by Alma Boykin
The banter made no sense to Walker, and he noticed Lt. Wales and some others looking equally puzzled. No one asked the logical question, however, and the topic shifted to other things. Rachel appealed to the vice president to be excused and, after some pro-forma scolding, Col. Selassie allowed her to leave. As she went past, the American noted the xenologist’s clothes. Her rather old-fashioned dress had a standing collar, modest neckline, long sleeves, and long skirt of solid gray. Perhaps as a concession to the dining-in, over the dress she wore a green waistcoat, as well as an eye-patch in a color that also matched the British officers’ waistcoats. Oh, that’s right, she’s a sort-of officer, Walker remembered. Then his attention drifted back to the conversation swirling around him.
Rick Walker suspected that Commander Na Gael’s level was, as his cousin the carpenter phrased it, “at least one bubble off plumb.” The next morning confirmed his suspicion. Despite a mild headache, he went to the gym shortly before 0500, anticipating solitude and a quiet weight work out. Instead he found Commander Na Gael stretching and twisting. Although she favored her bad leg, the woman bent like a pretzel and took poses that made Walker hurt just thinking about them. He shrugged and turned his attention to the free weights. After a series of light lifts and sets, Walker got onto a treadmill to finish warming up before doing serious weight work.
He caught himself watching the xenologist. At first he tried to avoid staring, but gave up. It was not as if she noticed him—her focus had turned completely inward and she’d closed both of her eyes. Since she held a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other, it scared the crap out of the American. He couldn’t tell at first what the heck all the kicks, turns, and lunges meant, but then he caught the rhythm and started mentally counting along. He shook himself, finished his ten-minute jog, and went back to the weight benches.
“Sword dance,” someone confirmed quietly a few minutes later. “Let’s just stay over here for a bit—she’ll finish soon.”
“That looks dangerous,” a second voice opined equally quietly. Walker finished his last press and carefully, and a bit painfully, rested the barbell on the stand, then sat up. A very lean, tall NCO and a second man stood off to the side of the weights area.
“It is dangerous. Those are not stage weapons, Percy. Rachel can and has killed things with them.” Sergeant Lee added, “She’s a vicious close-quarters knife fighter, even with her problems.”
The object of the three men’s interest slowed her dance pattern. Then she froze. The soldiers couldn’t help seeing how her muscles trembled with strain and fatigue, the heavy sword held at full reach, all her weight on her weak leg. Then she broke pose into a sweeping bow to an invisible audience, opened her eyes, and smiled a little fiercely. “All yours, gentlemen.”
Lee ventured to tease the lightly panting Wanderer. “Getting your tai chi in early, ma’am?”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “No. Just seeing how fat and stiff I’m getting.” The NCO replied with a snort and headshake. “I’ll leave you to it, Tony.” She stepped sideways, tossed the sword into the air, and caught it as it fell, swirling the blade into an elaborate salute. “Good morning, sir.”
“Show off,” Rahoul said smiling, as Rachel sheathed her blades, then left the gym.
Having suffered through the formal meal the night before, Rachel opted for supper with the NCOs. None of the new people batted an eye when she joined the food line in the second mess, so apparently they’d been warned. “Has anyone grown webbed feet yet, RSM?” she inquired of Sheldon Smith, the senior NCO.
“No, ma’am, but not for lack of effort. You might be careful if you go out by the big rocks,” he warned her. “It’s turning into a regular pond that way. Chicken, please,” he requested before turning back to the xenologist.
“Thank you, RSM. I’ll keep my head up, then. Ah, umm, the ‘not chicken’ over there, please. Yes, that.” Rachel kept her eye on the plate, warning the corporal, “No veg tonight, unless it has meat in it.”
“Beans with bacon, then, ma’am?”
She peered at the indicated pile. “Yes, thank you.” Without her asking, the mess sergeant added a roll and two pats of butter to the plate before handing it over. Rachel snared a very large glass of milk and a bowl of tapioca pudding before finding a seat at the end of a table.
“Is this seat taken?”
When she shook her head, Sergeant Lee put his tray down across from her and settled in. After devouring about half of his meal, Lee asked, “Ma’am, do have a moment for a question?” She swallowed a bite of not-chicken and nodded, so Lee plunged in. “How did you learn so many languages?”
