A Cat at Bay

by Alma Boykin

  What have we done to her?

  (April 2005)

  Two weeks later, Rahoul Khan still wondered if Rachel Na Gael was really, well, all there. After hiding in the lab for two days, she emerged, acting as if nothing at all had happened. That alone set off warning bells, but he couldn’t sense anything past her shields, and Rahoul didn’t want to endanger their working relationship, and friendship, by asking her flat out if she were sane. Because she’d probably say no. He looked at the schedule for the meeting in Germany the next week and wondered if he should try again to persuade General Jones to let Rachel stay in England. I’d have more luck trying to argue paint dry, he sighed. Especially once she sees the new travel orders. Ah, spring in Europe. Where’s that global warming they’ve been promising, anyway?

  Rachel lay on her back in her bed-nest, staring at the ceiling. She’d given up trying to keep her thoughts under control, and they flitted from past to present to future, memories and imagination and current reality tangled into a ball of chaos. The mattress beneath her, and the soft fleece of the blanket against her fingertips—those existed. But sorting out the rest drained her, demanding too much energy and constant concentration. And she kept seeing Jones. The gloating, the impatience, the distrust that poured from the general corroded Rachel’s self control, pushing her back into stasis-madness. And now she had to go to Germany, to act human and pretend she had a firm grip on the current time and place. She closed her eye and let the world spin.

  Six days later, Evelyn Jones struggled to contain her impatience. The combination of an utter mess in the civilian air transport system in England and one of the worst spring storms in fifty years forced everyone to use ground transport. Making matters worse, in Jones’ mind, was the need to travel in mufti. She scanned the train platform at Paris’s Gare du Nord, took another look at the large clock hanging over the departures notice, and growled. “Ngobo, do you have any idea where she could be?”

  The Ivorian Captain shook his head. “None at all Mrs. Williams. You know how these university students are—always running behind, or not listening. She probably overslept and missed her connection.”

  Jones sighed, loudly, and ran her hands over her sensible tweed traveling skirt. “You would think by now she would have learned to . . . Oh my Lord!” She interrupted her own tart reply as a painfully artificial redhead in stark black quasi-Victorian clothing, heavy boots, and dead-white makeup strolled past and winked. «Not to worry, Command One, no one will be watching you on this trip,» an all-too-familiar voice chirped inside the general’s head. Her nearly unrecognizable xenology specialist continued past after sniffing something vaguely insulting in German, and joined the edge of a similarly clad group of young people gathered a bit farther down the platform.

  “Mr. Mehta” chuckled quietly at the show, and then attempted an appropriately sober expression when Jones turned his direction. “Well Mrs. Williams, the dress code for the trip only said ‘clean, tidy, and modest.’ I suppose we will have to be more specific next time.” Before Jones could reply, their ICE train pulled up, and the commotion of disembarking and loading passengers swallowed her words.

  Once the train was well underway, the four military personnel relaxed, dozing or watching the still-brown landscape go past. Their travel instructions were to disembark in Freiburg, where cars would pick them up and take them to the castle where the meeting would be held. After about an hour, Rahoul Khan walked up, interrupting Jones’s book. He shook his head a little. “There’s a Goth-Rock festival in Freiburg this week, apparently, ma’am. I’m glad we are staying outside of town.”

  “An excellent point, Mr. Mehta. Otherwise we’d never get any quiet, I suspect.”

  “No doubt, Mrs. Williams, no doubt.”

  Jones returned to her book, grumbling silently, I will never dismiss stories about Cdr. Na Gael’s eccentricities again. How is she going to detach herself from the horde of students in the other car? Did she arrange her own way to the meeting? She’s not supposed to. I cannot trust her to do anything without supervision.

  The train arrived at Freiburg’s main station at 1400 local time, and the quartet of officers carried their luggage over to a relatively quiet corner to let the crowd pass before attempting to find their promised transportation. After a few moments, a Goth sporting dark purple lips and a wicked grin passed them and slipped a note onto Capt. Ngobo’s folded coat. The adjutant unfolded it and passed it over to Jones. She read aloud, “Hitched own lift to the castle. Meet you there.”

