by John Ringo
"Oh, shit," Cally whispered. "I suppose we should take it as good news. They knew all along, huh?"
"I don't know for how long, but more than long enough," Stewart said. "Look, where are you exactly?"
"Waiting for some dumb-ass bureaucrats to okay my time on a slab," Cally said, bitterly. "Dad sent the order but with a caveat that I've got to take my place in line. Since apparently there are still a bunch of casualties from the Mutiny, that's a long line. I don't see how it could be, the slab only takes a few minutes."
"Well, if you don't get through soon, I'll be seeing you," Stewart said. "When I called the general officer recall office and explained that I was going to need quite a bit of time in a tank, this was a four-week complete body mod the last time around, they told me to go to Luna and see about getting time on a slab."
"Good luck," Cally said. "I've been sitting around for two days going from one office to the next. I thought all these guys were getting turned into soldiers but apparently there are plenty left to give me the run-around."
"I'm scheduled on the next shuttle," Stewart replied, grinning. "Hopefully we can kill time in a supply closet or something."
"Buckley, time?"
"Fifteen forty," the buckley replied.
Cally had it in low-intelligence mode specifically so she could do without its normal dismal tone. But she was feeling pretty dismal herself. She was cooling her heels in the waiting room of the "Office of Enhanced Medical Procedures" and had been for two hours. She was supposed to have had her nearly final interview at thirteen thirty but the OIC had been pulled away to a meeting.
With nothing better to do, she'd been sketching. Mostly pictures of a random human, male, being butchered. Various things she'd like to do to the damned bureaucratic son of a bitch who had kept her waiting.
Especially since the shuttle carrying Lieutenant General James Stewart was supposed to have landed twenty minutes ago. She'd been hoping that if this idiot could stamp her files she might actually get time on the slab. In which case, she could see Stewart with her real face and body. Given that her husband had never seen it, she wasn't sure exactly how he'd take it. Frankly, she was working up into a frenzy.
"You can go in, now," the administrative assistant said. The woman had been looking at her funny the whole time Cally had been sitting in the waiting room and was clearly glad to get rid of her.
Since Cally hadn't seen the OIC go in or out, either the meeting had been by viewscreen or there was a back door to the office.
Cally dumped all her shit in her backpack, zipped it up and walked to the door.
"Enter," a female voice replied to the knock.
"Cally O'Neal, civilian contractor," the blond colonel behind the desk said. "Are you any connection to General Oh My GOD!"
Cally was staring at her mirror image. Same face, same hair, same chest.
"What a horrible coincidence," Cally said in a very small voice.
"You . . . you . . ." Lieutenant Colonel Sinda Makepeace stuttered. "Oh. You BITCH!"
"I'd say 'I can explain' but you really don't want to know," Cally said. "So let me put it this way. CAN I HAVE MY OLD BODY BACK? Jesus Christ, woman, how do you put up with these two fat-filled balloons attached to your chest?"
"I need to call the MPs . . ." the colonel said, picking up her AID.
"Go ahead," Cally said, crossing her arms. "For your information, yes, he's my dad. For your other information, I'm covered on all actions I took prior to the current hostilities. And compared to some of them, kidnapping you and taking your place is pretty minor."
"Oh, you . . ." Sinda said, then sighed. "Look, I'll get you right to the head of the queue, trust me. But can you tell me what in the hell that was all about? Because nobody would tell me anything when I finally came out of the Hiberzine. And let me tell you, it was pretty disorienting to suddenly wake up in a hotel room. I appreciated the note, though. I thought I'd been raped or something."
"Not on my watch," Cally replied. "It's a pretty long story, though, and I'm not sure how much you're cleared for."
"Well, unfortunately, I don't have the time," Sinda said. "I've got some hot-shit general coming in in about four minutes who's supposed to go to the head of the queue. Although why a general needs a full body sculpt . . . It had better not be for personal reasons. You have no idea how many people we have trying to slip in just because they want a new body, a new face, bigger boobs . . ."
"Well, I want my smaller boobs back," Cally said, chuckling. "So that's why I was shuffled from department to department?"
"More or less," Sinda said, hitting her input wand. "But you're cleared now. Damn, if I'd known why it was from the beginning . . ."
"Sort of a need-to-know," Cally said. "If it had been anyone else sitting in that chair they'd never find out."
"Colonel, General Stewart is here," the AID chimed.
"Yo, Stewart" Cally said, dilating the door. "You're never going to believe who the OIC is!"
"Have we met?" Sinda said as an Asian male walked into the office.
"No," Stewart said, looking from woman to woman. "But I can guess who you are. I was supposed to figure out who was infiltrating the office. I did, but a bit too late. She does a really good Sinda Makepeace."
"This is making my head hurt," Sinda said, frowning. The years and experience had apparently washed away some of the utter dumb blondeness that was her hallmark when Cally took her place. "General, Miss O'Neal, you're both cleared. Down the hallway on the left. Don't take this wrong, but I hope I don't see either one of you ever again."
