by Alma Boykin
Four days later, at the regular Tuesday staff briefing, a grey-clad Rachel explained as best she could what had happened. “Creatures like the Quiforlo or the Larganga that live on some form of energy have difficulty ‘metabolizing,’ if you will, substantial excesses of it. Rather like humans and alcohol—you can drink a certain amount, but get enough and your liver gives up and you die of alcohol poisoning. So Logres overfed them and overloaded the circuitry in their equipment. The old earth circle contained most of the power, as did the slate works.”
Przilas asked the logical question. “This ‘Logres’. Is it an ally?”
She hesitated, frowning. “Sometimes, sir. It’s more of an armed neutral. It will defend its own interests, as it did this time, but only acts then. You can’t call it in for backup if that’s what you were hoping.”
McKendrick turned to Captain de Alba, the communications officer and the senior staff member who had remained at headquarters. “What did you find out about a possible Middle East connection, de Alba?”
She scrolled through her notes. “Something registered on the seismic net about two years ago on the Afghan-Iranian border, just before the Iranians lost that ‘non-existent’ nuclear reactor. The back-channel net to the Saudis didn’t turn up anything, and the Pakistanis say they have no record of any unusual activities, but they admit they haven’t been into the tribal areas for a while.”
The Scotsman glanced a question at ben David, who took a deep breath. “This goes absolutely no farther,” and everyone nodded as the hyperactive adjutant met the officers’ and advisor’s eyes. “We were as surprised as the Iranians when their reactor vanished.”
“It could be true—true and unrelated—or it could be part of our little headache,” Rachel shrugged.
McKendrick had a few more esoteric questions he wanted answered, but decided that this wasn’t the time. The discussion shifted to more routine topics, and the briefing wrapped up an hour later.
That afternoon, McKendrick returned Na Gael’s shield generator to her. “How does it work?” he inquired, turning the small box around in his beefy hand.
“It has a small but very powerful battery inside. You can’t use it constantly but for short-term emergencies, these are great. A lot of private security companies and governmental protection details use them as back up, say when the Prime Minister is walking from his transport to the door of Parliament, that sort of thing.” She took the item back and stowed it in a desk drawer.
McKendrick took the chair next to her desk. After a moment he got up, went over and opened a window, then sat down again. Not sixty seconds later a black missile zoomed in, circled the room, and back-winged to a landing on the desk, looking very proud of himself.
“My turn sir,” Na Gael pointed to Knox. “Who is this, really?”
The man shifted uncomfortably. “Knox is Knox. He landed in my life about thirty years ago and has been following me around ever since.” Since corvids don’t live that long, even in pampered captivity, Rachel’s eyebrow rose as she studied the bird.
“He occasionally gives me useful information,” McKendrick growled. “That is, when he’s not being a nuisance, getting into mischief, and stealing eggs.”
Rachel smiled. “I have a business partner like that. Wonderful person, until she pokes her muzzle into the nearest hornets’ nest. Tea, sir?” At his nod she got up and poured two mugs.
Finally, McKendrick launched the question that had bothered him since the battle of the ruins. “How can you serve Logres and God?”
“Because God created Logres when He formed this planet. The life and death energy of the planet sustains more than just what we see, sir. Sort of like microscopic creatures in pond water that live off sunlight just as pine trees do, or the mites on a bird’s feathers.” She gave Knox a knowing look. The raven shook and gave the mammal a disdainful glance in return, suggesting that he never had bird mites. “In order to defend the people of this world, sometimes it’s necessary to defend other things as well, including cold, amoral, and ancient places and powers. Please don’t ask me how I ended up as Guardian, because I don’t really remember,” Rachel concluded.
“What do you gain from it?” McKendrick couldn’t think of anything good.
She pursed her lips. “Knowledge of what’s normal or abnormal, which can be a bit of advanced warning, as it was this time. And access to energy, sir.” Rachel rubbed under her blind eye, a gesture her superior had begun to recognize meant that the eye was bothering her. “Normally, to Heal people, I have to use my own energy, exhausting myself very quickly. As Guardian I can draw on some of what Logres uses, but only during the winter. As we’ve discussed before, sir, the Second Sight and other of what I call Gifts are just ways to manipulate energy. It’s a talent and a skill, just as, oh, singing or doing woodwork are.”
