John Ringo - Cally's War

“Oh, well, like, they would. This dude, I make the detour because he’s a friend, but he pays Chicago prices just like anybody, you know? The rest of the way, I call ahead when I know about what time I’m coming through, and, you know, if they want any they meet me at an exit and make the buy. But really, almost all of it goes all the way there. If it weren’t for the big money stock trader and banker dudes, there just wouldn’t be enough demand to pay for the route.”

As they drove into downtown on I-40, the view of the Knoxville skyline made a nice change from farms and mountains, even blurred as it was by a gentle haze of smog.

“What’s with the giant microphone?”

“Huh? Oh, like, you mean the tower with the ball on top? Yeah, man, I guess it does look a bit like an old-timey microphone. It’s way pre-war. It’s, like, left over from some prewar ‘World’ something or other, you know?” He pulled onto 158 and headed for the riverfront

“Oh. That’s kind of neat. Where’s your friend’s restaurant?”

“Oh, like right on the river. Awesome place, got a dock and everything.”

“Is there something wrong with my eyes, or has everything gone suddenly orange?” Once they turned onto West Cumberland, the streets had suddenly sprouted big orange streamers and balloons with a silver atom symbol blazoned on them. They drove under a large orange banner that spanned the street, proclaiming “AntimatterFest ’47!” Another welcomed them to historic downtown Knoxville, “Birthplace of the Antimatter Age!”

“Aw, man!” he groaned. “I forgot! They go, like, totally nuts for this thing. Parking will just be hell.” He scratched his head and thought for a minute. “Can you drive?”

“Oh, sure… Why?”

“Well, like, these people will jump all over my butt if I even think about double parking on the street, here.” He waved a hand casually at the pedestrians, about half of whom were wearing orange beanies with revolving silver atom holograms overhead. “Geez, like never combine a consumer electronics town with a dorky festival. Antimatter fireworks and everything. Totally bonkers,” he said, shuddering.

The light in front of him turned yellow and he slowed down and stopped behind the cars in front of him.

“Switch!” He slammed the gearshift into park, hit his seatbelt release, and was out the door, yelling, “Don’t take off before I’m in the back, man!”

She snapped her jaw shut and scrambled over to the driver’s seat, grabbing the door he’d left open, adjusting the seat, and checking her mirrors as he yanked the back of the van open and squeezed in between his tanks, shutting it behind him.

“Uh, like, I need to get some stuff out back here. Hang a left at the next light, and a left onto West Main. Just, you know, keep going around the block for a little while. Please?”

She restrained the impulse to laugh as he lurched around in back, avoiding the tanks, unbolting a false panel, stubbing his toe, yanking a couple of vacuum-sealed bricks of familiar dried vegetation out of the cavity, and fumbled with the false panel, trying to get it back in place with the van in motion. Finally, he got it and sighed, grabbing his backpack and shoving the packages in the bottom, covered by clothes.

“Okay, now don’t turn this time, straight, farther up now, turn down this side street. Yeah, like, perfect. Okay, pull in beside this one, see the blue loading sign? Okay, stop right there.” He grabbed his PDA and punched in a number from memory. “Hey, Pete, guess who, dude? Yep, like, in the flesh. On your loading dock, dude. Like, now. Well, I would have called ahead, but, like, I was busy trying to avoid all these people on the streets, you know? Oh, there you are…” He hung up as a short, fat man in a white apron rushed out and yanked open the van doors.

“Geez, Re — Mister Jones, you know I only take delivery of the crabs here, I haven’t had time to get Joey in place, he’s still here, my reputation, I can’t afford to get caught. This is not good, Mister Jones.”

“Look, let’s get this shit under cover. You would have been at more risk sending Joey out with all these people around and you know it.” Cally smiled secretly to herself as some of her ride’s surfer accent fell away.

“Awright. This time. Come in and grab a bucket. I got lots of extra customers today and I can move a few more of these. Who’s she?”

“She’s cool. Come on.” He hurried the man away towards the doors. The shorter man looked like he was about to explode. After they disappeared Cally surreptitiously checked the sidearm Reefer had left for a full magazine and a round in the chamber, carefully smudging her prints as she set it back down. Not that hers were recorded anywhere, but it didn’t pay to take chances.

He came back out alone with a large bucket of salt water and shoveled a bunch of soporific crabs into it, muttering under his breath as he hefted the full load. “It’s, like, okay, Marilyn. It’s all cool. My… friend, he’s, like, shy, you know? We’ll be totally back on the road in five minutes.”

Her body language was casual and relaxed, but very still, until he came back out alone, emptier backpack on his shoulder, closed the back of the van, and came to the driver’s side, motioning her to move over. She kept one eye on the mirrors while she did it, relaxing infinitesimally after they made it onto 275 headed out of town.

“Like, excuse me for that scene back there, and thanks once again for righteously saving my ass. With the driving thing, you know?” He looked across at her, speculatively. “You know, you’re pretty cool in a pinch, Marilyn. You ever get, like, tired of college life and want a job, you come look me up. Little training and you could be pretty good at this.”

“Why, thank you, Reefer.” She looked out the window and bit her lip softly. “I’m hoping to make it on my art or my music, but you know what life’s like. I’m really flattered. I guess I’ll feel better knowing I’ve got a potential job if things, you know, don’t work out.”

He grunted and popped another piece of gum and they lapsed into silence as they followed the road through the deep cuts of the Smokies, some with loose gray shale Galplased in place, with a line of drainage holes down at the base, some of deep, black coal, rising from a Galplased base in great open hills of midnight, turning to a thin brown layer of topsoil mere inches from the upper surface of scrub and trees.

“Makes you understand the economics of strip mining,” she commented, waving one hand at the mountain of coal cut open by the interstate’s passage.

“Oh, for sure. Completely bogus for the environment, though.”

“So were the Posties.”

“Still are, man. Like, the long term damage from the grat and abat alone. Totally bogus. Damn aliens.”

“Oh, are you a humanist? I didn’t take you for the type, Reef.” She looked at him, interested.

“Well, I mean, the Crabs once you get past that whole bouncing thing seem like pretty laid back dudes. Conceited, but you get the feeling that they’re really going after the whole enlightenment thing. And the little green guys are just shy. The Frogs kind of creep me out, though. It’s like you never know if you’re being watched. The Darhel are… too corporate, you know? And, well, we all know about the Posties. I just think Earth was, you know, better, before any of them showed up. I mean, I’m glad we didn’t get eaten, but I kinda wish they’d go away now. I’m not, like, a card-carrying humanist or anything, but, I can, like, see their point. You know, we saved each other, now go the hell away. But I don’t, like, say so in public too much. Unhealthy.”

“I suppose. We’ve got humanists on campus, but it’s always seemed too much like conspiracy stuff to me.” She shrugged.