by Alma Boykin
“You’re riding with me,” McKendrick informed Rachel a little more than three hours later, stopping her as she and Sergeant St. John were preparing to grab seats in one of the troop transports. She started to protest, but his stern expression warned her that this wasn’t the time to discuss security concerns.
“Very well, sir.” She slid into the rear seat of the command car and Sergeant St. John “rode shotgun,” as Colonel Przilas described it. The trip from the GDF’s British headquarters in Northamptonshire to Caernarfon would take just over three hours, weather permitting once they got into Wales. Another winter storm was forecast to arrive later that day and Logres registered the changing pressure and growing waves that pounded the western coast in the ancient battle of land and sea. Rachel forced herself to shunt the awareness off to one side—to focus on her body in the car and not on the presence under Britain. She didn’t need Logres taking her over completely, although scaring the whey out of McKendrick might be entertaining. So, who brought ruchava here and why?
McKendrick finished the papers he was reading and glanced over to see his xenology specialist staring out the window, apparently lost in thought. He’d finally gotten past his reaction to her injuries, and the time had come to sort out some matters between them. The redhead took the initiative. “Commander Na Gael,” and she turned so she could look at him. She had a green contact lens in, making it little easier for him. “What exactly are you?”
A grin appeared and her eye narrowed. “Besides the most infamous wiseass in the GDF?” She sobered before he could chastise her. “The name of my species translates as ‘Wanderer,’ sir. My father’s people have no fixed home. Instead, they have roamed space—and, to an extent, time—ever since their original planet was destroyed.”
Three months earlier, McKendrick would have had difficulty believing her. Now, he didn’t even blink at the information. He frowned slightly. “Why are you with the GDF, Commander?”
“You mean why am I serving here, sir?” The woman looked away for a moment, pain crossing her features. Then she turned back to him. “Because I needed a place to hide and someone suggested that I apply when the xenology specialist position came open back under Brigadier Eastman. I stay on because I don’t care to see people bullied by those with better technology and because no one’s asked me to leave yet.” She gave what might have been a ghost of a smile. “The agreement and understanding I’ve had with the earlier commanding officers has been that as long as I’m useful and we can trust each other, I’ll stay. Otherwise, sir, let me know and I’ll give you my month’s notice and resign.”
Now it was McKendrick’s turn to look away, glancing out at the cold landscape. He noticed some high, thin clouds to the west, and wondered if they meant another storm was coming in. It had been a wet winter and grayer than usual, even for Britain. He pulled his drifting thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Very well. I will be frank—I’m regular Army, used to regular human opponents. All this science fiction mumbo jumbo irritates me. That said, it’s not fiction and I need your expertise. Everyone I’ve spoken to gives you high marks, and I’ve seen how the men and women here trust you implicitly. On those grounds, I’ll trust you too.”
The scarred woman bowed her head in acceptance. “Thank you, sir. I can’t promise that my actions will always make sense at first sight, but I give you my word that I’ll never betray your trust.”
That was the foundation of it all, McKendrick thought, wasn’t it? Trust in your fellow soldiers to do what was needed and to cover your back. Without that, things started falling apart, even without the pressure of combat. “One last thing—why do you weapons qualify? I understand that you’re a civilian, retired from active duty.”
“I am a civilian, sir, in part because I can’t swear allegiance to the British Crown or to any other Earth government.” The woman shrugged. “I qualify because I don’t care to lose my skills. Although I’m a civilian, I am not a non-combatant.” McKendrick’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “I believe the term used in polite circles these days is ‘independent security contractor.’” She grinned—a touch evilly in his opinion.
McKendrick’s reply was preempted by Sergeant Tedder’s announcement over the intercom: “Welcome to Wales. Please set your clocks back seventy-five years.” Both St. John and Na Gael growled under their breaths and McKendrick shook his head.
The small convoy stopped for a “leg stretch” just inside Offa’s Dike after crossing the border. Rachel sniffed the wind, then closed her eye and whispered something. McKendrick looked askance as she turned, eye still shut, a strangely cold expression on her features. Then she shook a bit and looked around. Both Rachel and her temporary assistant pivoted when a raven called from one of the nearby trees, a sound that made McKendrick feel a little better.