The one-eyed alien tipped her head to the side. “Do you mean the mechanics or are you just commenting on the number of dialects and tongues I can make a fool of myself in?”
“Sorry, ma’am. The mechanics,” he clarified.
“I started when I was very young, so that I was fully trilingual by the time I was about twenty of your years old. That helped a little, but I also underwent severe conditioning so that it was easier for me to make the connections necessary to learn languages. That was absolutely no fun, let me assure you,” she grimaced. “You do not want to feel someone and something rooting around in your mind and shifting your wiring.”
“So there’s no easy way to do it, ma’am?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve just had a bit more time than most to practice is all, Sergeant. Not that it all sticks. I’ve had head trauma that knocked me back to my second level of language, which meant I couldn’t talk to anyone here.” She waved the hand not holding her knife. “Not a good situation.”
“No, ma’am,” Lee agreed. Well, so much for borrowing her secret, he sighed to himself.
Corporal Suharto hesitantly inquired, “Ma’am, what is your native language?”
“Ah, it’s . . . I’m not sure anymore, Corporal.” Rachel stared off into the distance.
She sounded sad, and Lee remembered her saying once that her home was the Dark Hart. The other NCOs changed the topic, and it wandered into a discussion of the pending European football semi-finals. As he finished dinner, Lee wondered what it would be like not to have any place to call home, to live always on the sufferance of someone else. It was not a pleasant thing to contemplate.
Lee growled at himself the next day. He’d forgotten to put the wet-weather packs into his boots, and after a misstep he felt cold mud oozing in around the lace holes. Commander Na Gael and her escort seemed about as happy as he was, where they crouched a few meters back. Lt. Wales stayed alert, looking around for motion and possible attacks, while Rachel fiddled with an optical sensor of some kind. Lee waited, watching their target as the other scouts squelched through the mire along the stream.
Rachel lowered her device and studied the small display, translating the numbers and symbols, first into Trader and then into English. Water dripped off her rain hood and she cupped her hand over the life detector, protecting it. “Clear of life signs at the objective, Boer One,” she whispered.
“Roger, Manx One,” came the reply. Lt. Wales, currently Manx Two, suppressed a shiver as rain dripped down his collar, under his armor, and onto his back. Lee made a hand sign, and the xenologist put her gizmo away, then began turning and sliding through the brush. Wales caught on after a second and followed, trying to move as smoothly and quietly as his charge did. She eased along from tree to shrub to tree until they passed through the scouts’ line, where she came to a halt by a positively ancient willow tree.
“We’ll just stop here, then,” she explained, then caught herself and frantically patted around the side of her helmet until she found the control for her wireless and confirmed that it was in receiver mode. Wales did the same thing, a little more discreetly, and flinched a bit inside when he discovered his still set to auto-transmit. He quickly flicked the switch back to the proper setting. “As I was saying, we’ll wait here, out of the way, unless Boer One needs us again.” She leaned against the tree after pok
ing at it with her heavy cane. “Don’t want to find the hollow and get stuck,” she explained. “Very embarrassing. Especially these days, with smartphones and their built-in cameras.”
Wales bit his tongue to keep from commenting. Surely she was joking . . . wasn’t she? He checked the area around them yet again, then turned back and saw Commander Na Gael watching him, an unusually serious look on her face.
“You wonder if I’m really off my rocker, don’t you?”
He flushed and glanced down at the leaf litter. “Ah, yes, ma’am.”
“I am, just not in the way that you imagine.” She stared past him into some unknown distance. “Think of wearing a mask or a costume, Manx Two. People react differently to you then, don’t they?”
He nodded, scanning the area again for anyone or anything approaching them.
“My mask is how I act. An eccentric boffin is harmless—I’m not. I act like an eccentric boffin, and people overlook the other parts.” She took off her helmet and rubbed around the base of one black-furred cat ear. Wales’ jaw dropped as both ears twitched and rotated. “Like that.” She smoothed her hair and put the helmet back on, snugging the chin and neck straps. A monocle-like device rotated down and stopped in front of her good eye, then swung back up into the helmet. “And that.”
Wales gathered his wits quickly. “Those really are your ears.”
