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

by Alma Boykin

  “Who goes there?” someone growled from the shadows.

  “Command One.”

  The someone didn’t move. “Bells,” came the challenge.

  “Ribbon,” Khan replied. Rachel would kill him if she ever learned about the current passwords, he thought, as Cpl. Lee emerged, weapon pointing toward the top of the tunnel. “Report.”

  The slight corporal pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “We got locked out. The First and Zon are trying to get back in.”

  Khan went in the indicated direction, turned the corner, and found Lee and Zon poking and prodding what seemed to be a solid wall. “Problem?”

  Irritated, Zon poked something rather firmly before turning. “Ah, no—that is, well, sir.”

  “That’s it!” Lee said before Khan could do more than frown. The NCO wedged a knife blade into a small gap. “Do that again.”

  Zon prodded the wall once more, they heard a hiss and a pop, and the door came open. “Manx One’s this way,” Lee explained under his breath.

  The general nodded and eased past the sergeant. He heard nothing and advanced farther, slipping around a bend. Lee started to follow and heard a depressingly familiar voice snarl, “Stop right there, Rowdy.”

  “Do we have a mess, First?” Zon inquired under his breath.

  “We have a mess,” Lee affirmed.

  Rahoul eased his hands away from his sides, eyes not leaving the muzzle of the bullpup rifle aimed at him. “I should have guessed you’d follow your little loon,” Sandborn growled. “You and your people can’t take a hint, can you?”

  A voice from the open doorway beside the colonel called, “Is something wrong, Terry?”

  “No more than usual. Caught another snooper.” Khan stayed quiet, concerned about Sandborn’s finger on the rifle trigger.

  “Anyone special?” the woman’s voice asked.

  The pale officer shook his head, rifle not moving. “Just a nosy, jumped up wog who still doesn’t know how to act like a proper officer.”

  “Can you get rid of him? I need you to monitor something for me.” Sandborn seemed to consider his options as Rahoul held his breath. There was no slack in the trigger, so if he tried to drop out of the way to give Lee a clear shot, Terry would kill him before he could clear the line of fire. And Rahoul had no way to know if Lee was even in position. Brave he might be, but suicidal Rahoul was most certainly not. And what about Rachel? Where was she?

  The other man motioned towards the lab door with his head. “Move. And keep your hands up, Rowdy, or you’ll join your ugly loon of an advisor.” Rahoul moved slowly and carefully, stepping into the lab and then stopping when the voice behind him barked, “halt.” The barrel pushed against Khan’s back, and Sandborn disarmed the general. “Off to the left there, by the pile of laundry.” Khan covered a flinch by stepping forward, then closed the distance between himself and the pile of grey fabric and black boots that lay in the corner of the room. “Don’t be an idiot or you’ll end up with her,” Terry repeated, balancing the rifle on the edge of the computer display stand as he looked at the readout. “Five point four and climbing,” he reported.

  Rahoul ignored whatever else was going on as he checked Rachel’s condition. A bruise on the base of her skull explained everything, and he carefully straightened her neck and shoulders, then laid the alien back onto the floor. Her pulse and breathing seemed good, and there was no blood that he could see. “Five point two and decreasing—no, steady,” he heard, and stood back up, turning to see what was going on.

  Before he could do or say anything, Rachel rustled. Khan turned to her to warn her not to move. She stared straight ahead and he wondered if her head injury was worse than he’d thought. The alien shifted her gaze to him and he took a step backwards. Whatever moved her body was not Commander Na Gael—something incredibly old and cold looked out of the single silver eye. Rachel flowed to her feet and stood still, the thing controlling her apparently waiting for something.

  “Colonel, you are aware that whatever you are doing here is causing major problems that will only get worse?” The general kept his tone quiet and conversational.

  Instead, the mousy woman replied, “We are causing nothing. Ask those fools who let Imperial Oil and the other drilling companies punch holes all over this island why there are earthquakes. Once I finish these last adjustments, they’ll see what it’s like to be on the receiving end of justice for the damage they’ve caused. We won’t need oil anymore.”

