A Cat at Bay

by Alma Boykin

  Rachel sat back, pursed her lips, and decided that before she did anything else she needed to make a phone call. She closed down the internet connections and thought back to her last face-to-face encounter with the Problem Children in the Regiment’s secondary section in London, working herself into the proper mood before pulling out her very private “cell phone.”

  The other party picked up on the second ring. “O’Brian’s Imports. Kelly speaking.”

  “Hello, ‘Kelly.’ It’s Cat. Got a quick question,” Rachel said, putting a hint of steel into her voice.

  She smiled as she heard a gulp, imagining the dismayed expression at the other end of the line. “Ah, certainly Cat. What can I do for you?”

  “Are you having a sale in Somerset?” Or in plain English: Are you twits tinkering again? You’ve been warned not to without Capt. Ahkai, Vienna, and I all knowing.

  Relief practically dripped out of the receiver. “No, I’m afraid we’re not. We don’t have an outlet in that county. Are you looking for something from our catalogue?”

  “Not right now. I’d just heard rumors. Thank you, and have a good day.”

  “Sorry we couldn’t meet your needs, and thank you for calling O’Brian’s Imports,” the other party lied. Rachel rang off, smiling even wider. You shouldn’t have pissed me off enough to get me to visit you in person. As you apparently remember, little berk.

  What to do next? Was it a repulsion field that had been reported, or something else? It was probably time to do a little deeper digging, just in case Logres had gotten involved in something. I hope it doesn’t toast me for bothering it after the equinox. Maybe if I look but don’t touch I’ll be okay. And if not, Jones might get her new xenologist after all.

  Rachel opened the back door of the lab and took three steps into the chilly, late spring afternoon. After a few deep breaths, she reached out, looking into the shimmering energy that had flowed through the island since lava boiled out of what was now Edinburgh. Logres acknowledged her and ignored her. She followed the energy flows west and south, noting one or two sources of possible later interest, but Somerset lay quiet to her ‘eyes.’ She withdrew into herself again, then shook as if coming in from the rain. And gasped for air. Ow, I didn’t think the trance was that deep. I’d better have a monitor the next time I do that.

  Repulsion field most likely then, she decided, wrinkling her nose. And not one belonging to the only party that would be tinkering with such a thing. So who has set up shop, what are they doing, and are they responsible for the dead animals? And is this Regimental business or mine alone? The latter question, at least, had a simple answer. As soon as she got back inside, Rachel called Khan and told him that she’d found something, and did he have a few minutes?

  They met at the door to the map room. Khan called up a map of Somerset, and Rachel explained what she’d found and not found. The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Can you narrow it any tighter than Somerset? Pabi’s letter wasn’t that precise.” He tried to adjust the display and muttered a rude word. “And neither is this. Blast.” After a quick check of the Ordinance Survey catalogue, they found what they needed, and unrolled a detailed map sheet on the table beside the projection.

  “Path, hill to the east, level ground here,” Rachel pointed, “and a sarsen is off here. This is it,” she tapped the sheet as Khan made notes on his PDA.

  They looked at each other over the map table and sighed. “The best laid plans of mice and men . . .” Khan recited, rolling the map and replacing it in its file drawer.

  “And Wanderers,” his advisor added, pulling a coin out of her pocket. “Throne or crown who tells General Jones?” They flipped and Khan lost the toss. “That’s okay, she likes you best,” she consoled him in her most annoying little-sister voice.

  Abruptly serious, he locked eyes with the alien. “That’s true, you realize? Command One is still not completely won over to having an alien on the staff.”

  She nodded. “We have an understanding, Rahoul. And we’re both professionals. If we’re never on each other’s Boxing Day gift lists, so be it. I’ll get my data together so you have it on hand.”

  He thumped her shoulder, then opened the door and motioned her through. “Well, I am the responsible one, after all,” he said with a ‘brother knows best’ tone.

