by Alma Boykin
“Yes, ma’am,” he affirmed. The NCO’s eyes strayed to the contents of the dish she was holding. “Uh, ma’am? What’s that?” He pointed to the white, red, and pink concoction.
“Mice crispies,” Rachel informed him. She picked up a thin pink bit like a mouse’s tail, pulled it and a larger red bit out of the bowl, dropped them into her mouth and crunched contentedly.
He paled. “Mice?”
She swallowed and reached for another of the things. “Care for a bite? It’s all-natural.” Somehow she managed not to laugh as he turned a fascinating shade of green, spun around, and ran down the metal spiral stairs and out of the lab. Only after she had shut her door and returned to the tiny kitchen did she set down the bowl and howl with laughter. It was actually raw beef, a splash of milk, with bits of high-protein cracker added for crunch. Not that the human would have found it much more palatable than small rodents would be.
Sergeant Thompson wasted no time before talking to First Sergeant Lee. “The xenologist is crazy! She was eating mice!”
Lee shrugged. “She eats squirrels and marmots, too.” And anything else she can catch, he added silently. “She’s also the best shot in the command, and may be the medic who patches up your carcass some day, so you’d best be polite and not mention her little eccentricities.” The lean, brown-haired sergeant went back to his own breakfast.
As the British Branch was preparing for a potentially interesting day, a man with a brown beard, gray-streaked chestnut hair, and bright blue eyes sat down at the computer in the small “office” tucked into the side of the library of his home in Austria. Somewhat reluctantly, he called up his personal e-mail, wondering as he did if his attorney had reviewed the possible solutions to the property boundary dispute yet. There was a stray bit of spam, notes from two of his grand and great-grandchildren, and a message that made him smile even before he opened it. “Hullo, Awful. I’m off duty tomorrow evening,” was all it said. That was enough.
Three hours later, when the “possible situation” failed to materialize and everything returned to normal, leading to a few under-the-breath comments about false alarms and home-brewing gone wrong. Rachel shrugged and went back to catching up on her journals and other professional reading. She regularly let the stack build until it threatened to tip over and crush anything within a meter, then plowed through everything. She didn’t learn anything new this time, but she needed to keep abreast of the current levels of technology and knowledge in order to better sort local versus “imported.”
Still, something nagged her, poking at her to get her attention, then disappearing when she tried to focus on it. Something about the journals and time. She and the Dark Hart hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary as they returned to Ter-tri, but it hadn’t been happy, either. Rada snarled and let her claws extend. If she’d been pure Wanderer, she could have looked ahead to see just what was irritating the creature, or communicated more clearly with it. But she wasn’t, and couldn’t, and vague hunches and the impression that something was awry were not enough for her to risk jumping ahead to see what the problem might be. She made a note of the irritation in her log and then went back to reading.
Shortly after dinner, her in-box pinged. If the next afternoon she just happened to be in the area near where the Khans lived, they would be in. Translation—Rahoul wants me to bring the things for the children tomorrow as a peace offering. If it makes him less snappish, I’m all in favor. She’d forgotten how by-the-book he could be when stressed.
Panpit Khan heard the front door open and groaned. She had just managed to get the twins asleep and was thinking about starting supper after cleaning the floor in the front hall and kitchen. Rahoul wasn’t supposed to be home! She heard him saying something, then a vaguely familiar voice answered and the door shut again. Puzzled, she looked around the corner of the small kitchen but didn’t see anyone. Then she heard steps at the back door and a polite knock. The tired mother wiped her hands on a tea towel and unlocked and opened it. “Bad timing?” Rachel Na Gael stood on the back step, her arms full of wrapped parcels and two brown cloth shopping bags. “We brought supper,” she offered, and Rahoul nodded from behind her.
“If you brought supper then you can come in,” Panpit smiled, relieved despite the arrival of a surprise guest. Rachel squeezed past as Panpit held the door open, then kissed her spouse. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m glad to see you too,” he said, putting his own bag on the floor so he could take off his cover before hugging his bride. “No. Don’t you remember? I called last week that I had a three-day leave coming up.” The couple looked over at the calendar pinned to the wall and indeed, it showed him home, in Panpit’s handwriting.