  “And we won’t need your regiment anymore, either. Christine is brilliant, Rowdy,” Sandborn picked up the story. “Four point nine and declining, but slowly. You kept blocking Christine’s research, and that of her working group, by locking up every new technology and weapon, but not anymore. We,” he waved his hand around at the lab before returning it to the rifle, “can take care of ourselves without foreign meddling.”

  “Over half of the regiment is British and we answer to Horseguards, just as you do,” Rahoul said quietly, keeping Sandborn’s attention inside the lab as a lean shape peeked around the doorway before vanishing again. “We’ve never blocked anyone’s research since I’ve been with the unit.” Unless Meecham was part of the group Rachel and Andrew Whitehead shut down a decade ago, he continued silently.

  His former classmate shook his head angrily. “The Army can protect Britain from any threat. We’ve mastered the alien technology, despite the Global Defense Force’s pointless prohibitions. Humans can take care of themselves now, Rowdy,” Sandborn almost gloated. “We don’t need any ‘Defense Force’ with foreign officers like you, and especially not with insane hags like your so-called xenologist.” Dr. Meecham busied herself with something on the far side of the lab, leaving the large, boxy device she’d been fussing over unattended. Sandborn glanced at the woman, then added, “How did anyone as mad as your ‘advisor’ get hired, Rowdy? Is she better in bed than she looks?”

  It was probably just as well that Logres had overridden Rachel, Rahoul later decided, because if she’d been “awake” she would have killed the idiot right then and there. As it was, the entity that had taken control of the Wanderer’s body ignored him, turning and walking to one side of the energy distribution and collection device. Sandborn raised the rifle but didn’t fire, afraid of damaging the equipment. Movement in the doorway distracted Rahoul, and he watched Lee and the two corporals easing silently into the lab, taking positions by the door, weapons at the ready. Then Rachel made a noise and he turned back to her.

  As the humans watched, Rachel, still inhabited by Logres, began entering commands into a keypad with one hand. The other hand turned up, cupped, and seemed to glow as something gathered in the palm. It was as if Rahoul were looking at a dim picture out of the corner of his eye and was almost able to make out what the image was, but not quite. The others seemed to be having the same experience, shaking their heads or rubbing an eye.

  “No! Stop her before she disrupts the final power cycle,” Dr. Meecham gasped, drawing a pistol from the drawer of the lab table and aiming at Rachel. “Stop it or I’ll shoot,” the scientist screeched, but Rachel and the thing acting through her paid her no heed, completely enwrapped in whatever she was doing to the machine.

  “Christine, don’t,” Sandborn hissed. “Not in here—you’ll damage the shielding unit when the bullet goes through her.”

  “Not these,” the woman said, squeezing the trigger. Cpl. Lee turned to fire at the scientist, but Sandborn stopped him with a bullet in the chest that knocked the soldier back despite his body armor. The shots deafened the humans, and Rahoul’s ears rang as he lunged for Sandborn, only to find himself facing the bullpup rifle. Beyond the furious Englishman, he saw Rachel turn her head slightly. Blood darkened her shoulder, and her left arm hung limp at her side, but the alien continued whatever she had begun, oblivious to the humans.

  “What’s that?” Sergeant Lee gasped, pointing to the far corner, behind the mystery equipment. Sandborn glanced that way, and Rahoul dove for cov
er beside the lab table as electricity began crackling from the metal fixtures in the room. The sergeant ignored the commotion, concentrating instead on Dr. Meecham. The boffin screeched something unintelligible and raised her pistol again. Before she could fire a second time, Lee’s rifle thundered. A shocked expression appeared on the round face, and the woman staggered and collapsed as blood appeared on her chest.

  “No! Christine, no!” Sandborn screamed, frantic as he tried to reach her. What? Rahoul though fuzzily. As the colonel wavered between covering the soldiers, dealing with Rachel, and going to the scientist, Cpl. Zon slammed the butt of his rifle onto the man’s head. Sandborn collapsed into a heap.

  Time seemed to slow as Rahoul turned from the dying scientist to Commander Na Gael. A green-white glow shone around the alien, and it took the general a second to realize what he was seeing. The basal energy of the Isle of the Mighty poured out around the mortal woman, spilling from the machine like St. Elmo’s fire. The xenologist entered something else onto the keypad, stepped to the side a pace, and reached into the machine. Power flared, and Rahoul looked away, temporarily blinded.

