Cally's War

by John Ringo

  Then his hands were at the seal of her silks, parting the front of them to show the white lace of her bra. One hand slid around to the small of her back, pressing her closer still, while the other kneaded her breast. She arched against him, clutching her fingers in his hair as he traced a line of kisses along her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone as she clutched at his back. Okay, this isn't going to be so bad. Umm . . . mmm . . . good spot.

  "Not here," he murmured against her skin. She let him take her hand and lead her back down a hall to a bedroom. It smelled faintly dusty, like a guest room, and everything in it was too neat and too perfect. And too feminine. A master bedroom for a couple would never have a pink flowered bedspread. She tilted her head up to kiss him again while he slid the silks off her shoulders, freeing her hands to grab his hips. She wiggled slightly and her uniform slid down to pool at her feet. She fumbled a bit with the catch on his uniform before getting the pressure seal open, so she could slide her hands in and press them flat against the heat of his back.

  She moved with him as he eased her back onto the bed, lying on top of her, but considerately holding his weight on his hands and toes. As they kissed, she helped him get his uniform out of the way as he slid a hand under her to unclasp her bra. After it was out of the way, he sat back for a moment to look. Men always liked to look. She gave him a smile and reached out to pull him back down. His chest was smooth and hairless, as was his jaw line, and she wondered for a second whether he used depilatory foam on it, before deciding that she didn't care. A good lay was just what the doctor ordered, and so far this looked like it was going to turn out to be a good lay.

  * * *

  Afterwards, she helped him change the sheets and remake the bed. She thought it would be a dead giveaway, but when he took out the clean set of sheets, they were identical to the ones that had just come off.

  "Won't your wife notice the extra sheets in the wash?"

  "Not a chance. I'll have them clean and put away in no time. I don't completely shun modern technology, Sinda."

  He seemed a bit uncomfortable as the afterglow wore off. Edgy, as if he didn't quite know what to say to her. She made her excuses and left. No use trying for pillow talk with him in that mood. Maybe next time. She had gotten at least part of what she came for. That was something. Tea and sympathy at the office, make him comfortable. Meanwhile, she had that cube to scan on the off chance that something worthwhile was buried on it. The problem was that the general could be working with anybody, so everything had to be checked.

  And, of course, she had to check in. In the old days of humans versus humans, an in-person meeting was the most dangerous thing there was for an active agent. The Bane Sidhe's experience knew better. The expertise of the Darhel at electronic wizardry had led them to conclude thousands of years before that face-to-face meetings were the best security there was. While it was possible that human electronic information warfare would surpass the Darhel's in time, it hadn't to date. As a result, critical information was sent electronically or over the airwaves only when there was absolutely no other alternative.

  She was getting used to the transit cars now and didn't have any trouble finding one going in her direction and taking it back to the Corridor.

  On the second level from the bottom, on the Fleet and Engineering side, was a sports bar that attracted a solid mix of everything on Titan but colonists, tourists, and nonhumans. It was popular with its clientele because the drinks were relatively cheap, the food filling, and the games on the tank were as close to live as it was possible to get, being tight-beamed up as part of the normal Earth-to-Titan bandwidth. A perceptive client would have noted that people tended to drink more when the drinks were cheap, that drunk people tended to gamble unwisely, and that the establishment provided very convenient access to the house bookie should anyone wish to make a friendly wager on the game.

  The sign above Charlie's was a work of art. Instead of glow paint that looked like neon, it was an actual neon light. Well, neon or one of those other gases. Anyway, it was a big curvy tube of glass instead of glow paint. Like a lot of establishments on the corridor, the bar had double doors to reduce the mixing of too much station air with the air inside. In the case of Charlie's, this was more to keep the pollution in than out. It was one of the few places on base you could smoke tobacco without either carrying around a filter to clean up after yourself or paying an extra air-scrubbing tax. The proprietor, whose name bore no resemblance to "Charlie," believed, correctly, that the distinctive bar smell held many nostalgic associations for the class of patrons he wished to attract, and tended to drive away prudes, tourists, and colonists—all of whom would be bad for business in his particular niche.

