by Alma Boykin
When none of the other officers at the staff briefing chimed in either way, General Johnny turned to his xenologist. “What say you, Commander? Since statistically you don’t exist.”
Commander Na Gael raised a brown-black eyebrow and grinned a little as her ears pivoted left and right. “Genetically I don’t exist either, which greatly bothers some people. Rather like seeing your legendary purple cow.” Her face settled into more serious lines and she continued, “You want to know why your experts in statistics and extraterrestrial population biology are wrong, sir?”
“Correct,” Eastman affirmed.
Rachel began ticking a list on her fingers. “First, humans are rather late in the developing intelligence business, sir. That is neither good nor bad: it just is. Second, you are advertising your presence and have been since the period you date as the 1920s. Third, you have a fresh, nice-smelling, and generally under-inhabited planet that is for all intents and purposes undefended. Fourth, you have been watched for quite a while by some species that achieved sapience before you did. And you are currently not under the protection of anyone, which makes you a safe target to go after.” She stopped and stared into the distance for a moment. “Those are the major reasons, sir.”
A dismayed silence descended over the humans as they thought about her words. “That’s not a comfortable listing,” McArthur said slowly.
“This is not a comfortable galaxy, Colonel,” the alien replied. She dropped her usual façade of cheerful eccentricity and pinned the man with a deadly serious and utterly alien look. Her black ears twitched above her crown of braids as she continued, “You are fortunate in being so far outside the loop, as you would say, because otherwise you would already be dead, enslaved, or serving as a target in a hunting game. But now you are advertising your presence at a time that, for various reasons, there is a great deal of movement in this part of the galaxy. And you are starting to see that in these.” The Wanderer waved the threats listing.
“And they really exist?” Charles Wormly pressed.
“Yes, they really exist. The Drake Equation is valid, except that one constant is incorrect and that you don’t have the correct data for two of the variables. And no, I’m not able to tell you which two. You will sort that out on your own eventually,” the xenologist added, forestalling the next question.
General Eastman shrugged. “None of which matters, except that we need to be prepared for anything and everything because it just might decide to come visit. Is there any further business? No? You are dismissed. Oh, and Commander? Wear a kerchief or scarf over that neckline, please.”
Puzzled, she looked down at the front of her dress. “Why?” She looked back at Eastman as Col. McArthur suffered a sudden coughing fit.
“Ahem. It is flattering but rather distracting, Commander,” McArthur managed to get out.
“Distracting?” Rachel looked down again. The light dawned. “Oh. Sorry about that. I’m not used to being around sapient mammals for extended periods of time. I’ll find something less . . .” and an utterly wicked gleam flickered in her eye, “distracting, sir.”
“See that you do,” Eastman ordered, working hard to ignore her cleavage and tight bodice, and the effect they had.
After dinner Rachel decided to prowl the grounds despite the several inches of early snow covering the grass. She selected a stout walking cane from her collection and set out via the back door to the lab, walking south from the complex, then west. In her earlier strolls she’d noticed a cluster of rocks and the Wanderer-hybrid made that her target for the late afternoon. One of the thick grey stones loomed against the western sky and Rachel stopped, leaning on her cane and studying the group. Two slabs of rock lay flat on the ground and a third stood upright. All three measured at least three meters long and thirty or so centimeters thick, and had been carved from rocks not found on the base grounds. Something about them ruffled Rachel’s fur and she didn’t touch or examine the sarsens too closely. Instead she turned and walked back towards the headquarters complex.
An unusually bright sunset cast a warm glow over everything and Rachel stopped some distance away from the main building. The construction crews had left one very large tree near the building site, probably because someone had warned that it might prove to be a “tree of historic and or cultural significance.” The huge beech towered over the snow-covered dirt surrounding the “back” of the buildings, sticking out terribly in the otherwise empty grounds. Rachel contemplated the leafless tree as its shadow slowly crept back towards the rear window-wall of the lab. The more she studied the space between the tree and the building, the more excited she became. “This would be perfect! Sheltered from those nasty east winds, close to the building but not too close, there is room to expand, it would be out of the way of any drills or formations, and no vehicles come or go through here,” she thought aloud. Her tail began wagging as she studied the scene more and more closely.
