Cally's War

by John Ringo

  "So?" O'Neal's hands motioned for more.

  "So I know the sonofabitch. Served with him in ACS forty-some years ago. It's just, after forty years . . . We were both in the Triple-Nickle with Mike Junior. He was the S-2 of the battalion in Rabun. If I had recognized him, we wouldn't have lost Cally."

  Papa O'Neal was silent for a few seconds.

  "That's a big one." He was silent for a long moment. "But after forty years . . . Besides, if you had recognized him, we wouldn't have pulled Jay out into the open. Then we would have lost no telling how many other people, possibly the whole ball game, with whoever else Jay gave up," he reminded quietly. "So, who the hell is he, really? Obviously a juv, of course."

  "He's Major General James Stewart, now. He just took command of the Third MP Brigade. He's the bastard who caught her, and he's the bastard who's in charge of whatever they're doing to her. And Mike is a fucking father to him!"

  O'Neal stared coldly into the distance for a few minutes, jaw working. He took a long breath and released it slowly.

  "That's mostly right. Don't tell me you don't know by now that the Darhel are in charge of whatever they're doing to her. Stewart is probably just now experiencing for the very first time how very closely they're pulling his strings. I mean, he has to have known it. But knowing it and experiencing it are two different things." He spat into his cup, tilting his head a bit as if something had just occurred to him.

  "Don't beat yourself up, Sunday. You may have just handed us the break that's gonna get her out of there. Just . . . give me a few minutes, okay? And I mean that, no more beating yourself up." As the older man walked aft and began to pace, Tommy could actually hear him begin to hum tunelessly.

  * * *

  Titan Base, Fleet Strike Detention Center, Wednesday, June 19, 18:30

  James Stewart had long since numbed out to the additional indignities being visited on Sinda. He supposed the numbness was composed of equal parts shock, rage, and the necessity of keeping a poker face if he was ever to get the opportunity of avenging Sinda. He wouldn't call her "Mahri"—that was the name they were using. Sinda wasn't her name, but it was what she had called herself to him, and that was the best he had.

  He had seen some indescribably horrible things as an ACS trooper, things done by Posleen to humans, things done by humans to Posleen. In the gang, he thought he had seen some pretty horrible things done to humans by humans. A few murders, anyway.

  But he had never seen anything like this done by a group of humans to another human being. He had thought he was hardened to anything. He was wrong. Still, without the ability to click on and move his mind to that cold, efficient place that built a temporary barrier against the horror, he probably would be in a cell now, or shot—well, shot again—and no use to anybody.

  The Fleet chief, Yi, was currently giving an end-of-day report on the status of the prisoner. The list of injuries—smashed and "merely" broken bones, cuts, bruises, and burns replayed vivid images in his head. The first thing they had done, of course, had been to finish gang-raping her after resorting to the simple expedient of an improvised gag. It rendered her incapable of providing information, but the bastards had apparently decided it would have been bad form to let her win that psychological battle. And in a total bastard kind of way, he could see their point. He was still going to kill every last one of them, but he could see why they did it.

  The hardest thing he'd done in years, next to calling the MPs on her in the first place, was leaving at the end of the day to go home, looking perfectly normal. He had watched them turn out the lights and run the gravity down to zero for the night, leaving her strapped down and injected with Galactic Decameth—the C part in Provigil-C, minus the Provigil. And then he'd had to turn and wheel himself out the door, trailed by his own medic, who looked like a saint next to Fleet's pet monster.

  Titan Base, Wednesday, June 19, 19:00

  In the small room, Tommy sat on the bed, waiting, a white container the size of a cigar box in his hands, open at one end. A clean AID was clipped to his belt. It looked just like any other AID. Tonight, that was its most important job. He wore gray silks with the insignia and unit identification of long ago. If any of the surviving members of the triple nickel ACS saw him, it would look to them like they were seeing a ghost. He had gone back to his original hair and eye color, and he had never needed as much facial alteration as Cally or Papa, anyway. Oh, he was different—but not that different unless he wanted to be. And, of course, his frame was pretty hard to camouflage.

