by Alma Boykin
“I will if you will, Hairball.” She nodded and limped slowly away, leaving Joschka von Hohen-Drachenburg grinning despite everything.
Mendelsohn groaned again and blinked his eyes into focus, only to find a very angry Graf-General glaring down at him. “Would you care to explain why you laid hands on and threatened the Defense Force’s senior xenology specialist, Colonel?”
Four nights later, back in England, Rachel sat on the stone bench under the big tree at the end of the rose garden, waiting for the first sliver of moon to rise. It was as she’d told Joschka—her spirit had been badly wounded and there was nothing modern medicine could do for the condition. She propped one foot on the bench and rested her chin on her knee. How many lives had she taken? She could no longer say. The humans had won, and they savored their victory, as well they should. But Rachel had lost another piece of her soul and it pained her. She wished she could be like Zabet, living in the present and future, undisturbed by her past. But that was not her fate.
Rachel stared at the crescent peeping over the roof of the headquarters building and wondered if even God could forgive her for what she’d done. Maybe it was time to quit the game, retire from the GDF and the Azdhag Empire both, find some little backwater colony world that was desperate for medics and settle down until her enemies found her again and ended things once and for all. If the Traders showed up right now, I’d walk into their arms without a second thought, Rachel mused.
Before her thoughts could go any further down that path, something began chirping a familiar tune. It was her cell phone ringing, playing “The Austrian Hymn.” Rachel managed a smile as she answered the call. “Guten Abend, Herr Graf-General.” Good evening, my lord General.
A warm voice at the other end sighed, “Joschka, Rachel. For you, always Joschka.”
October, 2013. Commander “Rachel Na Gael” staged a memorable exit from the car, almost falling flat on her face. As she picked herself up, she hoped that no one had seen her in the darkness. She was exhausted in body and spirit and just wanted to disappear into the shadows and never emerge. Instead she picked up the bag that she’d dropped, regained her bearings, and walked slowly through the crisp night air toward a pool of soft yellow light that spilled from a doorway in the distance. A few low stone lanterns marked the edges of the gravel path, augmenting the light of the waning moon. The tired warrior smelled food, trees, and water on the night breeze, as she heaved herself up the first of four steps leading toward the resort’s main entrance. Before she could reach the second wooden step, someone swore quietly in German, and a man hurried down to meet her. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Hauptfeldwebel Wolf Weber apologized, as he took her bag and offered her his arm. “Someone should have been watching.”
Rachel shook her head, grateful for the assistance. “I was supposed to have been here several hours ago, Sergeant Weber, but circumstances delayed the flight. In truth, I didn’t expect anyone to be up at this hour.” They had reached the broad portico, and Weber led the woman into the traditional Japanese building.
“Ah, ma’am, it’s only twenty hundred here,” Weber advised as he set her bag down by the check-in desk. He’d been a little surprised when he’d learned that she would be at the meeting, truth be told, and didn’t like how gaunt and pale she looked.
Rachel blinked at him in mild confusion. “Oh. I think I’m still on British time.” Whatever else she was about to say was forgotten as a clerk hurried up, intensely apologetic for not having been present to greet the new arrival. One of the officers from the Austrian Branch waved, diverting Sergeant Weber’s attention, and when he finished up his business, Commander Na Gael had vanished. The NCO hoped that she’d gone to her room and was getting some much needed rest.
She should have eaten some supper, but exhaustion overwhelmed hunger. Instead Rachel locked the door to her room, changed out of her uniform and into a sleep dress, brushed out her long dark hair, and washed off her cosmetics. Then she dragged the futon off the western-style bed frame and tucked it into the bottom of the discreet linen closet built into the wall. The nightmares drove her to sleep enclosed and hidden—otherwise she might wake others, who would ask questions that she couldn’t answer. The Wanderer-hybrid fell asleep as soon as she pulled the panel partly shut and laid her head down. She didn’t want to be in Japan, didn’t want to be on Earth, but didn’t want to go to the Empire or on a trading trip, either. So now she slept, curled into a tight ball, drained.
