by Alma Boykin
It didn’t take long. Weber’s foundation was strong and sound—he just needed a respite from the raw memories. After they finished talking, he stared out into the rainy afternoon. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you for trusting me,” she said, smiling. It made her almost pretty, the German realized, a bit surprised. Then her usual grin returned and she cautioned, “And I’d best get changed before Colonel Przilas sees me and asks me to serve tea.” She eased the door panel open just enough to slip through, and vanished.
Rachel left her hair up. The combination of grey Western suit and Japanese combs and hair sticks raised eyebrows—which distracted people from her unusually restrained behavior. Tadeus Przilas rolled his eyes when he saw, her but didn’t comment. He knew better. Some things didn’t merit the effort it took to complain about them: things like Commander Na Gael’s crimson hair sticks. Besides, they were not on duty yet. “I hope your flight was smoother than mine,” he said to her, as they compared notes on which sessions one or the other of them absolutely had to attend.
“The weather cooperated, sir. I can’t say the same for the ground crew.” She wrinkled her nose. “Unless we have a desperate, last-chance-to-save-the-world mission and I get three years’ bonus pay, I’m not setting foot on the Arabian or South Asian landmasses again.”
“That bad? I’ll go to this one,” he pointed to the breakout session on logistics.
She nodded. “Thank you, that leaves me free to sit in on the ‘Updates in Communications Technology’ talk. And yes, it was that bad. Apparently even females on an aircraft that’s hot refueling are supposed to be escorted and veiled or else be subject to harassment and/or arrest.” Rachel suspected that her little run-in with the Saudi Branch a decade or so before might have played a role in their less-than-friendly attitude, but Przilas didn’t need to know that.
“Good.” The American riffed through the list one more time before closing his tablet computer’s cover. “I mean good that you can go to that talk. Oh, and neither of us have to go to the computer sessions if we don’t want to. Captain Ahkai’s here.”
“No shit?” Rachel sat bolt upright, taken by surprise.
He stared at her. “I can’t believe it! You cursed in English,” and he leaned back in his chair, laughing, unable to finish. After a minute he gasped, “I’ve never heard you swear outside of combat. McKendrick owes me five pounds.” Przilas wiped his eyes.
Rachel stuck her lower lip out and glared at him, mimicking the cat from a trendy children’s cartoon series. “Harrumpf, I must say, good sir. Harrumpf.”
“Private joke?” The two looked up and Przilas scrambled to his feet as a striking woman stopped beside their chairs.
Rachel sniffed. “I was merely expressing my surprise to hear that you’d emerged from the Wizards’ Lair.”
“I’m here with Ted, visiting his family, if you must know,” Roswytha Ahkai sniffed, peering down her nose at them. At least, Rachel assumed that’s what she was doing. Roswy’s dark glasses hid more than just her pink eyes.
“Captain” Roswytha Ahkai made Rachel appear almost unremarkable. No one quite knew how she’d gotten her rank, although most people assumed that she’d been a ship’s captain or a pilot at some point, despite her obvious medical condition. The assumption served its purpose, much as Rachel’s use of her mercenary rank did, and no one asked any more. Roswy, almost two meters tall and as thin as a reed, had pink eyes, colorless skin, and white hair. She wore a lavender-blue suit and looked stunning, which probably explained Przilas’s sudden attack of good manners. Rachel allowed herself a moment of envy, then reminded herself that at least she could see by daylight, unlike the computer expert. Ahkai suffered from day-blindness, without the partial compensation of the enhanced night vision that Rachel had. But no one in the British branch, and probably in the entire GDF, could match her skill with technological forensics. Rachel did things biological, Ahkai did things computer.
“Ah, your pardon. I tend to forget that people have lives outside of work,” Rachel admitted with a shrug.
Ahkai and Przilas both snorted. “Do you have assigned sessions, Captain, or are you selecting the ones you prefer?” He asked, starting to open his pad again.
