A Cat at Bay Read online

  Instead Captain Kwame Ngobo caught her after supper on Wednesday. “I’m taking up a collection for the general’s retirement gift,” he informed her. “Care to chip in?”

  “Um, I don’t have any of your money.”

  He blinked at her, then almost hit himself in the forehead as he remembered. “Oh, right, sorry. Didn’t think.”

  “I’ll see if I can come up with something. When’s he making his escape attempt?”

  John Marsh, the communications officer, frowned. “General Whitehead is departing in two weeks.”

  Ngobo rolled his eyes at the English officer’s sniffy tone, and Rada thought, idiot Pom.

  “Thank you.” She didn’t snarl or show her fangs. She did extend the claw on her middle finger, not that he’d ever notice since that hand rested on her walking cane.

  When a rather worn ten-pound note dated 1964 appeared on Ngobo’s desk that Friday morning, he didn’t ask. He just put the xenologist’s name down and tucked the note into the envelope. He had enough to do with the change in personnel as it was. As usual, Vienna and Horseguards had conspired to turn everything upside-down. He looked over the computer file with the name of the new commanding officer and wondered just what sort of trouble having a female commanding officer might bring. Well, she’d sink or swim, and so long as she didn’t take the rest of the 58th Regiment with her, it’d be fine. After all, the Global Defense Force’s headquarters vetted senior officers better than most militaries did, he reminded himself.

  “So, do you have any further questions?” General Andrew Whitehead asked his successor a week later.

  Evelyn Jones thought for a moment, running through the material from past few days’ briefings and conversations. “Yes, sir, I do. I am puzzled about the xenology specialist assigned here. According to Major Khan, the same person has held the position since the late 1980s. Will she be retiring soon?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. You’ve not had a chance to meet her, have you?”

  “No sir. And there is very little aside from the most limited information in her general file. I understand that this branch has a reputation for having unusual scientific personnel, but she seem to be a cipher,” Jones said.

  “That she is. Just a moment,” and he got up and opened his office door. “Captain Ngobo, is Commander Na Gael in?”

  After a brief pause, the adjutant replied, “Yes, sir, she’s in the lab at the moment. Shall I have her come down?”

  “Yes. No, I take that back.” He turned back to the lean Welshwoman, “I assume you have not seen the laboratory facilities yet either?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We’ll kill two birds with one stone, then. You might as well meet her in her ‘natural habitat,’ as RSM Chan calls it. You can see what basic facilities you have to work with, as well.” Whitehead moved his empty tea mug off the desk and gestured for Jones to precede him.

  As the two general officers strolled down the wood-paneled corridor towards the laboratory, Jones looked around the building. The outside of the 58th Regiment’s headquarters had been constructed to resemble a faux-Modernist hospital or retreat center, with several hundred acres of adjacent grounds. During her introduction, she’d discovered that the main structure served only as the heart of a rabbit warren of additions, basements and sub-levels, passageways and rooms. Although the outside of the complex appeared rather worn, plain, and traditional, in truth she’d have some of the most impressive technology on the planet at her call, not counting another installation in an even more secure location inside London. Given the Global Defense Force’s mission and history, it made sense to keep British headquarters separate from London, Jones thought. They could reach anywhere in their zone quickly, but were less visible than if they had used a traditional military base. Hiding in plain site, her first commanding officer had called it. And the farther from Horseguards Barracks, the less likely they were to have administrators appearing at inopportune moments.

  The two general officers reached the end of the hall and stopped outside a pair of wooden doors. Whitehead pointed up to a series of lights mounted on the upper right side of the doorframe. “If the light is green, the doors are unlocked and there’s nothing going on that can’t be safely interrupted. Yellow means unlocked door but whatever’s in progress should not be disturbed unless there’s an urgent need. Red is locked doors and the work is dangerous, interrupted or not. The system was developed while General Arundel was here, and works very well. But even with a green light, it’s still safest to knock before you open the door.” He paused. “Commander Na Gael doesn’t always react well to surprises.”

