Promises and Powers (A Cat Among Dragons Book 4)
Page 6
That’s a terrifying prospect, Eastman thought behind his mental walls. We’ve got a lot to learn. “Ah, that’s . . . interesting Commander Na Gael. With that in mind, I do not see your being permitted to defend yourself as being a problem, so long as you follow the GDF’s rules for weapons qualifications and certifications.”
She smiled, the warrior hidden again behind a cheerful mask. “Thank you, sir. I promise, I always do my best to abide by local rules for weapons and self-defense.”
“Is there anything else that needs to be modified or adjusted, based on what you know?”
The woman tidied the pages and handed them back, minus the signature page. “Not at all. Shall I sign, and your paperwork person can fill in the name blanks later?”
“Yes, please.” Eastman felt a weight lifting off his shoulders as she scrawled an unreadable series of marks, followed by a rather neater rendition of “Rachel Na Gael.”
Once again Eastman extended his hand, smiling. This time Commander Na Gael took it and smiled in return, “I would be delighted to work with you, General Eastman.”
“Good. Than I want you to have dinner with me and my staff in the officers’ mess, Commander.” He hesitated. “What shall we call, you? Miss or Commander?”
“I’ve been called Commander for a number of years, sir, and I’ll answer faster to that than I would to ‘Miss.’ And doesn’t your Royal Navy have female medical personnel?” she queried.
“Yes, it does. Which explains the rank and the medical training. I’ll have the proper paperwork for ‘Commander Rachel Na Gael, R. N. retired’ appear in the proper files by next week. When can you start?” He opened the door for her.
“As soon as you get any necessary approvals, sir. I don’t have other responsibilities at this moment.” The joys of time travel capability she thought very far behind her shields. “And I don’t have many possessions to move.”
Epilogue:
“And so I now have a job again. Another job,” Rada added hastily, as her Boss snorted.
<
“But you will anyway, silver dancer,” and the woman tweaked the dragon’s tail with her free hand, drawing a snort and stinging swat. “Hey!”
<
“There is one thing that Joschka wasn’t completely honest about, Zabet,” the Commander said hesitantly, after a few minutes. “There’s more physical danger involved than his message suggested.”
The shower of sand terminated abruptly as Zabet rolled upright, reaching a forefoot out to her pilot and partner. <>
The mammal nodded and took the forefoot, helping Zabet out of the sandbath. “Remind me how one divides nothing?”
That earned her another tail swat, lighter this time. <
The woman picked up the heavy basket. “Lead on.”
Zabet nudged her friend. <
Rada smiled. “Thank you. And thanks for being so understanding. Um, is all this yours?” She hefted the basket, which clinked a little.
<
“That would tend to injure one’s reputation for generosity, yes,” the mammal allowed, tone dry as dust.
Zabet shook her head and sighed, loudly. <
Her partner chuckled and rolled her eye. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. Do I smell fish in here?”
<
“Deal!”
Two thousand or so years earlier, a human-looking man with chestnut hair and bright blue eyes chuckled at Jonathon Eastman’s promise of revenge and looked forward to seeing more of a very old friend, even if it was on a strictly professional basis.
Chapter Three: Green Paws
September 1983
The mysterious parcel in plain brown wrappings contained a stack of gardening catalogues, much to the disappointment of the more prurient in the group. Specifically, rose catalogues from all over Britain and Europe, with a few American volumes just for variety. Brigadier General Jonathon “Johnny” Eastman laughed when he heard the news. “Well, I was cautioned that she is eccentric. I’d rather her eccentricities were something harmless, like roses, than other things that come to mind.”
Lt. Col. Andrew McArthur, the 58th Regiment’s executive officer, glanced over at the headline on the Times about the latest cabinet member caught doing naughty things with questionable companionship and had to agree. “She does have a valid point about concealing the buildings, unfortunately.”
When the 58th Regiment of Foot, also known as the British branch of the Global Defense Force, formed, it had been headquartered at a Royal Air Force base near Saffron Waldron. Questions of budgets, access, security clearances, and the presence of non-British military personnel on a British installation soon led to friendly discussions that heated into spats followed by borderline hostility. So the 58th obtained permission and funds from both Vienna and Horseguards in London to establish a separate regional headquarters. The new facility’s composition and much better, more central location quickly proved themselves vastly superior to the original ad hoc arrangement.
