by a ton of furs and embroidered ceremon
ial garments. And ahead of her, a bone-warming bath awaited; the glorious prize at the end of a day of ceremonies and rituals. A day of sitting still, a living part of the national regalia, while the Pentarchs gave endless speeches about government policy. There was no separation of church and state, not here, and rulership and ritual were one and the same.

  The two handmaidens in front of her — Yana and Izori — turned left through a doorway, their robes swirling around them as they moved. Putting one hand on the doorframe to steady herself, Heather followed, Kani and Varada behind her.

  She passed through the antechamber and into the room beyond. It was circular, with floors and walls of polished blue and white marble, shot through with veins of gold. In the centre of the room was a round opening in the floor, two metres across. It was a pool, with a partition down the middle that divided the pool into two halves. One half was frozen, covered in a layer of ice. The water of the other half was clear and shimmering, with wisps of steam rising from it. Delicate patterns of frost had settled onto the floor around the pool's warm half.

  Fuck yes, thought Heather. She almost said it out loud, but she'd been training herself to think before she spoke, instead of just blurting out what was on her mind. It was more seemly, she thought, and a hell of a lot more difficult. "Beleth Putama," she said, lurching forward toward the pool.

  "Chosen One?" asked Kani.

  Heather turned her head toward the handmaiden. "Bavan, Kani. Sorry. Did I say it wrong?"

  Kani smiled, shaking her head. "You bless the Divines in times of gratitude, as is correct. But the Divines are plural, Chosen One, so: Beletha Putama."

  "Ah," said Heather. "Thank you."

  Still so much to learn. Details, nuances, idiosyncrasies. If she was only being corrected on details, perhaps that meant the big things were in good shape; she hadn't accidentally granted sainthood to a potted plant or something.

  Heather stepped onto the anti-slip mat next to the warm side of the pool. As she raised her arms at her sides, the four handmaidens began to work their silent, practiced routine. One by one, the sacred garments and relics were unfastened and carefully lifted from her. The fur over-robe, made from some now-extinct animal. The embroidered mantle, as old as the Pyramids on Earth. Tiara and overveil, belt and robes and gloves and boots, all slowly and reverently lifted from her. One by one, the artifacts were spirited away by the graceful handmaidens, like an elaborately choreographed dance. All the while, the handmaidens were singing. Their four voices, each a harmony unto itself, creating a complex, wide-ranging melody that accompanied each relic. Heather still didn't know all the words, but she could pick some of them out. The song was about faith, and hope, and things yet to come. The song set her mind to wandering, conjuring an image of gentle grace. Every time she heard it, she wished she had paints and a canvas in front of her.

  When the handmaidens' voices faded, their last notes echoing in the chamber, Heather returned to the present. All that remained on her body was a simple white robe gathered at the waist with a hand-woven belt. She didn't know what the robe was made from, but it was much warmer than it looked. Despite it being cold enough for her to see her breath, she didn't feel cold.

  The four handmaidens surrounded her, and Kani smiled. "Chosen One, would you like to enter into the Pool of Ul-Nassa now? We will help you."

  "Oh yes," said Heather, before she'd had time to think. "La. Definitely la."

  All the handmaidens smiled at that, and Kani looked like she was suppressing a laugh. "Very well, Chosen One."

  One of them unfastened the belt at Heather's waist, and pulled the white robe from her shoulders. The cold of the room rushed in to meet her skin, and she felt the tingle of goosebumps forming everywhere. A chill swept over the back of her neck, as Varada gathered Heather's long golden hair and tied it into a bun.

  Kani took her by one arm and Izori by the other. Even through their blue robes and gloves, the handmaidens were cold to the touch. As their slim figures stood next to hers, she became conscious once again of her appearance. The pinkness of her skin, the heavy curves of her body, all seemed in such contrast to the graceful, lithe women who held her. Even if she weren't pregnant, she'd still be larger than these women, with their narrow shoulders and thin hips.

  Leaning forward, Kani and Izori supported Heather as she took one step, then another, into the warm pool. "Oh yes," she whispered, as the warm water embraced her. "Sarasa. Thank you. Sarasa. This is wonderful."

  Under the surface of the water was a carved stone seat, specially crafted for her. She took a step toward it, the handmaidens releasing her arms as the warm water flowed up her body. "Sarasa," she repeated, lowering herself onto the submerged seat. As she reclined, the gentle warmth flowed up around her to her neck. The water soaked the loose wisps of her golden hair and surrounded her in a wreath of steam.

