by Alma Boykin
He shook his head. “New orders. I’ll send those wedding pictures along with the other images.”
“Do it, please, and give them my congratulations.” She smiled, leaning out precariously and giving him a quick half-hug before Boer One hauled her back to safety. The military vehicles roared into the fire-lit night, away from the purely human chaos erupting as Bill Smith’s Islamist allies rampaged and opportunistic hangers-on looted and burned.
Boer One shook his head as Manx One slumped against her shoulder straps, fast asleep. He pulled her upright against his shoulder, keeping her left hand free to grab her pistol and his right hand clear as well. The troopers with them grinned and relaxed a little, still watchful. Rachel’s ability to sleep anywhere at any time had passed into regimental legend years before, and her companions took her dozing off as a good omen. Indeed, no one harassed or tried to stop them before they reached the safety of the Ministry of Defense compound.
That night London burned. Oh, not all of it, of course, but certain sections. Swaths of Manchester, and over half of Leuton, and every neighborhood where the Islamists rioted also went up in flames. But the Islamists’ allies never came. Instead, the Army, the special police forces, and, in some cities even the local residents, fought back, containing the riots as gently as possible. General Adams kept Rahoul busy enough that he couldn’t think about what was going on and why. Rachel stayed out of sight, trying to find out exactly who and what had been behind “Bill Smith.”
A few days later, once everyone had returned to the regimental headquarters, General Khan sat back in his seat in the staff briefing room. “Apparently Mr. Winston had a conversion experience of some sort, Commander.”
“Oh?” Her look of bland, polite interest fooled no one.
“Yes. As I believe the American vernacular goes, he is ‘singing like a canary.’ However, Bill Smith compartmentalized too well. We have the connection to Ibrahim Mahmoud al Din, and through him to several other equally unsavory groups, including the Islamic Front of Al Andalus.” Rachel stiffened, and Rahoul caught the flash of her claws extending before she hid her hands under the table. “The proper authorities are following those leads.” One of which led to a distant cousin on Rahoul’s mother’s side, someone that Rahoul had never even known existed. That had given him a sleepless night or two, before he learned that he connection was too tenuous to be worth the Home Office looking into.
The discussion turned to regiment-specific matters, and all agreed that the sooner the satellite system was repaired, the better. “And I still have not identified which species Bill Smith came from or who was running him,” Rada growled. “Whoever it was, I suspect they will either give up for the foreseeable future, or attack in force within a few Earth weeks.”
“Thank you for those encouraging words, Commander,” Col. Selassie said with serious understatement. “However, it is good to have you back from the dead.”
“Thank you, ma’am. It is good to be back, I think.” Being dead had some advantages, Rachel decided, so long as one was alive enough to enjoy them.
“You certainly handled this all rather calmly, Commander,” Major Sigurdsson observed at last, as the briefing concluded. “Most people don’t deal well with multiple death threats and warnings.”
Rachel shrugged. “After the second time, I did some research. It seemed possible to preempt the most serious threat in a way that would not alert the enemy, so I focused on that.”
There was much more to it, and Rahoul and Col. Selassie both gave her suspicious looks. Rachel ignored them. What they didn’t know, she wouldn’t have to explain.
The waxing moon shone down on the garden that night, casting near-shadows from the big tree and fountain. Rachel slowly walked farther out, into the grass beyond the end of the plantings that began the “wild garden” part of the grounds. She stopped a few hundred meters past the tree, listening to the autumnal night noises. Her ears swiveled, and she smiled as an owl ghosted out of the darkness, chasing field mice in the taller grass. I’ve not had a good mouse in weeks, she thought to herself, salivating a little at the thought of a plump, juicy rodent hot with life. Or a hare, but it’s late in the season. She turned her head a little as someone behind her tripped on the rough grass, and Rachel grinned a little even as she slid her hand onto the butt of her pistol and lifted the safety strap off.
