by Alma Boykin
Two days later, Tadeus Przilas knocked on his commanding officer’s door. “You want to see me, sir?”
McKendrick beckoned him in. “Yes. I’ve been looking over the scenario from the other day. Do you have access to everyone’s actions and responses?”
“No, sir. I see the general information but not their specific problem sets,” the American replied.
The general officer grunted in acknowledgment, then turned his computer monitor so his executive officer could read it. “What do you think?”
Przilas read, then re-read the lines on the screen. “That makes no sense, sir. Given what Commander Na Gael’s been through, she should have opted for suicide. She certainly would have saved the rest of us a lot of grief.” As soon as the words were out, the sandy-blond man winced a little, and McKendrick’s eyebrows vanished into his gingery hair.
“I’m going to take your meaning and ignore your, hmmm, unfortunate phrasing, Przilas. But yes, her action doesn’t make a great deal of sense. I’ve not been able to sort out why Commander Na Gael didn’t choose the suicide option. This,” he reached around the monitor and tapped the screen, “makes it clear that there was no possibility of rescue.”
“Could she have been thinking she could give them enough false information to confuse them and buy us time? Or that they couldn’t break her?” Przilas thought back to his own escape, evasion, and resistance training.
McKendrick took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. “That’s a possibility. Have you talked to her at all about things recently?”
Przilas shrugged, “Not really, sir. She keeps to herself unless she’s with the noncoms. Na Gael’s been willing to talk when I’ve approached her, but I’ve been busy with other things.” McKendrick replaced his glasses and looked over the top of them. Przilas shifted uncomfortably. “Alright, I’ve not talked to her because she makes me uncomfortable.”
The general turned the computer screen back around and cleared it. “Well, we need to start talking to her more, and not just at meals or in simulations. This makes it clear that someone considers her to be an almost mission critical item—and the more I learn, the more I’m inclined to agree with them. She’s too valuable to keep avoiding, Przilas. That goes for both of us.” After almost four months with the regiment, McKendrick was still reluctant to draw his xenologist out, although for very different reasons.
McKendrick thought about the situation over the next few days and decided to ask Commander Na Gael directly. Przilas’s suggestion had some weight to it, but McKendrick’s gut disagreed. Perhaps Na Gael’s reluctance was because of religious strictures, he mused, although the Church of England had changed its teachings on suicide since the days when it was considered an unforgivable sin as well as a civil and ecclesiastical crime. Na Gael appeared at his door five minutes after he called her and he waved her into a chair.
“Commander Na Gael, I’ve been reviewing the simulation session from last week,” he began. “I’m curious about your decision after you were ‘captured.’”
The pale woman seemed unhappy about the question. “I’d rather not talk about it, sir, unless it’s absolutely critical.”
“Based on the simulation, it could be at some point,” he reminded her. “Why didn’t you kill yourself?”
She gaped a bit at his bluntness, eye wide. “Because, and this goes no farther, sir, I’m not allowed to.” He frowned as she explained, “At the end of the events in September I tried to commit suicide and was prevented. General von Hohen-Drachenburg and Lieutenant Colonel Rahoul Khan forced me to swear to them that I would not take my own life.”
“That’s a serious problem, Commander,” McKendrick said after a moment. “I suggest if we have a similar scenario again, you do what is necessary. I’m sure the general and colonel would understand, given the military situation.”
To his surprise she refused. “No sir. I’ve never broken my vows and I don’t intend to begin now, even in a computer scenario.”
“So instead you’re potentially going to let pride condemn your fellow Defense Force members to defeat?” he asked in a quiet voice, face starting to flush with anger at her irrationality.
All trace of color drained from her face and she swallowed hard. “No sir. I will ask to be released from my promise.”
“Do that, Na Gael. Before you become more of a liability than an asset.” McKendrick hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but his words seemed to have the desired effect as her back stiffened. “You’re dismissed,” he told her.
