by Alma Boykin
“Yes, sir.” The pin backs were different than those of the last insignia she’d pinned on, but the placing never changed. She set the lozenge into position and then stepped back, smiling. McKendrick saluted and then offered Khan his hand while Rachel smiled broadly. “Congratulations Brigadier,” she said, adding silently, «You’ve done very well, my friend.»
Rahoul blinked against a sudden irritation in his eyes. The alien had been one of the few constants in his career, and he wondered if she knew how much her words meant to him. “Thank you, Commander,” he replied in English.
She started to turn, leaving the platform to the general officers, when McKendrick cleared his throat. “Not so fast, Commander Rachel Na Gael.” As the two men had planned, Rahoul stepped back a little. Rachel seemed mildly concerned, and it was Rahoul’s turn to smother a comment. McKendrick looked out over the gathered men and women. “You all are aware that Commander Na Gael is the longest-serving xenology specialist in the Global Defense Force. In her many years of service she has demonstrated both unfailing excellence and a commitment to the men and women she serves with that exemplifies the highest standards of conduct, military or civilian. What you do not know is that, per her contract, Rachel cannot be given any awards for, or recognition of, her service, even when her actions go far above and beyond the call of duty.” Khan watched a ripple of surprise and anger flow through the soldiers at McKendrick’s words. “There was a good reason for that provision at the time when she began working here. However, that time has passed.
“We still cannot give you official recognition, however much you may deserve it, Commander Na Gael. However, we can say this—thank you.” McKendrick stepped back to join Rahoul as the men and women came to their feet, clapping and cheering. Rachel flushed deep crimson, then returned to her usual pallor as the wave of sound continued rolling through the briefing theater.
She lifted her hands in surrender, and the noise gradually subsided. “All right, all right, I give in. I will not bite the ankles of the next person I catch ‘borrowing’ roses for their significant other, nor will I plant any aubergines.” Laughter replaced applause, and she continued. “Thank you. But I’m just part of the team. The odd part, granted,” and she turned and flashed a wicked grin at the two general officers, “but only part of the larger group. None of us can do what we do without the others. But thank you. Now, do I get my raise?” she finished plaintively, drawing more laughter, as well as applause.
With no more business, McKendrick dismissed the gathering. To both Rahoul and Rachel’s relief, everyone seemed to have pressing concerns elsewhere, and only a few people lingered to offer congratulations and comments. As usual, the Wanderer vanished as soon as possible. “Thank you for sharing the limelight,” McKendrick told Rahoul later.
“You’re welcome, sir. I think that did Rachel as much good as anything.”
McKendrick nodded. “We take her for granted, in part because I suspect she wants it that way.”
“You’re right, sir. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s never sought recognition or acknowledgment.” Rahoul hunted up a memory. “Quite a while ago she told me that the GDF gave her what she’d always wanted—shelter and a place to play in the dirt. It still seems to be true.”
“That sounds like her,” the older man agreed with a chuckle. “Even Knox won’t touch the roses!”
A few days later, Rachel was finishing her quarterly budget report, including her perpetual, “and more money would be nice, please,” when the intercom buzzed. “Laboratory,” she answered.
“Ah, Commander? Sergeant St. John. You need to come out to the glasshouse, ma’am.”
“Is there a problem, Sergeant?”
“I can’t tell, ma’am, but you’d probably better see for yourself.”
That didn’t sound auspicious. Rachel groaned, and signed off, then grabbed her walking stick and hurried out the back door of the lab. It was a beautiful spring afternoon, warm and sunny enough to be pleasant, and still early enough in the season that the mosquitoes, midges, and gnats remained at tolerable levels. The roses were well into their second bloom, and Rachel smiled as she lightly brushed one especially precocious, creamy orange bloom with her fingers. It was a hybrid she’d developed, which she’d dubbed “Magda,” after a deceased friend. Then she remembered the glasshouse.
