Clawing Back from Chaos: Book 9 in the Cat Among Dragons Series (A Cat Among Dragons)

by Alma Boykin

  The round-faced Englishman ignored the jab and turned to Rachel. “Are you giving up anything?”

  “Oh, probably smoking cigars and drinking beer,” she joked lightly, collecting her tray and starting to leave.

  O’Neil wouldn’t drop it and suggested, “What about a real sacrifice, like not killing anyone until after Easter?” The others at the table hissed, but the Wanderer kept walking as if she hadn’t heard the comment, put her dishes in the washing-up area, and left the dining hall to the humans.

  His words cut to the bone. She’d been depressed even before he’d spoken, and as she returned to the laboratory her old ghosts emerged from their holes and fluttered around her. Rachel wondered again just how many people had died because of her, and how many lives she had taken over the centuries. Too many, probably. But she was a soldier. And she’d never committed murder as the humans defined it. Killed in combat, yes, and for self-defense on several occasions. She’d executed a few individuals and felt little or no remorse at ridding the universe of their presence, and she’d also granted mercy more than once. But never murder.

  Rachel wanted to talk to an old friend about it, but pestering him was the thing she’d actually given up for Lent. Besides, he had more than enough on his desk as it was without her bothering him, despite being officially retired. So she did her best to drag her mind back to more important matters, and to things she was supposed to be doing, instead of brooding over old history.

  A few days later, headquarters in Vienna started issuing a new series of training scenarios and simulations for the staff officers and senior NCOs. These were conducted without certain key staff members present, so as to force the rest of the unit’s leadership to adapt to, and deal with, the situation. Rachel grinned inside when she saw that the most recent one omitted the xenology specialist. While the others sweated figurative blood, she used the time to launch a counterattack on the dandelions attempting to infiltrate part of the gardens behind the main headquarters building. The small weeds went into a basket for the cooks, who used the greens in salad, while the older, bitter plants got shredded and composted.

  After Rachel washed up and delivered her produce to the kitchen, she took her time wandering back to her “lair.” On the way, she heard O’Neil and someone else discussing the simulation she’d missed and she decided to eavesdrop. The Englishman asked, “So this was close to what happened three years ago?”

  Captain ben David replied, “As far as I can tell, yes sir, although I’m sure the details are different.”

  Now very interested, Rachel eased closer to the door. “Damn! All those casualties for one person—what a waste.” Her heart almost stopped as the speaker continued. “What ever became of expendability? We would have come out of the scenario a lot better if we’d just let things run their course, given that the aggressors didn’t want information, and I wager the same was true for the real event.”

  Sickened, Rachel didn’t stay to hear Moshe’s reply. Instead, she fled as all the doubts and guilt she’d been fighting so hard to be rid of bubbled up from her memory. The humans heard the distinctive “step-tap-step” retreating down the corridor outside the office as the Israeli exclaimed, “In the name of all that’s holy, sir, how can you say that? We always look out for our own! And who’s to say they wouldn’t force information from her, to pass on or to use against us themselves?”

  Once she cleared that part of the hall, Rachel managed to get herself back under control, and she continued on as if she hadn’t heard. She nodded to a few people as she walked briskly, taking a side door outside and cutting through the grounds on her way back to the lab. O’Neil was right, Rachel thought bitterly. If she’d been left to die, none of the GDF personnel would have been injured or killed, her business partner Zabet wouldn’t have been hurt, and her few friends could have moved on without having to worry about her afterward.

  “Oh, stop this,” she hissed, trying to regain command of her own mind. “Don’t look at it that way—don’t even think that way!” She fought for control, trying to push the buried feelings and memories back to where they belonged. The Traders might well have killed Evelyn Jones anyway, and Zabet too, for helping the “half-breed bastard.” Joschka and Rahoul would have mourned, and things might have gone differently for them, had she not lived. “How many lives did you protect by continuing to serve, here and in the Empire?” she demanded of herself. There was no way to know, but it was a valid question, and one that helped push the darkness back for a while.

