Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) (37 page)

"Three hours from here, sir.
 
We're in the opposite direction."

"So those kids will have been on their own, with some murderous asshole on their trail, for three and a half hours by the time we get there."

The Chief nodded slowly.
 
He knew she was letting him have his rant, just like she always did.
 
As soon as he realised it, he lost enthusiasm for his anger and fell silent, as the Chief pretended to take an interest in the shine of her boots.
 
"Fine," he said quietly.
 
"You're waiting for me to blow off all my steam before you say something.
 
Out with it."

Chief Black was staring down at the deck, her hands clasped behind her back.
 
Her voice was quiet again. "We do have a jump drive, sir."

Dillon waved a hand.
 
"No way.
 
It's sealed, and there's a standing order from the Minister of Defence about it.
 
No one jumps, for any reason, until we get the all clear.
 
They're still nervous about stable wormholes and dimensional rips and all that."

The Chief nodded silently, pursing her lips.
 
She was humouring him again.
 
He knew that look.
 
"Of course, sir," she said.
 
"They'd never give permission." She met eyes with him and gave an insincere smile.
 
"Your orders, sir?"

"Fire up the FTL drive.
 
Take us to each planet in this system, one at a time, as fast as you can.
 
Do a quick scan at each of them.
 
If we don't find anything, we plot a course to Twelve-India and get underway at our best speed."

"Aye aye, sir.
 
I can have us round this system in ten minutes or less, then get us underway."

As the Chief returned to her station, Dillon picked up his mug, only to discover it had somehow become empty.
 
Must've evaporated, he thought.
 
"Chief has the bridge," he said aloud, "I'll be in the wardroom, dosing myself with caffeine."
 
With a shove on the arms of the captain's chair, he propelled himself to his feet and strode toward the hatch at the back of the bridge.

Through the hatch, he made a right turn into the passageway, and then left into the wardroom's open door.

Inside, the galley was on his left, where coffee awaited him.
 
Ahead, along the far wall, stretched a leather bench with a long wooden table in front of it and a row of chairs on the near side.
 
In the far corner on the bench, sat Amba.
 
Among the dark brown wood and leather of the wardroom, she stood out in brilliant white and blue robes than matched her face and hair.
 
One white-gloved hand held a teacup, while the other rested next to a datapad on the table.
 
She looked up as he entered the wardroom, and gave a smile.
 
"Captain," she said, her voice a soothing chord.
 
"Do you have time to join me, or are you merely here for a refuelling?"

"Just here for fuel," said Dillon, though he wished he wasn't.
 
He stepped toward the galley counter, where the young galley's mate had already poured a cup for him and was stirring in a dollop of whitener.
 
Dillon traded his old mug for new, and gave it another stir as the apron-wearing crewmember retreated out the back door to the galley.

"You know what," he said, changing his mind.
 
"I do have a few minutes."
 
Blowing on the top of his coffee, he walked across the small wardroom to the far end of the bench, where Amba sat.
 
Dillon slid onto the curved end of the bench, sitting at the head of the table.

Giving a quick glance in the direction of the empty galley counter, Amba turned her face toward him, those cobalt-blue eyes finding his.
 
"Feda," she said, "are you well?
 
You seem worried."

"I am," he said, taking a sip.
 
He smacked his lips while he collected his thoughts.
 
Those blue eyes of hers had a way of derailing his train of thought.
 
"I'm convinced we came to the wrong system.
 
We're leaving shortly for the other one."
 
He pulled his eyes away from her, down into his mug.
 
"Three hours, Amba.
 
Three damned hours before we get there."

Amba's robe rustled as she leaned forward, putting her elbow on the table and resting her chin in the palm of her hand.
 
When he turned back toward her, her gaze was across the room, toward the door and beyond.
 
"Oh," she said, her mouth hidden behind her knuckles.
 
He'd never seen her sit like that before.
 
He wondered if she'd picked it up from him.
 
"So," she began, "the Elanasal Palani, and his friend, will be on their own until we get there."
 
Her eyes darted up to meet his.
 
"Are there other, friendly ships that could get there sooner?"

Dillon slowly put down his mug, shaking his head.
 
"No," he said.
 
He'd already asked Admiral Clarke about that, shortly after they'd left Alpha Bravo station.
 
The fleet commander's answer had chilled him; it wasn't even a matter of who could be trusted, it was worse than that.
 
"No," said Dillon, repeating the admiral's words:
 
"All available ships are headed to the frontier systems, toward their start positions."

She didn't entirely understand, he could see that on her face.
 
"Start positions, Feda?"

"Yeah," he said, looking into her eyes.
 
"In case of war with the Palani."
 
Restless fingers tapped on the handle of his mug.
 
"The political situation isn't going well.
 
Fleets are on the move… on both sides."

A delicate white-gloved hand reached across the table to touch his.
 
"We'll get through this, Feda."

He forced a smile to his lips.
 
He wished he believed that, but he didn't.
 
In her eyes he could see the same uncertainty.

Dillon squeezed her hand in his, and his eyes wandered toward the doorway.
 
This wasn't going to work.
 
The kids were going to die, and millions more would follow.

"Elan, wake up!"

Something was pushing against his face.
 
His left eye saw all red, from a bright light that glowed through his eyelid.
 
There was a poking, a constant pressure, against his side, and his right leg was lodged at an awkward angle.
 
He took a deep breath, and a sharp knife of pain ran up his side, forcing him wide awake with an abbreviated gasp.
 
