Eye of the Storm

by John Ringo

The take-down team came through the door with a large Tigger dummy wrapped up in rigger-tape. The stuffing of the dummy had been replaced with sand and it was clear that they were struggling.

  "This was fucking Mongo's idea, wasn't it?" SFC Sullivan said.

  "Yes," Mueller replied. "And your point, Altar Boy?"

  "Exercise terminated," Mosovich said, looking at his buckley. "Fifteen minutes twenty-three seconds from entry to take-down. No way it's actually going to go this smooth, but that's not bad. Break it down for institutional scab-picking."

  "We don't have any idea how big these guys are?" Recto asked.

  "No clue," Colonel Mosovich replied. "They could be heavier than the Tigger dummy. They could look like Yoda. No fucking clue."

  "What if they're, like, beings of pure energy?" Sergeant Alton "Sugar Plum" Sutton asked. The electronics and communications specialist shrugged at the looks. "Dudes, we're working with wizards. It's not a stupid question."

  "It is unlikely that they are quantum state entities," Adept Elijah Hoover said. The sixth level Sohon adept was part of the Sohon assault trio and, thus, included in the entry team debrief. "Not impossible but the attainment of such an evolved state is one of the goals of the Way. You speak of a species as advanced as the Aldenata. If they have attained such advancement, it is unlikely that even fourteen adepts can contain one of them. In which case, we will find ourselves in a difficult condition."

  "I've got a team nick for Hoover," SFC Cribbs said. His team name was Meister but Chan had already learned that it stood for "Drunk-Meister." The mentat had been studying the SRS in fascination since the voyage began and was pleased to finally have an opportunity to examine the assignment of such team names. "I say we just call him Understatement."

  "Whirlwind," Mangler said.

  "Why Whirlwind?" Recto asked.

  "The Book of Kings," Adept Hoover said. "The Prophet Elijah was said to have been taken to heaven on a whirlwind, a dust-devil."

  "Dust-Devil," Recto said to nods all around.

  "Are you going to need to be physically present to control the Imeg?" Mosovich asked, looking at the results of the training so far.

  "It is unlikely but possible," Chan said. "I think that we should be able to control them from practically anywhere on the ship. It is possible, however, that a closer presence may have enhanced effect."

  "Then we're going to need to work on methods of inserting you into the room," Mosovich said, nodding but not looking up. "Doors are always crowded places in one of these things. And dangerous places too. Are you going in first or one of your juniors?"

  "I think Hoo—Dust-Devil is the better choice," Chan said. "He has shown the most promise in Sohon . . . control techniques. He seems, in fact, to have much more of a flair for them than construction."

  "Yeah," Snake said, nodding again. "For all he's like 'Me Monk' he's got the warrior look. Don't know if you consider that good or bad."

  "For these conditions and necessities, it is alas good," Chan said. "I am fascinated by the assignment process of team names. It would be considered the height of insult for a junior to call a senior Lieutenant Penis among the Indowy or those raised by them. I was interested to see the process for assigning one to Adept Hoover."

  "Team names are a sign of acceptance," Mosovich said, finally looking up. "More than that, really. They're very complicated. The official reason for them is that they reduce confusion in communication. Everyone has a unique name with no ambiguity. Pilots really started it. But there's more to it than that. Although everyone recognizes that there are higher and lower ranks on the teams, the necessity is for a sort of fluidity that recognizes that while ignoring it. Master Sergeant Owen, Recto, may give an order to Mangler and it will be obeyed. But in more formal units, Mangler might pass information to a higher authority and then be questioned about it. By eliminating the base thought about who is the higher from a certain portion of the consciousness, by eliminating the 'Dad' aspect of 'Master Sergeant' from that bit of brain, when Mangler makes a motion for six Glandri, Master Sergeant Owen accepts that data as Recto, a near equal to Mangler, instead of Master Sergeant Owen having to consider the validity of the information Sergeant First Class Dale has passed to him."

  "Interesting psychology," Chan said, frowning. "One thing that it has been hard to explain to the Indowy, and that even we humans raised by them often forget, is that being superior in position is not always the same as being superior in concepts or current knowledge."

  "Mentat Chan, Adept Hoover, master, student, yada, yada, yada," Mosovich said, nodding. "There's a time and a place for hierarchy. In the middle of an entry is not necessarily one of them."

  "We do not normally do . . . entries," Chan said.

  "It's going to be a long war," Mosovich replied. "Better get used to them."

  "I notice that there is no suggestion that I be given a team name," the mentat said, smiling slightly.

  "You're heap big mojo," Mosovich said. "Way too big mojo to think about insulting you. I didn't, by a stretch, get into the full psychology of team names. But that's part of it. They don't want to offend. Another part of it is that while Hoover is also heap big mojo, he just has the . . . feel of wanting to be part of the team. And since they know they're going to be depending on him, they're willing to accept him even though he's not really 'one' of us. He's a respected associated specialist. They work with them from time to time. Bane Sidhe specialists in one thing or another. Commo, hacking, whatever. So there's a mental slot for him. Now, Pawle, he's got less interest in being one of the boys. So they haven't suggested making a team name for him. Oh, they've got one, they just don't use it around him."