  The briefing materials from the Bane Sidhe had warned Cally what to expect when they chose this particular bar for any necessary in-person meetings, but it was almost impossible to describe the reality, as she found when she stepped through the double doors and into the fog of intermingled stale and fresh tobacco and cheap beer—with almost no undertones of Titan's particular mix of swamp gas. It was the first place she'd been since the shuttle port in Chicago that actually smelled like anywhere on Earth. She felt a sharp prickling at the back of her eyes as she took a deep breath. The smoke must be irritating them.

  The bar wasn't packed, but it had a healthy crowd for a weeknight. She wove her way through the tables and the clouds of smoke to get to the bar. She had read that at one point Charlie's had tried a holotank, but forced to choose between holos and tobacco, it had been no contest. Consequently, the tables were all grouped in easy view of large high-definition flatscreens. It wasn't the flatscreen above the bar that caught her attention, though. The thing that really made her glad she came, regardless of the mission, was the sign, posted next to the impressive array of bottles behind the bar, that said, "Proudly Serving 100% Imported Jamaican Coffee."

  "Coffee, please. With a shot of crème de cacao." She put some cash on the counter and left a tip out of her change, turning slightly to watch the screen. Baseball. Indianapolis versus Topeka. The Braves were down by two. She didn't look around the bar. It would have been bad tradecraft, and she had scanned the room thoroughly as she came in. He wasn't here yet. When he arrived, he'd let her know.

  The score was unchanged, but McKenzie had just allowed a double with a runner already on, and she was on her second coffee, when a redheaded man approached the bar and ordered a shot of Kentucky bourbon, and a spare cup. After downing the shot, he tucked a wad of chewing tobacco from a small pouch in his jaw, and looked up at the screen, rubbing his jaw for a second before spitting in the cup. He looked back up at the screen and muttered something that would have been difficult for anyone without enhanced hearing to weed out from the general noise of the bar.

  "I told him their bullpen was weak," he said.

  Cally waited until she saw his eyes skim over and past her, fixing intently on someone off to her left for a moment, as if he had found who he was looking for. She finished her drink and got down from the barstool. Contact had been made, the full team was in place. As she wove back through the tables on her way out a particularly large spacer intercepted her with an outthrust arm, sweeping her into his lap as she let out a shriek.

  "Hey, baby, I got something you're just gonna love!" he leered.

  Cally delivered a ringing slap that rocked his head to the other side, leaving a bright red handprint on the side of his face. The other hand slipped a cube into his pocket as she pushed herself out of his lap and stalked off towards the door, the picture of feminine indignation. There were rough chuckles from the mostly male assemblage as the large and apparently very drunk spacer rubbed his cheek in bewilderment.

  "What'd I do?!" he protested to the air.

  * * *

  Wednesday, June 5

  Wednesday morning the coffee at the office tasted even worse, since she had had something recent to compare it to. And General Beed was apparently not the kind to be contented with a little roll in
the hay now and again. When they were alone, he insisted on touching her, grabbing bits here and there. It wasn't that she was against a little mutual sex here and there in a fuck buddy sense, but good God, had the man no notion of personal space? Apparently not. She smiled at the annoying beast when he came around now and then and generally took it in stride. Honestly, the man was worse than a lonely cat!

  Fortunately for her, one of the general's theories of proper leadership was that a leader should be seen, frequently and unpredictably, by the men he commanded. While in practice this worked out to a tendency to micromanage his subordinates and get in their hair instead of letting them get on with the job at hand, Cally had to be somewhat grateful for it because it tended to get him out and about for a few hours each afternoon during which she could finally have a few minutes peace.

  This particular afternoon he had elected to make a visit to the detention facility, which would keep him out of the office for half the afternoon, at least. Pryce had not gone with him, being busy making arrangements for the general's wife's birthday party, the sort of social obligation which was one of the strange but true realities of military bureaucracy in the Galactic age.

