by Alma Boykin
“Eighth, I think. Bottom, then eight up from that, three windows over from the ugly metal swirl-drape-slug thing.”
“Eighth floor, three windows upstream from the art installation,” Lee told someone.
“And a fine waste of my tax money that was, too,” a Scotts accented voice announced, but quietly. Rachel didn’t startle as General McKendrick walked out of the shadows on her blind side. “That’s the sort of thing that makes me sympathize with the separatists. Charles Rennie Mackintosh must be rolling in his grave at being called the inspiration for that . . . thing.”
The curtain-like object flapped again where solid glass should have been. “They should be there,” McKendrick growled under his breath. “Have you identified the— damn!”
Red and yellow flared, and flames burst out of the opening in the building like a chrysanthemum from hell. Rachel pulled her scanner out and looked from the flames to the display, then turned to the bridge and river. A mass of voices chanted, “Three, two, one,” and explosions leaped from the barge into the air, turning into shimmers of color as the crowd cheered in the New Year.
“That was too close,” all three warriors said in unison, then looked at each other.
With her free hand Rachel reached back and tried to smooth the fur on the back of her neck. “Remind me to get some local currency, Boer Two, because I need to make a very large donation come Sunday.” Farging Gehenna, that was stupid. I am so stupid. Sod it, I should have gone in there myself as soon as we saw the flash. Dear Lord I hope we didn’t lose anyone.
Both humans listened intently to their radios, leaving Rachel fuming and frustrated. Damn it, she was going to use her own bloody kit from now on, full stop. So what if she looked strange? McKendrick spoke quickly, his back to her, and she couldn’t hear him over the fireworks and crowd noise. Rachel growled low in her throat and flexed her claws. She really needed that hand-to-hand practice right now.
Lee bent over and whispered into her ear-holes. “Whoever was in the office hit a self-destruct just before Hunter One and his support reached the door. Took out at least two people, maybe four—it’s hard to say, ma’am—but their people only. Our people are a little toasted but fine. The equipment is slagged.”
Rachel opened her mouth, then closed it. She waited for McKendrick to turn back so he could see her face before saying, “I do not think that was a deliberate self-destruct, Boer Two, Command One.” She held up her scanner, and the two men bent to look at the palm-sized screen. “You can see some kind of energy building until five seconds before midnight, then a discharge of sorts.”
McKendrick looked from her to the smoke oozing out of the missing window and back. “We were too late?”
“Almost. Whatever they were using failed, or someone panicked, but I am not confident in the last, Command One.”
Three days later, Rachel and McKendrick looked at the heap of melted, charred metal and other substances now taking up a corner of the laboratory in the 58th Regiment of Foot’s headquarters. “You are certain?” McKendrick asked. “I don’t doubt your analysis, Rachel, but others will.”
“I’m as certain as I can be, sir, and Captain Ahkai and the wizards are ninety percent certain as well. It included exotic materials.”
The redhead stared at the mess, a morose expression on his round face. “According to Inland Revenue, that office belonged to one of theirs, and the glass should not have been missing. The manager to whom the office belonged is also missing.”
“Presumed charred, I assume. And one of the bodies was not human. Humanoid, very close, but not human. Humans do not have triple-rows of teeth in their jaws.”
McKendrick stared at her over his glasses. “Like a shark?”
“Yes.” Rachel leaned over to the side and fished a bit of sooty something out of a shallow pasteboard box. “This is exotic. The lens and half the circuits are imports. Ah, were imports, sorry.”
McKendrick folded his arms. “I di’ nay like this.”
Rachel rubbed under her blind eye. “Neither do I, sir. I can’t tell where it came from, or when, but the important bits were imported.”
“And worse. I missed Hogmanay because of them,” McKendrick growled.
“There’s always Burns Night, sir.”
“T’is nae the same.”
“Then may I have your haggis?”
He drew himself up and glared at her. “Certainly not. Nor may you have my tattie scones.” He relaxed. “The leeks, however, are all yours. Only someone as mad as the Welsh would consider those edible.”
Rachel risked sticking her tongue out at him. He wagged his finger and chuckled. “Do not abuse my generosity, Commander Na Gael.”
