by Alma Boykin
Only the prospect of a warm bed could induce the well-fed Wanderer to move from the supper table, but move she eventually did. Rachel locked the heavy wooden door, then washed off her cosmetics and put the green-brown contact lenses in their case. She also shifted to her usual form, since the nightgown would hide her tail if she had to evacuate because of a fire alarm. The feather-topped bed felt as good as the meal had tasted and Rachel switched off the light, asleep in a heartbeat.
She woke twice in the night. Each time, she felt as if something watched her, probing her defenses. Rachel lowered her shields very carefully after the second episode and searched, finding nothing. She decided not to worry too much. General Johnny and several other regiment members had mentioned that the Welsh, Cornish, some Scots and the Irish tended to have a higher concentration of psionic gifts than did the English, and she’d probably just felt an untrained mind. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more probable a brush by a still-budding mind seemed. Rachel reset her shields and lapsed into dreams once more.
After a hearty breakfast, Rachel loaded the Marlow, crossed her fingers, wrinkled her nose just so, and whooped with joy when the tetchy beast started on the first try. The car rolled out of the parking area and onto the main road without much fuss, and Rachel felt a little better about the prospects of reaching her destination. She’d planned a slow, winding route, covering the miles between the inn and Snowdonia National Park in a few hours. That gave her four or five hours at the park before she needed to find a hotel room, probably in Bala, a town close enough to the hiking area that she could still reach it if her knee decided to misbehave (or if the Marlow did). A stout westerly wind drove the previous day’s rain clouds away and bright sunshine washed over the green landscape. Gray-black rocks loomed in places as the road dipped and climbed, leading to Snowdonia and Snowdon Mountain, or Yr Wyddfa as the locals called it. Sooner than she’d hoped Rachel and the Marlow trundled into the parking area for the main ranger station.
Rachel studied the map boards carefully, looking at what she could do and where she could go. Snow already closed the last approaches to the peak, and she’d not brought heavy climbing gear, anyway. However, she could certainly hike as far up the Ranger Trail as Colgwyn Du’r Arddu, the black cliffs. Time en route also mattered: according to the clock, it was already 10:00 AM, with sunset at around 1700, and the shorter distance meant that she’d not be coming down in the semi-dark. “Can I help you?” a woman inquired from behind Rachel as she traced the route with a finger.
“I’m not sure,” Rachel began. “Exactly how difficult is the Ranger Trail, just as far as Colgwin Du’r Arddu? I’m used to some rock scrambling and long walks,” she added.
The short, fair-haired young woman nodded. “It should not be too physically difficult, if you are used to steep slopes. But the trail is slippery after yesterday’s rain. Do you have stout boots?” Rachel lifted her foot and showed the ranger a sturdy brown boot. “That’s good. We have maps over here and you really should get one, because the trail is not absolutely clear in some places and you need to beware of trespassing onto private farmland. The weather can be changeable, so you’d best have layers with you.”
Rachel trailed the woman over to the book and map shelves and got two maps and a general “Guide to Snowdonia’s Peaks and Walks.” She forbore to mention that she lived in the mountains, or rather in the foothills, at an elevation higher than the top of Yr Wyddfa, so she knew all about mountain weather. After paying, Rachel visited the loo and then filled two water bottles from the potable water spigot outside. She still had a full flask of hot tea from the inn, and Rachel suspected that she’d have more trouble finding places to get rid of water than with obtaining water.
Rachel reached the Llyn Cwellen car park on the mountain’s western foot around 1130, eager to be off. The sky remained clear, although she noticed a few bits of cloud snagged on the peak to the south. She shrugged: typical mountain weather. She loaded a rucksack with water, nibbles, a raincoat, and a heavier coat, visited the loo at the car park, and set out towards the snow draped peaks of the old volcano. It felt good to stretch her legs after the previous day’s drive. The first mile passed at a steady but easy climb and she found a rhythm. “Step, clack, step, step, clack, step,” she made her way past an old farm house, through several pastures and up the trail as it zig-zagged back and forth across the slope. Every so often she paused, looking back at the lake and the peak of Mynydd Mawr across the blue waters.
