by Alma Boykin
Nothing moved, and after several long minutes the Defense Force soldiers set to work. The chains holding Rachel’s body were basic steel, without any security wires or sensors, and the cuffs were just loose enough that after rubbing camouflage greasepaint on her skin, the humans could slip her arms and hands out, costing her a little hide but nothing else. Maria eased away to call in the success for the first stage and to let her stomach settle. She wondered what had left the long, jagged scars down the other woman’s belly and back, and shivered at the new injuries visible through cuts and tears in her clothes.
“Ah, Comm One?” one of the corporals said hesitantly. “I think she’s still got a pulse.”
“What?” Maria spun around and hurried over, stripping off a glove so she could feel the Rachel’s neck. Sure enough, there was a hint of a rhythmic beat under her fingers. “No wonder there’s so much blood,” she whispered. “Get moving,” she hissed louder. The five humans trotted as quickly and quietly as they could, one carrying the Wanderer and three covering the retreat.
By now, the protocol was ingrained into regimental training—if Manx One had a pulse, stop her bleeding, then get her to headquarters. The senior NCOs and some of the officers had been shown how to get into the area where her ship was housed, and how to start the emergency sequence on the Dark Hart’s medical equipment. Everyone knew that some day she might not survive even with her ship’s technology. Everyone also knew that the “magic” had always worked before, and so the soldiers watching the departing ambulance assumed that she would emerge groggy but intact once more. Sergeant Lee accompanied the Wanderer back to headquarters, with orders to return as soon as he finished getting her stabilized.
Lieutenant Cluj appeared at the door of the Brutus. “Sir? New message from the T’sorwou, and one from the Royal Astronomers.” He handed them over and disappeared back to his post.
Przilas looked his question as the stocky general wadded up the page. “The good news is that the fleet or whatever it was has moved away from Mars and seems to be heading away. However, although the T’sorwou’s demand has been met, they plan to stay and set up housekeeping.”
The exec studied the map of the scene, now updated with the additional details Lee and the scouts had provided. “May I respectfully suggest that we usher them out?”
“I believe that we will.” The men bent over the map, planning their next move.
Once the flurry of activity had ended, McKendrick took a moment to see if there were any messages from London or Vienna concerning the current situation. There were not, but he did find a file from Commander Na Gael. He hesitated, wondering if it was a message attempting to justify letting herself be captured. Why had she done something so foolish and harmful? The redhead opened the e-mail and his eyebrows rose as he skimmed the contents. It was not a letter of justification or a suicide note, but all the xenologist’s material on the T’sorwou and her suggestions for ways to approach and deal with them. Now he had a new problem—could he still trust her recommendations and ideas? They matched and expanded on his own observations, and after sorting and sifting through the material he decided to use what she’d given him since it backed up his own plans.
Just after dawn, the GDF moved into position. The attack started with two passes by helicopter gunships, first with Charger missiles, then 30 mm guns, focusing on the aliens’ ship. That brought the T’sorwou out into the open, at which point the infantry went on the attack, aiming for the leaders. As McKendrick had suspected and Na Gael’s notes confirmed, that confused the invaders. Meanwhile, a small squad led by Captain de Alba circled around behind the main fighting lines. They heard the sounds of heavy combat, but kept working slowly and quietly closer. Their goal was to get between the T’sorwou and their ship, cutting them off.
After taking what felt like too long, the special group was in position. The insects had ignored them completely. De Alba turned to Sergeant St John. “Ready?” she signed.
The sergeant and the other women nodded and St. John gestured back, “ready.”
Male chauvinist fools de Alba snarled. “Command Two, Rose Two.”
Przilas responded, “Rose Two, Command Two. Go ahead.”
“Roses in position and ready, over.”
A pause, then “Rose Two, Command One says show your thorns, over.”
The woman nodded and swept her arm forward, bringing her squad up. “Wilco, Rose Two is clear.”
“Command Two clear.”