  "Are you comfortable, Chosen One?" asked Kani; it yanked Heather back to wakefulness. She paused a moment, blinking up at the handmaidens who stood next to the pool. They watched her with smiles on their faces. Heather translated her thoughts before speaking. "Sid eth dya?" she ventured. "I'm very happy.” She wasn’t sure if she’d pronounced it correctly, so she continued in English. “Thank you all for your help today."

  The four women bowed as one. "We are honoured to serve you, Chosen One," said Kani. "We will withdraw to the antechamber until you call for us."

  "Will Elan be here soon?"

  Kani bowed. "Yes, Chosen One. The Prophet will be here in minutes. Shall we tell you when he is near?"

  "No need," yawned Heather. The warm comfort was spreading throughout her body and slowing her mind. Her eyelids were becoming very heavy. "I'll see him when he gets here."

  * * *

  Heather awoke to a loud cracking sound. Her eyes fluttered open to see a white shape standing over her. She was surrounded by warmth, and it took a moment for her mind to creak into motion. She discovered she was still in the bath. Or, she corrected herself, the Sacred Pool of Ul-Nassa. Her head was at a different angle; someone had put a pillow behind her.

  Standing in front of her, at the edge of the pool, was a naked Elan. He was on one foot, reaching forward with the other, poking with his toes at the ice that covered the cold side of the Pool. Behind him, Heather could see his retinue of four acolytes, retreating toward the antechamber, bearing Elan's ceremonial attire.

  Elan poked once more at the ice, again causing a loud crack. His blue eyes glanced toward her, and he smiled when he saw her looking back at him. Those beautiful, vivid blue eyes of his, and the smile that warmed the room. "I am sorry to wake you," he said, "but I am glad you are awake."

  Elan stepped down into his side of the pool, moving gracefully into the water. Heather found herself staring at him, watching the flow of his body as he moved. "Remind me," she said, her voice slurring with sleep, "to congratulate the scientists who built your DNA. They did a great job."

  He smiled at that, chuckling a single harmonic chord. Elan stood for a moment in the pool, nudging the fragments of ice away with his hands, before settling down onto the submerged seat on his side. "When you are tired, you speak your truth most freely. Thank you, Heather." He sighed, leaning back until only his head was above water. Reaching out a hand, he draped it over the partition that divided the pool. Heather lifted her hand out of the water, touching his. His cold fingers wrapped around hers. "At last," he said.

  "At last," Heather repeated. They spent most of their days in endless ceremonies and rituals. At night, their different body temperatures – and the prudishness of the Pentarchs – kept them in their separate, opulent bedrooms. Their short moments in the Pool were sometimes the only time they had together. Even then, they were supposed to be spending the time doing a number of rituals. "I don't know what time it is," said Heather. "Did the Pentarch keep talking after I left?"

  Elan nodded. With his free hand, he had begun to push a block of ice around his side of the pool. "They did. The rituals always have you leaving fir
st, so you miss out on a lot."

  "I'm fine with that," said Heather. Depending on the day, the Pentarch could be one of two things. Either they were unbelievably boring, or they were squabbling and snipping at each other like a bunch of high-school girls. "Though I am curious what was discussed."

  Elan looked at her, over the low partition and their clasped hands. "Things are not going well," he said, his voice quiet.

  Despite the warm bath, Heather felt a chill run through her. Something about the tension in Elan's eyes. "Tell me the truth, Elan."

  That made his brow furrow. He was staring at her like she'd just spoken in a new language. "I always do, Heather."

  She was about to say something, when he continued. "As near as anyone can tell, the Horlan are a quarter of the strength they were seven centuries ago."

  "So the plague did its part."

  Elan nodded, making waves in the water. "So it seems. But while the enemy is a quarter of their former strength, we are less than one hundredth of our former strength." She could hear the catch in his breath when he sighed. "The Horlan are moving through the Burnt Worlds unopposed, and are already deep into human space. It's only a matter of time before they turn their attention back to us, and come to the Home worlds."

  "So we wait?"

  "We wait. And when they arrive, we fight them here. Everything will be decided at once. We win and survive, or we lose and become extinct."

  Heather shook her head. "Those can't be the only two options." She still couldn't wrap her head around the Palani mindset of perpetual fatalism. "It's bullshit. Are the Pentarch not coming up with any other ideas?"

  "Yes, but they're having trouble agreeing on anything. Earlier, the Pentarch were in a bitter argument about whether or not to reassemble the Plague."

  "They can't be serious."

  "Some of them are."

  Heather rolled her eyes. "Did they fail science class or something? The Horlan who are still alive must be the ones who survived the plague. They're probably immune to it."