by John Ringo
* * *
Chicago, Tuesday, June 18, 20:25
AIDs were both a blessing and curse. Peter Vanderberg's wife tended to be a bit jealous of Jenny. Oh, she hadn't been at first, but a wife could only hear a female voice reminding her husband of personal appointments, time to take his medicine, errands to run, interrupting casually at even the most intimate moments for just so long before beginning to get just a bit ticked off. The crowning indignity was, of course, Peter knew, her having to watch his own growing emotional attachment to Jenny. Explaining that it was a normal design feature for greater efficiency did not help.
Ultimately, a separation had been his only recourse. He hadn't been willing to lose his wife, and he'd finally seen that the only way to preserve his marriage had been to ensure that his wife virtually never had to endure contact with Jenny. Strangely, although his AID had resented the exclusion from certain portions of his life and had gotten quite snippy at first, ultimately she had seemed happier, too. But an AID couldn't be jealous of the other woman, could it?
Anyway, the compromise meant that instead of his AID chiming in whenever a message came in, she very lightly vibrated if the message was urgent, so he could excuse himself, and otherwise he checked in once an hour or so. And usually he followed up immediately if she indicated he had an urgent message. Tonight, it being Jane's birthday, he had known better and had had to wait a few minutes before excusing himself. When Jenny buzzed him a second time, he figured it must be pretty important. He tactfully excused himself for the restroom. Jane's eyes narrowed a bit as he left. He doubted she was fooled.
"Jenny, I hope this message really is urgent. Jane's birthday is very important to me." Okay, not getting Jane pissed at me by her thinking I've slighted her birthday is important to me. Same difference. I was hoping to get laid tonight, not be in the doghouse.
"I'm sorry, Peter. You have two urgent messages. Morrison unfortunately has to report failure. They had them, but snipers on the roof killed the prisoners before they could be fully secured. Colonel Tartaglia on behalf of General Stewart reports a success, however. They have captured an enemy agent alive and transported her to the Detention Center on Titan Base for interrogation. Oh, third message. Defense Minister Li advises you and your subordinates that a Darhel delegation under the leadership of the Minister of Commerce and Trade, the Tir Dol Ron, will be observing the interrogation. Your orders are to ensure that your people give the Tir's delegation every assistance," it said.
"That's weird." Um . . . better think about that in private. "Jenny, relay the orders to General Stewart and Colonel Tartaglia. Uh . . . Jenny, does the message say why it was sent by the Colonel and what happened to General Beed?"
"General Beed is deceased, at the hands of the prisoner, one Captain Sinda Makepeace, his secretary. Or a Jane Doe masquerading as a Fleet Strike captain, although Fleet Strike biometric procedures make that impossible, of course. General Stewart was injured in the conflict and is currently unconscious and undergoing medical treatment. Full recovery is anticipated."
"Thanks, Jenny. Again, please hold any messages unless they are urgent." Or I may not get to sleep in my own bed tonight.
"Certainly, Peter. I understand," it cooed softly.
* * *
Under a cornfield in Indiana, Tuesday, June 18, 20:30
The Indowy Aelool took a small sip of his water and returned to a socially acceptable state of quiet contemplation. Normally, in Nathan O'Reilly's office he tried to interact a bit more in the human custom of little talk. It seemed to put his friend at ease.
Given the present situation and the continuing repercussions of the Cally O'Neal debacle, and the presence of the Indowy Roolnai, more traditionally decorous behavior was the better political move.
Roolnai had left his water untouched, disdaining to interrupt his contemplation, perhaps as a subtle rebuke to Aelool. Perhaps just to control personal nervousness. It was, after all, a tense situation they were gathered to monitor.
It was not turning out to be a good night for the Bane Sidhe.
Roolnai's AID chirped a rapid rush of Indowy. Roolnai raised his head and turned to O'Reilly.