Rachel stopped beside a pond for a bite to eat and to rest her leg. A hint of wind stirred the low plants around her and she shivered as the breeze’s cold finger touched the back of her neck. The sun, low on the southern horizon, didn’t add much heat to the air. The trail guide gave the name of the pond as “the lake of the servant’s spring,” after someone who supposedly died while washing sheep in the lake. The Welsh seemed absolutely poetic compared to the English, Rachel noted, rather like the Azdhagi and their descriptive toponyms. At least this one’s not names for Arthur, she thought. That Arthur person and his Merlin friend must have done nothing but sleep and eat on rocks in this county! She was a bit disappointed that she’d miss the lake where Arthur or some other mythical person drowned the giant beaver monster. She’d like to see if it looked like the giant red beaver monster from Kintergan Alpha.
Once Rachel passed the pond, conditions deteriorated. The trail grew steep and loose underfoot as it wound out of the meadows and onto Yr Wyddfa’s rocky shoulder. Rachel slowed down, taking her time as she climbed higher and higher. She still felt fine, at least physically. But her mental senses shifted to high alert as something put light and intermittent pressure on her defenses, as if testing or scanning her shields. The wind grew stronger and started blowing up from the valley. Rachel dug her coat out of the pack. The gravely trail became slick, still damp from the rain and snow, and Rachel looked carefully at each step. The thought of driving the Marlow with a cast on her leg did not appeal to her in the slightest!
The weather turned just as Rachel reached Clogwyn Du’r Arddu. Bitter cold wind screamed over the trail and down the Black Cliffs beyond. Clouds appeared, moving rapidly from the south and burying everything in stinging mist. Rachel started to reverse her steps and had walked three or four paces back down the trail when her skin began tingling and she heard a rumble like thunder. “Oh no. Blessed Bookkeeper, not a lightening storm!” She’d be the tallest thing around if she stayed on the trail, so she bolted for cover as soon as she saw two clusters of rocks. The lower ones formed a sheltered nook and Rachel dove in.
When she did, the alien felt something surging in triumph. “Who’s there,” Rachel demanded, raising her shields again. Instead of words, emotions slammed into her, easily breaking through to her mind. She gasped with shock so strong that it stole her very breath. “What are you?”
Something ancient replied to her cry: something almost as old as the rocks of Yr Wyddfa. It was. It flowed through the island, alive and yet different from living things. Part of the power of life in the islands, it exited both inside and outside the energy flows, shaping but not directing, part of the very fabric of the landscape and yet a separate being. Neither immortal nor a god, it still might live as long as the rocks and rivers lived. It watched the island and sometimes acted. And it wanted her.
She felt the voice as much as heard it, and the pure power of the years behind the words drove her from her knees to her belly. “You have the strength needed. Give me your form.” There was much more behind the words: the speaker wanted to live through her senses as well as its own, to use her as its voice and hands during the dark days of the year, during the season humans called winter, when so much of life slept. The being acknowledged her alien nature and ignored it; her outcast hybridity mattered not to the Power of the Isle of the Mighty.
“For what? What exchange?” Rachel whispered, then gasped as an intoxicating surge of energy erupted from the very stones around her. The energy would be hers to use when
the speaker overshadowed her during the times of cold and dark. Nothing could drain her; nothing could exhaust her Gifts except her own physical limits. She would literally be one of the most power-full creatures on the planet. Part of Rachel cowered from all the possibilities but even more of her reached for the energy like a starving woman reaches for food, not thinking of the consequences. “Yes.”
