John Ringo: Sister Time

“Piffle. Technicalities. You are so sure you are better than every other sentient in this galaxy that I suspect you even starch your panties. Had tea with the Aldenata yet, have we?”

“I do not—” Michelle began. “This is pointless. You will stop. You will proceed, with me as escort, to Barwhon, where you will submit to the designees of Tchpth planners for safe, serene contemplation and study where you will be neither a threat to yourself nor anyone else. I will return and clean up your mess.”

“And you get the goodies and to use my research to become the Epetar Group’s fair-haired girl, write your reputation in Galactic history, and take credit for civilizing humanity. I do not think so.”

“ Why would you agree to this, this intrigue in the first place? Research was proceeding. Do not tell me you had insufficient work of your own to do?”

“For one, it was considerably less interesting work.” Erick sneered. “Boring, frankly. For two, I do not drag my feet, and humanity needs civilization desperately.”

“The primary responsibility of a researcher is caution.”

“Again, piffle. Humanity pollutes the whole of Galactic civilization with its violence. There is not time.”

“You do like that word, do you not?” she rolled her eyes. “You dare to speak of humanity’s violence in the face of the unspeakable violence you have engaged in here?”

“ You did not kill Pardal — though you drove him into lintatai, or ordered it. I have not committed violence against humans. The same principle applies as always. One protects civilization by turning barbarism against barbarism. The firebreak theory. Here, barbarians have done violence to barbarians. No more, no less. They would have been doing it somewhere, sooner or later. They were simply doing it here.”

“If I needed any more proof that you are insane, I would have it with that incredibly convoluted excuse for philosophical reasoning. I did not drive Pardal into lintatai, nor did I make the decision that permitted the possibility.”

“Oh, what a world of delicious wiggle room that careful statement leaves. You were involved, I am sure.”

“I was not completely uninvolved,” she conceded.

Cally could see his facial expressions, but not her sister’s, and was genuinely frightened by the manic glee that attended Michelle’s admission. If anything she had heard about mentats was true, she had never wanted to be around an unhinged one. This guy was so unhinged his door wasn’t on the same block.

“However, my tangential involvement was in no way my own instigation.” Michelle spoke calmly, but Michelle always spoke calmly. It was sort of irritating. Erick’s delighted skepticism wasn’t making the assassin feel any better.

“I was not consulted, I was required,” she insisted.

“Whatever excuse allows you to sleep at night, Miss Starch,” he said. “He tried to kill you, you got there first. And apparently managed the incomparable feat of not only securing sanction from our ‘pacifist’ peers, but persuading them that it was all their idea, and you their oh-so-reluctant puppet. I will give you points for style, at least. You finally surpass your famously barbaric sire in the art of murder.” He giggled and bowed, the gesture spoiled by the uninterrupted fit of humor.

Cally hadn’t heard a mentat laugh before — didn’t know they could. She could do without hearing it again. Winchon’s giggle could have curdled milk.

“If you knew Pardal was trying to kill me, how do you rationalize helping him do it, I wonder?”

“My dear colleague, I would have forever applauded your self-sacrifice in the advancement of civilization. The death of one of the Wise is always poignant.” He sighed, a hand clasped to his heart. “I have, alas, tired of your charmingly self-righteous and cautious company, Human Mentat Michelle O’Neal. Good-bye,” he said.

Cally felt the hair on the back of her neck try to crawl up her scalp line. Apparently they were through with the talking.

The mentats were locked into perfect stillness, standing apart yet swathed together in sheets of silver light and shadow. Seemingly random portions of the building alternately shook and cracked. In one corner, the ceiling crumbled as an I-beam curled, stretching and deforming like hot taffy. The massive weight of the building above it creaked threateningly. The destruction slowly stilled and froze, air sparkling with an alien haze that strained against some undreamt-of aether, unmoving, stalemated. As if by mutual consent, the buzzing tension stilled, as both took precious moments for deeper breath. They stood, panting, somehow managing to glare at each other and remain preternaturally impassive at the same time.

You have hired the worst sort of barbarians to do your violence, Michelle thought.

Do not be melodramatic, Erick replied. They are all barbarians. My hirelings are killing sophonts for money; so are yours. There is no difference. Barbarians are mutually expendable.

So we come, yet again, to our mutual philosophical debate, Michelle thought. You have never understood that in humans who are not damaged, the embryonic basis of clan loyalty is nature, not nurture. They thus have an inherent value. If you do not find some clan loyalty in an Earth human, you have a defective one.

What clan loy — He stared, as if for the first time, at the frozen Earther combatants. Oh, good grief. The attackers are your clan, either by birth or adoption. And the Darhel thought you were dangerous before. It is the perfect cosmic joke. Fine, you were right, I was wrong. But how truly hilarious!

“Okay, holy fuck,” Cally said, looking out from under the stairwell.

The two combatants had stopped for the moment. The stasis had broken as soon as they started their titanic battle and Cally had tried to get a shot in on Erick. But the round had been absorbed into the swirl of power around the two and never hit.

“Bit of a pickle,” Mosovich admitted. “Do we know each other?”

“I think we met once when I was a kid,” Cally said. “I looked different. Full body sculpt. Cally O’Neal.”

“Oh, I remember you,” Mosovich said. “Pleasure to finally meet you again. I’d mention that I heard from very good sources that you were dead, but…”

“Long story.”

“Perhaps another time,” Mosovich said, raising his arms over his head as the two mentats raised their hands.

This time the power was confined to a small space between the two mentats. A small very strange space. Tremendous heat was burning off of it but every time Cally tried to look into the spot her eyes basically tried to crawl out of her head. She stopped and looked at the combatants instead, noticing for the first time that the weird distortion around them was gone.

“I wonder…” Cally said, raising the Desert Eagle and assuming a careful shooting stance.

Michelle caught the power she was driving before it could do much more than blast the boxes on the far wall. And Erick, whose body burned to ash in a moment.

But the splash of blood on the ground was evidence of why he had suddenly failed.

“What did you do?” Michelle shouted, looking over at her sister.

“I dunno,” Cally said, standing up. “Saved your life? Killed a monster?”

“I cannot understand why you did that!”

“What part of horrible mass murderer of innocent people did you miss? Besides the target part, that is.”

“I never hired you to kill him. You do not kill the Wise!”

“Just did,” Cally noted. “My only regret is that you burned him to ash. I’d hoped to pull out his skull and shrink his head. I figured it would make a hell of mantelpiece.”