A Cat at Bay Page 3

  The fair-haired captain nodded, eyes widening a bit as Rachel turned to face her full on. “You can relax, Captain Monroe. I don’t bite regimental personnel.”

  “Often,” stated a dry voice behind Rachel’s shoulder. The two officers stood as General Jones joined the conversation. “As you were Khan, Monroe. Na Gael, are you finished? I need a word with you.”

  Rachel crammed a final bite of eggs, grilled tomatoes, and kipper into her mouth, gulping the last of her tea as she stood up to carry her tray to the washing-up window. “I am now, Ma’am. Lead on.” As they left the room, conversation faded, then resumed. Rachel smiled to herself, wondering what sort of speculation was starting behind them.

  “The afternoon briefing is at 1330, ma’am?” she asked as they walked down a wood-paneled corridor towards the general’s office. A sergeant carrying the morning’s updates from Vienna passed them and Jones yanked her and Rachel’s files off the top of the stack without breaking stride.

  “Correct. I want you up front with the rest of the permanent staff this time—and no cosmetics or patch. Might as well break them in early,” the sandy-haired general officer said with a hint of a smile. Rachel nodded, then glanced into her file folder, dropping a pace behind the general as she did so. She skimmed through the report as they walked, absent-mindedly sidestepping a misplaced rubbish bin at one point before almost walking into Jones’s back when the Welshwoman stopped at her office door.

  The two women went into the waiting area, where Captain Kwame Ngobo rose from behind his desk as they entered. “Good morning Captain. Be seated. I already have my Vienna paper, so don’t jump on the sergeant for not delivering it on time.”

  Ngobo nodded “Yes Ma’am. Good morning ma’am, Commander.”

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  Once inside her office, Jones dropped her file folder onto the closest pile, filled a mug from the teapot already waiting for her and settled in behind her cluttered desk, waving her xenology specialist into one of the two chairs for visitors. As Jones skimmed through the morning report, Rachel made mental notes from her copy. Strange lights in Siberia, probably not important. Anyone who lands in the weather they’ve been having deserves what they get for being so stupid. A spaceship sighted over aboriginal lands in Australia—reported by a local, investigation in progress. Artifacts of unknown origin from eastern France, found under volcanic material? That might be interesting, depending on what it is, or was. Wonder if its similar to what they found in Germany? In other words, nothing that needed immediate research or attention. Curious why Jones had called her in for a chat, Rachel bided her time by calculating how much farther one of the more precarious stacks of paper could lean before it toppled over, and what force would be required to make it shift.

  “It’s my security system.” Rachel looked up as Jones pointed at the object of her semi-subordinate’s attention.

  “Security system, Ma’am?”

  Jones nodded, patting the top of the mound closest to her elbow. “By the time someone or something searching for a classified document finds what they are looking for, security will have been notified, finished their tea break, and arrested the pilferer,” she explained with a straight face.

  “Ma’am, I think you don’t have to worry about that. Any being capable of reasoning will simply take one look at this and give in without trying.”

  “My point entirely. You’ll need to be careful around one of the new NCOs for the next little while.” Jones handed Rachel a personnel profile.

  Rachel read aloud, “Weber, Wolfgang Karl. First sergeant, German Army, seconded to the GDF beginning in 2005. Outstanding record while with GDF–South Asia, et cetera, et cetera. Ah! Note: his father was killed in a ‘training accident’ while stationed at Arkangel base.” She looked up. “Quite a mess at Arkangel, as I understand, but what does that have to do with my needing to be careful around him?”

  Jones leaned forward and tapped the bottom of the page. “Weber has read excerpts from the Arkangel files as part of his xenobotany training. Apparently he has very strong feelings about aliens in general, and has expressed some reservations about employing them in the GDF.”

  Rachel sat back in her seat and somehow managed not to roll her eye. “Expect a problem or just lay low until he relaxes and trust RSM Chan to keep things under control?”