“I have assignments, and I’m giving two, one of which you,” she pointed at Rachel, “need to attend, because it’s the one on electronic-biologic interfaces. And my second presenter has been called away.”
Rachel leaned back so she could look into Roswy’s face. “And you want me to make the appropriate noises at the correct moments, I take it?”
“Yes, since my cue-cards and pre-recorded applause failed to transfer with the data files.”
“I’ll check with my social secretary,” Rachel winked at Przilas, “and see if I have a moment free. I’m required to help judge the flower arranging and tea-whisking events, you know, and the stress might overwhelm me.” She rested the back of one hand against her forehead, as if swooning.
More snorts met her performance, and she straightened up. “Critics. Right, that’s the one at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow?”
“Yes. Colonel, do you have any idea why these,” Roswy held out her own data pad, with three talks highlighted, “are always scheduled for after dinner?”
Przilas looked at the list and swallowed hard. “I’ve heard its part of the weight loss program out of Vienna, but I could be wrong.”
“Which?” Rachel peered at her pages. “Oh. Yes, I see.” Parasitology after a meal? Really? What had Vienna been thinking?
Responsibilities assigned and duties determined, the trio went their separate ways. Rachel got a bit of dinner and another much-needed few hours of sleep, then worked on administrivia for the bulk of the afternoon. She caught up with a few of the other xenologists over supper, then decided to change back into the kimono and stroll around outside for a last few moments of freedom and peace before being dragged onto duty once more.
She found a short, lamp-lit path that led around the outside of the main building, far enough away to be quiet yet close enough for safety and comfort. Rachel breathed deep of the mingled sea and forest smells as she walked, glad to be alone for a moment. Something in the back of her mind had begun—well, itching was the best description of the feeling—and she suspected that her connection to Logres, the Power of Britain, explained the sensation. She should not have left the Isle of the Mighty, but Logres “felt” quiet and she’d pay whatever price she had to when she returned. Or was it Logres? She hesitated, not far from the edge of the inn’s deep side porch, and extended a tentative query.
She felt something, a Power, irritated and restless, but she could make out no specifics. She shrugged, and debated whether to walk another lap or go to sleep. The lure of rest won. She picked her careful way up the low steps onto the porch, stepping through the door into a half-lit hallway. And once she was in her room she would no longer have to hold up her mask. The effort drained her. Living drained her, and she just wanted everything to go away forever.
“Commander Na Gael, a moment of your time,” a familiar voice called and she froze, waiting. She heard steps approaching and turned as Joschka emerged from the shadows. He was still clean-shaven, making him look younger than his official years. Rachel felt herself falling back into a time when they’d both been carefree and had thought they could solve all the problems of the universe if given enough explosives. The Wanderer caught herself and sternly pulled her heart back to where it belonged.
“Yes, my lord General?” She wondered what he wanted and how he was faring. He was doing well, judging by appearances, and she felt a little relief for his sake.
He frowned and gestured toward the dark veranda. “A word with you.” He led the way into the night. Once they were out of sight and hearing of casual passers-by, he stopped and studied her. “Rada. How are you? Truth.”
She almost told him. Instead she said, “I’m tired, my lord General, but otherwise am well.” The blue eyes narrowed as i
f he sensed her prevarication. But rather than speak, he reached for her hand, and after a glance around for witnesses, pulled her into his arms. She went willingly, clinging to the HalfDragon and burying her face against his uniform tunic. He stroked her back before holding her as tightly as he dared. A witness might have thought it was a scene from Madame Butterfly, the officer and the kimono-clad woman embracing in the soft darkness.
“I thought you were dead,” he whispered in Trader into her hair. “When they reported you missing, presumed captured, I . . .” The words trailed into silence as she leaned back a few centimeters, reaching up and touching his cheek with cool fingers.
She replied silently, «When they announced that you’d been killed in the ambush, all I wanted was vengeance and darkness.»
