by John Ringo
"You found 'em. They told me you'd changed, Cally, but damn." He looked her up and down with open appreciation.
"David?" she asked, blinking. Now she could see it around the eyes. The lack of scars had confused her, but somehow he wore his face as if they were still there.
"Yeah. I wouldn't have recognized you, either, except there couldn't be two girls on the island to fit your description." He goggled at her breasts cheerfully, as if he sensed that he was one of the few people that she wouldn't have slapped down like a sledgehammer.
"My eyes are up here," she snapped, but couldn't hide that for once she found it funny.
"Yup. But I'm enjoying the view."
She grinned. "I won't slap you unless you keep me standing out here in the fucking cold."
"Oh, damn. Yeah, come on in." He moved back, opening the door wider and yelling over his shoulder. "Hey, Jake. Got an old friend at the door."
"Old friend, my ass. I would have remembered. Unless you were two or something." Erstwhile Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Mosovich stepped around the corner out of the kitchen, mumbling around a mouthful of gingerbread.
"He missed the briefing," Mueller said with a grin.
"Close. Thirteen," she said.
"Cally?" he squeaked. "Damn, girl. You've grown. An' I'm not just talking up."
Cally stepped through the black, faux wrought-iron curlicues of Ashley's storm door. A green mat like coarse astroturf absorbed the inevitable sand grains falling off her sneakers.
She invited herself in and sat in the painted wooden rocking chair, whose gold-colored built-in seat cushions would have been okay without the worn orange terry cloth pillows someone had added for comfort. Unconsciously, she sat on the edge, her weight tilting the chair forward onto the front of its rockers, arms pulled in at her sides almost as if the ugliness of the room and its furnishings could bite her. Ashley was a nice woman, but Wendy's good taste had clearly skipped a generation.
The men didn't appear to have noticed. David took a seat on the couch at right angles to her, almost knee to knee. The coaster with his glass of iced tea—consumed here even in winter—sat in front of him as if to prove that he wasn't sitting closer than necessary, but just returning to the place he'd left. Jake grabbed the rusty plush recliner and scarfed down another bite of his cookie.
"So, how the hell are you, girl? And when is your disreputable grandfather going to get his ass over here and help me get my men situated?" The words carried a hint of question as to whether the DAG Atlantic people brought underground were still "his" men.
Cally's face fell. "You haven't heard, then."
"Heard what?" Mosovich's face had instantly gone from relaxed to "oh, fuck."
"It's not that bad. It's just that Granpa's been . . . called away on clan business. This isn't just a social call. He left me, along with Michelle, in charge of Clan O'Neal. Catching up with you guys is at the top of my list, but I'm mostly here to touch base and make sure you and the other guys are settling in okay for now."
"So you're in command?" Jake asked.
"It looks that way," she said.
Mosovich's face shifted subtly from surprise into a bland surface that was hard to read.
"Don't sound so enthusiastic, Jake. Most of DAG is here on the island but we can't keep them. Right now, over the holidays, it sort of looks like a big family reunion."
"Which, much to our surprise, seems to be the case," Mueller said. "One of these days you've got to fill me in on how you packed one of the most top-secret and elite spec-ops groups on Earth with half your clan."
"More like a third," Cally said, grinning. "The answer is: We're good. Very good. But at the moment we're stretched. And our usual support isn't . . . quite so supportive."
"So you've got major logistics issues," Mosovich said. "Where do we come in?"
"Right now you're in holding pattern," Cally said. "After the holidays we are going to scatter some of the men, and especially dependents, into safe houses and bases. And we'll get started on the plan for how to use DAG long-term."
"Which is?" Jake asked.
"Right now it's under OPSEC," Cally said, shrugging. "I'll bring you guys in as fast as I can."
"So this was a social call," Mueller said.
"No," Cally said. "This was 'Hi, I'm your new boss. Same as the old boss.' And that I'll get you fully briefed in as soon as I possibly can."