As the Wanderer rounded the corner, she picked up the pace, because the doors were open and several dozens of the larger potted plants had been moved outside. And not by her, which could only mean that there was a problem. At least they were the hardiest plants, some of which needed to be relocated to the veggie garden anyway. People were moving around in the glasshouse, another sign that all was not well. Oh no. Oh I hope it’s not something with the roof that will mean having to move the greenhouse. The structure had been built over the heat exhaust vents for the underground parts of the headquarters building, and if there was a problem, it meant clearing out and moving the glass-roofed and -walled shed.
Rachel stopped to check the plants now basking in the sun, then hurried into the warm building. A dozen or so smiling faces met her and she froze as someone called out “Happy Birthday, Commander.” The gathered soldiers laughed at the stunned expression on their colleague’s face as she beheld a large birthday gateau, cards, and wrapped boxes, all taking up space normally occupied by herbs and veggies.
“I, what, um, I . . .” she spluttered as someone handed her a glass of sparkling fruit juice. She took it automatically, and McKendrick and Rahoul smiled broadly. “But it’s not my birthday,” Rachel started.
“Oh really? How do you know it’s not?” McKendrick challenged.
“You told me last October that you don’t know when you were born,” Captain ben David reminded her. “And said that I could pick a date in spring—so I did.”
First Sergeant Anthony Lee nodded from his lean height. “And it’s about time you got some fussing over, with all due respect, ma’am.”
Rachel shook her head, then grinned sheepishly. “I learned early on that one can argue with officers, but never, ever with NCOs. I give in.” The two general officers exchanged weary looks, then joined in the laughter.
Colour Sergeant St. John handed Rachel a cake knife. “The ordinance disposal people vetoed candles,” she explained, pointing at the large pastry.
Rachel did the honors and discovered a four-layer chocolate and vanilla gateau. She soon found herself ensconced on a bench as the others helped themselves. She couldn’t quite believe all the fuss, but decided to enjoy it, as long as no plants got flattened. The gift packages contained jerky and dried beef, a gift certificate to a garden supply company, and two boxes of “extra-large flea collars?” Indignant, she glared around at the laughing humans, none of whom would admit to having any idea where the offending items came from.
The generals excused themselves after a few minutes. Rahoul felt a pang at having to go, but that was part of the price of rank. He would catch her later. As they walked through the lovely afternoon sunshine, McKendrick asked, “Rahoul, how long have you known Rachel?”
“Twenty years or so, sir?” He chuckled, “Sometimes it feels longer.”
The Scotsman nodded his hearty agreement. “Maybe you can tell me, then. What is it about her that makes so many of the men and women here so fond of her? I’ve been watching it for almost three years and I still can’t put my finger on it,” he admitted. “She’s not particularly friendly, she stays well within the bounds of military etiquette, and apparently she’s flayed at least one junior officer alive with her tongue, although no one’s said anything within my hearing.”
“If she did that, sir, then that makes two. She quietly, eloquently, and forcefully shredded a second lieutenant about five years ago after he called her an inappropriate name and propositioned her,” Rahoul said as he got the door. After a bit of hesitation, he said, “I think it’s a combination of things, sir. She does have a sort of charisma, and until last month even I’d never seen h
er doubt herself in public. Plus she’s so very rarely wrong, but freely admits it when she is. And there’s this, sir,” he added after a pause while they went in to McKendrick’s office. “Even though she comes across as distant and sarcastic, if people go to her for help, she gives it freely—and a lot more patiently than you might think. Captain ben David, Major de Alba, Lt. Cluj, Sergeant Lee, Sergeant Patel—they’ve all mentioned how she’s helped or encouraged them, and I’d be willing to wager they aren’t the only ones.” She certainly taught me a lot over the years, he added silently.
McKendrick considered his successor’s words. “And she keeps going. You can’t tell me that her injuries don’t cause her problems, even though she can hide it and compensates very well. Rachel slept in the lab for the first week after we got back from Germany because she couldn’t manage the stairs.” The stocky man took off his glasses and smiled at the memory of finding her curled up on a pile of cushions beside her desk one night, sound asleep. Rahoul shook his head at the thought. “Well, whatever she has, I wish I could bottle and sell it to other officers. I’d make my fortune and retire.”
