John Ringo - Cally's War

“Thomas, please display a hologram of the military detention facility on Titan Base. Analyze defenses for possible weaknesses,” he instructed his AID.

“Visual, or structural image?” it asked.

“Structural please,” he said.

“Excuse me, Base Commander O’Reilly, but might I ask the purpose of this exercise?” Roolnai’s voice was cool.

“To evaluate the possibilities for an extraction, of course,” he replied absently, obviously already absorbed in contemplating the image.

“One might ask first whether an extraction would be a wise use of limited resources.” The more senior Indowy spoke with the exquisite deference that usually accompanied an immovably firm position.

“I fail to see the harm in evaluating the feasibility, costs, and risks of an extraction.” If I do not smooth over the crack, the entire foundation of this alliance is at stake. Does Roolnai realize the insult he offers to the humans by their standards? I certainly hope that this is unintentional on his part.

“Is false hope a harm? When retrieving the agent without damage that will render her incapable of being restored to reliable operational status is already so very unlikely?” Roolnai was bland. Too bland.

“Perhaps not. I find I am tired, my friends. It’s been a long night and apparently there is little more we can accomplish together, in any case.” The O’Reilly had stood and turned away. In Indowy body language, it was a gesture of polite fatigue. It was Aelool’s fear that the behavior might have more significance. Knowing both his friend Nathan and his friend Roolnai, talking further with both together at this point would only increase the rift. He’d have to work on them separately.

Roolnai had already immediately reacted in polite fashion and was moving for the door. Aelool followed, pausing briefly in the doorway.

“Friend Nathan, would it be possible to continue our game of chess tomorrow afternoon? Is there a time you might find convenient?” The offer was on the table. The pause worried him for a moment.

“I’d like that. I don’t know my schedule, but if Thomas could talk to your AID?”

Aelool nodded. Good. The breach was not final. At least, not yet.

“So, who is she?” Robert Tartaglia had not been enamored of his late CO’s eccentricities, but he had not wanted him dead. Especially not if his death would in any way taint the promotion he had long since genuinely earned on merit. And it was certainly odd that she had apparently killed Beed in defense of General Stewart. And he sure never would have guessed that guy for a counterintelligence agent. Which was the point, of course, but still… It was going to be weird saluting a new CO he’d been used to thinking of as a screw-up kid first john. Guy was a real James Bond. Imagine, having the spy so ga-ga over him she’d actually waited around to be captured out of concern for his life. Talk about a ladies’ man. The dorky first john, General Stewart, his new CO. It was just too fucking weird for words. He realized Baker was looking at him funny.

“Sorry, Baker, could you repeat that?” he said.

“I said we don’t know who she is. She isn’t Sinda Makepeace.” Agent Sam Baker was a bit rumpled from coming back in after a full day’s work. Civvies, no matter how well made, had nothing on silks for standing up to extended wear and still looking good. Baker probably would have preferred to wear silks, but it was against regulation for the warrant officers assigned to CID, where keeping rank out of investigations was essential to the job. “Fingerprints match, DNA matches, voiceprint doesn’t. She sounds like her, and she’s obviously very well coached. But she sure as hell isn’t Captain Makepeace. For one thing, our Mata Hari bitched about the poor quality of the local coffee but regularly drank it. The real Captain Makepeace loathed coffee — was a tea drinker. I wonder how they missed that.”

“Cover identities always miss something. So when’s the database search on the voiceprint going to be back so we’ll know who she is? Do I have time to go grab a cup of coffee?” He quirked an eyebrow at the younger man.

“I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t clear enough. The database searches are all back. She’s not in them. Any of them. According to the system, she doesn’t exist,” he said.

“Makepeace has an evil twin, Skippy? Or a clone?” His tone was dubious.

“No twin, and no clone with any technology we know about. Oh, also, we got one of Makepeace’s high school sweethearts on the phone. He said she had a vaguely triangular mole on her front, to the left, down in the bikini area. No mole on Mata Hari.”

“Careful with that, Sam. Mata Hari’s obviously got some phenomenal powers of attraction.” He was only half joking. The woman was a looker, and had already provoked one man to kill over her.

“Yes, sir. Those were farther up, sir.”

“Baker, you’ve had more interrogation experience than just about anyone else we’ve got because of your organized crime work with the local tongs. We need to get the ball rolling in anticipation of General Stewart’s return to duty. Consider yourself TDY to the detention center for the duration, or until the general decides otherwise. I’m gonna go grab some coffee.” He got up to leave but was stopped by the extended hand from a voluminous robe. The hand had some serious claws.

“A moment of your time, if you please, Colonel.” The Tir’s voice was melodious, almost hypnotic. The colonel might have enjoyed listening to him if having him here weren’t such a pain in the ass. But orders were orders.

“Yes, Your Tir. What can I do for you?” Tartaglia nodded as Baker caught his eye and wordlessly excused himself to both provide his absence and go get his XO some coffee. A good man.

“While I certainly think Fleet Strike’s man should participate in the interrogation as a learning experience, in a spirit of what you would call interservice cooperation, Fleet has generously agreed to provide a highly experienced interrogation team. I would think, given how close to the prisoner Fleet Strike personnel have been, that that would be a wise move. If you would consider a friendly suggestion, of course.” His smile bared teeth, and the Indowy servant at his elbow reminded Tartaglia a bit of a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car back home.

Bob Tartaglia was nobody’s fool, and he hadn’t reached the rank of full colonel in Fleet Strike’s very competitive career atmosphere without displaying the finely tuned political skills of an adept. Oh, he was a good enough leader to feel a certain disdain for certain aspects of the politics. But he could certainly recognize the lay of the land when he saw it. The Tir would not be here without the orders having originated at the very top of the chain of command. Polite suggestions from the Tir, if disregarded, would quickly come down the chain as full fledged orders.

“That sounds like wise advice, Your Tir. Would you happen to know when these loaned personnel from Fleet will be available to us?”

“Far be it for me to interfere with the chain of command that you humans value so highly. However, my understanding is that the personnel Fleet is so generously loaning are conveniently next door in the SP Detention Annex and can be here virtually as soon as you give the order to admit them. They’ve been quite considerate, don’t you think?” If Darhel had been feline, the Tir would have been purring.

“How very thoughtful of them.” One of Tartaglia’s first acts after the demise of his former CO had been to dispatch an MP to his quarters to fetch his AID. Getting used to working without Suzanne over the past weeks had not exactly inclined him to lament the late general’s passing. Now he had her relay the order to the MP’s on guard at the front gate in the main entrance lock lobby, releasing a slow breath as the Darhel and his Indowy servant glided off to wherever they were choosing to be. He tried not to let it show how personally satisfied he was that where the Darhel had chosen to be was elsewhere.