by John Ringo
“Of course if I fail to retrieve the Aerfon Djigahr in a timely fashion, or ensure its destruction, as per our contract that I would not let it be transferred out of Epetar’s hands in any nondestroyed condition, functional, restorable, or reverse-engineerable — if I do not do that, then I will be in breach of my contract with Epetar. However, within our contract, my responsibility does not terminate until one half cycle and twenty-four more Adenast days. I merely begin incurring late fees after Renthenel twenty-one. I am not yet in breach.”
He glared at her. “You know very well that destruction clause was intended to cover any necessary loss of functionality during the research process.”
“Nevertheless, it is in the contract that if I make a good faith effort to avoid destruction, I fulfill my contract by providing you with whatever I learn about the device. The contract does not say the device may not be in other hands at some point or points during the research period. It says I must either return it to Epetar Group at the end of the contract or ensure that it has been irretrievably destroyed during the research period.”
“Research is not being conducted on the device, the task for which your services were contracted. You are in breach,” he insisted.
“Research is most certainly being conducted. The contract gives me supervisory discretion to arrange that research in whatever way seems practical to me at the moment. At this moment, the only practical research option is for the persons that have it to research the device where it is.” Her speech was calm, her manner preternaturally still.
“Research for another group!” he growled, the renowned melodious voice marred with a harsh burr.
“Preliminary research data where the technical results are, as a matter of universal practice, stored in a single, closely protected site and not in that group’s internal storage, as a matter of security. The thieving group’s central facilities do not have technical analyses and results. The most they have is some cubes of pretty footage. Galactic standards do not consider a group in possession of data until it reaches one of their authorized ships, authorized central facilities, or a Darhel member competent to understand the information. I have constant external monitoring that will demonstrate to the satisfaction of a contract court, in the absence of contrary evidence, that the technical research results that would put me in breach have never left for a ship, nor to one of their central facilities, nor a Darhel of the group, whichever it may be, who is technically competent to understand the information. I am not in breach. I suspect Adenar, by the way.”
“That’s a flimsy technicality and you know it.” He waved away her conjecture with one hand. The Darhel was breathing very carefully and deliberately now.
“As your ancestors told the ancestors of the Indowy so many generations ago, in contracts, technicalities are everything,” she said.
“This is not the performance level we have come to expect from Michon Mentats.”
“This is rather precisely the sort of performance we have come to expect from Darhel Groups.” Impassively, she noted the ultrafaint scent of Tal entering his system.
“Fine. Live until the end of your contract. But your wages are in abeyance until you demonstrate the ability to fulfill your obligation,” he sneered. “Make your peace with the Aldenata or whatever you human barbarians do because the day your contract expires unfulfilled, is the last day you eat. You are dismissed!” he said.
Chapter Four
Lieutenant Colonel Jacob Mosovich woke up in the single good hotel in North Chicago, Illinois. Good was an understatement. Most of the town, like any base town, was devoted to separating soldiers from their money. Bright Lion Boulevard ran from Horner Highway to the front gates of the Great Lakes Fleet Training Base. The main street through town was officially named Happiness and Harmony Way. The strip north of the Lion was more popularly known among Fleet’s recruits and lower-level personnel as the H and H, short for “Hooch and Ho.” Horner Highway had the obvious informal designation.
The Serenity Hotel stood to the south of the Lion on the H and H, right between the two decent restaurants and across from a full-service dry cleaning and tailor shop. Jake had known he was in Fleet territory as soon as he saw the gardens in front of the blindingly white facade of the hotel. It had political correctness committee written all over it.
The sidewalk split to circle around a large, top-heavy rock that looked like someone had gone to the trouble of drilling it full of holes. Raked gravel paths curved around miniature fruit trees, classic bonsai trees, and a few canes of bamboo growing up against another large-ish rock. A small waterfall on one side flowed into a small, round pool full of koi and not one, but two, very small islands. Each had its own tiny maple tree and, he had looked closer to be sure, its own by God holey rock. It was meticulously laid out, and each element might have been pretty by itself, but the whole effect was so cluttered it made his eyes ache.
