Cally's War

“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.

“Did I just imagine that conversation?” Tommy rubbed his eyes tiredly.

“Nope.” O’Neal spat again, contemplatively, “But it certainly suggests that parts of things back home are less fucked up, and parts more fucked up, than we thought. Not that I’m going to lose any sleep over it. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”