She awoke the next morning a little more rested, but with a miserable hunger headache. I know better she chided herself as she brushed out her hair and braided it, wincing as the activity exacerbated the dull throbbing in her skull. Rachel dressed, collected the information packet that she’d ignored the night before, opened the door to her room and tripped over a medium-sized, beautifully wrapped gift box. The ornate tag stated that the item was for her, from one “Dr. Fujimori Leiji.”
Uh oh she thought, hesitating before she opened the box. She’d been warned about his strange sense of humor and was tempted to ignore the item, but her curiosity overwhelmed her hunger, at least for the moment. Might as well find out what’s hiding in here, Rachel sighed as she undid the container. Inside she found, “A kimono? You’ve got to be joking.” No, she lifted out a traditional Japanese dress in her size, decorated with red, yellow, and orange autumn leaves on a dark-brown background. Under the dress she found a bright red sash and a light-brown under-dress, as well as little white tabi socks and wooden sandals. Dragon fritters—that’s what I’m going to have for breakfast, Rachel decided as she looked at the items. Reptile ragout, dragon fritters, and lizard Cordon Bleu. Why do the reptiles of my acquaintance insist on dressing me? It was one of those questions that she really didn’t care to learn the answer to, and she folded the items back into their box and tucked it into the closet with her other luggage.
She had a traditional Japanese breakfast as she read the day’s program. Officially, the semi-annual meeting of the Global Defense Force’s leadership, or part of it at least, didn’t start until that night. In actuality, unofficial sessions, interviews, and discussions had been underway since the previous week. Rachel snorted to herself, amused once more at the humans and their ways. She finished her miso soup, signed the check, and started to leave the resort’s restaurant. As she did, she caught sight of a familiar profile amidst a group of the GDF’s senior leadership and ducked, slipping away behind a large decorative screen before the Graf-General noticed her presence. She didn’t want to talk to him just then, and hoped that he wouldn’t realize that she was attending the meeting.
Rachel wasn’t supposed to be in Japan but, like Sergeant Weber, she was one of the few from her section who could be spared. The 58th Regiment’s commanding officer also wanted her away from logistics specialist Captain Edward O’Neil for the time being, and she didn’t feel inclined to argue with him. Her fellow regiment member, Colonel Tadeus Przilas, would be arriving later that afternoon. Rachel slipped silently out of the room and down the corridor, her boots making no noise on the dark wooden floor.
Despite Rachel’s hopes, General Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg had indeed spotted her, but he didn’t try to follow her or have her stopped. Administrative matters stemming from the major battle in Germany a few weeks prior soaked up most of his available attention. Joschka listened to his current aid as the man finished describing the latest reorganization underway in the German Branch. “No, too soon,” Joschka frowned, shaking his head at yet another set of proposed changes while sitting down at the table indicated by a waiter. “It would be a good idea eventually, but now it would seem as if the Germans were being punished. Tell the undersecretary that, based on my observations, it will be better to put the proposal on hold for the time being. Thank you,” he finished, as pots of tea and coffee appeared on the table, followed by plates of food. The broad-shouldered man ate without tasting anything, his blue eyes distracted, mind several thousand miles away.
Feeling better about
the near future now that she’d been fed, Rachel decided to go exploring since she had nothing she was scheduled to be doing. Oh, there were plenty of things she could have been working on, she mused as she eased out onto the deep porch surrounding the building, but they were not urgent. She paused to get her bearings before wandering too far. The resort, on the far-northern Japanese island of Hokkaido, boasted extensive gardens and grounds. The park-like landscaping provided a great deal of privacy, intensified by the limited road and sea access to the resort, which was why the Japanese Branch was hosting the annual meeting here. Rachel gazed at the autumn-touched leaves with approval. It reminded her of the private Imperial gardens within the Azdhagi palace/capitol complex.
She started toward a small set of steps, then paused. She was in her uniform. That would mark her as someone out of place and would invite questions. She hadn’t brought any other clothes with her, but there were the contents of Leiji’s box. She considered the matter and started grinning a little. A touch more cosmetics, some fussing with her hair, and . . .
