Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Read online

  "Got it," said Sap. Eric couldn't see Sap up past Maya, but he could hear him. There were more rattles as Sap moved around. "See?" said Sap, his calm voice speaking to no one in particular. "It fits in behind the resonator. A quarter turn, and…" Sap trailed off. Eric wondered what was going on up there. He was about to say something, when the clanging sound of metal hammering on metal filled the reactor space. Eric's ears were still ringing as the last echoes faded. "See?" said Sap again. "Perfect fit." Sap's voice grew louder. "Eric, you may start the reactor and get us underway."

  Eric didn't have to be told twice. He ducked back out of the hatch. Jerry was standing behind him, his hands on his hips. "Seriously? What the hell is—"

  "Go ahead," interrupted Eric. "Start the reactor. Get us out of here."

  Jerry lunged toward the reactor terminal, rapidly stabbing at the screen with his fingertips. "Buddy," he said as he worked, "if this works, I'll take back everything bad I ever said about you two." The display showed a diagram of the reactor, with all its component parts coloured bright green. "Fuck me," he said, "I've never seen the whole thing green before." A final swipe at the screen, and a low hum came from the reactor shaft. Maya was squirming to get out of the hatch, and Eric glimpsed the bottoms of Sap's boots behind her.

  As the reactor's hum began to build, Jerry bolted for the ladder that led up to the cockpit. The ship shook again, even more violently than before, and Eric grabbed the lip of the hatch to keep his footing. There was a rumble from the open ramp at the back of the hold, and the daylight darkened. Outside, the walls of the starport hangar cracked, the ceiling buckling and slumping downwards. A billowing wall of dust rolled up the ramp into the ship. The Nova Cat's drive engines sprung to life, their whine rising quickly to a howl as they jumped to full power.

  The deck tilted drunkenly under his feet, and Eric held on as the ship rose from the collapsing starport's landing pad. As the ship tilted, the ground angled up toward them, and the shriek of the engines blotted out all sound.

  The ramp began folding itself shut, slowly narrowing the view out the back as the ground fell away. Below them, the starport terminal burst apart, shoving a shockwave outward as a cloud of debris rose into the air.

  Higher and higher they climbed, away from the starport and the colony, the sounds of the engines fading as the ramp continued to fold shut. Finally, only a thin sliver of daylight was visible. The colony below them convulsed, erupting in flames as massive impacts slammed into the ground. Entire buildings blew apart, spraying debris over the surrounding streets.

  As the stern ramp finally closed, Eric glimpsed shapes in the distance. Hazy and indistinct, hanging in the sky. Vast ships shaped like darkened driftwood, long and organic with gentle curves. Their black hulls were dull in the daylight, only occasionally glinting with hints of metal. One ship was descending toward the surface, its underside unfolding into dozens of long, segmented stalks that reached down to the ground.

  The ramp doors latched with a clang, and the sound of the engines fell away to a distant whine. Eric let go of his handhold and turned around.

  Sap stood there, scrapes on his overcoat and a hammer in his hand. His eyes were locked on Eric's, but his red face had no other expression. Eric wanted to say something, anything, but words failed him. Sap just nodded. "Not today, Eric. Not today."

  CHAPTER 5

  Two crewmembers stepped aside and saluted as Dillon passed them. He gave a perfunctory salute as he went by, taking note of their name tags. Leduc was new. One of the replacements; brand new recruits straight from training, who'd joined the Borealis just before she sailed. No time for occupational orientation, not now; the newbies were being tossed straight into front-line ships.

  And the other, Stavko? Dillon finally remembered him. Good sailor. Competent. Dillon had done the honours when Stavko had finally made promotion to Master Seaman. According to the Chief, the kid had immediately started acting like he'd been made a goddamned admiral, lording over newer recruits until the Chief sorted him out. It reinforced what Dillon increasingly believed: power should never be given to anyone who actually wants it.

  Two sets of doors opened at his approach, and Dillon stepped through the hatchway into the engine room.

  To his left and right, the massive cylindrical bodies of the port and starboard engines emitted a steady, pulsing hum. Ahead, the oversized main reactor gave off an eerie blue glow, its translucent dome lighting up the room around it.