  The Welsh woman looked at her waiting subordinates. “Was there a wager?”

  All three shook their heads, and Captain Marsh replied, “Not this time.” Jones had a few doubts, but collected her bags and strode off towards the taxi stands, not waiting for the trio to follow.

  Their driver waited under the green treffpunkt sign, and after another forty-five minutes the officers of Great Britain’s regiment of the Global Defense Force arrived at Schloss Klarbach, an ancient border fort that was now a private residence and exclusive meeting site owned by one of the Princes of Württemberg. The opening reception, before the first business meeting and dinner, would start at 1830, and Jones looked forward to a long, hot shower before changing into a proper uniform. She had finished dressing when Rachel arrived, still in black but minus the Goth makeup and with her hair back to its normal very dark brown. Jones didn’t bother turning from the mirror, merely saying, “You have half an hour.”

  The short alien began removing her heavy leather boots. “I trust no one bothered you on the trip over?”

  Something about the xenologist’s tone caught the officer’s ear and she turned, slightly concerned. “No. Was there a problem?”

  Rachel grimaced as she unpacked more suitable clothes. “The ‘Goths’ were some of your people from France and Spain. And yes, something was watching you and the people in the car ahead of you—and not because we looked funny. Dr. Seguro, of the Spanish Branch, thought there might be a problem, so some of the younger officers were tasked as a distraction. I’m sorry about not warning you that I’d decided to join them, but I didn’t want to involve any more people than necessary.”

  “Has security been compromised?”

  Rachel shook her head as she and the clothes vanished into the washroom. “No ma’am. The ‘juniors’ handled things well and no one broke cover. Ah, the blessings of conscription: the other passengers just assumed that some of the blokes had been in the military together—and besides, no one in their right mind pesters a group of Goths. Their makeup might be contagious!” With that the door shut, leaving the older woman shaking her head and wondering why she had not gone grey yet.

  The British group met at the foot of the staircase leading from the hotel wing to the main halls of the castle. A few of the other guests took long glances at the civilian. Rachel smiled wryly to herself, waiting for the whispers to start. I really wish Dr. Leiji Fujimori would get dragged to one of these. There are not enough civilians here for me to blend in, and those are either diplomatic spouses, or government bureaucrats, or scientists. Or both of the latter, and those bloviate. She surveyed the khaki-filled room, noting familiar faces and the locations of any and all exits. The security, to put it mildly, sucked. Too many egos, too many layers, too many leaks and risks.

  Rachel kept a politely interested expression on her face as she followed the other British staff members into the Great Hall. Her knee and hip ached horribly, and she leaned more of her weight on her elaborate silver and grey wooden-looking walking stick. She’d collect a glass of something soft to drink before supper, then locate a seat out of the main area. She’d spent most of the train ride on her feet, scanning and tracking whatever it was that had shadowed the group from España, and the hours balancing against the motion had caught up with her.

  Half an hour into the reception, after the opening remarks but before people began going in to supper, Rachel found both her drink and an antique chair that fit her perfectly. She settled into the
gilded arms and velvet seat, spreading her dark grey silk skirts and smoothing her grey and blue brocade vest. She looked around the Gothic-style hall, appreciating the work that had gone into constructing the ancient walls and beautifully carved ceiling ribs and bosses. Modern draperies and carpets muted the voices that would have echoed in the stone room, replacing the war banners and tapestries that once hung from the walls and ceiling. Rachel’s mind drifted to other warriors’ halls, thinking of court on Drakon IV and hearing some of the battle-chants and praise odes to the Azdhagi emperors. The memories swallowed her and she let herself float light years away. Her mind returned to the current reality only when an older man with a neatly trimmed golden-brown beard and mustache approached and cleared his throat.

  Instead of a uniform, he wore formal evening dress with a royal-blue sash across the front, military decorations pinned to his breast, and a concerned expression in his bright blue eyes. “Entschuldigung me, aber Commander Na Gael?”