Tony Lee only spotted her because she moved, amazed at how her dark camouflage coat blended into the shadows—he dearly wanted one of those for each of his scouts. He came to a halt several meters away from Rachel, waiting until he was sure that she recognized him before drawing closer. He stopped at her shoulder, looking into the quiet night with her. After a few minutes she observed, “It’s a lovely night.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young moon’s light washed out some of the stars, and Lee wondered what else was out there. He automatically catalogued the twinkling dots, reciting their names and the names of the nebulae and galaxies he’d found with his telescope. “Ma’am, are the stars as beautiful when you’re out there?”
“Sometimes they are. But it can be a terrifying beauty, what that art theorist call ‘sublime beauty’.” She sighed a little. “And it is very lonely in what you would call deep space. That’s why I confine myself to this galaxy. I’ve been in the emptiness between, and I admire those who can travel it and stay sane. But yes, to watch a star igniting and starting to light the gas and dust around it into all sorts of colors, or seeing tendrils of fire dance through the nebula . . .” Rachel’s voice trailed off into a memory, and she turned to face him. “I’m sorry, Tony, that your language doesn’t have the words to describe what it looks and feels like. The telescope images that you enjoy are pale ghosts compared to of the real stars and nebulae.” And sometimes it looks like everything you ever feared, and you suddenly know in your heart what Hell must be, she continued silently.
Lee considered her words as he stared up at the clear sky. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome, although I’m the one who owes you thanks for helping and believing me.” She smiled up at him, warming him all the way to his toes. Before he could respond, they heard someone clearing their throat behind them, and the pair turned around. Without thinking Lee stepped in front of Rachel, protecting her from whoever or whatever approached.
Rahoul nodded his approval of the sergeant’s reaction. “Just the two I needed to speak with,” he said, walking up to them. “Rachel, where can we get the material your coat is made of?”
She folded her arms as Sgt. Lee eased off to the side. “You humans will develop something similar in a few more decades or so, if memory serves, sir. I don’t recommend it for everyday wear, though. It has to be dry cleaned on delicate and it shows pet hair terribly.”
“If you’re winding me up,” Rahoul started, and Rachel shook her head.
“It really does show pet hair, sir, and reptile scales. The textured surface also catches leaves, twigs, and such, although that can be more of a feature than a bug, as you would phrase it.” Rachel pulled the hood up and stepped backward, vanishing.
Lee glanced around as Rahoul sighed loudly. “At least the Cheshire Cat left a grin behind, sir,” the NCO commented.
“I shudder to imagine what Commander Na Gael would leave behind. Would you be comfortable being permanently assigned as her assistant and bodyguard?”
Before Tony could get past his surprise to answer one way or another, a disembodied voice said, “No. Tony’s too valuable to waste his talents chasing after me, sir.”
“I did not ask you, Commander Na Gael Ni Drako, and you are not in a position to be interfering with a personnel matter.” Rahoul snapped, slapping her down. “You are dismissed to your quarters.”
A shadow among the shadows rustled away from the officer, and a faint voice hissed, “Yes, sir.”
The general turned back to the sergeant. “Well?”
“Thank you, sir, but no. She knows how to evade me, and I can’t go where she has to
,” Lee said. And it would be much, much harder to hide his feelings for her if he were always with her.
“You have the necessary clearances to go anywhere,” Rahoul pushed.
The sergeant shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I’m working class, sir. And I’m not church.” He worked hard to keep his accent out of his voice, but proper speech would never come naturally to him like it did to the officers. That alone marked him, and would cause problems if he had to work with upper class civilians.
Lee had a good point, unfortunately, and Rahoul massaged his temple against the threatening headache. It would have been so simple if Lee had agreed, but Rahoul wouldn’t force one of his best NCOs to do it. “Very well. Let Major Sigurdsson know if you change your mind. Good night, Lee, and very well done last week.”
“Thank you sir. Good night, sir.”
