A Cat at Bay

by Alma Boykin

  “Damn, that’s bad,” she groaned. “Sorry Sergeant Chan, I’ll work on that.”

  RSM Chan folded his arms and growled “Ma’am, some of our troopers couldn’t get that with unlimited ammunition and shooting from three meters!”

  Despite her critique, Cdr. Na Gael met the minimum accuracy required. “Now for rifle, ma’am,” Chan announced. “Weber, lock the door.” Puzzled, he did as ordered. When he got back, Na Gael lay on her belly under the shelf, holding a strange-looking weapon. “Fire when ready.” Weber heard no shots but saw five flashes of light and five small holes appear in the head of the silhouette target. “Larger holes please. I do not have the eyes of an eagle,” the rangemaster commented dryly, and she complied. “What setting is that?” he asked.

  “Light stun, Sergeant,” came a voice from under the shelf.

  “Standing. Lower left corner of the paper.” Na Gael slithered backwards, keeping her weapon accessible but safe, and took a standing position, stock to her left shoulder. “Fire when ready.” This time, Weber heard a faint “pumpf-zzt” and hiss each time the alien pulled the trigger. “Full auto, cluster the three corners.” She reset a small stud on the side of the dark-brown and matte-grey blast rifle and proceeded to leave three-centimeter clusters on the three remaining corners.

  “What do you think, Weber?” Chan asked once the demonstration ended.

  Weber shook his head. “What kind of weapon is that, ma’am?”

  She smiled, stroking the butt. “It’s a modified Gorgonian navy medium blast rifle. I had the power settings expanded so I could use it for targets, since full power would put a hole twenty centimeters deep and the size of CD in the far wall. The Gorgonians are firm believers in overkill.”

  “Ma’am, did you train as a marksman?”

  “No. I’ve just had a little more time to practice than most.”

  Chan snorted and Weber saw him smiling at something. Then he sobered. “Why don’t you finish with the pistol, ma’am?” She nodded and started turning to lay down the rifle when a string of fireworks went off. “Bang! Pop-pop-pop-pop!” Weber jumped even though he’d been expecting it. The alien, taken by surprise, still managed to draw a large black blast pistol and snap off three shots before the echoes died.

  “Howling wolfrunners, Chan!” She snarled, still in shooting position.

  “Secondary target,” the RSM called, pointing to the silhouette two over from where they had been working. Five shots pierced the paper, then she brought the weapon up, fingers well clear of the trigger. “Reel it in, Weber,” the Rangemaster ordered.

  The results, Weber decided, were impressive. Caught totally unprepared, the alien still managed to neatly stitch the initial target and cluster the second. “You’re good for another six months, ma’am,” the senior NCO noted, presenting the papers for her signature.

  “At least you can’t use a flash-bang in here,” she grumbled, even as she smiled with a very cold gleam in her eye.

  The RSM sent his junior off to unlock the doors and return the unused ammunition while she repacked her cases. Rachel “knocked” on Chan’s shields before asking mind to mind, «Why the audience this morning, Sar-major?»

  «Because it will do him good to realize that at least some of the stories are true,» a richly-colored bass voice responded.

  «Trouble?» She finished stowing everything to the rangemaster’s satisfaction and picked up both bags.

  Chan shook his head a little. «Probably not. He may not trust you, but he’s not stupid, ma’am.»

  She snorted. “I’m sorry you had to come in so early, Sergeant. Thank you for working me in, and I’ll try to keep better track this time.”

  The taller man led her to the door and opened it for her, since her hands were full. “Work on your weak hand, ma’am. And one of these days you are going to demonstrate to these troopers what a professional should be able to do,” he stated firmly, ignoring her mild expression of disbelief.

  “Vienna will have a cat. No, correction—a cow. They already have a cat.” And she flashed her wicked grin, covering «I’ll do it if you can arrange it and let me practice with one of the current rifles a bit, Sergeant. And I’ll keep my eyes open. Thank you.» She sauntered down the corridor leading to the lift and stairs to the main headquarters level, humming “The Bells of Hell.”