Knox nodded in agreement, drawing an uncomfortable sideways look from the human upon whose chair arm the raven now perched. James McKendrick thought hard. The idea of having a civilian woman on the front lines still made him uncomfortable, and the events of the previous week went almost completely against what he’d learned growing up in the Kirk. But Rachel was a valuable asset and McKendrick could imagine a few too many unpleasant “what ifs” that could have come to pass if they’d not defeated the aliens and arrested their human “sponsors.”
Another uncomfortable though floated up. “What if Logres’ desires conflict with the needs of the unit?”
Rachel closed her eye for a long moment. “It’s not come up yet. But if it does,” and her eye opened again. A bleak note crept into her voice as she said, “the Regiment comes first. If I can’t break loose, take me out of the equation, however you need to.”
Silence filled the lab. Then Rachel glanced down. “You stop that! Put that down you feathered kleptomaniac,” she exclaimed, grabbing for something shiny that the raven had pulled out of a desk drawer. The bird cawed derisively and launched himself up to pose atop one of the chemical cabinets. McKendrick could have sworn that the bird gloated as Rachel hopped up and down, trying to grab the stolen trinket being held twenty centimeters out of her reach. “If you hide that sensor, there’s going to be roast raven for supper,” she threatened as the human smothered laughter. The bird made a rude noise, then spat the item down on the Wanderer’s head. She caught it, snarled, and returned to the desk, where she proceeded to lock the drawers, muttering as she did about avians and the cost of platinum. “Your associate almost cost the lab approximately five thousand pounds, sir. That sensor array adapter is made of a platinum-iridium alloy.”
That terminated McKendrick’s laughter. He glared at the bird and barked something in Scots Gaelic, followed by a burst of strongly accented English to the effect that Knox’s ancestors were dust mops and hat trimmings and the raven might soon join them if he cost McKendrick that sort of money. Now it was Rachel’s turn to smother laughter as bird and human glared at each other across the room.
Early September, 2011. “I don’t think Gertrude is going to make it, ma’am,” Sergeant Tony Lee observed a little mournfully several months later.
Rachel reached into the leggy rosebush in question, and after a minimum of tugging broke off a dead cane. “I fear your observation is correct, Sergeant.” She backed out and, with a bit of help, stood up. “Well, she’s been relocated twice in her thirty years, and it’s going to be another hard winter, so I suppose there’s no point in trying to save her. Gertrude Jekyll is not a rose that takes cosseting well.” The two warriors looked at each other, the dying plant, and the spade and turning fork leaning against the waist-high hedge. They sighed.
Fifteen minutes later, the deed was done and the dead shrub had been hauled off to dry before being put into the power generation incinerator’s burn pile. Rachel shoveled compost, some bone meal, and fresh potting soil into the hole, then added three chrysanthemums to provide some color until the ground had lain fallow over winter and the following summer. When Lee returned from hauling the rose off,
he shook his head a little to see the xenologist sniffing at a handful of loam from under another rose. He’d been with the British branch for almost eight years and was no closer to understanding her than when he’d first joined the regiment.
“Ah, um, that is, ma’am, do you have time for a question?”
The scarred brunette nodded. “Yes, if you don’t mind helping me move some things in the glasshouse.” His tone had suggested that this wouldn’t be a herbological inquiry, and the glasshouse was quiet and private while remaining public enough to minimize potential gossip.
The pair re-arranged some herbs and hybrid rose starts. After a bit of shuffling, the scout asked, “Ma’am, does everyone in the GDF have an odd talent?”
“No.” Rachel leaned against a sturdy potting bench, resting her bad leg. “Most people don’t. It just seems like they do because they tend to talk about them so much. But mind talking, or reading emotions from an object, or having a Gift for encouraging plants, are all about as common as being a musical prodigy. Why?”