Rachel left the general’s office, returned to the lab and locked the main door, then locked herself in her quarters, curled up in her bed-nest, and shook with pain and anger. He’s right and you know it she told herself, even as another part of her wailed at the memory of that night and at how close she remained to joining the shadows. She stayed nearly catatonic for half an hour, fighting down her reactions and fears. Eventually the hardened mercenary in her won out over the frightened woman, and Rachel got cleaned up, unlocked the doors, and sent identical e-mails to two men in Vienna, Austria. Then she went about her business as if she’d never spoken to James McKendrick that morning.
Colonel Rahoul Khan had wondered how long it would take for the general to summon him after they received Rachel’s message. He’d almost phoned her on her personal line to inform her in no uncertain terms what his answer was, but he’d managed to restrain himself. In the heat and fear of the moment, he hadn’t thought about the larger security picture, and apparently neither had Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg. The South Asian officer considered the matter and Rachel’s request, trying to focus on the security concerns she outlined. But he kept seeing her as he had that night—kneeling with a dagger in her hands, the blade just starting to pierce her chest—and the image wouldn’t let him be as rational as he needed to be. It was a relief when Major General Helmut Eszterházy called him in.
“Joschka seems unable to keep from depriving me of personnel,” the blond Hungarian groused. “Go see what he wants, Khan, before he drives me to early retirement.” Despite his unending complaints, Eszterházy never refused the Graf-General a request, because Joschka made so few of them, and everyone knew it. “Do you have any idea why he wants to steal my chief-of-staff?”
“Yes sir. It’s related to last year’s situation in Britain,” he explained, and Eszterházy sighed. Rahoul echoed the noise.
“Go then. And remind him that I have Munich 1920 two to one,” the Hungarian ordered, laughter in his eyes as Khan shook his head ever so slightly. He didn’t wager on the football pools—much.
General Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg sat behind his spotlessly clean desk in an office so well organized and tidy that it could have served as an exhibit on Germanic stereotypes. “I don’t like her message,” he said without preamble once Rahoul had taken a seat. “It sounds to me as if she’s using this as an excuse so she can finish what those creatures started.”
Rahoul took a deep breath, “With all due respect sir, I disagree. I took the liberty of reviewing the simulation in question and it appears she has a valid point.” At the Austrian’s gesture that he continue, the British officer explained, “According to the program records, when the command post was overrun the computer gave Rachel two choices—suicide, or resistance followed by capture without possibility of rescue. She chose the second option and by the scenario, she was tortured, she broke, and she gave the enemy the information they needed to nearly destroy the British branch.” Joschka started snarling even before Rahoul was halfway through his description.
The HalfDragon slammed his hand onto the desk with a crash. “Damn it! Who issued that scenario so soon? No,” and he waved towards Khan, “don’t tell me. The damage is done. As much as I hate to say it, Rachel has a valid point. But I still don’t like her tone.” He considered things for a while as Rahoul waited. “We need to talk to her in person, I think,” and Rahoul nodded. Joschka continued, “I’m going to have her come here, which she needs to do anyway to l
ook at some materials the Southeast Asian branch sent in, in case she can identify them. While she’s here we’ll find out what’s going on.”
Three days later, Rachel made her way from the military side of Vienna’s airport to the train station on the commercial side and boarded the city-runner tram for the main train station. It was a cold, damp, late winter day, typical for central Europe, and she pulled her coat collar tighter as she stared out into the drizzly grey. Officially, she’d been ordered to come to the GDF’s global headquarters to look at some captured materials. Rachel suspected that there was something else waiting for her and she didn’t want to face it. She’d taken the position as xenology specialist as a way of hiding from her enemies, among other reasons. Earth had been her safe haven and her work fairly light duty. All that had changed over the twenty plus Earth years she’d been with the GDF, Rachel mused, and not for the better.