The lobby and interior were better, thank God. His room was comfortable, the bed modern and adjustable, the bath large and deep. In place of the more usual, and cheaper, holoscreen was a full-featured holotank. The tank hooked up to a server of exclusive vids, most of them featuring girls that couldn’t have been older than about twelve. The selection was pretty broad, so he did find some adult movies that had, well, adults. But he hadn’t stayed up too late, and had restricted himself to two of the little bottles of Maotai in the liquor cabinet.
Decades in the service had trimmed everything unnecessary from his morning routine. He was in the lobby in his silks, looking sharp and professional, when General Pennington’s driver phoned his PDA to say they were out front. Like many Fleet officers, Mosovich carried a PDA as well as an AID and frequently tended to “forget” to carry his AID around. Nobody talked openly about the problems with the AIDs during the war, because those who did had a short life expectancy, but not even the Darhel could stop the military grapevine. And, of course, being on detached duty to SOCOM for the duration of this command, he’d be using the most convenient mechanism for staying in touch with his own CO, who was non-Fleet, as well as his mostly non-Fleet men. It wasn’t that none of them had AIDs. It was just that the idiots in procurement and those in the know fought a constant, covert war over the little menaces, which made distribution spotty.
Mosovich stood facing his new XO in front of the troops that would momentarily become his responsibility and privilege. The XO, as acting, was standing in the position of the outgoing commander at the Change of Command Ceremony. The Atlantic Company guidon stood in for the Battalion Colors, snapping in the crisp, October-morning breeze. No one was cold. Their dress uniforms, gray silks with the dark, jungle green stripes that DAG had adopted from the U.S. Special Forces, kept them warm easily, despite the chill that frosted their breath. The silks, made of a Galactic fabric that was incredibly tough, soft, and absolutely wrinkle-proof, looked better than the prewar Army dress uniforms, while being more comfortable than most civilians’ pajamas.
A full Change of Command Ceremony was unusual for a company, but DAG was the elite of the elite — a combined service special operations organization that dealt with the most serious terrorist, pirate, bandit, and insurgent threats for the entire globe. Ranks tended to be inflated with a special operations command like DAG. Company command, whether in the U.S. Army or in Fleet Strike, was ordinarily a captain’s slot. No DAG company had ever gone to less than a major, and that only once — a major of unusual excellence who had been too far outside the zone for immediate promotion had gotten command of South Pacific Company. The platoon designation had been kept for the sake of the DAG table of organization and equipment, and was used on formal occasions. Informally, DAG personnel and their chain of command referred to the operator units of each company simply as Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Given the ranks of the officers and men, platoon wasn’t the best description. Harkening back to some of their organizational antecedents, they thought of and referred to themselves as teams. Still, the bean counters had won that battle on
paper, so far, so platoons they were.
Major Kelly, a pale, black-haired guy the size of a small tree, took the company colors from the Charlie Platoon master sergeant, acting in place of the command sergeant major, and passed them to General Pennington. One of the men read out the orders giving him command. General Pennington passed the standard to Jake. He took them, formally accepting responsibility for his new command. He handed them back to the master sergeant, wishing again that Mueller hadn’t been off-planet when their orders were cut and had been able to arrive before he did. He hadn’t seen him in two years, and it would have been good to have him here.
Pennington was an interesting man. Younger than Jake was, he had for some reason kept his white hair when he rejuved. Medium height but solidly built, he probably wouldn’t have made the height-weight standards before the war. But after they’d been relaxed in the war, everybody’s militaries had just neglected to put them back in place for juvs. Juvs had to work hard at it to get fat, so the bean counters and brass just assumed extra weight on a juv was muscle mass. Jake had met an exception or two, but the general wasn’t it. Still, the hair made him look like a babyfaced old guy. Mosovich let his mind wander during the speeches. They were all pretty meaningless. It was important that you have speeches. Solid military tradition. What was said in those speeches was much less important than having them in the first place. It took a really charismatic speaker to hold the attention of a group of soldiers overdue for their chow. Pennington wasn’t that speaker. Not today, anyway.