Three days later, the British government finished high level talks with the French, Spanish, and others, concerning an internal security matter. As soon as the talks concluded, security officers supported by the Army arrested Muhammed al Din. That Friday the riots began again, this time in deadly earnest, as the young radicals began killing “traitors” as well as burning and looting in London, Leuten, Manchester, and eight smaller cities. The police and counter-terror specialists contained the outbreak until after dark. Then the Army moved in.
Several of the Defense Force’s NCOs clustered in the recreation room, which doubled as a lounge, their attention glued to a special, back-channel feed into the television. Two or three of the soldiers winced as orange-and-yellow flames surged out of the windows of a multi-story building. The splash of light revealed a crowd filling the street below. Colored spinning lights appeared, and several vehicles screeched to a halt beyond the milling swarm. The crowd flowed toward the emergency vehicles as another gout of fire erupted.
“Oh fuck,” one of the watchers murmured, looking past the police and firemen into the shadows beyond. He knew those boxy shapes very well, and waited for the inevitable. The crowd pushed forward, intent on destroying the police vans and stopping the fire brigade. They seemed oblivious to the vehicles looming behind the red and blue lights.
Shrill yelps and cheers turned into screams, audible even over the roar of the fire and the steady voices on the police loud-hailers. The mass of people swirled, then turned and broke into clumps that tried to scatter, only to double back from the side streets before flowing down a safe-seeming dark street and out of camera range. “No tracers this time. Good thought that,” a voice observed.
The NCOs turned and stared at the speaker, their expressions ranging from stunned horror to agreement to blank confusion. Rachel explained, “The rioters won’t know where the shots came from, unless they were bright enough to notice the APCs behind the patrol vehicles, which I very much doubt. And there’s probably something equally as friendly waiting in the next square.” She sipped her glass of milk and picked a cashew from the bowl of nuts by the table lamp. “At least, that’s what I’d do if I were trying to clear the area with minimal additional damage to infrastructure and wasn’t concerned about dissuasion versus lethal force.”
Sergeant Lee felt sick at his stomach. He pushed out of his chair and left the room. He knew the burning neighborhood, had grown up not far from there, and couldn’t bear watching any more of the CCTV footage. The tall man fled outside, seeking refuge in the gardens. He wanted the evil men punished, but the destruction, the innocent people caught in the mobs and the crossfire, they tore at his heart. How could the monster in the Home Office, that imam in Leuten, how could they have betrayed mankind so easily?
Uneven footsteps crunched behind him, but Lee did not turn around. Rachel stopped just out of sight behind him, and after several minutes sighed. “How much longer, ma’am?” Lee finally asked, voice cracking.
She sighed again. “I’m sorry, Tony. Not much longer, but I can’t say more than that.”
He turned to look at her, a pale ghost in the shadows of the big tree. “Why?”
The alien limped past the bench, the grass muffling her steps. Lee watched her head tip up as she looked at the moon and stars. “Because some greedy people would not believe what was before their eyes. Because a sick individual valued power more than he loved his own people.” She turned toward him. “Not the answer you want, is it?”
“No.” His voice broke. Rachel sat beside him. Lee leaned forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands, and she put her hand on his shoulder, offering what little comfort she could give.
Much later, Tony gave up trying to sleep and stared at the white ceiling. He loved Commander Na Gael. He didn’t want to marry her—didn’t want to marry anyone—but he loved her. Her praise meant more than any GDF or Army award, and he’d never felt as confident or had as much sense of accomplishment as when they worked together to stop the assassination and then to track down the pattern of treason. It wasn’t eros love, or philios, not like loving a sister or brother, or even a brother-in-arms. The word he wanted danced just out of his mind’s reach, like a moth on the ceiling, or the lady in a King Arthur story.
That was it! He wanted to be her knight, to love her like a knight loved his chosen lady, to fight in her honor and to win glory for her, to honor her and to be honored in turn, but not to claim her hand. That’s what he wanted. Then that’s what he’d be, Tony decided. I will serve her, knight to lady, God willing. A feeling of rightness filled his heart, and he finally slept.
