Cally's War

by John Ringo

  The Tir was now sitting bolt upright, whiskers trembling. He took a moment to breathe carefully before speaking.

  "Forward the information to Mr. Stuart. Tell him we would prefer as much information regarding these . . . supplies . . . as possible, but in no case should Fleet Strike have them. Having the supplies disclose information in uncontrolled circumstances would be . . . adverse to our interests," he said.

  "Yes, your Tir. It is done," it replied.

  The Indowy body servants continued their ministrations uninterrupted. One disappeared briefly into the kitchen, reappearing with an ornate tray set with fresh vegetables from three different worlds. As always, the personal service made the food marginally less distasteful.

  * * *

  Somewhere under Indiana, Saturday, June 15, afternoon

  Nathan O'Reilly looked up as his office door slid open with no announcement, surprised to see the Indowy Aelool in his doorway. The muscles around the eyes were crinkled and the ears turned slightly inward in an expression that was either grave, worried, or both.

  "My goodness, what's wrong?" He got a bottled water from a small cooler and poured it into a fresh glass, setting it on the end table and backing away. His friend usually affected unconcern around human carnivores out of politeness, but the priest felt it might be a bit much to expect of him in his clearly distressed state.

  "Team Hector is compromised. Our leak, as you call it, has sprung again." He sat in a human-sized chair absentmindedly, perched on the edge, legs swinging nervously, plucking absently at the green tendrils of his left leg.

  "When and what can we do about it?" O'Reilly pulled up the team's schedule with an aside to his AID.

  "Identities and itineraries over the next few days are in Fleet Strike and Darhel hands. Names, aliases, DNA patterns. The whole team," he tutted lightly. "Unfortunately, as large a loss as an entire team will be, it pales next to the value of our sources of information close to the Tir. We can do little. Nothing, without a plausible cover story for how we know."

  "We can put an extraction team in place on hold status. Activate them if we get any kind of cover we can use, leave them if not. Who knows, the other side might get sloppy." The priest didn't sound very confident.

  "Is there anything new from Team Isaac?" the Indowy asked.

  "Since we last talked? No, unfortunately not. Harris in traffic analysis is bright. I'll set her to work looking for anything we can leak back to point in a plausible wrong direction for how we knew. I think that's all we can do." He walked over and stared out of his virtual window.

  "As long as you are absolutely confident that if they do not get direct authorization the extraction team will remain inactive. I do not need to remind you that the stakes here are very high," Aelool was just a bit shrill.

  "So—do we risk a message to Papa O'Neal that now would be a good time for results?" He tapped his fingertips on the glass.

  "I would suggest no. They know the stakes and the risks. I would be correct in thinking they are already as motivated as it is possible to be? Then there is no gain and some risk. Don't you have a phrase? Jostling the elbow? I think better not." He walked over beside his friend and looked up at the fake window. Like all the Indowy, he probably found it difficult to understand why humans needed to pretend to be close to the outside and empty spaces, even when they were cozily packed together with their own clans and very best friends.

  "Agreed," the priest said.

  "You still pray, do you not? Perhaps it would be a good time." Looking a bit bewildered, most likely at the virtual window, Aelool left.

  Chicago, Saturday, June 15, afternoon

  "Peter, you have an urgent memo coming in from General Stewart, covered as Lieutenant Pryce on Titan Base," his AID chimed.

  "He got a live one?" Vanderberg sat bolt upright in his chair.

  "Not exactly, Peter. What he got was four names and identifying information including DNA, itineraries, aliases, and current physical descriptions of agents in the Chicago area," it said.

  "Holy shit! DNA, too?" Somebody up there likes me.

  "That's what he says, and the file attached has all of that." The AID even sounded pleased.

  "Wow. Show me the file." He shook his head as he scanned the details. "Shit, Stewart hit the jackpot. Get me Morrison." He stood and walked over to the window, tapping his lips with one finger.

  "I'm sorry, Peter. Morrison is out of pocket. He has a dental appointment," it said.

  "Dental appointment?" He turned, looking at the AID on his desk as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  "He broke a tooth. He's in for a replacement."

  "Geez, did something happen? Is he all right?" he asked.

  "No accident. I believe it was a statistical certainty sooner or later. He chews ice." The AID's voice had that prim note they took on when they disapproved of something. The AID personalities had odd notions of propriety sometimes. In this case, he suspected the cause of disapproval was that anyone would do anything so inconsiderate as to engage in a habit that would eventually necessitate taking time off from work. Every once in a while, AIDs were really strange.

  "Okay, have him come in first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, I don't think this can wait. Send in Lewis, I guess. No, cancel that. I'd rather lose a day than bring in an extra person on something like this. Shit. Tell Morrison I want him in here tomorrow at seven thirty. We can at least get an early start." He locked his hands behind his head and began to pace, already turning possible scenarios over in his head.

  "You are aware that tomorrow is Sunday, right?" it said.

  "Yeah. I hate it, but this can't wait." He waved one hand impatiently and kept on pacing.

  "That's fine, Peter. I'm just following your standing order to remind you."