“You could probably buy a nice tropical island, as much as some people would be willing to pay, sir.”
“On a more serious note, you need to look at this.” McKendrick handed the South Asian officer a sheaf of pages. The two men soon lost themselves in their work.
Meanwhile, in an old stone and wood fortress-house in the Austrian Tyrol, General Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg shut down his computer with a sigh of relief. He hated taxes, hated account books, and detested paperwork. Many years ago, he’d observed to his first wife that nowhere in draconic tales did one find a Minister of Finance or a Tax Office. Magda, God rest her soul, had laughed at him. The aging HalfDragon finished organizing the requisite paperwork and filed everything away in his office. As he did, he found a yellowing envelope with what looked like scribbles on the front. “Where did you come from?” he asked quietly, instinctively glancing around before opening it.
Inside was a flat hologram of three people in grey-and-black uniforms, all smiling and raising mugs of something. One was a well-built but not overly tall human-looking male with brown hair, blue eyes, and a broad smile. The male on the right was over two meters tall—a reptile with brownish scales that shaded to green on his hands and the top of his head, and whose flattened muzzle sported a grin. A small, laughing felinoid woman stood between them, her brown-black hair cut level with where the bottoms of a human’s ears would be and her black furry tail wrapping around the front of her legs. “Blessed Saint Leopold! I thought you’d vanished,” Joschka breathed, staring at the centuries-old picture.
Before sunrise the next morning, Rachel was checking her e-mail and noticed a file with an attachment entitled “Remember when?” She opened the image and almost fell out of her seat. “Blessed Bookkeeper! We look so young!” Well, they had been. Captain Yori dar Ohrkan (newly promoted), Captain Rada Ni Drako, and Major Solimon Ssilliar (also newly promoted) hoisted their glasses on the patio of The Runaway Comet, the Scouts’ preferred off-base bar. She was so lost in memories that she didn’t hear Rahoul Khan come into the lab until he gasped in surprise.
“That’s you!”
“Yes, it is. I was only two-hundred years old or so, and if not bullet proof, I was at least damn near infallible.” She leaned back in her chair and grinned up at the human. “Gawd, but those were the days! I wouldn’t relive them for all the gold on this planet and I wouldn’t trade the memories for anything in this Universe.” Rachel blanked the computer screen. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“You can show me that unarmed combat trick you use on larger opponents, Commander. The last time I tried it, I almost dislocated my shoulder,” he said, backing up to give her room to stand. She was already dressed for a workout, and she selected a walking-cane from out of the umbrella-stand beside her desk.
“Very good, sir.” She followed him out of the lab, wondering if he’d recognized the humanoid male standing beside her in the picture. Probably not, she decided.
For his part, Rahoul wondered if he should mention how much the man looked like a very young Graf-General Joschka von Hohen-Drachenburg. No, it doesn’t matter, and she needs her secrets. That reminded him: she also needed time off, but he wasn’t certain how to convince her to go on leave without getting that sword-cane through his midsection, or a set of bruises in places that weren’t supposed to be able to bruise. He mulled over his options as they walked through the morning-quiet hallways.
The sound brought Commander Rada Lord Ni Drako to her feet from a dead sleep, blaster in hand. She crossed the distance between her sleeping platform and the window in two jumps, then stopped just out of easy blaster shot from the courtyard. Rada peered into the darkness.
Ten meters below her quarters, a pair of Azdhag males circled on the stones of the courtyard, neck spines up, muzzles open to show their teeth. The strange hissing growl that had brought Rada running grew louder, then faded. She looked away from the males, trying to see motion in the shadows around the central courtyard. There, in the corner by the gate, three females watched, the two older keeping the younger wedged against the stones of the wall. Rada’s nostrils flared. If she opened the fragile sand-glass window, she’d smell musk and fear—and soon blood, as well. Fewmets, so much for Rahoul’s orders to take a quiet leave. I’m going to need a vacation to recover from my vacation. Again. And it took three whole weeks of pestering for me to get Rahoul and Moshe to sign off on a week away, their time.