When he moved his head, he saw dirty blonde hair in front of him, wet and tangled.

"Come on, Elan!" said Heather, her hand pulling at his shoulder.
 
"We have to get out of here."

"Um," he said, after much consideration.
 
Every part of him ached, if it wasn't in actual pain.
 
Water dripped down — or up — from somewhere, landing on his face.
 
Cold air, like the dead of a Palani winter, blew his hair in front of his eyes.
 
He took another breath, and winced from another stab of pain.

Heather's head turned, and he could see her face.
 
Water was dripping from her bright red nose.
 
"Are you hurt?
 
Come on, let me help you out of there."

Elan still didn't understand where he was.
 
Twisting his torso resulted in another dagger of pain, but it freed his arm enough to reach up toward Heather.
 
He grabbed the edge of a flat surface — the cockpit console, he thought — and pulled, swallowing a yelp that rose up his throat.
 
With the weight off his legs, he was able to move them, slowly disentangling them from the console below.

Beyond Heather's face, he could see the back of the ship.
 
The ramp was torn away, the jagged edges of the ship's skin swaying in the buffeting winds, and wisps of snow were drifting in.
 
Far beyond, he could see a brilliant blue sky.

The ship had stopped nose down, he realised.
 
He placed his feet on the cockpit window below him, and pushed up past the pilot's console.
 
Save for a few individual lights that still shone with a feeble red glow, the console had gone dark.

Another gust of wind roared, rocking the ship from side to side and waving the torn ends of hull plates.
 

Frost was forming in Heather's hair, fixing it in its tangled place with a delicate rime of ice.
 
She leaned down over the front of the console, her hands grabbing at his clothes and coldsuit underneath.
 
He winced again as she tugged at his sleeve.
 
"Where are you hurt, Elan?
 
Are you bleeding?"

"I think I bruised something," he whispered, not wanting to take a deep breath.
 
"Don't think I'm bleeding," he added, though he wasn't entirely certain.
 

With Heather's help, he pulled himself upward, his stomach dragging against the pilot's console.
 
He could feel ripping in his clothes and coldsuit; the metal of the console was cold and sharp against his skin.

Carefully leaning to his right, he pulled his left leg up to the edge of the console, swinging his body around until he was sitting upright, facing the former floor of the ship in front of him.
 
Across from him, Heather leaned back against the now-vertical floor.

Elan knew there weren't too many ways for this day to end.
 
Where they'd landed was cold, far too cold for a human, though maybe not too cold for him.
 
Depending on how cold it was on this part of the planet — there wouldn't be any night, at least — he might survive for days or even weeks.
 
Long enough to die from starvation.
 
He watched Heather, who had craned her head around to look up at the gaping end of the ship, and the gusts of blowing snow beyond.
 
She wasn't going to starve to death.
 
She wouldn't live long enough for that.
 
Heather gave a quick shiver and stood up.

"This is the only shelter, I'll bet," she said.
 
"But that asshole is probably coming to finish the job."

"Yes," said Elan.
 
"We need to get going right away."

"Maybe there's a survival kit," said Heather, scanning the smashed and cluttered interior of the ship.

"Don't spend too much time searching," he said, standing up on the edge of the pilot's console.
 
He tried to ignore the pain in his side as he reached up toward the cargo shelves beside him.
 
Placing one foot on the back of the pilot's chair, he grabbed at the remains of the netting, and pulled himself upward.
 
Every time he tried to lift his left arm his side throbbed with pain.

Another step, another pull on the cargo netting, and Elan was able to climb high enough to poke his head out the top of the ship where its stern ramp had once been.

A blast of winter air blew in his face, stinging his eyes with snow and flecks of ice.
 
It blew in waves like an endless tide, always blowing toward the sun.
 
The massive blue sphere hung above, one edge touching the horizon while the other end was nearly overhead.

There were no trees or vegetation of any kind.
 
They appeared to be in a river valley, its edges a smoothly-sculpted furrow of snow, with scoured rock faces visible beneath.
 
A river ran nearby, its water rolling over the scar in the riverbed where the ship had tumbled through.

And always the wind.
 
It must be far below freezing, Elan thought.
 
At this temperature, the brine lakes on Palani Yaal La would probably have frozen as well.

His eye was caught by a single line of white, tracing its way across the brilliant blue sky, below the sparse, high clouds.
 
The thin line was curving, gently turning toward them.

Elan peered down into the ship.
 
Heather saw his head move, and looked up toward him, a frown on her face.

"A ship is coming," said Elan.
 
"I think that assassin is coming in to land, or at least to scan us.
 
We need to go now."
 
He pursed his lips.
 
"It's going to be very cold, Heather," he said.

She nodded at him.
 
There were tight lines around the eyes on her upturned face.
 
Her hair was covered in a thin layer of frost, and small crystals had begun to form on her eyelashes.
 
"I know, Elan."
 
She held up a small packet in one hand.
 
"Survival kit is almost empty.
 
Found a foil blanket, though."
 
She held up her other hand.
 
"And some chicken soup.
 
You know," she said, a grim smile forming on her lips, "for when we get a pot of boiling water."
 
The grin dissolved.
 
"Elan…" she shook her head.

Elan felt a lump in his throat, preventing him from speaking.
 
It was in her eyes, he could see it.
 
She was losing.
 
Her anger, her sputtering frustration, all draining away.
 
All she had left was thinly-hidden despair and, beyond that, surrender.