John Ringo: Honor of the Clan

“Michelle said she could deal with all that.” She absently brushed her hair back, tucking the strands behind her ear.

“No, she said she’d try ,” O’Reilly said. “It didn’t work. We’ve been disavowed.”

“Disavowed by who and why? I thought violent mass-murderer scumbags like Winchon were persona non grata with all the races.”

“The Tchpth, the Himmit, the Indowy with whom we still had a minimal backdoor relationship,” the monsignor said with a sigh. “Thank God Aelool and Beilil felt too much personal responsibility to join the exodus. The whole reason the Crabs wanted Pardal dead was that plotting the death of one of only five emergent human mentats, the beginning of our species’ enlightenment, was a far worse evil. Turns out, they viewed it as a problem on the scale of the Posleen war. That is the only reason they authorized the killing of Pardal, to protect Michelle. And then you have to go and kill one of the other four mentats!”

“He was a freaking psychopath,” Cally said. “A powerful and dangerous one for that matter.”

“They feel they could have managed that,” O’Reilly said, holding up his hand to forestall a reply. “The point is, I’ve tried to find words to describe to you how angry they are, and I can’t come up with anything remotely adequate.”

“Like a kicked hornet’s nest?” Papa said.

“Angry like a supernova is hot?” Cally asked.

“Angry like I’ll get if you two can’t take this seriously !” O’Reilly shouted. “Cut off. NO support. None! Totally on our own!”

“We’ve got funding,” Cally pointed out, shrugging. “A lot more funding than we did before this went down.”

“Would you care to consider what we don’t have?” O’Reilly asked sarcastically. “Just consider the following. No access to GalTech. No access to Galactic medicines. No access to Galactic injury care, not nannites, not even a tank much less a slab. We don’t even have human medical support. The next time you get seriously injured, you’d better be able to do internal surgery, Cally, because otherwise you’re going to die for real and for certain.”

“Oh,” Cally said.

“No access to GalTech weaponry,” O’Reilly pointed out, turning to Papa. “No plasma weapons. No grav-guns. No armor. No plasteel. No logistic support except what the Clan can provide. And entirely out of Clan funds instead of the trickle of continued support we got. We’re entirely on our own for buying ammo for what weapons we’ve got or buy on the open market. Only our own access to black market.”

“Stewart can help there,” Cally said.

“Minimally,” Papa pointed out. “Unless you want to get my son-in-law killed.”

“Not… usually,” Cally said.

“No access to Bane Sidhe intel,” O’Reilly continued. “Or Himmit. No—”

“Okay,” Cally said. “Okay. Got the picture. I fucked up. I was under a certain amount of pressure at the time.”

“Not a good enough excuse for the mess you’ve created,” O’Reilly said. “However, even though you were intimately involved in the unfolding of this mess, I can’t figure out a way to help in the salvage operation.”

“Yes, sir. No excuse, Father,” she said.

“Cally, what were you thinking?” O’Reilly asked.

“I made a serious mission planning error, sir, and I was winging it.”

“Quit sirring me, this isn’t the army.”

“Yes, sir — I mean, yes, Father.” She watched him sigh and knew it wasn’t the response he’d been looking for.

“In any case, you’re not here for a dressing down. Or, more accurately, I’m done. What you’re here for is a joint Clan/Organization planning meeting,” the priest said, sitting down in a chair next to Papa’s.

It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. Cally decided it was a very good opportunity to keep her mouth shut.

“My own mistakes in this debacle include not having pulled your grandfather behind a desk, doubtless kicking and screaming, ten or fifteen years ago. My reasons seemed good at the time.” He sighed. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty.” The young-looking old man rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, fingering rosary beads that weren’t there.

“They say that infantry captain is the best job in the army. Every generation, every new crop of captains, has to face the same fact — you can’t be a captain forever. Operations is fun.”

“You’re pulling me from the field,” she said woodenly.

“I certainly would if I could, but but we don’t have a good replacement. And we’re down on support for training. Right now, with Direct Action Group no longer being trained by the Federation and both you and Papa in the field, we’re effectively eating our seed-corn. Your DAG recruits aren’t ready to do covert ops. So you’re going to have to do the two-hat shuffle and train them.”

“Can I ask what the other one is?”

“You just did. We cannot survive without Galactic allies. We need raw materials, transportation, tools, technology, information. These are all things they have, that we need. Papa here is going to have to put on his clan-head hat and go play diplomat for us.”

“Granpa? Diplomat… ? Have you gone bonkers ?”

“Why does everyone react that way?” Papa asked. “I’m a perfectly diplomatic person.”

Nathan gave Cally a wry grin.

“He’s the only one who can,” the monsignor said, serious again. “As bad as things are, they’ll only meet with a clan head — O’Neal’s clan head. We’re all going to be making some sacrifices and doing things we’d rather not. From the point of view of the Galactics, the only way to ensure that Clan O’Neal isn’t going to go rogue, again, is to have agreements with the Clan Leader.”

“If I promise you won’t kill any more of the nomenklatura without authorization, they’ll accept that as an unbreakable promise,” Papa said. “Which it will be, granchile o’ mine.”

“Yes, O Great and Powerful Oz,” Cally said flippantly.

“Which means that we’re all going to have to be doing things we’d rather not,” O’Reilly said. “I will be without my right arm, for example, since he’ll have to go with Papa. His assistant will therefore have to speed up her learning curve, something that is good for her but not welcome. Which brings us to your second job. Although in normal line of succession your father would be clan head, that’s not… appropriate at this time. You will, therefore, be acting clan head in your grandfather’s absence.”

“Which means you get all the headaches of running Clan O’Neal,” Papa said with an evil grin. “Like herding Bengal tigers that is.”

Cally felt the beginnings of a crushing sensation in her chest, her face automatically defaulting to an expressionless mask. Perversely, the first coherent thought to wander through her head was that this would ruin Christmas, and how was she going to tell Shari.

“Don’t get used to that feeling,” O’Reilly said. “You have a lot of material to cover, and then you can expect a lot of practical work. In an area that is about as far from your skill set as any I can imagine.”

“Nailed that one,” Cally said, trying not to grin.

“Hush,” the monsignor said, suppressing a chuckle. It wasn’t a moment for humor. “If you see less than a ten hour day the whole trip, praise God for the break.”

Cally took the opportunity to grab her grandfather in a tight bear hug, loosening up when he grunted from the pressure of her Crab-upgraded muscles.

“Good luck in the lion’s den,” she said.

“Good luck to you in the hot seat. See you when I get back. If you get a chance, hug your sister for me.”