  "Are they aware he may know it anyway?" Chan said, frowning. "Even for a fifth level your communications are not terribly hard to intercept."

  "Wasn't aware of that," Mosovich said, shaking his head. "It's always something. I don't know if he knows or not."

  "What is his team name?" Chan asked.

  "Skank," Mosovich said.

  "Hardly a pleasant name," the mentat said, his brow furrowing.

  "Pawle's got a real holier-than-thou attitude," Mosovich said. "If I thought it was going to interfere I would have brought it up. But he does his job, presumably. We won't really know until we get to the intercept."

  "I hesitate to discuss the issues of junior adepts with you," Chan said. "They are . . . complex."

  "And you haven't noticed that teams are?" Mosovich said, raising an eyebrow. "Just because you guys have got bulging foreheads, doesn't mean you're not human with human foibles. Small teams have been working the psychology of that for forever. Want my read on Pawle?"

  "I will accept your input," Chan said gravely.

  "Fine," Mosovich said. "All you mentats are bright. It's a necessity. Everybody's figured out that you've got to juggle quantum mechanics in your head while doing whatever it is you do. That takes big bulging foreheads. Pawle was, however, brighter than the average growing up. Which meant that, due to very basic human nature going back to the way that primates in the wild act, others tried to pull him down. Knowing the fact that he grew up in an Indowy environment, my guess would be passive aggressive techniques and occasional mildly aggressive. He probably just got shunned and ignored a lot. He ended up knowing he was smarter than everyone around him but with a massive inferiority complex. He's apparently arrogant because he's lacking self esteem. Or am I wrong?"

  "You are a student of human nature," Chan said.

  "I've been commanding small units of very elite troops for a very long time," Mosovich said. "I had a lot of classes once upon a time and I think I've surpassed most of them."

  "And what would your recipe be for improving Adept Pawle?" Chan asked, honestly interested.

  "Pressure him," Mosovich said. "He's bright but lazy which, believe it or not, is good. But he's also very unsure. Put him under pressure so high it either kills him or cures him. If he fails all you have is a guy stuck on stupid at fifth level. If he p
asses, he'll gain confidence from it. There are guys I've commanded who had esteem problems, but they generally get over them after whatever entry program is used by the group. The problem is that with his attitude he's a weak link. But Sohon's your side of this op."

  "The problem is the nature of the mission," Chan said, frowning. "The essentially violent nature of the operation is . . . very much anathema to most of the Indowy-raised. The positions are voluntary. Of my students, only Pawle and Hoover volunteered to enter the enemy vessel. I am, I admit, unsure of the concept of pressuring Sohon adepts to exceed their level of comfort."

  "How's your comfort?" Mosovich asked.

  Chan looked at the table between them for a long moment.

  "Perhaps too high," the mentat said. "My father was Admiral Chan Kushao, the senior Chinese officer in Fleet. Unlike the . . . latter officers, including those of the Race of Han, he was a man of honor."

  "Indra?" Mosovich asked.

  "Oh, far earlier," Chan said, snorting. "He was in command of CruRon Fourteen at Second Diess."

  "That's where about the only thing we recovered was the Yamato, right?" Jake said. "The rest of the fleet, and all the cruisers, were if I recall clearly, scrap."

  "I was . . . ten? Yes, ten." Chan sighed and shrugged. "The younger members were . . . younger when they were taken in by the Indowy. Many of them barely remember their parents. I can remember my mother crying when father's shuttle was gone. And I can remember my sisters."

  "They . . . stayed in China?" Jake asked.

  "They did indeed," Chan said. "One of the reasons I generally work for the Darhel at arm's length. I have gotten over the rage, but I will admit that I am perhaps less . . . tamed than the Indowy would wish. So," he said, looking up. "No, I have no issues with this mission. I am the son of a Chinese admiral, who was the son of a naval captain. Our family was one of the few of the Manchu to survive the Communists, mostly because my great-grandfather saw the writing on the wall and went over to them very early. My grandmother had a list of every Chan who had served under the Emperors going back several centuries. I may be a mentat instead of a ship's commander or a colonel. But."

  "But," Jake said, grinning. "What are you gonna do about Pawle?"

  "I think he chose to take the active role in his own attempt to get over his self esteem issues," Chan said. "To prove himself if you will. I also see the issues with that."

  "One way that goes bad is they don't," Jake said, nodding. "That is, they crack under the pressure. The other way it goes bad is they overreact and end up a dead hero."

  "Answer?"

  "Training," Jake said. "And selection. You can sort of do both at the same time. Hmmm . . ."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "We haven't really been training you guys for resistance," Jake said. "Once we get up to full run, in about a week, I was going to be throwing wrenches in the ops to test my guys. I think we need to do that to yours."

  "Glandri," Toucher said, pulling back. "Corridor's packed with them!"

  "Alternate four," Moustache said, automatically. "Payback, seal this corridor."

