by Alma Boykin
His eyes looked white against his dark tan skin, they opened so wide at the sight of his advisor. “Commander Rachel Na Gael Ni Drako, what the bloody hell did you think you were doing going into that ship with only your assistant?” Khan snarled. Wales eased away from his charge, a little afraid of the intensity of the general’s anger.
Honest confusion appeared on the Wanderer’s face. “Sir? We got what we needed and got out. The lieutenant’s fine—a bit scratched, but otherwise unharmed—and none of this,” she waved at the blood all over her, “is mine. I fail to see the problem, sir.”
Sigurdsson and Selassie both stepped back, away from the livid general. “Commander,” he began very quietly, taking two steps toward the xenologist. “Commander Na Gael, do you have any idea what could have happened when you went haring off from the rest of the unit?”
“I could have gotten killed,” came the matter-of-fact reply.
Khan switched tacks. “Commander, do you recall just who Lt. Wales’s parents are?”
Growing a bit irritated, Rachel almost snapped, “A male and female human, I assume,” but the blazing fury in Rahoul’s eyes stopped her. “No sir, I do not.”
“His Royal Highness Matthew the Prince of Wales,” Khan didn’t have to finish. Rachel winced. “I trust you now understand the gravity of the situation.”
To Khan’s dismay, Rachel frowned and folded her arms. “So he’s one of the Crown Prince’s offspring. He’s alive and unharmed, we accomplished the mission, and I still fail to see why you are so upset, sir.” She shrugged, arms still folded.
Col. Selassie saved Rahoul from screaming at his advisor. “Commander, the heirs to the throne take the last name of ‘Wales.’ They are the only ones who do. Andrew Wales is second in line for the throne.”
The news didn’t seem to penetrate. “Good for him. He did an excellent job and should be commended for keeping his head in a fairly nasty situation.” As the humans stared at the scarred woman, a fresh look of confusion appeared in the silver eye. “I still fail to see why you are upset. The Heir has to be combat proven, and he certainly is now if he wasn’t before.”
Rahoul’s jaw dropped and then snapped shut as he realized the problem and also remembered that the individual in question remained well in earshot. “Lt. Wales, go with Major Sigurdsson. Sigurdsson, please debrief the lieutenant.” As soon as the two disappeared from sight, Khan counted to five and got himself under better control. “Commander, the British monarchy is very different from the Azdhagi. The Prince or Princess of Wales and their children are encouraged to serve in the military, but not required to be on the front lines.”
“Oh. I see the difficulty now. Thank you, sir, ma’am,” and she nodded towards Desta. Silently, she snarled at Rahoul, «Then why the bloody blue blazes did no one tell me I’m not supposed to take my assistant with me when I’m sent to gather data?»
Rahoul Khan winced inwardly and acknowledged partial responsibility for the mess. «So you wouldn’t treat him any differently than you treat the other junior officers,» he explained. «And you are not supposed to be in combat, remember?»
«Suggestion, sir,» she sent back in a more moderated “tone.” «No harm, no foul. The lieutenant and I keep our mouths shut, I file two reports, one slightly blurred, and we communicate more clearly from now on.»
He thought about it. «I accept your recommendation, Commander.» Aloud he ordered, “After you check in with the medical unit, go get cleaned up before you ruin our suppers, Commander. Debrief will be at 1700 unless otherwise necessary.”
Rachel didn’t argue, for a change. “Yes, sir.”
Lt. Wales found Commander Na Gael reviewing information in her PDA while perched on the running board of one of the Athelstans. “Commander?” he inquired.
“Hmmm? Oh, hullo. Did Stony scorch your ears, too?”
“Major Sigurdsson?” She nodded and after glancing around he shrugged. “A little. We were supposed to wait for back-up. And you’re not supposed to be in combat, ma’am,” he reminded her, angry at having been reprimanded for something he couldn’t control.
She snorted, unrepentant. “If Stony thinks that a knife fight is combat he’s,” a string of syllables that were presumably unflattering rounded out the sentence. “If we hadn’t stopped the ratty looking one, he would have destroyed the ship with us in it. That’s what was in his hand, a combined self-destruct and communications device made to look like a cell phone. Although he may not have known what it was. I suspect that the party that—” she broke off. “Sorry, thinking aloud.”