Rachel noticed her commanding officer’s reaction and raised an eyebrow. Interesting she observed to herself. He wasn’t an “Old Believer,” as St. John called her, nor was he a closet neo-Teuto-Pagan, as best she could tell. So why favor a raven? Something within her moved again, and the Wanderer made note of the time for future reference.
Caernarfon, Rachel decided an hour later, was less unattractive than the coal pit towns of the south. Alas for her sense of aesthetics, there were just too many blocks of council flats for her taste, all arranged in neat rows without the character she’d grown to appreciate in other human towns. And then there was the weather—grey and damp, with patches of old snow here and there. She turned up her coat collar against the sea wind blowing up the river valley and looked at the small city. Overhead, a bird called, and Rachel wished again that Colonel Rahoul Khan was still with the Regiment. His talent was looking through animals’ eyes, and he could have identified and located the false corbies very easily. She did approve of the castle, however. Sergeant St. John sniffed and made a mildly rude comment about Normans and their leavings that Rachel pretended not to hear, although she smiled a little.
“I think our place of interest is there,” she pointed towards the river’s edge. McKendrick looked through his field glasses and saw a squat building with a rather tasteless white and green tower next to it that did nothing to enhance the appearance of the older neighborhood. There were trees around the building, but nothing of especial note. “Try this—higher magnification,” his advisor offered, and he accepted her monocular. After a bit of fiddling, the scene became crystal clear and he noted birds in the trees. Lots of birds, all of them dark.
“It certainly does seem to be one possibility,” the Scottish officer allowed. “No time like the present.” He turned back toward the car, then stopped. A black bird flapped overhead and Rachel’s eye narrowed. Then she frowned, drawing the hood of her coat over her head as the bird stooped like a hawk, diving towards the soldiers. “That’s not a corbie,” McKendrick exclaimed, ducking for cover. The bird redirected, aiming toward the four who’d ridden in the command car. A quick-thinking—and tall—NCO whipped off his anorak and slapped the bird as soon as it came within his reach, knocking it off target and forcing it to the ground. It landed a few yards from Commander Na Gael and McKendrick stared as she pounced on the bird and broke its neck with a sharp crack.
The thing kept moving! The humans watched it trying to get away from the woman’s tight grip, and Sergeant Lee produced a large handkerchief which Rachel used to bind the thing’s wings. “You are quite right, sir. It’s not a corvid at all.” The bird-like creature’s head hung at an unnatural angle as it struggled to get free. The xenologist flipped it upside down, murmuring, “Well, this is an interesting variation,” and holding one red leg out straight.
A drop of fluid squeezed from one of the three toes, and Lee opined, “Aye, ma’am, ‘at’s right nasty lookin’,” as he pulled his anorak back on.
“I wager it would be quite nasty indeed if it got into an open wound, Sergeant,” Rachel agreed. She turned to McKendrick. “Suggestions for disposal, sir? I don’t think there’s enough to be worth cleaning and
roasting.” One of the watching soldiers made a gagging sound and McKendrick agreed with the sentiment.
“Kill it,” he said. “If you can,” he added after a pause. His advisor nodded and stepped away from the watchers, tucking the bird under her arm for the moment. She drew an odd looking pistol from under her coat, adjusted something, and held the creature very carefully, so the head was clear of her hand. McKendrick heard a pop and the thing’s head vaporized, leaving a stench of burned feathers that quickly dispersed in the wind.
The officer considered the dead creature as Na Gael returned Lee his handkerchief. Same claw on the tip of the wing, same oddly-glistening black plumage, but—“Commander, the ruchava you had in the laboratory had different feet, did it not?”
“Yes, sir. It had four toes and nothing dripping from them. I think this is a variant on the basic form, but I’ll have to run some image and descriptive confirmations to be absolutely certain,” the one-eyed woman said, then brought the thing up to her nose and sniffed. “St. John, what do you think?”
The noncom also smelled the thing, albeit a little reluctantly. “Smells like curry, ma’am.”