  "On it," the demo man said. The door closed and he laid a sealer on it, igniting it as the team retreated.

  They turned a corner and hurried down it but before they reached the end there was a rave of sound that filled the corridor.

  "Autogun," Daisy Mae announced. "Lieutenant Penis and Glasshoppah are graded as terminated."

  "Glasshoppah?" Chan snapped.

  "Thanks, Daisy," Mosovich said, grinning. "See you, Glasshoppah."

  "Glasshoppah?" Chan repeated as the team continued down the corridor.

  "How can Master Chan be terminated?" Pawle asked as he hurried to keep up.

  "Is it possible?" Master Sergeant Jesse asked. The third stick NCOIC was not a fan of his "principal." "It's possible. This is designed as a hard run. You and Dust-Devil are on your own."

  "There is . . ." Dust-Devil said, then paused. "Oh . . . that is not fair."

  "Master Chan is . . . playing the . . . Imeg," Pawle said, panting. "He is attempting to shut down your weapons and prevent our movement."

  "Well, you two had better fucking keep him from doing it," Hooter said. The second stick NCOIC looked back at Dust-Devil. "How's it going?"

  "He's a seventh-level Sohon," Dust-Devil snarled. "It is not going well. Now let us concentrate!"

  Payback laid a strip of cutting paste on the hatch and hit the igniter. It didn't flare.

  "What the fuck?" he snarled.

  "Master . . . Chan," Dust-Devil said from across the compartment. "Wait . . ."

  The paste suddenly ignited, flaming even hotter than normal.

  "Sk . . . Pawle," Dust-Devil said through clenched teeth. "Hold . . . reality."

  "I am holding," the fifth level said, gritting his teeth. "I think I . . ."

  Suddenly the heavy duty fire-fighting sprinklers cut on, dousing the team in a spray of water like a firehose.

  "What the . . ." Moustache snarled as they cleared the far compartment.

  "My visor just went down!" Mangler snarled, ripping the VR goggles off.

  "Fuck," Buster shouted as his weapon was ripped from his hand.

  The walls of the compartment deformed, closing in on the assault team.

  "Hold . . . reality," Dust-Devil said. "Damnit, I can't fight him and the walls at the same time!"

  "I . . . have it," Pawle said. The walls had stopped closing in and the water shut off. "Holding. Go, Moustache!"

  "Payback," the team commander said, pointing at the next hatch. Which slid aside.

  "We don't have time," Pawle said. "MOVE!"

  As the team entered the final compartment they found Master Chan seated in a lotus, eyes closed and a faint smile on his face.

  "Securing team," Moustache said.

  Alphas One and Two darted forward and bounced off a field that was clearly invisible.

  "That is not reality," Pawle said, his eyes closed. "Dust—"

  The sixth-level mentat was suddenly lifted off his feet and slammed into the bulkhead.

  "Dust-Devil is graded as injured," Daisy Mae said. "Up to you, Skank."

  "I cannot . . ." Pawle ground out.

  "You'd better do something fast," Cheeto shouted. The shooter from Charlie was covering the door of the compartment. "We got Glandri moving in."

  This is not a fair test, Pawle thought. The Imeg would be dealing with the other Sohon at the same time. In this case it is only you.

  I have factored for that, Chan thought. Don't think this is the all of my ability, young one. But it is what I would have left if I was also attempting to destroy the attacking ship. And, think, there may be more than one. The reality is that there is no shield about me. Establishing reality is easier than changing it. Establish reality. And if you are talking you are not fighting.

  Fine, Pawle thought savagely.

  "Field's down," Spice said. He was ignoring the blood running down his nose from impacting the field. "So, do we get to taser Master Chan? Please?"

  "Terminate exercise," Daisy Mae said. "And, no, don't taser Glasshoppah."

  "Grasshopper?" Master Chan said. "That wasn't even the name of Caine's master. It was Caine's apprentice name!"

  "And your point?" Mosovich asked.

  "It's just . . . wrong," Chan said. "And, I might add, mildly insulting."

  "That's the other point of team names . . ." Mosovich said.

  "So when do I get a better team name?" Pawle asked. "I mean I did defeat Master Chan."

  "You don't," Hooter said, shrugging. "Look, once you get a handle, well, getting it changed, like, takes an act of Congress."

  The team, less the bosses, was having a bit of down-time. A bottle of high-grade moonshine had appeared from somewhere. The adepts refrained but they were still hanging with the SRS team. Which was a change. Normally they would have been back in their quarters doing whatever it was adepts did to blow off stress. Fucking meditating or making up koans. />
  "That doesn't seem . . . fair," Pawle said. "I mean, Adept Hoover gets Dust-Devil and I get . . . Skank?"

  "Adept Pawle, my team name is Lieutenant Penis," Master Sergeant Field pointed out. "I knew a colonel one time whose team name was Buckbreath. Which, trust me, was worse than Skank. And practically nobody used it to his face."

  "See, the thing is, you got to make it your own," Redman said, shrugging. "You go complaining about a team name, well . . ."