A taloned forefoot touched her shoulder on her blind side. Rada froze, bracing against the window seat as the True-dragon Zabet rose up on her hind legs, peering out over her Pet’s shoulder. «I see motion. What’s up?»
«Mating battle.»
«Where are the guards?»
Most likely hiding, Rada thought. Aloud she said, “Anywhere else they can find to be. They’re not suicidal.” Neither was she. Zabet dropped back onto all four feet and returned to the sleeping chamber. Rada followed. She slid the blaster back into its hiding place and lay down. She didn’t need to see what was going to happen next in the courtyard—once in a lifetime was enough.
Zabet settled down next to her Pet, stealing most of the tree-fluff-filled blanket, as usual. «I thought the Azdhagi didn’t do that anymore.»
“So did I, Boss. Apparently I was wrong.”
The first screaming snarl reached her, and Rada clamped her hands over her earholes. The combat woke an answering snarl, and she felt her claws extending as her heart raced and her sense of smell grew keener, picking up far too much from the night breeze despite the closed windows. Rada raised and locked her shields, but too late. She was death, she was fire, she was battle and blood. She fought her desire and lost.
Instead, she got up again, took her sword off the rack in the main room, and began to dance. The males’ emotions drove her, and Rada sliced and parried, turning, cutting, and flowing from corner to corner as she fought invisible foes. The snarls and screams grew louder, came faster, then stopped. Rada’s dance accelerated, until a watcher would have thought she might transform into wind and fur. Then she froze, a statue in the darkness. Chest heaving, she sheathed the blade and returned it to the rack before stalking back into the sleeping chamber. She shoved her feet into boots and eased the wall panel open, slipping into the hidden corridor.
She took the back ways down to the closest soaking pool. Once there, she kicked off the boots and dove in, night clothes be damned. The hot water stung her, the pain driving the last of the bloodlust and fury out of her system. Rada surfaced and gasped, once more in control of herself. She paddled to the cooler, shallower part of the large pool, resting her head against the talon-worn stone as her heart rate and breathing slowed. Her hair would be a tangled mess, her fur likewise, and her head pounded and she imagined she could taste blood in her mouth. “So much for a quiet night,” she grumbled in Azdhag.
Another few ticks of time and she
would be able to return to her quarters. But she dared not look in the courtyard until after sunrise, after the warmth had drained from the body. Or bodies. Rada bared her own fangs. If the female refused her consent, well, the male did not always survive the refusal if he tried to force the matter. All Healers knew what that sort of injury meant. And the Healers were female.
Now that she could think again, Rada shed her sodden tunic and trousers and wondered who the males had been. She had a few guesses, but she hadn’t studied them closely. She’d know soon, along with the rest of court and the Palace staff. How long had it been since the last mating battle? She closed her eye and tried to recall. When nothing floated up immediately, she heaved herself out of the pool and shook all over, then found the drying cloths and smoothed her fur, wringing out her hair as well, then finger combing the worst knots. She pulled her boots on and took as much time as possible returning to her quarters. As she walked, she plumbed the depths of her memory. It had been at Burnt Mountain, that much she knew, in one of the outlying settlements that were considered odd even by local standards. But when? Several hundred years at least.
Rada opened the wall panel and sniffed. She smelled the aftermath and incense. Incense? «So you don’t behead a servant or one of your orderlies,» Zabet informed her from the doorway. «You’d probably kill one of the ones I finally got trained to my standards, and I hate wasted effort.» The graceful silver-blue True-dragon returned to the sleeping chamber only after she watched Rada take off her boots and lie down. Zabet stretched out beside the mammal, head on Rada’s chest. «That bad?»
“Worse. The more basic the emotions, the stronger.” And they woke something inside Rada, a bloodlust completely at odds with everything she sought to be. If she thought too long about it, it would return, like the purple elephant in that stupid joke the humans told. At least she could channel it—most of the time. I wonder what Joschka would say if he’d seen me earlier? Probably wave his rosary at me, then run. He’s gotten smarter over the years. Exhaustion hit her, dragging her eyelid closed and pushing her into a dreamless sleep.