by Alma Boykin
Rachel tisked and rumpled her tail. “Some people have to learn the hard way. Right then, unless you need me I’ll be in the lab sorting my mail.”
“Very good,” and Rolfe made a note of her return, glancing surreptitiously to make sure she’d not seen his reading glasses.
To Rachel’s relief no one seemed to notice her new scar. She’d experimented with several kinds of cosmetics before finding one that matched her normal skin tone (pale), didn’t itch (a challenge), didn’t smell (a bigger challenge), and didn’t rub off when she forgot and rested her head on her hand or wore a helmet with a chinstrap. At least one thing about me is almost human-female normal, she sighed as she applied the remover one night. Gads, what if I had fur on my face? She remembered all too well the sting of having bonded false fur removed. At least this stuff lasts longer than what the human women wear. Rachel could go almost thirty-six hours before the bonding agent started to break down and the goop wore off. No, the stuff wasn’t inexpensive, but she only had to wear it while on Earth, so it worked out.
A month after her return, Rachel closed her book file, curled up in her bed-nest, and nodded off. She’d propped both doors open and opened the chimney flue as well, trying to get some hint of air moving through her quarters. August’s sticky heat made her terribly grumpy. It didn’t keep her from sleeping, however.
“BLAT BLAT BLAT BLAT!” An alarm shrieked outside the lab door. Rachel bolted out of bed. She slammed the emergency exit closed, pulled on her clothes and body armor, slung her weapons belt around her waist and hauled on her boots. She braided her hair as she pounded down the steps to the lab. Rachel kept her satchel packed and ready beside her desk. She snatched it up, grabbed a sword cane, and rushed down the corridor to the staff briefing room.
She slid into her seat only a few steps behind Col. Marcel Terrieur, aka Col. Terror, the executive officer. Brigadier General Andrew Whitehead followed close on their heels. Regimental Sargent Major Richard Chan and Captains Ngobo and Marsh slid in not long after. Mike Rolfe remained in the communications center, from where he would relay the first information as it came in.
Rachel logged into the intranet and waited, wondering what emergency loomed. The others did the same. Marsh swore under his breath as he mis-typed the password and had to redo the entire process.
“This has been a drill. Repeat, this is a drill,” a voice announced over the loudspeakers in the ceiling. A chorus of groans and imprecations, interspersed with the occasional rude noise met the news, and Commander Na Gael made a very crude Azdhagi forefoot gesture towards the ceiling.
She checked the time to position. The regiment had gotten into place from a cold start in twelve minutes. Well, Andrew can’t complain about that, and Horseguards shouldn’t either. Vienna will, of course. International headquarters always complained. Someday I’m going to sneak in and pull a readiness drill on them. Or maybe I’ll just yank the fire bell handle. Rachel entertained a brief vision of the headquarters staff milling around in the dark on a cold, sleety night in their bedclothes. Someday. And what’s the general doing here? He’s supposed to be in London at—. No, that wrapped up this morning, that’s right.
Andrew Whitehead reminded Rachel of the pictures of the winners of the English farming fairs. Remove his uniform and put him in Wellies, worn corduroy pants, and a frayed sweater under a stained oilskin, and he’d fit right in with the men showing their prize hogs and turnips. He had thinning hair a few shades darker than light brown, blue-gray eyes, and a physique that teetered on the edge of stocky. Rachel suspected that the day after he stopped doing PT, his waistband size would go up four centimeters. Right, so he looks awake because he never went to bed. That’s cheating, she grumbled.
The officers and senior NCO logged back out of the computer system. “Right then, I’m for bed,” Col. Terrieur started. “You are all dismissed— Sacre bleu!”
The xenologist glanced behind her to see what had upset the executive officer, but she didn’t notice anything, no smoke or sparks emerged from the computer stack in the corner of the room. She turned back around to find the staff officers and RSM Chan staring at her, expressions of shock, surprise, and disgust on their faces. “Commander, your face,” Kwame Ngobo began.
“Sorry, forgot my makeup. Won’t happen again,” and the Wanderer squirmed along the wall behind Terrieur, around the end of the conference table and out the door before anyone could say or do anything. She did not run, but Rachel made record time fleeing to the lab and her quarters, locking the door behind her.
Back in the briefing room, the men looked at eachother. “My god, she’s hideous,” Captain John Marsh, the communications officer, blurted. The RSM and the officers all glared at him. “Well, she is,” he defended himself. “That long scar is nasty.”
The French executive officer frowned. “At least you restrained your opinion until she departed the room, Captain.”
Actually, sir, he didn’t, RSM Chan thought to himself. He’d felt the force of the man’s mental slap at Commander Na Gael, probably almost as hard as she had.
“Have any of you noticed that mark on her before now?” Whitehead demanded.
Headshakes all around answered his question. “She said she’d forgotten her makeup,” Ngobo said.