The next day, after she finished her work, Rachel made sure that no one was coming to pester her. Then she opened up her portable computer. She flattened the screen, took the stylus from her mini-data-link and started drawing, first the back of the lab and then the tree. She’d measured the distance and added the two hundred meters to her sketch. Next came lateral boundaries, followed by a central path. And then flowerbeds appeared, with a low hedge on the north side, enough to mark the edge of a garden but not high enough that someone could use it for sniping cover. Rachel debated adding color but opted to leave the plans in black-and-white for the moment. Less to explain when she presented her idea to General Eastman.
“To make absolutely certain that I’m following you, Commander: you want us to stop paying you a salary and to spend the money on the landscaping?” Eastman sounded incredulous and Col. McArthur seemed to have another minor choking spell.
“Correct, sir. I will not have to deal with the Exchequer, Tax Bureau, Ministry of Internal Finance or whatever you call the agency that removes money from one’s paycheck, but I still get remuneration in the form of ordering plants and gardening tools,” she stated. “Oh, and you get landscaping that you don’t have to make a budget request for,” the woman added, ticking off her arguments on her fingers.
McArthur shook his head. “The paperwork will be a nightmare. And why are you suddenly willing to work without pay?” Suspicion colored the American’s voice.
“Hmmm, the paperwork will be a nightmare once, Andy, but not after that,” Eastman interjected, blue eyes thoughtful. “But the pay question is quite valid.”
Rachel considered the two men and decided to be honest. “General Eastman, with all due respect to the Bank of England, the pound is useless in the places where I spend most of my time. As are the dollar, yen, shilling, franc, ruble and so on. The regiment provides me with three meals a day, a roof over my head, and the chance to employ some of my skills that I don’t normally utilize. But what I really, truly want is a place to play in the dirt.” The longing in her voice surprised the humans, and she continued a little wistfully, “Ever since I was small I’ve loved flowers and herbs. I can cover uniforms out of my own pocket but I can’t buy a place to try having a garden.”
“Commander, step outside for a moment,” Eastman ordered. After she left the office, the two men looked at eachother. “She’s completely serious,” the general said, thinking aloud. “And it would solve a number of problems.”
“I think she’s nuts, sir. And what will she do when she’s off duty or on leave? Without an income, she can’t rent a place to stay, can’t do anything, can’t feed her family,” McArthur listed.
“She has no family still living, Andy,” Eastman replied quietly.
“Oh.”
“And she already owns a way to travel when she’s on leave. This will give her something to do when she’s off duty that keeps her close and happy. And it gives us camouflage that requires no budget outlay.” The more he thought about, the happier Eastman grew. “In fact, I think it is a fantastic idea.”
>
Ten or so years later, Commander Rachel Na Gael and the now-retired General Johnny strolled along a gravel path leading from the rear of the laboratory out to the Big Tree. A soft late spring sun bathed the garden and Eastman marveled at the rows of magnificent roses extending from near the lab out towards the tree. The breeze had died and a scent so rich as to be almost overwhelming flooded the gardens. Off to his left, behind a waist-high bramble and rambling rose hedge, the retired general caught sight of a glasshouse and an herb and veggie garden done in a knot pattern. But the roses, oh the roses. “Magnificent! And you did all this?”
The scarred woman ducked a little. “No, I had a lot of help from the men and women here, sir. Especially after,” she gestured toward the slash scar running from near the tip of her widow’s peak across her blind eye almost to her chin. “It seems that double-digging and turning compost is still a good way to work off excess high spirits, or so the noncoms tell me.” Eastman laughed with delight and Rachel smiled as well.
