Shadows and Anguish (A Cat Among Dragons Book 8)

by Alma Boykin

  “Sir, we don’t have the troops to do that just yet,” the American said, looking up from the information and selection menus on his display. “I can’t keep the blocking force at the valley mouth and move civilians at the same time.” He glanced down and frowned at new information that had just appeared. “And the locals don’t seem to want to listen to outsiders, sir.”

  Commander Na Gael raised a finger and McKendrick acknowledged her. “Command One, Two, I suggest opening the valley for the moment and focusing on removing the invaders’ troop source. Since they were able to kill and convert two hundred humans into augmented fighters in a relatively brief period of time, I don’t think we should let them have access to more raw materials. Even if the people don’t care to leave. And the scouts Captain Ben David is putting in place should give us notice of any movement.”

  McKendrick noticed his exec bristling and asked, “Manx One, do you have an identification on the invaders yet?”

  “Negative sir,” she informed him, considering her display for a moment. “I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities, based on their arrival time and the results of the autopsies on their victims.”

  McKendrick decided to take her advice and ordered Przilas to evacuate the surrounding valleys. Apparently it was the right decision, because despite the initial report the people left with little fuss and the scouts were able to get pictures of the invaders.

  “Eeegh!” Captain ben David commented, and O’Neil paled a little at the image. McKendrick was glad he’d not had a lot of breakfast, because the monstrosity revolted his sense of rightness. It looked vaguely insect-like, but with a shimmer to it, rather like the slime of a slug. It had a vaguely head-shaped area, with a round orifice and four small appendages on stalks, and two arms. The rest of the armored body seemed to be supported by hundreds of little legs, although the image blurred out at that point.

  “What is that below the thing’s mouth?” Maria de Alba asked calmly, pointing to a string of objects—or possibly markings, it was hard to tell.

  Na Gael frowned, then nodded. “Trophies. They’re bits of captured and killed enemy that the Meesshslasi absorber has defeated. The Meesshslasi, or Meessh’ as most of us call them, believe that they can absorb more of the enemy’s energy and skills if they wear part of him or her. Usually the hide or bits of exoskeleton,” she added, her tone amazingly matter-of-fact. The woman had changed, no longer the withdrawn and haunted person McKendrick had seen in the lab or at briefings. Instead, she radiated an intense professionalism and quiet competence, like the SAS soldiers he’d met, and she seemed relaxed for the first time since he’d taken over. He realized with an uncomfortable start that she was truly in her element just now, and he wondered.

  The scenario continued. The weather remained uncooperative, although the unspecified country’s air force agreed to come on standby with fixed wing bombers in case it cleared enough and they were needed. De Alba failed to establish communications with the Meessh’, who had begun moving out of their dug-in ship and were probing the Regiment, supported by the late valley residents. What Na Gael could tell them about the invaders did not make McKendrick very optimistic, especially after a civilian vehicle came to grief twenty miles up the highway, blocking most motorized access to the area until they could get the big lorry off the slick and twisting road. That was, of course, when the Meessh’ decided to attack. They had some form of personal energy shield that was capable of stopping basic rifle bullets, forcing the humans to resort to grenades and mortars to kill the creatures. At least their minions are easier to stop, McKendrick noted rather sadly. But the people were already dead, so technically the soldiers weren’t killing civilians.

  “Command One, I’m reading increasing signal traffic of some kind,” de Alba reported. She looked over at the xenologist, who was typing frantically, her eye narrowed. The women conferred briefly.

  “Got it, sir. It’s a call-in signal, transmitted from the scout ship to someone outside the atmosphere,” the alien said. “Radio One, can you patch your access to the orbital observers to my laptop?”

  The two women worked quickly, as ben David reported that his group was falling back a little, to better cover. O’Neil swore—there was another delay in getting the road open and freezing rain had started, which would complicate and slow things further.

  A message popped up for everyone, drawing a chorus of groans. “The scouts have informed their mother ship that they can defeat the humans easily and that the planet is more desirable than first thought. The mother ship is to prepare for full invasion, commencing in two hours,” O’Neil read aloud.