“Aliens opening a take-away?” the xenologist’s mouth quirked up at one corner and a few of the longer-term men and women shook their heads.
McKendrick decided that some things were best dealt with by daylight, and that was fading very rapidly. “New orders: We’re going to quarters tonight, and we’ll investigate first thing in the morning.” A rustle of movement as everyone scattered back to the four vehicles. The small convoy re-formed and headed to a discreet location about five kilometers outside the city. Commander Na Gael rummaged around in her satchel and found a large glassine bag, into which she dumped the headless bird, then stowed it in her sack.
The next morning McKendrick frowned at the five centimeters of fresh snow that covered everything in sight. Commander Na Gael seemed unperturbed by the foul weather, not even pulling her hood up to keep the icy flakes off her head. She noticed him watching her a little dubiously and gave him a small smile. “My winter pelt is rather thick, sir.”
She said pelt, not coat. Pelt. Ach, Lord, what have you sent me into? No answer was forthcoming, so he pulled his heavy gloves tighter and got into the car. “Did you determine if that thing yesterday was a ruchava?”
“Yes and no. It’s a variant that’s not in my databases, although it has the same basic structure as the others that have been turned in, but someone has tinkered with the paths of the main blood vessels and nerves.”
McKendrick ran through what he remembered from his long-ago biology classes. “So that’s why it didn’t die after you broke its neck.” His advisor nodded. The redhead returned to his briefing page, then remembered. “Oh, and it’s a good thing Captain ben David is along. He speaks Arabic, and that building where the birds were is a mosque.” The woman went very still at the news for some reason. The officer returned to his notes, noting that the Caernarfon police had been warned by the local Council to leave the Moslem neighborhoods strictly alone, “in deference to their cultural sensitivities.”
They drove in silence to the mosque. The first two vehicles stopped a block away, and McKendrick looked up to see the trees absolutely full of black birds. “Commander, this doesn’t look very reassuring.” The other part of the advance group would be fanning out to keep an eye on the neighborhood and to determine how big the mob of birds was.
“Oh, I don’t know, sir, it reassures me that we’ve found part of the answer to our questions,” she replied, scanning the trees and their occupants. She opened the door and got out. Since the birds didn’t react, McKendrick followed his advisor.
Halfway between the parked GDF people vehicles and the mosque’s entrance gate, a blast of curry scent filled the air. It came from a small building, which bore a sign proclaiming in Arabic, Welsh, and English that it was the “Al-Arabia Charity Office and Community Kitchen.” Rachel wrinkled her nose and hurried out of the path of the building’s exhaust fans. Sergeant Lee grinned down at the civilian, “Don’t care for curry, ma’am?”
The woman pulled her hood up and across the scarred half of her face in reply. Lee frowned, then hesitated, stepping off to the edge of the sidewalk and away from the elaborate wrought iron fence as two of the not-birds landed there. A swirl of ruchava flowed overhead, moving out of the trees to settle on corners, downspouts, and other perches on the Al Nour Mosque. The Scottish officer didn’t care for the situation in the least, but took a deep breath, opened the gate, and walked up the gravel path to the mosque’s front entrance. Commander Na Gael and Captain ben David followed a few paces behind him. She stopped and had a quiet word with St. John, who looked none too happy but nodded, handed the xenologist something, and dropped back, remaining behind with Lieutenant Eastman and some others.
McKendrick, Na Gael, and ben David removed their shoes in the anteroom and walked into the main building in their socks. Na Gael looked this way and that, twisting around but not lowering her coat’s hood. McKendrick wondered why for a moment before catching sight of a rapidly departing figure in a full burqua. Ah, so she won’t get tossed out on her ear. The officer nodded to himself, then turned to see a man of indeterminate age hurrying up to meet them. He sported the full beard and long robes of a traditional imam and said something in Arabic that sounded like a demand.
Captain ben David sighed to himself and interpreted. “Mr. ben Adhem is the imam and he wants to know what we are doing here.” The imam gesticulated toward the door, and McKendrick guessed his meaning even before the adjutant said, “Unless we want to worship—and this is the wrong time for it—we should leave. And he wants to know if, ah, the female, is clean.”
