Cally's War

by John Ringo

  She glanced at the mirror and disdainfully picked a dust bunny out of her hair, flushing it down the toilet.

  It was really only the work of a few moments to take out the junk package with the small bag of white powder, spoon, a little bottle of ether, and a needle, spill a tiny amount of coke on the cabinet floor, and use fresh tape to affix the package to the back underside of the sink. She blew gently on the infinitesimal amount of spilled powder to disperse it. It was invisible now, but the dog would smell it. And after the toxicology tests on the corpse came back, there would be a dog.

  As she was getting ready to open the back door and leave she stopped short. "Buckley, turn off voice access."

  "But then I can't even yell for help when it all comes apart!"

  "Buckley, turn off voice access."

  "It figures." The PDA emitted an exaggeratedly long-suffering sigh and went silent.

  She tapped the command line and reset the AI emulation. Buckleys didn't function at their best if you left the emulation up too high. They tended to think of too many reasons to panic.

  She took off the gloves and stuffed them into the underside of her black sports bra, concealed by the baggy T-shirt, and took a deep breath. I belong here, I'm just going out for a jog. She stepped through the door.

  As she walked around the side of the house, she bit back a curse. She had been seen. She had been seen by a small blond-haired boy of perhaps four who was very quietly trying to tie a very patient-looking golden retriever to a small green wagon. The boy looked at her gravely and put a finger over his lips, "Shhh. . . ." Stifling what might have otherwise come out as a slightly strained giggle, Cally put a finger to her own lips and walked down the driveway to the street, and resumed the jog around the block to her car. She didn't look back. It was shaping up to be one of those days.

  Three different stores yielded several pairs of pantyhose, plastic ties, and a pack of cheap bandannas. Then she went to a mall near the mistress's apartment to window shop until lunch. It was one of the aspects of the job you never got used to. Or, at least, she never had. Hours and hours of hurry up and wait interspersed with brief periods of pure adrenaline. Of course, her body's response to adrenaline was atypical, in the same way as every other member of the special class at school had been. If not at the beginning, then certainly after training and who knew what tinkering. Adrenaline triggered time dilation, focused concentration, and emotional flattening, as well as adding a certain edge to physical performance. But Cally had reason to believe her own atypical adrenaline response was purely natural, for the simple reason that she'd had it years before ever reporting to school. It seemed to run in the family.

  Didn't do crap for the boredom, though. Every agent had their own way of coping with that. Some read. Some played games on their PDAs. Some collected the most fiendishly difficult crossword puzzles they could find. Cally shopped. Oh, not if there was some strategic advantage to lying low, of course. She kept a backup supply of about a gazillion color catalogs just in case. But mostly she watched the people, tried on clothes or shoes, looked at the latest gizmos and gadgets. She'd been told it was a reaction to the privations of her childhood. Personally, she thought the shrinks were full of shit. For a young, attractive female, there was no place that was more completely anonymous and unremarkable than a shopping mall. She was seen by at least one hundred people in a given hour, and remembered by none of them. She made sure never to buy enough to give a salesgirl a memorable commission, she never responded to any boys or men with eye contact or more than a totally impersonal, casual social smile. It was the next best thing to being invisible, and the walking worked off some of the pre-mission nervous energy. Besides, sometimes she found a really good bargain. Today there was a lovely boat-necked coral blouse on clearance. It would look great under the oatmeal slacks and blazer she was planning to wear tonight. The reason it was marked so low was a snag in the back that would be obvious the minute she took the blazer off. It was perfect, since she was only going to wear it once.

  By mid-afternoon, the mall restroom was empty enough that she could change clothes and do her makeup without drawing a lot of attention. The dark, permed curls didn't need more than a quick brushing.

  * * *

  A bit before four, she pulled into a convenience store parking lot near the apartment complex. She tapped the buttons to wake up the AI simulator. "Hey, buckley."

  "It's all coming apart, now, isn't it?"