  “Interesting.”

  Whitehead knocked twice before he opened the door. “Commander?”

  A female voice responded, “Come in, sir. I’m back in the corner.” He pushed the door open and waved Jones in ahead of him. As she stepped inside, she noted that what appeared to be wooden doors were instead made of steel, with a very heavy locking mechanism. Immediately to the left of the doors sat a solid-looking wooden desk with shelves full of books, binders, and bits of equipment above it. A black leather satchel hung from a peg between the door and desk, and two fancy walking sticks or canes rested in an umbrella stand under the satchel. Glancing around, Jones noted the windows and bright natural light pouring into the room, despite the weak late autumn sun. It seemed a rather odd design for a laboratory.

  “This was based on a small orangery and conservatory, at least when seen from above,” her guide explained. “The architects put the laboratory here because of the light, access from three sides for fire equipment, and its isolated position relative to the offices. There is a second set of blast doors hidden in the paneling back down the corridor, as an additional precaution.” General Whitehead threaded his way between worktables and equipment. Some of the glassware, sinks, and boxes looked familiar from Jones’s earlier commands and long-ago science classes at school, but other objects remained complete mysteries. It appeared to be a very well equipped laboratory although rather small for a headquarters facility.

  The person in the corner called, “I apologize for not stopping, sir, but I need to finish calibrating the new circuits in the spectrometer now, otherwise I’ll have to start over at the beginning and the device will be useless until then. Give me about thirty seconds, please?” The speaker perched on a metal lab stool while she peered into the eyepiece of a black box, her back to the officers, taking notes with her left hand as she adjusted something with the right. Jones had a moment to observe dark brown-black hair pulled up above the woman’s collar and noted her grey jacket and skirt. After a brief pause, the scientist leaned back, made a last note, and turned partway around to face her visitors.

  General Whitehead waved towards the box. “What broke?”

  The woman patted the top of the instrument and shook her head. “Nothing was broken, sir. I located some new super-processor chips that will make the data analysis more precise and this seemed like a good time to run the calibration series.”

  While the advisor replied to the general’s question, Evelyn Jones had been looking around at the metal spiral staircase leading up to a door on what would have been the first floor of the lab, over a series of chemical cabinets. Beyond the windows lining the closest wall, the officer could see a snow-dusted garden. A door led to it from the lab. This is the oddest arrangement I’ve ever seen, she thought, puzzled. She turned her attention back to her new xenologist and gasped as the stranger turned her head away.

  Whitehead nodded in sympathy. “I did the same thing when I first met Commander Na Gael. Commander, Brigadier General Evelyn Jones is taking over here effective 1700 tomorrow. Jones, Commander Rachel Na Gael, the xenology specialist.”

  The petite woman offered Evelyn her hand and smiled. “General Whitehead likes to do that to people, ma’am. Normally I wear an eye patch or colored lens and makeup to cover the other scars if I’m going to be around people who aren’t used to my little problem.” Jones shook the
offered hand and winced inside as she though about what must have happened to leave a white orb for a right eye and a scar running from hairline to cheek. Then she realized that the xenologist’s hand was also deformed, the nails growing down over the fingertips. Jones dropped the hand and took an involuntary step backwards.

  Rachel turned to the older general. “You didn’t tell her anything, did you? That’s mean, sir.”

  He coughed and had the grace to look a bit uncomfortable. “Sorry Jones. I’ve gotten so used to Cdr. Na Gael that I forget that most people have never seen her true form. Rachel, would you mind looking a bit more human?” The brunette snorted, and as the speechless officer watched, the cat-like ears and long nails disappeared, and the woman’s good eye darkened from nearly metallic silver to a pale grey.

  Na Gael’s voice remained unchanged as she said, “What Major General Whitehead apparently neglected to mention is that I’m not human, ma’am, and what you saw is my true shape. You might say I’m a were-cat,” she explained with a shrug and an accusing look toward the man.