  Rachel tried to suppress what O’Neil’s remarks had stirred up, and she did fairly well until after the GDF got called out on a mission. It proved to be unusually mild and straightforward, and she’d been able to simply advise and observe, rather than getting in the middle of things as she often did. All in all, Rachel mused as she dictated her reports, the humans had done well, and probably could have carried the day without her. That was good—they needed to stand on their own feet and not get dependent on her. As an added bonus, the weather had improved markedly, turning soft and warm, even though the calendar warned that March remained firmly in place. A few roses swelled and budded, and when she finished the first batch of paperwork, Rachel waded into the fray, pruning shears and hacksaw in hand.

  She was finishing tying up the last recalcitrant cane when her communication link, a device resembling a cell phone, began chirping. Since the ringtone didn’t signal a call from the Palace Guard, General McKendrick, or Graf-General von Hohen-Drachenburg, she ignored it and continued with her task, bundling up the winter-killed rose canes and carrying them to the burn stack and compost collector.

  Rachel hauled the last pile to the bins, put away her tools, and sat down, listening to the message. Brigadier Eastman, the first commanding officer she’d worked with in the GDF, had died from complications following hip replacement surgery and would she sing at the funeral? She hung her head as sorrow and guilt crashed down onto her. He’d called her just before the procedure, checking to see how she and his cousin, a junior officer, were doing. General Johnny had told her how to find him in the hospital. “Come see me afterwards. I’m going to be bored out of my mind, I can tell already.”

  But she hadn’t, and now he was gone. I would have known. I could have caught the problem and saved him, or helped him heal faster so he wouldn’t have been in long enough to get a clot. Or I could have stopped the clot. Another death on her head, this one from neglect.

  That evening, Rachel ate alone in her quarters. O’Neil had been right, she decided. She had taken so many lives that dying that September would have been better. She stared into the darkness of her room, mourning her own survival. Something moved and, as the Wanderer stared, shapes emerged from the walls—shadows darker than the night’s blackness, gory figures that glared and pointed, whispering “killer,” “murderer,” “selfish half-breed.” She closed her eye and covered her ears but the whispers and chants continued. Despair, remorse, and sorrow overwhelmed her and she cried out, “You aren’t real! And I tried, I tried! You are not real, you’re dead!” But the shades swirled and circled around her, whispering and condemning.

  Rachel managed to snatch bits of sleep that night despite the ghosts haunting her. Although she had no appetite the next morning, she made herself eat a little and went back to working as she usually did. But all day long she kept seeing hints of motion in her peripheral vision and hearing hisses and faint whispers. She managed to get through Jonathan Eastman’s funeral two days later without anyone noticing a problem, and it was soon obvious that no one else saw or heard anything amiss. The Wanderer felt a bit of relief for that. Her guilt was thick enough without her fears driving anyone else mad. Because that’s what was happening, Rachel knew—she was going insane.

  She tried to leave, to go someplace where she wouldn’t endanger anyone if she lost control of her talents. But the psycho-symbiote in the Dark Hart refused to engage. Since she couldn’t tell what was real, neither could it, and as a result the ship’s sel
f-protection programming blocked her escape attempt. She was trapped on Earth, in this time and place. And Rachel’s promise to Rahoul and Joschka closed off her only other possible escape route. So she did the one thing she could to protect the others.

  Rachel isolated herself from the humans around her, emerging from the lab just long enough for briefings and meetings. She stopped visiting the messes or socializing in the evenings. Personal messages from Austria appeared on her e-mail but she ignored them after the first one or two, and she stopped answering her com-phone. There was no point in worrying her friends or causing them more pain, she decided. As a further precaution, Rachel hardened her mental shields and locked them in place, walling her mind off from those around her. It hurt her, but she didn’t see any other option.

  Although the roses had come into their first glorious flush of color, the gardens held no appeal for the haunted Wanderer, and she didn’t even look out the windows of the lab or venture out of doors. Her ghosts drew closer and closer, and Rachel’s memory summoned up more and more images of the creatures she’d killed, of battles fought centuries before, of all the deaths that surrounded her. She could no longer sleep, and instead stared into the darkness, waiting for dawn. And waiting for death to finish her journey into Hell.

