by John Ringo
Who was looking around the lunar space-station transfer point in annoyance.
"I checked with Aelool before we left," Cally said. "He said that the slabs had been turned over to Fleet Strike and were being sent to the Lunar hospital. Which means they're somewhere down there," she added, pointing down.
"Well, since you're technically a civilian . . ." Bryce said, shrugging. "Good luck getting to them."
"We're contract individuals with Fleet Strike," Cally pointed out. "We should have access to the same medical as soldiers. Which means that I should have access."
"So you're going to explain that you used a slab to imitate a Fleet Strike captain on an infiltration of Fleet Strike counter-intel?" Bryce asked.
"No," Cally said. "I'm going to tell them they don't have the need to know. But first I'm going to call Daddy."
"I suppose you should have access to them," Mike said, shrugging. "I don't exactly cut those orders, though. I'll call the med department and tell them you need to be put on the list."
"How long can it be, Dad?" Cally asked.
"I don't know," Mike replied after the lag. Even with the most advanced technology, light-speed held. And Cally was several light-seconds from Earth. "But if there's somebody with a life-threatening injury, do you want to bump the queue?"
"No," Cally admitted.
"I'll send an order over making sure that you're put on the list," Mike repeated. "Stay on the Moon for now to make sure you don't miss your slot. By the way, Michelle sends her love."
"Same back," Cally said. "Where is she? When I got in I called her but one of her Indowy answered."
"Meditating," Mike said. "It's a long story. Tell you when you get home. Oh, by the way, do any of your Bane Sidhe people fit the bill for a counter-intel chief? I'm not impressed by my current department on that side. And making sure the Hedren don't know much about our new capabilities is looking to be even more important than finding out theirs."
"Uhm . . . not in the Bane Sidhe," Cally said, nervously. "But, yeah, I know someone who fits that slot. He's even . . . Well . . . Uhm . . . Let me get back to you."
"I assume at some point you're going to fill in those 'uhms,' " Mike said.
"Uhm . . ."
"You wished to see me, Grandfather?"
The man bowing his head could have been Southeast Asian. Or possibly Chinese with many admixtures. Possibly Polynesian. He had the sort of blended appearance that was common after The War. He spoke Mandarin, Cantonese and two other dialects flawlessly. The one thing that bothered him was that the speech was too flawless; he was still getting comfortable with making the sort of common errors that natural speakers always made.
James Stewart was not born Chinese. In fact, he wasn't even born with the name James Stewart. That had been a joke as much as anything when he was arranging the entry of himself and his gang into Fleet Strike. All of them had taken more standard Northern European names than "Manuel" and "Jose." Since one of the hallmarks of the gang was that every member looked Anglo instead of their actual Hispanic background, it just made sense. They sure weren't going to be joining under the names they had. Not with the rap-sheets associated with those names.
The plan was simple. The new GalTech drugs and technologies people in Fleet and Fleet Strike had access to were worth a blue billion on the black market. By slipping his whole crew in, "James Stewart" could find some way to divert GalTech to friends on the outside. Run that scam for a while and then disappear. Since there were unfriendly aliens on the way, run it for long enough to afford a ticket off-planet.
Along the way, though, things just got complicated. They started getting complicated when he realized that, smart and experienced as he might be, his drill instructor was smarter and more experienced. Gunny Pappas had been a character. A massive Samoan with an almost entirely unflappable nature, he looked like a complete dumb-ass, the sort of guy "Stewart" could run rings around. Quick enough, Gunny Pappas had disabused both Stewart and his entire gang of that notion. And he'd made them an offer. Try being real soldiers for a while, clean and straight, or get out with no record. Option C, going with their original plan, would mean one very large and very mean Samoan to deal with.
Over the succeeding years Stewart had often regretted choosing Option A. Most of his crew had been killed in one engagement or another as his unit was shuffled from coast to coast in the U.S. blunting Posleen offensives. However, along the way the kid from the barrio had grown up. He'd come to realize that while he'd had friends in the hood, his crew, other buddies, he didn't have one damned person he could trust. Not when the fecal matter was really hitting the rotary impeller. There were people who feared him, there were people who looked to him as a leader, somebody with power, but nobody that he could just totally lean back on if everything went to hell.
He found that, and more, in Fleet Strike. Forget the training and education, he found the burning honor that rested at the core of the warriors he fought beside. He found a home and a family.
After the war, things got murkier. He'd made major by the time the ACS was getting deactivated but it was all war-time promotions and service. Quick enough the personnel weenies were cutting those officers back. They wanted regulars.
James Stewart—by that time he'd almost forgotten his real name—wanted to be one of those regulars. He had no home to go back to, never really had one in the first place. Fleet Strike was home. So he'd played the game. He'd gotten his college education, he'd done his schools, he'd done his staff time.