Elsewhere, Rachel lay in her bed-nest, trying not to flinch or cry, as Joschka finished scolding her. “Love, beloved, please, do not do that. Don’t throw yourself into harms’ way, please,” he ended with a whisper that threatened to break her heart.
“I—I’m sorry, Awful Clawful. By oath and honor, there was no other way.” He didn’t know the details, couldn’t know them, but he’d guessed. “I had guards, I did not take the lead, I stayed down and was as safe as I could be, my love.”
“I believe you.” A sigh. “I believe you, but trouble is trouble.”
She didn’t want to tell him, but he needed to know for his own safety. “It is, and love? It was Tarqi da Peerlan again. That makes twice I’ve caught them assisting the breaking of the Law, with a third possible instance. I do not like this.”
“What about da Kavalle?”
Rada bared her fangs at the darkness. “They’re hiding. Not just from me. It has something to do with a spat with da Malnavi and da Chi’ehla.” Rather like what had killed her father, Rada snarled. “Awful, I don’t like da Peerlan’s tinkering. Warn your House, please.”
“I will.” Another sigh. “You sound tired. Are you going on leave soon?”
She had to, or she’d not be able to for six months. “Not instantly, no, but in mid-September. I’ve been informed that reservations have been made at one of Zabet’s favorite spas.”
“Has she ever met a hot spring and massage that she didn’t like?”
Rachel thought back a few centuries to a memorable moment. “You’d be surprised, but yes, and it wasn’t because the staff failed to wait on her talon and tail-tip, either. She didn’t go into details, but she won’t even do business in that star system.”
“My. That sounds like a good place to avoid then.”
“A bit like that café on Gamma Four.” She smiled in the darkness at the noises from Austria.
“Blessed St. Leopold, did you have to remind me? After three centuries, my stomach still rebels at the memory.” They talked about past adventures and future plans before he heard her yawn. “Even you need sleep and rest, Hairball. Good night, and God be with you.”
“I love you, and God bless.”
“I love you too.”
Rachel turned the phone-like device to silent, rolled over, and let dreams take her. She wasn’t on duty the next day, and could sleep until she woke.
He needed sleep as well, but Joschka tidied his desk and looked at the calendar. He wanted to marry soon. He needed Rachel with him—dear Lord but he nee
ded her. The House wanted her in the valley as well. He closed his eyes, relaxed, and sent a query. He’d not sensed the House asking for such a thing before. After several minutes he felt growing concern centered on Rada, and saw the heart of the Drachenburg, the safest place in all the Drachenburg lands. Sanctuary? A strong affirmative—the House wanted her safe as much as he did. Joschka opened his eyes, waited for the House to withdraw from his conscious mind, and then stood.
Tomorrow, he decided as he walked through the fortified old house—no, on Monday he would contact his lawyer and see about beginning the steps for contracting a morganatic marriage. If Rada held no claim to his property, then Leopold would have no legal grounds for objecting to the match. They’d still need a dispensation because of her being Protestant, but the sooner he cleared the legal difficulties, the sooner they could marry. The decision felt right, although he sensed a hint of disappointment from the House. He shared it. If only Johann had not been killed in that accident. Johann would have raised Leopold properly, so that he’d understand matters of the heart. And Joschka could have retired long ago. But that’s not what happened. Joschka mused yet again about what Johann would have looked like, about how well he would have managed the Drachenburg lands. Far better than his father, that much was certain. If only Leopold understood, Leopold’s grandfather sighed yet again.
Above them all, the stars passed in silent rotation. A Trader timeship faded into existence in low Earth orbit over England, took an observation, then disappeared once more.
Alma T. C. Boykin was born in the Midwest, moved to the Great Plains, and after a brief period living in places where trees almost outnumber people, returned to the plains. She escaped college with a BA, worked for a living, then returned for an advanced degree some years later. When not writing or rotating the cat, she teaches and does a few other odds and ends. Hobbies include cooking, reading, hiking, geology, astronomy, and music.
Visit Alma’s blog at AlmaTCBoykin.Wordpress.com