  Jones also leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers as she thought about it. “Don’t lay too low, but keep your guard up. He may not know about you yet.” Rachel snorted, but Jones shook her head, brown eyes serious. “You’d be surprised, Rachel, but your background is less well-known than I’d have thought. Apparently someone submitted highly edited information to Vienna back in the 1980s.”

  I wonder what Joschka and General Johnny were playing at? Rachel shrugged. “And other someones have opted to keep it that way, I take it. Very well, Ma’am. I’ll be relaxed but watchful. Anything else?”

  An evil smile appeared on the woman’s lean face as she tossed an envelope at her guest. “Letter from Inland Revenue, for you. That’s all.” Jones chuckled as Rachel caught it and groaned.

  “Oh Gawd, I though Vienna and the MoD had sorted this out years ago!”

  “Apparently not. Be in the briefing theater at 1315. Have a nice rest of the morning.” Rachel did not deign to respond as she saw herself out to the sound of the officer’s chuckles. “And leave the door open!” The Ivorian Captain did his best to be invisible as she stomped past his desk, brushing by Major Khan on her way into the hall and calling the Minister of the Exchequer very rude things under her breath in several languages and dialects not known on Earth.

  Rachel skimmed the missive as she walked to the lab, grumbling all the way. The letter stated that despite having earned income from an overseas agency for several years, she had failed to either register or pay taxes on said income. Did she care to explain to Her Majesty Queen Sonia’s government? Now thoroughly annoyed, Rachel combed through her files, pulling out every piece of correspondence between herself, the Ministry of Defense, Vienna, and Inland Revenue, copied them, and assembled a packet ten centimeters thick.

  After taking a very deep breath and reminding herself that she was a guest of the Regiment, more or less, she typed up a cover letter explaining that despite appearances she did not have any actual, current income, nor had she ever earned any. Beneath her letter, she laid the final settlement she, the MoD, and the GDF had reached regarding her financial status. No, she did not earn a salary, or receive a stipend beyond that required for food and lodging while in the field. Yes, she had quarters and dining privileges in the officers’ and enlisted messes. All signed, stamped, and even confirmed by one of I.R.’s own QCs. Rachel dug up the appropriate postage, sealed the large, heavy envelope, and tossed it into the “Outside post” basket just beside the laboratory door. Then she filed everything back where it belonged. Maybe this time the message would get through. She also sent an e-mail off to Vienna and Horseguards Barracks to give them a heads’ up, and a personal “here we go again” message to Major General Joschka Graf von Hohen-Drachenberg.

  Rachel spent the rest of the morning finishing reports and paperwork related to the mission to neutralize and dispose of what had turned out to be the remains of a psychoactive meteorite that the Romans had incorporated into the Eagle of the IX Legion. How was she going to explain that, after much discussion with General Jones and a metallurgist, she’d used the Dark Hart to take it to an uninhabited planetoid and leave it? Fortunately, General Jones had already posted her final report, and Rachel shamelessly cribbed from Jones’s account. Consistency is more important than truth, she decided. She signed off on the laboratory’s quarterly budget, filed the latest chemical catalogue, and wondered once again what it would be like to have an assistant to do the scut work. Then she remembered the mess her last helper had made. Never mind.

  It was 1300 before Rachel emerged from her digging and typing. She climbed up the spiral stairs to her quarters above the lab
to get tidied up. By the time she collected a cane and limped briskly to the main auditorium, it would be 1315 on the dot.

  Rachel preferred to lurk in the back of the hall for most briefings, so that she could play peanut gallery and make rapid exits (and late arrivals). However, given Evelyn Jones’ comments that morning, for once Rachel took her place among the staff officers. As she walked down to the front row, Major Khan and Capt. Ngobo were finishing up double-checking the audio-visual equipment.

  The brunette smiled at Capt. Arthur McGregor, the medical officer and “ginger” among the leadership. “All quiet?” she asked.

  The young man, relatively new to the unit, nodded in reply. “Nothing but fallen arches and a lingering case of poison ivy. Poor soul is deathly allergic to the stuff it seems.” Rachel winced in sympathy.