  She smiled up at him and struggled for a moment before gaining her feet, replying in German, “You remember correctly my lord General von Hohen-Drachenburg.” She presented her right hand and winked. Two can play this game, Joschka.

  The commanding officer of the GDF’s Austrian Branch clicked his heels together, bowed, and kissed her hand, then motioned for her to resume her seat with one hand while beckoning a waiter with the other. “You need a fresh drink,” he observed, not giving her the chance to refuse.

  “Certainly my Lord General. How are you?” The waiter exchanged her glass for a full one and gave Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg a flute of champagne. Joschka claimed the seat beside the alien, dropping a layer of formality as he did.

  “Older and wiser, Commander. My youngest grandchild will be attending University this year, if you can imagine! And thank you for the wedding present, if you have not received the note yet.”

  Rachel smiled, “You are very welcome, my lord. I hope you have as much happiness as General Johnny and Catherine found.”

  He smiled in return and nodded, a touch of sadness dimming his bright eyes for a moment. “Adele is not my Magda and neither am I her Pavel, but we are adjusting, and all the children approve.” The sorrow disappeared again. “So. How are you faring these days? Still keeping the British in line?”

  He doesn’t need to know. She glanced around in case one of “her” officers had come within earshot before replying. “The miles are creeping up on me, but yes, I’m still trying to preserve what little sanity remains in the British Isles. Is Dr. Blaylack working out for you?”

  Joschka sipped his drink. “There were a few rough spots, but we’ve managed. Tell me, are all English scientists so eccentric?”

  “No, my lord General. Most are worse,” she replied with a straight face, earning a chuckle.

  “If you can still laugh, Commander, then there is hope for the world.” They chatted over commonplaces for a few more minutes before he excused himself.

  The call for supper sounded a short time later and Rachel extended a tiny tendril of thought, “looking” for Jones or Khan. On the opposite side of the largest room, of course. The universe hates me. She made her way toward their position as quickly as she could without limping, weaving between clusters of uniformed men and women and people in evening dress. Just before Jones began searching for her, Rachel appeared at the woman’s elbow. On her other side, Captain Kwame Ngobo shifted, obviously uncomfortable, and Rachel shot him a sympathetic glance. He did not care for such large groups of people in enclosed spaces and neither did he react well to pompous civilians. That makes two of us, Captain, she told him behind her shields. This is already rubbing me raw, even with shields up. Joschka, Rahoul Khan, and a very few others stood out by the simple virtue of not projecting their feelings at all and sundry.

  Jones deigned to notice her arrival. “Ah Commander, there you are. Come along.” She set off at a brisk clip.

  Rachel trailed for a moment until Rahoul offered her his arm, which she took. “Lean ” he ordered under his breath, adding, “You really need to get that leg looked at sometime.”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done for a torn ligament besides applying ‘tincture of time’.”

  “Back before Easter?”

  “Yes.” Her body would heal, unlike—she blocked the fearful thought.

  They reached their assigned table and he handed her into a seat beside the Chinese Branch’s xenology specialist, who introduced himself as Colonel Lim Jiang.

  “Commander Rachel Na Gael, Great Britain.”

  The first course arrived with commendable quickness and the other personnel tucked in with the speed of career military the universe over—eat fast, before the alert sounds, because you don’t know when the next meal will arrive. Rachel picked through the mysterious foliage and ate the smoked fish hiding at the bottom. Like her Asian counterpart, Rachel contented herself with speaking only when spoken to, and letting the soldiers carry the conversation.

  Most of the discussion seemed to focus on the matter of new paperwork requirements coming out of Vienna, and speculation as to where the new forest of paper would go and how much time it would take to complete. Rachel thought fondly back to the days when she had joined and how little administrative work had been involved then. Ah well, things change.

  “Commander Na Gael?”

  She turned to her Chinese counterpart “Yes, sir?”

  “You are a civilian, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. I retired from active duty with the rank of commander and it was decided that I should continue using it for address after I joined the agency.”