An hour later, after enlisting the aid of a hotel maid, who very carefully did not laugh at the strange request, Rachel set out, picking her way along the gravel path leading away from the main building of the resort. These shoes are as bad as those damn high heels that human women insist on wearing! She snarled silently. But they did make her concentrate on taking short steps, which she had to do to keep the front of the kimono skirt decently closed. I really doubt that Japanese women wore these when they were fighting. Rachel walked with small, slow steps along the path she’d selected, stopping from time to time to admire a miniature view or to look at an especially colorful tree. A cool fog had drifted in, softening the air and muting birdsong and other sounds. She focused on trying to walk without tripping, on the garden, on anything besides the thoughts that haunted her and had driven her once again to consider asking for release from her promises.
The Wanderer stopped at a small moon bridge over a tiny stream flowing between dark grey rocks that suggested mountain cliffs. Clear water trickled gently, lapping and babbling into the pond below the miniature waterfall. Lush mosses grew under a small coniferous tree to one side of the rocks, their greens blending harmoniously with the lichen on the stone. Rachel turned, keeping quiet as she studied the reflections in the pond downstream. The heavy mist—almost a rain—made reflections hard to distinguish. She gazed at the dimming shapes and allowed herself to sink into memories, her thoughts drifting like the few leaves floating on the calm water. She envisioned the water washing her past away, leaving nothing but a grey core, its edges softened by the constant wear and flow of time. Her mind emptied itself reluctantly, but discipline overcame fatigue until nothing remained of her existence but mist and dark water.
“Commander Na Gael?” a quiet, hesitant voice asked. Wolf Weber recognized the woman’s walking cane, but not the utter stillness that seemed to enfold her. He didn’t want to intrude, but several people had asked after her, including Colonel Przilas. Wolf also needed to speak to her privately, before the meeting occupied all their hours. He stepped onto the wood and stone bridge, about to repeat himself, when she turned toward him. Her serene, vacant expression took him aback. It was not the bitter darkness and exhaustion that he’d seen in her eye after the Battle of the Tunnels, but still something that still raised the hair on his neck, as if he were looking at her death mask. “Commander?”
She returned to herself slowly—grudgingly. “Yes, Sergeant? Do we have a mission?” she asked, not entirely back from blessed nothingness.
The brown-haired man shook his head. “No, ma’am. And nothing’s on fire or trying to explode,” he assured her. “But there are several people looking for you and I thought that you wouldn’t want to be surprised by Colonel Przilas.”
Rachel sighed, quietly, and refrained from biting the German NCO’s head off. “Thank you, Sergeant Weber. Ah, how did you find me?”
He pointed off to the side. “I asked security. There are not that many one-eyed geishas wandering the grounds,” he ventured to tease her, ready to apologize—and if necessary to flee. If she really lost her temper at being disturbed, he was still pretty certain he could outrun her. Rachel peered through the mist and tree-shade in the direction Weber pointed and sighed again, this time loudly, when she spotted the special-forces-type lurking in the greenery.
“I don’t know enough naughty songs to be a good geisha,” Rachel declared, the corner of her mouth twitching with a hint of her usual humor. “Thank you for the warning.” She brushed past him and Weber fell in at her shoulder. She noticed that he was carrying something in a courier bag and wondered what sort of secretarial duty he’d gotten stuck with to have to tote papers around.
They walked for a few meters in companionable silence. “Ah, ma’am, before we reach the lodge, there’s something I want to give you.” Rachel stopped, glanced around, and gestured toward a semi-secluded area under one of the dark pine trees. Weber led the way off the main path and took a deep breath. “In all the chaos and work after the Harz battles, my men and I never got the chance to say thank you. Alois—that is, Captain Grauberg—and I, and the others. We, and a lot of other people, owe you our lives and our freedom.”
The Graf-General decided that he needed a little fresh air and a few pulls on his pipe before his next appointment or he might bite the assistant deputy secretary’s head off. “I’ll be in the garden, Colonel Vuorinen. I promise, I won’t stray,” he assured his current aid, striding through the closest doorway before the Finn could do more than blink. The general had his pipe out and lit as soon as he reached clear air, and he picked a one of the three paths leading away from the door at random. He walked just far enough to be out of sight of the building, stopped, and savored a few puffs. He craved something soothing, and the pipe was one of his few true vices. After indulging in a set of smoke rings and chains, he tucked his pipe into his pocket, making certain that it stayed upright. He hated burning holes in his uniforms.