"We're cleared to use the slab. Cally O'Neal and James Stewart."
The slabs, both of them, had been installed in what looked like a minor surgery suite. They were visible through glassteel windows from the small antechamber. A medic was manning a station there and two more were managing the slabs inside the room. One, from the shimmering light over it, was apparently in use already. The other was free.
"It'll be just a moment, General," the medic said nervously. He clearly didn't want to keep a general waiting. And he kept stealing glances at Cally. "There's an emergency patient on the way up. Training accident."
"That's fine," Stewart said as a gurney was pushed into the room. The face of the man on the gurney could barely be seen past the bandages and oxygen tubes but it looked swollen and purple. The man pushing it barged right past the desk and into the slab room. "What happened to him?"
"Suit failure," the medic said, looking at his screen. "Severe lung damage as well as superficial vacuum burn to the skin, eyes . . . well, you name it."
"Ouch," Stewart said. The man had been naked under the sheet and his skin was covered in white and gray where it wasn't purple.
"That's gotta suck," Cally said.
"Sir, I have Miss O'Neal's DNA data on file," the medic said. "But—"
"My original," Stewart replied, handing over a chip. "There were times I wondered why I kept it."
"This is actually a first for me," the medic said as the second slab went into use. "I've had a couple of cosmetic repair jobs, but never something as extensive as either of you. Do you mind, sir, if I ask what happened? And why Miss O'Neal . . . well. Ma'am, do you know you look just like Colonel Makepeace?"
"I'll leave it at black ops, corporal," Stewart said.
"Yes, sir, sorry, sir. Slab one is open if you want to enter, sir."
"Oh, I think I'll let Cally go first," Stewart replied, grinning. "I'm looking forward to seeing what she really looks like."
"You just want to ogle my body," Cally said. "I'm planning on wearing my clothes in. So there."
"Uh, ma'am, you can't do that," the medic said.
"Why not?" Cally asked.
"The clothes might interfere with the repair process," the corporal replied.
"Bullshit," Cally said. "I've been on the slab . . . Jesus, I've lost count! Anyway, the slab ignores clothes."
"You've used one before?" the medic said. "I thought they were b
rand new. When did you—"
"Son," Stewart said, putting his finger to his nose. "I did mention black ops?"
"Sorry, sir," the corporal replied. "But our procedure—"
"Is about to change," Cally said, walking through the door.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry but you have to disrobe to—"
"I already had that conversation," Cally said, lying down on the altarlike device. "Just initiate the conversion, son."
"But, ma'am—"
"I said do it," Cally snapped. "If you have an issue with that, take it up with Colonel Makepeace!"
"I thought you was Colonel Makepeace, ma'am," the medic muttered. He looked at the data on the slab's screen then hit enter. "Guess you won't be soon."
"Welcome back, ma'am," the medic said as Cally's eyes opened. "Any problems?"
"No," Cally said, swinging her legs over and jumping down. Then she grabbed her jeans. "Except I forgot that these clothes weren't going to fit anymore!"
"Oh, that's funny," Stewart said, swinging his own legs over. "At least I stayed the same size."
"The belt won't even cinch down far enough," Cally said, struggling. "Knife. I need a knife."
"Here, ma'am," one of the medics said, holding out a lock-blade.
Cally flicked it open and worked a hole through the leather of the belt, getting it tight enough to hold up her jeans, then handed it back.
"I look like hell," she muttered.
"Actually, you look pretty good," Stewart said. "Completely different and yet perfect."
"Flatterer," Cally said, taking his arm. "Haven't seen the real you in a while, either. I frankly prefer it to Kato. Do you have anywhere you have to be right away, General?"
"No," Stewart admitted as they walked out. "Technically, I'm supposed to hop a shuttle and go report to your dad. But, hell, he hasn't sent me a Christmas card in years. He can wait."
"Then let's go find a reasonably horizontal surface. Or, hell, a private wall."
"General Stewart is here to see you, sir," Mike's AID chimed as there was a tap on the door.
"Come," Mike said, then growled as the door opened. "Stewart! Where the hell have you been! You got out of the slab yesterday!"
"Sorry, sir," the general said, snapping to attention. "No excuse, sir!" Stewart stopped and shook his head as Mike broke into laughter. "You runt bastard . . ."
"Just had to see if the training held," Mike said, still chuckling. "Given your employers of the last few years . . . Why the Tongs, James? Grab a chair, by the way."
"Instead of the Bane Sidhe?" Stewart said, sitting down. He shrugged and paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "The Bane Sidhe were effectively a rebel organization against the legal government. While I could no longer stomach supporting that government, I also felt it would be dishonorable to rebel against it." He shrugged. "It was a fine line but this honor thing never came to me as naturally as it does to you and Gunny Pappas. I have to make it up as I go along."