  Out of the two vacant rooms on the hall with the quarters formerly occupied by lowly Lieutenant Pryce, and now occupied by a general the system had not yet had the opportunity to reassign, he and Papa had chosen the one closest to the transit car. Not that it mattered. One was as good as the other. A very small sticky camera sat in the slight shadow cast by the door jamb.

  Papa O'Neal was in the chair, watching the hall on the screen of his PDA. He was actually watching a fast-forward of the past five minutes, since the camera only squealed its encrypted transmission when pinged, and they didn't need particularly high resolution.

  "Fuck."

  "What?" Tommy's eyes locked with the older man's.

  "He's in a wheelchair and has someone with him. Looks like a medic." He patted his pockets absently before frowning and rubbing his chin.

  "Uh . . . if Cally did that to him, he may not be all that sympathetic." Tommy looked over his shoulder and winced slightly. "He doesn't look so good."

  "If you've got a better card to play, I'd be glad to hear it," he said, setting the PDA down on the desk for a second to get up and pace. "We may not be able to get to him tonight."

  "He never did like doctors much," Tommy mused. "He might kick him out. I don't see any reason not to give it at least until midnight."

  "Agreed." He stopped pacing and sat down, tapping a foot in uncharacteristic nervousness.

  As it turned out, they didn't have to wait long at all, as the medic left and disappeared through the transit car doors almost immediately.

  "Tommy?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Never would have guessed that he doesn't like doctors. Let's go." The red-haired man pocketed his PDA and left without looking back.

  "Right. This is gonna be so weird." Tommy rubbed his hands on his silks and cleared his throat, following him out. This was the first time in twenty-five years that he was going to have to go see an old friend who was sure he was dead. Don't overthink it. Just do it.

  He rang the doorbell and waited for the intercom light to come on, clearing his throat again.

  "Triple nickel pizza delivery. Got a large with fajita beef and extra refried beans for Manuel," he said.

  "What?"

  As the door slid open, Tommy took his own AID off his belt, holding it over the box. He caught Stewart's eye and put the AID in the box, handing the box to Stewart. His old buddy's face paled and scrunched up in some strange mix of shock and bewilderment, but he accepted the box, putting his own AID in and sealing the lid. He didn't hand it back.

  "We need to talk, Stewart. In private. Can we come in?"

  "Yeah, I guess you'd better." He sighed and wheeled back from the door, letting them in and waiting while it closed behind them.

  "You're the healthiest looking dead guy I've ever seen. And someone obviously changed your face just enough to fool software scans. So. You wanna tell me what's going on?" He wheeled around to a table, picking up a pack of cigarettes and offering them around before lighting one.

  "That part's a long story. Introductions first. Stewart, Mike O'Neal, Sr. Papa O'Neal, General James Stewart. As you know, we served together under your son in the war," he said.

  "That's a big claim. And even if it's true, you'd have to have a damned good excuse for letting Mike think his dad's been dead all these years. I don't think that's possible." He took a long drag and waited.

  "Oh, I've had rejuv. And more extensive cosmetic work than Tommy, here. There's no point in doi
ng much to someone his size—you just keep him out of sight as much as you can and use him other ways. On the other, Mike would be the first to agree with the necessity if he knew."

  "Look, I've had a long day, can you cut the cryptic bullshit?"

  "Okay. I've known O'Neal, Senior, for twenty-five years. There is a damned good reason, but whether you hear it depends on the next part of this conversation. Trust me for a minute, okay? You've got a prisoner in your detention center." He gestured at the chair and Stewart's obvious injuries. "She do that?"

  "No. What do you know about her?" He leaned forward too quickly and winced, clapping a hand to his gut.

  "She's Iron Mike's daughter." Tommy appreciated that Papa was letting him do the talking. It was going to take more information before Stewart would trust either of them, and they couldn't give him that information until they had a better idea of how he was reacting.

  "What the fu—you're shitting me." It was obviously another shock. Tommy hoped he wasn't really in a bad way. Then again, if he had been, the medic wouldn't have left.

