by Alma Boykin
“But, sir, I—. Yes, Professor,” she sighed, shoulders slumping with resignation.
“Oh, and seeing those other volumes reminds me. I need you to add more theoretical material to that last paper you turned in. Remind me to give you some articles on that when we get back to my office. I have eight or ten that should help you clarify your thinking and argument,” he expounded in his best academic impression. He could see her getting annoyed and covering it by turning to pay for the purchases.
Master Ticurlin asked something, with his ‘hand’ out, and she turned to the ‘professor.’ “Sir, will this be on your university account, or cash?”
He panicked for a moment, mind blank, before inspiration struck. “What do you think I am going to use, Miss Panguar?” he inquired, tone suggesting that the answer was blindingly obvious. She nodded and turned back to the proprietor, handing him what looked like an engraved ring. He put it into a recessed area in the ‘counter,’ rang up the charges and handed her back the ring, and gave the books to Khan, who said in that odd language, “Thank you, Master Ticurlin.” Apparently his accent was as bad as he thought, because Cdr. Na Gael stifled a giggle. “Come along, I want to look for that third volume of Blake while we’re here,” he continued in English as he went out the door, leaving her to catch up with him outside.
They were on their way back to the port when they ran into trouble. Or rather Na Gael ran into trouble. They had stopped at one last stall of books, and she started asking about a solitary volume when someone approached them from behind. She turned, bumping against Khan in the process. “Oh, excuse me sir. Sorry,” she said in English. Two men, both as pale as Na Gael but taller and more muscular studied her, frowning.
“Is there a problem of some sort, Miss Ni Panguar?” Khan asked.
“I don’t know, sir. But this isn’t the volume you were interested in. Why don’t you try a bit farther along, and I’ll catch up with you,” and she handed him her bag with the two precious parcels and the data card in it.
Khan sighed and acted put-upon. “Very well, but don’t dawdle! You have papers to grade,” and he drifted off in roughly the direction of the spaceport, fighting the urge to stay with her and wondering how he would explain her absence to General Eastman if something happened.
Oh shit. Oh shit, oh fewmets, Rada thought as the two Traders studied her. “Is there a problem?” she inquired, acting as confused and innocent as possible.
“We need to see your ID,” the redhead of the two said, hand out.
She fished around in a pocked and produced a genuine ID card for a Miss Eileen Ni Panguar, research assistant and student at the University of Blenheim. He looked at it, then moved a bit closer to her.
“You speak Trader-Talk very well for someone from Blenheim, “ he said.
She beamed at the compliment. “Thank you! Modern languages are my minor.”
That was not what they wanted to hear, apparently. “And you move like a soldier, not a student,” the blond pointed out, arms crossed and tone menacing.
This is about to get interesting and not in a good way, she thought. “I come from a military family. And why are you asking all this? Have I done something wrong? Did the Professor offend someone again?” She acted very worried.
“I don’t think you are a student. I think you are someone the Trader tarqina would like to talk to very much, Miss Ni Panguar.” The blond reached for her arm. “Or is it Ni Drako?”
Before his hand could close she twisted away and took off running. The two followed and she ducked and wove between stalls, using the people on the ways as a shield. At least the lieutenant will get back safely. She began running out of crowd and cover, with a long way yet to go before the safety of the spaceport gate. Rada looked about frantically for a place open enough to get a shot off if she had to without hitting any bystanders. All at once a strong grip caught her arm and pulled, dragging her into a small shop with dark tinted windows and heavy curtains.
“I told you where I was going to be,” Rahoul Khan said, handing her a glass of something and trying very hard not to look worried. “So just calm down. Now, since you’ve been so good as to work on your day off, I bought you lunch. Come, sit down and eat.” She could have fainted with relief, but managed to accept the glass and take a seat. The drink tasted creamy, tart and sweet, and she recognized the scent of curries from the mess at regimental headquarters. Khan had positioned her chair so that she was out of sight of the front entrance and window. Despite her fears, her pursuers apparently continued on. No one peered into the window or came in the door except for a pair of Floaters who studied the menu and left again. “Take your time Miss Panguar,” Khan frowned as she tried to bolt lunch. “Kashmiri rice is to be savored, not devoured. You are not Shiva’s fire!”
