by Alma Boykin
Her musings were interrupted by a small person brandishing an octopus. “I’m hungry!” Robin announced.
“I think I still have some marmot jerky from when we were in Germany,” Rachel started. Panpit stared at her.
“We have a house policy, Commander Na Gael,” Rahoul said. “No eating rodents. In any form—baked, stewed, jerked, curried, or batter-fried. No rats-n-chips, no hamster soufflé.” He handed Panpit his new book and waved a finger at Rachel. “And I don’t care how good Lt. Bustos says guinea pigs taste, they are off the menu in my home.”
“How about chicken fingers then, Robin?” Rachel asked the boy. Not that I’ve ever seen an Earth chicken that had fingers, she thought.
He nodded firmly, repeating, “I’m hungry!”
Sita slid off her father’s lap and began walking her new doll across the room. Rahoul stood up and stretched. “Come to think of it, I’m hungry too.”
After supper, Panpit and Rahoul washed up while their guest entertained the twins. The children’s laughter and giggles carried from the living room, and Panpit shook her head.
“Problem?” her husband asked, handing her a plate to dry. He hated doing dishes, but if that’s what it took to get a little time alone with his wife, so be it.
“No. I’m just wondering why I trust Commander Na Gael so much. I barely know her and I’m letting her watch Robin and Sita and take over my kitchen.”
Rahoul thought about it as he rinsed another plate. “You’ve heard me complaining about her often enough, so she’s not a total stranger. And you’ve seen her in action, as it were.” The couple exchanged a grim look. They didn’t talk about Panpit’s experience during the Portabello Road terror attack, in part because just thinking about it still made Rahoul want to kill someone.
“What is she, Rahoul?”
“I don’t know.” At Panpit’s odd look, he explained. “Neither of her parents were human—they came from two different species. Rachel is what she is.” He shrugged.
“No, I mean what is she at heart? She’s a Healer—I can see that in her colors. And there’s animal in her like you have, but there’s something else,” she thought aloud. “Blue green, that ties to Healer somehow, but her core is smoky gray and hard, with touches of blood red.”
Rahoul wasn’t certain how much he should say without asking his friend’s permission. It wasn’t a security matter because no one outside the GDF believed in telepathy and other forms of energy reading and manipulation, but he didn’t want to speak out of turn. And there were some things he didn’t know and didn’t understand, even after a quarter century of working with the alien. He was spared further worries when the object of their discussion appeared in the doorway.
“I’m an empath, Mrs. Khan. Your husband senses animal thoughts, while I sense and manipulate emotions. The two are relatively close talents, neurologically.” The scarred woman leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. “The red in the gray marks me as predator born, a warrior by birth as well as by training, as you’ve seen. And as Sita will be.”
Rahoul blanched at her words. They confirmed his fears for his children, and he wanted to unhear them. The soldier shook his head in denial as his friend continued softly, “Not exactly as I am, my friend. Sita’s talents are defensive, like a badger or a cornered cat protecting her kittens. They may never manifest if there’s no need of them.”
“And Robin?” Panpit asked, a little afraid. If her daughter was a warrior born, then what about her son?
“That little bundle of mischief is a receptive telepath of the first water with a gift for manipulation of things. When he gets older you’d better hide any item you don’t want dissected, disassembled, or ‘tweaked’.” The alien grinned. Then she looked over her shoulder and yelped, “Hey now! That’s not a toy!” She dashed back into the living room.
Rahoul managed a chuckle as he wrung out the washing-up rag. “Someone forgot that you can’t leave children alone with shiny things.”
The children had been in bed for half an hour or so when Rachel’s after supper tea began making itself felt. “Not to be rude, but which way is your washroom?”
“Up the stairs and across from the bedrooms. There’s one down here, but it’s a bit of a mess just now,” Panpit explained.
Rachel got to her feet and flowed up the steps almost before her hostess finished speaking. She moved soundlessly and Panpit shivered a little at the sight and silence. “That’s not human, to move like that,” she observed quietly.
Her husband put his arm around her shoulders. “Neither is Rachel, my rani. She never has been and never will be. She just acts as if she were, some of the time.”