  The colonel leaned back, satisfied with her explanation. “How long have you been with the British?”

  Rachel took a sip of her mineral water and braced before answering, “Just over twenty years, Colonel.”

  She felt Major Khan, who had been listening in, shake as he fought laughter at the colonel’s expression, which flashed from surprise through disbelief to annoyance and back to politely bland. “Ah, I have been told about the British sense of humor. Very dry, I believe is the expression.”

  At this Gen. Jones joined the conversation from Khan’s other side. “Col. Lim, Commander Na Gael has indeed worked with us for as long as she claims. She looks too young, I know, but she’s not joking.”

  Rachel remained polite and responsive for the rest of the evening, but spoke less than usual, even for a social gathering. As soon as the meal ended and manners allowed, she pled a headache and retreated. She moved the duvet and pillow to the floor of one of two very large and sturdy wardrobes. Then she turned off most of the lights, shifted shape completely despite the pain and risk, and curled up in the “nest,” closing the wardrobe door with a paw so that only a sliver of light could get in. If whatever has been tracking us got my mental or physical scent, this should confuse it mightily. That, and she slept better in strange environments when she was armed in a way no intruder would expect. And she wouldn’t bother Jones with her snores.

  Rachel woke very early the next morning, stretched quietly, shifted, and took care of teeth, hair, et cetera, without waking her roommate. She’d memorized the layout of the public rooms of Schloss Klarbach and walked down the halls and out into the garden. The storm system had passed overnight, leaving dry, cold, clear air behind. She took a deep breath of the fresh air and wandered through the dark stillness until she reached a chest-high wall.

  The castle had been dug in part into the living rock of the mountain. Behind her, the cold bulk of stone loomed against the peak, while before her stretched a valley, dotted here and there with the lights of villages and farmhouses. Well in the distance, the last of Orion’s shield sank into the far western ocean, following the other winter stars. Mercury hung very low, almost invisible over the edge of the distant Vosges Mountains. Millions of years ago, this had been the eastern rim of a volcanic rift valley, edged in the active volcanoes that accounted for the region’s later wealth in silver, gold, a
nd lead. Not too far away, on the French side of the Rhine, artifacts had been found under one of the lava flows. Sometime, I really need to look into those, but not now.

  Rachel leaned on the cold stone of the wall and lowered her shields a bit. She could feel the guards on duty—special forces from within the GDF. Farther out, she sensed sleeping humans and a hint of something ancient that also slept. She passed it by and searched instead for any hint of otherness not related to human. Something very faint caught her attention and she tried to focus on it, but the trail remained elusive. It was the same thing she had sensed on the train yesterday, but felt just outside the edge of her reach unless she was willing to exert considerable effort. Should I? No, I’d have to push to collapse and there’s not a need yet. She pulled back into herself with a shrug and returned to her morning’s contemplations.

  Why did I ever agree to come? Granted, now that something had alerted her to its presence she would be on guard, watching for an attack or a spy. She still ached inside and out from being trapped in the stasis field and part of her just wanted to be alone, to take her ship and go back to Drakon IV, or flee into deep space.

  Steps on the gravel path between the raised beds caught Rachel’s ear. She shifted over a bit, giving more room at the low part of the wall, not incidentally freeing her hands should she need to defend herself. The newcomer glanced at the other early riser but said nothing and gazed out over the valley. She wore a skirt and jacket of Tyrolean cut and a heavy shawl. Relaxing her guard, Rachel returned to her own melancholy thoughts for a few more minutes. Jones will be waking up about now, but she’s not functional until she’d had at least two cups of tea, and I have no desire to talk to that creature until after that. Lord, but I wished I’d stayed in England. A faint hint of false dawn began fading the western stars and Rachel offered her morning prayers, then turned to go back inside.

  The other woman raised a hand, stopping her. “I do not wish to intrude, but my husband mentioned that you might be up early and I never sleep well when I am away from home. I am Adele von Hohen-Drachenburg,” she introduced herself, voice warm and rich with years.