He tightened his grip on her, upset by the emotions he sensed behind her words. The soft voice in his mind continued, «I was allowed neither. And then to see your ghost!»
Joschka tasted her feelings from the moment before she’d passed out: stunned surprise, total disbelief, and more than a touch of jealousy that he looked so good. The sending eased some of his concern for her, and he managed a weak chuckle. It had been funny, after the fact.
Her story also confirmed his hope and fear: Rada loved him, just as he still loved her. And they were in one of the worst places for him to do anything about it, damn it! He could have growled with frustration, except he didn’t want to upset her. He sensed that she was already hanging onto herself by a thread as it was. She leaned her head against his chest again and closed her eye, resting her hand on his shoulder.
He still loved her. Rada wanted to sing and cry both, because she couldn’t tell how he loved her: as a sister, a battle comrade, as a lover? So much for empathy and telepathy making things clearer, she snorted behind her mental defenses, where he couldn’t hear. Blagh! Joschka’s embrace comforted the still-aching Wanderer and she didn’t want it to stop. Friendly physical contact soothed her body and calmed her mind—and that it was Joschka who held her? It was that much better, even dampened by layers of kimono and uniform. She leaned against him a little and felt him shift, taking her weight without thinking. For a brief moment the shadows dispersed, driven away by the HalfDragon’s steady strength and his love for her. He knew what she’d done and didn’t care, at least not in this instant in their lifestreams.
But it couldn’t last. Reluctantly, she stepped back and he released her. There were too many rumors in the air about who favored whom, who was being groomed for what position and—of course—who was bedding whom. Joschka had to remain above suspicion and reproach. “Your pardon, my lord General,” the Wanderer began, moving farther away from him.
He looked hurt and confused by the withdrawal and sudden formality. “Rada, what?” She tipped her head toward the door and raised a hand in warning. Joschka sent silently, «What’s wrong?»
«Nothing, my lord General, but your aid is not that far behind you,» she replied, hiding a smile behind her hand at his pungent mental statement about where the Finnish colonel could go and what he could do once he got there. «I’d best be away, unless you have a good reason for us to be unchaperoned.»
Rachel’s wry humor defused Joschka’s irritation—for the most part—as well as reminding him of their official stations. «I don’t,» he admitted. Well, actually he had a number of very good reasons, none of which involved GDF business and several of which would get both of them written up for improper socialization across ranks at the very least. He folded his arms and locked eyes with her. “I am rather concerned about your presence here, Commander. I gave specific orders that you were to go on leave,” the Graf-General pointed out.
“I’m sorry sir. I was not so informed. Major General McKendrick could only spare Colonel Przilas, Captain Ahkai, and me, because of leaves, medical leaves, and the temporary transfer of some of the regiment’s people to help deal with the coastal flooding.” McKendrick had not been happy when London ordered almost half the regiment’s personnel to assist with the civil disaster, but after some grumbling to and with his staff he had agreed, since it would add a useful layer of cover to the 58th Regiment of Foot’s public identity. “And with all due respect, my lord General, there are members of the German branch here as well, and they need more of a respite than we British do.”
Colonel Pekka Vuorinen, who had been opening the door to the veranda, hesitated when he heard Rachel’s words and saw the Graf-General’s deepening frown. Rachel noticed the newcomer’s reaction and allowed herself to relax a hair, even though she knew what was about to hit.
“You are out of line, Commander Na Gael,” Joschka started, blue eyes hard, all but shaking his finger at her. “First, the status of other Branches is none of your concern. Second, the secretary specifically requested that members of the German, Polish, and Austrian Branches attend, in part to terminate rumors about the possible dissolution of the German Branch. Third, although you are a civilian, you are also a member of the GDF, and need to conduct yourself appropriately. Especially here! Wandering around in costume may be entertaining, but it does not reflect well on this organization. Am I clear?” but he winked even as he glared at her.