  McKendrick looked at his options. Freezing rain eliminated all but high-altitude bombing, he couldn’t get more troops quickly, and killing the alien scouts piecemeal would work only until they got near their ship, according to the information that Manx One had fed him. “All right.” He sat back, thinking hard. “Manx One, your suggestion for dealing with this?”

  She gave it to him, running the possibility on the display so they could see the results—which were conclusive, McKendrick had to admit, even as he recoiled at her methods. A MOAB and fuel-air burst, followed by carpet bombing of the valley, brought to mind things McKendrick preferred not to contemplate, including the tactical nuclear strike she recommended if a multi-part attack proved unfeasible.

  Colonel Przilas blurted, “Na Gael, that’s . . . that’s, horrible! Even if it were possible, it has to violate the Geneva Conventions and the laws of war.”

  “They are not bound by your Geneva Conventions, in case you haven’t noticed, Command Two. And if you care to get technical, neither am I. You asked for my recommendation for dealing with them, sir. You did not specify a limit, or that you wanted anything other than the defeat of their forces,” Manx One explained in a calm tone, as if her position was perfectly reasonable. McKendrick stared at her over the top of his glasses, shocked at the woman’s cold brutality. She turned to him. “Please remember, Command One, that in my former occupation our goal was defeating the enemy and keeping as many of our own people alive as possible, with far fewer restrictions on method than you operate under here. Granted, the commanders I served under observed limitations that at times were more restrictive than your Hague and Geneva Conventions, but others did not and do not.”

  McKendrick took a deep breath. He’d been thrust into a very different world than the regular Army. He was going to have to learn fast, if the Meessh’ and Commander Na Gael were examples of what lay beyond Earth’s atmosphere. Right he decided. This old dog is going to have to learn new tricks, starting right now.

  As the other humans tried to decide how to respond to what she’d said, Rachel sat back a little. The silence lengthened, another time-marker passed on the simulation, and she sighed. “Perhaps you might want to talk to General Whitehead. He found a way to use both sides of me, if you will.”

  McKendrick considered for a moment longer. “Manx One, assume we do not have the capability or authorization to use the, ah, procedures,” he gave her a significant look, “that you recommend. With that in mind, what do you suggest?”

  She leaned forward and reset the table’s display to where it had been before. “From what I understand of their training and culture, they’ll be focused on motion and attacks originating at the valley mouth and not on this back ridge.” She motioned with her pointer. “If you were to bring some troops here . . .” Manx One explained how the aliens would most likely react to the perceived redirection of attack, and to additional ideas suggested by the staff officers. McKendrick, Przilas, and the others planned their own moves in response and then ran the simulation.

  It wasn’t pretty, but it worked, and they managed to destroy the scout ship. Since the Meessh’, according to the referee, had limited energy supplies left, and turned out not to be willing to deal with serious resistance by the humans despite the earlier communication, the main force opted to pull back and regroup. In short, the humans had won, since the scenario didn
’t require or allow for extra-atmospheric follow up. Once the referees declared the simulation to be over, the list of right and wrong moves came up for further study. Some were obvious, like removing the civilians. Others were not so plain, and Colonel Przilas shook his head at the one about trying harder to jam the alien scouts’ communications. “How long did it take you to even find their frequency?” he asked the communications officer.

  “Fourteen turns, sir” de Alba replied unhappily. She should have done better, but she wasn’t used to acting as counter-communications, or having the variety of equipment available to her that the Regiment possessed. “I’ll speed that up, sir.”

  Captain ben David gained extra points for his initiative in placing some scouts in the trees on the ridge behind where the invaders ship was dug in, but the referee dinged O’Neil for not considering other routes, even if they would have required tire chains, which he hadn’t asked to see if they had. Live and learn, McKendrick decided.

  The xenologist received no points, but she didn’t lose any, either. In fact, the referee seemed to pass over her efforts without public comment. “Doesn’t Commander Na Gael get graded?” Przilas asked.

