by Alma Boykin
“Ah, yes ma’am. Knock, call, then enter,” Wales repeated.
“Correct. You are dismissed until,” she leaned around and looked at something on the wall, “until 0700 tomorrow.”
At 0700, Lt. Wales appeared at the lab door and found a note. “Wales—am out in the garden,” with an indecipherable scrawl at the bottom that he assumed was Commander Na Gael’s signature.
Andrew went through the lab, opened the back door, and encountered one of the greatest surprises of his time with the 58th Regiment. He stood and stared for several seconds, overwhelmed by the rainbow of flowers stretching from the back of the lab toward a very big tree and a fountain. The late spring wind carried an intoxicatingly rich scent of roses. He took a few steps on the gravel path leading from the lab door into the garden, just staring at the incredible display. Then someone whistled and waved at him. “Over here, Lieutenant!” Wales gathered his wits and hurried over to meet Commander Na Gael. She smiled up at him from under a non-regulation straw gardening hat. “Welcome to my bad habit.”
“This belongs to you, ma’am?” He’d never heard of such a thing.
She sighed and made an odd gesture with her left hand. “No. It belongs to the base. After all, any sheltered residence, or modern retreat and spiritual center, that’s worth its bricks has a formal garden, doesn’t it? So I’m allowed to let my hobby run rampant, so to speak, in exchange for keeping this off the budget.” She picked up her tool hod and cane from where she’d been working. “Let me drop these off in the glasshouse and we can tour the grounds.” Wales trailed behind the xenologist, still amazed by the many colors and fragrances of the roses. The glasshouse held another surprise, as he beheld dozens of plant starts and trays of seedlings. “Behold my primary vice, Lieutenant—plant breeding, mostly roses.” Commander Na Gael put her tools away as he looked around, then hung her hat from a peg. “That way, then.” She set off, a bemused Andrew in tow.
That evening, his roommate, Rick Walker, looked up from a manual he was studying. “Did I see you following the xenologist—ah, Na Gael—around the back of the motorpool this morning?”
“Yes. We were touring the grounds. There are some strange things on base that she thinks I need to know about.” Wary of saying too much, he shrugged and joked, “Are all xenologists a bit touched?”
Walker nodded. “The two I’ve met were.” He made a circle beside his head with one finger. “Nutty as a fruitcake. Too smart for their own good, with seriously strange wiring. I think they spend too much time around lab chemicals.”
“That sounds right,” the English soldier replied.
The next day, Rachel shooed her new assistant off to the firing range to finish qualifying, while she worked on a signals intercept. Something about the patterns and frequency irritated her memory, as if she ought to be familiar with them, or have seen them recently, or something along those lines. “Oh bah,” she snarled after half an hour of running signal overlays and comparisons. “The damn things might as well be on the left-handed path for all that they make—” Wait, left handed path. We used to joke about the tech side being the Left Handed Path until Ahkai reined them in. I wonder. She sat back down and opened the files containing the tracings from the Exeter episode, then ordered the computer to run a full comparison. Two minutes later, a pair of lines flared, then began blinking. “Fewmets and fallen scales,” she swore under her breath. With that information in hand, she logged into the Regimental intranet, then into the Tech Section’s monster computer in London, and ordered a second full comparison. By the time she’d fixed a fresh mug of tea, she had five more transmission bursts going back to “23:58:45 London local time, December 31, 2013.” She swore again in Trader and Azdhag, adding Hebrew just for variety.
Elsewhere within the strange sprawl of the British Branch headquarters, an unhappy Sergeant Anthony Lee studied the computer screen on the desk he shared with two other NCOs. The computer was running a language-learning program, and Lee was trying to decide which form of a German verb was correct. In the back of his mind he heard medically-retired Regimental Sergeant Major Richard Chan complaining, “I thought we fought a war so this wouldn’t happen,” and for a moment Lee heartily agreed with the old NCO. Languages did not come easily to Lee, and he wondered how someone like Brigadier Khan (four tongues in addition to English), Sgt. Wolfgang Weber (two in addition to German), or Commander Na Gael (only God knew) did it. As he worked, Lee decided two things, the first being not to put off tasks like this one in the future. He’d managed to avoid any more than the most basic of the language skill tests up until now, and if he wanted to advance much farther in his career, he’d have to study very, very hard to make up for what he could have done more slowly and probably less painfully. Second, he was going to ask the Commander how she learned languages.