  Further conversation stopped as General Jones strode up to the officers. “Commander, sit next to Capt. Ngobo, here at the end by the spare door. I plan on introducing you last, just before taking any questions. Don’t talk unless someone asks you a direct question, or I say to. RSM Chan’s concerned about Sgt. Weber, and I don’t want anything to start unless we are all ready for it. Understood?” Concerned glances passed between the assembled officers.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Rachel decided for safety’s sake to lower her shields and monitor the emotions of the people now filing into the briefing theater. She picked up a general impression of tiredness, curiosity, and mild nervousness about a new location and the Regiment itself. No hostility, at least not yet. She noticed Regimental Sergeant Major Richard Chan looking at her and sent a query at him.

  «No problems at the moment,» his mahogany-bass mind voice replied.

  «Thank you,» she acknowledged, then returned to passive alertness.

  At the general’s nod, the permanent officers plus one stood. “Ten-SHUN!” RSM Chan called, and the room came to attention. Rachel automatically braced, before her mind reminded her body that she was no longer on active duty.

  Jones acknowledged the room, and then ordered, “Be seated.” As the commanding officer started her standard welcome talk, Rachel let her mind tune out for the moment, roaming back through all the other introductions that she had sat through. First came the speech, then a ten-minute video presentation about the history of the 58th Regiment. It was one of the more active divisions within the Global Defense Force, and there would be some clips of former personnel, early battles, of various monsters and aliens—the usual stuff.

  The lights lowered and Rachel let her vision shift into dim-light mode, preferring to watch the audience rather than the screen. As the story reached the halfway point, the narration mentioned the employment of aliens with the GDF. As it did, she caught a flash of anger and resentment from the left side of the room. Now completely present and on guard, she narrowed her sensing focus to find the source of the emotion. It seemed to be coming from a slender man in his late twenties, with medium brown hair and light brown eyes. She couldn’t read his nametag, but Rachel could see that he was a sergeant, with several award ribbons on his tunic. That must be Weber. Interesting. The emotional spike subsided as other images flashed on the screen, and she relaxed a fraction.

  The lights came back up, and General Jones returned to the podium. Rachel glazed over again as Jones spoke for a few more moments about the Regiment’s activities since the video had been finished, mentioned some of the operational differences between the 58th Regiment and the other branches, and then began the introductions. Distinguished record, upholding the finest tradition, proud tradition, reputation, I wonder if any unit within the GDF uses a different speech template? Perhaps it is an English-speaker tic. She cocked an ear as Jones worked down the line, introducing first Major Rahoul Khan, the executive officer, then the medical officer, computer/technology/communications Captain John Marsh, the new personnel officer Captain Sandra Monroe, and the adjutant, Capt. Ngobo.

  “And our xenology specialist, Commander Rachel Na Gael.” Rachel stood up and turned to face the crowd full on, mildly amused at the three or four people who cringed. If this bothers you, you’d best never find out what Major Chandrasakar looks like. Although the surgeons have done a magnificent job of reconstruction, I must say. “Commander Na Gael has been with the GDF and the Regiment since 1986. In addition to being xenology specialist, she is a paramedic and interpreter.” At the general’s discreet hand wave Rachel sat down again, relieved that she had not felt any further surges of negative emotion, just shock, a bit of pity, and curiosity.

  “Any questions?” After a few of the usual, a woman with a strong French accent asked, “Is it true that there is a non-human currently assigned here?”

  General Jones nodded, “Yes. Any further questions?” There were none, and she dismissed the group to return to their duties. She stepped down from the speaker’s platform and walked up to Rachel. “Well?”

  Rachel nodded towards the back of the brown-haired sergeant, “Someone didn’t care for employing aliens, but I couldn’t pick up anything beyond that.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” Jones said. “And you will be at dinner tonight.”

  One black-brown eyebrow rose slightly. “I will?”