Fire and ice, rushing water and hurricane winds poured into her core and Rada must have screamed. But her mortal self couldn’t tolerate knowing and it retreated, hiding in a private corner of her mind as the Power of the Isle of the Mighty took over her body. Rada felt the island, tasted the millennia of accumulated life energy flowing under and through the bones of the land. The minds of the creatures living on Britain glowed, dots of awareness, some brighter than others. She located her opposite, the Summer Guardian. He acknowledged her presence, saluting his fellow warder. She had become part of the fabric of the land, half of the whole, bound to the island for half the year. Rada was winter’s killing cold and the fire of battle. She was the white of snow and the black of the ravens that fed on the dead, the light of the winter stars and the dark depths of the longest night. She was one of two in the island, one of a thousand in the world. The entity she would come to call Logres expressed its approval of its new vessel and then retreated.
When Rada came to herself again, she lay on damp grass near the rocks, exhausted yet almost glowing from the energy now at her command. “Dead, mad, or a poet,” were the fates awaiting anyone who slept by the rocks of Moen Du’r Arddu at the foot of Clogwyn Du’r Arddu, and she wondered giddily which she was. Rada felt a rock digging her side, and the stones of the old mountain, and the trees as they swayed in the fading wind, and the wind ruffled waters of the lakes around Yr Wyddfa, and more. With a gasp she shoved the awareness away, fighting to reclaim her own mind. The internal storm faded with the storm outside, leaving her exhausted and energized both. “What have I done?” she whispered to the rocks and empty air. “Paymaster’s Purse, but what have I done?”
“How was you vacation?” General Johnny inquired when she returned his keys and the change three days later.
The xenologist considered, sifting her memories for the safest answer. I’m now part of one of the most powerful creatures on your planet for half of your year? Now I understand exactly what Joschka and Magda could never quite explain? I can no longer leave Britain for more than a few weeks of your time at most, and those only in summer? That’s probably not what you want to hear or know, General Johnny, even with your gifts and esoteric knowledge. She settled for saying, “It was educational. I saw a lot of lovely country and met some nice natives. Your car behaved itself, mostly.” Rachel stopped, unwilling to go farther. A presence shifted at the edge of her mind, weighing the English officer before lapsing back into quiet watching.
“Did it? That’s good to hear. You’ll find a list of things to correct on your desk. And General Mundy was not amused by your using an air-horn mounted at ear level as a burglar alarm, Commander Na Gael,” Eastman informed her sternly, and then winked.
“Then he should not have forced the lock on my quarters, with all due respect to the general, sir,” she riposted. And winked in return. Logres swirled briefly as if puzzled by their silent laughter before fading again.
Bonus Section: Excerpt from Hubris, a novel in the
Cat Among Dragons Universe
In the Beginning . . .
Central City, Sseekhala, Drakon IV, 89 BGR (2569 Old Style)
It all comes to this. Please may he grant permission, please.
Maker Seeri studied the ancient reception chamber, trying to master her excitement and fear. Almost a thousand years of accidental scratches had turned the soapstone flags grey, and Seeri lifted her forefoot talons, resting her weight on her palms and grip-toes. She heard a door open and felt a puff of hot, dry-season air from outside blow into the chamber, carrying the scents of fire-bloom trees and dust. The wind fluttered the wall hangings as someone stepped on the light colored wood of the dais at the front of the chamber. Seeri dropped into a bow as King Laski entered the chamber.
The large male lumbered across the dais and settled onto the padded bench. “You may rise,” he grated, voice harsh from drinking the prickle-bark extract needed to keep his joint pain at bay. Laski’s steel-tipped neck-spines glittered in the dim lights, as did the silver woven into the collar of his light robe. The grey-and-green blotched male arranged his muscular tail to suit him. “You have a request, Maker Seeri?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. My research team and I have discovered a way to help Azdhagi grow stronger and better suited to maintaining the empire which you and your sires have created.” She struggled to keep her tail from trembling and revealing her nerves.
“Indeed. Is this technology or biology, Maker Seeri?” Laski tipped his head to the side, signaling intense interest.
“Biology, Your Majesty. We have found, and tested on animals and clone samples, a process to make Azdhagi generate their own body heat. We will no longer depend on heat-vests or be limited to tropical and hot-desert worlds.”