Not quite ready to go back inside despite the soft rain, the Austrian walked farther down the path. After rounding two bends, Joschka stopped, listening to voices farther along in the garden speaking in German. It was a man and a woman, and he frowned as he recognized Rachel’s tones. Joschka advanced silently until he could hear and see without being spotted.
Rachel Na Gael, looking surprisingly comfortable in an autumn-colored kimono, red obi, and carved hair combs and sticks, shook her head, rejecting whatever the man had said. “Thank you, Sergeant, but no. You killed the hive-mind, and you and Captain Grauberg kept everyone together and working as a team. I just picked a lock, told you what you were seeing, and patched a few scrapes and cuts.” It would be Sergeant Wolfgang Weber she was talking to, then, Joschka knew. He’d approved the man’s nomination for the Silver Cross and had sent it to the secretary for final confirmation.
Weber’s brown eyes grew hard and angry. “Commander, ma’am, that’s all true. But none of it would have been possible without you, your technology, knowledge, and leadership.” She started to interrupt and he cut her off. “With all due respect, Ma’am, listen to me. This is not from the GDF. It is not from the Weber and Grauberg families, nor from any government agency or other organization. It is from your fellow soldiers.” The reproach in his voice stung Joschka, and hit Rachel hard enough that she flinched.
Joschka held his breath, waiting to hear and see what would happen next. You do realize how stupid you will look if someone comes up on you or you pass out? a small voice inquired acidly in his mind. He stomped the voice flat as he maneuvered so he could see just a little better. The small, dark-haired woman’s jaw gaped open and her face bore a shocked expression. The NCO’s words had struck a nerve, and she ducked her head, ashamed.
“You are right, Wolf. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath and straightened up as Weber took something out of his satchel and handed it to her. She accepted it with both hands and Joschka saw that she held a small metal box with
a curved lid.
“Sergeant Lee noticed that you wear jewelry on occasion,” Weber said. Rachel nodded as she opened the box and the unseen watcher caught a glimpse of fabric in royal blue, crimson, and black. It must be a jewelry box then. “The casing is made from part of one of the powered armor units, and there’s a pin and coin from each unit that had someone on the tunnel raid,” Wolf explained, his voice full of pride.
Rachel’s voice caught in her throat. “Th . . . thank you, Sergeant Weber. I’ll treasure this.” She closed the lid and smiled. “Thank all of you.”
Wolfgang Weber surprised both Rachel and the general when he bowed low, took the Commander’s free hand and kissed it. “No ma’am. Thank you for helping us save our homeland.” He straightened up before she could reply, and stepped closer, saying “And with all due respect, ma’am, you need to get out of the cold and damp before you catch a cold.” She chuckled, as did he, and she accepted his arm with commendable grace. Joschka was impressed that Rachel knew how to walk in a kimono—and that Weber knew to shorten his stride appropriately. The general counted twenty seconds before continuing with his own stroll, carefully going at a tangent to the two warriors’ path.
“You needed to talk to me, Wolf?” Rachel asked very quietly, not looking at him. She felt his tension and pain—he radiated like white hot metal to her senses.
“I don’t want to.” They reached the building and he gave her a discreet lift up the steps. “But yes, I need to. Nights . . . bother me.” And so they stopped on the deep veranda, out of the rain and cool wind, and he talked. She listened, taking his fear and doubt into herself, draining the negative so that he could step back and learn from the experience without being haunted.
It was one of those things that were never, ever mentioned outside the regiment, and only very carefully even within it. But sometimes someone needed more than the chaplain or the medical officer could provide, and Rachel had been there, survived that, and probably seen and done worse. So she listened—usually that was all that people needed. Rarely, as with Sergeant Weber, she manipulated emotions, helping the soldier put much-needed space between himself and the memories and feelings. Rachel never “made things all right”—instead, she gave people time to process and heal before they dealt with the original experience again.