It took half an hour, but Lee finished the exercise and scored ninety-eight percent. He stood up and stretched, touching the ceiling tiles before swinging down and resting his palms on the floor, then straightening up. He twisted left and right, settling his stiff back before moving on to his next task. He appreciated his recent promotion, but didn’t care overmuch for the additional administrative duties. Ah well, the English NCO reminded himself, sorting out the newcomers is better than being outdoors today.
He’d “enjoyed” more than enough of the day’s cold drizzle when he was out running prior to breakfast, and he felt a slight pang of sympathy for the two sergeants tasked with giving the grounds tour. But no one is shooting at them. Although, Lee grinned a little, if Brigadier Whitehead hadn’t forbidden it, Rachel would probably be out in the murk now, sniping at the soldiers with a paintball launcher or something similar. Lee’s face warmed as he recalled the previous week’s exercise. That had not been one of his finer moments. He picked up his data pad and shut off the office lights, walking toward the larger of the two conference rooms to meet with the new enlisted arrivals.
Meanwhile, Richard Walker took notes as he followed Moshe ben David around the complex. “Any questions?” the Israeli finally asked.
Walker couldn’t really think of one off the top of his head. The past few days had answered most of what the orientation material failed to cover. Then a question sprang up, something he’d been gnawing on since Saturday morning. “Well, yes, sir. I’ve been told that there are some differences in organization here that involve the xenologist. How does that work?”
Moshe pointed up the hallway. “You’re about to find out,” and he led the way into a conference room. A dozen or so other people waited, and the new arrivals took seats in the rear. Col. Desta Selassie, the tall Ethiopian executive officer, stood in a corner, conferring with Commander Na Gael.
Selassie glanced around, counting noses. “Be seated,” she ordered. The officers rustled into their chairs. “As you no doubt have observed since your arrival here, the British Branch table of organization differs in some details from those of your home units. Some of that difference is due to the relatively small size of the British Branch compared to others.” She nodded toward the two North Americans and one Chinese in the group. “Another is because of our xenologist, Commander Rachel Na Gael.” Rachel waved from where she leaned against the wall. “I’ll let her explain the details.” The colonel sat, leaving the front of the room to the other officer who, Walker noticed, remained out of uniform. Several of the other new officers murmured, and Walker heard a hissed, “That’s Commander Na Gael?”
“I’m blind, not deaf,” Rachel snapped, pinning the offender with an irritated stare.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the lieutenant mumbled, and Rachel looked around at the rest of the group before pushing away from the wall.
“Before anyone else feels compelled to restate the obvious, yes, I am Commander Rachel Na Gael. Yes, I am blind on the right side. I am also crippled on the right side and suffer from a few other minor medical problems. That is why I am no longer listed on active duty. I’m a civilian contractor, as several of you already know.” The woman
limped a little more toward the center of the front of the room, then turned and faced the group again. “I assume all of you know at least in theory what a xenologist does?”
Everyone nodded or replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
She relaxed a bit. “Good. With your permission I’ll skip that part then.” She glanced over at Col. Selassie, who nodded her agreement, and Na Gael continued. “In most Branches of the Global Defense Force, the xenologist remains in his laboratory or, on rare occasions, goes into the field to collect samples and observe directly, but he is most definitely a non-combatant.” A woman’s head bobbed vigorously, and the xenologist grinned a little. “You’ve met Dr. Sibelius, have you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Can he even fit into the front seat of a lorry anymore?”
The captain rocked a hand back and forth. “If he has to. He doesn’t enjoy it.”