  Sergeant Lee and the other Lee had taken positions near the door, just in case Army soldiers appeared. Zon crouched beside Sandborn. “He’s alive, sir, but he’s not going anywhere.”

  “Good. Secure him,” Rahoul ordered, then ducked as a silent explosion drove the air out of the room. Wind rushed back in, bringing dirt and smoke with it. The humans coughed, and Sgt. Lee shook his head, then rubbed his face. Rahoul felt sore, and he realized that the pressure change had affected his sinuses. “Report,” the officer choked out.

  Someone produced a pocket torch and shone it around. Lee counted noses. “All present and intact, sir.”

  “The colonel still won’t be going anywhere, sir,” Zon reported.

  Sgt. Lee had some thoughts as to where the officer could go, but kept them to himself. Instead, he tried to find Commander Na Gael. “Stay here,” he told the Singaporean corporal. “Manx One?” he called quietly, moving toward the mysterious equipment.

  The explosion had knocked her away from the machinery, and Lee’s heart sank as the torch’s beam showed fresh red blood on the wall above where she lay. He knelt beside the crumpled body and felt her neck for a pulse. As he did, he found the source of the blood—something had sliced her forehead open, leaving bare bone showing under a loose flap of scalp. Lee patched the wound closed for the moment, after doing what he could for her shoulder, then checked the xenologist for other injuries. “She’s alive, sir, but,” he leaned back, eyes wide. “Holy Lord have mercy.”

  As the men watched, the scalp wound stopped bleeding and scabbed. The hole in her shoulder, visible through the torn blouse and jacket, also clotted over, the blood flow slowing to a trickle even as the humans stared. Rahoul crossed himself against the uncanny scene.

  “I,” Lee swallowed. “Does this mean that Logres is, that it—?” He couldn’t find the words he wanted.

  Even Rachel couldn’t explain it. She regained consciousness the next day, and it was a sign of how badly she’d been hurt that she didn’t fuss at waking up in her ship, then being ordered to the infirmary and confined there for twenty-four hours’ observation. “It could if it wanted to, I suppose,” she shrugged, or tried to. Whatever had patched her injuries had ignored the bruising, and Rachel flinched every time she moved her left shoulder or arm. Her face looked as if she’d been splattered with avocado and eggplant. “Healing energy is not all that different from the energies that Dr. Meecham and Col. Sandborn were trying to tap.”

  “Commander, what is Logres, really?” Rahoul had read General McKendrick’s account of the battle in Wales, but it was one thing to read about and quite another to see Rachel being “possessed.”

  She shook her head and sipped more water. “It is, sir. That’s all I know. The Graf-General might know more, or General Eszterházy’s father. Logres is a truly ancient being that lives on the energy of the British Isles and sometimes takes interest in what humans and others are doing. Because it no longer has mass, it uses two living creatures to act as its hands and eyes. I’m one of them.”

  “Well, make it stop,” Rahoul ordered.

  “I don’t know how, sir, other than by dying.” She gingerly half-shrugged again. “If there’s a great enough conflict between the needs of the regiment and those of Logres, then I suppose you’d best just put a bullet in my head, sir.” Assuming it will let you, she thought grimly.

  “Find a way to stop it,” he snapped.

  Rachel bided her silence. Something else was bothering Rahoul, something unrelated to Logres, and he was taking it out on her. She found out what later that night when he tracked her down in the lab. He slipped in, closing the door silently and taking her chair as she poured herself a mug of tea. Without his saying anything, Rachel fixed a second mug and gave it to him. She also unlocked a concealed panel in the far side of the desk and took out a small flask, waving it gently as she looked a question at him. He considered the offer and then nodded, and she added a little to the tea. Only after he’d taken a few swallows did she ask, “What’s wrong, sir?”

  “Terry, ah, Col. Sandborn was found dead in his quarters this morning.”

  Rachel leaned against the corner of the desk. “Suicide?” He didn’t reply at first, and when he did, his oddly guilty look confirmed her supposition.

  “He hung himself.”

  She wasn’t surprised. “What penalties was he facing, sir?”

  “Misappropriation of funds, possibly theft, compromising security, assault with the intent of doing bodily harm, and assault of a superior officer if I were inclined to ask for that charge to be added.”