"I suppose it makes a twisted sort of sense," Mike said, nodding. "Which pretty much covers James Stewart in a nutshell."
"Thanks," Stewart said. "I think. What's up? Besides another invasion. What are we, destruction central?"
"Looks like," Mike said, his face locked back in its habitual frown. "But these guys, from what we've gotten from the Himmit, are different from the Posleen. They're smart and they're fast and both scare the hell out of me. While we were fucking around out in the Blight, they took three worlds faster than you can blow your nose. Faster than we could get the intel on the first world falling."
"So what are you going to do?" Stewart asked.
"Fight them," Mike said. "And we'll win. In time. But I'm starting practically from scratch. That's not on your plate, though. I repeat, they're smart. What does that tell you."
"That they're going to be collecting information," Stewart said. "Unlike the Posleen."
"Extrapolate," Mike said, sitting back.
"They're going to be trying to crack the AID network," Stewart said. "That's an information Achilles Heel, the way the Darhel use it. Everything of any note is available if you have the access. I don't know if they can do it, but they'll be trying as soon as they discover it. They'll be interrogating prisoners to try to find out information about the Federation, its logistics, strategy, critical nodes. They'll access every form of information they can get their hands on. Each of the planets, at least those with humans, had a local internet system as well. That's going to have most of the major stuff they need to know, including our general TOE, tactics, strategy. That assumes they think like us, of course. What do we have on their methods of intel gathering?"
"We know they use stealth ships," Mike said. "They also have a personal cloaking ability, which means they can slip in teams without anyone seeing them, assuming people don't have the right technology to see them. We're redesigning combat glasses to detect cloaked personnel, ditto ship sensors, et cetera."
"But they're not in use at the moment," Stewart said.
"Nope," Mike admitted.
"Can they have units in this system?" Stewart asked.
"I think they're like the Himmit," Mike admitted. "They could have somebody in this room."
"Lovely thought," Stewart said.
"And that is your lovely thought for today and tomorrow and until we win," Mike said, tossing Stewart an AID. "You're now in charge of Intel. Figure out what we don't know, figure out what they can find out and stop them from finding it out. And find out what you can about them that the Himmit can't."
"Great," Stewart said, looking at the device balefully. "I hate these things."
"I'm given to understand that one is 'clean' for values of clean," Mike said. "And they're going to get cleaner. But determining what clean means is one of your first jobs. There's a major in your department who's been collecting intel from the Himmit, and Rigas is in the building. I suspect we're bleeding intel to these guys and we're not getting much in the opposite direction. Change that."
"Gotcha," Stewart said, standing up. "So, Dad, when are you coming to see the grandkids?"
"Excuse me?" Mike said, neutrally.
"Uh . . ." Stewart said, grimacing. "When are you going to finally see your grandkids?"
"I got that part," Mike said, blinking. "The answer is as soon as I get a few more fires put out. It was the 'Dad' part that I'm asking about."
"I guess Cally left that out, huh?" Stewart said, sitting back down.
"I guess she did," Mike growled. "So you want to tell me the rest?"
Stewart looked at him askance for a moment then frowned.
"Oh, you . . ."
"I think you used runt bastard the last time," Mike said, grinning. "I'm going to take some time this weekend and run down to the Island. If you come along we can make it a working trip."
"Wouldn't miss it for worlds," Stewart said. "I'll tell you this, Boss, it's good to be back. New invasion, backs to the wall and all."
"And I'll tell you now, Son, that there are going to be days you'll long for the comfort, security and placidity of the Tongs."
"I have seen you Kobolds work before," Mühlenkampf said, trying not to seem impressed. "But this exceeds my expectations."
"This" was not only a row of refurbished fighting systems but the new facility that produced them. The building, sixty meters high, covering better than forty hectares and filled with the noise of happy industry, was made entirely of metal. Several thousand Indowy had spent less than a week surveying the entire valley of equipment. Whenever a vehicle was determined to be beyond recovery it was carried to shredders, pushed through forges and came out as the base material of the building.
By the time the survey was complete, the building was complete. Then vehicles started moving. Tanks, trucks, artillery pieces, mobile rocket launchers, light wheeled vehicles. It didn't matter to the Indowy, who were used to customized construction and renovation. System came in one end as a rusted pile of scrap and exited the other as better than it had
left its original factory floor. Within another week the Indowy had mastered the technique and were turning out a system, virtually any system, at a rate of better than one every ten minutes, twenty-four hours per day. Electronics were upgraded, guns were improved, seating was more comfortable. And more . . .
"A human associate refers to this as the 'magic pixie dust,' " Etari said, walking past a line of vehicles that were being painted.
As far as Mühlenkampf could see, it was just making them very very shiny. He was not enthusiastic about the idea of taking shiny vehicles into combat.