“Yes my lord General,” she murmured, looking repentant and suitably chastised.
“You are dismissed,” he barked. She bowed, turned, and fled as quickly and quietly as possible, brushing past Colonel Vuorinen with a whispered apology.
As she prepared for bed, the reflection in the mirror reminded Rachel of another, even more compelling reason why she needed to keep her feelings for Joschka under control. The matched scars on her chest, back, and flanks stood ropy white against her white skin—or black fur. Another external legacy of the Traders’ attack on her and on the regiment. If the Traders ever suspected that she’d taken a lover—her stomach threatened to lose its contents as she contemplated what her enemies would do to Joschka and his family. A kiss stolen on a veranda was not worth the risk.
Later that night, in his own room, Joschka considered his feelings for Rada. Nine months had passed since Adele’s death, and he still missed her. But he also loved Rada. When they’d been in the Scouts he’d decided that she did not reciprocate his feelings, and he’d put her out of his mind a few years after coming to Earth, long before he met Magda. When next they crossed paths, it was evident that Rada had gone her own way, and while friendly, she made no effort to seek him out again or to intrude into his world. Then Rada had taken the job with the British branch, at his instigation. She’d remained friendly but somewhat distant, not putting herself forward in any way. It was Adele who’d pulled the alien fully back into his life, encouraging “Rachel” to join them that summer and cultivating a warm friendship with the woman.
Looking back, he could see how careful Rada had been, and how hard she’d worked to stay in the role of battle-comrade and advisor. He’d assumed that it was because she’d found someone else, so he’d filed his own thoughts away under “youthful follies.” Until that night in September three years ago, when she’d tried to die and his fear for her had overwhelmed everything else. But he’d loved Adele, and had told himself that his feelings concerning Rada were the same as those he’d have for anyone he’d known for so many years. Now Adele was gone, stolen by a drunk driver. His children and grandchildren were all grown and on their own, and he knew that Rada loved him. And he still loved her. After a year he decided. When a year has passed, and things settle down, and I retire, then there will be nothing to get in the way.
The next morning, just before the start of the first breakout sessions, General Takahara Abe caught Joschka’s eye. “My lord General, I apologize for interruption, but there’s something strange going on that you might be able to direct resources toward solving.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. To be terribly direct, sir, there have been attempts to break into a shrine on Storm Breath Mountain, here on Hokkaido. Normally this would not come under our auspices, but the items held at the shrine are not entir
ely of local manufacture, or so tradition maintains.”
Something made the hair on the back of Joschka’s neck stand up. He raised one finger, stilling the general for a moment. “Your pardon, but just a moment, please,” and he turned to Colonel Vuorinen. “Find Commander Na Gael and bring her here.” As the Finn trotted off, Joschka returned to the Japanese general. “I’m sorry. Continue please, General Takahara.”
“Yes, sir. In addition to the items at the shrine, there are traditions that hold that the god Susanoo frequents the area.” Takahara made a complicated gesture with his hands. “Legends aside, after the first intrusion onto the temple grounds, storms began forming in the area. Now they are constant, alternating between rain and snow, and the prefecture police report seeing strange lights and other phenomena in the area.”
Rachel skidded up just before General Takahara finished the story. “Good. Rachel, do you know anything about imported items of religious interest here,” and Joschka pointed down.
“No, sir, but Dr. Fujimori should.” She rubbed under her eye. “To be honest, sirs, I’m surprised he hasn’t said anything about a disturbance, as much irritation as is buzzing around the air.”
Takahara and Vuorinen gave Rachel strange looks but Joschka just nodded. «You feel it too.»
«Yes, sir. I thought it might be Logres, but the flavor is younger and local.»
The idea that she could “hear” Logres this far from Britain shocked Joschka, but he covered his dismay with a nod. “Perhaps a visit with Dr. Fujimori is in order.” He looked around. “General Takahara, has John Riley from New Zealand met Leijii yet?”
