John Ringo: Cally's War

“Jammer,” Tommy said, shrugging. “Spoofer, whatever. Gave us the runaround; we’ve been over half of Chicago looking for you. Figured out a filter. Sorry it took so long. Glad you made it.”

“How’s Wendy?” She walked over to the other side of the bar and picked up her jeans.

“Pregnant again.”

“Don’t you guys do anything else?” She donned the jeans mechanically, shaking her head.

“I only see her every few months, so the answer is ‘no.’ ”

The fourth member of the team surveyed the room for threats in a textbook maneuver before walking over to the nearest body and nudging it with a foot.

“Is that really him?” he asked.

“I dunno.” Cally shrugged. “Toss me a sampler.” She caught the probe deftly and knelt beside the body, pressing the needle into his temple on the more-or-less intact side. She looked at the readout and nodded. “Brain DNA never lies. It’s him.”

“Cleanup on aisle one,” Tommy quipped, moving aside as several silent figures in white moved past him and began meticulously sanitizing the scene. He pulled off the black jacket and the white undershirt underneath, offering it to her. His eyes flickered to where she stood, lingering on the blood dripping into the white shag carpet. “You okay?”

“Pain is weakness exiting the body.” She took the shirt and pulled it over her head. “Nothing a trip to the slab won’t cure.

“Can you get the squealer from his car? Passenger seat, by the door,” she asked Tommy, waiting while the cleaning crew moved the first body out the door and following them out. “Thanks. See you in the van.”

“Post op review on this one’s going to be… interesting.” He pulled his jacket back on and followed her out.

O’Neal noticed the team member standing, almost frozen, looking at the splattered brain matter and fluids where Worth’s body had been.

“You got a problem, Jay?” He considerately spat onto the second body instead of the floor so as not to make more work for the cleaners.

“She literally blew his brains out.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how she did the other guy, after letting them do God knows what to her, and she shows less reaction than most people would over a hangnail.”

The older man held up his hand to stop the cleaners from picking up the other body. He examined it briefly, noting the discoloration at the jaw line, and popped a brain sample in a storage cube.

“Looks like a fairly clean impact to one of the sweet spots. Can’t tell if it was a kick or a strike.” Mike O’Neal, Sr. waved the cleaners back over and walked across the room to pick up the discarded high-heeled shoes and purse. “Cally is creative,” he said. “Creatively violent.”

“Too bad we couldn’t have been in place beforehand.” The younger agent shook his head, still looking at the mess, “but when you’ve got a guy who’s weaseled out of three hits already just by burning the surveillance… It… couldn’t be helped.”

“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got,” O’Neal frowned, searching the room briefly for electronics, and handed a reader and a few cubes to the Cyberpunk. “Your domain, Jay. Probably nothing useful, but you never know.” He walked back out to the hallway and headed for the stairs, leaving the other man to follow. Doesn’t matter how long it’s been, climbing stairs without creaking never seems to lose its thrill.

“She’s gonna be pissed,” Tommy said, following him down the stairs.

“It’s okay,” Papa O’Neal replied. “I know her weaknesses.”

Cally walked into the blessedly cool dry air of her apartment and stopped, shaking her head; every square inch of the place was covered in either flowers or boxes of chocolate. There were irises and roses and mums and daisies and… stuff she couldn’t put a name to. She kicked off her heels and walked over to one of the chocolate assortments, grunting at the label. Make that “very expensive” chocolates.

“I cannot be bribed, I cannot be broken,” she muttered, pulling one of the chocolates out and crunching on it. “Usually.” Her eyes narrowed and she rolled the chocolate around in her mouth, frowning at the flowers. Then she took another bite and frowned again. “Mostly.”

She walked across the room, munching chocolate and wriggling her feet in the carpet for a moment, relishing the feeling of unbroken toes, then padded into the kitchen and poured herself a margarita from the dispenser in the fridge. On her way back to the bedroom she popped another chocolate in her mouth, grimacing at the taste of raspberry, stopped at the vidscreen, selected a cube, and dialed it to Tori Amos on audio.

“Three cheers for music to sleep to,” she muttered to herself.

In her room, the freshly cleaned evening bag went in the top drawer of one dresser, with a dozen or so others. The wallet, less the cash, went in a thumbprint-locked and trapped drawer at the bottom, with a few dozen others. Sarah Johnson from Chicago hadn’t been burned — well, the identity hadn’t, anyway — and might be useful again.

The new T-shirt and very well-cleaned jeans went on hangers in the closet. The underwear, also new, went into the laundry hamper. She walked over to the triple full-length mirrors and looked at herself, front and back. No scars, no signs. But there never are. She leaned forward and examined eyes that were again her own cornflower blue. She bared her teeth and looked at them from all angles — perfect, as usual. Not the slightest sign that anything had been damaged.

She walked into the bathroom and set the glass next to the sink, grabbed a clean washcloth from the linen closet, padded back to her bed and set it down on the night table.

Hopefully this one was good for a couple of days of downtime, at least.

She used the bedside touch pad to bring the volume down to a soft background level, and set it to shuffle through the night. Another touch of the pad turned on active countermeasures. Rolling over and clutching her pillow in a way that was oddly like a child with a stuffed animal, she drifted off to sleep.

Tibet. Before the war her height would have marked her in a crowd. Postwar, with Americans everywhere there were still humans, she was unremarkable with mouse-brown cropped hair and a red parka. And now in the house, in a darkened bedroom. The former Party official had sped up the initial Posleen conquest by two weeks, and won himself twenty years of borrowed time. One of his children squealed at the TV in another room. The garrote made no noise at all.

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.

The light is red and it smells of incense and books. He’s puttering around the sanctuary. A slow day. Father will you hear my confession? There, yes, through the door. What? Outside. Snow falling. The doors locked. Can’t get in. Always the same. Can’t get back in.

Florida. Swimming with dolphins. Mom’s with me. She’s proud of me. And the water’s cool, and the sun hot. Silly Herman. There’ll be key lime pie tonight, and a hug from Dad at bedtime.

She woke with a smile on her face and absently flipped the countermeasures off, reaching for the washcloth to dry her face. In thirty years I haven’t woken alone without my face soaking wet. But I sleep like a baby, thank God. I love living in a beach town. She sat up and padded over to the dresser, thumbing the bottom drawer open. “So, who do I want to be today? Not Sarah. Let’s see, local, fun, not a brain but not a ne’er do well… Pamela. She’ll do. Tan, perfect nails. A manicure, pedicure, an afternoon of serious shopping, then an evening out.” She looked at her reflection in the mirror. “Just what the doctor ordered, Pamela.”