"It is confirmed that the Human Cally O'Neal has been captured alive. It is confirmed that none of Team Hector was taken alive, neither due to our intervention nor their competence, but instead due to the Darhel's unwillingness to let Fleet Strike have those live agents. We presume the reason is that there are no Darhel currently on Earth to monitor or control the interrogations. Such is not the case on Titan. The Tir Dol Ron will preside there. We are also extremely fortunate that the perhaps precipitous action to retrieve one agent from Team Hector was adequately covered by the O'Neal transmission. Our information sources have not been compromised." As Roolnai spoke, Aelool hoped that O'Reilly was not enough of an adept at their language to catch the very subtle patronization in the tone. He was not confident in that hope. There was a slight glint in O'Reilly's eye that often accompanied human perceptions of subtleties.
"Thomas, please display a hologram of the military detention facility on Titan Base. Analyze defenses for possible weaknesses," he instructed his AID.
"Visual, or structural image?" it asked.
"Structural please," he said.
"Excuse me, Base Commander O'Reilly, but might I ask the purpose of this exercise?" Roolnai's voice was cool.
"To evaluate the possibilities for an extraction, of course," he replied absently, obviously already absorbed in contemplating the image.
"One might ask first whether an extraction would be a wise use of limited resources." The more senior Indowy spoke with the exquisite deference that usually accompanied an immovably firm position.
"I fail to see the harm in evaluating the feasibility, costs, and risks of an extraction." If I do not smooth over the crack, the entire foundation of this alliance is at stake. Does Roolnai realize the insult he offers to the humans by their standards? I certainly hope that this is unintentional on his part.
"Is false hope a harm? When retrieving the agent without damage that will render her incapable of being restored to reliable operational status is already so very unlikely?" Roolnai was bland. Too bland.
"Perhaps not. I find I am tired, my friends. It's been a long night and apparently there is little more we can accomplish together, in any case." The O'Reilly had stood and turned away. In Indowy body language, it was a gesture of polite fatigue. It was Aelool's fear that the behavior might have more significance. Knowing both his friend Nathan and his friend Roolnai, talking further with both together at this point would only increase the rift. He'd have to work on them separately.
Roolnai had already immediately reacted in polite fashion and was moving for the door. Aelool followed, pausing briefly in the doorway.
"Friend Nathan, would it be possible to continue our game of chess tomorrow afternoon? Is there a time you might find convenient?" The offer was on the table. The pause worried him for a moment.
"I'd like that. I don't know my schedule, but if Thomas could talk to your AID?"
Aelool nodded. Good. The breach was not final. At least, not yet.
Titan, Fleet Strike Detention Center, Tuesday, June 18, 21:00
"So, who is she?" Robert Tartaglia had not been enamored of his late CO's eccentricities, but he had not wanted him dead. Especially not if his death would in any way taint the promotion he had long since genuinely earned on merit. And it was certainly odd that she had apparently killed Beed in defense of General Stewart. And he sure never would have guessed that guy for a counterintelligence agent. Which was the point, of course, but still . . . It was going to be weird saluting a new CO he'd been used to thinking of as a screw-up kid first john. Guy was a real James Bond. Imagine, having the spy so ga-ga over him she'd actually waited around to be captured out of concern for his life. Talk about a ladies' man. The dorky first john, General Stewart, his new CO. It was just too fucking weird for words. He realized Baker was looking at him funny.
&nbs
p; "Sorry, Baker, could you repeat that?" he said.
"I said we don't know who she is. She isn't Sinda Makepeace." Agent Sam Baker was a bit rumpled from coming back in after a full day's work. Civvies, no matter how well made, had nothing on silks for standing up to extended wear and still looking good. Baker probably would have preferred to wear silks, but it was against regulation for the warrant officers assigned to CID, where keeping rank out of investigations was essential to the job. "Fingerprints match, DNA matches, voiceprint doesn't. She sounds like her, and she's obviously very well coached. But she sure as hell isn't Captain Makepeace. For one thing, our Mata Hari bitched about the poor quality of the local coffee but regularly drank it. The real Captain Makepeace loathed coffee—was a tea drinker. I wonder how they missed that."