  Rachel enjoyed a hearty breakfast after her session on the range. The few officers eating early were reading, comparing the results of the previous day’s football matches, and generally waking up, so she was left to her own cogitation. As she mopped up her runny eggs and grilled tomatoes, she mulled over the non-situation with Sergeant Wolfgang Weber. According to rumor he truly hated extraterrestrials, and she’d sensed mild hostility and strong distrust from him. The hostility she could live with. The distrust was a different story. A CO who detests me and doesn’t trust me, and a sergeant who doesn’t like me. I think I’d rather deal with the sergeant. Rachel added a bit of milk to her tea and drank a few swallows of the scalding hot brew before attacking her sausage. There’s no point confronting him. He’ll come around eventually. She’d earned the trust of other soldiers in her time. As one of her pilots had put it, describing a squadron mate, “Can’t stand him, but I want him on my wing.”

  A few hours later Rachel had her feet up on her desk while she tinkered with a recalcitrant bit of electronics. Captain John Marsh, the communications officer, knocked and came into the lab. “Need you to look at these,” he said, tone curt as he slid a file folder across the desktop.

  Speaking of people I trust but don’t care for. Rachel pinned the moving folder under her elbow. With great care she set the signal filter onto a padded mat before swinging her feet down and opening the documents. She skimmed a bit and looked up with a puzzled expression. “Who reported these?”

  The perpetually morose officer frowned. “Should be on the second page, Commander.”

  She flipped ahead, pursing her lips as she read. “Your observation’s correct. The emission pattern doesn’t fit the current solar weather cycle—good catch, that. It would be nice if I could get a copy of the raw data stream, though.” She handed the file back to the waiting captain.

  “Not possible at the moment, but I’ll make a note to have the lieutenant find out how much the Institute wants for it. Does it mean anything to you?”

  She thought for a minute or so, then shook her head. “Nothing leaps to mind, Capt. Marsh, but I’ll go through my collection. It may be an anomaly left over from that last solar storm, or something re-bouncing off the ionosphere. Or it might not. Thank you.” She got to her feet as he nodded brusquely and left.

  That afternoon, when Rachel checked her secure, non-official e-mail she found a file waiting for her. It had come via an indirect route, suggesting that it contained the last bits of information that she needed to finish a personal project. She made absolutely certain that no one was coming up the corridor outside the lab, turned the door light to yellow, and locked the door. Rachel took her laptop into the Dark Hart and locked the entrance. Only then did she open the attached file. Her eye grew cold and hard, and a predatory expression settled over her features. This is it. He’s done it. This is the last piece I needed to confirm 1000% that monster’s identity and location. Ingeborg, you were worth every damned Kronor you charged and then some.

  As fast as she could, Rachel sent the file to the ’Hart’s main computer and then purged her laptop’s memory. There was no hacker on the planet who could get into the mind of the semi-sentient creature that controlled the core of the ship’s processor. But Brigadier General Jones and Major Khan had the access codes for her laptop, and she didn’t want them to have any contact with this batch of data—more for their protection than for hers. Data transferred, she returned to the lab, undid her precautions, and stepped outside into the gardens behind the headquarters building to get fresh air and to think.

  With some very discreet help, she’d found the identity of the human who had leaked informatio
n that nearly led to the massacre of the Regiment’s soldiers’ children. He had done it with “malice aforethought,” as the human laws phrased it. And this creature remained in a position of high trust where he could wreak more havoc. Now she knew who he was, where he was, and how to get him.

  If she’d been in her old business, the matter would be settled. Terminate the source with extreme prejudice. She’d done it before, the first time to the satisfaction of her squadron and the second time to the horror of her business partner. So, does kitty go a-hunting? A nasty smile spread across her face at the thought of what she could do to the monster. She flexed her claws. So easy to catch her prey, so simple to remove the target to a secure location and let her less civilized side have full play. Or she could bundle the data, send it to the parents who remained in positions where they could do something about it, and let them decide. After all, they had a better argument for pursuing a blood-feud. At least two were still SAS, if memory served. Or just slide in, neutralize the threat, and slide out? Given this person’s position, inquiries would be exceedingly quiet and limited, and the human government would hush things up quickly.