  Against the port-side hull, a team of engineers were working on the jump drive. It was dark and silent, its disassembled parts lying in neat rows on wheeled work carts. One of the engineers glanced up and saw Dillon. Giving him a brief wave, the engineer tapped the shoulder of the red-haired Chief Engineer working beside him. She wore immaculate white overalls with an officer's gold-braided shoulder boards, and looked where the engineer pointed. Seeing Dillon, she hopped to her feet and snatched a cloth from a work cart. She wiped her hands clean as she approached him.

  "Afternoon, Captain," she said. "Welcome downstairs."

  "Afternoon, Campbell. What's the verdict?"

  Campbell nodded back toward the jump drive, where the other engineers were still working. "Frankly, Captain, I'm surprised it lasted as long as it did. We've been jumping like mad for weeks, with no time for maintenance." She raised her eyebrows. "Inevitable, really."

  "Yeah," said Dillon. "We should be babying it, not beating it to death. But, you know—"

  "I know," said Campbell. "There's a war on, and all that." She seemed lost in thought, examining her hands, taking a moment to scrub at a mark on her left palm. "The thing's a prototype; it's hand-made, one of a kind. We probably shouldn't be using it at all. But man, it's been running nice, right up until it crapped out."

  "What will it take to fix?"

  "It's the injectors, you see. They're all that strange design invented by Head Mechanic Vish. All of them made right here in the fabricator." Campbell fumbled in a pocket of her overalls, producing a small part; it had a crack down its length. "Every jump cycle is a change in temperature, current, pressure, even physical loading. Stresses the hell out of the things, until they start to break down. They were never intended to be permanent. Amazed they've lasted this long, Captain." She pinched at the part in her hand, and a fragment broke off. "So now we gotta replace all of them."

  "Shit, really?" said Dillon. "That'll take a while."

  "It will," replied Campbell, rubbing the pieces of the crumbling part between her fingertips. "It's a good design. I'm just going to replicate a bunch more of the same, rather than reinvent the wheel here. Five minutes each. Two hundred and nine in total. So, about eighteen hours, Captain."

  "So, mid morning tomorrow?"

  "Aye, sir. Plus some time for quick testing. Want to make sure it's working properly, and we won't accidentally jump to the Land of Oz or something."

  Dillon nodded. "Perfect. Thanks, Campbell. When I check in with the boss, I'll tell her we'll be ready tomorrow mid-day."

  "Aye, sir," said Campbell. She looked like she was about to say something else, but stopped herself.

  Dillon decided not to press it, whatever it was. "How's your team?" he asked. The engineers were all still working on the jump drive, each seemingly absorbed in their own work. There wasn't any talking between them; no banter or chatting.

  "It's tough." Campbell reached up one hand to poke at the bun of red hair pinned up on the back of her head. "Really tough. They're not motivated, you know? Snippy, too. Just this morning, when the drive blew, they'd got into a shouting match about something stupid." She shook her head. "It's always something stupid. I got it calmed down, but now they're all so cranky."

  "Yeah. The Chief's had her hands full with minor disciplinary stuff. Everyone's so damned stressed. They all know how the war's going. And since we're not actually shooting at something, it's hard to convince them that we're making a difference."

  "Some of them feel pretty scared and helpless, you know?"
<
br />   "Yeah." Dillon was watching the engineers as they went quietly about their business. "Have you encouraged your crew to see the chaplain?"

  "The Tassali?" asked Campbell. "Sure. Between you and me, Anderson must've been to talk to her a few days ago. All of a sudden he was calmer, and telling everyone else they should make the time to see her. She must be good at it, or she puts some Palani voodoo on them, or something."

  "Voodoo, Campbell?" laughed Dillon. "Not that I know of. Mostly she's just a good listener."

  "Aye, sir," said Campbell, pausing again. "Captain, can I ask you something?"

  "Of course," said Dillon. "Though I don't have all the answers."

  She smiled a little at that. "Yeah," she said, her voice quiet, before she turned toward him. "Look, sir, you mentioned speaking to the boss. Senior Captain West. She's asked me if I'd consider transferring to her ship, as her new Chief Engineer."