“…You men have a vital mission in today’s Special Operations Command, hooah? You form the backbone of Earth’s defense against pirates, insurgents and terrorists. Perhaps more importantly, you serve as a living example of the best traditions of interservice cooperation, and the inclusion of Galactic forces in the SOCOM family is an inspiring step into tomorrow for the armed services, hooah? As I stand here before you today I am awed, awed by…” Pennington’s words flowed over him as his eyes scanned the ranks, noting the sharp, immaculate appearance of his new troops and their officers. Pennington did occasionally draw his attention back, making Jake suppress a smile. The man used “hooah” the way most Canadians he knew used “eh.”
Bravo Platoon was on the obstacle course this morning, stretched out across the obstacles as much by the staggered starting times as by the different speeds of the officers and men. Most of the wood components of the structures were weathered and graying despite originally being pressure treated. Some things, like the wall and team-climbing tower, were obviously new, as they gradually replaced aging equipment. The cargo netting was also new, but someone had judged the wood frame able to withstand yet another replacement net. The rolling logs were original to the course. For some reason logs just didn’t wear at the same rate as the rest of the wood. And, of course, the rusty barbed wire was added incentive to do the low crawl right. The ball buster carried a risk of splinters that also provided incentive for good performance. Bravo’s CO, having started in the last third, made a point of finishing in the first third. He’d pay for it tomorrow, but what the hell, it was only pain.
Captain Jack “Quinn,” born Jack O’Neal, was a short, homely, young-looking man with carrot-colored hair and so many freckles that it was hard to tell whether he was a fair-skinned man with brown dots or a brown-skinned man with fair spots. Anyone who at first made the mistake of classifying him as a little shrimp would be surprised at the strength built into his wiry frame. His team favored “Blackjack” for any mission that involved moving around underwater. The man simply would not float, but had the stamina to be one of the strongest swimmers in DAG. This might have had something to do with his having swum daily in saltwater since before he could walk.
Right now, he was rubbing an army-brown towel over his sweat-soaked hair and squinting into the sun across the O-course to the massive brigade XO, Major Frederick Sunday “Kelly,” jogging across the turf to meet him. One or two of the men looked up as the XO approached. Most hid their curiosity, jogging back to the barracks or the gym for a quick shower and a thorough check to make sure, again, that absolutely everything was clean and squared away for the first look by the new CO. And their first look at him, of course. The ubiquitous PDAs had improved the speed of the ancient grapevine system by leaps and bounds. Captain Quinn and all of his men knew exactly when the colonel would be looking them over, and were determined to ensure that their customary excellence was improved to perfection. He had George O’Neal “Mauldin’s” first impression of the new CO. Now he wanted Boomer’s. He loped down the side of the course to meet the major halfway.
The excessively large officer stopped in front of him and returned his salute before turning to walk beside him back in the direction of the HQ.
“Okay, Boomer, what’s he like?” Quinn said.
“I dunno, Jack. As first impressions go, I don’t think he’s gonna be a bean-counting weenie, and he doesn’t come across as a weasel, but he was kinda quiet. Didn’t give me a lot to go on. His record looks really good, but what the fuck can you tell from them these days? Likes his coffee, but how much can you tell from that?” Major Kelly shrugged. “Speaking of coffee, let’s check out the mess hall and grab a cup. Make sure they got the word. This week would be a hell of a time to burn the stew.”
“Think he’s likely to be too good?” The captain scratched the end of his nose, looking sidelong at his childhood friend.
“Your guess is as good as mine. In case anybody didn’t get the memo, remind them that their opsec has to be flawless until we have a much better idea of what we can get away with.” The major lit a cigar and blew a stream of smoke towards the sky, “Wouldn’t do for him to twig and us lose all this free training. Wouldn’t do at all.”