“Mrs. Khan, do you have room in the icebox for . . . Never mind, I’ll make a space.” Rachel burrowed through the half-full bottles of juice, containers of leftovers, and milk. “Oh, this looks fascinating!” She held out a clear plastic box of something blue and furry. Panpit blushed and snatched the moldy mystery food out of the woman’s hand. “Don’t pitch it. I might have a use for it,” the scientist protested to no avail.
Rahoul stayed out of the way, shaking his head. “I’ll leave it to you while I change, if you don’t mind.” He edged toward the door.
“Take off your shoes dear, I just cleaned the floor. And don’t wake the twins!” With that admonition in his ears, Rahoul fled like the sensible male that he was.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Khan,” a voice said from behind the ‘fridge door. “I thought he had called to warn you. Could you please hand me the chicken? Thanks.”
“Please, Rachel, call me Panpit. And no, he forgot,” she sighed as she lifted the bird out of the bag and gave it to Rachel.
Rachel smiled conspiratorially. “If you don’t mind my puttering about in your kitchen without a chaperone, why don’t you go give him what-for? Someone has to keep him humble now that he outranks me.” The Wanderer winked.
Panpit started to protest, then stopped. She should have been upset about a near stranger marching in and taking over her kitchen, but instead what she felt was relief. “I think I’ll do just that.” The green-eyed, half-Asian woman picked up her husband’s cover from the kitchen table and marched off after him with a gleam in her eye. Rachel took off her jacket, hung it on the coat rack, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work. She found the a pot just the right size and filled it with cold water. Soon the chicken was cut into pieces and marinating, the veggies were cleaned and ready to sauté, and the pasta was boiling up nicely and ready to be drained. The alien hummed quietly as she worked. By the time Rahoul and his wife returned, the veggies were sizzling in hot oil while the chicken and its sauce bubbled over a low fire on the back of the range. More fresh vegetables, some cold cuts and cheese, and a small bowl of dip, sat on the table waiting for the adults. “What’s all this?” Panpit demanded.
“A little tide-me-over until supper,” Rachel offered with a smile. “Since it’s a bit late for tea and the chicken will need to chill with the rest of the salad.” She went back to stirring the brightly colored veggies. “Perfect!” She drained the rainbow of peppers, carrots, asparagus tips, and other things, then added them to the bowl of pasta and stirred it before putting it in the refrigerator.
Rahoul smiled and helped himself to a carrot and some of the mysterious dip. He wasn’t surprised when it tasted like spicy potted meat, and he began to ask what it was, then caught himself. He really didn’t want to know. His wife stared for a moment before shaking her head. “Rachel, what did you do?”
“I started supper.”
“No, I mean how . . . oh, never mind.” She sat down and spread some of the dip on a cracker. Rachel poured three mugs of tea and joined the couple at the table. “What are we having tonight?” Panpit asked. “And what’s in the parcels?”
“Chilled chicken and pasta salad with fresh bread, and mixed berries for dessert. Rahoul suggested that Robin and Sita might like chicken strips better, so there are a few of t
hose, to go with carrot and pepper sticks. The parcels are some things I picked up while I was on leave.” Rada ate some more cheese, then excused herself and neatly deboned the chicken, chopping it into bite-sized pieces after putting the sauce back on to re-boil. She combined everything, popped it into the refrigerator, and was soon seated again. “How are Robin and Sita?”
“They’re into everything! I think I have Robin settled down and before I can turn my back, his sister has emptied the toy box all over the floor. Or vice versa.” She looked at her husband and sighed. “As much as I like being back in England, I miss the day crèche we had in Vienna.” She also missed having Rahoul home most evenings, but she didn’t say that. She was lucky, she knew—she remembered how much her father had been gone when she was small and couldn’t imagine how hard it would be if she’d been married to Rahoul while he’d been on a two-year deployment to Afghanistan.