  "No, buckley. I just want you to plot the three most probable routes, based on the target's pattern information from the cameras, from the Fleet Strike Tower area to the apartment complex at 2256 Lucky Avenue."

  "That's all you know. Can't do it."

  "What do you mean you can't do it? Buckley, just plot the routes, okay?"

  "Sorry, no can do."

  "Buckley, I'm really not in the mood for this."

  "Nobody ever cares about my mood. Here we are, mission falling apart around our ears, about to be overrun by the Posleen, no doubt, or have a nuke dropped on us, or have a C-Dec fall on our heads, or a building col—"

  "Enough, buckley." She clenched her fists in exasperation. "Why can't you plot a probable route for the subject from the Tower to the apartment complex?"

  "Who said I couldn't? I never said I couldn't," it sounded infernally smug.

  She counted to ten very slowly. "Buckley, plot the most probable route, based on the target's pattern, from the Tower to the apartment complex. Display on screen."

  "Okay." A section of Chicago street map appeared on the screen with a route outlined in red. It looked like the one she remembered from Friday, but it paid to make sure.

  "Now, without erasing the current map and plot, add to it the plot of the second most probable route for the target to take from the Tower to the apartment complex."

  "Why do I always get saddled with the idiots? Can't do it." It sounded rather pleased about it.

  "Why can't you follow that last command, buckley?" she asked between gritted teeth.

  "No data on the target's movements exists that is inconsistent with the first route."

  "He takes the same route every time?" Does the guy have a death wish, or what?

  "Brilliant. Keep this up and you may actually begin to understand some of the many things that could go wrong with this situation. Not that it'll do any good," it pronounced morosely.

  "Fine. Without getting caught by the host computers, hack in and watch the cameras along his route. If he's moving along the route now, or whenever he starts moving along the route, tell me, place a dot on the screen to show his probable location along the route, updating the information whenever you get more data from the cameras."

  "Are you sure you want to know?"

  "Why, is he en route?" she queried sharply.

  "No. I just thought if you were one of those people who handles disaster better when you don't know it's coming . . ."

  "Buckley, other than telling me when the target leaves the Tower to start over here, or telling me if he starts to go somewhere else, shut up."

  "Touchy today, aren't we?" It fell silent.

  Cally checked the cheap briefcase she'd gotten from an office supply store in the mall. Change of clothes, sealed in plastic, good. Okay, drugs, wine cooler, plastic ties, multiple pairs of pantyhose, gags, gloves, switchblade, soundbox. . . . She took the small, gray box with a switch on top and flipped it on. "Testing, testing, testing." The sounds of traffic became muffled and her voice was hollow and muted. She turned it off and clipped it to her belt before taking the switchblade out and shoving it in her pocket. It was a useful weapon when you wanted to avoid killing someone, as it usually immediately convinced them you would kill them, and ensured their full cooperation in whatever you asked of them. Well, with certain psychological types, anyway. Right now the non-target's healthy sense of terror was the woman's best chance of staying alive.

  She opened the wine cooler and took a couple of swallows, making a bit of room at the top. T
hen she took the bottle with the red mark and carefully poured the drugs into the wine. The drug bottle went back in a pocket of the briefcase, and the cap back on the wine cooler. She swirled it around very gently. Won't take much to mix it up, but we don't want any soda-pop showers.

  She put a small red mark on the label with one of the markers and the wine cooler bottle went back in the case, along with a fresh one, and took out a small pink nametag and pinned it to the lapel of her jacket. The tag announced that she was Lisa Johnson and bore the familiar logo of a well-known cosmetics company. She glanced at her watch. Four-twelve.

  "Buckley."

  "We're about to die, aren't we?"

  "No, buckley. Keep looking for the target's car, but I also need you to access the cameras I placed in apartment 302C and tell me whether there's anyone home and where they are."

  "Ah, the confidence of youth. Two in the apartment."

  "Two?!"

  "One in the kitchen, one under the couch."

  "Under the . . ." I'm gonna kill him. "Buckley, ignore the damn cat. How many human beings in 302C?"