The object of their conversation took care of her pressing business and washed her hands, then paused. She sensed someone growing fearful and upset about something. There was a strong undertone of terror in the emotions, and the Wanderer went on alert, listening and sniffing for intruders. What she heard was a snuffling whimper coming from Sita’s room. Rachel eased up the hall and slid the door farther open, poking her head inside. Sita was having a nightmare of some kind and the woman started backing out so she could go tell Rahoul and Panpit, when Sita woke up with a soft wail.
“Easy, easy,” Rachel soothed, unable to hold herself back. She slipped over to the side of the little girl’s bed. “What’s the matter Sita?” the alien asked, projecting security and comfort.
The girl shook her head, her tearful eyes wide with fear. Rachel held out her hands and the child was out of bed in a flash, holding on to Rachel with all her strength. “Easy, easy, no one can hurt you here.” Rachel picked Sita up, along with her stuffed cat, and carried them over to the rocking chair. She managed to sit without dropping either of her burdens and settled the girl on her lap. “It’s all right,” she soothed, stroking Sita’s hair and back. Sita whimpered and clung to her godmother and her toy, still caught in the threads of the nightmare. Rachel closed her eye and gently slid between the child and her fears, banishing them and reassuring her godchild that the scary things were gone and could not hurt her. For a moment Rachel’s own monsters vanished as she focused on soothing a small, frightened creature. Sita’s pure trust touched Rachel’s heart like a balm, and she put all her love and care into an old lullaby.
Panpit thought she heard something besides the plumbing from upstairs and frowned. “What’s the matter?” her husband asked, and she raised a finger, stilling him.
“I think someone is having bad dreams.” She got up from the couch, leaving Rahoul sitting. He stood, too, and followed her up the steps. They heard snuffling and a whimper and checked on Robin. No, he was asleep, sprawled over his octopus. Rahoul winced a little at the thought of the stiff muscles he would have if he went to sleep like that.
“Shhhh. Rahoul, come look,” Panpit whispered from down the short hall, drawing Rahoul to her. He peered into the warm darkness of Sita’s bedroom and saw motion. As his eyes adapted, he watched Rachel rocking Sita, totally absorbed in soothing the little girl’s nightmare and singing a quiet lullaby. Despite himself, Rahoul felt a lump form in his throat at his friend’s tender, soft expression as she gazed down at the child snuggling against her chest. Panpit tugged on her husband’s sleeve, and they crept back down to the living room. “She’s had children, Rahoul, you were right. And right to ask her to be Robin and Sita’s godmother.” Now she knew why she’d trusted Rachel at first sight, and why having the other woman show up on her doorstep didn’t bother her as much as it might have.
Her husband considered what they’d just seen. Rahoul said at last, “I’ve never, ever seen that look on her face before.” He put his arm around Panpit’s shoulders and pulled her close. He’d seen the look on Panpit’s face, and loved her all the more for giving him Robin and Sita.
“Dear, now that you command the regiment, how much of a problem will it cause if she comes over every so often to watch the children?”
He thought about it. “I’m not sure. Technically, asking her to mind
them violates the rules about what a superior officer can ask of his subordinates. But she’s not really my subordinate, given her seniority within the GDF and the fact that she’s a contractor.” And she was Rachel, a law unto herself no matter what the regulations and rules might say or how much he might occasionally wish otherwise. “I think, depending on how she feels of course, that if you asked her to help every so often it would not be a problem. But we’d have to be very discreet and careful.”
He’d worried about how he and Rachel would work out their changed relationship vis-à-vis his now outranking her. He’d also spent a lot of time making sure that he could bring himself to order her into danger. Rachel had been blunt back when he was executive officer under Andrew Whitehead. “I am a resource and a tool, Rahoul. Andrew and I get along well, and we respect each other. And we both know that when the fewmets hit the impeller, if they hit hard enough, he may have to send me into a situation where I could get killed. That’s how things are.” Rahoul suddenly wondered if that was why Joschka von Hohen-Drachenburg had never had Rachel transferred to Vienna, despite his frequent threats to do so. If Rachel stayed in Britain, Joschka wouldn’t find himself having to personally order her into harm’s way.