  She rolled her eye. “You have that down a little too well, sir,” and smiled. Paymaster’s Purse, but he sounds just like Munks when he does that! I may have discovered another universal constant: irritating siblings.

  General Jones and Commander Na Gael stood on the path beside the field Rachel had pinpointed a day and a half before on the map. “Well, something strange is definitely going on, I’ll grant you that,” the sandy-haired officer said, looking over the array of dead animals and birds scattered along a curving line just beyond the walkway.

  Rachel clambered over a low spot in the wooden fence and walked forward ten or so meters before coming to a hard stop. She picked up a small stone and called over her shoulder, “Mind the ricochet.” She wound up like a cricket hurler, threw the pebble as hard as she could, and wasn’t surprised when it hit something and sailed back over her head.

  Jones frowned as her advisor clambered back through the fence and returned to her side. “Force field?”

  “Of some sort, yes ma’am—with a repulsion field as part of it, although that seems to be weakening. And I’d like to know why.” She frowned thoughtfully.

  “How about telling me what that is, as well?” Jones pointed to a shape emerging out of the ground several hundred meters from where they stood.

  Rachel produced a digital monocular from the depths of her satchel. “Um, well,” she adjusted the eyepiece as the human watched impatiently. “It’s not possible, is what it is.”

  “What’s not possible?” Jones didn’t bother hiding her growing impatience.

  “It’s a Blermal. But they can’t survive in this atmosphere. And the color’s all wrong. But the shape, gait, and basic markings are pure Blermal.” As they watched, the whip-thin hexapod scampered towards them with a rippling motion. “Blermal without a doubt. Only six-legged avian in this part of the galaxy,” Rachel said.

  “We should be moving out of the way, Cat One?” Jones half-ordered as she reached for her sidearm.

  “Probably should, ma’am. Dead creatures are rarely easy to stop if they attack you.” As she spoke, Rachel matched action to words.

  They retreated to where the Regiment’s lorries and command car were parked, on the backside of the hill. Rachel promptly fished her PDA-looking data-link out of her belt pouch and started pulling up information, while Jones ordered the men to cordon off the area and shoo away a pair of startled hikers. In a few minutes one of the scouts on the hilltop radioed in. “Boer Two to Base, a second creature has appeared. Is unlike first. Over.” Before Jones could respond, her boffin had trotted back over the crest of the hill, monocular in hand. She returned a few minutes later, shaking her head.

  “All right, this has gone from curious to bizarre. There is no reason why a dead Blermal and two dead Pindos should be walking around on this planet.”

  Jones’s eyebrows rose. “You’re certain that they’re dead?”

  No, they’re just pining for the fjords. And you wonder why I’m such a wiseass when you open doors like that? Rachel managed to keep a straight face and explained, “This is what they look like in life, Ma’am,” pointing to the screen of her PDA. Jones could see the six-legged thing, except it had bright green and brown plumage, rather than the monotone gray of the creature on the other side of the hill. “When they die, their color leaches out as circulation and metabolism stops. Nothing else does it. ‘S why no one bothers trying to use the feathers for anything aside from insulation. And the Pindo,” she tapped her stylus and the image changed to a hunched-over humanoid shape topped by an anteater-like head with faceted eyes, “is nocturnal. Can’t function in full light of a yellow sun: skin and eyes burn even faster than a Terran albino.”r />
  “So what you are saying is that something else is controlling at least three dead creatures belonging to at least two different species, none of which are from this planet,” Jones summarized. Rachel nodded and resumed tapping through a list of symbols. “Extraterrestrial zombies?”

  Rachel looked up, puzzled. “What’s a zombie?”

  The lean Welshwoman glanced at the sky, as if imploring heaven for patience. “Mythological undead, being controlled by a shaman or witch doctor or something like that. Reanimated corpses.”

  “I suppose so. I wonder if whatever is controlling these is underneath the force shield?”