  "Obviously, you're underestimating the damage a properly enraged house cat can do. One human, adult female, in the kitchen."

  "Right. Tell me if she leaves the apartment or anyone else enters."

  "You're welcome."

  "Thank you, buckley," she added.

  "You know, it's not too late to fly home and forget the whole thing," it offered hopefully.

  "Shut up, buckley." The car was silent for a few moments. "Oh, except for telling me when the target leaves and updating his progress along the route here."

  "Right."

  She tried to avoid tapping her nails as she waited. The one thing that had been hardest to train out all those years ago had been a tendency to fidget while waiting for something important. It still took an act of will. She punched up some music on the car's system, just whatever was next on the cube, and suppressed the desire to tap her nails as the melancholy opening piano lines of "Hello" drifted into the enclosed space. She wrinkled her nose, "No angst, thank you very much," and paged through until she found "Don't Fear the Reaper." It wasn't so much that the modern remix was better than the original as it was that it was less . . . dated. Several members of the original band had purchased rejuv by signing up for a colonization tour on Diess early on, then had proceeded on an exhausting round of after-hours concerts, earning enough from their fellow colonists, Fleet, and Fleet Strike personnel to buy back their contracts and pay their passage home.

  Of course, a band full of juvs was controversial back here on Earth, but they were a rock band. They were used to it. She told the system to play the whole album.

  The scream of the guitars opening "Godzilla" was just as powerful as ever, and she honestly regretted having to punch the sound off when the buckley chimed in warning that the target was on his way.

  "Is the woman in 302C still in the kitchen, buckley?"

  "Unfortunately. Would you like a list of the ten worst things that could go wrong with this mission?"

  "No!"

  "Really, it's no trouble at all," it offered helpfully.

  "Shut up, buckley."

  "Right."

  Chapter Seven

  Cally stood at the door of 302C. She had the top of the briefcase unzipped, but held the handles together in one hand so the things inside didn't show. She shut her eyes for a moment and pulled on her sales persona. As she opened them a wide, bright smile spread across her face, lighting her eyes with enthusiasm. She rang the bell and waited.

  In a minute, she heard a rustling sound on the other side of the door. Probably the mistress looking through the peephole. The door opened.

  "Uh . . . hello?" The woman's hair was in hot rollers, her face bare like she'd just washed it.

  "Hi, I'm Lisa from Pink Passion Cosmetics, and I wondered if you'd be interested in our free five-minute makeover this afternoon?" She radiated helpful good cheer.

  "Five minutes . . . I don't have to buy anything?" The girl's eyes had widened at the word "free." She looked at the saleswoman's fresh, expertly made-up face thoughtfully.

  "Not a thing. I give you the makeover, leave you a catalog and my number, and if you decide you want anything from it, you call me. If you don't, you don't." She gave a friendly, slightly conspiratorial smile.

  "Five minutes." The girl looked at her watch. "Uh, sure. Come on in." She stood back and gestured for the assassin to come in.

  Cally casually put a hand to her belt as she walked through the door and flipped the small switch. An instant after the mistress closed the door, Cally had dropped the briefcase and was on her, knocking her to the floor beside it and landing on top, switchblade at the other woman's throat.

  "Lady, you have two choices. Die messily right here, right now, or cooperate and live. I don't care which you pick." She pressed the knife slightly into the woman's throat for emphasis. There was a trick to holding it at just the right angle to feel pointy enough to get the other person's attention without actually breaking the skin. It was especially tricky with a knife that was reasonably sharp, as this one was. Fortunately, she had a lot of practice.

  "Oh my God, ohmygod, don't kill me. Please don't kill me. Ohmygod. What do you want? I'll do what you want, just please don't kill me."

  "I don't need to kill you, I just need to borrow your apartment for a little while." She fished in the bag and came up with the cooler, checking it quickly for the telltale red mark. "Drink this. It's drugged, of course. To make you sleep and get you out of my way." She handed it to the frightened woman.

  "How do I know it's not poison?"

