John Ringo: Cally's War

He rang the doorbell and waited for the intercom light to come on, clearing his throat again.

“Triple nickel pizza delivery. Got a large with fajita beef and extra refried beans for Manuel,” he said.

“What?”

As the door slid open, Tommy took his own AID off his belt, holding it over the box. He caught Stewart’s eye and put the AID in the box, handing the box to Stewart. His old buddy’s face paled and scrunched up in some strange mix of shock and bewilderment, but he accepted the box, putting his own AID in and sealing the lid. He didn’t hand it back.

“We need to talk, Stewart. In private. Can we come in?”

“Yeah, I guess you’d better.” He sighed and wheeled back from the door, letting them in and waiting while it closed behind them.

“You’re the healthiest looking dead guy I’ve ever seen. And someone obviously changed your face just enough to fool software scans. So. You wanna tell me what’s going on?” He wheeled around to a table, picking up a pack of cigarettes and offering them around before lighting one.

“That part’s a long story. Introductions first. Stewart, Mike O’Neal, Sr. Papa O’Neal, General James Stewart. As you know, we served together under your son in the war,” he said.

“That’s a big claim. And even if it’s true, you’d have to have a damned good excuse for letting Mike think his dad’s been dead all these years. I don’t think that’s possible.” He took a long drag and waited.

“Oh, I’ve had rejuv. And more extensive cosmetic work than Tommy, here. There’s no point in doing much to someone his size — you just keep him out of sight as much as you can and use him other ways. On the other, Mike would be the first to agree with the necessity if he knew.”

“Look, I’ve had a long day, can you cut the cryptic bullshit?”

“Okay. I’ve known O’Neal, Senior, for twenty-five years. There is a damned good reason, but whether you hear it depends on the next part of this conversation. Trust me for a minute, okay? You’ve got a prisoner in your detention center.” He gestured at the chair and Stewart’s obvious injuries. “She do that?”

“No. What do you know about her?” He leaned forward too quickly and winced, clapping a hand to his gut.

“She’s Iron Mike’s daughter.” Tommy appreciated that Papa was letting him do the talking. It was going to take more information before Stewart would trust either of them, and they couldn’t give him that information until they had a better idea of how he was reacting.

“What the fu — you’re shitting me.” It was obviously another shock. Tommy hoped he wasn’t really in a bad way. Then again, if he had been, the medic wouldn’t have left.

“Cally O’Neal. She’s not dead either.” Papa had leaned back against the wall and was obviously trying to wait patiently.

“Cally. Wait a minute. You’re trying to get me to believe that the old man’s dad and his daughter have both let him eat his heart out thinking they’re dead for forty years ? I think you’d better cut the bullshit and talk, because my patience is going fast,” he said.

“Well, you see, there’s this problem with the Darhel…”

After they had gone, Stewart sat in the chair staring at the wall. On some level he knew he was probably in something close to shock.

Usually he had the vidscreen on, if only displaying a still holo. It was the first thing he slapped to life coming in the door.

Pattern broken by the interruption, he sat staring. The blank bareness of the walls, hardly improved by the gray rectangle of the dead screen, closed in on him like one of the cells over at the prison.

God, Cally, what a fucking mess! Okay, Tommy was a replacement troop, but dammit, he was one of us! Even if civilian control at the top of the chain of command was going all to hell by then, how could I — he — make himself a traitor? All right, so it was a hard call. Maybe he was even right. There sure as hell is no more effective civil control — human, anyway — of the military. I thought working within the system… even after it had gone to hell. But good God, we won the war and lost the peace, and there’s no bringing it back. Fuck. Maybe he’s right.

No! How the hell could he leave the Old Man thinking his daughter was dead? And his father? How the fuck could they? Cally couldn’t have done anything, she was just a kid then. Okay, so she had to go along. Fuck, she was just a kid. What the hell else could she do? But his own father. His own damn father!

And now I’m supposed to do it, too. Turn my coat, join up, don’t ask questions. Yeah, right.

But what the hell else could I do? All I know is the military — unless you count gang leading. Yeah, right. Not much call for either outside the control of the fucking Darhel Federation. It might as well be, anyway. Not like the other bunch looks much better.

How can I be a traitor? How could anyone leave the people who love them most thinking they’re just dead?

What a fucking mess! Cally, what the fuck am I gonna do?

The walls had no answer for him.

“We’ve got something.” Papa O’Neal’s face was uncharacteristically closed in addressing his old friend.

“Do I want to know the details?” Father O’Reilly hadn’t lived as long as he had without learning when not to ask too many questions. The Indowy Aelool stood quietly at his side.

“Probably not.” His jaw worked and he looked around for a cup for a moment before nodding gratefully as Tommy pressed one into his hand. He spat neatly.

“Might it be possible for us to hear the broadest outline of this plan?” The Indowy’s facial expression was earnest.

“We found some help I don’t want to compromise even over a probably secure channel.” He emphasized the word probably slightly, in an attempt to appeal to traditional Indowy paranoia about exchanging information outside of a face-to-face meeting.

“Yes. Good communications discipline. We can certainly understand that. Can you give us an estimate of your chances of success? What you would call a ballpark estimate will suffice.” The little green guy actually looked happy, which was odd given their earlier conversation with O’Reilly.

“Ballpark. Okay.” O’Neal scratched his chin for a moment. “Call it reasonable to high.”

“And how would you rate the chances of success if you had to wait, for example, an extra day to carry out this plan?” Aelool was looking at him very strangely — almost as if he was hoping for a particular—

“It would substantially reduce the chances of success.” Did I guess right?

“And would your plan require the emplacement of additional organization resources beyond those currently deployed in the field with you?” Father O’Reilly asked conversationally.

“No, it would not,” he said.

“Then since you say that is the case, a decision by us at headquarters is certainly something that cannot wait until morning. Father O’Reilly, do you concur?”

“Oh, most certainly.” There was an odd twinkle in the old priest’s eye.

“I recommend this mission be approved. Do you concur, Father?” Only someone very familiar with Indowy would have recognized the particular treble tone as formal, even businesslike.

“That does seem wise. I do concur, Indowy Aelool.” He nodded. “The mission not requiring the emplacement of additional resources and being time critical, the mission is approved. Now if you’ll please excuse us—” He cut the transmission without giving either of them time to say another word.