“Once things settle down and the Branch gets up to full strength, I should be able to come home on weekends, my rani,” he assured her, taking her hand and squeezing it. He was about to add more when his friend pivoted and looked towards the hall.
“Small mammals, nine o’clock and closing,” she grinned and scooted out of sight as a pair of four-year-olds appeared at the foot of the stairs.
“Mummy, I’m hungry!” Robin proclaimed. Sita nodded her agreement, then saw her father.
“Daddy!” She charged for him. Rahoul caught her and lifted her into the air as she squealed and giggled. Robin wasn’t far behind, and soon the pair were bouncing up and down with excitement and clinging to their father. Rachel smiled as she watched the wonderfully normal commotion.
The general freed up one hand and pointed towards his friend. “Do you remember who that is?”
The two children stared and Rachel projected reassurance and harmlessness to them. “Aunt ‘Achel!” Robin proclaimed, marching over to the small woman.
“Hello, Robin. How are you?” she asked, kneeling down so she would be closer to his size.
“I’m hungry!” He held his arms up, which she took to mean “pick me up,” and she obliged, transferring him to her hip as she stood. “What’s that?” he pointed to a piece of carrot.
“You won’t like it. It’s big-people food.”
“I’m a big people! I want it.” He tried to reach around her to grab the vegetable.
She frowned and shook her finger. “You certainly do not sound like a big person. Let’s see, I think I saw some baby food in the icebox if you are hungry.”
The small boy frowned, looking much like his mother in that moment. “May I please have it?” he ventured.
Panpit nodded her approval, and Rachel handed the boy the carrot slice. “Yes, you may.” Small sapient creatures, it seemed to her, were very similar no matter what class they belonged to. Mammalia, reptilia—they were all little animals who required extensive domestication.
Rahoul’s eyes narrowed. «This from a woman who wears flea collars?» he sent a touch hotly.
Before Rachel could reply, Robin swallowed and asked, “What’s a class?”
Rahoul and Rachel both blinked, and she shifted to a private sending. «You and Panpit and I had better teach Robin and Sita how to shield. She can monitor for us.» Aloud she explained, “A class is how you group living things. Since a lizard is different from a fish or a dog, it goes into a different class. Sort of like putting blocks in one pile and teddy bears into another.”
“What about dragons? Where do they go?” Sita wanted to know. Rachel groaned silently as Rahoul and Panpit smiled at her expense.
“They go wherever they want to. I’m not going to argue with a scaly creature who has long teeth and claws and is bigger than your father’s car.” The declaration made Rahoul smother a laugh, which in turn caused Panpit to look a question at her husband. “Let’s get out of the kitchen. I brought some things for you, if you’ve been good,” Rachel said a touch desperately.
“Presents?!” Robin and Sita chorused, bouncing again. Rachel set Robin down and he joined his sister in darting over to the small stack of paper-wrapped items by the back door. A squabble started, but was resolved by removing the mysterious objects to the front room. The twins followed Rachel and the parcels as if they were magnetized, which Rahoul decided they probably were.
“What were you laughing at, oh husband mine?” Panpit inquired.
“I did hear Rachel arguing with a dragon, dear. She lost and the dragon gloated for hours afterwards.” He chuckled again and grabbed two more veggie sticks as he trailed Rachel and his children to the front of the small house.
Panpit caught him. “Rahoul, why did you invite her? I’m not complaining,” she assured him, “but we’ve always met somewhere away from the house before.”
The older man glanced down the hall to make certain that his friend was busy and out of hearing, then drew his wife further back into the kitchen. “I told you that she had serious problems about the time that we were moving back from Austria?” Panpit nodded and he continued, “She’s much better but she’s still hurting. This is my way of reminding her that the world is better if she’s not dead.”
Eyes wide, Panpit stared at him. “She tried to commit . . ?”
There was anger in his voice that Panpit had never heard before. “Not exactly. I can’t tell you everything, my rani, but we almost lost her because of a bastard’s cruelty,” he snarled. “It was a very close thing.” His expression softened. “I’m sorry I didn’t call and tell you that I’d invited her to supper,” he apologized. “There was a knot to untangle and I got distracted.”
