Honor of the Clan-ARC

by John Ringo

  "It's a VIP death, screw it up and our asses would be in a crack for sure. That means I'm doing everything by the book. If the Tir denies permission for an autopsy it's no skin off my nose as long as I can document that I asked. If something goes wrong, I don't plan to take the fall for it."

  "Gonna be hell to get him to agree to this."

  "We've at least got to have proof that we tried. CYA, buddy."

  "I hear that. Okay, gimme a minute." Johnny stepped outside and pulled the black box off his belt. Not that he needed to talk into it, it just felt wrong to talk to empty air like a head case. "Tina, get me Tir Dol Ron."

  "He's a very busy person. I'll try," it said. "You're in luck. Here he is."

  "Why are you interrupting me, Mr. Stuart?"

  "I'm sorry, your Tir. I need special permission for something."

  "And that is?"

  "Whenever we investigate a suspicious death on Earth, we can't get enough information to tell what happened without an autopsy." He made sure to put the why ahead of the what to try to head off a knee-jerk reaction.

  "What's an autopsy?"

  "It's where a specialist examines the body to get clues about what happened in the person's last moments. Those clues are always a big part of reconstructing the circumstances of the death."

  "This is unacceptable. We already know what happened in the Darhel Pardal's last moments. He failed to control himself and went into lintatai," The Tir bit the words out, as if loath to admit the species' weakness to a mere human. "However, if it makes your report more thorough to personally go look at the remains, do so."

  Johnny grimaced. The Tir wasn't for a minute going to admit that the Darhel didn't want humans to know any more about them than they had to. And he clearly didn't understand the nature of the procedure. This was going to be delicate. "Sir, I know the security situation is delicate, and I do have ideas about how to protect your interests. The examination would be primarily conducted by an AID, with the specialist only present to tell the AID what kinds of things to examine, then your security employee, Bobby, would instruct the AID in how to analyze the results for the final report."

  "The degree of observational opportunity to the human physician is unacceptable. It would be a human physician, correct?"

  "Sir, while a human physician specializing in deaths would be necessary, steps could be taken to ensure anything sensitive he learned about Darhel in general was . . . contained. Completely contained."

  He could hear the Darhel breathing hard before it asked, more collectedly, "You have several days before this must happen, for your death expert to do his work?"

  "Uh . . . sir, to get the information we need, waiting would . . . Sir, do you really want to know?"

  "No! No I don't. You may do your . . . work, provided you guarantee information security in . . . some way that preserves our interests. I cannot emphasize enough how displeased I would be at a security breach of this nature."

  "I understand, sir. I understand completely."

  "This did need my personal attention. Try to avoid other incidents of this kind. I find the interruptions distasteful." The Darhel's breathing exercises were still audible in the AID network's transmission. He hated getting the boss upset—for the sake of his own skin rather than any liking of his employer. Bobby was right, though. When two risks to his safety conflicted, he just had to guess which one was smaller and go with it. He grimaced and walked back into the office.

  "So do we have a go, or not?"

  "We've got a go. But we need a pathologist who's good enough, but expendable."

  Bobby winced. "Gotcha," he said. "I'll try to find one who doesn't have too many people to scream when he's gone. And keep the assignment itself confidential. We might need to do this again someday, and I'd hate to have trouble finding help next time."

  "Good point. So we pick somebody who likes money enough to get stupid."

  Johnny Stuart ignored the muffled pop sound from the morgue and looked at the report projected by his AID. He sat in the ground floor breakroom customarily used by the former pathologist and his staff, also ignoring the flunkies going past to help Bobby clean up the mess. The Darhel corpse, of course, had to be removed completely.