Commander Na Gael nodded, still grinning. “Dr. Sibelius does excellent work, but he is not a field xenologist. There are only four field xenologists in the entire Defense Force because of the physical demands. As you know, a scientist who can deal with combat situations is a rare bird indeed. And the last thing a Branch needs is to lose their alien-thing-boffin to a stray shot, friendly or otherwise, in the middle of a situation. Waste of personnel, paperwork mess, and all that.”
She waited for confirmatory nods before continuing. “That said—I’m one of those rare birds. We—that is, the Branch—try to keep me out of combat situations, but sometimes there are things that I can’t task someone else with retrieving, or that I need to measure directly. I am a civilian but not a non-combatant and I can take care of myself most of the time.” Captain ben David snorted and she wagged her finger towards him. “No telling tales, Captain.” The Israeli rocked back in his chair, folded his arms, and looked smug.
Col. Selassie rose to her feet. “That is why Rachel, unlike any other xenologist, is also part of the combat chain of command.” She waited for the rustle of surprise to die down before continuing, “Because she knows certain things that the rest of us do not have access to, if she issues an emergency evacuation call, or orders you to do something, obey her. In the God-forbid event that the branch were to encounter a situation similar to what happened to the German branch two years ago, and there are no officers of captain rank or above that can be quickly contacted, Commander Na Gael is authorized to act as branch commander until such time that the next-highest-ranking survivor can take over.” The collective gasp brought grim smiles to the two women’s faces.
“As Col. Selassie said, God forbid,” Rachel echoed. “And that information does not leave this room unless there is a truly dire emergency. I am first and foremost the xenologist, second I’m a medic. You are welcome to come down to the lab to ask questions once you’ve settled in and you’ve learned the door codes. And if I catch you cutting flowers from the rose garden, I will beat you within an inch of your life and have your liver for my afternoon tea.” The small woman smiled sweetly as the colonel frowned.
“You are dismissed, Commander.” The xenologist gave a theatrical bow as she limped out of the room. “On a less earth-shaking subject, you no doubt know that tonight is a dining-in for officers . . .” Rachel heard, as the door closed behind her. She groaned and winced. So much for a quiet evening in my quarters or roaming the garden while I phone Joschka she groused silently. I wonder if I can sneak into the NCO mess and pretend I’ve not gotten the message?
Alas, she found the reminder in her intraoffice mail when she returned to the lab. “You may leave following the toasts,” she read aloud before wadding the note into a ball and hurling it across the lab. It bounced off a window and rolled under one of the lab tables with a small rustle. It wasn’t the dining-in she objected to—it was having to behave like an adult that grated. You have no idea, Rahoul Peter Khan, what sort of hell a herd of junior officers can raise. She relished the fond memories for a few minutes before returning to work on the latest intercept that Sheep Cluj had dumped on her desk during the briefing.
“So who do you think will win?” General Khan asked his British officers that night after supper and the toasts, referring to the special election being held following the Prime Minister’s resignation. The Home Secretary had been indicted for bribery, among other minor peccadilloes, and had taken the PM and the rest of the government down with him when he fell.
“Not Labour, sir. Otherwise, hmmm . . .” Captain Charles Smith, the assistant adjutant, said thoughtfully. “I’m tempted to give Britons United a try, if only because they’ve not been caught doing anything. Yet.”
Rachel sat in her usual guest spot, listening in and drinking her tonic water and lime. The consensus, if there was one, seemed to be a near draw between the Tories and the Britons, although one brave soul held out for Labour. Lt. Trewlany came by it honestly, though, since her father was a miner, so no one gave her too much rashing.
“What about you, Commander? Who are you voting for, ma’am?” Lt. Walker, an American, asked.
Rachel grinned. “Alfred the First.”
“Hang on, Commander! He’s been dead for over a thousand years. And he’s not even running,” Smith protested. Lt. Andrew Wales sipped his wine and hid a smile. He’d been getting a full dose of Commander Na Gael’s eccentricity and enjoyed seeing other people suffer for once.