  “Not in this scenario, Colonel,” the referee informed him. “Invaders known to Commander Na Gael do not get scored unless there are extraordinary circumstances.” The others shrugged, except for Captain de Alba.

  The Spaniard shook her head. “That’s not fair to Commander Na Gael. Just because she may be familiar with the invaders doesn’t mean she doesn’t have to work with us and to adapt to the new situation. And she still faces risks if something fails to go as anticipated or as planned,” she reminded everyone.

  Rachel made an odd, swirling motion with her right hand. “Thank you, ma’am. But my advancement, pay, and other things are independent of the scenarios we run, unlike yours. So you’re right, but my not getting scored doesn’t mean as much as it would for you.” She sighed a little, her earlier grim expression returning. “Besides, if I screw up, we all pay the price, so I lose all my points, not just one or two.”

  Ben David reminded her, “That’s why we are a team, Manx One. We help each other make up for our individual weaknesses.” The woman bowed her head and acknowledged the correction.

  McKendrick nodded his approval. “Good work, ladies, gentlemen. We know where we need to improve and what resources we have available. Any questions or comments?” None were forthcoming, so he dismissed everyone.

  As everyone left the simulation and briefing room, Rachel started down the hallway to the lab. Tadeus Przilas stopped her. “Someone told me that you used to eat with the officers or senior enlisted almost every day. Is that true?”

  “Yes, I did, sir,” she nodded. He started to ask the inevitable next question and she interrupted, “My disfigurations make some of the officers uncomfortable, so I’ve stopped dining with them.”

  The American frowned. “Well, they need to get over it. Come to the officers’ mess tonight, please. We,” and he waved to include the people in the hall behind him, “need to get to know you better, and vice versa.”

  Rachel started to refuse, then changed her mind. Be professional she reminded herself. “Very well, sir. I’ll be at supper tonight.”

  Back in his office, McKendrick thought about the scenario and follow-up. De Alba’s problem had been ignorance—she would take care of that on her own. Przilas seemed oddly indecisive, and his superior made a note to push him harder next time to think on his own. O’Neil handled things well overall, ben David the same. The referee had dinged McKendrick for not involving Na Gael earlier, and would have penalized her for lack of initiative had she been scored like the others. The Scotsman was pleased with the results, overall. He was also curious about the change in his xenology specialist. It almost seemed that she only came alive when faced with combat, a notion that puzzled and bothered him, especially given what he knew of her history.

  McKendrick stared out the window at the gray December afternoon. At the height of the simulation he’d completely forgotten about Na Gael’s appearance. After more thought, he decided that his problem was that he’d never seen a woman with combat injuries, let alone a woman who’d been through the trauma his advisor had suffered. Only the Israelis regularly put women in the front lines, and McKendrick hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that the 58th Regiment was a front line unit. For that matter, he’d not even known it existed until six weeks ago! “Welcome to a brand new world, James,” the man whispered to himself.

  As her commanding officer mulled things, Maria de Alba was poking her head into the lab. “Commander Na Gael?” she inquired, looking around for the other woman.

  “Over here, Captain. What can I do for you?” a friendly voice called from a corner.

  Maria hesitated, then walked in. “Commander, what can you tell me about blocking or corrupting the most common forms of communication systems used by aliens?”

  The scarred woman put down her tea mug, closed a file folder, and called up some pictures on her ultra-fast laptop. “Do you want to start with voice, image, or electronic signal systems?”

  “Voice, since that’s what I’m the most familiar with,” the Spaniard decided. “And do you have any more tea?”

  Rachel smiled. “Over on the shelf by the mirror. Help yourself, and there’s sugar in the little canister.” Maybe they’re not all as bad as McKendrick and Przilas. Maybe. And I do need to get her ramped up before I go on leave, assuming my absence request makes it through the queue before Easter. Why does everyone insist on taking the same major holidays off? Rachel shook her head to herself as she called up the computer files she needed. Christians I can understand, but the Hindus and Chinese too? Humans are sooooo strange.

