by John Ringo
With a few minutes to get organized and start thinking, even forty untrained idiots could take on the best soldiers, especially if they had an accepted chain of command and were armed with weapons tactically appropriate to the situation, as these were.
Cally had absorbed the change in resources and positioning instantaneously and with almost no conscious thought, part of the battle gestalt of one of the youngest living veterans of the Posleen War, irregular though she'd been. Her barrel was on the same side of the room as the DAG troopers, so she had been positioned perfectly to run the numbers on friendly troops. Not like six minus two was a hard calculation to make. In their military uniforms, DAG troopers were instantly distinguishable from the enemy.
The DAG troopers, in turn, would have absolutely no trouble tracking the friendlies on the switch team, all but Schmidt being their close kin, known to them from birth.
At the moment, Cally was more busy swearing and providing covering fire than anything else. Grandpa just had to have a gun, and had slithered down the stairs after the body of a guard who had staggered their way to die.
It wasn't actually completely stupid, she allowed grudgingly. One shooter was a big difference, one lump might as well be dead for the immediate engagement, and the best time to risk this partial exposure was in the first seconds, while the most confusion reigned among the enemy.
After retrieving the pistol from the floor in front of the man's hand, and the body of the spare magazines, Grandpa sprinted for the nearest real cover. He made the DAG box line, but she felt a hard thwack to her thigh as a round penetrated the barrel and continued through her leg. She absently noted the lack of an exit wound and figured a chunk of the lucky bullet's momentum must have been sapped off by impacting the barrel. Dammit. He exposes himself and gets me hit. If we survive this, I'm gonna kill him.
As a top-level field operative, Cally O'Neal and the rest of her team had very complete nannite packages in their bodies. In her case, this meant that the blood coagulated almost at once, and a highly selective nerve block made it feel like she'd been smacked with a broom handle rather than a sledge hammer. She automatically and unconsciously diverted the rest of the pain through a post-hypnotic melange of Vitapetroni's that acted like a psychic demerol, without the loss of function. Ongoing blood loss was a weeping trickle from the constricted capillaries whenever movement cracked the jelled proto-scab.
"Wish we had a magic pill for morphine," she groused, picking off one of the hostiles who had picked the interior wall to try to rush around the corner. Tommy and George got one each, and she got another one, as they went past. The only reason they got so close to the far wall before Grandpa and the closest trooper got the last of them was they had to hold back until their field of fire didn't include Tommy.
That took seven more, but the odds were real bad. Men, even untrained ones, fought far better per individual than Posleen. The horses had overwhelmed with sheer numbers, the literally moronic Posleen Normals being totally heedless of danger in service to their own God-Kings, driven by a hunger that made voracious a pathetically inadequate descriptor. Men, contrariwise, were each as smart as a single God-King. They'd spend their lives, but not heedlessly. Unfortunately, it had yet to occur to these dumbasses that they could just break off, quit firing, and be allowed to run away whole and healthy. Or, more likely, they were under a light compulsion that hadn't yet broken under the instinct of self-preservation and a glimmer of non-panicked thought.
She winced, not at her wound, but at the knowledge that a similar rush up the other side, with more people, would likely make it—at least with a couple of people to negate DAGs cover by exposing them to fire on all sides of each box stack. Tommy and George would be unable to provide supporting fire, having to conserve nearly non-existent ammo for clearly hittable targets. Two of their remaining DAG guys, and Grandpa, would have their line of sight obscured by other stacked boxes. That left the two closest and Cally to take down a rush. Good shot though she was, with only three people exposing themselves to hostile fire, one of them was certain to be hit. None of these ruminations took more than a tenth of a second to come together in her brain as a unified picture of their (bad) tactical position.
Two minutes is an eternity in situations like theirs. Inevitably, the rush down the other side occurred to the enemy, which would likely have been the end for them except for the absurd entry of yet another DAG trooper through the far door, face to face with the lead guys in said rush. The moment that followed was one of those that perfectly illustrated the concept of time dilation.
Both sides faced each other, and even though Cally couldn't see their facial expressions, she could imagine as both retreated back to their previous cover in a jumble. Geez! Couldn't they hear the shots outside? What the hell kind of acoustics did this place have, anyway?
Somebody in their relief force was on the ball, though, for what happened next was a crack of the outside door and what looked like a slap of something on the top and bottom of the inner door frame. She was subconsciously bracing for an explosion when a voice, amplified by the stereo separation of the tiny speakers, poured in the room at a volume loud even to people who'd just been in an indoor firefight.
"Security personnel. This is Colonel Jacob Mosovich of the United States Army Direct Action Group. This facility is under assault for violation of Federal law and terrorist activities. Drop your weapons and come out, one by one, slowly. You will not be harmed. Your names and job titles will be taken and you will be released to go home or seek medical attention. People, we are interested in the big guys, not you. You're little fish, and immunity may be offered in exchange for testimony," the voice paused, as if to let the orders and information sink in.