However, the architects designed the facility to blend in with the surroundings not through the use of camouflage, disruptive paint, building everything underground, or anything else that Eastman and McArthur considered sensible. Instead, the complex sat back far enough from roads that no casual passer-by could tell it was much of anything, and local gossips maintained that the new buildings held a mental hospital or new-age health retreat center of some sort. Privately, Eastman thought that the first guess seemed fairly accurate and he quietly encouraged the rumor. The base’s vehicles used a back exit that put them on the road leading past an existing Army depot, providing even more cover for the new facility. But the footprint of the headquarters complex baffled the soldiers, because when seen from above, the buildings looked suspiciously like a country house or manor, down to the orangery-patterned laboratory wing. The motor pool building appeared identical to the mews behind Castle Howard. A sea of sward surrounded the agglomeration and the first time he visited the unfinished complex Eastman had inquired if sheep came with the package. They did not, as it proved. He supposed that over time the place would stop looking so odd, but at the moment it still stuck out too much for his comfort, even from the front gates.
The regiment’s new xenology specialist caught the problem the first time that she saw aerial photographs of the installation. “Where are the trees and bushes and so on? Don’t you always stick plants around these sorts of places?”
Once she pointed it out, the staff officers had wondered why they had not seen it themselves. The concert of groans grew louder when they realized that there was nothing in the budget for landscaping besides basic maintenance. “We’ll think of something,” Captain Charles Wormly said at last. “That’s what we English do, after all.” Indeed, the senior NCOs decided that digging holes for young trees provided an excellent way for people to work off excess energy. A friend of a friend’s relative gave Wormly the name of a nursery that had succumbed to bad management and the regiment scraped together enough funds to buy fifty young oak, beech, and other trees to line the drive with. The excess stood in various clumps and rows around the property
, the foundation of whatever landscaping developed over time.
Pulling his mind back to more cogent concerns, Eastman leaned forward, resting an elbow on his desk. “So what else has Cdr. Na Gael been up to?”
McArthur shook his head. “Interior decorating. She’s arranged that odd space above the lab into an efficiency apartment.” Eastman gave him a puzzled look and his exec translated into British English, “a studio flat. And she identified those odd rocks that were sent here last week.” The American ruffled through some papers, “They are plant spores, not rocks. The good news is that whatever it is needs more methane in the atmosphere to sprout, because apparently they can take over a planet rather quickly. ‘Interstellar kudzu’ is what she called it.”
“She really compared it to kudzu?”
McArthur nodded, “Yes, sir. She’s been studying very hard to try and blend in with ‘normal people.’ And for an academic, she seems fairly well adjusted. Especially compared to . . .” He let his voice trail off because Eastman was nodding in turn. The Russians’ xenologist had struck both men as being a little odd when they’d met him at a conference the previous year. The daily global update had brought news that he had gone completely ‘round the bend’ and was now in a mental hospital. “Aside from occasionally swearing under her breath in a strange language, she seems to be fitting in very well.”
Since one heard ‘swearing under his breath in a strange language’ around the regiment on a daily basis, General Eastman could ignore it. On the one mission the xenologist had participated in thus far, she had not cursed, raised her voice, or looked anything more than mildly irritated.
As the two soldiers moved on to other business, the person in question studied her new quarters with great satisfaction. No one had quite been able to sort out why the builders had put a fireplace in the first-floor storage area, unless it was to hide an excess item, but Commander “Rachel Na Gael” had turned the room into a very nice, if minimal, flat. It had taken some creative disassembly and engineering to get two large double-sided bookcases, a table and chairs, and a sort of bed up into the “storage area.” The one-eyed female studied the results and decided that she was satisfied, for the moment. The lack of light fixtures would probably worry the humans but she didn’t need that much light, and the presence of a small WC and a hidden exit made up for the inconvenience. And it’s all mine—no one strolling into the public quarters looking for me, no orderly oh-so-respectfully dragging me off my sleeping platform with a message that could have waited until after 0500! Well, maybe not the last: this was a military base and events of interest did not confine themselves to the hours of 0800-1600, Monday through Friday. “Rachel” was especially pleased with the item tucked into the corner of the room near the tiny WC.
She’d always wanted a bed-nest and now she had one. The contraption resembled a large wooden box covered and lined in heavy wickerwork. Inside was a very good mattress and bolster pillows, along with a duvet and some feather blankets and quilted blankets. Last night Rachel had curled up in it and had slept quite well indeed. She preferred being at least partly enclosed when she slept, probably a legacy of both Ka’atian sleeping nests and of a couple centuries of napping in starship bunks. In fact, she grinned, if she didn’t get herself downstairs and back to work, she’d be taking a nap in an instant!
The next morning General Eastman walked into the indoor physical fitness area for his daily work out. He found a group of soldiers and officers standing on the edge of the unarmed combat practice mats, obviously enthralled with something going on out of Eastman’s sight. Curious, he eased up and peered over the shoulder of one of the female lieutenants just in time to watch Captain Escher land with a hard “thud” as his opponent somehow swept his legs out from under him while flipping him from the shoulder. Before the Dane could get his breath back, his opponent’s hands were on his throat. The man slapped the floor and the woman sprang back, hands clear and giving him room to sit up. Escher took a breath, coughed and shook his head. “I believe you, Commander. It’s not physically possible, but I believe you!”