“It is my stomach, not your generosity, that leeks abuse, sir.”
February, 2012. Sergeant David O’Malley tried not to act nervous as the xenologist looked over his personnel file. Even so, he heard her growl, “Relax Sergeant. I don’t eat enlisted.” The assurance didn’t help.
After an eternity of minutes, she sat back in her chair and looked up at him. «You can hear me, Sergeant?»
He almost jumped out of his skin before answering, «Um, yes, ma’am.»
“Good. You are receptive and projective. That’s even better. Raise your shields, please.”
He did as ordered.
“Even better, you’ve been properly trained.” She smiled, reassuring him a little. “I doubt I’ll need to contact you mind-to-mind very often, Sergeant, but be aware that it might happen in a pinch. Your main job is to keep me out of trouble by guarding my back. Literally sometimes, if I need to look at equipment. Unlike most xenologists, I can and will shoot back, but,” she shrugged. “If my hands are full . . .”
“Understood, ma’am.”
“Then you are dismissed back to your primary duties, unless you have something you need or want to ask me?”
O’Malley sifted through all the things he wanted to ask but didn’t really dare. “Ah, will I also assist you in medical cases, ma’am?”
She shook her head and made a swirling motion with her right hand. “No. Not unless it is a case of ‘carry this bag’ or possibly ‘hold this IV bag for me.’ Unless you’re cross trained on more than basic field emergency medicine, you won’t be called on to play doc—” She caught herself. “To play medic. And keep in mind, someone or something might still be shooting at us.”
“Ah, good point, ma’am. No other questions, ma’am.”
“Then you’re dismissed.”
Rachel Na Gael waited until the sergeant left before exhaling a long, tired sigh. I’d just gotten Sergeant Griffin trained, too, and Vienna and Horseguards decide to play fruit-basket-upset. Oh well, happens every year, twice in years beginning with a one or a two. It would be nice if Joschka would find a way to fix that. Right. Joschka von Hohen-Drachenburg, who cannot organize a raid on a brewery. Just because Major Gupta happened to overhear us grousing about getting tossed out and ordered the other platoon to guard the place is no excuse. Now he’s got all the resources on hand this planet can offer and he won’t use them for anything productive. She’d gently reminded him of that episode a few years before, and he’d reacted poorly. He’s gotten old and respectable. Thppppht. She ran her hands over her complicated crown of braids, rocked forward in her chair, and heaved herself to her feet. Something tapped on the windows behind her, and she dropped one hand to the hold-out pistol concealed in her pocket. She turned, looked, and rolled her eye.
Knox wanted in. Should she? Rachel walked across the lab to the back door, trying to decide. James McKendrick normally didn’t encourage his alter ego to come indoors, unless it was into McKendrick’s office or—Rachel assumed—his quarters. On the other hand, the mischief Knox generated provided more than enough entertainment to balance getting fussed at for spoiling the corbie. The large raven tapped on the glass again, posing and looking dramatic against the white snow that stretched out behind the regimental headquarters. Rachel pulled her pass card out of her other p
ocket and deactivated the door lock, opening the door a hand-width or two. “Coming or going?”
“Quork.” Knox hopped down the ledge toward the door and Rachel sighed, sticking her arm out into the wet cold. The raven blinked and hopped onto her fist, graciously allowing her the honor of bringing him into the warm, dry, snack- and shiny-thing-filled building.
“Your—hmmm, not owner—your human representative is going to fuss,” Rachel informed the bird.
He hopped from her hand onto the closest lab table and regarded her with a haughty, down-the-beak stare. “Caw.”
She folded her arms. “Really.”
“Caw.” Knox tipped his head sideways and then tipped over, rolling across the lab table like a trained parrot. He got to his feet and shook, settling his sleek, shiny black feathers. “Caw.”
Rachel blinked. “That’s new. Or does this mean James is rolling in his grave already? Or is it your namesake?” That she could well imagine, although John Knox the Scottish Reformer and the raven shared some similarities. “Right. I’m going to attempt to get something accomplished. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to carry off any of my equipment. Or I will use your feathers for arrow fletching.” She limped back to her desk, confident that the mischievous bird would not find anything small enough to carry off. She’d started locking everything that was smaller than her head or weighed less than three kilos in drawers and cabinets since Knox’s last heist.