King Laski hated weakness, species-wide or individual, and Maker Seeri’s words brought a rare smile to his muzzle. The old reptile signaled for the female scientist to continue her explanation when she hesitated.
“Yes, sire,” and she took a deep breath to help her concentrate. This was no time to lose her composure—she’d worked too hard to reach this moment! “The expansion of Azdhagia’s presence into other star systems has, as you of all people are most aware, revealed both difficulties and possibilities for us. Difficulties in adapting to cooler climate regimes and limited fuel supplies have slowed colonization. We also have a slight disadvantage when dealing with groups such as Traders or True-dragons because of their telepathy. What my team found could change both of those potential liabilities into assets.”
“How, Maker Seeri?”
“Azdhagi posses a latent capability for energy manipulation, specifically telepathy and healing. There may be some temporal potential as well, but probably not enough to make concrete use of at the moment,” Seeri explained.
King Laski’s tail flicked with impatience. “If we have the potential, how do we put it to use, and why has it never been seen before?”
“Because the genes are hidden, your majesty. By that I mean that we, the Makers, looked for individual bits of genetic material. However, these are part of another gene, not separate. In this case, they are matched with metabolism, which makes sense,” she started to lecture.
Laski cut her off. “Yes, yes, telepathy and those other things are just forms of energy use and manipulation. Everyone knows that. Track me to your prey, Maker Seeri.”
“Your pardon, Majesty. You are much better informed than most,” and Seeri bowed at the correction before continuing. “What I propose is a very minor manipulation of Azdhag genetic coding. Nothing major, nothing that will cause problems or that will weaken us.” Seeri watched her monarch closely as she continued, “The effects will be two-fold. First, the improved metabolism allows us to deal better with cool temperatures. Instead of remaining somewhat dependent on external heat, Azdhagi will generate more of our own energy from food, especially from high–protein sources such as goldgrain and meat. Second, some Azdhagi will be able to use the additional internal energy to speak mind-to-mind, or to manipulate tissue with mental energy. What is already developing among the Azdhagi will simply accelerate, your majesty. We are not introducing anything new.” She stopped to let Laski process the information.
He rubbed under his muzzle with a brittle talon. All his life he’d envied the True-dragons and their ability to speak silently. The tactical advantages were enormous! Healing would be useful, but healers were rare and purportedly fragile. But not having to wear a heat-vest, or to consume so much power warming buildings and vehicles on the colony worlds, or in space for that matter, presented several advantages. However . . . “What are the possible comp
lications of this, Seeri?”
“Death, of course, your majesty, but that is unlikely. We are not doing anything new, just modifying part of something that already exists, much like breeding stronger grain stems.” Seeri counted off on her strong-side forefoot talons, “There may be some failures in the first and second generations. First generation from reactions to the material used to modify the gene and from random failures, just as some females lose clutches today. Second, there may be genetic combinations that cause the process to go awry in the second generation. They should be few, because of the precautions the Makers will take, and no problems will arise after the third generation. The improvements will start appearing in the second generation, your majesty.” She anticipated her king’s next question, and added, “A five percent death rate at most, your majesty, and that includes problems with juniors as well as reactions among the adults.”
Five percent loss for a very serious gain, Laski thought. What about testing, though? Did he want them to try on prisoners first? “How will the genetic changes be introduced?”
“Into fertile females, using their own fertilized eggs. After the first generation, both sexes will carry the improvement and be able to transmit it, your majesty.”
Damn. That eliminated using prisoners as test subjects, Laski winced, since all incarcerated Azdhagi received chemical contraceptives for the duration of their sentences. And most were male. But the process had worked on cloned tissue, and that remained the final test, he reminded himself. Laski decided. “Very well. I approve of this project, on the condition that only volunteers are allowed to participate, and if one of the Clan heads refuses, the Makers will not approach any of the Clan members privately.” He could not lose the support of the nobles, not yet. The last thing his heir needed was a Clan war on top of the colonial battles. The northern continent would be enough of a mouthful to bite into, the old monarch reminded himself, then herded his thoughts back onto the proper trail.