“I’ll take care of it. Not like I should need to, but I’ll make sure. Doesn’t do to tempt Mr. Murphy,” Jack said.
“Okay, now what do you think of our new Command Sergeant Major?”
“Well, they obviously know each other from way back. I think he’s sharp, he’s going to be the colonel’s eyes and ears. He’s going to be around more; we need to be twice as careful around him,” the captain said. “The good news is, he seems like kind of a blow-hard, you know? Think a thought, say a thought. Subtle ain’t his middle name. So we should be okay with him.” He nodded to the XO and broke into an easy lope, leaving Kelly to his cigar and his thoughts.
Like most DAG personnel, Quinn didn’t live in the barracks. Unlike most of them, one of the privileges of rank he indulged in was keeping a couple of fresh uniforms in his office and taking advantage of the small cubicle shower at the end of the line of stalls in the head down the hall. Before cleaning up, he took out his PDA and phoned the master sergeant who was Bravo’s senior NCO.
“Harrison, go through and remind everybody one more time that with a new CO this is absolutely not the time to get sloppy about anything. It’s probably overkill, but be sure they understand. I’d hate to have to put everybody on corn and soybeans for a week.” The captain said the last in a joking tone, but it was the most serious part of the message, telling the NCO that Bane Sidhe OPSEC was what he most wanted his people to be careful about.
“Hooah, sir,” Harrison acknowledged.
Security taken care of, Quinn headed for the shower. Wouldn’t do to be all sweaty and stuff when the new CO arrived.
Friday 10/15/54
It was a brilliant, cold, windy fall day. The kind of day at the coast where you didn’t dare step outside without a pair of sunglasses to protect your eyes from the bright reflections of the sun and the grit in the air. Cally had accompanied Shari on an island-only shopping trip that was really an excuse to wander around the store and buy some of Ashley Privett’s best fudge. Most of the things they needed themselves were either already back at home, or were on a list for Cally to pick up on the weekend trip to Charleston she had announced that morning at breakfast, telling the kids that no, they couldn’t come this time. It was a mommy trip. She felt a lit
tle guilty that Shari assumed that, going alone, she was going to confession — but only a little. She really was going to take at least a little time to shop for stuff to wear at the family reunion next week like she’d said. She’d just probably shop, well, quickly.
Another purpose of this morning’s trip to, as Shari put it, “beautiful metropolitan Edisto,” was to let them discreetly gawk at the changes in the store. On the island, frequently you had to make your own excitement. Cally waved and smiled at Karen Lee, the wife and coconspirator of an active Bane Sidhe agent. Karen’s family were local for a few years to give the authorities time to forget about them before they went back out to a new posting with fresh, young identities. Karen was a quiet person, who seemed to find the Clan O’Neal personalities on the island a bit overwhelming at times.
True to type, and probably for the best, Granpa had handled the negotiation with the Bane Sidhe over the code key sale. She looked around at the changed store, impressed. Papa O’Neal could get things done in a hurry when he decided he was On A Mission.
With so many FedCreds at stake, they had been remarkably easygoing about the sales commission. As soon as the keys were flown into Charleston, Cally had made delivery to Michelle. The payment, in cash and small denominations, had come in the kind of briefcase that made her feel like the holodramas’ stereotypical drug dealer. She’d paid out their commission to Granpa, who had come back home with a trailer full of trade goods for the store. Charleston being a main port, his large purchases hadn’t caused so much as a raised eyebrow. Similar large cash buys of available light consumer goods were routine there.
Postwar, areas around the world where unusual things could grow or be mined had been rapidly recolonized, leading to the rebirth of the coastal or river-based city-state. Off-planet migration being the poor man’s route to rejuv, that interesting development looked like it might even last awhile. The population to rebuild genuine nations just wasn’t there. The city states’ greatest need, besides essential trade goods, was for the basic end-user products and small comforts the residents couldn’t make for themselves — which was rather like the O’Neals on Edisto, now that she thought about it.