  Interesting results. The Tir was going to be extremely pissed. His chief of trouble prevention was torn between having an extreme plum of information to show for his efforts, and vindicating his call for an examination, versus nervousness about delivering the news. He had had to have a less intimidating staffer interview the Indowy who had cleaned the room. That report told him more about Darhel and lintatai than he'd ever wanted to know—specifically that he never wanted to be in the room when it happened, and that whoever had been was some kind of superman or something. A superman with a taste for blue silk shirts, judging by the scraps of fabric the departed doctor had pulled from Pardal's gut. It never for a moment occurred to him that the killer might have been a woman. The sheer athleticism it had taken to get out alive ruled that out.

  His cousin had emerged from the autopsy room, leaving the scutwork to the less well-paid help. It was amazing how fast you got used to money and power. Despite appearances, Bobby wasn't on the payroll because he was Johnny's cousin. Bobby was on the payroll because he combined a solid background in law enforcement with one very special, crucial talent. Bobby was what you'd call a well-socialized sociopath. He could follow the rules of his employer without deviation when he wanted—because getting caught was a certainty, and he knew it. Someone without his talent would be tempted by all kinds of feelings, from love, to family ties, to friendship, to guilt.

  Johnny could do the job, even enjoyed the job, but the nightmares were a stone bitch. He probably kept three researchers employed at Smith-Kline-Reynolds all by himself keeping him in sleeping pills. It was rare for the job to bug him, but the times it did he was torn between wondering whether he never should have taken the Darhel's dollar at any price, or whether he just plain liked it too much. The dead doctor in the other room didn't bug him, but he was just as glad that Bobby was the one to cap the prick.

  Johnny's talent was management, especially of useful personalities. He kept Bobby unbored and made sure he had no hassles about getting laid. Easy arrangement. Bobby screwed whoever he wanted, Johnny had the girls checked out, before or after, and dealt with if they were a risk. Worked out for everybody.

  Just now, Bobby was cursing at the coffee machine. In the present economy, it was unsurprising to find a pre-war junker of a machine, technically an antique, still in noisy, clunking service in the basement of a modern hospital. The offending machine had taken his money, and was straining noisily, but had failed to deposit the requisite paper cup in the appropriate slot. Johnny obliged by going over to the machine to exercise one of his own special talents—a mostly useless one, but still a talent. He could hear exactly where the problem was and somehow just sense where the problem was likely to be. He obligingly thwacked the machine on just the right spot to make it disgorge the cup and fill it with the doubtless crappy coffee.

  "Thanks," his cousin said.

  "No problem. Everything all right?" Johnny jerked his head towards the morgue.

  "No problems. Where do we ditch the Darhel and the other dude?"

  "Back where we found him, on top of the building. Nobody's allowed up there, and if we stick him in the right place, my understanding is that the Indowy will neatly haul them to the in-building trash incinerator. As easy as inserting tab A into slot B."

  "Reminds me, I need the name of a new pimp. Freddie's girls are getting a bit long in the tooth." His cousin's tone was bland. The brief adrenaline rush had obviously worn off already.

  "Sure. Tina, send him the next three on the list." He had warned his cousin about the circumstances of his predecessor's demise, but it went in one ear and out the other. He was almost clean in his operational habits.

  His cousin didn't need conversation; in fact would prefer not to be distracted from his computer game, so the room was
silent. He himself was preoccupied deciding exactly how he was going to present his findings to the Tir.

  He had ample time, as the cleanup took several hours. Thank God for federal agents, who had the entire area tightly locked down. The former forensic examiner would be "involved in a sensitive murder investigation" permanently. The agents, believing it themselves, would handle inquiries down the road with the excuse of witness relocation. In a way, that was even true. His ashes, along with those of Pardal and whatever trash was in the building that day, had to end up somewhere. He supposed being murdered counted as involved in a murder investigation. Minus the investigation part. Whatever.

  Chapter Five

  Saturday, December 26, 2054

  Johnny Stuart sat behind his cheap plastic desk, one that looked a lot more like wood than its forebears of nearly a century ago, and surveyed his cousin grimly. It was a good idea. It was just the kind of plan he'd asked for. It was also damned cold. He felt ghostly tugs at the remnants of a conscience he didn't know he still had, and couldn't help picturing his daughter, Mary Lynn, as one of the victims. The pang was fleeting; he did have a job to do.