“Who’s Shiva, Professor?”
Khan sighed, “You were supposed to have taken Asian cultures already, Miss Panguar,” and lectured at her about the basics of the Hindu cosmology while she slowly ate the spicy rice dish and drank her lassi.
They walked back to the spaceport once she finished, and she asked, “Professor, how did you know about that restaurant?”
Khan chuckled, “The sign is in Punjabi. I grew up reading and speaking that as well as English.”
She remained on edge all the way back to the entrance to the port, but no one challenged them, and the pair handed the port master back their chits, along with another small token of thanks for his hard work (and lack of curiosity). Once they were underway, Cdr. Na Gael sat up and shook her head. “Thank you, Lieutenant. That was a lot closer than I care to come for a while.”
He’d been watching her with a thoughtful expression in his dark eyes. “Were they why you said you couldn’t get the information by yourself?”
“Not them in particular, but the people they work for. Not to go into detail, since it has nothing to do with our mission or the Global Defense Force, but I’ve been crosswise with them for about two hundred years. It has to do with something my father did.” Her voice and expression turned bitter. “I’m just a loose end they seem to want knotted and cut off.”
“You’re two hundred years old?”
Paymaster’s purse, humans are so easy to redirect! “No, I’m about three hundred and fifty of your years. And how did you learn to act that well?” she asked in turn.
Khan looked smug. “You don’t get through a military academy without learning to keep your mouth shut and show what your superiors want to see. Plus Dr. Parsons is easy to imitate,” he admitted. “And my older brother is in graduate school in the States, and tells me stories about his professors, so I used some of that as well.”
She smiled. “Well done Lieutenant. Now which two books were you so eager to get your hands on?” To her surprise he kept them out of her reach.
“Not unless you wash your hands first, ma’am. This is a first edition of Robert Browning,” he held up the smaller, still wrapped parcel, “and this is a first edition of some of Rudyard Kipling’s poetry. A signed Rudyard Kipling,” he waved the larger one.
“Who are they?”
He was dumbfounded. “You’ve never heard of Browning or Kipling, Ma’am?”
“I’m not from your planet, Lieutenant, remember? Just because I speak a little English doesn’t mean I know your literature.” She sounded a touch annoyed at his assumptions.
“Ma’am, these are two of the best poets in the English language in the 1800s. Probably ever,” Khan explained. She made an intrigued noise, then returned to navigation or whatever it was she did with the strange ship, leaving him to gloat over his finds.
After they “landed,” she opened the concealed door to the lab, then closed it behind, hiding her ship once more. “Lieutenant Khan, I’m afraid I have some bad news about the books.”
Would she have to return them, Khan wondered. “What, ma’am?”
“I couldn’t use regimental funds to pay for them, so I used mine. I’ll need to keep them here, to prevent any awkward que
stions. And I need the data chip that I slid into your pocket,” she held out her hand.
Reluctantly the young officer handed over the books, and the chip, the “pen,” and “So that’s how you paid for lunch!” she exclaimed, grabbing up her credit ring. She looked at him with new respect and some speculation. “Are you sure you’re not Trader born, to be that sneaky?”
“No, but I learn quickly,” he replied in accentless Trader-Talk. “Ma’am” he finished in English.
“General Johnny—,” she caught and corrected herself, “General Eastman’s going to have his hands full, I can see that already,” Na Gael said, smiling. “And alas, we both need to get back to our regular work, Lieutenant Khan. Very well done back there. You handled things well, kept your head and managed to keep both of us out of trouble, for which I am very grateful,” and she smiled and extended her hand. He accepted it and they shook. <
He tried to match what she was doing. <
She smiled again and winked her good eye. “Very good. You are dismissed,” and he turned to go. “Oh, and you can come visit the books when you are off duty.”