  It was Colonel Tadeus Przilas who finally asked. “Have you seen Commander Na Gael around, outside of briefings and simulations?” He’d been away on leave and noticed her absence almost as soon as he got back.

  Moshe ben David shook his head, running a hand over his freshly trimmed black hair. “No sir, now that you mention it. I assume she’s been eating with the NCOs, but I’ve not seen her in the officers’ mess for the last two weeks or so, and she hasn’t been around in the evenings.”

  First Sergeant Anthony Lee and Colour Sgt. Morgan St. John hadn’t seen much of Rachel, either. “She’s not been messing with us, sir,” St. John told the executive officer.

  “Commander Na Gael did requalify earlier this week, but she didn’t stay to chat, sir. Came in, shot her minimum, and left.” Lee frowned. “That’s not like her at all, sir.”

  “No, it isn’t,” the American agreed, growing concerned. “And she hasn’t been in the gym recently, either.”

  St. John hesitated and then offered, “There’s this too, sir. Look at the rose garden—it’s getting weedy.”

  That brought Przilas up short. “That’s not good, Sergeant. Thank you.” He hurried off to talk to one more person.

  He found Father Mikael Farudi checking on some things in the chapel in preparation for evensong. Przilas genuflected and approached the priest. “Father, do you have a moment? I’m worried about Commander Na Gael.”

  “So am I, Colonel. She’s not been to services for over three weeks, and that never happens if she’s here.” The priest was fond of his unconventional parishioner and was deeply concerned about her. “I noticed that she looked ill the last time she came, but I’ve not seen her outside briefings since then.” The Lebanese Anglican shook his head. “And when I tried to draw her out, she had work to attend to. I hope she’s not sick—in body or in spirit.”

  “The sergeants say that she’s acting odd, not eating with them and that she’s neglecting the rose garden,” Tadeus advised Fr. Mikael. “And she’s not eating with the officers either, or socializing in the evenings. Something must be wrong with her,” he continued, thinking aloud.

  A Scots’ accented voice said, “Something is.” Priest and colonel turned as General McKendrick closed the door to the small chapel. “I’m glad you’re both here. I just got a phone call from Vienna, from Colonel Rahoul Khan. Both he and General Eszterházy have been trying to contact Rachel. She’s not answering her private ‘cell phone,’ and she’s not responding to e-mails from them, either.” The stocky redhead walked up the side aisle to where the two men stood. “So they called to see if she’d gone on leave, or if she’d been injured or was otherwise out of contact.”

  “She’s withdrawn completely, General,” Father Mikael said. “From us and from the gardens.”

  A puzzled expression crossed McKendrick’s ruddy face. “Rachel seems like her normal self when I’ve seen her, if a bit quiet.” Which was quite a change from her customary eruptions of wise-assery, McKendrick thought. “But I’ve only seen her at briefings or presentations recently.”

  “Sir, perhaps someone should check on her in the lab,” Przilas offered. “If she’s having trouble and trying to cover it up, she might have her guard down on her own turf.”

  The general grunted. “See to it then, and let me know what you find.” He turned and left the chapel.

  “Father Mikael, will you . . .” the American’s voice trailed off as the priest shook his head.

  “No, Tadeus. As soon as she sees me, she’ll know we’re checking up on her,” the Anglican explained. “Try Major de Alba or Captain ben David—I’m told that the two of them have gone with her on garden tours once or twice.”

  “Commander?” ben David called as he pushed the lab door open and looked around. There was no response, but he saw a familiar profile across the room, standing at the window and staring into the late afternoon rain. “Commander Na Gael?” Only silence answered and Moshe signaled “caution” as he walked in, followed by Major de Alba. Together they threaded their way between worktables and equipment to where their advisor stood.