She changed trains twice, walked from the U-bahn station to a neighborhood on the edge of the gardens around Schloss Schönbrun and rang the bell at the courtyard door of a town-palace, one of many that had seen better days. She leaned against the stone as she waited and a very close observer would have noticed a hint of light appear under her hand. Then the door opened and the small, damp brunette slipped inside. Rachel walked across the rain-slick cobbles of the courtyard and swiped her pass card at the edge of a brass plaque identifying the office of an immigration law attorney. That is the dumbest joke I’ve seen in quite a while she snorted to herself, then ducked inside as soon as the door opened.
“Commander Na Gael?” a West African sergeant inquired, looking at a list on her desk.
“That’s me,” the Wanderer affirmed, presenting her pass card and identification, along with a copy of the “request” for her presence. The other woman entered the data into the security system and a series of green lights flashed discreetly as a glass door opened. Rachel recognized the faint tinting on the thick material and the corner of her mouth twitched with amusement. I’m in so much trouble if something ever does a serious technology check, since blaster-resistant coatings would not be (officially) developed on Earth for another two centuries or so. Then her momentary humor faded as a Japanese major caught her attention. She followed him without a word into a lift, which descended for thirty or forty seconds before the doors opened into a research laboratory. Rachel pushed her problems to the side and strode into the room, projecting an air of calm competence.
The xenologist assigned to analyzing the items in question greeted the new arrival with a combination of trepidation and relief. “Commander Na Gael, Colonel Ahrimansingh suggested that you could help identify these,” the rather nerdy-looking man said, gesturing to a set of specimens on a lab table.
Rachel gave him her warmest, most reassuring smile. “I can’t promise anything, Doctor Spaustet, but I’ll do my best. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned thus far, and we’ll go from there?” She dug her loupe out of its pocket and opened the satchel holding her tools as the other scientist began.
Two hours later, Rachel and Dr. Spaustet found a match. “It is organic, then,” the human pronounced, looking up from controls of the scanning electron microscope.
Rachel nodded. “In which case its harmless now, Dr. Spaustet. That’s the problem with weaponized non-microbial life forms; pick something from one environment and it probably won’t do as well in a different one. May I take a look?”
The man got up from his seat and Rachel leaned over, peering at the display screen. “Well now, that’s interesting,” she said aloud.
“How so, Commander?” the scientist asked, frowning and running a hand across his comb-over.
“These spots that appear green on the false color image?” she pointed. “I’ve seen them before, but in a very different use, as a chemical added to dyes for very, very high quality textiles. They are used as a batch tracker, allowing an appraiser to verify the source and authenticity of the material being dyed. They can also be used for medical purposes, but not in a carbon based life form.”
The scientist sighed, “Too bad this is all that was located. So we have a neutralized bioweapon, incapable of propagating on Earth in this form, with some sort of cellular tracking chemical in it. Where do you think it might be from?”
Rachel had been running through possibilities as they spoke, and decided, “One of three worlds in two star systems on the very far side of this galaxy, Dr. Spaustet. Without doing a series of destructive tests I can’t be more specific than that.” She smiled apologetically, “and a larger specimen would be nice, but not for whoever has to deal with it in the field.”
It was an old lament and response within the GDF, and Spaustet nodded. “Well, I’ll just tell Colonel Ahrimansingh and the rest of the Southeast Asian Branch to be more careful next time and not kill it so dead that we can’t take samples.”
He was serious, Rachel realized, and it took a great deal of effort not to laugh at his earnestness. “I’m not sure they will cooperate, Dr. Spaustet, but we can ask.”
He grunted and went back to the microscope. Rachel recognized his focus and knew that she’d served her purpose as far as he was concerned. He’d write up the report, mention her briefly if at all, and add another bit of fascinating knowledge to the files. Since she did the exact same thing, Rachel just smiled to herself, collected her “toys” and put everything back where it belonged in her satchel or on the laboratory shelves. The Japanese major reappeared from wherever he’d gone, frowning a little.
“That was fast, Commander Na Gael,” he observed, expression carefully neutral.