  "How are you going to prevent early discovery of the bodies? Or news reports of the disappearances?"

  "It's not that hard. People generally don't fight the first day or two of a missing persons case when the police are insisting on waiting. Oh, they bitch, but they don't go all out calling the media and lawyers. If a seemingly kind cop or two is surreptitiously checking things out despite the rules, or appears to be, families think they've won something. They bitch, they panic, they're pissed—but no calls to the media or lawyers. In other words, over the time span we've got, we pick the right targets in the right order and we can keep a lid on the hits until January first. Then the various anonymous tips make sure everything breaks at once. Families don't want to give up hope until they identify the body. Right targets, right order, and we're golden," Bobby assured him.

  "Take the first hit. It's a beloved niece and the twin brother. The girl's a coed—has a habit of taking off on road trips without telling anyone where she's going. If they can't reach her, they'll take awhile before they get too worried. The twin brother will have a very convincing car accident—convincing until the evidence gets dropped in the cops' lap, along with the location of the niece's body. It's first because it has a long lag time, but not best because it's a more peripheral relative. As we get down to the wire, we can do targets that are a lot more significant because we don't have to hold suspicion down for as long." The killer shrugged. "It's all in the timing."

  Johnny was sometimes a little nauseated at the way his cousin's mind worked. Only a little, though. It was business, and this kind of thing was why he kept Bobby on the payroll in the first place, "Okay. How about an extra month's salary for every hit?"

  His cousin nodded. "Per body, and half of it in sales-tax-free goods. Plus, of course, you pay all the expenses, including the cost of hiring extra help."

  "Done," Johnny agreed. It was fairly cheap for murder for hire, but partly because Bobby could count on a steady salary and kick-ass benefits. The tax-free goods was a smart idea, because with the high prices, and some kinds of consumer goods rare, hookers would usually take all or part of a fee in barter. High-end whores would do almost anything for real French perfume or cashmere. With Bobby's tastes, that was a necessity.

  "Why don't you and the kid come out for dinner next weekend, after we've got off the first round of this thing? Help me celebrate my bonus a little," Bobby said.

  "Great. I'd like that." A free meal was a free meal, and Mary Lynn could use the cheer of a meal out. "Hey, Bob, if you bring a date, could she be a, well, a discreet one?" He didn't want to piss off his benefactor, but he didn't really want his baby girl watching a whore climb all over Uncle Bobby all evening.

  His cousin's lips tightened a little for a long second, but finally he shrugged. "Sure, Johnny. Whatever. Guess it would be a bit much for the kid. I guess I can have one meal without the entertainment." He actually grinned, as if the idea amused him.

  This grin actually reached his eyes and Johnny suppressed a shudder. That little glint always reminded him of the Tir for some reason.

  "Oh, and Bobby?" Johnny decided to keep the other man happy; offer something in exchange for the request about the whore. "Don't let it fuck up your holiday, okay. You're already off through the 27th, right? If you start Monday, can you get it all done by New Year's?"

  "Sure, whatever," Mitchell shrugged. "I could have fun with a little time off."

  Saturday, December 26, 2054

  "I told you it's impossible," buckley said. It obviously believed it, because it had that smug tone again.

  Cally stared at the layout it was projecting over her desk and shook her head, pushed a stray strand of hair back behind her ear and took a jerky swig of coffee. It was goddamned frustrating was what it was.

  Papa's cryptic and encrypted message had sent her on a scavenger hunt of digging up bits of data the professionally paranoid old man had hidden over half the island and a good bit of the internet. In some cases literally digging up, as he'd apparently been stashing PDAs on the island since the term was invented.

  What she had finally come up with was the basics of a very sweet smuggling scheme.

  There was a big pocket of aluminum in Venezuela that nobody was mining. Panama was producing excess food. Cuba produced steel and and had facilities for processing aluminum. Panama needed both.