  However, she was no longer in her old business. Removing the person remained possible, even desirable from her personal standpoint, but there were larger considerations. Granted, the creature had released very sensitive information to a known enemy, and she could prove it conclusively. And the families of the children did have first claim on the creature, not her. No children had died, which might be considered a mitigating factor in the case against the source, even though several were badly injured and all of them terrified and endangered. That the youngsters’ survival had been purely due to military intervention and amazingly good luck nullified the last argument in Rachel’s view of things.

  She calmed herself down as she strode back into the laboratory, since there was no call to be hinting of what she had or scaring bystanders. So what to do? This wasn’t exactly a question one could take to a superior officer or spiritual advisor. Jones would be horrified and would absolutely forbid taking any action except for “notifying the proper authorities.” And Father Farudi had often cautioned his flock that true vengeance belonged to the Lord, not individuals. Himself would have a heart attack and give her a good scolding, although given his response to the original incident even he might favor some sort of action, albeit after giving the perpetrator a chance to redeem himself. Well, she didn’t have to do anything that evening. It would be better if she slept on things and let them ferment for a while, she decided.

  Early the next morning Rachel made up her mind. She sent out three e-mail messages that simply included her name, private “phone number,” and the fact that she had “interesting information pertaining to a memorable event.” Since that could be anything from a battle to someone’s retirement party, no casual over-the-shoulder reader would find anything untoward in the message. And former squad mates often kept in touch, even in her current line-of-work. In less than an hour two men called her on her ship’s line and she told them that she had data available. Did they want it? Double affirmative, with directions on how to send the material. They would keep in touch and let her know what the application decision was. The third party was “away,” according to one respondent, but he would let her know if they decided to take any action. Rachel bundled two copies of the complete data set, minus her contacts and some source information, and sent it off with a clear conscience. She’d let the natives decide.

  Since she’d skipped breakfast, Rachel opted to join the officers for Sunday dinner. She found a seat and listened in as Captains Marsh and Ngobo argued over who would win the European football tournament that year. The discussion seemed to be getting heated and she lowered her shields to get a sense of their emotions. Friendly rivalry, as it turned out, but there was an odd blank farther down the table. She leaned back and looked to see Lt. William “Plank” Carpenter waging a valiant battle against a particularly stubborn piece of beef. Ah, that explains it. Carpenter’s a “null.” I remember now. Natural shields that even a bomb can’t get in or out of, she thought, before returning her attention to the conversations around her.

  “Commander, who are you backing?” Capt. Ngobo asked.

  She thought for a moment. “Oh, if I was, probably Austria.”

  The officers groaned, and one or two cursed or jokingly muttered “traitor,” as a bolder soul called out “You know something we don’t?”

  She grinned and shook her head. “No, I just know someone who’s wagering on Germany vs. England for the final and I really want him to lose the bet.” That makes two he’ll owe me.

  “So who’s going to win?” Ngobo asked again.

  “Won’t tell. I refuse to contribute to further corrupting the morals of the Regiment by encouraging wagering and bet-fixing,” she replied with an arch look and utterly sanctimonious tone.

  “You’re not supporting your unit,” one of the younger officers complained, and Rachel laughed as she got up from the table.

  “No, Lieutenant, I’m not. And just for that comment, I won’t tell you that two of the winning numbers for the next Sweepstakes are three and nine.” As she left, she heard a murmur of voices and heated discussion about which sweepstakes and how to get tickets by when. Be funny if the winning numbers include ninety three and thirty nine.

  The xenologist popped into Evelyn Jones’ office on her way back to the laboratory after lunch. The sergeant looking after things shrugged at her inquiry. “The Capt’n said ‘at the Brigadier’d be out ‘til ‘bout 1500 tomorrow, ma’am. Meeting running long, ‘e said.”

  “Thank you.” Oh good, another day without the Welsh fog.