Instead, the raven flapped his wings, crossing the lab to perch on top of a book on the shelf above her work desk, where he began to preen. Rachel shrugged and returned to the tome she’d been struggling through in an attempt to get all the chemical logs caught up. The new forms required her to use the official government-issued safety and data codes, rather than “one gram sodium fluoride” or something else readily comprehensible. I wonder what happens if I make up something, like two grams of Polonium, five grams of FOOF? Probably nothing, unless some busybody came rushing over to look for the glowing crater where the lab had once been. Life had been so much easier before Horseguards decided to standardize everything and make it more efficient.
She’d worked long enough to get a stiff neck when a book fell onto the open tome. “Wha—?” Rachel looked up to see Knox straddling the gap between volumes, watching her. She looked from the raven to the book and back. Something in his eyes made her stomach sink a little.
She picked up the slim volume. It was not the poems of Edgar Allen Poe. “Haunted Antiquities of Britain?” she read aloud. The book actually served a purpose in her work, and she looked from it to Knox again. “I take it I will be dragged out of my nice warm lab to go stand in the cold in the near future?”
Knox shook, ruffling and settling his feathers, as if it meant nothing at all to him.
“You could be a little—no,” Rachel caught herself. “Belay that.” She got up and opened the lab door, propping it just enough that he could leave if he wanted to. She did not want him to be any clearer. The last time she and Knox had communed, it had scared the spit out of half the regiment, herself included. “Go pester the cooks, birdbrain. The away bag is already packed.”
Five minutes or so later, Knox took himself off. Faint sounds of human unhappiness came up the corridor to the still-open lab door, and Rachel smiled a little. If she had to enjoy the raven’s attentions, it was only fair that others get the same privilege.
Rachel accepted Sergeant Lee’s hand getting out of the vehicle. “Thank you.” The other troopers fanned out along the road, securing the area before a corporal began waving in the other vehicles and pointing to the parking area. Rachel glanced around for General McKendrick or Colonel Prizlas, but didn’t see either officer yet. “Right. I’ll just to a little recce,” she said under her breath.
Lee frowned. “Where’s Manx Two?” He stayed where he stood, effectively blocking the xenologist from walking off on her own. Rachel started to bite his head off, then stopped. Sergeant O’Malley appeared at Lee’s side. “Good.” The tall, lean NCO got out of her path.
Rachel detested being cossetted and shadowed. On the other hand, considering the reaming out McKendrick had given everyone after the last time she’d escaped her bodyguards and gone haring off on her own, she couldn’t really blame Lee for not wanting a second round.
So, what are we looking for today? Rachel thought as she walked, mindful of the uneven cobbles of the old road. Strange lights and a new buzzing in the local telephone lines, as if something had introduced interference, according to the local constable, who had passed the news on to her superiors, who then tossed it to the 58th Regiment. A light drizzle hid much beyond the edge of the churchyard, softening the air. Rachel hoped they’d finish and get back to base before the drizzle turned into snow. The Met Office had assured everyone that the warm-up would continue, but Rachel knew better.
Trailed by Sergeant O’Malley, the xenologist walked out of the village proper as far as the outside wall of the churchyard. A glance behind her showed that she’d come far enough to get her portable scanners away from interference range, and she stopped. Rachel scraped the remaining water-logged snow off the top of the wall with her arm. Whoever had built the wall had done lovely work, she observed, as smooth and level as the wall’s top stones seemed to be. She peered closer. Slates? Yes, at least here along the road. Reusing someone’s roof? Or just showing off with imported stone? This area was quite wealthy, back in the day. Rachel shrugged a little and dug her basic scanner out of her satchel, propping it up on the top of the wall and tapping a few buttons. After a moment’s thought, she opted for a full-distance scan. The areal coverage balanced out the lack of detail, since she had time to use her secondary equipment. Rachel watched the warm-up indicator until it stopped flashing blue, then swiped the command pad with one gloved finger.