The insects quite literally didn’t know what hit them. De Alba and the Regiment’s other women were just as lethal in their own way as the men—something the T’sorwou couldn’t comprehend, or even imagine. Their exoskeletons and weak personal shields failed to protect them from rifle bullets at close range. Corporal Ruth N’kasha showed just what a former shot-put medalist could do with hand grenades, sending bits of T’sorwou spattering the line. If the men were angry, the women fought with a special fury, and their enemy had just enough time to realize their predicament before the slaughter really began. The insects tried to retreat to their ship, only to fall to a sniper’s bullets as soon as they got close. As a matter of rank, the T’sorwou’s version of officers wore no head armor, making them easy targets once they entered Lieutenant Gretchkaninov’s sights. She and Captain ben David had a highly unofficial contest going, and she smiled grimly as she picked off three more.
Once the trap had closed, the slaughter went quickly. Perhaps thirty minutes after the gunships started the battle, McKendrick called it off. “All station, Command One. Hold your fire!” Nothing seemed to be moving any more, and a tense silence covered the killing field. He allowed himself a feral smile.
At the same time, something on de Alba’s shoulder harness beeped. She reached up and pulled Manx One’s data link out of its case and looked at the message. “Command One, Rose Two. Be advised, the T’sorwou ship seems to be broadcasting a high-power signal.”
That didn’t sound good and McKendrick made a snap decision. “All stations, Command One, hara-kiri protocol.” As he watched, McKendrick glimpsed soldiers retreating in orderly groups away from the T’sorwou’s ship. Then he followed his own orders and moved to cover behind the armored fighting vehicle. Knox appeared and landed on the general’s arm, tucking his head under a wing and hunching down. It got very quiet after everyone called in clear. The humans waited and McKendrick’s hunch was rewarded when a series of muffled explosions began inside the metallic-grey vessel. RSM Smith watched through a periscope over the roof of the Brutus vehicle and whistled as an especially colorful blast went up vertically from the space ship.
“Quite a flair for the dramatic,” Tadeus Przilas commented during a lull in the self-destruction.
“Pity. I would have liked to see how their shielding worked,” his commander said quietly, then ducked instinctively as a massive bwoosh-booooooom rolled over the soldiers. A shower of ash and bits of metallic debris rained down, generating a few curses as hot pieces of matter found bare hands and gaps in armor. As soon as the concussions died away, McKendrick was on the radio. “All units report status.”
“Boer One, green.”
“Hunter One, green,” O’Neil called in.
After a worrisome pause, “Rose Two, green.”
“Time to see what’s left,” he announced. And whether we’re going to glow in the dark. McKendrick listened for the radiation alarms to sound, but apparently there had been no nuclear material on the ship, or else it hadn’t scattered in the blasts.
There wasn’t much of the ship left. A hole in the ground several meters deep, scattered fires in the woods that would soon be put out, and a number of insect bodies. The least scorched would be sent to Vienna for study, along with samples of the weapons they carried. Some people choked as the stench of dead and cooking insect filled the morning air, and Przilas looked a bit green around the edges as he glanced away from one T’sorwou soldier who’d been cut in half lengthwise. Yellow green blood, just like an Earth insect, a part o
f McKendrick thought. Interesting.
“Do you have our press story?” he asked Captain de Alba when she appeared.
She looked at the hole and considered the options. “Ah, there’s a natural gas pipeline not too far away. Gas leak and careless campers, sir? No,” she frowned, thinking aloud, “old ordinance and some repair work. Yes, that will work—unexploded German bombs and some repair work that exposed them. Bomb was unstable and detonated before the ordinance disposal people could get here,” she nodded. It fit the hole, and the site was on a possible flight path from France to London.
“Good.” McKendrick nodded. “And good work, Rose Two.” He felt a momentary pang that Manx One wasn’t there to see the results of her information gathering, and he wondered if she’d survived her injuries. He hoped so. “Right. Time to clean up and head back to base. Przilas!” and he strode off, giving orders.