"Come out, unarmed, with your hands up. You will not be assaulted, arrested, or detained. You do not need to die for this employer today, but you will die, within minutes, if you continue to resist." There was another pause, probably to see if the security weenies were moving. Not fast enough, apparently. She did hear a couple of clatters as some arms dropped.
"We have an entire, armed, counter-terror unit of elite soldiers," he continued. "Well-armed soldiers with unlimited ammunition. You have low ammunition, light armament, low numbers, and no training. Surrender now, and come out. You will not be harmed. You will be released. We do not want to kill you, but make no mistake that we will. Your time is up. Surrender now," Mosovich said.
Well, I'll be damned, she thought. Jake the Snake. No wonder the reinforcements were acting with some sense.
There were more clatters as the closest former guards apparently decided that this was a damned fine offer and walked towards the door, hesitantly glancing in the direction of their surviving enemies as if wondering if they would be shot as soon as they broke cover.
When the first two made it out the door alive and unharmed, the rest started to form up in an orderly queue, more used to standing in lines than fighting, anyway.
That was, at least, what started to happen before Cally suddenly found herself unable to move. Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw the security guards frozen in place, as if someone had taken a still holo and they were all trapped in it.
Alone in the center of the room, a short man in an expensive suit stood glaring around as if deciding who or what to deal with first. The Human Mentat Erick Winchon had come home.
He wasn't alone for more than an eyeblink, as Michelle O'Neal, brown mentat robe stiff as the skirt of a porcelain doll, stood in the center of the room as well, glaring at him.
"So. You are truly insane after all. Do you think the rest of the Wise can or will tolerate your reckless and haphazard direct intervention, running around like a little tin god? How long before larger and larger sections of the Milky Way would become your play toy? How long before simple boredom drove you to take everything down in your own, individual calamity?" Her sister's stress on the word individual was so soft it was almost indiscernible.
"Oh, like you haven't intervened whe
rever and whenever you pleased. Killing a Darhel. Congratulations. I thought in you the legendary O'Neal barbarism had skipped a generation."
"I did not kill Pardal. I have not intervened directly once. Not until this moment when your own recklessness made it worth everything to the rest of the Wise that someone stop you. That I stop you."
"Piffle. Technicalities. You are so sure you are better than every other sentient in this galaxy that I suspect you even starch your panties. Had tea with the Aldenata yet, have we?"
"I do not—" Michelle began. "This is pointless. You will stop. You will proceed, with me as escort, to Barwhon, where you will submit to the designees of Tchpht Planners for safe, serene contemplation and study where you will be neither a threat to yourself nor anyone else. I will return and clean up your mess."
"And you get the goodies and to use my research to become the Epetar Group's fair-haired girl, write your reputation in Galactic history, and take credit for civilizing humanity. I do not think so."
"Why would you agree to this, this intrigue in the first place? Research was proceeding. Do not tell me you had insufficient work of your own to do?"
"For one, it was considerably less interesting work," Erick sneered. "Boring, frankly. For two, I do not drag my feet, and humanity needs civilization desperately."
"The primary responsibility of a researcher is caution."
"Again, piffle. Humanity pollutes the whole of Galactic civilization with its violence. There is not time."
"You do like that word, do you not?" she rolled her eyes. "You dare to speak of humanity's violence in the face of the unspeakable violence you have engaged in here?"
"You did not kill Pardal—though you drove him into lintatai, or ordered it. I have not committed violence against humans. The same principle applies as always. One protects civilization by turning barbarism against barbarism. The firebreak theory. Here, barbarians have done violence to barbarians. No more, no less. They would have been doing it somewhere, sooner or later. They were simply doing it here."
"If I needed any more proof that you are insane, I would have it with that incredibly convoluted excuse for philosophical reasoning. I did not drive Pardal into lintatai, nor did I make the decision that permitted the possibility."
"Oh, what a world of delicious wiggle room that careful statement leaves. You were involved, I am sure."
"I was not completely uninvolved," she conceded.
Cally could see his facial expressions, but not her sister's, and was genuinely frightened by the manic glee that attended Michelle's admission. If anything she had heard about mentats was true, she had never wanted to be around an unhinged one. This guy was so unhinged his door wasn't on the same block.
"However, my tangential involvement was in no way my own instigation." Michelle spoke calmly, but Michelle always spoke calmly. It was sort of irritating. Erick's delighted skepticism wasn't making the assassin feel any better.
"I was not consulted, I was required," she insisted.
"Whatever excuse allows you to sleep at night, Miss Starch," he giggled. "He tried to kill you, you got there first. And apparently managed the incomparable feat of not only securing sanction from our 'pacifist' peers, but persuading them that it was all their idea, and you their oh-so-reluctant puppet. I will give you points for style, at least. You finally surpass your famously barbaric sire in the art of murder." He bowed, the gesture spoiled by the uninterrupted fit of humor.
