Cally's War

James Stewart had long since numbed out to the additional indignities being visited on Sinda. He supposed the numbness was composed of equal parts shock, rage, and the necessity of keeping a poker face if he was ever to get the opportunity of avenging Sinda. He wouldn’t call her “Mahri” — that was the name they were using. Sinda wasn’t her name, but it was what she had called herself to him, and that was the best he had.

He had seen some indescribably horrible things as an ACS trooper, things done by Posleen to humans, things done by humans to Posleen. In the gang, he thought he had seen some pretty horrible things done to humans by humans. A few murders, anyway.

But he had never seen anything like this done by a group of humans to another human being. He had thought he was hardened to anything. He was wrong. Still, without the ability to click on and move his mind to that cold, efficient place that built a temporary barrier against the horror, he probably would be in a cell now, or shot — well, shot again — and no use to anybody.

The Fleet chief, Yi, was currently giving an end-of-day report on the status of the prisoner. The list of injuries — smashed and “merely” broken bones, cuts, bruises, and burns replayed vivid images in his head. The first thing they had done, of course, had been to finish gang-raping her after resorting to the simple expedient of an improvised gag. It rendered her incapable of providing information, but the bastards had apparently decided it would have been bad form to let her win that psychological battle. And in a total bastard kind of way, he could see their point. He was still going to kill every last one of them, but he could see why they did it.

The hardest thing he’d done in years, next to calling the MPs on her in the first place, was leaving at the end of the day to go home, looking perfectly normal. He had watched them turn out the lights and run the gravity down to zero for the night, leaving her strapped down and injected with Galactic Decameth — the C part in Provigil-C, minus the Provigil. And then he’d had to turn and wheel himself out the door, trailed by his own medic, who looked like a saint next to Fleet’s pet monster.

In the small room, Tommy sat on the bed, waiting, a white container the size of a cigar box in his hands, open at one end. A clean AID was clipped to his belt. It looked just like any other AID. Tonight, that was its most important job. He wore gray silks with the insignia and unit identification of long ago. If any of the surviving members of the triple nickel ACS saw him, it would look to them like they were seeing a ghost. He had gone back to his original hair and eye color, and he had never needed as much facial alteration as Cally or Papa, anyway. Oh, he was different — but not that different unless he wanted to be. And, of course, his frame was pretty hard to camouflage.

Out of the two vacant rooms on the hall with the quarters formerly occupied by lowly Lieutenant Pryce, and now occupied by a general the system had not yet had the opportunity to reassign, he and Papa had chosen the one closest to the transit car. Not that it mattered. One was as good as the other. A very small sticky camera sat in the slight shadow cast by the door jamb.

Papa O’Neal was in the chair, watching the hall on the screen of his PDA. He was actually watching a fast-forward of the past five minutes, since the camera only squealed its encrypted transmission when pinged, and they didn’t need particularly high resolution.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Tommy’s eyes locked with the older man’s.

“He’s in a wheelchair and has someone with him. Looks like a medic.” He patted his pockets absently before frowning and rubbing his chin.

“Uh… if Cally did that to him, he may not be all that sympathetic.” Tommy looked over his shoulder and winced slightly. “He doesn’t look so good.”

“If you’ve got a better card to play, I’d be glad to hear it,” he said, setting the PDA down on the desk for a second to get up and pace. “We may not be able to get to him tonight.”

“He never did like doctors much,” Tommy mused. “He might kick him out. I don’t see any reason not to give it at least until midnight.”

“Agreed.” He stopped pacing and sat down, tapping a foot in uncharacteristic nervousness.

As it turned out, they didn’t have to wait long at all, as the medic left and disappeared through the transit car doors almost immediately.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?”

“Never would have guessed that he doesn’t like doctors. Let’s go.” The red-haired man pocketed his PDA and left without looking back.

“Right. This is gonna be so weird.” Tommy rubbed his hands on his silks and cleared his throat, following him out. This was the first time in twenty-five years that he was going to have to go see an old friend who was sure he was dead. Don’t overthink it. Just do it.

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…”