Rachel regained consciousness slowly and reluctantly. Her body no longer ached, and for a split second she thought that she might at last have died. Then she recognized the texture of the body-support material in her ship’s medical pod. Lord, why? Why won’t You let me free of the shadows? When will I find peace and rest? The Wanderer longed for oblivion, but had once again been denied. She wanted to wail her frustration to the universe, but there was no point—someone wanted her alive for reasons she couldn’t know and that was that. She opened her eye, then reluctantly triggered the mechanism to let herself out of the equipment.
Whoever had brought her back to Headquarters had rummaged around in her quarters and left clothing for her, this time. She got dressed and checked the current location and time. The Dark Hart showed that she was at the British headquarters and that ten hours had passed since she’d swallowed the pills and walked toward the T’sorwou’s lines. Any humans still at Headquarters would be asleep, and Rachel offered a grateful thought for that mercy. Her body didn’t hurt anymore, aside from the usual, but her spirit ached and she just wanted to be alone.
That wish was granted. Rachel fed the symbiote that controlled the Dark Hart’s temporal navigation system and power supply, before climbing up to her personal quarters. She ate some dried beef and then went to sleep in her bed-nest, oblivious to the presence in the lab below. In her exhaustion and heart’s weariness, she didn’t notice the dark shape watching patiently from beside one of the lab tables. Captain ben David eased out of hiding and took up a guard position as soon as the door to her apartment closed, in case the T’sorwou tried to reclaim their prize. He would be tired the next day, but the troopers had decided that someone needed to keep watch—and that McKendrick didn’t need to know.
Rachel awoke just before sunrise. She stretched and washed, then went back to the Dark Hart, lay down in the command chair, and closed her eyes. She didn’t engage the navigation system or computers, but instead linked with the psycho-symbiote, sensing the time threads weaving and flowing around Earth. Several of them crossed, and she frowned in concentration, “feeling” her way along the possibilities to make certain that no one was trying to manipulate the potentials. It frustrated her that she couldn’t see, the way true Wanderers pilots did, and instead had to rely on feel and intuition, assisted by the symbiote. However, everything remained as smooth as it ever was around Earth. She sensed a tiny knot and potential split in her own thread, one running parallel to something familiar but not quite identifiable. While she linked with the ship, the symbiote drew energy from the timethreads, siphoning off just enough to recharge the energy storage systems and to strengthen the passive shields. The entire process took at most an hour, as humans counted time, and Rachel emerged a little stiff but refreshed and more comfortable with her decisions.
She wondered how things were going and whether the T’sorwou had made good on their bargain. Warrior to warrior she’d thought that they might, and she prayed that they had. She also wondered how she’d come to wake up in her ship. She remembered very little that made any kind of coherent sense. A close inspection that morning had revealed no new scars in any of her shapes, for which she was grateful. She thought she could recall some pain, but the drugs had so confused her that she gave up speculating and just thanked God for His mercy in wiping her memory.
There was no report to write and she didn’t feel like walking down to see what the latest news was, so Rachel retrieved her primary side-arm and went out into the cool morning garden. She tidied here and there, snipping a few roses and putting them in water in the greenhouse for the moment. Then she shifted form. Gun belt in mouth, she strolled on four feet to the bench at the end of the rose garden, set the weapon where she could grab it quickly, and stretched out for a nap. Captain ben David found her there two hours later, black fur soaking up solar energy as she dozed. “Ah . . . Commander?” he inquired tentatively.
She yawned, showing a set of very long and sharp teeth. «Hmmm?» A sleepy voice said into the officer’s mind.
“Just to let you know that we beat the T’sorwou,” he said. “Command One and the first group will be returning in a few hours, barring other developments.” She sat up, then stretched and flashed vicious-looking claws before flowing off the bench toward him. Moshe took an involuntary step backward and could palpably sense her amusement at his reaction.
«Be easy, Captain ben David. You are neither a mouse nor an enemy,» she told him, then sauntered around to rub lightly against his hip. Curious despite himself, he reached down and touched her fur, surprised at how soft and thick it felt. «Ahhh, thank you,» she sent as he stroked and scratched between her shoulders.
A thought struck and he asked, “Um, this doesn’t count as intimacy while on duty, does it?”