  As the soldiers established a secure perimeter around the field, Rachel returned to the top of the hill and watched the creatures coming and going from a low spot in the ground. The hill didn’t provide enough of an aerial view for her to get a good sense of what might be under the ground or how it may have gotten there. Captain Ngobo had located the property owner, who lived in Bristol and came out to farm the ground. He didn’t recall anything odd, but hadn’t visited the field since early February. Rachel watched as the Blermal and Pindos walked circuits within a circle roughly 300 meters in diameter. They didn’t try to go any farther from the low spot than that. As she studied the field and its current inhabitants, Rachel noticed something. “Boer Three,” she asked one of the scouts, “look at the dead birds. Do you see anything peculiar?”

  He took his time sweeping the area with his field glasses. “They seem to be in rows, ma’am. Sort of curving rows, starting from ‘at low spot ‘ere.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. Your glasses are better than mine.” That sounds like a creeping energy discharge.

  Rachel returned to the vehicle laager and started running through possible candidates for what or who had brought at least three dead creatures to the planet. As she did, something nagged in her memory, but she couldn’t quite dredge it into useful consciousness. She managed to narrow possible suspects down to ten species, ranging from “mildly problematic” to “you’re dooooooommmmed!” She paced back and forth beside one of the lorries, then muttered “oh bother it,” leaned against the rear of the six-by and closed her eyes, humming. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, thy victory? For death that day shall die, and earth give up her dead, and—“That’s it!”

  She made her way over to where Jones had ordered the field command post set up. “Command One, I sorted out what’s inside the force field.” Jones raised an eyebrow and handed her boffin a page of photo images. The smaller woman studied them, both with naked eye and using a loupe. “Right shape, as well. That clinches most of it then.”

  “So what exactly is it, and what is it doing here? I assume it is extraterrestrial,” Jones said, patting her foot, arms folded.

  “It’s a Larganga. They’re odd creatures—only thing I’ve ever heard of that, well, lives on death. Not on dying things, or by killing per se, but it feeds off the energy associated with death. This outline, here,” she pointed to a paler area within the field that included the low spot, “is its ship. Engines back here, if I remember correctly.”

  Lieutenant Nielsen frowned in confusion. “So this creature is one of the undead?”

  “No. It is quite alive. It just feeds off death. Which means that it most definitely should not be here. Largangas usually congregate near dying worlds, or in places that have lots of death and decay. Not farm fields in spring, and not in this part of the galaxy. If all it’s been feeding on have been the birds and small animals we’re seen, than it’s probably quite hungry and should be willing to leave if we ask it to,” she explained, looking at Jones with a hopeful expression.

  “That would be a nice change, Cat One, if we can establish communications and if it is willing to depart in peace.” The senior officer sounded dubious. “And what about those other creatures? Do these whatever you called it—Largangas—normally have undead pets with them?”

  Rachel shook her head. “Ah, that would be negative. I’ve never heard of a Larganga bringing dead things with it.”

  “Could they be its larder?” Khan asked.

  “No, because why expend energy to animate something? I grant you, it is odd. As is the repulsion field. So why not ask it?” Rachel inquired, tapping the side of the PDA with the stylus.

  “If it will spare putting people at risk, I’m willing to try. However, I also want information on that force field around it, and what will be required to destroy it, if the creature fails to cooperate.” Jones looked around at the officers gathered in the command trailer. “Cat One, you and Radio One sort out how to talk to it. After you get me the other data. Hunter One, get the watches organized. Command Two, come with me.”

  Captain John Marsh didn’t quite glare at Rachel, but he made it abundantly clear that communications was his specialty and he did not care for anyone infringing on his turf. She let it roll away. If you knew half of what’s tucked away under my quarters, you’d be wanking off outside my door. He really liked technology, to the point of being fonder of his equipment than he was of most other humans, and of Cdr. Na Gael. As they discussed what would be needed to send and receive on the most common frequencies used by interstellar ships, she did her best to be undemanding and conciliatory. When it comes to cases, you know your equipment and I do not. Electronics don’t care for me and the feeling’s mutual.

