Cally's War lota-6

by John Ringo

  * * *

  When he left to go home, she followed him to note down his home address, found a cheap motel and paid cash for three nights. She settled in, set her alarm for four a.m. and laid out her clothes in easy reach. On the one hand there was no point surveiling him on Saturday since she had to have the job done by Thursday. Weekend patterns were useless. On the other hand, she could pick up some random piece of information helpful in evaluating his value as a source, and some access to his house Monday would be nice, if it were possible.

  New Orleans. Mardi Gras parade, no war, no training, freedom for a long weekend. Strings of cheap plastic beads and hurricanes, and a young-looking soldier of the Ten Thousand who looks like he puts in a lot of time in the weight room. She’s Lilly tonight and laughing up into his face and she tries not to go this time but she always does, and now it’s morning and he’s telling her about his wife, again, and she’s trying and trying to get off the bed and kick the bastard in the crotch, but she can’t move, and she’s back in survival training in Minnesota, and the snow falls, and falls, and falls.

  Saturday, May 18

  She slapped the off button to stop the annoying beeping and rolled out of bed, keeping the lights off to preserve her night vision. This early in the morning her face was clammy and damp, but not quite soaked yet. Oddly enough, she couldn’t remember whatever it was she’d been dreaming about. But then again, when she had to get up in the middle of the night, she never did. The baggy jeans, T-shirt, and windbreaker were all in medium shades of gray. The cotton bandana she shoved in a pocket had once been black and white, but several washings with dark clothes had turned the bits of white patterning a dingy gray-brown. The canvas-topped skate sneakers had started off light blue, but were well broken in and had picked up a solid coating of casual dirt and dust. The hem of the windbreaker covered the black nylon strap of the gray canvas butt pack she fastened around her waist.

  She went to his home first, parking down the street and jogging in. Placing the cameras was a matter of setting the little gray dots, half the size of a dime, for short range IR transmission, using the PDA screen to line them up and securing them in place with a bit of adhesive putty. Once they were secured on target, a tap on a screen button set them to record only. Half a dozen of them covering the target’s garage and strategic intersections from trees and signposts and she was back in the car and headed for the mistress’s place. It was five thirty and the pre-dawn gray was beginning to be tinged with pink when she planted a couple of cameras on trees and posts in the apartment parking lot, watching carefully for early risers — a possibility even on a Saturday. Somebody always had to work, and once she had to abort to jogging down to the end of the row of buildings and back, before she got two good camera angles on the door and one on the apartment windows.

  Her gray clothes would pass for an early morning jog, and of course were ideal for not being seen in dark and twilight, but as the day warmed they’d become more conspicuous as clothing too drab for any self-respecting coed. Fortunately, with the setup work done, now she had a couple of hours to go back to the hotel and sleep. No point running her reserves down when she didn’t have to.

  * * *

  After a late breakfast, she drove out to the East Chicago Sub-Urb, under a deep blue sky that seemed to stretch forever and was dotted with fleecy clouds. Weeds and trees grew up through the occasional crumbling, abandoned building along the roadside. Many buildings that had been abandoned during the war as young men went into the army and old men, boys, and women fled to the Sub-Urbs had never been reclaimed. For every family of the next generation brave enough to reclaim the surface, another chose the stars and the promise of rejuv, instead. As she neared the Sub-Urb itself, cheap, pre-fab Galplas houses with carefully tended yards and the occasional small vegetable patch clustered in neighborhoods around a couple of large manufacturing plants, where plant employees who had seen the surface in their twice daily bus rides to and from the Urb were gradually recolonizing the surface in search of sunshine and fresh air.

  Every Sub-Urb had its “street” corridors, if you knew how to find them. The maintenance database was a dead giveaway. Just look for the run-down area the maintenance workers were reluctant to enter alone. Spray painted graffiti covered the walls, with the lights ripped out except for the smallest amount needed to avoid tripping over the trash pushed into the corners. Public com stations had been vandalized to keep unwary strays from calling for help. Had Marilyn Grant truly come down here alone, she would certainly have been considered one of those unwary strays. As it was, a single look at Cally O’Neal’s game face was enough to ward off other predators in an environment where Darwin had refined the gift of telling predator from prey to a high art. She knew she had found what she needed when she came to a small patch of corridor whose perfect lighting shone like a beacon in the gloom, where a lone boy of perhaps twelve was raptly absorbed in the mural he was painting over the primed Galplas. Cally looked at the image of a benevolent mother, in a red beanbag chair, nursing her baby and her eyes softened in spite of herself.

  “Is she someone you know?” she asked softly.

  “My momma and baby sister, before the flu came through last year.” He didn’t startle when she spoke, as if he’d sensed she was there, but felt no need to turn away from his work. “I don’t know you.”

  “No, you don’t. I’m from… outside. I’m… shopping.”

  “Strange place to shop.”

  “I was hoping that since you live here you might be able to tell me who to talk to if I wanted to buy some things.”