  "The Bonaventure, Campbell? Squadron flagship? That's a step up. You've impressed West somehow, which isn't easy. Well done."

  Campbell raised her eyebrows, like she hadn't expected that. "You're not annoyed that she's chasing me to transfer?"

  Dillon gave a halfhearted shrug, "It's not ideal for Borealis, no. But it's about what's good for the fleet as a whole. And for you, too. An extra half-stripe, I bet, and transfer to the flagship. Nice."

  "I haven't decided," said Campbell. "But I think I'm going to stay here." She gestured over her shoulder. "Bonaventure hasn't got that. Over there, that's the most powerful jump drive ever made, and it fascinates me." She turned back toward Dillon. "Besides, this is a good ship, and for all our problems, I like the spirit. Captain West, she's… well…"

  "Intense?" offered Dillon.

  "Yeah," said Campbell. "Intense." She jammed her hands into the pockets of her overalls. "Anyway, I think I'm going to stay. But I felt you ought to know about the offer, sir. It's a respect thing."

  Dillon looked her in the eyes. Respect? He hadn't done anything to seek respect. He was just trying to get himself — and the ship — through the war in one piece. Lately, even that was seeming increasingly unlikely. "I appreciate it, Campbell. Really. Thank you."

  She gave him a flash of a grin. "You're welcome, sir. I guess I should get back to work. I mean, it was stupid of me to give you a realistic time estimate on this repair, so I had better deliver."

  "I appreciate that too, Campbell. Thanks again."

  As the Chief Engineer walked back toward the jump drive and her team, Dillon stood for a few moments and watched. It felt like everyone's emotions were stretched; no one knew what to do or how to behave. Some were going through the motions, while others were becoming brittle. It seemed like people were hoping that if they carried on like usual, everything would somehow work out for the best. But as the news got worse, he found it harder and harder to believe it would.

  Clearing his throat, Dillon turned and walked toward the exit.

  CHAPTER 6

  Enthroned atop the dais, in the middle of the Temple of the Divines, Elan could barely move.

  He sat on a gilded valaan-wood throne that was older than most civilisations. Draped over him were robes, collars, mantles, gloves, headdresses and overveils; fourteen artifacts in all.

  Two paces away from him, on an identical throne, sat Heather. Her artifact load was at least as great as his, and made her look like a furry, hunched-over mound littered in gold and jewels. Such was the weight of furs and relics, that she had talked about wearing a coldsuit like his to keep from overheating. Even in the open-air temple, with flurries of snow blowing in from above, it was still possible to be overdressed.

  Though the two of them were facing forward, they had developed a way to communicate during the long rituals. By turning his head slightly to the right — not easy, given the furs and gold chains around his neck — he could see her out of the corner of his eye. If they whispered, they could hear each other; behind their veils, no one could see their mouths move.

  An exasperated Pentarch Ontelis had given up trying to keep them quiet. Instead, he had small lights installed in the dais, visible only to Elan and Heather, that lit up when the cameras were going to be on them. Blue as a warning, then white when their microphones were live and their every word was being broadcast.

  Three senior Tassali approached the dais, themselves adorned in heavy robes and regalia. Two carried the Erwa. Every religion had its holy book, rewritten and revised over time. But the Palani considered themselves unique — as they did in so many ways — in that they still possessed their original sacred texts. The Erwa had been compiled and written by the First Prophet, in her own hand, millennia ago. The plant fibres of the pages had long since begun to disintegrate, but conservators in ages past had preserved it before it was lost. Each fragile page was now sealed in a layer of transparent ceramic.

  Today was a ceremony of grief and remembrance, honouring Elinth, the Divine of the Underworld. The haunting notes of Elinth's hymns, sung by thousands of Palani voices, filled the temple. Each echoed note combined with the next, creating a dark and beautiful harmony. Elan allowed himself to smile under his veil; he always enjoyed the Elinth hymns, the way they made the Temple sigh.