“No, they’re prosthetic. My real ears were cut off by someone trying to torture me to death. I give you permission to ask First Sergeant Lee if you really want to know the story, or General Khan.” Her tone stopped any further questions, and the junior officer just nodded, sick at his stomach.
Their radios crackled. “Command Two to Boers, exercise complete, return to base. Repeat: exercise complete, return to base.”
“Boer One, Wilco.”
“Manx One, Wilco,” Rachel replied. She heaved herself up from her lean against the tree. “Nice of her to wait until after we all got mucky and cold.” She stuck her tongue in the general direction of the command vehicle laager. Then a gleam appeared in the single silvery-grey eye. “Let’s race the Boers, shall we?”
“No, ma’am, let’s not,” Wales replied firmly. “I’d just as soon not be the first to find something that infiltrated our lines.”
“Very good! Don’t learn that lesson the hard way if you can help it, Manx Two. I don’t recommend it.” She patted her bad leg.
The Manxes arrived at the scouts’ vehicle laager thirty seconds after the first of the Boers did. As everyone else confirmed weapons safeties and loaded equipment, Rachel scraped some of the heavy mud off her boots with a stick. The stick broke. “Blargh,” she declared. “It’s enough to make me miss campaign season.”
Lee snorted as he finished counting noses, making sure all his scouts were back, then passing the information to the RSM. “Roger Boer One. Return to base,” Top One ordered.
“If you track that into my clean Aethelred . . .” Lt. O’Keefe threatened.
Rachel paused, one mucky boot in the air, “You’ll do what, Lieutenant?”
“Something evil, ma’am. Like telling Col. Selassie that you said that the lab is so clean that it can pass any no-notice inspection she can devise.”
Rachel lowered the boot and started turning. “Fresh air is good. Meet you at base?” The other troopers grinned at the by-play, and Lt. Wales gave her a boost into the back of one of the trucks. It was only a few kilometers, and she didn’t need to be available to HQ. “You ride up front, Wales. I won’t go anywhere.”
Sergeants Lee and Perez settled down beside her, as tired, cold, and mucky as she was. All three dozed off, and Lee awoke with a bit of a start when the truck came to a halt.
By now Lee knew how to help Rachel without obviously “helping the xenologist,” and he braced, taking as much of her weight as he could while she clambered out of the lorry. She smiled at him before sighing loudly as RSM Smith and Capt. ben David appeared. “Perfect. I need to see you two,” ben David started. “Leave your shadow, Commander, and come this way.”
Boer One and Manx One followed the NCO and officer around to a quiet spot by the medical vehicles. “Any problems on the approach, Boer One?”
Puzzled by the strange debrief, Lee shook his head. “No, sir. As briefed, we approached the possible vehicle and confirmed that it was indeed of alien origin. Manx One joined Boer One, Five, and Six, while the other Boers cleared a perimeter. Since there were no life-forms detected, Manx One returned to a safer location while the Boers investigated the object and secured it.”
Smith grunted something unintelligible, then asked, “Any problems with Boer Three?”
“No, RSM. Boer Three did well and remained in contact at all times.”
“And Manx Two?”
Befuddled, Lee shrugged. “Manx Two appears to have carried out his duties without causing or encountering any difficulties.” Rachel nodded her confirmation.
Ben David looked at something on his notepad. “Describe the terrain around the object, please, Boer One.” Lee did so, and the Israeli glanced at Rachel. “Anything you wish to add, Manx One?”
“No. I observed nothing problematic,” and with those odd words the alien fell silent.
RSM Smith and Capt. ben David compared notes on something and reached a decision. “Relax, Lee. You pass both language levels.”
Rachel thought that the tall NCO resembled a very confused giraffe. “Sir?”
“What language are we speaking in, First Sergeant?” Ben David was fighting to keep a straight face, as was Rachel.
Lee hesitated, then realized what they’d done. “German, sir.” The entire de-brief had been in German, as had everything since they arrived at the field headquarters.
“If you can speak this well, as tired as you are, you are at least halfway to the next proficiency stage, Lee. All you need to do is take the written portion,” the Israeli pointed out as he handed the notepad and testing form to Lee for his signature.