  “She’s also not from Earth,” Whitehead explained with a smug glance towards the xenologist.

  Jones recovered from her shocks and shook her head. “This is unbelievable! And she has military rank in the unit? But what about security?” Who in their right mind authorized such a security risk?

  “I’ve been here since 1986. My rank predates my joining the organization and I have been vetted and cleared for whatever is necessary, ma’am.” She pulled a card out of her pocket and handed it to her new superior, who accepted it gingerly.

  The xenologist’s clearance level and security pass looked unlike anything Jones had seen thus far. She handed it back, mastering the urge to wipe her hand on her trouser leg afterwards. Whitehead laid a hand on his advisor’s shoulder, a gesture that seemed to surprise the small woman.

  “Commander Na Gael is trained as a paramedic and in a pinch can interpret several languages. She also planned and maintains part of the garden. She has a wicked sense of humor and can be an irreverent nuisance. But Rachel’s gotten us out of several nasty situations and I trust her completely.” He lifted his hand and waved at the laboratory. “Commander, why don’t you give Brigadier Jones a tour?” Na Gael nodded her compliance.

  “We can start back here, ma’am. And please stop me and ask any questions you might have. That’s most of my job anyway, answering questions,” Na Gael explained. “The bulk of the testing and analytical equipment is here,” she pointed to the worktables along the window wall. Jones followed, noting as she did that the alien favored her right leg a little and wondering if the injury was related to whatever cost the woman her eye. “In case you’re concerned about accidents, the laboratory is self-contained. The doors are capable of containing a small explosion. That,” Na Gael pointed to a glass-shrouded table roughly a meter and a half long, “is an isolated biohazard testing area. It’s not large enough to contain an entire human-sized creature because those get sent to Vienna, or they will be if we should ever actually have one that anyone wants to autopsy. The electrical power for the lab comes from a separate circuit and generator than that for the main building—in a worst-case situation, a fire or emergency won’t affect the rest of the building’s electricity.”

  “What is up there?” Jones pointed to the spiral stairs.

  “My quarters, ma’am.”

  “You sleep in the lab?”

  Na Gael shook her head a little while making a strange swirling gesture with her right hand. “They are separate. The location keeps me available but out from underfoot, since I’m neither fish nor fowl as far as rank and position in the command structure. I either eat up there or in one of the messes.”

  General Whitehead had finished his business and was seated at the xenologist’s desk, waiting for them as they finished the tour. “Well?” he asked his replacement.

  Jones was spared answering for a moment when the intercom buzzed. “Excuse me,” and Na Gael reached around her. “Laboratory. Go ahead.”

  The box squawked, “Commander, Marsh. Do you need anything for the lecture next week? I’m ordering images from Vienna tomorrow morning.”

  The xenologist thought before responding, “Negative, Captain, nothing required. Thank you.”

  “Very good. Marsh out.”

  Whitehead glanced at his watch and stood up. “Rachel, thank you for the tour.”

  Rachel backed up and nodded. “You’re welcome sir, ma’am.” Jones thought she head muttering as they left the lab, but Whitehead seemed unperturbed.

  “Now you’ve met all of the current staff, Evelyn. Your thoughts?” the outgoing commander asked as they walked back to what had been his office. She waited until they were inside with the door shut before replying.

  “I’m pleased with everything I’ve seen, sir, although I’m still puzzled about the xenology specialist. I’m just not sure what to make of her yet. Morale is good and you’re leaving me with a first-rate set of staff, for which I am very grateful. Commander Na Gael though . . . Having an alien in that position here? Are there no humans qualified for the slot?”

  “None that have been interested in taking the position. There are two who fill in when she’s away on leave, but no one willing to come on staff full time since Andriesen was lured away by the Italians.”