  He turned to look at her and she could see the crucifix and a Saint Christopher medal hanging on the outside of his paint-splattered T-shirt, and it may have been her imagination that he seemed just a bit disappointed as he asked, “You sure you want to buy those things? Might be some better places to do some shopping, some better things to buy.”

  “There probably are,” she agreed, “but I’ve got a list to take care of.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Tony.” A neatly dressed young man stepped out of the shadows and Cally half-smiled at him.

  “I get the feeling you might know somebody who can help me take care of my list.”

  “I might. Depends on what you want and what kind of money you got.”

  She pulled out a well-used wad of mixed FedCred and medium-bill dollars and let him see it before wordlessly shoving it back in her left front pocket.

  “Yeah, we can talk.” He motioned for her to follow him farther down into the half-light of the corridor beyond the mural. “Surprised you made it down this far without trouble, that kind of cash.”

  “Trouble doesn’t usually come looking for me.” She shrugged, letting her eyes go back into thousand-yard-stare mode. “I have that kind of face.”

  “Fine. Whatcha buyin’?”

  She left with significantly less cash, the necessary drugs and needles, a small bottle of ether, and the most expensive thing, a good quality fan-intake air scrubber — fortunately a more or less common consumer item with anyone who smoked anything… sensitive… in an Urb. The legitimate shopping section yielded a cheap hot plate, a set of permanent markers, a small mortar and pestle, a pair of glass screw-cap salt and pepper shakers, a set of glass tumblers, a bottle of Everclear, a box of long wooden party toothpicks and she was ready to go back to the hotel and do some cooking.

  * * *

  It took some creative stacking involving her suitcase, the hotel alarm clock, and the Gideons’ Bible from the desk drawer to rig the scrubber above the hot plate and above the height of the tumbler. Grinding the various solids to a consistency to dissolve easily in the warm ether just took a bit of patience. From a small pouch in her suitcase a couple of other bottles yielded various metabolites that ought to be found in Petane’s system. Voila. Instant history of abuse. Good for about seventy-two hours in solution. Anything goes wrong on Monday I’ll have to make up fresh ones, though. She poured each solution into one of the
screw cap shakers, sealing the holes in the lids securely with duct tape, putting a tiny mark on each — red for her, blue for him — and put them in the small fridge, hanging the Do Not Disturb sign out on the doorknob. Wouldn’t do to have maid service in, now would it?

  She cleaned up her minimal mess and put the gear away out of sight in the lower dresser drawer, resetting the hotel clock radio after plugging it back in where it was supposed to go. Amazing that it was only four in the afternoon. Time enough to grab a snack and a stylish new outfit — she wrinkled her nose at the creases in the clothes in her suitcase — before going out. Now where can a girl find some fun on a Saturday night in Chicago?

  Chapter Six

  It was a few minutes past seven when she boarded the express train to the Fleet Recruit Training Command, clad in a blue plaid pleated mini skirt, bobby socks, low-heeled black leather pumps, and a white oxford shirt. She took the few minutes of the train ride to paint lips and nails a playful pink and subtly emphasize the big, wide, brown eyes. Thank you, Wendy. Raccoon eyes the right way, indeed.

  The data on the net was right. Across the street from the train station was a modest cedar-sided building, clearly built to resemble an old prewar lake cabin, with a sign in English and Kanji informing patrons that this was the Famous New Kobe Sushi Bar and Pool Emporium. A small cloud of the thick tobacco smoke wafted out the door as she opened it, along with a not-unpleasant mix of soy, ginger, wasabi, and beer. Judging from the number of Fleet uniforms in attendance, she’d found her fun. A quick glance around the room as she entered, smiling mischievously at the wolf whistles, showed that one of Milwaukee’s finest was the local fad brew. Worked for her. She took a seat at the bar and ordered herself one, but accepted the intervention of one of the spacers who jumped to buy it for her.

  “Well, I can’t ask if you come here often, because I’d sure remember seeing you, so… Hi. I’m Eric Takeuchi.” He held out his hand for hers, but when he took it instead of shaking it he brought it to his lips, watching her carefully to make sure he wasn’t crossing the line.

  Seducer. Do I want to play? Dunno. She took him in at a glance. The straight black hair that was just a little long for regulation in front and tended to flop a bit on his forehead, the cheerful male interest in the dark brown eyes, the impeccable uniform. He’s nice enough looking, I guess, but definitely a prince charming rather than a prince sincere type. Dunno yet. A bit of dinner, a few games of pool. Maybe if he’s a gracious loser.

  She tried to pay for her own mixed sashimi sampler, but politely accepted the gift when he protested.

  “Wanna play a couple of games?” She gestured with her beer towards a table that had just come open.

  “Sure. So you like pool?”

  Sociable, amiable, not too bright. She picked up her plate in the other hand and walked over, setting it on the beer table and going through the cues on the rack looking for one that was basically straight.

  “You want first break?” He set his own beer beside hers and picked one himself, setting it against the table as he racked up the balls.

  “Sure.” At least he got the balls grouped nice and tight on the spot. She chalked her hands before accepting the cue ball from him — placed it, lined up her shot, and smacked the cue solidly, suppressing a smug grin as two stripes found a pocket.

