I met her completely by chance. I’d taken a day trip to Vancouver in the vain hope of catching an interview with one of the scientists at the annual Planetary Preservation Society meet. It was mid-afternoon and to escape the January rain I was sipping an excellent mocha in a quaint coffee shop near the waterfront and reading Centaurii poetry in the hour I had before my shuttle back, tail held low from my abysmal failure to get near any of the top attractions. That’s when she came in. My back was to the door at the time, and another patron entering wasn’t exactly unusual in this weather. The other patrons stared a little longer than normal, however, but I was intent on finishing the stanza before I stole a glance myself.
In a loud voice she said, "Who let the xeefs in here?"
Naturally, I nearly spat out my mouthful. I craned my neck around to see the person who slurred my species and found… another Sah’aaran, a Sah’taamite with very light brown fur, smiling widely at my astonishment. Xeefs. Plural.
She strode easily across the lobby, running her hands through her almost black mane, trying to get some of the water out, and bowed to me.
"Terribly sorry," she said in Sah’aaran, "I just couldn’t resist."
The water matting her pelt accentuated her tremendous musculature, from her years of military experience no doubt and for a moment this little reporter about two thirds her weight felt very small.
"No worries," I replied, suspiciously.
For a moment she looked a little frail as she asked me, "Do you mind if I barge into your company? I’m a visitor here and in dire need of something familiar."
So I agreed. We made some small talk at first while she ordered and nursed a mild herbal tea. Soon she asked my name. When she told me hers I actually did spray some coffee back into the cup.
"The Ehm’taala? Of Nova-Sah’salaan fame? Bond-mate to that…"
"Yes, that…" she finished my sentence for me when I could find no word for the… sort of… human the Chrysoans tore apart and put back together again with both Sah'aaran and his native DNA in the quest for an ultimate battle drone.
Overjoyed, I cleared my palm reader and, giddily said, "I must have an interview!"
Her face blackened visibly and she muttered, "Great Goddess, another reporter…"
Nervously, I spun my cap around to display my press badge, and grinned sheepishly.
She looked at it, smiled, and said, "I haven’t seen one of those outside a holovid." She leaned back in her chair and sighed. After a sip of her tea she said, "It figures I’d get cornered sooner or later. Might as well be by someone I think I like…" She eyed my very human mode of dress and pointedly lifted her legs onto the coffee table, and not to show off her very nice bonding band. Dark brown capri pants and a sweater, whether or not she wore a collar, I don’t know. The sweater had quite a high turtleneck. For a moment we eyed each other in one of those cosmic instants of recognition, ten years my senior, she is, but that doesn’t matter when you share the same first language, and that not being the language of your homeworld.
She broke the spell by saying very slowly and clearly, "First, for the record, I am a CF trained marine recently transferred to the Survey. If you ask a question I don’t like or cannot answer you’ll know. If you badger me, our time will be at a close. Am I being perfectly clear?"
This woman has power when she needs it. She has thoroughly mastered the art of the ‘thousand yard stare.’ My poor boyfriend would have wilted I’m sure. But alas, the duties of the press…
So I replied, "And if I sell the story to the Chrysoan Times you’ll have to hunt me down and kill me, right?"
She lifted her cup of tea, blew on it, and said, "I’m glad we understand each other." The she took a lap, giving me another hunter’s stare over the brim, followed by a wink.
Still, unconsciously, I squirmed a bit in my seat before I settled into a barrage of questions.
"First," I asked, "Where did you find… um, Sah’raknatha?"
"Classified." I hadn’t even finished the sentence.
"Oooookay. I’m particularly curious about his biology."
"Classified." I grimaced, to her obvious amusement, but carried on.
"He was on a mixed crew, Sahaaran and Terran, colony ship that was lost, what, a century and a half ago, according to public record while the alliance still knew almost nothing about the Chrysoans."
"Correct." Wow, live one so far.
"Was the colony ship found?"
"Classified."
I almost blew up and she, sensing this, asked if she might ramble a bit. Well thank you!
"What are you stabbing at, exactly? What do you want to know about? Sah’raknatha is terribly under CF wraps. The Navy is trying to have him virtually mind wiped, the Survey wants to dissect him as do the psych boys, in their own special way, some political and religious figures on Sah’aar have come dangerously close to recommending he be exterminated. Meanwhile the citizens of New Sah’aar are footing a large legal bill to keep him a free… man and would be having no success if it weren’t for the best lawyers on Sah’aar charging miraculously cheap rates. Tell you what. You tell me what you already know, and I’ll see if I can clear some things up, add to them or… confuse them for the purposes of military secrecy." She winked at that last part.
Finally, the rules of the game established.
I punched up some data and ran a search through the news feed. "Aha," I exclaimed, "Someone’s been doing their homework. Those lawyers you mentioned have been linked to a major publishing house and a public figure, one Admiral Ehm’rael, retired."