“Thank you,” he hesitated. “Rachel.”
She put them on a shelf out of sight of the door, “You’re welcome, Rahoul.”
The Laws (1984)
On a quiet, late September evening, Brigadier General Jonathon “Johnny” Eastman decided to test a friend’s suggestion. “Tell me something, Rachel,” he began, looking over his glass of scotch at his xenologist. “How does one defend a planet?”
Two-thirds lost in something on her electronic book’s screen, the Wanderer began reciting, “First, determine the threat categories and probabilities; the optimal division of defense resources is predicated upon the types of threats known or anticipated. Second: establish an initial passive—oh shit.” The one-eyed felinoid gulped as she realized what she’d started to do. “I didn’t say that.” Her black ears folded absolutely flat against her skull and her eye dilated, almost hiding the silvery-gray iris.
Eastman leaned forward in his chair, intrigued. “No, go on. Actually, back up; how do you determine threat categories?”
Commander “Rachel Na Gael” shook her head, closed her reader, and with some help from her cane pulled herself out of the leather couch she’d been lounging on. The other officers seemed to be absent that evening, leaving the “lounge” to the British Branch’s commanding officer, his advisor, and a very quiet junior officer half hiding in the shadows behind the couch. “I am sorry, sir. I can not go any farther without breaking the Laws.” Rachel limped toward the door. “If you will excuse me?” She fled before Eastman could stop her.
“Well, damn.” The black-haired man sipped more of his scotch as he leaned back into the depths of the wing chair. Lieutenant Rahoul Khan rustled in his seat at the table behind the couch. “I know you are there, Rahoul, come out where I can see you,” Eastman ordered.
“Yes sir.” Eastman could read Khan’s trepidation without needing to use his own “special talent,” as the xenologist called it. Khan settled on the end of the sofa closest to the fireplace, and farthest from the general officer, who smiled. The two shared dark hair and a slim to average build, but where Eastman had the dark blue eyes of his Ashkenazi ancestors, Khan’s brown eyes, tan skin, and crisp facial features revealed his family’s South Asian origin. Khan set his beer down, careful not to clink on the glass protecting the tabletop. Furnished with leftover odds and ends from projects and jumble sales, the officers’ lounge resembled nothing so much as a Victorian library and billiard room, complete with billiard table, fireplace, and mystery plant looming in the corner by the window.
“Did Rachel make any sense just then?” Eastman asked.
“Yes, sir, at least she started to. Without knowing what poses the most danger, it would be hard to organize any defense against anything, Terrestrial or otherwise.” Khan shrugged a little, adding, “That’s basic staff-college and Sandhurst training. But the next part, about ‘initial passive’ something makes no sense, unless she meant a perimeter defense of some sort.” The junior officer stopped abruptly, unsure of himself as he remembered who lounged in the chair across the rug from him.
Eastman smiled a little and nodded. “Well, whatever it means, I doubt I’ll get more out of her.”
Khan finished his beer and got up to put the glass away. “Refill, sir?”
“Yes. Second decanter from the end, half full, please.” He heard clinks from the sideboard, then Khan set the general’s glass onto the end-table beside the wing chair. “I have a question for you, Khan. Go on and sit.” Once the young man returned to the sofa, Eastman leaned forward and locked eyes with him. “What are your impressions of Commander Na Gael?”
“Utterly professional, knows her field backwards and forwards, and a bit distant,” Khan replied instantly.
“And?”
After some thought, Khan leaned forward, elbows on knees, and frowned with puzzlement. “Well, sir, she’s scared of someone or something, someone I think. When we made that research trip?” He waited until his commander nodded before continuing, “As soon as we got where we needed to go, she gave me a key to her transport, said it would bring me back here if something bad happened to her, as if she anticipated trouble. And then someone tried to kidnap her.”