Andrew Wales learned nothing more about Rachel’s suppositions, at least not that day or the next. Most of the NCOs and junior officers found ways to stay near the wireless, TV, or Internet ports, following the progress of the police, reserves, and some Army troops trying to quell the rioting that started the night of the auroras. Farther up the chain-of-command, the discovery of apparent humans, wearing Terrestrial armor, caused such a commotion that Wales was glad to stay well clear of the senior staff officers. Commander Na Gael had him monitoring more chemical tests, although she didn’t specify on what and he didn’t ask. “All positive, ma’am,” he informed her on the afternoon of the third day since their visit to the space ship.
“God damn it. Nothing personal, Andrew, that’s just,” she turned away and limped to the windows, leaning on the sill and staring out into the distance. “Not what I wanted to hear. Well done, and please write up your results before going to supper. Remember to put the test materials into the biohazard container.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He started pulling up the correct forms on the lab computer, then stopped, turning back to his supervisor. “Ma’am? What does this mean—if you can tell me.”
The alien walked back to the work desk, rubbing under her bad eye as if the scar tissue bothered her. She pulled a black cane with a carved dragon handle out of the umbrella stand and leaned on it. “It means that someone from this planet is working with your enemies, Andrew.” She sounded sad and tired as she added, “Your enemies and mine.” The woman turned before he could gather his wits. “I’ll go tell Brigadier Khan the good news.”
On her way down the corridor, she met Captain ben David. “Problem, Rahel?” he asked in Hebrew, startled by her morose expression and dragging walk.
She gathered her thoughts and tried to grin. “Oh, no more than usual. What can I do for you?”
“Ah,” and he drew her to the side of the hall, in case someone else needed to pass. He shifted back to English. “I’m returning to Israel next week. I’ve been promoted, and Captain Oldman will take over as adjutant.”
Rachel smiled and held out her hand. “Congratulations, Major ben David! That’s wonderful.”
Moshe looked around to see if anyone was coming, then took his advisor’s hand, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Thank you. I’ll miss you,” he told her ears.
She hugged him, leaning a little against him before pulling back. “You’re welcome, Moshe, you’ve more than earned a promotion. And you’ll find another xenologist to give you grey hairs,” she warned, trying to cover her own emotions.
He shook his head. “No, Rahel Na Gael Ni Drako—not like you.” He left it there, turning and going with her to Brigadier Khan’s office door. As she went in, Moshe decided to go visit First Sergeant Lee. “Lee, keep an eye on Rahel, will you?”
“Ah, yes, sir. Is there a problem?”
Moshe gave the lean NCO a grave look. “There’s a storm coming.”
Two pairs of brown eyes met, and Lee nodded. “So you sense it too, sir.”
Rachel anticipated Rahoul’s problem as soon as she heard his personal ringtone at 0400. She hadn’t slept well, finally giving up around 0200. Too much coming and going of timeships had left ripples in the threads, irritating the Dark Hart. Rada also sensed a split beginning to develop, a separation between the known future and at least three possibilities. Was it just a temporary anomaly, as happened rather often in Ter-Tri’s timestr
eam, or was someone meddling? Either way it made Rada feel as if the universe were brushing her fur backwards. And then the phone had rung.
She answered. “Nightmare?”
“Affirmative. Meet at the glasshouse,” Rahoul confirmed, then rang off.
Rachel stretched, hid the Azdhag historical novel that she’d been reading, levered herself out of her office chair, collected a walking cane, and sauntered out the back door of the lab. She meandered a bit on the way to the glasshouse, sniffing a few plants. The heavy late-summer dew seemed to have captured their scent, suggesting that it would be utterly glorious once the sun rose. If the sun rose, Rachel corrected herself, eyeing the heavy clouds lurking low overhead.
She rounded the end of the hedge and set foot on the gravel path leading to the glasshouse. At the sound of her steps Rahoul spun around from where he’d been unlocking the door. The instant she came within reach he grabbed her arms, looking at her with undisguised relief. “Rachel! I . . . thank God.”