  Later that afternoon the intercom buzzed, interrupting Rachel as she finished writing up a brief analysis of the previous day’s signal anomalies. “Laboratory, go ahead,” she grumbled.

  “Chan here. Sergeant Weber has some weapons questions for you. Do you have time for a quick talk?”

  “Affirmative. My place or yours?”

  A staticky pause, then the senior NCO came back. “We’ll come down in ten minutes. Wants to see how energy weapons work.”

  “I’ll have the diagrams waiting.”

  “Roger. Chan out.”

  Rachel rummaged in one of the file cabinets until she found the schematic diagrams for “blast rifle, generic” that she’d made from a captured weapon. I wonder if having a demonstrator would be helpful? Can’t hurt. She pulled the gun belt out of her bag and put it in a desk drawer where Chan could get to it easily.

  She decided to brew her afternoon tea while she waited and was cleaning up when the door opened behind her. “Commander? I have a box for you,” Lt. Carpenter announced.

  “Just set it on the desk, thanks,” she replied, not turning around as she put the tea canister back on its shelf. She was closing the cabinet door when thunder roared and fire lanced through her right leg. Rachel spun as she fell, grabbing for her gun—now out of reach in the other side of her desk. What the . . .? She scrabbled for purchase, bracing her back against the cold steel door of a chemical locker. “Time’s tempest, what the hell?”

  Hard green eyes that weren’t quite sane looked down on her from behind the sights of a nine-millimeter pistol, finger on the trigger. “I’m removing a security risk, alien.”

  He’s mad—no point trying to argue with him. His shields rendered her Gift useless, and she’d left her body armor in her quarters. Rachel closed her eye and ran through the short form of the General Confession as fast as she could, then looked up again into the bitter face and black barrel. “One question, Lieutenant?”

  “One,” he agreed.

  “Why not just kill me?”

  Carpenter shrugged but the gun never moved. “Unlike you, I don’t shoot people in the back. And you need to suffer.” He retreated a pace, fired again, and agony erupted from Rachel’s side. She clenched her teeth against a cry of pain, refusing to give him the pleasure of seeing her response. Behind him, the
door eased open.

  As soon as she saw the muscles in his hand start tightening for a third shot, Rachel lunged forward and sideways, torn muscles and broken ribs howling. As she did, a brown Wolf slammed into the gunman from behind, knocking him to the floor. RSM Chan and Sergeant Weber grappled with the American officer, managing to knock his pistol away from him. Rachel heaved herself upright against the heavy desk, snatched her own pistol out of the drawer, and braced. She couldn’t get a clear shot as the trio wrestled across the floor, until Carpenter slammed Chan’s head against the side of a lab table, stunning him for a moment. As Carpenter rolled onto Weber, trying to get the German’s boot knife, Rachel fired. Her target’s back arched and he collapsed, unconscious. She panted, “I do shoot people in the back, I’ll admit that part’s true. But I use stun, not kill.” However, you are going to hurt like the bloody blue blazes and have trouble moving for quite a while after getting hit in the spine at point-blank range, you scum-sucking son of a whore and a politician. And I am never going without body armor again. Ever.

  The German pushed the limp attacker onto the floor and looked up at the xenologist. “How long?”

  She glanced to see what setting she had used. “About four minutes. You all right?”

  “Ja. You?”

  She shook her head and laid the pistol carefully onto the desk, making sure the safety was on and that the barrel pointed at the wall. “Not so good.” She managed not to collapse as she sank to the floor, while the Sar-Major got to his feet and started helping Weber secure the unconscious attacker. Rachel looked at her leg and at the blood on the floor around the desk. “I need a second pair of hands, when one of you has a moment,” she said, keeping as calm as possible.

  “Oh shit!” Chan’s eyes went wide. “Weber, get a medic!”

  “Negative! Not a medic, do you understand me? Just a pair of hands, Sar-Major. Medic’ll just make things worse,” she countermanded, snarling. “I only need to get patched up long enough for the bleeding to stop. I can take it from there on my own.”