The small woman shook her head in turn. “It’s all a question of leverage and timing.”
The sergeant in charge of unarmed combat training snorted. “With all due respect, ma’am, there’s more than just leverage in that throw.”
“All right, so I did lift him a little. Which just strengthens my argument, Sergeant McCubbin: leverage, timing, and a little strength.” The woman shrugged, as if any crippled, half-blind person who weighed no more than 60 kg soaking wet could flip and immobilize an attacker.
She nodded politely to the newest member of the fascinated group. “Good morning, sir,” and eased off towards the side of the mats. The edge of her mouth quirked into a grin at the flurry of motion as her audience realized who “sir” was. If it had not been for the rules about not saluting while out of uniform, while in the gymnasium et cetera, several people would have knocked themselves senseless. Rachel used the distraction to grab her jacket and sneak away. She wanted to get a quick wash before breakfast.
The display left Eastman both impressed and mildly irritated. There was nothing in the regulations that would prevent Rachel from using the training facilities, but he wasn’t certain that he wanted her injuring herself further. The general caught McCubbin’s eye.
“Sir?” the NCO asked, one eye on Eastman and the other watching Commander Na Gael as she snuck out of the room.
“What was that about?”
McCubbin explained, “Well, Sir, Captain Escher didn’t believe that Miss Na Gael had really bench-pressed fifty kilos. He also expressed doubts as to whether she could defend herself, should the occasion arise. Miss Na Gael,” he tipped his head towards the door, “insisted that she could and offered to prove her skills. She sorted him out right handily, but the captain insisted that she had used some sort of trick. I asked her to slow down her sequence of moves, if she could, and to repeat the exercise if the captain was willing. He was and you saw the results, sir.”
The black-haired brigadier looked from the instructor to the weight benches and back. “She benched fifty kilos?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then flipped Escher twice?”
The sergeant’s green eyes gleamed, “Yes, sir. Right neatly, too. I want to see if she can teach me how she did it.”
Eastman decided to be impressed. “A very good idea, Sergeant,” and turned to his own work out. After some thought interspersed with imprecations at how out of shape he was getting, he conceded to himself that it might not be such a bad idea for Commander Na Gael to be able to defend herself after all. Although she was not supposed to go into the field, she had already and it was quite obvious that she was used to taking care of herself in tight situations.
The general cornered her at breakfast. Eastman, a firm believer in starting the day well, counted no less than three strips of bacon, three sausages, kidney, several eggs, plus mushrooms, stewed tomatoes, and a large glass of milk. “That’s a lot of food, Commander Na Gael.”
She nodded before swallowing. “Yes, sir. I believe in big breakfasts. And dinners.”
“Why?” he inquired quietly.
<
She was not laughing four weeks later as she looked at the papers from the Exchequer office demanding her taxpayer information. Captain Elizabeth FitzWarren happened to be delivering a box of samples for testing when she heard Commander Na Gael cursing eloquently, forcefully, and creatively. Commander Na Gael’s attire also impressed FitzWarren, and she thought as she set the box on the desk near the door that if any male in the facility saw the xenologist, absolutely no work would get done that day, even if
aliens attacked the building!
For her part Rachel was more concerned about the major problem posed by the tax letter. If boiled down to a rather simple and serious security question: should she exist?
If she did, then she would have to create a full set of appropriate supporting documents and develop a solid story that she could defend against all challenges. And someone who decided to track down her place of birth and her family would discover that no one remembered her, no records existed in the parish or county archives, no one would remember having served with her in the Navy . . . “Oh drat. I’m in the bloody tech window,” Rachel grumbled. Enough computerization existed to make research easy, but not so much that governments relied upon it exclusively. Any earlier and she could simply slip material into the appropriate places, while adding a data set to government files became laughingly easy after 2060 or so.
However, if she did not exist, there remained the entire matter of paychecks. I am NOT working for free, period, end of discussion, she thought. I’m a mercenary, not an altruist. And security permits, and driving licenses as well, Rachel recalled. “Oh bloody hell,” the woman snarled. “I hate tax collectors.” And with that she put the matter out of her mind for the moment, gathered her papers and strolled out of the lab to go attend a staff meeting.
“You do realize that this is impossible,” Lt. Col. MacArthur stated an hour or so later, waving his hand toward the list of known extraterrestrial visitations, probes and “incidents.”
Jonathon Eastman sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “How so? That seems rather conclusively possible to me,” and he tapped the offending list.
“The statistical probability of this many contacts with intelligent extraterrestrials is so small that this can’t really be happening,” the American explained. “Everyone knows that the Drake Equation shows only a few other intelligent species exist out there that could possibly be capable of contacting us, let alone coming to visit.”