«Absolutely not! Petting cats while on duty is most certainly allowed.» She looked up and winked. «Besides, I never date outside my species.» And with that Rachel returned to the bench, picked up her gun belt, and padded off, leaving the Israeli standing and shaking his head, firmly convinced of the entire organization’s absolute insanity. He watched her until she vanished into the greenhouse, where she resumed her more human form, then went back to his office and wondered if he, too, was losing his mind. No, he decided—if he was worrying about it, then he was still sane.
Rachel took the collection of late roses and divided them, leaving half in the officers’ “lounge” and half in the NCOs’ lair cum meeting room. Then she settled in at her desk and began reading through the previous three days’ reports, sifting and marking items of potential interest. She sent brief e-mails to her counterparts with the South Asian and Pampan branches. Argentina and Chile—there was a miracle of Biblical proportions she mused yet again. She asked for more information if possible, sending her initial data on the T’sorwou in exchange. It was highly unlikely that there would be a second point of infiltration, but sharing data never hurt in these sorts of matters.
As his advisor worked, James McKendrick was putting his field kit back in its appointed place, along with a note for the supply corporal about materials expended. He went by his quarters and got shed of his body armor, thinking wistfully as he did about Commander Na Gael’s own set and how discreet, light, and comfortable it seemed, especially compared to what he had. Granted, things had come a very long way in twenty years, but still. That line of thought led him back to wondering if his advisor had survived and, if so, what he was going to do about her.
McKendrick got a bite to eat, then went to his office. Captain Moshe ben David waited for him with the good news that nothing of interest had occurred at the headquarters during the absence of the main bulk of the Regiment. “And Commander Na Gael is alive, appears well, and is back at work,” the hyperactive adjutant reported.
“Hmph,” his commanding officer grunted, noncommittal. He dismissed ben David and turned to stare out the window, wondering how to deal with Na Gael. His initial relief at her survival was shifting quickly back to anger and confusion: anger at the danger to which she’d exposed the Regiment, and confusion as to why she’d done something so stupid and suicidal.
Could she have some sort of romantic attachment to one of the troopers who’d been captured? No, that clashed with everything he’d seen of her and heard about her. The distinct possibility that she was trying to commit suicide by proxy floated up, and McKendrick frowned deeply. He wished he knew more about how her mind worked and what exactly the Graf-General and Colonel Khan had made her promise.
Well, that all paled in the face of what might have happened. The xenologist knew far, far too much about the unit to be allowed to do anything so stupid ever again—that much, McKendrick had already decided. As the exercise in February had shown, she could badly hurt the Regiment if she were coerced into providing information and he had to assume that she’d done so. The only way to find out was to ask her, so McKendrick scrawled some notes on the issues where he’d have to confront his advisor and had his secretary page her.
Commander Na Gael appeared five minutes later. He didn’t offer her a seat, studying her instead. She looked to be her normal self, but as McKendrick had learned, appearances were very deceiving.
“I understand the mission was a success, sir?” she offered.
He growled, “No thanks to your actions, and don’t try to bullshit me with a story about straying and getting caught. You gave me good data and information, but what you did afterwards?” He let it hang in the air.
Her back stiffened and she came almost to attention. “I did what seemed necessary to get your people back alive, sir.” No remorse in her tone, he noticed, or apology, and his anger flashed white hot.
“Do you realize the security breach you caused, Commander Na Gael?” McKendrick thundered.
To his complete surprise, she shook her head. “There was no breach possible, sir. I took steps to ensure that before I reached the T’sorwou lines. I knew that they didn’t want information, but even if they had I couldn’t have communicated what I do know. The chemical reaction I induced in myself,” she searched for a word, “twists things, is the best way I can describe it, and would probably destroy my mind completely if my body didn’t fail first. Even a post-mortem scan would have given the T’sorwou nothing of use.” And it was very close, if I’m reading the medical report correctly. Himself will be furious. Then he’ll want the full data set and I won’t see him for two days at least. Rachel met McKendrick’s eyes, her expression a little sad as she reminded him, “I promised that I would never betray you, sir.”