  “So he took the quick way out and will go to his grave with his family honor intact, thus sparing them from learning that he was also an adulterer,” Rachel nodded. “The best of a lot of bad options.” She drank more tea.

  Rahoul stared at her. “How can you say that, Rachel?”

  “Because I’ve seen it before, Rahoul, and because it was pretty damn obvious that he and Meecham were lovers. I’m surprised you missed the clues.”

  He thought about it as he drank more tea, trying to cover his disbelief. “He hovered, that’s true.”

  “They were constantly touching each other, sir.” Her mouth formed a disapproving moue. “Worse than teenage humans. Ick.”

  After some minutes of quiet, Rachel lifted up the teapot and raised her eyebrow in a question. Khan held out his mug, and she refilled it, omitting the second libation this time. “I’m sorry Sandborn chose as he did,” the Wanderer said, as she poured another cup for herself. “Rahoul, you had nothing to do with this, with his decisions.”

  “You’re certain?” He felt as if the clock had slipped back two decades and more, to the night when a young junior officer had ventured into the lab looking for reassurance and advice.

  “As much as I can be. I’ve been looking over the copies of Meecham’s files and e-mails.” She sat in the spare chair, waving toward her computer with her free hand. “They were so determined and focused that they ignored every warning—equipment problems, a fatality in the lab, test results that failed to match her theories and expectations. She was going to be the hero of a new Britain and his superiors would finally recognize him for the genius and leader that he was, and he could return his family to the prominence and influence it so richly deserved. Or at least that he thought it deserved.” She leaned back, rubbing under her blind eye as if it ached.

  “But some hath said that Caesar was ambitious. If so it was a grievous fault and grievously hath Caesar answered it,” Rahoul quoted. His advisor remained silent, looking off into the shadows, her mind thousands of light-years away.

  “I’m sorry, Rahoul,” she said at last. “I thought—I hoped I could talk sense into Meecham. But things had gone too far.”

  He finished his tea and set the mug on her desk. “Thank you, Commander. It . . .” he got up and turned towards the d
oor. “Damn it,” he hissed bitterly. “We shouldn’t have to fight our own people too.”

  Only after the heavy steel door shut did she reply. “I don’t think you were entirely, Rahoul. And that worries me greatly.”

  Commander Na Gael, with Cpl. Zon in tow, returned to Exeter the next day and began dismantling the remains of the power collecting equipment. She divided the remains into “copper,” “aluminum,” “plastics,” “ferrous metals,” “other,” and “alien.” The alien she kept for herself. When Lt. Col. Bruce Tanner twitted her about the piles, she pointed out that refined copper was selling for almost three pounds per kilo wholesale and that the proceeds would go back to the unit’s general budget. The soldiers stopped teasing her after that, and she turned her blind eye to the occasional tin or bottle that appeared in the bins. After three days of careful work and documentation she had reduced the device to its component parts—and found some rather worrisome items in the process.

  The next Tuesday’s staff meeting consisted of fifteen minutes of administration followed by a long debriefing for the benefit of those who had missed the previous week’s “fun.” No unusual geologic activity had been reported since the final spasm during the power collecting device’s detonation. Neither Sandborn’s nor Meecham’s full records had yet been found, leaving many questions unanswered. “The Army is in the process of going over the 8th Foot’s books to ascertain where the money for the laboratory came from, but thus far everything that came in seems to have gone out the proper channels,” Major Sigurdson, the Branch’s logistics officer reported. “The Army is very interested in finding the source of the funds, as you can well imagine.”

  “I certainly can,” Khan murmured, leaning back in his chair and thinking about the Exchequer’s latest proposed round of economizing measures. Bringing himself back to the current topic, he turned to the xenologist. “Rachel, your thoughts?”

  “I want to know how the core of a tel-energy converter reached Earth intact, and just how Dr. Meecham devised the power transformers and augmenters.” The soldiers turned to their advisor. Only the furnace of heat in her silver-grey eye betrayed her anger. “There were several weeks of work in that laboratory for someone with my experience and tools. At your species’s current technological and psionic levels, it should have been impossible to assemble that, even as unstable and poorly built as it was.”