  "Yeah, that. Thanks, Jenny." Wow. What a break.

  * * *

  Titan Base, Saturday, June 15, afternoon

  There were so few public access terminals these days. Everybody and his sister had a PDA, well, except for the lucky bastards with AIDs. Well, clean ones, anyway. But PDAs sometimes broke, or people lost them—anyway, thank god for public access terminals.

  This one was in the middle of the busiest section of the Corridor he could find. There was so much visual noise here with all the other people passing that no particular pedestrian would ever remember him. Not that anybody but the Bane Sidhe would be looking, and by the time they were, he'd be long gone.

  He had really wanted to spend his retirement on Earth—the amenities were so much better, even when one was perforce keeping a low profile. Oh, well, things were how they were.

  Dulain was a good planet. One of the first colonized by humans, and it had some hazards, but it also had a good belt of very pleasant islands. Not too great a place to work as a penniless colonist. But just fine for someone with a nice nest egg. And a ship was leaving at nineteen-thirty on Tuesday. Perfect. It only took him a few moments to transfer the funds from his numbered accounts to numbered accounts on Dulain. He'd opened an account on Titan with some of the cash from his payoff. The rest he had, unfortunately, had to deposit in a public locker, taking his chances. Still, the important part about the cash was the ability to buy his outbound ticket under an uncompromised ID.

  And he'd never have to eat another soybean corn dog again. Ever.

  * * *

  Titan Base, Saturday, June 15, late afternoon

  The newsstand on the corner of level eight and hallway Romeo on the Corridor had a good solid range of over the counter medications, including several popular diet mixes that were mostly diuretics. Cally picked the distinctive orange and yellow package because this particular diuretic combination was not just fast acting, it was also mostly tasteless and the effective dose was small. A beer would be enough to hide the very mild taste, even from someone like her.

  I hate drugging him at all. The least I can do is set it up so what I give him is as harmless as possible. Well, embarrassing, maybe, if he doesn't run f
ast enough. Still, that's as harmless I can make it. At least I don't have to use it for a few days.

  She was wearing her least conspicuous bra under the silks as she made the buy. Less out of real need than out of the normal tradecraft of reducing conspicuous factors. Obviously it was not enough. She was sure the Asian cashier's eyes never even flickered above her collarbone.

  * * *

  Titan Base, Saturday, June 15, evening

  James Stewart stood in front of the glass of his beach picture, trying to get enough of a reflection to make sure his hair was all right. He sure hadn't been this excited about coming in to work on a Saturday night in a long time. But then, he wasn't here to work.

  In the silence of the empty headquarters office, he could hear the swish of the front door. The bag in her arms puzzled him briefly, until he remembered that she was supposed to bring dinner. He should have been hungry, but he'd never felt less like eating in his life. Well, not food, anyway. He grinned broadly as she came in and put the bag down on the front desk.

  He reached for her and pulled her against him, one hand pressed into the small of her back, and the other buried in her hair. Her belly was pressed tight against his, her breasts squashed but still soft against his chest. He wanted to screw her now. Right now.

  He tried to pull her back towards his office, or hers, but she wouldn't go, laughing teasingly.

  "Why not right here?" She patted the top of the desk, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Or here . . ." She slid off the edge of the desk and fell back into the chair, spinning in it and laughing.

  He quirked an eyebrow skeptically, imagining how far he'd have to bend his knees for that to work. But she was ahead of him. That, or she'd read his mind, pressing the button that activated the chair's hydraulics, raising it to its limit.

  As she unsealed the front seam of her silks and shrugged them off her shoulders, he reconsidered. Perhaps it was workable after all. Especially once she lifted her knees and gripped, taking a lot of the weight off his knees. As the rhythm of sex took him over, the brush of her nipples against his chest making him fight for every bit of the control needed to make it last, he promised himself that he'd never question her assessment of what was physically possible again.

  After they fixed Anders' philodendron, which had somehow gotten dislodged from its terra cotta pot, they ate dinner in Sinda's office. He didn't know where she'd come up with an old-fashioned picnic of cold fried chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, and chocolate chip cookies, but it sure was good. Especially the ice-cold genuine Milwaukee beer, which must have cost her a small fortune.

  Afterward, she seduced him—not that he resisted, of course—on the slimy sonofabitch's desk. He had to admit he appreciated the irony.

  * * *

  Sunday, June 16, afternoon

  The smell of her hair was thick in his nostrils as her kisses—interspersed with a few bites to make sure he was paying attention—trailed down his chest. More kiss than bite the farther she went. Finally, she was wrapped around one of his legs, her breasts rubbing against his thigh, nails and body clenched and shuddering against him in ways that showed him that she was having just as much fun as he was.

  The ethereal opening strains of the next song on her cube pierced him with an oddly sweet sadness for a few moments before the hot, driving rhythm kicked in to add to the intensity of what she was doing to him. He didn't try to remember the name of the band or the song, but it came to him anyway. It was a war-time band called Evanescence, the song, "Bring Me to Life," and it couldn't possibly fit their situation, but somehow he knew the music was deeply important to her.