His distress and raw fear for her slammed against Rachel’s lowered shields, and she scrambled to raise her defenses before the emotions overwhelmed her as well. “Easy, Rahoul, easy,” she murmured in Trader. “I’m here, in the usual number of pieces.” Several more seconds passed before he loosened his grip.
The South Asian officer took a deep breath and stepped back, lightly resting one hand on his advisor’s arm as if to reassure himself. “Sorry, it’s just that . . .” The normally perfectly controlled man paused to collect his feelings. “They are getting stronger and more detailed.”
“How do you want to handle this?” Rachel inquired as she finished unlocking the glasshouse door and handed Rahoul his keys back.
Rahoul led the way into the glorified potting shed, taking a deep breath of reassuring scents of damp soil and growing things. “I don’t know, Rada. I just don’t know.” He had to act on his visions, but he did not know how to stop them from becoming reality. “Is there any way for you to find out what I’m seeing, go to the place, and prevent what will happen?”
The Wanderer looked at him, a touch of irritation in her silver-grey eye. “Listen to yourself, sir. And no, I can’t intervene because there are too many possibilities and probabilities. Unless someone is tampering with the timestream in such as way as to rework Earth’s history there’s no action I can legally take. And I’m not going to break the Laws, either,” she warned before he could even suggest it.
“But you’re going to die.”
To his dismay Rachel shrugged his fear aside. “It happens to all of us.” Her mask dropped and she continued coldly. “That’s not enough cause for me to do something stupid, sir. I’ll investigate and see if there’s any evidence that someone is meddling, but I’m not allowed to do more than that.” Her hard expression softened a bit. “Do you want me to try and put a temporary block on that part of your gift so you can get some rest?”
Rahoul picked up one of Rachel’s garden trowels and turned it in his hands as he stared through the glass wall toward the herb garden. She had done it once before, and he remembered how uncomfortable it felt, as if he had lost part of his vision or hearing. “No. I’ll do those shielding exercises you and the Graf-General showed me and see if that will stop the visions.”
Rachel nodded and bent over, dragging a tub of dirt and some clay pots out from under the wooden bench. “Here. Since you have the trowel, you can fill these half-way, please. I want to start some new rose shoots tomorrow, and you need a little occupational therapy.” She flashed her infamous grin. “I’d offer to let you weed, but it might affront your dignity as well as giving you an excuse to sabotage the green peppers.”
“You don’t like them either,” Rahoul reminded her as he began carefully moving dirt into the little pots.
“Consuming a few veggies is more dignified than it is to eat the grass when I have a tummy ache,” his old friend explained, somehow managing to look down her nose at her taller commanding officer. “Occasional omnivory is a cross I must bear.” After moving some things around on the second potting bench, she added, “And butterfat keeps my coat shiny and soft, or so I’ve been assured.”
Rahoul had a good idea who’d made that observation and he debated teasing her about it. But she asked him about Robin, Sita, and Panpit, keeping him distracted until almost an hour had passed since he’d rushed out of his quarters. At last she observed, “It’s five fifteen, sir.”
He brushed off his hands and left everything for her to clean up. “Be careful, Rada,” he cautioned in Trader.
“Yes, sir,” she agreed. As soon as he was out of sight behind the hedge, Rachel took out her phone and called a private number. The person answered on the second ring. “Good morning sir,” she began in German. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, but you need to be aware of a possible development. Yes. Rahoul’s gift, my temporal awareness, and the ’Hart’s observations are coming into unison. Yes, please. You have better back-channel to him than I do.” She listened for a moment. “Very much so, my love, very much so.” The voice at the other end spoke once more and she snorted, looking up at the roof. “Yes, it would, but he’d likely buy tickets for the wrong lottery, and then his wife would kill him.” Further comment, and she snorted again. “If not the most useless, very close. Love you too, and I’ll try.”
A week later, several 58th Regiment members traveled to Lincoln to meet with their regular Army counterparts. The still, sunny, summer morning warned everyone of a hot afternoon in the offing, leading to some not-so-quiet moans about urban warfare drills in July. They’d managed not to get called in to deal with the riots and unrest that hit during late May’s Carrington Event, but Horseguards had warned that they couldn’t be sure that they would be spared the next time. Plus there was always the possibility of having to fight aliens in the cities, “assuming they don’t just launch a kinetic strike and leave us fighting for rubble,” Commander Na Gael had cheerfully reminded everyone, earning herself nasty glares from the assembled staff officers.