  "Cally O'Neal. She's not dead either." Papa had leaned back against the wall and was obviously trying to wait patiently.

  "Cally. Wait a minute. You're trying to get me to believe that the old man's dad and his daughter have both let him eat his heart out thinking they're dead for forty years? I think you'd better cut the bullshit and talk, because my patience is going fast," he said.

  "Well, you see, there's this problem with the Darhel . . ."

  * * *

  Titan Base, Wednesday, June 19, 21:30

  After they had gone, Stewart sat in the chair staring at the wall. On some level he knew he was probably in something close to shock.

  Usually he had the vidscreen on, if only displaying a still holo. It was the first thing he slapped to life coming in the door.

  Pattern broken by the interruption, he sat staring. The blank bareness of the walls, hardly improved by the gray rectangle of the dead screen, closed in on him like one of the cells over at the prison.

  God, Cally, what a fucking mess! Okay, Tommy was a replacement troop, but dammit, he was one of us! Even if civilian control at the top of the chain of command was going all to hell by then, how could I—he—make himself a traitor? All right, so it was a hard call. Maybe he was even right. There sure as hell is no more effective civil control—human, anyway—of the military. I thought working within the system . . . even after it had gone to hell. But good God, we won the war and lost the peace, and there's no bringing it back. Fuck. Maybe he's right.

  No! How the hell could he leave the Old Man thinking his daughter was dead? And his father? How the fuck could they? Cally couldn't have done anything, she was just a kid then. Okay, so she had to go along. Fuck, she was just a kid. What the hell else could she do? But his own father. His own damn father!

  And now I'm supposed to do it, too. Turn my coat, join up, don't ask questions. Yeah, right.

  But what the hell else could I do? All I know is the military—unless you count gang leading. Yeah, right. Not much call for either outside the control of the fucking Darhel Federation. It might as well be, anyway. Not like the other bunch looks much better.

  How can I be a traitor? How could anyone leave the people who love them most thinking they're just dead?

  What a fucking mess! Cally, what the fuck am I gonna do?

  The walls had no answer for him.

  * * *

  Titan Base, Wednesday, June 19, 23:00

  "We've got something." Papa O'Neal's face was uncharacteristically closed in addressing his old friend.

  "Do I want to know the details?" Father O'Reilly hadn't lived as long as he had without learning when not to ask too many questions. The Indowy Aelool stood quietly at his side.

  "Probably not." His jaw worked and he looked around for a cup for a moment before nodding gratefully as Tommy pressed one into his hand. He spat neatly.

  "Might it be possible for us to hear the broadest outline of this plan?" The Indowy's facial expression was earnest.

  "We found some help I don't want to compromise even over a probably secure channel." He emphasized the word probably slightly, in an attempt to appeal to traditional Indowy paranoia about exchanging information outside of a face-to-face meeting.

  "Yes. Good communications discipline. We can certainly understand that. Can you give us an estimate of your chances of success? What you would call a ballpark estimate will suffice." The little green guy actually looked happy, which was odd given their earlier conversation with O'Reilly.

  "Ballpark. Okay." O'Neal scratched his chin for a moment. "Call it reasonable to high."

  "And how would you rate the chances of success if you had to wait, for example, an extra day to carry out this plan?" Aelool was looking at him very strangely—almost as if he was hoping for a particular—

  "It would substantially reduce the chances of success." Did I guess right?

  "And would your plan require the emplacement of additional organization resources beyond those currently deployed in the field with you?" Father O'Reilly asked conversationally.

  "No, it would not," he said.

  "Then since you say that is the case, a decision by us at headquarters is certainly something that cannot wait until morning. Father O'Reilly, do you concur?"

  "Oh, most certainly." There was an odd twinkle in the old priest's eye.

  "I recommend this mission be approved. Do you concur, Father?" Only someone very familiar with Indowy would have recognized the particular treble tone as formal, even businesslike.

  "That does seem wise. I do concur, Indowy Aelool." He nodded. "The mission not requiring the emplacement of additional resources and being time critical, the mission is approved. Now if you'll please excuse us—" He cut the transmission without giving either of them time to say another word.