  “Yes, you will, and you will stay through the third round of toasts this time.” Just as Rachel started to say something antisocial, the watch courier shouldered his way through the departing soldiers and trotted up to the gathered officers. “Ma’am, urgent message from the Observer Corps.”

  The knot of officers tightened as Jones read the printout. “Signals and sounds recorded near the entrance to several closed mines in coastal Cornwall. At least one of the security guards is missing and local police are suspicious.” She looked around, saying, “Be ready to load up in fifteen minutes. Khan, start people moving. Ngobo, come with me.” The officers scattered to collect people and equipment.

  Back in the lab, Rachel changed into a heavy wool split skirt and put on an eye patch, then pulled the power packs for her blaster off their charger. She slid them into their pouches, double-checked that the weapon was set on “stun,” and tucked the gun belt into her larger carry sack. She turned off the lights in the lab, grabbed the black satchel with her field scanners and medical gear off its hanger, and bolted for the door. No formal dinner tonight!

  (March 2005)

  “What do you know about dead birds?” Rahoul Khan asked Rachel as they waited for Father Mikael Farudi to meet them to discuss Holy Week services at the base’s chapel.

  “Dead birds as in we are having barnacle goose for supper tonight, or dead birds as in something odd?” Roast goose would be very good for Easter dinner, she thought, salivating slightly as she remembered the Michaelmas feast the mess staff had prepared the year before. “Or is someone planning a sick joke with doves for Easter?” It’s been too quiet. We’ve not been called out since that false alarm earlier this month, and the last mission before that was in November.

  The South Asian officer grimaced at the thought. “Odd. One of my cousins was visiting the sites near Bristol and saw something strange. And I mean stranger than what usually happens in Somerset.”

  “Hmmm. Fill me in later, will you? Father Mikael’s about to round the corner,” she suggested, seconds before the Lebanese priest walked into sight.

  “Good morning Major, Commander,” the cheerful refugee smiled as he unlocked his office door and waved the pair to follow him in.

  “And with thy spirit,” they replied in chorus, laughing at the Anglican chaplain’s reaction.

  “I should have expected that from a recovering heathen, Commander. But really now, Major,” Father Mikael admonished, still smiling as he shook his head.

  After the discussion of who might be called on to do what for the various Holy Week observances, provided that the unit didn’t get called into the field, Rachel followed Kahn to his tiny, spotless office. He waved her into a chair and handed her part of a letter. She read it once, then backed up and reread the third pa
ragraph. She closed her eye for a moment, then opened it to meet his curious gaze.

  “I don’t like this,” and she twisted in the chair, glancing back and confirming that the door was closed. “No normal bird drops dead in mid air without help, not on this planet. On Menaplii, yes. Here, no. Especially not in groups. And your cousin didn’t try to get closer?”

  He shook his head. “No, she likes walking but hates getting off the footpath or scrambling over rocks. That, and later on she wrote that it ‘gave her the creeps’. Her mother has a touch of empathic talent, and Pabi may have a bit herself.”

  “That, or someone set up a mild repulsion field.” Rachel stood. “Thanks for passing this on. I’ll see what else I can find. After all,” she said tartly, “it may be that the Problem Children have a project going and didn’t see fit to notify anyone else.”

  As far as she could recall, there had been nothing in the morning reports recently from Somerset, but Rachel thumbed through the binder just to be sure. No, nothing official. Well, how about unofficial, then. Jones keeps trying to find out where I get some of my information, not that it’s any of her business. A Trader/Wanderer without private connections is no trader at all! She opened her laptop and the private Internet accounts that she ran through the Dark Hart’s firewalls. It took some searching, but after bouncing off a few dead ends she found what she thought she was looking for, on a bird-watchers’ page and on one of the better esoterica sites. Indeed, here was another report of dead birds along the same walking path the major’s cousin had taken. And more than birds: this person reported dead mice and hedgehogs.

  Small planet. Rachel knew two of the people posting on the “old believers” site. If these two complained about being warned off of something, then there was definitely more to this than the typical whining of the psychic wannnabes, and the location was not one of the known trouble spots.