Cally hadn't heard a mentat laugh before—didn't know they could. She could do without hearing it again. Winchon's giggle could have curdled milk.
"If you knew Pardal was trying to kill me, how do you rationalize helping him do it, I wonder?"
"My dear colleague, I would have forever applauded your self-sacrifice in the advancement of civilization. The death of one of the Wise is always poignant," he sighed, a hand clasped to his heart. "I have, alas, tired of your charmingly self-righteous and cautious company, Human Mentat Michelle O'Neal. Good-bye," he said.
Cally felt the hair on the back of her neck try to crawl up her scalp line. Apparently they were through with the talking.
The mentats were locked into perfect stillness, standing apart yet swathed together in sheets of silver light and shadow. Seemingly random portions of the building alternately shook and cracked. In one corner, the ceiling crumbled as an I-beam curled, stretching and deforming like hot taffy. The massive weight of the building above it creaked threateningly. The destruction slowly stilled and froze, air sparkling with an alien haze which strained against some undreamt of aether, unmoving, stalemated. As if by mutual consent, the buzzing tension stilled, as both took precious moments for deeper breath. They stood, panting, somehow managing to glare at each other and remain preternaturally impassive at the same time.
You have hired the worst sort of barbarians to do your violence, Michelle thought.
Do not be melodramatic, Erick replied. They are all barbarians. My hirelings are killing sophonts for money, so are yours. There is no difference. Barbarians are mutually expendable.
So we come, yet again, to our mutual philosophical debate, Michelle thought. You have never understood that in humans who are not damaged, the embryonic basis of clan loyalty is nature, not nurture. They thus have an inherent value. If you do not find some clan loyalty in an Earth Human, you have a defective one.
What clan loy— He stared, as if for the first time, at the frozen Earther combatants. Oh, good grief. The attackers are your clan, either by birth or adoption. And the Darhel thought you were dangerous before. It is the perfect cosmic joke. Fine, you were right, I was wrong. But how truly hilarious!
"Okay, holy fuck," Cally said, looking out from under the stairwell.
The two combatants had stopped for the moment. The stasis had broken as soon as they started their titanic battle and Cally had tried to get a shot in on Erick. But the round had been absorbed into the swirl of power around the two and never hit.
"Bit of a pickle," Mosovich admitted. "Do we know each other?"
"I think we met once when I was a kid," Cally said. "I looked different. Full body sculpt. Cally O'Neal."
"Oh, I remember you," Mosovich said. "Pleasure to finally meet you again. I'd mention that I heard from very good sources that you were dead, but . . ."
"Long story."
"Perhaps another time," Mosovich said, raising his arms over his head as the two mentats raised their hands.
This time the power was confined to a small space between the two mentats. A small very strange space. Tremendous heat was burning off of it but every time Cally tried to look into the spot her eyes basically tried to crawl out of her head. She stopped and looked at the combatants instead, noticing for the first time that the weird distortion around them was gone.
"I wonder . . ." Cally said, raising the rifle to her shoulder.
Michelle caught the power she was driving before it could do much more than blast the boxes on the far wall. And Erick, whose body burned to ash in a moment.
But the splash of blood on the ground was evidence of why he had suddenly failed.
"What did you do?" Michelle shouted, looking over at her sister.
"I dunno," Cally said, standing up. "Saved your life? Killed a monster?"
"I cannot understand why you did that!"
"What part of horrible mass murderer of innocent people did you miss? Besides the target part, that is."
"I never hired you to kill him. You do not kill the Wise!"
"Just did," Cally noted. "My only regret is that you burned him to ash. I'd hoped to pull out his skull and shrink his head. I figured it would make a hell of mantelpiece."
"Can it, Cally," Papa O'Neal said, crawling out from under a desk. "Let me point out that Michelle has a point. There are only a few mentats in existence. The termination of one is going to be big news. Which means big trouble. The flip side is, other granddaughter, that he was a mass murdering psychopath with enough power, by your own statements, to wipe out m
ultipe worlds. So I have little regret for her actions. The alternatives don't bear thinking."
"I do not believe he was that kind of threat," Michelle said. "The differences were philosophical . . ."
"So were the differences between the US and the Soviet Union," Papa O'Neal said. "Couple of hundred million people died. You probably need to get your nose out of the ivory tower and take a good look at history instead of physics. Most wars in the last century have been about philosophical differences."
"I can, however, present his death in terms of threat, and the heat of the moment," Michelle admitted. "For the sake of the O'Neals, Grandfather, you need to be very careful who our people kill. Please pardon my presumption."
"Your 'Wise' need to understand that someone who gives the orders for henchmen to round up and kill Human beings in horrible ways no longer has a credible claim to being a navel-gazing pacifist," Papa O'Neal said, definitely. "The O'Neal Bane Sidhe don't make it a habit to clean up every problem in the galaxy. Not enough days in the week. But we can make an exception. Do you read me, Granddaughter?"