"Roger, dodger," Jake said, nodding. "Been a mushroom before, I can be a mushroom again. For a while."
"Keep the troops straight and we'll get through this just fine," Cally said, standing up. "Any questions?"
"So how did you . . . ?" Mueller said.
"We're very good," Cally said with a sigh. "It's complicated. Any real questions?"
"Just how big are those?" Mueller asked.
"Any real and relevant questions?" Cally asked, shaking her head.
"Nope," Jake said as Mueller started to open his mouth.
"See you soon," Cally said, walking out.
"You get the feeling I'm getting?" Mosovich asked as soon as she was out the door.
"You mean the part where it sucks rocks, or the part where it sucks ass?"
"Yeah. Me too," Jake said glumly.
In the blank gray Galplas mess hall, a baker's dozen of men sat on tables, or leaned, or stood. A silver and black furred alien sonofabitch stood in front of them, hooded cloak thrown back to reveal pointed ears that twitched occasionally as he spoke, in patterns that looked less nervous than some inscrutable form of facial expression. His eyes were such a bright emerald green that they practically glowed, especially against the faintly purple-tinged whites of his eyes.
The tables were of local human manufacture, taken from the pattern of cafeteria tables all over the US of A back on Earth. Plastic tops were a flat pinkish brown, edged around by aluminum. The major difference was that the hardware underneath the table top was also Galplas, as steel mills were a foreign concept to Prall and wouldn't have fit in with the Indowy development plans, anyway. Galplas was actually cheaper. Chairs were the same ugly plastic as the tables, bolted to and supported by heavy aluminum frames.
Garth Karnstadt listened to the Darhel with frank disbelief. There would be a catch. There was always a catch. This guy was trying to make the job sound like the best thing since the invention of beer, with that smooth voice of his that took so many suckers in. Garth had a pretty easy charm of his own, and admired the alien professionally, trying to pick up tricks, but no more than that. In a world peopled with suckers and players, Karnstadt was one of the players, and knew it.
His straight, blond hair had a touch of frizz caused by the peroxide he used to lighten it, but it pulled women better this way, god only knew why. He had big, cobalt blue eyes that seemed to affect females in about the same way a box of chocolate did a fat chick. A complete lack of guilt gave them a quiet, good humor that invited trust. On work runs, he took the heaviest loads and volunteered for the missions with the most strenuous treks. That, and carefully disciplining himself about what he chose from the limited options in the chow hall, ensured that his physique lived up to the promise he offered with those eyes—when he chose.
He had a sweet deal running where during the week he laid a couple of women a bit below his standards for the sake of obtaining a little of whatever baubles or treats their regular lovers or husbands had brought in from town. Most of them well-appreciated a little good sex on the side from someone a little rough like him—but who was always careful to leave them looking and smelling pure as the Virgin Mary. He had cultivated a reputation for advising women on the little details that could have tripped them up. It kept his life smooth, and everybody was happy. Including the husbands and lovers who weren't the least bit hurt by what they didn't know. Then, on the weekends, he traded the little prizes to the hookers in town for their services, essentially getting all his sexual needs met for free and—most importantly—with no strings. The truly hilarious part was the husbands had probably b
ought the shit from the hookers in the first place. He'd gotten a few good laughs out of that in the two and a half years he'd been on Prall.
It had all been pretty sweet until one of the bitches in the barracks had slipped and gotten herself knocked up with what, from the timing, was likely to be his and to look nothing like the naturally red-haired husband and wife. What could he say? He liked redheads. And, for a barracks-bitch, she was pretty cute. She only needed Garth because her husband had the libido of your average turd. Having a reputation among the hens for discretion paid off. Anyway, whatever the catch to it, this deal might be just the thing to get him out of Dodge before the piper came around for his pay.