“Dr. Spaustet had already done most of the heavy lifting, Major,” she glanced at his nametag, “Takamashi. I just provided a slightly larger reference base and suggested a technique that makes sampling easier.” Rachel downplayed her role, as usual. The humans needed to gain confidence in themselves. Her job was to nudge, hint, and stay out of the way as much as possible. Except that it didn’t quite work out like that in the real world. Joschka, your “quiet little consulting position” line deserves to be immortalized with some of the recruiting sergeants’ whoppers, Rachel thought at the Graf General.
Major Takamashi didn’t ask anything further, but led the way back to the lift. They went up for longer than Rachel remembered going down and she wondered what the new destination was. She found out when the door opened, revealing Lieutenant Colonel Rahoul Khan waiting a touch impatiently. “Commander Na Gael, as the Graf-General requested, sir,” Takamashi said, then disappeared with the elevator.
The two former teammates regarded each other curiously. Rahoul thought Rachel looked thinner and still wary and worn, even five months after the attack. For her part, Rachel decided that both staff duties and fatherhood agreed with her former protégé, because she sensed a polish and confidence that Rahoul had lacked before. She looked around the hallway, breaking the silence with, “Whose idea was the overly-flocked wallpaper, Colonel Khan?”
She heard Rahoul stifling a sigh and almost smiled. “So much for hoping you might ever be domesticated,” he shook his head. “And if you must know, it is a reproduction of the original materials used in the palace,” he turned and she followed, listening to the lecture. It would have been convincing except for the fact that the location had never been a town palace until the GDF built its headquarters on the site. Rachel did approve of the carpet, a restful brown that toned down the walls.
The pair rounded a corner and were confronted by a large woman at an even larger desk. She glared at Rachel and Rahoul impartially, reminding the Wanderer of the paintings of Azdhagi temple guardians. “Do you have an appointment?” the Graf-General’s secretary demanded. Her tone suggested that if they didn’t, it would be the next century before they recovered from daring to intrude on her boss’s time.
“Yes, Frau Horowitz, we do.” Rahoul announced as he presented his identification. Rachel followed suite and drew a sniff as the woman studied Rachel’s card, comparing the picture with the realit
y. Before she could ask, Rachel lifted her eye patch so that she better matched the image. That satisfied the fierce secretary, and she returned the cards, signed the pair in and unlocked the door. “My lord General? Colonel Khan and Commander Na Gael to see you, sir.”
“Send them in,” a light baritone voice called, and the two British branch members eased past Frau Horowitz, who obviously considered them to be truant schoolboys going to see the headmaster.
“Be seated, Commander,” the graying general ordered. She sat as Rahoul moved to stand at Joschka’s shoulder. “We received your message last week. Have you changed your mind since then?” Hohen-Drachenburg demanded.
“No, my lord General, I’ve not changed my mind,” Rachel said quietly, barely hiding her discomfort.
Joschka made no secret of his own unhappiness. “If I understand correctly, Rachel, you are asking us to let you go off somewhere and kill yourself.”
“No, sir. I’m asking you to release me from my promise, conditionally,” she explained.
The men watched her intently and Joschka leaned forward. “What conditions?”
Rachel glanced down to the floor, then back at her superiors. “Combat or capture. At this moment, I’m an enormous security liability if I’m captured because I’m unable to kill myself in order to protect information or people. I’ve been broken twice before, sirs, and it could very well happen again. Please allow me the option of suicide in that one case. Or give Brigadier McKendrick orders to have his troops kill me to prevent my capture.” Rachel could have been discussing a problem out of a logistics textbook for all the emotion she allowed herself to show.
Rahoul tried to remember the last time he’d heard such a blunt analysis of everyone’s second worst fear. It had been a very long time ago, back when he was a young lieutenant and still certain that he was ninety-five percent immortal and proof against anything in the universe. He’d participated in an extended field exercise and SAS troopers playing the enemy captured and questioned him. It had been an . . . educational experience. And he contemplated Rachel’s account of losing her eye, and remembered his own thoughts as he’d helped Sergeant Weber lift her into her ship’s medical bay during the September Disaster. Rahoul forced himself to not shiver as he watched General von Hohen-Drachenburg.