  The three Tassali ascended the stairs to the dais, bearing the Erwa in front of them. Elan looked over at Heather. Her hair was so beautiful; waves of gold that flowed off her brow and down to her shoulders. The Palani public were enchanted by it; the glow of the exotic human among them. The Temple had quietly installed extra lights that shone on her head, lighting up her hair for the viewing audience to see.

  The Temple was mostly full; only a small amount of space was still available at the back. As the Horlan had approached — and as bad news came in from the humans and others — the crowds of worshippers had grown. There was a tension in the Temple crowd that Elan hadn't often felt before. The usual relaxed voices of the congregation had been changing with each successive ritual. People were afraid. As the enemy came closer though the Burnt Worlds, drawing inexorably nearer to the five remaining Palani homeworlds, the stress had continued to rise. People came to the Temple in greater numbers, because they sought comfort, or familiarity, or mere distraction.

  He wondered how much more anxiety the public could withstand. People had already begun asking what the Pentarch were doing. Last time the Horlan had invaded, it had cost the Palani dearly; a trillion souls lost, and thousands of their worlds burnt to lifeless husks. When all seemed lost, they had been saved by a Palani-created miracle. Now they asked, where was their miracle this time? How would they be saved?

  The two Tassali bearing the Erwa had arrived in front of Heather, supporting the great book in their intertwined arms. Its pages were open to the preselected verse in the songs of Elinth. Unseen to the cameras, the third Tassali unobtrusively pulled a datapad from his robe and placed it inside the ancient tome, where only Heather could see it. Elan knew what was on it: in large English letters, a phonetic pronunciation of the Hymn of Elinth. It was a simple trick, but it had been working well. As the small light on the dais turned white, Heather began to speak, phonetically reciting Elinth's words.

  From the first day she arrived with Elan, Heather had begun to learn the Palani language. He knew it wasn't easy for a human voice, and some chord-based sounds were impossible for her to get right. Even so, her interest and dedication had gone a long way to gaining popular support. When she began to take an interest in Palani culture — especially the arts, with repeated visits to galleries and museums — Heather had been hailed as a 'civilised' human. They said someone as refined as her must have a Palani soul within them. They had come to accept her as one of them; some even adored her. But there was always the unspoken assumption that she was special, that she wasn't an ordinary human. She wasn't a barbarian, like the rest of them. The people got to have their exotic human figurehead, bringing the promise of a hybrid Human/Palani child and the salvation of the race. Equally importantly, the public also got to keep their anti-human bigotr
y intact. A long way still to go, thought Elan.

  Heather's voice was clear and strong, echoing from the Temple speakers. It was less fluid than a Palani voice, and had almost no harmony to it, but she was gaining confidence every time she spoke. She'd even picked up a lilt in her voice when she spoke Palani, as if to give song to the words in her own way.

  Out of the corner of his eye he peeked toward her, and could see her focused on her task. Her eyes darted up from the datapad occasionally, looking at the Erwa itself. She was starting to relate the words she was speaking with the hand-lettered text in front of her. Elan smiled behind his veil. Maybe there was something to the prophecy after all: for a young human woman he had encountered at random, he could not possibly have met a better Chosen One. Not just for the Palani people, but for him. But then, he thought, who had chosen whom?

  * * *

  Elan nodded, smiling under his veil as the last attendants and handmaidens left the room. With a click the door latched, leaving him and Heather alone in her furnace-hot suite.

  "That was the fastest Ritual of Cleansing I've ever seen," he said.

  Heather was lowering herself onto her ornate blue settee, one hand on its arm and the other on her swollen abdomen. "I didn't want to spend the evening sitting in the tub again. Are they gone?"

  Elan crossed the room toward her. "They are. And it isn't a 'tub'. It's—"

  "I know what it's called." She plucked the veil from her face, tossing it onto an end table. Kicking off her shoes, she stretched her feet out in front of her. "I'm sorry Elan," she sighed. "I shouldn't interrupt. I'm just frustrated."

  Elan adjusted his coldsuit as he sat next to her on the settee. "What is it, Heather? There's so much to be frustrated about."

  Heather laughed; it sounded bitter. "Yeah," she muttered. "I guess I should kinda pick one, huh?"