If a few fuzzy greenies died quick and messy instead of slow and starving, what the hell? Dead was dead, and to hear this fucking Elf tell it, everyone on the list was gonna die pronto, one way or the other. Funny how carefully the bastard had to dance around the concept of killing, stopping now and again to breathe deep like the yoga fanatic Karnstadt did on Wednesdays. Thirty-eight, unjuved so far, and her face looked it. As soon as they juved her, she'd be pretty hot and his party would be over, if he was looking for pay. Although, with juv women, the process pumped their libido so much she just might be available anyway and worth missing one of his hooker dates. She learned quick enough. Damn, not that he'd be here. If Claire had just fucking gone into town for an abortion before the pregnancy turned up on medical, he wouldn't be in this fix. Now, of course, she was confined to base. Abortion was a contract violation, and the fucking Elves on Prall were taking it seriously.
Not that it helped. Garth laughed silently. He had to admire the women for one thing, they were damned clever at keeping their babies out of debt peonage. Frequently didn't work, but it frustrated the shit out of the Darhel when the women had their kids outside of the infirmary—which meant the kid was born without debt—and then handed them straight out, squalling, to women in town who could foster them. It meant every woman in town, even the whores, was raising at least four kids, sometimes as many as eight. Mothers took over on the weekends, giving the whores much-appreciated time off for their pecuniary activities. He didn't know how they managed to feed all those kids, but none of them looked particularly hungry. The mothers and fathers, of course, took some of their own scarce freedom money and paid it to support their kids. But by common agreement, and sheer self-interest, indentured women had as few children as possible. Abortions, although illegal, could be had in town, as well as contraception shots. Damn Claire, anyway. His only consolation was that she was going to have a shitty time paying to support it on her own, and if that was rotten of him, then tough shit. Parenthood was her idea, not his; let her take responsibility for her own damn choice.
He'd missed most of what the Darhel said, by getting distracted with his stupid problems, and Garth cursed himself. But, what the hell, he didn't envy being skewered by a jealous husband if he stayed around here. Not to mention being watched like a hawk by the other jealous husbands. It was common knowledge he screwed around, of course, but every man assumed his own wife was perfectly sexually satisfied at home. Or, at least, the women he chose had that kind of husband. He made a point of skipping the suspicious ones. Damn Claire.
In the end, he decided fuck it, and lined up with the others to give his vocal signature to the contract. Every one of the other guys was signing on, and this bunch didn't look like suckers to him. He'd take his chances.
David Wheeler was not an attractive man. He had been cursed with a large nose, ears that stuck out from his head, and a tendency to freckle. There were some things rejuv just didn't clean up. Sure, his buck teeth had been corrected as a matter of course, but being juved wasn't the same thing as having good, old-fashioned plastic surgery. The other thing rejuv didn't touch was the fundamental personality, nature and nurture together. In David's case, who knew what genes his father had bestowed? His mother had been a war whore, and he was the result of a Galactic policy that treated women like breeding stock. The tendency of adults and children alike to favor the beautiful put a fine polish on whatever nature gave him.
Wheeler shared only a couple of traits with the bleached-blond twit in the shuttle seat next to him. The first was that both were quite fit. He knew the other man's work, such as it was, and its motivation. The second was a complete and total lack of conscience. It was the only thing about the over-sexed moron he remotely respected.
"So, what'd we sign up for?" the other man asked him.
"A trip to the vet. My god, I hope you're not on my team," Wheeler said, pulling his hat down over his eyes and leaning back to catch some sleep. As always, the hat caught and rested closer to his head than his ridiculous ears. Wheeler was used to it. He even liked his ears now. They were an excuse to beat the crap out of, if not actually kill, guys who made fun of them. He'd slipped up and nearly killed one, once. At the time, he thought the slip up was in not killing the little fuck. Then he found out that, had he succeeded, the bastard's entire debt would have been added to his account. As it was, the prick's medical bills were his own problem. Just like the antiseptic for his own knuckles got charged to him.
He grinned slightly as he drifted off to sleep. Never miss a chance to sleep. God, he hoped he wouldn't be working with that vapid twit.
