John Ringo - Cally's War

Proper hospitality towards human visitors required the ritual preparation of a bean broth highly prized among their species. He had learned the art from the best expert he could find. A perfectly clean pot and apparatus, a tiny pinch of salt, run the beans, which could be purchased dried and preroasted, through a coarse grinding machine, bottled spring water, add the components to the right parts of the machine, and it prepared the soup perfectly every time. He did not understand how water could have a season, but when he ordered it from Supply, they always knew what he meant, so he chose not to argue.

Aelool had learned that some chess sets were more abstract than others. The one he had chosen had pieces of wood, carved in intricate detail. He liked the horse. He had met them a couple of times. They weren’t quite sophonts, but he would like to have one in his quarters-group some day, if they could be bred small enough.

When everything was ready for his guest, he sat quietly for a few minutes, working on the design for his latest project. When the light shifted slightly yellow-ward, announcing the scholar’s arrival, he put the project away quietly and keyed the intercom.

“It’s open,” he said.

“Aelool, how are you this afternoon?”

“I’m fine,” he offered the ritual greeting. “May I get you some coffee?”

“Yes, please. Black.”

The Indowy placed a cup of coffee and a glass of water, with an olive, on the tray. Actually, the coffee was not black. It was a dark brown. And adding fat and nutrient-fortified mammalian sweat did not make it white, but more of a light brown. He had noticed humans tended to exaggerate such things.

They began their chess game. He had white — which was, in this case, actually white — so he opened the game. Currently, he was learning the variations on the knight’s gambit. As they played, O’Reilly updated him on the current state of Earth operations.

“Worth won’t be easy for them to replace. Most of the combat vets around are used to killing Posleen, not fellow humans. Sure, they still have the professionals he recruited and trained, but the Darhel have always tended to rely on data mining and hacking for intelligence more than actual sophont operatives or agents. Their training systems are weak, and any loss hurts.”

“I am more concerned about the leak. We need concealment. The plan is very long term, and premature exposure could defeat it.”

“Team Isaac has an impressive success rate.”

“They had better.”

It was a few minutes before six and the edges of the scattered clouds were a brilliant pink when Cally got off the city bus at the Columbia gate of the Wall. She had her backpack, one rolling suitcase, and had teamed an old pair of cutoff shorts with a T-shirt, complete with garish beach sunset, and a bright yellow Folly Beach visor. She wore an expression of slightly desperate hopefulness as she scanned the vehicles lining up for the morning convoy. She started towards a rather battered white van, but one scowl from the female driving it had her looking for another. Towards the end of the line she spotted a VW van that must have been damn near eighty years old. The tie-dyed patterns painted on the panels showed different degrees of fading, but had also clearly been carefully touched up over the years. The skull with roses coming out of the top was absolutely perfect, as was the lovingly painted legend that she knew even before she got far enough past the other vehicles to see all the words.

Before approaching, she took care of the buckley, turning voice access and response off and running the emulation all the way down to two, tucking it back into her purse. Wouldn’t do to have him saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.

The driver had long, blond hair and a full mustache and well-combed beard. He was built like a small bear. As she approached, she could detect a faint whiff of oak leaves and patchouli over the salt and fish from the tanks in back. The music from his cube player reached a good way from the open window and his fingers were tapping to the beat on the sill. ”… gotta tip they’re gonna kick the door in again. I’d like to get some sleep before I travel…”

“Hey, bitchin’ shirt. You surf?” He noticed her as she dragged the suitcase up.

“I’ve caught a coupla waves here and there. But I usually head out to L.A. for that. For the waves here, I didn’t even bring my own board. Didn’t have the cash or the time to go out that far this trip.”

“Bummer,” he sympathized. “Too much of everything’s about money, man. But you gotta make a living, so what can you do. You ridin’ out on the bus?”

“Well, actually, I was kinda hoping I could find somebody I could hitch a ride with. I spent a little too much and I could afford the ticket, I just, you know, would have to go real light on meals till I got back to campus.”

“Oh man, that sucks, say no more.” He leaned over and unlocked the passenger side door. “By the way, I’m Reefer. Reefer Jones.”

“Marilyn Grant. Thanks, dude.” She lugged her suitcase around the front of the car, stowed it behind the passenger seat, tucked her pack in the floorboard under her feet, and got in, carefully not wrinkling her nose at the salty, fishy smell.

“Oh, we’ve gotta figure out some way to square you with the paperwork,” he grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, but my boss can be a pain in the ass about hitchhikers. Hey, I don’t suppose you can shoot, can you?”

Cally fumbled in her purse and handed him a very sincere range certification from a local Charleston range, dated a few days ago, rating Marilyn Grant an expert, non-resident.

“I went on a lark. Hadn’t shot in years, but my mom made me learn, you know?” she said.

“Yeah, mine too. I think the war like affected that whole generation. But it was okay, I mean, if I ever meet a steel Postie pop-up target, I’ll know how to kill it.” He laughed and scribbled something on the clipboard. “Okay, I put you down as a freelance guard. The boss’ll be cool with that. Lived in Urbs his whole life, came to Charleston for the money, man, old fart is scared to death of Posties.” He shrugged, easing the van up in the line that was finally beginning to move. “I’ve been drivin’ this route for five years and there’s never been a Postie get close that those guys,” he gestured to the machine-gun turret mounted on the top of an eighteen wheeler, “didn’t saw in half before it even got close to us.”

“Does that happen often?” Her eyes were round.

“Nah.” He offered her a stick of gum, popping one in his own mouth. “About every other run. It’s a pain in the ass because then the whole convoy has to stop while they take the head for the bounty.” He made a gagging gesture. “Well, we usually don’t actually stop. They just lose their place in line and we slow down a bit.” He gestured to the trucks again. “Every one of those guys has a boma blade tucked away up there, so it doesn’t really take any time at all.”

They had pulled up to the gate while he was talking, and he handed the guard her range card and his own, showing the guard the Colt .45 by his seat and the second one in the glove box. “The boss won’t mind you because the extra shooter drops our convoy fee.” He shrugged and took their cards back from the guard, handing her hers and tucking his own back in his wallet.

It took another fifteen minutes for the guards to clear the other vehicles and the group to begin the drive back to real civilization.

“Next stop, Columbia.” He cranked the volume on the stereo slightly, glancing at her curiously. “So where are you headed, anyway?”