“Right-o. We need to get out of the way and let it do its job. Over here should be far enough Manx Two.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” O’Malley with his full battle kit on reminded Rachel a bit of a Berpart: large, slow, and deceptively round—and as with the Berpart, the sergeant’s external covering concealed very heavy muscles. The Irishman currently held the Regimental clean-and-jerk weight record. He’d also picked Captain O’Neill up off the ground during unarmed combat practice, earning a round of quiet cheers and probably several pints the next time he went out to the village with some of the men. Rachel found a semi-sheltered niche in the stone retaining wall holding up the edge of the hill across from the church, facing the village.
O’Malley ran his free hand over the stones. He peered closer, putting his nose to the lichen-dotted surface and wincing at the squawk of protest from his helmet monocular’s focus mechanism. “Here, Sergeant,” Rachel said, digging her loupe out of a pocket.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He looked along the wall, poking at a few stones, then running his hands over the structure until Rachel had to fight the urge to make a lewd comment. “This is old.”
The awe and certainty in his words caught Rachel’s attention. “How old?”
“Very old, ma’am.
After glancing around to see if Knox or his human had arrived, Rachel lowered her shields just enough to reach Logres. She closed her eye, looking through the creature’s senses at the land around her. She sensed the humans, a few so-called ley lines nearby, and the wall beside her. O’Malley had it right: the wall showed to her sight as part of the fabric of the land, it had been in place for so long. And something else, a bright spot, a small spill of power, appeared as well.
Rachel returned to herself in time to catch the beep of the scanner finishing. She pulled her coat collar tighter and peered right and left for traffic before crossing the road. The scanner flashed amber and she raised her eyebrow. “Really?” She lifted the device down from its perch and studied the display. “Hmm.” The scanner showed a small energy discharge in roughly the same place that Logres had marked. The coincidence made Rachel wonder. Logres never worked with imported technology, except to reject it. Bu
t never say never, she reminded herself.
So, where was this thing? The scanner gave her the energy wavelength and she frowned. Yes, that would be visible, but . . . perhaps it cycled for some reason. “I do hope it’s not pouring out beta radiation just now,” she sighed, tucking the scanner into her satchel and hitching the strap higher on her shoulder. “Right,” she said louder. “Found something. This way.”
O’Malley reported her news as he followed her across the road once more, then down the length of the wall. The energy source felt to be a half kilometer farther on, around the back side of the hill. The two warriors had to continue on far enough to find a stile, then up and over into a rather muddy field. Rachel looked at the expanse of snow and rain-sodden dirt between her and the target. Sergeant St. John is going to fuss about my tracking again. “Well, it can’t be helped.” Rachel stepped down into the ankle deep bog and made her way to the continuation of the wall.
“Manx two, does this strike you as a bit different?” She asked when they’d covered about half the remaining distance.
“Um, yes, ma’am, it does. Are we going to that pale bit there?” He pointed past her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Very different, ma’am. It looks like a plaque or something added to the wall, except it doesn’t. Doesn’t look added, I mean.”
As they got within a few meters of the hot spot, Rachel said, “Ah. I see what you mean, Manx Two. Good call.” She halted a meter from the bit of wall and folded her arms, studying the object. “You know, I’ve never heard of a Neolithic fountain before.”
“No, ma’am. But it doesn’t look later than Roman from those lichens and all, ma’am.” O’Malley leaned forward and peered at the object. “I’d say it’s always been part of the wall, ma’am, except it can’t be. Not that old, no.”
Rachel thinned her shields. The fountain glowed red-hot with energy. It flowed out of the wall at the same rate as water burbled out of the fountain’s mouth. The sober stone face, surrounded by carved leaves, stared out at the world with dark eyes. “I wonder.” Rachel dug a mini pocket torch out of her satchel, walked to the side of the fountain, and shone the light at a low angle. The eyes glittered and O’Malley crossed himself. “Someone did beautiful work on this, whoever made it, faceting and setting the stones.” She switched the torch off and considered the stone. It truly appeared to be a single stone, a meter across and a little more than a meter tall, with the face in the center. It sat flush with the rest of the wall, or perhaps recessed just a hair into the surrounding brown stones. Lichen mottled most of the carving. Rachel let out a long breath through pursed lips, not quite whistling. “Right. I need to see some records.” Because this didn’t appear to be in her antiquity guides, among other small problems.