  "You don't. You just know you're going to die right here, right now, painfully and messily, if you don't drink it. It's the only chance you've got. Make up your mind, I'm on a tight schedule."

  The other woman began unscrewing the cap, but stopped suddenly.

  "Charles. You're after Charles." Her voice carried dawning horror.

  "Who?" Cally's face was a study in bewilderment. "I was told you lived alone. Is there going to be someone else here?" she asked sternly, pressing the knife a bit harder for emphasis, but still careful not to break the skin.

  "Uh . . . no," the woman lied quickly, "Charles is . . . is my cat."

  "Oh great. And I'm allergic. Would you hurry up and drink that before I have to kill you?"

  The woman stared at her fixedly, as if trying to memorize her features, and downed the drug. Cally watched for the ten minutes or so it took her eyes to glaze over and put the knife away.

  "You'll sleep more comfortably in your bed. Come on and let's get you in there to lie down." She got the woman up and helped her into the bedroom, fastening her hands and feet gently but firmly with a couple of the plastic ties and gagging her. The drugged woman wouldn't be coordinated enough to get out and make trouble, and she'd be passed out soon enough. Cally had been careful to touch as little as possible in the apartment so far, but she'd need to wear rubber gloves for the rest of the evening.

  She pulled out her PDA and looked at the map on the screen with the blinking dot that indicated the target's car. She'd made good time dealing with the non-target. Petane was still a good fifteen minutes out.

  There wasn't really a whole lot left to do to get ready for him. One of the kitchen chairs would be suitable for the interrogation. She moved it behind the door, where he wouldn't see it and get spooked coming in. She found some disposable paper cups in the bathroom and got a drink while she was making sure she wouldn't feel any sudden needs to leave the target alone even for a few minutes. Well, before killing him, anyway. She wrinkled her nose distastefully at the unchanged litter box, the odor of which was not quite overwhelmed by a large bowl of rose and apple potpourri, and went back into the living room to tuck the used paper cup into the briefcase. No sense in leaving bits of third-party DNA lying around that blatantly.

  She took the pantyhose out of their packages and cut the legs apart. They weren't as quick and eas
y as the plastic ties, but the target was likely to fight his bonds at first, and, tied right, they wouldn't leave marks. She took off her jacket and stuffed the pantyhose into her pockets. Then there was nothing left to do but wait. She had given considerable thought in planning how to take him down. On the one hand, she wanted to be very careful what chemicals were in his bloodstream post-mortem. On the other, he outweighed her by a fair bit and was taller. Even with her upgraded strength, leverage was important. He was an obvious juv, so he had nannites that might successfully scavenge out the residue of ether or chloroform before she finished interrogating him. Or they might not. Or he might be immune. His record didn't show any notable martial training beyond what he would have gotten in basic, but you really never knew. Finally she had decided she was going to have to just try to pin him and choke him out, but have a push-button injector of the least detectable general anesthetic she had and have it ready as backup in case he was more trouble hand-to-hand than his record indicated.

  "Okay, buckley, wake up." She tapped the screen "You can quit watching any cameras he's driven past already. Watch the cameras I've got in the parking lot out here. When he parks, tell me . . . uh . . . wait, no don't tell me. Just make the screen turn blue." If I tell it to tell me anything, I swear to god it'll pipe up at exactly the wrong time and I'll end up trashing another PDA. And I need it to record the interrogation.

  "You're afraid I'll say the wrong thing at the wrong time and get us both killed, aren't you?" it accused.

  "No, I'd just prefer not to have any unnecessary noises at this stage in the mission."

  "Yes, you are. You don't have to lie to spare my feelings."

  "Shut up, buckley."

  "Right."

  She waited in silence as the dot approached on the road. The screen flashed blue and she punched the options to set it to record when activated, flipping it closed before standing and stretching briefly, coming to rest in a loose ready stance against the wall behind the door, about a foot from the hinges. The PDA would need to be less than thirty percent of the distance from the subject to the damper to record effectively.