  Food and luxury goods from Panama to Venezuela. Bauxite to Cuba. Steel and forged aluminum to Panama. Repeat. Classic triangle trade.

  Which begged the reason nobody was doing it.

  Venezuela was simply crawling with Posleen. Fleet occasionally used orbital lasers to burn out God-King settlements that got noticeable. It was that bad.

  Anybody who wanted to mine the area would have to get enough premium fighters together, like, say, DAG, to take over and clear the area. The Darhel had tried twice with the usual scum and bounced. It was, in fact, DAG's original mission: Clearing out tough pockets of Posleen.

  Problem being that anyone who got a really good mining operation up and running was going to get tossed out, using one loophole or another, by the Darhel. So the mining operation was going to have to be secret. As was moving the goods.

  Papa had plenty of contacts, go figure, among smugglers in the Caribbean area.

  Papa had been, from the results of the scavenger hunt, looking at the plan for some time. He needed three things.

  A bunch of really premium, highly trained fighters with nothing better to do.

  Check.

  Contacts in Cuba and Panama to fence the goods.

  Check.

  A bunchaton of money.

  Shit.

  "Unless you have something constructive to say, buckley, shut up."

  "It's a disastrous task. Giving up is constructive."

  "Shut up, buckley."

  "Right."

  The only person she knew who knew shady financial deals as well as Granpa was Stewart. For Cally, her husband was forever tied to his nom de guerre from the war against the Posleen. When they met and fell in love, she'd been on a mission and they'd both been under different aliases—he as Lieutenant Pryce, and she as Captain Sinda Makepeace. General James Stewart had been the alias underneath the Pryce alias, and had forever gotten stuck in her mind as his "real" name. The Asian name he wore now as a mid-ranking member of the Tong fit him as badly as his new face. Oh, he was great at carrying off his cover, it just didn't seem "right" to her. His Pryce face had at least been his own, original face. Hers hadn't, but she'd been stuck with it long enough since the mission that she'd gotten used to it. The boobs were still too conspicuous, and she still carried more flesh than she was comfortable with—no matter what the men said. But the face now felt more like it belonged than like a cover. It was kinda creepy.

  None of which got her any closer to solving this damn problem. Stewart. That was her
next option, and she really hated to call it in. It was not common knowledge in the Tong that Stewart was married to someone in the Bane Sidhe. It wasn't even common knowledge that he was married, or a round-eye. Sure, a girlfriend, even kids, but then a blond mistress was a status symbol. The picture on his desk of her and the kids was regarded by his colleagues more as a power statement than an emotional relationship. In their minds, of course he hadn't married the exotic mistress. It would have been a bad career move, and he was a recognized player.

  So, out of concern for his safety, she avoided making contact with him. Proper mistresses came when called—they didn't make demands. She had no choice. Maybe he could make some kind of sense of this mess, but that was the kicker, wasn't it? For him to sort out the mess, he'd have to see the data. That wasn't a security problem; Granpa would be fine with it. The problem was there was no way she could send that much information through a covert pipeline without enormous risk of revealing the pipeline. There was also the sticky bit of using her organization or his. The information either crossed to his organization on this end of the pipeline by her paying to send it up—which wouldn't be cheap—or it crossed to his organization on the far end of the pipeline, with someone Bane Sidhe passing him a data cube. Either way was bad.

  She settled for sending him a brief summary of the problem under cover of love letters. It had to be brief. The still holo of her, done pin-up style, only had just so much room for planting an encrypted message, once you accounted for redundancy. Her encryption task was much more complicated than it seemed. The first thing her Tong contact would do upon her buying the postage was compress it and encrypt the compressed file. This would cause a great deal of data loss, which wouldn't matter a whit if the file were the simple cheesecake holo it pretended to be. Software on the other end would infer the missing data and fill in the gaps. Visually, it would be impossible to tell the difference.