“I don’t recognize this one.” He touched an ivory and blush-pink bloom, sniffed, and discovered a sweet scent of rose and orange. “What’s it called? And where did you get it? My sister-in-law would love to have one for her garden.”
Rachel caressed another of the blooms. “I haven’t named it yet. It’s one of my hybrids and this is the first one of this kind that has done very well. You really think that other people would want to grow it?”
“You bred this?” She nodded and Eastman shook his head in wonder. “Yes, they would snap it up in a heartbeat.” He studied the rose and the woman standing beside him. “How about calling it Cat’s Enchantment? Or,” and he gazed around at the beautiful alley, “Cat’s Comfort?”
“Cat’s Comfort,” Rachel repeated. “I like that.” They continued on the tour, and a few minutes later she asked, “What does the Survivors’ Fund do for income?”
“Ah, as far as I know just donations, why?” It was an odd question, he thought.
“Well, I can’t do anything that would earn me taxable money,” she reminded him with a wry look that shifted into a gentle expression that he’d never seen before. Her voice softened as she continued, “But if people want to buy the roses that I breed, why not sell them through a front company and give all the proceeds to the Survivors’ Fund? Have a little good come out of my bad habit,” and her usual warped grin returned.
“I think that is a capital idea! And it won’t compete with any other type of benevolence fund looking for donors,” he pointed out.
And so she did.
Chapter Four : Guardian
October 31, 1983
I hope someone is enjoying this lovely day, Brigadier General Jonathon “Johnny” Eastman grumped. The blue skies and soft, warm southerly wind belied the late-fall calendar date, tempting the general to sneak out of his office and tour the grounds or otherwise get out of doors. Instead, Eastman covered his closed eyes with his hands, leaned back in his office chair, and tried not to groan as he listened to the report. “Next week?”
Lt. Col. Andrew McArthur confirmed, “Next week, sir. A full facilities inspection.”
The 58th Regiment of Foot (also called the British Branch of the Global Defense Force) had just finished cleaning up, and patching up, after an encounter with what might have been the first cousin of a kraken out of Jules Verne. And now the soldiers had to stop doing what they were doing in order to tidy the base, and then pretend to do what they had already been doing in order to demonstrate to non-combatants and civilians that they knew how to do what they had been doing! Oh bugger, Eastman cursed silently, eyes still closed. But he couldn’t hide forever. “What are the, hmmm, most obvious potential problems?”
He heard papers ruffling. “Improper uniforms, which we can’t do much about until Vienna or London decides how to standardize them; lack of drill records, which is being corrected as we speak; the motor pool; and Commander Na Gael.”
“The lack of records is being corrected? Do I want to know?”
The American paused and Eastman wondered what the answer would be. “No, sir. The lack is being corrected.”
“Very well.” Eastman straightened up and opened his eyes. “What is the motor pool problem?”
“Non-military vehicles in the military vehicle parking bay.” McArthur left it at that.
“And Commander Na Gael,” the general repeated. “Very well. Thank you and you are dismissed,” he said absently.
After McArthur departed, Eastman gave in and groaned aloud. “Oh bother. I need a holiday.” And then he had a thought, a most promising and useful thought, one that set his blue eyes dancing. He could kill two birds with one stone, perhaps more than two, and he smiled as he picked the telephone handset. “Yes. Connect me to the lab.”
The next morning Commander “Rachel Na Gael” (as the humans called Rada Ni Drako), the regimental xenologist, blinked at her commanding officer with mild confusion. “You want me to go on holiday with your car?”
“I want you to go on holiday, and to take my car. Next week, unless we have a situation develop that prevents the inspection. Pick some place you want to visit that is away from this county, find a hotel or inn or farm stay, whatever you prefer that is within budgetary reason, and go for at least three days, preferably five,” Eastman ordered.
“What about Wales? Is that far enough?”
“Wales would be perfect,” he agreed. “Go sort out your plans and get back to me by Friday.”