The noncom seemed relieved and said noncommittally, “Oh, I was just wondering ma’am, is all.”
Rachel gave him a real smile, not her usual grin. “Your talents are much more useful than ninety-nine percent of the odd Gifts. I envy your knack with computers. I can’t stand them and they know it!”
Lee shrugged a little too casually at the praise. “It just seems as if everyone is always going on about telepathy or other things, and . . .” He didn’t feel quite comfortable asking his other question. A knowing expression crossed the xenologist’s face.
“That’s because they can, without fear of being hauled off to the booby hatch.” She grinned at his chuckle. “Despite what you may fish out of the rumor stream, having a mind talent does not fast-track you for promotion or advancement.” She turned away, rummaging beneath the top of the bench. “Hard work, study, the right temperament, and skill are much more important, and knowing how to get along in the system also helps.” Rachel fished a sack of bulbs out of the chaos and shoved it toward him. “Carry these for me, please.” She picked up two trowels and led the way to the flowerbed bordering the motor pool. She seemed to be in a better mood than in previous weeks and months, and Lee took it as a good sign.
As the pair emerged from behind a hedge, a bird cawed loudly. The soldier and advisor heard swearing coming from an open doorway and froze in place as a large raven shot out into the afternoon sky, Lieutenant Johanssen in hot pursuit. “Come back with that spark plug you feathered felon!” Knox stuck up his middle feather, then found a perch a meter above the furious officer. A few seconds later, the bird dropped the stolen trinket and soared off in search of a new target.
Lee and Na Gael carefully pretended not to see anything, although he heard her mutter, “Other people’s familiars.” Despite the repeated threats of raven potpie, no one touched General McKendrick’s alter ego.
Rachel sensed Lee mulling over what she’d said as he helped her stick the bulbs into the rich, warm soil. She wrinkled her nose. “Eeww, a worm,” and she gingerly picked up the creature and moved it out of the way. Lee smothered a laugh at her strange behavior and relaxed some more—which was exactly why she’d done it.
Even though the woman was eccentric, mystifying, and intimidating, the English sergeant felt comfortable around her for some reason. Maybe because she’d come up through the ranks. It wasn’t common knowledge, but RSM Richard Chan had commented once that the commander was what the Americans called a “mustang.” Her odd position of being both inside and outside the chain of command also helped. And she made it no secret that she’d seen plenty of time as active-duty military, so she understood what it was like.
“Have you kept in touch with RSM Chan?” she inquired, as if reading his mind.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And Sergeant Weber, too.”
She sat back, smiling and relaxed. “Good! Now that he’s retired and Wolf has gone back to Germany, you might find it interesting to know that Richard only discovered his knack for mind-talk about ten years ago. And Wolf has no esoteric Gifts, unless you consider the ability to teach anything with arms and an eye how to shoot a Gift.”
Lee covered his surprise by digging a hole for the last spring bulb. “Ah, that is interesting, ma’am.” He’d always assumed that both men had some special talent. He was starting to feel better about things and more confident about his future. After a few minutes of silence as they rearranged the mulch, the commander coughed, catching his wandering attention. She held up a hand and Lee pulled her to her feet. “Leg bothering you, ma’am?”
“A little. I’m glad I’m not at risk of immortality, Sergeant. I’d hate to have to live with this body forever!” Her comment took him by surprise and he stared for a second before catching himself. “Oh, and don’t worry so much about promotions, Sergeant Lee. Just keep doing what you have been doing. I need to go to a briefing, so do a last check for stray tools, please. Take your time.” She winked.
With that, Rachel limped off towards the lab, leaving the noncom to enjoy the rest of the warm, early autumn afternoon. She couldn’t tell him that he was being quietly and discreetly groomed to become the regimental sergeant major, provided he didn’t go astray, leave the regiment, or become a combat casualty. Rachel liked Lee, and she had even before then-Corporal Lee and Sergeant Wolfgang Weber had saved her life in the September Disaster. In addition to getting along well with computers, Lee was a magnificent scout with an instinctive sense for using cover and terrain, and also did very well training people new to the regiment. She’d encouraged those talents, in her own way. It was harder for her to mentor the NCOs than the officers, because of the disparate ranks and duties, but she tried, just as she nudged and taught her Azdhagi soldiers.