"Cover identities always miss something. So when's the database search on the voiceprint going to be back so we'll know who she is? Do I have time to go grab a cup of coffee?" He quirked an eyebrow at the younger man.
"I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't clear enough. The database searches are all back. She's not in them. Any of them. According to the system, she doesn't exist," he said.
"Makepeace has an evil twin, Skippy? Or a clone?" His tone was dubious.
"No twin, and no clone with any technology we know about. Oh, also, we got one of Makepeace's high school sweethearts on the phone. He said she had a vaguely triangular mole on her front, to the left, down in the bikini area. No mole on Mata Hari."
"Careful with that, Sam. Mata Hari's obviously got some phenomenal powers of attraction." He was only half joking. The woman was a looker, and had already provoked one man to kill over her.
"Yes, sir. Those were farther up, sir."
"Baker, you've had more interrogation experience than just about anyone else we've got because of your organized crime work with the local tongs. We need to get the ball rolling in anticipation of General Stewart's return to duty. Consider yourself TDY to the detention center for the duration, or until the general decides otherwise. I'm gonna go grab some coffee." He got up to leave but was stopped by the extended hand from a voluminous robe. The hand had some serious claws.
"A moment of your time, if you please, Colonel." The Tir's voice was melodious, almost hypnotic. The colonel might have enjoyed listening to him if having him here weren't such a pain in the ass. But orders were orders.
"Yes, Your Tir. What can I do for you?" Tartaglia nodded as Baker caught his eye and wordlessly excused himself to both provide his absence and go get his XO some coffee. A good man.
"While I certainly think Fleet Strike's man should participate in the interrogation as a learning experience, in a spirit of what you would call interservice cooperation, Fleet has generously agreed to provide a highly experienced interrogation team. I would think, given how close to the prisoner Fleet Strike personnel have been, that that would be a wise move. If you would consider a friendly suggestion, of course." His smile bared teeth, and the Indowy servant at his elbow reminded Tartaglia a bit of a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car back home.
Bob Tartaglia was nobody's fool, and he hadn't reached the rank of full colonel in Fleet Strike's very competitive career atmosphere without displaying the finely tuned political skills of an adept. Oh, he was a good enough leader to feel a certain disdain for certain aspects of the politics. But he could certainly recognize the lay of the land when he saw it. The Tir would not be here without the orders having originated at the very top of the chain of command. Polite suggestions from the Tir, if disregarded, would quickly come down the chain as full fledged orders.
"That sounds like wise advice, Your Tir. Would you happen to know when these loaned personnel from Fleet will be available to us?"
"Far be it for me to interfere with the chain of command that you humans value so highly. However, my understanding is that the personnel Fleet is so generously loaning are conveniently next door in the SP Detention Annex and can be here virtually as soon as you give the order to admit them. They've been quite considerate, don't you think?" If Darhel had been feline, the Tir would have been purring.
"How very thoughtful of them." One of Tartaglia's first acts after the demise of his former CO had been to dispatch an MP to his quarters to fetch his AID. Getting used to working without Suzanne over the past weeks had not exactly inclined him to lament the late general's passing. Now he had her relay the order to the MP's on guard at the front gate in the main entrance lock lobby, releasing a slow breath as the Darhel and his Indowy servant glided off to wherever they were choosing to be. He tried not to let it show how personally satisfied he was that where the Darhel had chosen to be was elsewhere.
Chapter Sixteen
Titan Base, Fleet Strike Detention Center, Tuesday, June 18, 21:30
The interrogation room had one-way glass, but not on the ground floor. Instead, it had two-story ceilings and the one-way glass formed a full perimeter of the rather large room. It reminded Sam Baker of a fish tank. At this point, since they had no idea who their prisoner actually was, and she wouldn't say word one to any of his people, he had pulled the MP's from the room, hoping that observing her alone would help them start to build a file that would eventually lead to a positive identification. Currently, the prisoner was dancing, very energetically. It was incredibly odd behavior, especially in the rather ugly prison-orange jumpsuit, but was more data for the file. Of course, they might not need that file after all. They'd probably know everything including what she had for breakfast by morning.