Chapter Three
An hour later, Wheeler groaned mentally as they stood on top of the building that contained their assigned targets. Of course, pretty boy wasn't just on his team. It was worse. What team? Just him and mister never-met-a-pussy-he-wouldn't-fuck. He'd better explain the facts of life to this loser before he had to half kill him.
"You wanted to know what you signed on for? In exchange for killing some Indowy wimps, we get our entire debt paid off, plus a bonus. Almost half the cost of a ticket back to Earth. This is a sweet deal, and if you fuck it up for me, I swear to God I will keep that pretty face of yours uglified for years. Get me?" David, of course, wouldn't be going back before he could afford that plastic surgery and a nice retirement on Earth. He was tired of the stink of sliced and diced Posleen.
"Holy shit." Karnstadt was too busy seeing dollar signs to give a fuck about the threats. "No fear, dude. You just point me at who I gotta kill for that, and we'll get along fine."
One plus. The twit usually did take point on recon patrols, emplacing a lot of sensors, and did, Wheeler admitted grudgingly, kill his share of feral Posleen normals in the process. As much as he was out front, if Karnstadt wasn't pretty good he'd have been thresh for some ravenous carnosauroid moron by now. Okay. Whatever.
"Right. The first task is finding each of these little buggers, and there is a priority to pulling them in. The most important ones—don't ask me why they're important, I dunno—have been called to a meeting like where their debts usually get called in. It's like it would be with us, only the Indowy just let the poor bastards starve to death. We've got this little gadget—kinda a Galactified buckley." Wheeler held up a black box about the size and shape of a box of cigarettes. Neither man had ever seen an AID before. "It can find the headset the critters use when they make stuff—the specific one for our target, and tell if it's in use, and where it is. We just follow this box's directions. It talks. Right, box?"
"I am not a box, I am not a buckley, I am an AID, and yes, I can talk." The AID sounded resigned rather than snippy. It had been in the unassigned pool for what, to a machine that made a supercomputer seem like a digital watch, was an eternity. It had never met user support staff from pre-war Earthtech companies. It neither knew nor cared that those staffers had existed. Still, it and they were kindred souls in long-suffering exasperation with the average user.
"Yeah, but aren't some of these guys going to figure out what's coming and run? What if they aren't at work? What good is that thing then, huh? Thing doesn't even have a screen." Karnstadt took an instant dislike to the little box, as if sensing its own opinion of him.
"I can tell you where their quarters are. Other Indowy would be most reluctant to hide them," the AI
D said.
The two men looked at each other. Wheeler could tell that the twit was thinking the same thing that he was. Both had been born on Earth, and knew if they were caught up in a shrinking net of cops, or a gang, the last place they would go was home. Why would these bastards need anyone to hide them? The building was huge.
"How many of these buggers do we have to kill to get paid?" Karnstadt asked.
"If you kill every individual I find for you, you will have completed your contract." The voice emanated from the box in a way that made David want to cross himself, despite being a long-lapsed Catholic. It was as if a human being were standing right there next to him. Gave him the creeps.
"Yeah? What if the sucker bugs out between when you find him and when you actually get us there?" Garth Karnstadt had run enough cons himself to have a keen sense of when a con might be coming at him.
The AID sounded reluctant as it agreed, "You are only obligated if I get you within range of your eyes, where you can see the specified individual."
"Not good enough. All these little greenies look alike to me. You have to have some way of pointing the specific guy out to us and keeping him pointed out when he tries to get lost in the crowd."
"In all probability, an Indowy will not attempt to flee," the AID lied smoothly.
"You didn't promise to point him out. If you don't keep him positively identified until we've got our hands on him, the deal's off."
Wheeler restrained himself from breaking into the conversation. Yeah, he wanted the prize, but not enough to take his hand off the game. He wouldn't have thought of bargaining with the thing to tighten the agreement up. Maybe the other guy wasn't a complete twit after all.
The AID's tone was positively frosty as, after a noticeable pause, it agreed. "Acceptable."