Rachel viewed it as an investment—the sooner the humans and Azdhagi could fend for themselves, the sooner she could relax and tend to her other interests. Or so she told herself. Another few years and I can resign and go play. They are so very close to not needing my nudges, and Joschka will have to retire soon. He can’t fudge his medical paperwork forever. But she’d been thinking that particular thought for twenty years now. She snorted and rolled her eye. Joschka retired would probably get into more trouble than he had when they were in the Scouts together. Now he had the resources as well as the energy, and even more skill. You know, Joschka retired is actually a rather terrifying thought. I’m not sure the planet would survive, she realized as she swiped her ID in the lock and opened the door to the lab. Or Adele will kill him for getting underfoot first. Fifty-fifty odds, I’d guess.
Once inside, she dropped the mask she’d been wearing and sagged. Almost a year since the September Disaster and she still had no energy. The little black cloud returned to its usual place over her head and it took most of her remaining strength to haul herself up the spiral metal stairs to her quarters. I need a nap—a hundred years of nap. A permanent nap would be even nicer, but the dreams . . . blagh.
Rachel washed up, then walked down the hall to the meeting room where staff briefings were normally held. She approved of the wooden paneling and stonework that lined the main corridors of the headquarters building. It gave the place a warm feeling, something she appreciated—and it tended to relax people, which she also appreciated. For someone who sensed emotions as easily as breathing, spending time around tense humans was about as comfortable as trying to eat a spike plum without peeling it. Speaking of tension and prickles . . . she upped her shields a bit as James McKendrick came around the corner. I wonder if he was a barrel cactus in a previous life? She studied the solid, muscular redhead as he preceded her down the hall. No, a trigger thorn, that’s what he was. Broad, check. Prickly, check. Responds to the slightest pressure or brush, check. At least—unlike the trigger thorn bush—McKendrick wasn’t poisonous.
Rachel took her usual place at the table and discreetly checked her official messages. She wasn’t the last to arrive—Captain Edward O’Neil had that honor once again. Maybe we
should give him the retirement watch now. The others paid close attention to logging into the computer system while McKendrick glared at the tardy logistics officer. Once everyone was in place, McKendrick stood up and announced, “We may have a situation developing. Przilas?”
Tadeus Przilas stood up and took over the computer displays mounted in the table, switching them to show a map of the coastline near Brighton. “As you remember, there were unconfirmed reports two weeks ago of a shipwreck in the Channel here,” and he circled a place a few kilometers off shore. “Yesterday morning some holidaymakers found what look like pieces of an enormous shell, as in seashell, on the beach here, and picked them up without reporting it to the authorities. We now know this because some of their friends were hiking in the edge of these woods here.” He highlighted an area east and north of Brighton, not far from the small port of Newhaven.
“The Weald,” someone said.
“Excuse me?”
O’Neil repeated himself. “The Weald. ‘The Weald is sheep, the Downs are corn, be glad that you are Sussex born’,” he quoted. “Old forest, used to be iron mining and refining there.”
Przilas nodded, then continued, “As I was saying, the people were out walking in this area and came upon something very much out of place, and took off running after seeing these.” Somewhat blurry images of a large, rounded metallic object appeared. The camera moved around, then jerked over to reveal an insect-like, bi-pedal thing with two pair of arms and a triangular head with faceted eyes. It had a sheen a bit like very dark mother-of-pearl, and Rachel stared, as fascinated as the humans. Then the image changed to one of blurry motion before going black. “Apparently whatever it was didn’t pursue the hikers.” Przilas concluded.
Everyone turned to look at Rachel, who was pulling her laptop out of her satchel. “Commander, is it friendly?” Moshe ben David, the adjutant, inquired.