The xenology specialist shrugged. “He was a good leader, knew how to balance budgets, and supported both good education and strong defenses. That’s a winning combination in my estimation. Besides,” she added with wink and a nod to Walker, “the dead vote, so why not stand for election too?” As she’d hoped, her jab generated laughs that even had the American from Georgia chiming in.
Maj. Thorsten Sigurdson, the Icelandic logistics officer, studied his advisor. “Would you really vote for Alfred the Great?”
“In a heartbeat. But since I can’t vote,” she reminded everyone, “it doesn’t matter.”
Khan decided to broach something that had been puzzling him for a decade at least. “What political system do you think is the best, Commander?”
“A meritocratic aristocracy, followed at a distance by a republic, sir,” she replied almost instantly. “With a meritocratic oligarchy a close third.” As her choices sank in, the humans blinked, looked at each other, and then stared at her with varying degrees of surprise.
“That’s interesting. I’d have thought you would be more inclined towards a republic or a democracy as your first choice,” Khan admitted, holding his glass out for a refill, which the mess orderly provided almost before the general’s hand had stopped moving.
“I’ve never lived under a republic, sir, and I like the idea. However, it takes a great deal of work to maintain a republic, and they tend to be relatively short-lived—only four or five of your centuries or so. I have lived under a meritocratic aristocracy and it works, or has worked thus far,” Rachel amended, skipping over the little matter of several Azdhagi civil wars. “There is a possibility for advancement, there are safeguards for those farther down on the social and political hierarchy, and there is a built-in stability,” she ticked the benefits off on her fingers. “Add a more or less free-market economy and I’m happy.”
Lt. Irma Trelawny objected. “What about the rights of non-aristocrats to be heard? It’s bad enough with the House of Lords, but what you describe, ma’am, sounds almost intolerable. Who speaks for the average person?” The young Cornishwoman kept her tone respectful, but it was apparent by the fire in her dark eyes that Rachel’s choices had struck a nerve.
“The King-Emperor and the more modern and the most traditional members of the aristocracy do. I’ve noticed that it is what you’d call the ‘ultra conservative’ nobles who advocate most aggressively for the commoners’ protection, and who push the other nobles to do their duty.” Rachel’s placid reply raised further eyebrows.
“That makes no sense, Commander,” Maj. Sigurdson stated.
Rachel smiled, enjoying being the ce
nter of attention. “It does if you think about a feudal system, which is really what I’m talking about, to a degree. Duty runs both ways, just as it does here,” and she gestured toward the gathered officers. “I, as a member of the nobility, enjoy certain privileges and rights. However, I also have duties to those under me and above me. If I do not protect and look after my people and their needs and rights, either the other nobles or my dependents have the right—and the obligation—to take what action is necessary.” She caught herself and added, “If I were a noble, that is. Hypothetical situation of course.” She sipped her drink, ignoring Khan’s raised eyebrows at her mild untruth.
“Interesting that you specify a meritocracy in two of your choices, Commander,” Major Maria de Alba y Rodriguez observed, then waved off a refill of her wine. “No thank you. Coffee if you have some, please,” she requested. At the head of the table Brigadier Khan nodded slightly, and the mess steward signaled his understanding. Time to be cutting back on the alcohol. Rachel, Sigurdson, and a few others were already abstaining, since they were the seniors on watch.
The smaller woman flashed her slightly warped, world-wise grin. “I like being rewarded for my efforts, ma’am. Why bother contributing to a society where I’m stuck on the bottom even if I work hard and make lots of money, should I ever choose to work hard or manage to earn money?” At the last she winked, causing chuckles among those who knew her, including Maria and Brig. Khan. The fact that she didn’t receive a salary had become something of a joke.
“A good point, Commander,” Khan agreed, expression grave. “If you’d save for retirement instead of squandering your earnings on bone meal and laboratory toys you’d not have to keep pestering London for a raise.”
That generated more chuckles and laughter, and Rachel saluted her nominal superior with her glass, acknowledging the hit and the joke. “And fancy clothes, sir. You are quite correct, and I shall endeavor to improve.”