  They ended up having to route both her laptop and data-link through the set-up, which pleased neither party. But it seemed to work. Or at least it hasn’t blown up yet, she thought, as Marsh and his technicians made final adjustments to the jerry-rigged transmitter. As they did, Rachel wrote down a sequence of broadcast figures.

  “Decided what you want?” Marsh grumbled, and she handed him the page.

  “Let’s start with this one, please,” she pointed to the top of the list. “It’s one of the most common patterns used in the places Larganga normally are.”

  Marsh grunted his assent and set to work as Rachel watched the computer screen. They’d agreed to allow ten minutes for a reply before changing frequencies, and in the meantime she puzzled over the connection, if any, between the Pandos, the Blermal, and the Larganga—assuming it was indeed a Larganga. The first frequency got no response, nor did the second. Fortunately for all their nerves, something did answer their third hail. That something was not friendly, and Rachel winced at both the raw sound and the translation produced by her laptop.

  “That’s not Chinese,” Marsh observed as he leaned over her shoulder, studying the characters appearing from right to left on the screen.

  “No. It’s one of my native languages. Here,” Rachel typed a command, “is the English.”

  He read, then straightened up. “Not happy about being disturbed, was it?”

  “Apparently not. Is that even anatomically possible for a human?”

  He gave her a sideways look. “I wouldn’t know. I’m not that type.”

  By the time Jones returned, Radio One and Cat One had established a level of discussion somewhat above “sod off you effing sheep lover” (“Ey, we’re not all Scottish!” an Irish tech had protested) with the creature.

  “So what is it?” Jones asked, watching the transcribed conversation on a larger screen.

  “It’s a Larganga, but with something wrong. At least for a Larganga, although it doesn’t think so, apparently,” responded her advisor.

  “Cat One. . .” Jones glared at her xenologist. I have had quite enough of this nonsense.

  “As I said before, ma’am, Larganga feed off death. This one has become infected, for lack of a better term, with something allowing it to feed off life as well. And it rather likes the new option, I’m afraid, ma’am. In fact,” Rachel scrolled back a bit in the conversation, “here.”

  The lean woman read aloud. “You really should leave. Why? Because this is a living world and there’s not much for you to consume here. Yes there is. What do you mean? I consumed” and she paused and pointed at a string of characters. “What’s this g
obbledygook?”

  “It is the name of the world the Pandos came from,” Rachel replied.

  “I consumed that planet and will do the same here. The inhabitants will not allow that—instead, let me take you somewhere else. You can’t. I’m too strong—this world’s energy surges into me even now, you—” Jones broke off reading. “Is that translation literal?”

  Rachel coughed a bit. “Um, no, ma’am. The literal is just as rude, though.”

  Jones leaned on the edge of the table, causing Marsh to jump for the equipment. “Careful!”

  She gave him a cold look and he subsided. “I am, Radio One. All right. The Larganga is not going to leave of its free will, or so it claims. Cat One, is it bluffing?”

  “I cann’t tell from here, ma’am. That is, I would need to contact someone elsewhere who’s Traded that region recently.” And since I don’t want to give the hunters any more traces for a while, I’m SOL, to use your term. “However, I’ve had a second program running, and look at this.”

  Rachel switched screens on her portable supercomputer and the others drew closer, peering over her shoulders at the display. “This is the field and its surroundings. You can see the field, and the rings of dead birds and animals here,” she pointed. “Now let me rotate the image ninety degrees.” They watched the field tip on edge, as if they were looking half in and half out of the ground. Capt. Ngobo whistled, and Rachel preened a bit. “Here’s the force shield. It now extends under as well as over the ship, which is buried about a meter below the soil surface.”

  Khan tipped his head to the side, thinking. “Cat One go back to the overhead view.” She complied, and he pulled a laser pointer out of his pocket and highlighted two of the death rings. “When we got here, the bird line was here. It has spread, if this image is accurate. Cat, do you concur?”

  “I concur, Command Two.”

  Jones had been listening intently and weighing options. “Cat One, can you remove it as it is now?”