  He leaned against the heavy desk and continued, “You have probably noticed that the British regiment of the Global Defense Force deals with a very wide variety of threats. Commander Na Gael’s combination of previous military service, experience, and longevity more than make up for her attitude and origin as far as the organization is concerned. Fair warning, though: she can be an absolute pain in the ass. She’s smug, irreverent, and eccentric. She’s also cool in an emergency and uncomplaining in the field.”

  “She goes into the field?” Jones blinked again. “That’s very unusual.”

  “It is. She’s one of three field xenologists in the entire GDF, which is why she’s classified as a civilian combatant contractor. The men trust her, and for all her faults she’s never let me down.” Whitehead seemed to have finished, but added something. “Always remember though that she’s not human, no matter how much she may seem to be at times.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem, sir.” Because I have no intention of trusting an alien in that position, no matter how well recommended it may be.

  (March 2005)

  Another spring, another flush of new troopers to break in, Rachel sighed as she skirted past a pair of lost souls on her way to breakfast. At least Jones and I are on speaking terms again. For the moment, that is. I am getting so tired of her garbage that I could . . . Rachel shouldered open the door to the officers’ mess, got a tray, and discovered that the good idea fairy had struck overnight. “Most meats are on the table already,” the orderly explained. “More efficient, ma’am.”

  Efficient my ass. Rachel looked around to see whom she wanted to pester. Ah hah, target in sight. She walked between the tables to where the executive officer sat, hiding behind a plate of something long and brown.

  “Good morning, Maj. . . um, are those the kippers?”

  Rahoul Khan nodded, mouth full, poking at the items in question with his fork. As Rachel set her tray down, he swallowed, then declared, “I have no idea how anyone who eats these on a regular basis could have conquered the subcontinent. My family’s been here since 1933 and we still have more sense than that.”

  Rachel speared one of the smoked herrings from the plate in the middle of the table and added it to her eggs as Khan shuddered. “It was probably to get away from them that the British spread so far, so fast. As I remember, Arlbroth smokies were invented by Scots disgruntled by the Act of Union.” She speared another fish and held it up for inspection. “I just wish they didn’t show up every morning during Lent. I miss my rashers of bacon.”

  She mixed the bits of fish into her two eggs and began eating while Rahoul shook his head. “I once heard that General Ea
stman liked them. I suppose everyone has their flaws.”

  “Since he also admits to a secret fondness for both haggis and black pudding, I’m inclined to agree with you.” Although, ignoring certain dietary limitations and religious requirements is about the only way he is unobservant.

  “I thought you liked black pudding.” Rahoul looked confused.

  She grinned, “I do. Sign of a sick mind, so I’m told.” Rahoul and Rachel lapsed into silence, busy filling up on grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, and the other components of a traditional heavy English breakfast.

  “Is this seat taken,” a slightly hesitant woman asked.

  Rahoul shook his head. “No, Captain Monroe, it’s not. Please join us.”

  “Thank you, sir. Oh good! Kippers!” she exclaimed while helping herself to a large portion. The other two diners exchanged looks over their tea mugs but refrained from speaking.

  As Rachel applied herself to the urgent matter of breaking her fast, she looked around the officers’ mess. Despite the early hour, there were few empty seats. A quiet murmur of conversation and requests for more tea and toast arose from the four tables currently in use. Glancing at the new arrival, Rachel wondered who the captain was. The formal briefing and introductions would not be until that afternoon.

  “More toast, Ma’am?” One of the mess orderlies had brought a fresh plate and was offering it around.

  Rachel smiled at the corporal. “No, thank you. Anyone else?”

  Monroe raised a finger, “Here please. Thanks.” She took two slices from the proffered plate and shot a curious glance at the brunette sitting beside her, obviously intrigued by a civilian dining in the officers’ mess.

  Kahn took pity on her after a few more swallows of tea. “Captain Monroe, you’ll get a formal introduction later today, but this is Commander Rachel Na Gael, our Xenology Specialist. Commander, Captain Sandra Monroe is joining us on rotation from the North American Branch. She’s Canadian, as I recall.”