  "Did I just imagine that conversation?" Tommy rubbed his eyes tiredly.

  "Nope." O'Neal spat again, contemplatively, "But it certainly suggests that parts of things back home are less fucked up, and parts more fucked up, than we thought. Not that I'm going to lose any sleep over it. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Titan Base, Fleet Strike Detention Center, Thursday, June 20, 00:01

  The first stages of sensory deprivation were never too bad. It was relatively easy, especially with preparatory training, to hold on to yourself. Doing it in true zero-g was tough. The traditional tank of water still had some definable sense of down, however small. The gurney actually helped. It would have been worse without it. She could work her hands and feet against the straps and feel the pain. They hadn't blocked her ears with white noise, or gagged her. She could run her tongue across her teeth and feel the edges. She could hear her heartbeat. With enhanced hearing, she could hear it very well, and keep her breathing paced. It gave some sense of the passage of time.

  It's gotta be about three or four in the morning by now. Counting the time is an upside to not being able to sleep, I guess. But it's so tempting to just watch the colors go by. Red, electric blue, chartreuse. What the hell is chartreuse, anyway? Oop, lost count again. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub . . . one, two, three, four, men are running in the door, seven, eight, nine and ten, then they're carried out again. . . .

  Ireland. An American official on vacation. Tourism never died, it seemed. No witnesses, but he's all in black, a player? His neck cracks so easily, and he rolls as he falls, and it's white it wasn't supposed to be white what why was he here? God, no. No.

  Shit, that's weird. It didn't happen that way. That was two hits. The official wasn't in Ireland at all. He was on a golf course in Arkansas. The priest was in Ireland, but he was a young guy, an idealist, about to go public on "infiltrators" in the Church. That had to be, what, twelve, thirteen years ago? That one was so sad. But it hasn't bothered me in years . . . has it? Oh, crap, I lost track of time again.

  But why the guy on the golf course? Putt-putt, and down thro
ugh the bottom of the windmill, sailing out of the tunnel down into the Quarter—Mardi Gras parade, no war, no training, freedom for a long weekend. Strings of cheap plastic beads and hurricanes, and a young-looking soldier of the Ten Thousand who looks like he puts in a lot of time in the weight room. She's Lilly tonight and laughing up into his face and she tries not to go this time but she always does, and now it's morning and he's telling her—me—about his wife, again, and she's trying and trying to get off the bed and kick the bastard in the crotch, but she can't move, and she's—uh—I'm—back in survival training in Minnesota, and the snow falls, and what the fuck?

  Oh. I remember that creep. It was a hell of a rotten way to lose my virginity, but I was lying to him, too. This is just too weird. Sensory dep in SERE training back with the Sisters was never like this. But I guess I didn't have nearly as many personal ghosts then. But I don't have ghosts now. I sleep like a baby—don't I?

  Florida. Swimming with dolphins. Mom's with me. She's proud of me. And the water's cool, and the sun hot. Silly Herm—why is Doc Vita P standing on the beach? And what's he holding? There's something really odd about this dream. Something's not right.

  Okay, hold it. I'm not even asleep. My broken bits ache and I'm on a gurney in zero-g, this is the Fleet Strike prison dammit. Even if the bastards they have working me over are Fleet, the place and the regular people are Fleet Strike. Hell of an irony, that. What'd I figure last time? About three in the morning? Surely it's got to be four or so by now. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub . . . How the hell long has it been since I've been to confession, anyway? Can't even remember why I quit going. It's not like Father O'Reilly wouldn't gladly hear it, and with no risks to security. You know, it's morbid as hell, but if I ever get out of here, that's something I need to do. Maybe something I could do with my copious free time at the moment is make a list. Uh, maybe not. Bad for morale. Better to do that after they get me out, if they do. Sister Mary Francis always said God understands. Back to my anchor. Even if I can't dance on the floor, I can dance in my head. Here we go. . . . Waitasecond . . . this one's loose—oh, it wasn't before probably, but with the break and the blood being slippery—probably pass out for a bit—one good yank.