  And thinking of Pryce, the one absolutely completely good thing about screwing Beed is getting some of those built-up hormones under control so I won't be tempted to drag anything male behind a bush . . . or, well, okay, potted miniature tree. So thank God for getting decently laid . . . or, well, okay, that was a little bit blasphemous . . . um . . . whatever. After this mission, I'm definitely hunting down Father O'Reilly and asking him to hear my confession. I've . . . kind of let that slide.

  She was filing the printouts of the morning e-mails, while envisioning creative and artistic ways for Beed to die, when she heard a crash and jumped, whirling to find the lieutenant sitting on the edge of her desk, her stapler lying nearby on the floor. He shrugged apologetically.

  "Good Lord, Pryce! Don't sneak up on me like that!" She clapped a hand to her chest. "You scared the hell out of me." How the hell did he sneak up on me? Me? Nobody sneaks up on me. It's just . . . wrong. I feel okay, I don't think anything's wrong . . . geez, he's quiet. Well, until he trips over something or knocks something over, anyway.

  "S-sorry, ma'am. I just dropped by to see how you were settling in." He grinned mischievously. "Well, and to take a break from my canapé passing and preparations thereto."

  His eyes, and that grin, made her feel like her bones had all suddenly just melted away. She stood there blinking at him for a couple of seconds before managing to get her brain back in gear and move back to her desk.

  "I'm settling in okay, I guess." She pushed her hair back with a hand. "Are there many canapé situations on Titan?"

  "Some." He shrugged. The brass have to do something for fun."

  "That's a rather irreverent attitude, Pryce."

  "Yes, ma'am. No excuse, ma'am." But his eyes twinkled at her, and she smiled.

  "I'd ask you to dinner again tonight, if we weren't in the same chain of command." His eyes focused on hers.

  "I'd accept, if we weren't in the same chain of command," she met his eyes and looked away, "and if I didn't think I was likely to have to work late tonight."

  He reached a finger under her chin and pulled her head around, gently, looking her in the eyes. She met his scrutiny for a moment that seemed to last an hour, or maybe a year.

  "Okay." He nodded, and somehow she got the feeling that he understood. She didn't know how he could have, or how she knew, but she knew he did.

  * * *

  General Beed did not request her presence at a working dinner this evening. Nor did he return to the office this afternoon. Instead, he phoned the office—another eccentricity of his, there was an actual phone on her desk, when she had a perfectly capable PDA that actually was with her when she was away from the desk. On the phone, he requested that she grab a bite of dinner and then bring the Leave File with her, and asked if it would be convenient for him to stop by her quarters on his way between meetings to edit and finalize the changes so she could get the document printed and ready for a staff meeting early Thursday morning. She had, of course, agreed. Sure, General darling. You screw me so maybe I can screw you.

  So here she was at Super Burgers with a double deluxe cheeseburger, fries, a double strawberry shake, and a manila envelope, enjoying the fluorescent orange and acid green Galplas décor while she stuffed her food down prior to going to her quarters to try to make some progress on her real job. Oh, joy. He's not bad looking, and not a bad lay, if he were just a little bit less insensitive.

  The restaurant décor had its intended effect and she finished quickly and left, stuffing the trash through the disposal slot on her way out the door. In the transit car on the way back to her quarters she brought up the room controls on her PDA and adjusted the lights, temperature, and background music to reflect the right mood. Relaxed was good.

  She hadn't been home long when he arrived. She'd considered ditching her silks in favor of something less comfortable but more tempting, but had decided it was out of character. Which was just as well. She didn't actually object to Beed, and he was a step above being alone, and she wanted to find out whatever he knew. Still, she was more comfortable meeting him in the ordinary uniform of her cover than something else. Lingerie would have been a tad too personal. Which was odd because usually by now she would have been so subsumed in the role she wouldn't consciously think of it being a cover.