"It’s Admiral Ehm’rael’s mate that got the ball rolling, I think. He’s pretty notorious. The ex-Chrysoan slave who’s pioneered some huge advances in biotech. Look him up sometime. I’ve never met him, but I’m certain he’s behind it. Where the publishing house fits in is beyond me." She fluffed up her drying fur a bit and settled.
"You’re pretty bushy, even for a Sah’taam," I noted.
She smiled, "I’m half Sah’taam, and Sah’salaan."
"Whoa, it's obvious whose genes you picked up. Good winter coat for around here."
"This is my summer coat." She wound her tail around her waist, nearly half again as long as mine and it clicked.
"You’re from the faaaaar north, aren’t you?" I asked.
"Bong! You win a prize!"
"And you’re several generations removed from Sah’aar…"
"Perfect score so far."
"Your ancestors were Ehm’delra-ah, right? And your family were among the pioneers in the Tanzanian Little Sah’aar colony."
"Daddy’s are. But I could care less. Silly century old politics, especially over language in schools can die a quick death. The only old crank left is my grandmother, she still won’t speak Sah’aaran standard." She rolled her eyes. "But at least she treats my mother well. Finally."
"Yes, I’d wondered where you got your accent from."
"My rhythm? Africa. My English? Neo-Monarchy. My Sahaaran? I started learning standard when I was six. My fuzzy-blackfur brother started on it earlier, he’s a great artist you know."
"Brother. Artist. Next."
"Well," she said, "There’s a first, a reporter not going off about my brother."
"This is about you," I said. Something about that must have pleased her, she positively glowed.
"Well," she said, "I know a fellow eccentric when I see one. How perfect is your brother?"
"Again, this is about you and the mate I can’t seem to get any info on."
She looked disappointed, and understanding at the same time. Although I couldn’t place whether it was the military "stop asking questions" reflex or a more empathic response. I like to think it the latter. But, just the facts.
"On the Survey, how do you like it there?"
"Have you heard the one about the Survey officers changing the glowrod?"
I shook my head, "I’ll pounce. No."
"They assembled a meeting, discussed the situation, drew up a plan and as they were about to take action the Marine was putting the glowrod casing back in place, the rod changed."
"I’ll put you down as a ‘don’t like’."
She shook her head, another thing I found amusing, all her human body language. But then again, I’m just as bad. "It’s not that bad, just a different way of life. The organizational culture is very different but the mission goes forth and the job gets done. Just not in the manner I’d go about doing it nor how I’d anticipate it be. Rather than having repetitive training drills they consult manuals. One time in the central security post onboard Zelazny, I asked the ensign who’d been with the ship for a year about some specs on the equipment. He pointed to a palm reader on the holo table and told me he didn’t know off hand but all the details should be in the tech manual. First, it yanked my tail that he didn’t know, and even more irritating was the fact a palm reader was laying unsecured. I mean, what about failing grav-plates? Explosive decompression? It could become a missile! Slightly different outlook, I’m afraid, and shipboard regulations. But then again, I’m just getting too old to be running around with the kids and forty kilo backpacks filled with ammunition and dried rations on a high gee world."
Not being overly athletic myself, I shuddered at the thought.
"Most of the people are nice," she continued, "but there are a few intellectual snobs that think they’re too damned good for this dumb Marine who’s here to get her medical degree."
"And thank you for answering my next question. Are you studying at Simon Fraser or UBC?"
"Neither, I’m starting in East African Tech in a month. I’ll be teaching phys-ed as well with the CF Cadet corps of which I was a member during my teens. Right now I’m on leave."
"Now you’re opening up. Alright, if you’re on leave, where’s he at?"
She grew a wide impish grin and I was ready to throw my hands up in frustration when she said, "Bella Coola. He’s on a… umm… spiritual journey. I think he’s saying goodbye to some things he left behind."
"I’ll say, a century and a half lost in the blink of an eye."
She gazed wistfully out the front window of the shop, north towards the mountains across the inlet, towards her mate. And some small teardrops manifested in the corners of her eyes. I suppose it was my duty to spare her the shame.
"I’ll bet you could smash this stool," I gestured to a wooden stool beside us, "into a thousand pieces with one karate chop, right?"
She jumped slightly, looked at the stool, touched it and replied, "I doubt it, not without a broken wrist, it’s plasteel. Trust me, I know a lot about plasteel."
I looked closer at the stool and she was right. No seam where the legs met the seat. I opened my mouth to ask when she guessed my question.
"I lost all my teeth and my lower jaw in Nova-Sah’salaan. I might be able to leave tooth marks in it." She gestured to the stool and grinned widely so I could see her array of far too perfect teeth.
"Ooooookay, that must have hurt. Are you on medical leave?"
"No, that’s done, so is the psych leave. All that’s left is the between transfers leave and the are you consorting with foreign spies leave."
I grimaced, "You must feel awfully betrayed."
She perked up, "Not at all! I have the utmost confidence in the whole process. I got me divine protection." She winked.
Divine protection, I wish.
"Also," she added, "Daddy’s got so many favours owned by so many Admirals, it’s a wonder he’s not an Admiral himself. Next week he’ll be a Commodore, though."