McKendrick glanced past the imam and frowned as he saw a pair of young men walking toward them. They carried wooden staves, and their belligerent expressions started the Scotsman’s hackles rising. “Tell Mr. Adhem that we’ve come to investigate people being attacked by sick birds and that we are concerned about his parishioners being injured as they come to pray here.”
“And I’m a neuter, so he doesn’t have to worry about me,” Rachel added quietly, causing the two soldiers to blink and stare briefly. The imam did as well, and Rachel’s eye narrowed. So you understand English. She turned her attention away from the three men and studied the severe, plain building’s interior. Ornately stylized calligraphy and geometric patterns in blue, green, and white decorated the tops of the walls, so this was not a Wahabi mosque despite what the sign outside said. Or was it? She drew a little away from the men and noticed what looked like a series of words written in the shape of birds. The second presence in her head stirred, then surged, and Rachel spun around in time to see a large black bird appear from the shadows around the edge of foyer’s domed ceiling.
The raven circled and cawed, distracting everyone as it barreled overhead, interrupting the imam’s increasingly voluble gesticulations and protests. Something prompted Rachel to follow the corbie despite the unhappy Arabic cries coming from behind her. The bird and the presence within her led the small woman down a hall to a door that sported the Hand of Fatima on it in blue paint—something that most certainly did not fit in a Wahabi mosque. She heard footsteps behind her and hesitated for a split second, then tried the knob. It was locked, but not for long after she picked the simple mechanism. The raven returned to where the humans were arguing over something and Rachel opened the door and sniffed, then poked her head in very carefully. She recoiled as the stench of decay, underlain by the scent of explosives, rolled out towards her and she backed away from the creature that emerged. I hate it when I’m right! The young tough that had come up behind her screeched and fled, Rachel close on his heels.
McKendrick saw the imam’s eyes go wide as the man blanched. The Scotsman looked over his shoulder to see his advisor retreating, followed by something that looked and smelled like an oversized, animated, long-dead corpse with glowing eyes. Captain ben David paled and the imam smiled, withdrawing and cha
nting as the monster bore down on the three soldiers. “What in the hell is that?” McKendrick demanded, drawing his service pistol and backing towards the door.
“An ifreet,” ben David hissed, eyes wide. “Or at least that’s what it smells like. But how did it get over here?”
“And what’s it doing in a mosque, in a storage room full of weapons and explosives?” Na Gael added conversationally, coming to a stop beside the men. “You might also ask why the reverend imam is preparing for Guy Fawkes eleven months early.” As she spoke, Na Gael had flipped her hood back and pulled something out of her pocket. The two soldiers reached for her to draw her behind them, but she shook her head. The monster had advanced to within a few yards of the trio and it moaned, sending a wave of charnel stench toward them. Moshe started reciting something under his breath while taking aim at the thing’s chest. “Aiming for the head will work better, I think,” Na Gael suggested.
The captain did, and a hole appeared in the thing’s bare skull, but it only slowed the ifreet’s advance. “Blessed Lord, Commander, how do we stop it?” McKendrick demanded.
“We find the original summoner and have him return it to hell. Or if it’s Moslem, reciting scripture can get rid of it,” she told him. “Or we call up immigration.”
“This is no time for a joke!” he snapped, taking his own shot at the corpse as Moshe radioed for help. Behind them a door slammed, probably the imam taking cover, the officer thought.
“I’m not joking,” Rachel informed her superior, as she closed her eye and raised the small object she’d taken from her pocket to eye level. She reared back and threw it at the ifreet as hard as she could. It hit, and it stuck to the place where ben David’s shot had broken the skull open. The evil thing lurched and staggered, taking another swipe at the warriors and keening like a banshee. Rachel yelled something that sounded both poetic and insulting, and as the two men stared the ifreet staggered, then turned. The woman darted for the door, the creature in shambling pursuit. “Need to get it off concrete and onto soil!” she called over her shoulder, as the raven that had been circling the room screamed out.
