Free Chosen (HMCS Borealis Book 2) by S.J. Madill

tendency toward violence and selfishness, the brutality that he'd expected.   He certainly hadn't expected to see such empathy, expressed through such artistic passion.
    "Oh," said Heather.   Her voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper.   "You're still here.   What do you think?"   She was standing far back from the painting, her hands once again on her hips.  
    Elan blinked, and turned his attention back to the painting.   "I had no idea," he admitted.   "No idea that any human could express something so real, so alive."
    "Thank you, Elan."   She turned toward him.   "I, uh,   hadn't planned to… oh, you've got paint on you."
    "Yes, I think I do," said Elan.   He reached up to touch at the spot on his cheek.
    "No, that won't come off without… here, let me get it."   Heather scooped up a rag from the floor, pausing to dip it into one of the pots at her feet. She kicked aside a pile of clutter as she approached the bed, kneeling on the edge of the mattress.   Elan felt his heart pounding as she leaned in toward him, cloth in hand.
    He reached for the cloth, but Heather gently batted his hand away.   "I put it there, I'll clean it up." She reached up and dabbed at his cheek.   "Oh, it's dried," she said, and with her other hand she held the side of his head while she started to scrub.   Elan sat still, his lips curling in a grin.   This reminded him of having the runes scrubbed from his face after rituals in the Temple.  
    "Your hands are hot," he said.
    "And your face is cold," she replied, still scrubbing.   "How on Earth did you sit so still for so long?"
    "I have practice," he said.   "Some Palani rituals go on for a very long time—"
    "So your family is religious—"
    "—and I didn't want to disturb you."
    Heather let go of his face and leaned back, paint-smeared cloth in her hand.   Elan's breath caught when she smiled at him.   "You're a really sweet guy, Elan," she said quietly.   "I'm glad you're here."
    He felt something swell in his chest, and couldn't suppress the smile spreading across his face.   "So am I."

CHAPTER EIGHT

    Dillon sat in his chair on the bridge of the Borealis , one leg crossed over the other.   In his right hand was a slowly-cooling mug of coffee, ignored while he read the datapad in his left hand.
    "Where's Kalla?" he said aloud, to no one in particular.
    "Sir," said Tremblay, at the supervisory console.   "I saw the Executive Officer in the wardroom ten minutes ago.   She said she was retiring for the day."
    "Fine, thank you."   Dillon swiped his thumb across the datapad.   Kalla was always good about reading her messages when she got up; most of these reports could wait until then.   With the fleet-wide officer shortage, having someone on each watch meant rarely seeing them in person.
    As he lifted his coffee to his lips, an icon appeared on his datapad display.   It blinked, trying to impart its urgency to him.   He sighed and set the mug back down, freeing his hand to poke at the datapad.   His heart sank as he read.   Here we go again .   With a light toss, the datapad landed on the shelf next to his chair.
    "Bridge crew," he said with a sigh.   "Listen up."
    Tremblay and the two crewmembers stopped what they were doing, turning in their seats to look at up him from their consoles.
    "News update from New Halifax.   The Palani have destroyed another wildcat colony in the Burnt Worlds.   'Liberty', the place was called.   There were no survivors."  
    He saw faces growing tense as he continued, "Also, the Palani have reported seeing unauthorised ships at the extreme outer reaches of the Burnt Worlds.  They're pretty much saying it had better not be more human colony ships."   With one hand he gestured at the nearby datapad.   "The words 'or else' weren't used, but I think they're implied."
    It was plain in the faces watching him: three young people growing more and more concerned — scared, even — for their futures.   He remembered