“Ah yes, she did, that’s right. Well, none of you say anything about it to anyone until I give leave. And you’re dismissed.” And I’d better have a word with her, in case more than her face has been injured. And before someone else opens their mouth and flashes their stupidity.
He caught his chance two days later. He’d finished up the morning’s chore and had stepped out of his office for a moment before taking up the next task when he heard her walking past. “Commander, a moment,” General Whitehead requested. The Wanderer slowed her pace until he caught up with her. “This way.” He turned down a side hall and strode past the adjutant’s office. “Let’s just step outdoors. It has to be cooler than my office,” the he said, holding the door open for his advisor. They walked out through the rose gardens, and he stopped when they reached the huge beech tree that served as an unofficial marker dividing the gardens from the rest of the grounds. “What happened to you, Commander?”
She feigned confusion. “Sir?”
“Please don’t make me play Twenty Questions, Commander Na Gael.” He folded his arms and waited. “Well?”
Oh, fewmets. How do I explain this? Rachel thought hard for a moment or two. “I failed to follow an order. My, let’s call it misbehavior, upset the person who gave the order and he decided to make an example of me.”
“Was this here? On Earth?” Whitehead had many flaws but stupidity was not one of them, alas.
“No, sir.” She added in a quiet rush, “It had nothing to do with Earth or anything Earth-related, and the person who did it had no idea that I might have any business on this planet. And he’s dead now.” Well, actually, he has not been born yet, but let’s not go there, shall we?
The general stepped closer, carefully examining his advisor’s face. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the ridge of scar tissue running from her widow’s peak, across her blind eye, and down almost to her lower jaw. “Does it hurt?”
“A little, sir. The makeup helps keep the skin soft so it doesn’t pull so much.”
He stepped back a pace, giving her room. “I am not going to order you, Rachel, but I want you to leave off your cosmetics for the next few days unless we are called into the field.”
“Why?” She leaned away from him, wary.
“Two reasons. First, so people can get used to the change. Second, well, let’s say that some people need a lesson about tact.” If anyone popped off about Commander Na Gael’s injury, he wanted it now and not in the heat of combat. He’d seen what she did when she was fighting mad and someone surprised her. The corporal had been very lucky that he’d been in body armor and that she’d pulled her blow. “What do you know about construction engineering?”
The change in topi
c caught her off guard. “Ah, the roof goes on top, you need more wall than glass, never put windows in the shower no matter how far from civilization you are, and all drains slope away from the building. Oh, and you’d better put in more outlets and breakers than you think you’ll ever need, because you’ll need them.” She waved away a mosquito.
Whitehead put one hand to his forehead. “Windows in the shower? Really?”
“Really,” and she raised her right hand as if taking an oath. “Ground floor. Supposed to be one-way glass. I got a different room, although my business partner wanted to put on a show.” Especially once we realized that the porch extended around the cabin past the window. No.
“Well, glass may be involved. But look into the latest in thermal imaging cameras, please, surface and aerial, and give me an outline by Friday. Carry on,” and he left her at the base of the tree.
Back in his office, Whitehead considered what he’d seen and what to do about it. He certainly couldn’t order her to wear cosmetics whenever she left the lab, not given the need for rapid deployment and extended field operations. And people needed to get used to her appearance now, before someone else did something stupid, like Capt. Marsh had, but to her face. I know those two are not on each other’s Christmas list, but his comment went beyond the bounds.
Whitehead frowned as he looked at a scrap of news in the morning briefing pages. And the flowers in the lab have got to go. Not right this moment, but . . . he stopped, blinking. If the 58th Regiment had the same problem that the Argentine Branch had observed, could there be a way to give Commander Na Gael a little space, get the plants out of the lab, and solve the facilities problem? Possibly. They couldn’t pay her, but she needed some sort of reward for her work. General Whitehead made a little note on the margin of the page and turned his attention to other, more pressing matters.
Rachel presented the report late Thursday afternoon. “That’s what I feared,” Whitehead admitted when she finished. “And I suppose there’s no good way to disperse heat from this complex without a great deal of complicated engineering.” Rachel shrugged. “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
Whitehead looked at the sample images she’d found. One in particular bothered him, and he picked up the page, leaning back in his chair as he studied the visible light satellite shot. The combined infrared and thermal imaging picture showed a large square with several smaller squares in or on it. The smaller squares marked vents over an underground parking garage in Canada. He should not have been able to see the garage on the visible light picture of the garage’s location, but enough heat and moisture disrupted the soil above it to produce a slightly different plant growth, which appeared in the camera. And, of course, the heat exhaust vents glowed to IR. I wonder what our thermal image looks like?
He could well imagine. The year before contractors had finished a major addition to the underground portion of the base, extending it past the end of the motor pool building and garden. Come winter, Whitehead and several others noticed that the snow over the new addition melted faster than anywhere else. And Commander Na Gael complained about the grass drying out, probably from the heat and the improved drainage. That much waste heat has to be visible. And our enemies can see a lot more than we can. What to do about it?