  “Guess I’m solids.” He toasted her with his beer. “Definitely not a girl break.”

  “All bust, no balls,” she recited with him as he got up and started walking around the table to pick his shot.

  “You’ve heard it.”

  “I might have heard it a couple of times.” She grinned tightly. Ah, well, at my age how many new jokes are there, anyway. To run, or not to run, that is the question. Ah, hell, better behave… but he deserves it. Nah, gotta behave.

  She picked out the fourteen ball and called it for the left corner pocket, lined up her shot and carefully hit it just a bit too hard. It hit the pocket square on and bounced back onto the felt, leaving the cue ball set up for a nice slightly off-straight shot at the one ball in the right side pocket. She winced convincingly and pursed her lips. “Well, at least I didn’t knock any of your balls in. Your turn.”

  “Uh, yeah.” He looked at her for a second and shook his head, as if shaking off a thought.

  “What?” She smirked at him and dipped a rice, blue fin, and nori roll into the ginger and wasabi sauce, delicately biting into it, watching him, her other hand cupped underneath the tidbit to catch any drips.

  “No, I can’t say that,” he said, grinning broadly and shaking his head.

  “Fine, be that way.” She tilted her head thoughtfully as he gestured at two corner pockets and dropped the one and the seven neatly. On his next shot the cue ball had a bit too much clockwise spin on a tricky bank shot and the four hit the felt and came to rest blocking the left side pocket.

  She arched her back in a light stretch that kept her hands in close to her body, picked up her cue stick, and padded over to the opposite side of the table. Okay, do I lose artfully, take him outside, and trip him, or do I risk him being a sorehead and play a bit? She glanced around casually at the rest of the bar, which was filling up with nicely turned out uniforms and had a couple of guys wheeling largish speakers out onto the small stage. Fuck it. I hate losing. If he’s a dick about it, well, the place is hardly empty.

  He was bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, obviously just itching to pace. Instead, he pulled up a chair and straddled it, taking a pull of his beer before resting his arms across the chair back. She gave him her best little-girl smile.

  “I think I can drop the eleven and the fourteen in that pocket.” She gestured with a finger towards the corner pocket and pouted at him. “If I try it, you’re not going to be upset if I hit a couple of other little balls on the way, are you?”

  He raised his eyebrows but waved one arm in a deliberately gallant gesture, “Of course not, my lady.”

  He thinks he’s hunting me. How cute. The sweet smile twitched slightly as she bent over the cue and smacked it, hard, into the three, which sent the eleven neatly into the corner pocket while the cue ball banked off the felt on the opposite side, came back and nudged the fourteen, which dropped neatly, leaving the cue ball poised delicately on the edge of the hole.

  “Wow! I made it!” She clapped her hands delightedly, eyes wide.

  He choked slightly on his beer, but she had to give him credit on the recovery. “An excellent shot. You’re obviously as accomplished as you are beautiful.”

  Poor puppy. He still lays it on just a bit too thick. Ah well, at least he’s likely to be enthusiastic. She gestured towards the stage that had now sprouted a drum set and a line of cable that was being trailed back to a mixer board at the back of the bar. One of the guys in jeans and T-shirt setting up the show was following behind the cabler carefully duct-taping it to the floor — presumably to protect the servers and the drunks. “Are they any good?”

  “Oh yeah! They’re really good. The lead singer was in my unit at basic. They got special permission to wear civvies for their shows. It’s, like, a revival of classical heavy metal, but with all their own music. They never do more than one cover song in a show. So, do you like music?”

  Yes, which is why I suspect this is going to be painful. Not to mention trashing my hearing before a mission when I’m not going to be able to have it fixed on the slab. So, call it a wash and go, or try to get laid? Damned midlife hormones. It’s as bad as being a seventeen-year-old boy. But most women would object if rejuv turned the clock back too far on their hormones. Damned idiots. “I love live music! Heavy metal, huh? Classical martial music is so cool.”

  She absentmindedly sank the nine in the side pocket not blocked by the four.

  “I’m glad I didn’t bet you money, milady.” He eyed the thirteen sitting behind the two and six, and the ten against the bumper.

  “Yeah, I’m having some really good luck tonight. I was sure I wasn’t going to make that bank sh
ot, and now I’ve got to bank again.” She waved a hand casually, walking around the table and settling her hip on it to get the cue at the necessary angle behind her back.

  “Do you need the bridge?”

  “I should, but I can’t use one worth a damn,” she lied, knocking the cue ball off the side so that it banked back towards the other balls, missing them by at least an inch each way before leaving him with a nice straight shot at the six. I deeply doubt he can drop five balls in one run, but, hell, he’s got a sporting chance. At this game, anyway. “Oops, air ball. Your turn.”

  She curled around the cue and fluttered her eyelashes at him, making a little moue of sympathy as he tripped slightly on the way to the table. Yes, that was your tongue you tripped over. Good boy. She walked around the table to be almost next to him, but not in the way.