The attack came just as General Khan, his xenologist, and a few of the others had gotten out of their vehicles and were walking across a parking plaza, alert but relaxed as they went to meet the Army’s welcoming committee. Rachel trailed a few paces behind the other officers—a family illness had sent Lt. Andrew Wales home on emergency leave, and the xenologist looked forward to not having to keep an eye on anyone but herself for a change. Rachel froze mid-step, eye going wide as she spun to the left so that she could see. Someone concentrated on them with a predator’s intent, attention focused on the uniformed officers.
“General, ‘ware!” She cried out before a bullet slammed her between the shoulders, knocking her to the ground as the others dove for cover. Her head struck a parking block, and Rahoul heard a sickening thud. Three more shots cracked, enough that Rahoul and the others could locate the source—the roof of a building behind them.
The soldiers scattered out and took cover behind vehicles and concrete planters, crouching as they moved, scanning the surrounding roof edges for additional attackers while trying to avoid becoming the next target themselves. Only Commander Na Gael remained in place, terribly still, dark stains spreading over the pale pavement beside her and over what Rahoul could see of her light gray jacket. His blood ran cold, and he feared the worst as he peered out from behind the vehicle where he’d taken cover. His guards kept him down—he was too valuable a target to rush into fire. Instead it was Sergeant Anthony Lee who risked hurrying to the woman’s side. Lee felt the increasingly dark patch on her coat, then rested his hand on her neck, searching for a pulse. Rahoul’s heart sank—it was exactly as he’d foreseen, and once more he hated his horribly useless talent.
Sirens wailed as the police and Army security arrived, followed by a St. John’s ambulance. “No!” Rahoul called to Sgt. Lee, and an Army medic now crouching beside Commander Na Gael’s body. “Do not take her to the local hospital. Lee, you know what to do. See to it.”
“Yes,” the l
ean NCO cleared his throat. “That is, yes, sir.” As Rahoul’s guard hurried the general into better cover, he caught a glimpse of Lee and two other GDF personnel taking up guard positions beside Rachel’s body while Captain Slobodan “Sheep” Cluj talked on a secure phone to someone at the British branch headquarters.
Rahoul swallowed, trying to get some moisture in his mouth, while calming his racing heart. His guards urged him to get indoors, but the general stopped behind a thick concrete pillar as Col. Warren Glazier rushed towards them, a senior police officer in tow.
“Brigadier Khan! My men and I take full responsibility for what happened. We swept the area fifteen minutes before your arrival, and the local police meant to have an overwatch on the other roof.” Glazier stopped at near attention, his anger and confusion very obvious.
Khan shunted aside his own feelings, instead nodding his head slightly as he acknowledged the colonel and the police officer. “Thank you. Do what is necessary, Col. Glazier. However, I think we ought to continue as planned, especially now that we have such a stellar example of the hazards of urban warfare staring at us.” That’s something Commander Na Gael would have said, a little voice whispered to the South Asian officer. “I’ve sent one of my NCOs back with . . . Excuse me,” and he turned as a furious-looking Capt. Cluj trotted up, followed closely by a security police officer. “Yes?” Cluj just pointed to the black-clad security specialist.
“Brigadier, I must take custody of the injured woman for ballistics confirmation,” the stranger began.
“National security requires that Commander Na Gael receive medical treatment only at a secure GDF facility.” Somehow Khan kept his temper and tone under control. “Security Protocol four five dash eight dash two. Validation code: hairball,” he recited.
Undeterred, the man pressed, “Sir, I must protest. She will receive standard care, and if that fails, then the body will be returned following the autopsy if that is your concern.” As he spoke, Sheep Cluj pulled the protocol up on his tablet computer, all but shoving the display into the man’s face. “What?” The other GDF members present gathered in a loose half-circle around and behind their commanding officer, presenting a united and angry front when the security man looked up.