Rachel did her best to ignore the stares and winces as she went about her business. The enlisted personnel took her new disfigurement in stride better than the officers did. She wondered if RSM Chan had told them not to gawk—after all, it wasn’t as if she were the only member of the regiment with scars or deformities from combat or accidents. No, the officers responded the worst. She wanted to shake one first lieutenant in particular. The woman’s combination of triumph, pity, and disgust reminded Rachel too much of Lan-zhe’s attitude, making her queasy unless she kept her mental shields near maximum.
As the weeks passed, the stares grew fewer. Instead, she caught people glancing at her sideways, and twice came upon groups of troopers whispering about something, promptly stopping as she came closer. She did not believe they were speculating about whom she favored for the European football finals, either. Damn it, if there’s a conspiracy in progress I want to be involved, she growled. And it’s too early for them to be planning Christmas surprises. She glowered at the potted rubber tree in the back corner of the officers’ mess and poked at the mystery curry. And the sauce is too bland, the potatoes are mushy, and I refuse to touch that abomination they are trying to fob off as milk. The mess had run out of cow milk and had substituted soymilk, calling it “a vegan alternative.” Rachel called it something rude in several languages not spoken on Earth. After picking the last bit of chicken out of the curry, she stalked out of the mess to go sulk in her quarters.
Whitehead and Terrieur watched her flouncing departure. “Not a curry fan, apparently,” the general noted.
“How do you say it? If looks could kill, the plant would be dead,” and the French colonel nodded toward the rubber tree.
“Has Rolfe had a word with Lt. Simpson yet?”
Terrieur nodded. “Yes. It seems she had some strange idea that Commander Na Gael might want to date one of the lieutenants assigned to the armory. As we thought, she was gloating.” He sighed, “Les femmes,” and spread his hands as he shrugged.
“Oui,” Whitehead agreed.
The next day Whitehead summoned Rachel to meet him at the back of the vegetable garden behind the main headquarters building. When she arrived, she found pallets of what looked like windows, along with a pile of metal beams. As Captain Tom Morgan gave directions, several corporals used string, wooden pegs, and surveying levels to mark off a rectangle on the ground. Gen. Whitehead motioned Rachel over to stand beside him.
“Good. Do you have any problem walking and standing on gravel?”
“Ah, no more than most people, sir.” What had that to do with anything?
“Good, because Morgan pointed out that leaving the flooring gravel would solve several problems.”
Totally befuddled, Rachel tipped her head to the side and gave her superior a confused look.
“I’ll make an agreement with you, Commander. You stop tinkering with plants in the lab, and the glasshouse will be all yours.”
“Hang about,” she protested. “What glasshouse?”
He pointed to the men pounding stakes into the ground as the dark-haired Welsh officer gave instructions. “That is the warmest part of the exhaust system for the new section. Morgan and some engineers devised a way to hide the thermal exhaust, besides piling snow on it to level the surface.” He and Rachel both shook their heads as they remembered that particular proposal. “So, metal grating, gravel over that, and glasshouse on top to catch the heat and explain the warm spot.”
“Ah, now I’m tracking you, sir. And a few mentions about a new recreational therapy facility at the White Horse and Queen’s Arms?”
Whitehead nodded. “That too.” By now most of the people in the village up the road from headquarters believed that the facility housed a “retreat center” catering to both British and international guests suffering from “nervous difficulties and stress.”
“Then I agree to stop messing about with plants in the lab, sir, unless it is part of an official research investigation.” She hesitated before asking, “Who ratted on me?”
“I will merely say that under normal conditions, African violets do not spontaneously appear in offices, nor do they change colors at random intervals.” He smiled a little as she ducked. He’d opted to ignore the discreet potting bench she’d tucked into the back corner of the lab. “I admit, I thought you’d be cultivating Venus flytraps and pitcher plants.”
Rachel sniffed and tipped her head back so she could look down her nose at him. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not a complete barbarian, nor am I a psychopath.” At least, I’ve never been diagnosed as one, she added silently.
And so Commander Na Gael got her glasshouse.
Additional Titles in the Cat Among Dragons Series by Alma T.C. Boykin:
A Cat Among Dragons
Hairballs: A short story
Justice and Juniors
A Double Edged Wish
Promises and Powers
On A Bleak Midwinter: A Short Story
A Touch of Power
Schree’s Rest: A Novella
Between Flood and Flame
A Cat at Bay (2015)
Hubris: A Tale of Azdhag Origins (350 years before the Cat came among the Dragons)
Renaissance: A Tale of Azdhag Origins (2015)
The Colplatschki Chronicles
Elizabeth of Starland
Elizabeth of Donatello Bend
Elizabeth of Vindobona
Marie’s Tale (August 2014)
Elizabeth and Empire (November 2014)
Circuits and Crises (Spring 2015)
Blackbird (Summer 2015)