Eastman sat back, surprised and dismayed at the news. The more he worked with her, the more he realized how little anyone knew about his xenologist. She’d been with the Regiment for over two years and yet kept herself to herself, lurking in the background, friendly but never quite forthcoming. And given what little Eastman did know of her background, he probably needed to know a good deal more. “Interesting,” he said aloud. “Anything else?”
“She’s a predator, sir.” Eastman’s confusion must have shown, because Khan ducked, searching for words. “Ah, well, I’m not sure quite how to explain, sir, but she feels like a leopard or a wolf. Always alert, bloody minded in a literal sense, constantly evaluating people and situations like the animals do . . .” Khan trailed off, wondering if he’d said too much.
Eastman let down his mental defenses and reached for Khan’s mind, intending to see if he could make a light contact. He found Khan, lightly shielded, but the junior officer felt different from most people; he seemed closer to Rachel’s in some ways. Now thoroughly intrigued, Eastman took a sip of his scotch, savoring the smoky flavor with a hint of peat and touch of apple undertone. “I believe you, Khan, relax. In fact, I’d like you to try and work with Commander Na Gael some more. She seems to trust you and I want to encourage that.” And, he thought to himself, I need to thank Joschka for the hint.
Rachel let herself into her quarters, shut the door and leaned against it, shivering. She’d come far too close to breaking the Law without even thinking about it! And what did Eastman know, and how? The alien walked the few steps to the end of the tiny flat, put the reader into its nook on the bookshelf, shed her boots and flopped into her bed-nest. After a bit she sat up and undid her hair from its elaborate crown of braids, shaking it loose and finger combing it before lying back down to worry.
General Johnny watched her closely for the next few days. His advisor kept her guard up, never speaking without thinking and always ready to slip away, easing out of conversations without the officers or senior NCOs realizing that she’d gone. That hurt Eastman’s feelings, although he said nothing to Rachel. The time and place never seemed right.
Eastman considered asking Lt. Khan to press Rachel for more information, but his instincts warned against it. Eastman wanted her to trust the young officer, and he suspected that she’d go utterly silent if Khan pushed things. Instead, Johnny tasked Captain Elisabeth FitzWarren, the adjutant, with finding every science fiction book that featured planetary invasions and then sorting out the repetitions from the potentially useful. No point in duplicating someone else’s efforts, although after the third lis
t, Eastman got heartily tired of “little green men.” On a whim he asked Rachel about them at breakfast the next day.
She chuckled and one side of her mouth pulled up into a little grin. “Oh, about as many as walking plants, sir.”
“Walking plants? Like talking trees or attack cacti?”
Rachel shrugged and took a bite of curried kidney. “There are a few species that look plant-like, as you think of plants. And there are sapient plants, but those tend not to travel and most certainly don’t invade other worlds. As for ‘little green men’,” and she made quotation marks with her fingers, managing not to drop either her fork or the mushroom impaled upon it, “Mammals don’t run things. Even humanoids don’t run things. To give an example, the planet where I spend most of my free time has no mammals larger than your squirrels and rats. The two sapient species are reptilian: one developed on the planet and the other settled there at some point.”
Eastman chewed his kipper as he thought about it. Captain Charles “Crawley” Wormly, another of the English officers, set down his coffee mug. “You mean that the dinosaurs won?”
She nodded. “Exactly. And neither species is bipedal.” With that fascinating tidbit Rachel stood up, excused herself and took her tray to the washing-up slot, then departed for the lab.
“Well, that’s interesting, sir,” Wormly observed. “How do you fight off four footed reptiles?”
General Johnny snorted and poured more tea. “Aim low? Assuming they are not the same size as a brachiosaur.”
That afternoon he decided that the easiest way to have his questions answered would be to ask Rachel directly. And to do it in a place she felt comfortable. So he sent her a note, asking to meet with her the next day in the lab, after supper. She agreed.