Rachel wandered back into the room, her shoulder a bit damp. “Sorry, got lost,” she offered with a shrug. Husband and wife exchanged looks, and Panpit laughed a little.
“Actually, you got caught.” Rachel turned a little pink. Panpit smiled more broadly. “You’re welcome to babysit the twins, Rachel. And you don’t have to cater supper every time.”
“Thank you. I apologize again for barging . . .” Her words trailed off, and Rahoul sensed something shifting just at the edge of his gifts, the same thing that had caught Rachel’s attention. Not his animal telepathy, but his precognition. That never boded well.
“You did not barge, so please don’t apologize,” Panpit said, missing the concerned looks her husband and his advisor exchanged.
Rachel nodded, then winked at Rahoul. “However, I sense that if I stay much longer, I will be barging, and a responsible adult does need to be within reach of the night desk, lest Lt. B call at two in the morning because another bat got inside and he can’t find the proper forms for removing said bat from the building.”
«Trouble?»
«Not in near time, sir. But trouble, yes. It could be a hundred years from now, though.» She wrinkled her nose as she collected her things. «Few Gifts are less precise and less useful than temporal sensitivity and precognition.»
They shared a silent sigh as he let her out the back door. He returned to the living room to find Panpit waiting. “Where were we?”
“You were seducing your wife.”
That he most certainly could do!
Down the road, Rada sat in her Marlow coupe and shivered. For Rahoul to sense a disturbance in the local time-stream meant something very bad indeed, and relatively close in time. Please dear holy Lord, no—please let this cup pass from us. I’m not strong enough anymore to carry this burden alone. Heart aching, she started the fussy old sports car and drove into the moon-washed summer night.
“Unlike fine wine, you don’t appear to age very well,” Rahoul teased.
His xenology advisor glowered at him from across the train compartment. A series of early autumn storms had precluded all but emergency air travel, forcing Rahoul and his two staff members to attend the GDF’s more-or-less annual conference in Granada, Spain via rail.
London had decided that General Khan, Major Maria de Alba y Rodriguez, and Commander Na Gael would be safer in civilian attire, after the Spanish government issued a warning about possible Basque separatist terrorists in the northern part of the country. Rachel had used makeup to age herself, until she appeared to be a human in her mid-eighties. The results were effective, if not very kind to her.
They had the six-seat compartment to themselves for the moment, so Rachel broke character enough to growl. “It’s highly unlikely that I’ll live long enough to reach this age,” she pointed out, “so who cares what I’d look like?”
“And what if you do? You’ll be fussing at yourself for not being more careful when you were younger,” he twitted her, smiling to himself as he leaned back in his seat. Rachel grumped and fidgeted. She’d wanted to travel in her goth outfit again, but he’d vetoed it, lest she attract unwanted attention.
“Oh cheer up, Mrs. Patel. Grenada in the early autumn is lovely,” Maria told the civilian. “And you’ll find the gardens in the Alhambra and Generalife very interesting. They’re level, too, so you won’t have any difficulty getting around.” The Spanish communications officer had painted a glowing picture of the Moorish palace, but the pale woman didn’t seem interested. Rahoul and Maria posed as a middle-class couple, two of the hordes of English tourists who visit Spain each year.
They arrived uneventfully and Rachel didn’t complain when her “daughter-in-law and son” insisted on carrying “his poor old mother’s” bags. She leaned on her cane and limped along behind them to their waiting car.
The driver took them to an attractive resort facility outside the old city of Granada. After the brush with disaster that had been the meeting in Germany nearly a decade before—a crisis exacerbated by some of the civilian guests—attendance to everything had once again been restricted to military personnel and cleared civilians. No spouses, and only three people from each branch attended, much to Rachel’s quiet relief. This is enough of a security risk as it is, she growled to herself at the reception that evening, surveying the small sea of khaki, blues, and greens. And I do not like being this far from Britain this late in the year.