Rachel walked back to the lab lost in thought. Oh, she knew exactly why General Johnny wanted her out of the way; she’d survived enough headquarters’ inspections to leap with joy at the prospect of ducking this one. Rachel had already started cleaning the lab from ceiling to floor, hiding various interesting bits of equipment, finally reading all the human chemical safety manuals that she was supposed to comply with, and quietly installing a lock on the door to her quarters. And wiring a suitably hidden lock onto the concealed storage room currently housing the Dark Hart, lest someone find the ship. Rachel emerged from her mental fog in time to notice the closed lab door and she caught the handle a second before she walked smack into the metal panel. That would be embarrassing, she scolded herself as she pulled the heavy door open.
Two days later Eastman approved her plans. He also handed her a rather fat white envelope. “You’ll need to buy petrol. And probably to have someone check the starter at least once; Marlow makes wonderful cars with appalling electrical systems.”
“Ah, Lucius the Prince of Darkness and so on?”
He nodded, “Precisely,” and caught himself. “How do you know about that?”
Rachel gave him an utterly smug feline smile and swished her tail. “Because I heard the driving permit inspector cursing at one of the re-test candidates’ cars while I waited to take my examination.”
“You have a real British driver’s permit?” He blinked at her.
“Well, yes. I thought I might need one at some point, so I went back and—” She stopped as he waved his hands.
“No! Do not tell me. I don’t want to know, I don’t need to know, just, no.” She looked confused and he took a deep breath. “Rachel, the less I know, the fewer questions I’ll have to answer. Take the money, take the Marlow, and have a nice holiday.”
Rachel shrugged and did as ordered.
Two days later she rolled into the courtyard of a farmhouse near Snowdonia National Park and heaved a relieved sigh. The sports car protested, then stopped with a mistimed rumble that smoothed out a few seconds later. Rachel let the green car idle briefly before cutting the ignition. She’d done fine until her last petrol stop, when the Marlow refused to catch. After thirty pounds and an hour of work, the two-seater’s big engine started and the mechanic cautioned, “Don’t shut down until you get where you are going, not in this wet.” Not willing to risk having to push the beast to her inn, Rachel followed the man’s instructions. As a result, a very stiff Wanderer-hybrid carefully levered herself out of the driver’s s
eat, leaning on her cane and the car door both. She stopped and bent this way and that, then worked her knees until the bad one stopped catching. By the Debt Collector’s black heart, I hate that damned clutch, Rachel swore. And of course she had to use her weak leg for the gas and brake. What utterly primitive technology. Eastman needs to get an automatic transmission, ‘sports car purity’ be damned: that or a newer car. The Wanderer stretched some more before fishing her bag out of the tiny boot and limping carefully over the slick, wet cobbles to the inn’s main door.
A lean, dark-haired man looked up from a desk piled with ledgers and books as she walked into the cozy, whitewashed room. He smiled and got to his feet, greeting her in a language she’d never heard. Puzzled, Rachel shook her head, “Ah, English?”
“Sorry. You look a bit native,” he explained. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. My name is Rachel Na Gael and I have a reservation for two nights.”
The man ruffled some pages in the topmost ledger. “Ah, yes, here you are. Tonight and then away and then back?”
“Yes.” She signed in, filling out an address to match that on the car’s registration.
“Here’s your key, Miss Na Gael, and your room is,” and he stopped, looking closely at her and then at the ledger. “Would you prefer a ground-floor room, so you don’t have to battle stairs?”
Rachel could have hugged him. “A ground floor room would be delightful, Mr. Evens.” He showed her the way down the stone-floored hall to what had been part of a dairy. She refreshed her makeup and contact lens fit before going to supper in the former dairy barn. The thick mutton stew, hot bread, and apple cake with fresh cream for dessert might not match the usual description of haute cuisine, but they tasted utterly wonderful. The only other diners, a couple on their second honeymoon (according to the waitress), sat in a private booth with their backs to her, so Rachel felt no shame in using the bread to sop up the last of the meat-rich broth from the stew. She did manage to restrain herself from licking her fingers.