"What about your career aspirations?"
She leaned back and seemed to drift away for a moment, so I let her. Shortly she returned and said, "I don’t know. A medical degree virtually guarantees me a promotion. But do I want it? Am I just comfortable doing what I’m told and doing it well? Do I just want to retire and go hunt seals in Greenland? I don’t know. One thing for sure, I’ll never work in the Navy again, not with my mate. What about you, anyone special?" She wiggled her whiskers suggestively.
I squirmed, "Not like you…"
"Ah," she replied, "I’ll retreat then." She leaned back again and said, "I guess your next question is, ‘what are you doing here’?"
"Fair enough, what are you doing here while he’s up the coast?"
She stuck her tongue out. "Although the expatriate Ehm’delra-ah community settled in Tanzania, most of us have estates in mountainous and or northern regions the world over. My family has one in Whistler and I have a year and a half of paycheques to blow that I had no other opportunity to spend on a battleship. What makes you think I want to be communing with trees? Besides, it seemed appropriate I make myself scarce." She got a mad glint in her eye, "You ain’t seen shopping until you’ve seen me…"
"Amen, sister," I replied.
Just then the door banged open causing more than just the more sensitive eared to wince, and in swaggered three large and very intoxicated men. They glared about arrogantly until they noticed us, by far the most distinct sight.
"Hey," slurred the largest, and by far the smelliest, "Stinks like wet dawg in here."
"Please tell me you hired these fools," I whispered to Ehm’taala.
"In a manner of speaking, I did," she relied, "I slapped that one when he got fresh with me in a dance club down the street. It looks like the bouncers didn’t do a good enough job."
"Oh no."
"Well, if you want something done…"
She stood up and faced the obnoxious inebriates while I keyed my palm to dial the police at a moments notice.
The loudmouth, who looked to be more fat than muscle, snorted in contempt. "Yew shuh ain’t got no manners missie, slappin a fine upstandin gen’lmen whose jus askin tuh danse."
"Double negative," she replied, "how gauche."
The drunk crossed his eyes as though basic thought processes seemed beyond his ability.
A weasely companion of his took over, "An’ she brought a friend this time. Maybe her mood’s improved, hey cutiepie?"
"Yeah," snorted the third, "Weeez likes cats."
The barrista, a frail looking elderly man, stepped out from behind the counter and strode fearlessly up to the "leader."
"Sirs," he said in his very butlerly tone, "Police have been dispatched. I suggest you leave." Impressive, he didn’t even flinch as the drunk grasped hold of his apron and snarled into his face.
Abruptly my ears felt as though they would implode, such was the frightful crack as the barstool beside me gained a terrifying dent in the seat. Then there was a blood curdling roar as Ehm’taala bared all her perfect teeth. After my own shock wore off I craned my neck around to the three stooges. Each was his own shade of white.
Saucily, I said to them, "You called that a snarl?" I pointed to my companion, "Now that’s a snarl. Oh, and note the plasteel stool."
And the three idiots stumbled out onto the street and Ehm’taala calmly sat back down.
The barrista approached us, bowed, and said, "Many thanks, my lady. Excuse me while I remove the rubbish." He picked up the now unusable stool.
Meekly, a stark contrast to her display seconds earlier, she asked him, "Do I owe you anything?"
The barrista took mock offense. "The heroine of New Sah’aar owe anything to anyone? Hardly, it is the citizenry of the Alliance who are indebted to you. Please enjoy your stay at my humble establishment."
Just then I checked my chrono. "Oh no."
"Late?" she asked.
"My boyfriend’s going to kill me."
She smiled, "How far do you have to go?"
I pulled my pass out of my pants pocket. "Skimmer. Boards just down the street."
"Let me walk you," she told me, "It’s Friday and the kooks are on the loose tonight."
We waited a few minutes until we saw a police skimmer drift by and departed, after Ehm’taala left an astounding tip in the jar. The short walk down the street was pleasant, despite the rain. I noted that she didn’t seem to have a broken wrist. She countered by pointing out that the stool wasn’t in a thousand pieces. At the terminal a shuttle was boarding, as they do every ten minutes during rush hour, and she gave me her personal text comm code urging me to write now and again.
And now, as I sit back on the skimmer, watching the lights of the various towns whiz by underneath I can’t help but wonder at how similar we are, and how different. If only I’d had a brother to claw in a fit of rage…
Well if I can bang this into some sort of shape I might be able to sell this to any amount of newspapers. After all, it’s the only interview ever given by the heroine of Nova Sah’Salaan. That should pad my college war chest…
I know I’ll write her now and again, EATI isn’t that far away. And as for my boyfriend, I know what she told me is true. They’re like dogs, if they’re for real they’ll always come back, no matter how mad you make them.
Based partially on characters and concepts created by and copyright (c) Paul S. Gibbs. Used with permission.
Ehm'taala and storyline copyright (c) 2001 by Alqua Kalina.
Ehm'murra copyright (c) Paul S. Gibbs. Used with permission.