  The pair approached from her blind side and the Wanderer showed no sign of noticing their presence. “Rachel?” Maria asked, reaching out and touching the other woman. At last Rachel gave a sign of life, turning slightly so she could see the humans. “Blessed Mary!” the Spanish communications officer breathed, grabbing the advisor. “Rachel, what’s wrong?”

  The alien looked horrible. No color remained in her face. Normally pale, her skin now appeared almost transparent, the long scar prominent on her sunken cheek. Rachel had never been heavy, despite the amount of food she ate, but Maria felt only bones as she gripped the xenology specialist’s arm. Loose bits of brown-black hair escaped here and there from the woman’s braids and bun. And worst of all was the gray eye, as dead as the blind one. All the fire, energy, and life that Maria had come to know were gone, leaving a Rachel-shaped shell. The Wanderer rasped, “Is there a mission?”

  “No, but you need help,” Moshe replied.

  Rachel shook her head, turning away again. “No, thank you. Just let the darkness come. It’s overdue.” The soldiers looked at each other and de Alba pointed toward the desk and its intercom. Moshe nodded and ran across the room, dialing first the infirmary and then General McKendrick’s office number.

  “Sir? It’s Captain ben David. Something is wrong with Rachel.” He heard Maria gasp and turned around to see her trying to catch the xenologist as Rachel sank to the floor. “I think she’s dying!”

  An hour later Dr. Tomasso Albioni emerged from Rachel’s personal quarters. It had been decided to keep her in familiar surroundings, despite the difficulty of getting her up the stairs. McKendrick waited below, very worried about his advisor, and Albioni told him, “Dehydration and starvation caused her collapse, General. But otherwise I don’t know what’s wrong. She accepted fluids but won’t respond to my questions, except to ask me to ‘let her go’ because ‘it will be better for everyone’.”

  It soon became apparent that something had happened to Rachel’s mind. She no longer slept, as far as the people watching her could tell. Instead, she stared into the shadows of her quarters or covered her eyes with her hands. “She keeps going on about ghosts and shadows and asking to be left alone and for us to let her go, whatever that means,” the nurse-paramedic reported to the gathered staff officers two mornings later. “Commander Na Gael now refuses to eat or drink anything,” he added.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Patel,” McKendrick said, dismissing him. The general sat back in his chair, arms folded. “Do any of you have an idea when this started? Dr. Albioni thinks if we can find out when, he might be able to puzzle out what led to her collapse.”
/>
  The humans wracked their memories. “The last time she ate in the officers’ mess that I remember was, hmmm, late March, I think. Just after we had the last mission,” Edward O’Neil, suggested.

  Capt. ben David nodded energetically. “That’s right, because it was the day before she asked for leave to go to a funeral.” He scrolled through a computer file. “Yes, here we go, March 22 she made the request, so it was the twenty-first.”

  “Funeral?” de Alba asked.

  “Brigadier Jonathon Eastman’s service,” the adjutant explained. “Apparently they had kept in touch after his retirement and she went to his funeral, along with Lieutenant Eastman from the motor pool.”

  “I remember now,” the Spaniard said, nodding. “That’s also the last time she dropped by the lounge. I’d assumed she was spending the evenings out in the garden or the greenhouse,” she admitted, ducking a little guiltily.

  “That’s what everyone thought,” McKendrick rumbled. “Until Tadeus realized something was wrong.” Looking back, it was obvious that they should have been checking on her more closely. McKendrick had learned the full details of her previous “difficulty” after reporting the Wanderer’s collapse to Vienna. All the warning signs had been there, he sighed, but none of the officers had recognized them, and Na Gael had avoided the long-time NCOs who might have caught the situation.

  “Well, one thing is clear: we have to keep better eyes out for each other,” he continued aloud. “I told her a year and a half ago that she wasn’t the only person in the GDF to have PTSD, and that still holds true.”

  He flipped some pages on the table in front of him. “So March 21 and 22 are the probable start dates,” and the others nodded their agreement. “Ben David, tell Dr. Albioni, please.”

  “Yessir,” the adjutant replied.