Shifting to intel had been slow. At one point, when he was hoping to get an S-3 position, operations officer of one of the remaining ACS battalions, he'd been asked to take an intel position instead. Figuring it was a reasonable replacement and that the joint-branch time wouldn't hurt, he'd taken it.
What he found was that intel was his natural home. He'd been an S-2 before and had enjoyed it but playing in bigger leagues just gave him more scope. His branch was infantry and remained so right up until he became a general and thus "branchless." But he spent the rest of his career in intel.
The downside was that in intel he got to see just how screwed up things were becoming. Darhel manipulation was everywhere, pressing for less qualified but more amenable officers, completely corrupting Fleet to the point that it was a paid branch of one Darhel corporation or another.
He had reached damned near the pinnacle of his career when things truly came apart. Counter-intel, which at the time actually fell under his purview, developed a double agent inside the underground. The guy had information about a rebel organization. The flip side was that the rebels knew the information was out there and were probably going to try to penetrate Strike to get it. May have already done so.
James, by then a lieutenant general but still looking like a teenaged kid, had been asked by the head of Intel to go into the office undercover and try to find the mole. It was a shitty little investigation, no place for a general and in many ways his heart wasn't in it. But it was his duty.
In the end, he'd found a lot of things. He'd found the mole. He'd found love. And he'd found that he couldn't stand being in the belly of the beast anymore.
The mole turned out to be none other than the daughter of his former commander, Cally O'Neal. While Stewart was playing the part of an inept junior aide to the commander of counter-intel, Cally was playing the role of the commander's administrative assistant and mistress, an absolutely brain-dead if gorgeous blond captain. He also, without realizing who he was truly facing, found himself falling in love with the moronic blonde. When it all came down to blood and death, himself wounded by the enraged general when he found his aide and his mistress "cheating," the general dead and Cally captured, he knew he'd found love as well.
So when he was contacted by some old friends and was informed of who was actually being tortured for information, he'd turned. Sort of. He got Cally out. He arranged to fake his own death. But he couldn't join the Bane Sidhe, he wouldn't live that life. It was a form of half-
honor he simply could not stomach. If he was going to go over to the dark side, he might as well go all the way over.
So he joined the Tongs. The Chinese mobs had become major players in every form of organized crime in the galaxy. There was little honor left in Fleet Strike, there seemed to be nowhere to put his feet. He might as well go back to who he'd been before ever meeting people like Duncan and Pappas and Apele and, perhaps most of all, his father-in-law who could never know.
He'd done well there, too. The training and experience he'd received in Fleet Strike worked well. Often the Tongs tended to do things that were the same way that previous generations had done them. He was careful with new ideas on that score, but he had them. He was bright, thorough and ruthless. The one time that someone had tried to assassinate him, the assassins found out that he was also as dangerous as a cobra with a toothache. It only enhanced his reputation.
The Tongs and the Bane Sidhe did not see eye to eye but they had certain traits in common. The Tongs were well aware that the Darhel had, with intent, sacrificed China during the war. And they had long memories. So while business was first and always, any chance to screw the Darhel was to be taken, as long as they weren't fingered for it. So they'd help out the Bane Sidhe, and vice versa, from time to time. One time, in particular, "Yan Kato" had been central in embezzling an entire Darhel clan-corp, a coup of the first magnitude since the Tongs also made money on the deal hand-over-fist.
However, the Tongs were brutal on outside loyalties. Loyalty had to be to the Tong. Family, friends, acquaintances did not matter. Loyalty to the Tong, make money for the Tong, make face for the Tong. These were what mattered.
So he was carefully watched. The Tong might or might not know he was married to Cally. As long as it didn't interfere with business, that was all well and good. The moment it did, the moment that his loyalty became divided, well James Stewart, Yan Kato, Joshua Pryce, Manuel Guerrera, the person in this body, in this head, knew he had better run far and fast. And was aware that he'd probably just die tired.
"Welcome, Yan Kato," the old man said, gesturing eloquently to a finally brocaded chair. "Please, rest yourself."
"Thank you, Grandfather," Stewart said, sitting down carefully. Since it was a nice chair, he probably wasn't going to be killed in it.
He had met the head of the Tong on several occasions. But it was by no means a normal event and he usually had some inkling of the reason for one. One of his superiors might need him to present a proposal. The Grandfather might need an answer to a question related to his areas of expertise, mostly money laundering and white-collar crime.
This summons had come out of the blue. With the changes that were going on related to the new military threat, that could mean anything. He knew that loyalty to the Tong was all. But they had also chosen never to push his potential limits. He had never been asked to do anything related to the military. Others handled the corruption of the docks, of Fleet resupply. However, with all the money that was suddenly flowing to Fleet Strike and with who was in charge . . . It might be that they felt it was time to push that wall.