The SP detachment had arrived a few minutes ago under a lieutenant, j.g., one Wong Yan-Feng accompanied by a medic and a senior chief with very old eyes. Its presence was a calculated insult to Fleet Strike and tended to make the hair on his neck rise a bit. Still, with modern interrogation drugs, they could save a whole lot of time and the medic appeared to have a full set, including several that Fleet Strike internal regulations did not approve for use on prisoners. If Fleet's medic could get this whole mess over with so he could get back to his own cases, he didn't have a problem with it.
The whole platoon of SP's struck him as incredible overkill for one prisoner, and made him vaguely uneasy, but as soon as they shot her full of drugs it was going to all be over anyway, so it was probably just somebody with too much a sense of inter-service rivalry trying to rub their noses in the insult.
The detachment had brought their own tea along with their supplies, and the lieutenant, j.g., sat with a fresh cup while the senior chief and the SP's went in with a gurney, to strap the prisoner to it in preparation for the medic. Baker revised his opinion about the necessity for the number of men, after trank darts appeared to have no effect and given that four men were on the ground and several others appeared the worse for wear, in spite of swarming her, by the time they got her strapped down. He wouldn't have believed a woman, even a combat trained one, would be that strong. He wouldn't have expected it from most men, frankly, and he had worked beside her for weeks, besides. What in the hell was she?
Her response to the interrogation drugs, even the really nasty ones, closely resembled boredom. Good God. Maybe the Fleet team was not overkill. Finally, the medic made one last injection, not even bothering to wait for its effects, or lack of them, before leaving the room, leaving the SP's who were still standing, including the one that had finally gotten up, to drag their fellows from the room.
It was almost half an hour before the medic reappeared with the chief and a mixed squad of SP's. The chief stopped at attention in front of the lieutenant.
"We'll need another five men, sir. Two of them permanently." Senior Chief Yi Chang Ho's face was a study in impassivity.
"You will get them." The only indication of emotion in the officer's face was a few rapid blinks, quickly resolving into stillness.
"What's the last thing you gave her?" Baker just had to know.
"A little Provigil-C. If you were building super agents, would you make them immune to it? Task people to observing her overnight. If she doesn't sleep,
we can keep feeding in the sleep suppressors without boosting her alertness. It may be effective. Someone will need to go in and untie her. It will make observations about her sleep or lack of it more accurate." His nametag read "PO1 Liao Chien."
Baker suppressed the surprising tendency to swallow hard. But he wasn't about to be responsible for letting Fleet Strike look bad in front of these smug Fleet bastards and the Darhel VIP. He ordered in a platoon of MP guards to loosen her bonds and make as graceful a tactical retreat with the gurney as the situation would allow.
Fortunately, she didn't seem as interested in harming men who were setting her loose as she was men who were strapping her down. No additional casualties. Just an immediate return to her dancing. He was starting to recognize it. It appeared to be the same dance, over and over. Tartaglia had joined him at the glass, taking a thoughtful sip of his coffee.
"I wonder what she's dancing to?" he said.
* * *
Titan Base, Fleet Strike Detention Center, Tuesday, June 18, 21:30
They're not going to extract me. They probably won't even try. I'll die in here, under torture. The recuperative powers are great . . . usually. The only thing I can control is how long it takes—at least, so long as they're stupid enough to let me loose in here. Eventually, my body's reserves will give out and I'll die. The less reserves, the sooner that will be. Sooner is good. So here we are back to Sister Dorcas in SERE. Damn, I hated that sadistic bitch. Find an anchor. He's alive, whatever he turned out to be, he's alive. That's one. The last song we made love to. That's a good anchor. I know it by heart. I could dance forever to it, and no matter what they do to me, it reminds me of anchor number one. He's alive. Okay, something to hold onto, and a plan. Check.