“Captain, do you think the First Sergeant should add a third language? Something less complicated,” she added quickly. “Say, maybe Russian or Hebrew?” Lee stared at her with growing horror before she turned and he saw the mischievous gleam in her eye.
On impulse he said a phrase he’d heard Rahoul Khan tell the alien once. Rachel startled and stared at him, obviously taken aback by whatever it was. Then her eye narrowed and she replied in something that sounded half-guttural and half-lyrical. Bluff called, Lee shook his head, but the small woman didn’t stop, instead advancing on him. “Ah, ma’am, I haven’t the faintest idea what I said or what you are saying,” he confessed, looking towards the RSM for rescue. The senior NCO just stood there, hiding a smile behind his mustache.
“You are going to learn, First Sergeant, because it was an exceedingly rude description of my ancestry that usually precipitates someone getting beaten up or shot. General Khan and I are obviously going to have to teach you enough so that you don’t ever say that again.” The alien looked very intense and Lee stammered an apology, wanting to run away and hide. Rachel turned on her heel and stalked over to the captain, and the two began making their way to the command vehicle.
“Did he really call you something bad?” ben David wanted to know as they picked their way through the mud to where Andrew Wales stood waiting for his charge to return.
She shook her head and flashed her grin. “No. He asked me if I’d turned in my budget for the quarter. But he shouldn’t be repeating things he doesn’t understand.”
Moshe grinned back. “No. That is a good way to get beaten up or shot, as you said.”
As the others finished debriefing, Rachel studied a message from the Dark Hart on her data-link. More of those strange signals had come through within the last hour. What exactly is going on, and who is transmitting? Because these had an outgoing component as well as incoming. I’m starting to dislike spring almost as much as autumn, at least this spring.
“Brrrrriiiiiingggg! Brrrrriiinngggg!”
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br /> “I have it. When the temperature reads one twenty, record the other readings, please, Lieutenant.” Commander Rachel Na Gael slid her hands out of the gloves in the fume hood and limped briskly over to her desk. “Na Gael speaking. How are you? Good to hear. Um huh. Um huh.” Lt. Andrew Wales heard scratching sounds as the xenologist scribbled notes on the electronic pad beside the phone. “So the solar meteorology forecast earlier this week was correct. Um huh.” He imagined her nodding. “How strong? That’s rather respectable, I must say. Any idea on orientation? Ooh, that will sting then. I’ll warn the usual suspects. Thank you for the heads-up. Anything I can do for you?” A long pause, then a hint of laughter. “Mmmmmm, I’m an alien, not a miracle worker. The Celtics don’t have a chance, even if I could do something like that.” Another pause, then, “Now that I can manage. To the usual address? No, thank you.”
The woman rang off, made another note on the data pad, and returned to the work in progress. “Any numbers yet?”
Wales shook his head. “No, ma’am. Not ye—!” He lurched backwards as the contents of the large test tube geysered up, filling the fume hood with yellow smoke and liquid spatter.
Commander Na Gael calmly reached in and turned off the heating element, then sighed. “Well, that answers our question, though I’d rather it did it not quite so messily.” She tapped some figures onto her PDA before adding. “Let it cool for at least half an hour before you raise the sides. And unplug your phone charger and anything else electronic before you go to sleep tonight. Turn them off, too.”
Wales didn’t bother asking what she meant, because she’d already turned away from him, limping back to the desk. She picked up the handset and dialed an extension. “Major de Alba? Yes, I’ll hold.” As Wales set a timer so he’d know when he could open the fume containment hood, he listened in on the conversation. “Maria? Yes, we need to start shutting things down after 2100, if not sooner. The peak interference time will be 0300 to 0500, but this one has a double whammy so I recommend an earlier, slow down-draw.” A pause and Rachel nodded. “Yes, that too. Deaf and blind, unless you know someone who has something that I don’t know about that can be rotated.” A quick pause followed that baffling sentence and Rachel nodded again. “Didn’t think so. And don’t just shut down—unplug what you can and throw the breakers. Yes, I’m serious. Not yet, you have more things to isolate than he does. Good. Na Gael out.” She rang off, then scribbled something onto a piece of paper. “Here, take this to the RSM, then come back. I have two errands to run.” She grinned a little. “So to speak. I’ll meet you back here.”