  The vibrance of the music bled onto every sensation, making it more alive—the scent of her, her hands and mouth on him. Her beautiful, pale skin, flushed with sex and luminous with a light sheen of sweat. Even the drab gray of the office walls seemed more intensely real. The music was singing in their bones, and he wondered what in the hell was happening to him. Sex had never been like this.

  The thought wandered through the back of his mind that there was something a little perverse about doing it in a coworker's office, but it was a small thought, and easily banished. Besides, Li had gotten a couch for his office. Not leather, but a reasonably good substitute.

  Oh, my God. . . .

  Afterward, over a lunch of grinders, his ham and hers roast beef, they talked. He tended to avoid walks down memory lane when talking to her. Well, when talking to anybody, really. No matter how well you knew and believed your cover, there was always the chance of tripping yourself up. One of the things that made Sinda so easy to talk to was that she didn't try to push their conversations into the past. She was happy to talk about music, or old movies. Okay, so she might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she had this amazing depth to her—and she hadn't exclusively focused on chick flicks. The really incredible thing was she actually got the best parts. He'd never met another woman who watched the Three Stooges and laughed—really laughed. They'd both liked the scene at the end of one of the old spaghetti westerns where the hero "had a problem with his arithmetic." Hell, she was the first girl he'd met in twenty years who'd ever watched them.

  The toughest part of this situation was that he couldn't let himself get involved, no matter how much he might like to. He was living a lie, and there was no telling how her reaction to him would change when she found out the truth. Would she see him as just another opportunist? Would she see him as being like the asshole? Just another predatory juv general? Or could she possibly understand why he'd had to do this?

  * * *

  Springfield, Sunday, June 16, 5 p.m.

  Bobby Mitchell was good at surveillance, and his skills had only improved since leaving law enforcement. A throwback to a touch of Sioux on his daddy's side and a hint of Mex on his momma's, he was a small, slightly nervous man with dark hair, dark eyes, skin that tanned easily, and a talent for blending in with his surroundings, whether people or environmental.

  Bobby maintained his tan very carefully, having noticed early on how disinclined people were to notice a swarthy, average to short man engaged in manual labor.

  Today, he was sweeping a sidewalk across from a park. Bobby's natural vision hadn't been all that good, but the damned aliens had some doctors that weren't too shabby. As he progressed along the sidewalk, he was from twenty to eighty yards from the park bench that allegedly was the enemy dead drop, yet he could clearly make out the features of anyone on or approaching the bench.

  He could have used electronics, of course. And he did have them, as a backup. Still, after seeing just a few of the things his damned alien bosses could do with recorded data, Bobby was a firm believer in the personal touch. He'd never been one to assume the enemy was incompetent or stupid.

  Besides, the mission here was purely confirmation of a tip in advance of a raid.

  He was halfway down the sidewalk sweeping, the second time, when the very average black man with conservative scalp patterns, dressed in a dirty sky blue windbreaker and jeans, sat down on the bench. The face was a dead ringer for one of the four in the tip file, and he admired the smoothness of the man brushing a hand under the edge of the bench under cover of tossing crumbs to the pigeons. You had to admire the artistry. He didn't even see him read it, and only knew it was probably a note on flashpaper from the slight excess flare as the man lit a cigarette, standing and strolling casually back the way he had come.

  Tip confirmed, mission accomplished. Bobby continued his sweeping all around the square, palming his back-up cameras as he passed them.

  The Fleet Strike puke who picked up their cameras from within the park itself half an hour later was clumsy, wearing civilian clothes that were too carefully sloppy and too new and overacting his casualness, although his sleight of hand was acceptable. Still, it was obvious Fleet Strike hadn't faced a serious threat from an opposing intelligence force in a long time.

  Too bad he couldn't count on all their people being that inexperienced. It was probably ov
erkill, but he'd still plan the raid as if they were going to be competent competitors for the prizes.

  After cleaning up the last camera, he disappeared down an alley to his ten-year-old gray sedan, throwing the broom in his back seat. His AID looked like a cheap discount-store brand PDA. He took a moment to call his cousin, "Hey, Johnny. Yeah, it's me. We're on for beer and pizza Tuesday. My place."

  Tip confirmed, raid on schedule, set the wheels in motion. And may we all get nice bonuses out of this.

  * * *

  As he got off the bus, Levon Martin took out the baggy where he'd saved a bit of bread from his sandwich. He tore the bread into crumbs as he walked from the stop to the park.

  It was a beautiful day but a trifle windy. His clothes had the well worn look of the comfortable clothes that a man might wear for a walk on his day off. The air today smelled fresh and green, and he couldn't help but be cheered a bit by the profusion of dandelions that pushed up between the cracks of the crumbling sidewalks, giving way suddenly to solid concrete and well-tended flower boxes as he turned onto the square.

  In the park in the middle of the square, he found a spot on the left end of the bench that was mostly clear of pigeon droppings and sat, playing out the crumbs to the fat, iridescent birds as they waddled and pecked at the bits of bread and sometimes at each other.