Stewart wasn't quite sure what he'd do if they did.
"There is a new threat, you have heard," the Grandfather said as a beautiful young woman entered with a tea set. "Your thoughts?"
"From what I have seen of the Hedren, the actions of the Tongs would be significantly restricted under them," Stewart said. He waited until the Grandfather had taken a sip before mimicking him.
"This is my thought as well," the Grandfather said. "They are reputed to have the ability to read thoughts quite readily. Such would severely impact our normal actions."
Stewart waited. You didn't offer your thoughts unless asked.
"I have given orders to refrain from anything that may be considered interference with military supplies, support or personnel," the Grandfather said, taking another sip. "Your thoughts."
"This will be a great loss of revenue," Stewart said, his face unchanging.
"The willow bends with the wind," the master said. "Now is a better time to give support. Perhaps build relationships for the future. In some cases, there are persons who are simply venal enough that it is necessary to enter into a relationship with them. Otherwise others would enter into the relationship who were less . . . noble."
Stewart managed not to snort. The Tong was anything but "noble." However, he could see the Grandfather's dilemma. With as much as the Tong could skim off the military given the current, truly screwed up, situation, it would probably have a notable impact. Enough to lose the war? Maybe, maybe not. But if the Hedren took over, the Tong was going to be dust.
"I was queried when the decision was made to bring you into the Tong, of course," the Grandfather said, gesturing for his cup to be refilled. Another gesture produced a cigarette in a long holder, which he inserted in his lips and lit. "I made the decision that someone who had been a Fleet Strike general would make a valuable contribution, even if he was not used against his former group. And you have. Both in building our already large reputation and our coffers. You are to be congratulated."
"Thank you, Grandfather," Stewart said, bowing. "I have done my humble best." If that wasn't the kiss of death, he didn't know what was. However, he'd had a few years with Cally, on and off when they could both hide from their respective undergrounds, and a few really great kids. It looked like that was going to have to do.
"I will be sorry to lose you," the Grandfather said, lifting up a sheet of paper. "From time to time members of the Tong reach some limit on their abilities. Everyone takes a vacation occasionally. You have had . . . several."
"I'm sorry if the Grandfather considers me inattentive to my duties," Stewart said. He was looking the old man straight in the eye. Normally that was a bad thing but if he was going to be killed, damned if he was going to flinch.
"Not at all," the old man said. "It was used by way of example. Some times these vacations can become extended. For many years or, given our current medicines, even decades." The Grandfather held the paper out.
It was a recall to duty in the rank of lieutenant general, by both his "official" name and that of "Yan Kato."
"You are expected to require the same latitude of the government as we have given you," the old man said, sucking on his cigarette. "To be precise, that you not use your knowledge of the Tongs to our detriment. So pointing out the persons you know to be our friends in the procurement branch would be unwise. In the opposite direction, we do not require that you provide us with useful information. Your commander must trust you, yes? But, of course, you remain a member of the Tong. Your first loyalty remains here. I believe that you are destined for an important post, or I would have said 'James who?' when the inquiry was made."
James looked at the paper again, then looked up.
"I do not know what to say, Grandfather."
"This is a very irregular action," the Grandfather said. "There are those who would question it. They have a very short view. I have a very long view. Humans, and Darhel I suppose, must remain in control of planets for the Tongs to prosper. Your record as an agent of war speaks for itself. But making this decision I take the long view that it will help the Tong to prosper, perhaps not today for you are a very good money generator, but tomorrow when we are both dust. Let that dust be on soil owned by men, yes?"
"Thank you, Grandfather," Stewart said, suddenly grinning in a way he never had while using this face. "I will do that very thing."
"There is one last item," the Grandfather said. "You will, undoubtedly, encounter the daughter of General O'Neal, Calliope I believe is her name. And her children. Feel free to spend as much time with them, in any capacity, as you may choose. If, of course, given such freedom by your new masters."
"Yes, Grandfather," Stewart said, trying not to grimace.
"You young people," the old man said, then sighed. "You think we are all blind."
"You WHAT?" Cally screamed.
"Keep it down," Stewart said. The conne
ction was long. Stewart's normal base of operations was Titan Base and Cally was still on Luna. So the lag was nearly two minutes. It also cost like crazy, but he wasn't going to let that stop him. "I've been given an extended leave of absence from my . . . current employer to reenter military service. I just got the recall. It doesn't even mention that I'm supposed to be dead."
"Holy shit," Cally said when the signal finally got to her. "So you just called me over an open circuit?"
"Couldn't exactly use a secure one anymore," Stewart said. "And, besides, I was specifically told in a very notable interview that I should look you up. Something about young people thinking old people are blind."