  Year 4193. Damn, it’s good to be home, Rachel Na Gael, better known as Lord Defender Commander Reh-dakh Lord Ni Drako, Daimyo of Singing Pines and Burnt Mountain, thought, rolling over on her sleeping pad and stretching. The humans assumed she’d stepped out for the evening, going to one of the pubs near the regimental headquarters. Instead she’d taken her scout ship and travelled two thousand years or so into the humans’ future, arriving on “her” estates on Drakon IV in time for the opening of hunting season. His Imperial Majesty Di-Dosk, the king-emperor of the Azdhag Empire, had graciously permitted her the honor of a solo hunt, and she’d been out until just before sunrise. Thank God for a mammal-free planet. I get so damn tired of humans underfoot, some days. It also helped that the Azdhagi had no telepathic ability, allowing her to relax her shields. She peered at the timekeeper on the wall. I’ve got another hour or two before his Majesty and his Imperial Highness return. I think . . . she yawned, curled up, and napped a little more.

  “Mine!” the Prince Imperial hissed, then launched out of the brush onto the unsuspecting roklat boar. The smaller predator barely had a chance to realize his danger before Shy-kii’s forefeet closed around the beast’s thick neck and twisted. The roklat’s spine broke with a dull “crack,” and King-Emperor Di-dosk smiled. His second son and chosen heir had done well this hunt, as had the King-Emperor himself. The huntsmen accompanying the two royals collected the cleaned and tailless carnivore as Shy-kii rinsed the blood from his talons in a nearby stream. The prince preferred to do the dirtiest work himself—a good sign for the future, in his sire’s opinion.

  King-Emperor Di-dosk studied the shadows around the hunting party and sighed. “Time to return to Burnt Mountain,” he announced. “No point in spoiling tomorrow’s hunt by thrashing around in the darkness.” The rich-brown Azdhag shook a little, making sure his day’s catch and weapons were well balanced in the packs attached to his carry harness, then turned and led the way back toward the royal hunting lodge.

  “Honored Sire, have you heard how Lord Reh-dakh’s hunt went last night?” Shy-kii inquired quietly, scanning the woods around them for more game signs. The King-Emperor looked over his shoulder at the huntmaster.

  The smaller grey reptile’s neck spines flared slightly. “You’ll be
savoring my lord mammal’s catch tonight, Majesty, Highness. He came in with a talkak and a pair of fat cheezali just before dawn.”

  Sire and son smiled, baring their very sharp fangs. Then Shy-kii dropped back as the terrain grew rougher, allowing his sire to go first over the rocky trail as they skirted a dormant volcanic cone. The King-Emperor’s tail swished, then rose level with his back as he threaded his way around a mound of black volcanic stone at the end of an old lava flow. Di-dosk maneuvered carefully, making certain the stones underfoot were stable before going forward. Even four grasping-clawed feet were useless if a rockslide started, as more than one careless—and now deceased—soul had discovered.

  As they entered easier terrain, Shy-kii returned to his place at his sire’s shoulder. The slightly-built green-and-yellow blotched reptile lifted his muzzle, sniffing for hints of what other game might be out in the early twilight, then turned to his father. “Honored Sire, why is Reh-dakh allowed to hunt at night? Won’t it ruin everyone else’s pursuit the next day?” Since the only people permitted to hunt at Singing Pines and Burnt Mountain were the Imperial Family and their invited guests, Shy-kii really worried about his own chances, as his sire well knew.

  “Reh-dakh hunts at night because he sees much better and moves more easily in darkness than we Azdhagi do.” Di-dosk said, adding thoughtfully, “He probably could be nocturnal, given his coloring and abilities, if We did not require otherwise.”

  The Crown Prince’s muzzle gaped a bit before he brought himself back under proper control. “I keep forgetting he’s not one of us,” he admitted.

  “Never forget it, Shy-kii,” the King-Emperor ordered. “His value to Us and Our throneworld lies in his difference. That is why We allow him to come and go at will. Do you remember what his true name and birth sex are?”