Someone cleared his throat behind the British trio and Rachel spun around, incipient boredom vanishing into pleasure. “My lord General! What a pleasant surprise!” Rachel exclaimed, dropping a small curtsey to an older gentleman in a beautifully tailored suit of European cut.
General Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg smiled at her and the others, extending his hand to Brigadier Khan. “Bienvenidos a Granada, General Khan,” he said in accentless Spanish.
Rahoul shook the hand, replying in Punjabi, “Thank you, my lord General. Unfortunately, I don’t speak Spanish.”
Honor satisfied, both parties changed to English, as Rachel rolled her eye and Major de Alba looked puzzled.
“Retirement seems to be agreeing with you, sir,” Rahoul continued, inspecting the broad-shouldered Austrian.
The graying officer smoothed his neatly trimmed, light brown beard. “It was. Apparently someone decided that competence, experience, and a few grey hairs were needed to keep youthful enthusiasms in check, so the Secretary, and Generals Esterházy and Riley, prevailed upon me to attend.” He reached over absently and collected two drinks from a passing waiter, handing one to Rachel.
Rahoul gestured toward the watching women. “Allow me to present Major Maria de Alba y Rodriguez, my communications officer. Major de Alba, General Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg, former overall commander of the Global Defense Force.” Maria extended her hand to shake and the Graf-General smoothly turned it into a hand kiss. The Spaniard recovered her aplomb quickly, dropping a hint of a curtsy, as Rahoul sighed and Rachel laughed silently. “And that sort of thing, Major, partly explains how this gentleman became head of the GDF’s military forces.”
“I had a great deal of help from several other GDF members,” the Graf-General allowed, smiling as he tipped his glass toward Rahoul. But his eyes were on the xenology specialist.
“Where did you get your dress?” Maria asked the next evening, as the Wanderer brushed wrinkles out of a mink-brown dress and matching jacket with amber-colored trim.
Rachel twitched her bodice straight and fastened the jacket frogs. “I borrowed it from the King-Emperor.”
“Who did you borrow it from?”
Rachel realized how strange her answer had sounded. “Part of what you might call my other job requires me to be present at various ceremonies and diplomatic events, so I’
m allowed so much per year from the Imperial Household budget for clothing. It remains the property of His Imperial Majesty, but there’s nothing in the rules saying I can’t borrow an outfit for occasions elsewhere.” Rachel grinned and winked her good eye. “This was actually for a semi-casual afternoon reception.”
Maria tucked a stray black hair into place after checking that the pins holding her hair up hadn’t shifted. “If that’s casual, I’d hate to imagine what formal eveningwear is like.”
“Not so bad as you’d think, but the various Mistresses of the Robes and I have been fighting over that for centuries. At least they know I have to be able to fight if need be, which I can’t do if I’m stuffed into a skin-tight outfit decorated stiff with gold wire embroidery.” She pulled a face.
Major de Alba gave her uniform one last check, removing a bit of nearly invisible lint from her skirt. “Thinking of elaborate clothes, Rachel, did you notice the Minister of Defense’s ‘personal assistant’ at the reception the other night?”
Rachel, who’d been more interested in comparing notes with an Israeli bioweapon defense expert, shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.” You humans all look alike in formal wear.
“She looks a lot like you, but about fifteen centimeters taller. Light build, very long dark hair, and a dark complexion, of course. Her eyes are pale green.”
“Well, no one’s going to mistake me for her, based on your description, unless she’s unfortunate enough to get into a car wreck.” Maria winced a little at Rachel’s brutally honest self-appraisal. Then the alien’s mood vanished and she flashed her usual grin. “Shall we go see if the Brigadier is ready yet?” They sallied forth, Rachel’s familiar “step-tap-step” echoing as they walked down the tile-floored hall.
The dinner that night, hosted by the Iberian Branch, was in the old palace of the Alhambra overlooking Granada—an elegant, quiet location that was also relatively easy to secure. Rachel snorted at the sign cautioning “Reserved for the International Secretariat for Undocumented Migrations.” She chatted with those few people she knew, listened to others’ conversations, and kept a discreet eye out for General von Hohen-Drachenburg. When she found him, he seemed to have been captured by the GDF headquarters group, and she decided not to bother him.