“Since you brought food, a cook, and a sitter, you are forgiven—this time,” she mock-scolded, kissing him.
Small feet came running down the hall into the kitchen and a voice piped up. “Look what I got, Mummy!” Robin brandished a large stuffed toy over his head. As best Rahoul could tell, it was a friendly-looking, bright blue octopus. It had purple eyes that jiggled and it sported a broad smile. Trust Rachel to find something bizarre, her friend mused, following Robin back to the living room. Sita was still there, hugging a doll that looked like a cross between a cat and a teddy bear, with black and silver spotted fur and pale blue eyes. As the little girl stroked it, her parents realized that it was purring and Rahoul looked at Rachel with mild alarm.
“It’s not alive, Rahoul. Nor is it a robot. It just has a little motor that makes it purr when someone pets it gently. I brought spare batteries,” she reassured him. “Robin’s toy has a tracker chip. If it gets lost, you can use this to find it.” She held out what looked like a small music player or cell phone.
There was an undertone in her voice that gave her friend pause. «What else does it do?» he asked.
«It can also track Sita’s doll, as long as the toys are within 100 kilometers of the receiver.» For a split second he saw a deadly serious look in her eye. He shivered a little as he realized why she’d given him the tracker.
Panpit had a more practical concern. “I trust they’re washable?”
“Oh yes. Washer and dryer. You can boil them if absolutely necessary. The sales-thing promised that they were childproof. And you can’t pull off the tail, eyes, or ears. They’re bonded to the toys at the molecular level.” Rachel handed Panpit a third parcel. “For you.”
As Robin, Sita, and Rahoul watched with growing curiosity, she opened the soft package. “Ooo,” she breathed, unfolding what looked like watered silk in a rainbow of colors. At the center of the bundle she found two hairpins with jade drops hanging from them. “Oh Rachel, thank you! These are lovely. And the material will be perfect for some projects I have in mind. You are such a dear.”
Sita looked at her toy, her brother’s octopus, and her mother’s gift, and frowned. “What about daddy? What does he get?”
One side of Rachel’s crooked into a grin. “Headaches and grey hairs, mostly.” The joke sailed over Sita’s head and she looked from Rachel to her father in confusion.
Rahoul picked h
er up and settled her in his lap. “I get happy children,” and he tickled Sita. She giggled and squirmed before calming down and hugging her new favorite toy. Robin was marching his octopus across the floor, having discovered that two of the “feet” would pick up pieces of paper and bits of fluff out of the rug.
“Actually,” Rachel handed her friend a thin, oblong parcel. He unwrapped it and almost fell over.
“This is not a reproduction?” he demanded, very, very carefully opening the cover and turning the pages.
“No, it’s a true first edition. I picked it up from the printer,” Rachel averred, sitting back and looking rather smug and self-satisfied—in other words, like a cat. As Panpit leaned over to see what title had so stunned her husband, Rachel added, “So now you have the full set.”
“Commander Na Gael Ni Drako, you are . . . well, you’ve just made up for that last staff briefing.” Now the alien really did preen and do everything short of grooming her whiskers.
Panpit still couldn’t tell which book Rahoul was staring at. Then he turned back to the title page. It was the second volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s 1844 book of poems. “You have volume one. I’ve dusted it,” Panpit observed.
He nodded and closed the little book. “And the first book Robert Browning published, in first edition, and the private signed first edition of Shelly’s ‘Queen Mab’ and one of his ‘Ode to the West Wind’.” And Byron’s Don Juan he added silently, and Kipling’s ‘Barrack Room Ballads’ and ‘Debits and Credits,’ except Rachel has those in her quarters.
Rachel smiled, happy that she’d been able to delight her friend. She wasn’t a fan of the English poets of the early nineteenth century, although some of Robert Browning’s pieces were entertaining. But Rahoul loved them, and had been so taken with the first book that they’d found that she’d kept her eye out for others during her travels. This one was special since she’d risked a run back to grab a new volume, rather than finding it used in his future.