  As he came in the door, letting it slide closed behind him, she brushed at her hair with one hand in deliberate Sinda-ness. It reminded her of who she was as she shyly, but with increasing eagerness, met his kiss.

  Some few minutes later as she rolled with him through yet another position change she almost had to fight for a straight face. Okay, so it's acrobatics night. Why do men always do this? It's always either the first or the second lay, and they always go through the same damn five positions, like they're trying to demonstrate how cosmopolitan or kinky or educated they are, or whatever. Eyes slightly wide, of course I've never done this before. Back into character, roll with it, I'd . . . really . . . rather . . . not . . . have . . . to fake it. Um . . . good spot . . . okay . . . that works . . . let's be nice and enthusiastic so he knows it works. "Oh . . . oh god that's so good! God . . . please, please, please don't stop . . . ah . . . um . . . ah . . ." Okay, he's . . . getting . . . the point. Yeah. That's . . . g—. Aaah. Okay. Good. All right, your turn, here we go, yeah, that's right, you taught me to do that you stud you. Sure you did. Come on, come on . . . There. Good. Now, question is, are you relaxed enough.

  "Oh, Bernie, thank you. That was so good." She hugged him gently, kissing his chest and playing across it idly with her fingers while she lay curled on his shoulder.

  "It's never been like that for me, before. There's a sense of . . . I don't know . . . authority, maybe. I don't know, put like that it sounds kind of mundane, and," she walked her fingers up his chest, "it was wonderful." She hugged him and gave him a giddy smile, planting another kiss on his chest.

  "Oh, I don't think it's—what did you say—mundane at all." He cupped his hand around her breast, idly playing the nipple through his fingers. "You're a very intuitive woman, Sinda. It's one of your charms."

  "You," she started kissing her way down his chest, "are flattering me." She began idly licking and kissing his skin, enough to be distracting, but not enough to actually render him speechless.

  "It doesn't take any particular intuition to know you're a general, General." She traced a circle with her tongue at the crease where his thigh met his hip. "But a little flattery's okay. I like it. Is it, you know, okay if I do this? You don't mind, do you? Tell me if, you know, I'm not doing it right."

  "You're doing fine, sweetheart. Just let your imagination go. Just . . . uh . . . no teeth, okay?"

  "Mmm . . . no problem.

  "Did I do . . . that . . . right?" Her voice was tentative, with a hint of nervous little girl in it, as she snug
gled back up against him.

  "Oh, yeah," he breathed. "You should always trust your intuition, dear, especially in bed. You know, I'm not just any general." His chest inflated slightly. "Generals are a dime a dozen. I'm in this position because I've been entrusted with a very important project." He chuckled, stroking her hair. "You're not a spy, are you?" he teased. "Anyway, I haven't really told you anything. Just confirmed your intuition." He kissed the top of her head gently before swinging his legs over the side of her bed.

  "Do you have to go?" She ran a finger down his hip. He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, gently, before setting it back down at her side.

  "I'm afraid so. Clarice gets . . . querulous . . . if I'm away overnight."

  She watched him, apparently fascinated, as he dressed, as he kissed her, as he left. As the door slid shut behind him she flipped on the filter next to her bed and lit a cigarette.

  "Lights out." She sat with her back propped against the Galplas wall that served in place of a headboard, eyes open, unfocused, as the single orange point threw shadows on the walls.

  * * *

  Thursday, June 6

  Thursday morning, Pryce stopped in to her office while the general was indisposed. Damn this kid. You would think getting laid twice in as many days would have the old hormones down to a dull roar. Nobody should smell this good. It ought to be . . . I don't know . . . illegal or something.

  "What's on your mind, Pryce?"

  "I've just got a minute." He turned away from her, running a hand through his hair. Not a good idea with Beed's emphasis on appearance.

  "You're not . . . investing too much emotionally in working late . . . I hope. . . . Dammit, Makepeace, you're too damn young and I don't want you to get hurt!"

  "I'm young, Pryce? Hello?"

  He turned back, stumbling a little, and flushed.