Honor of the Clan lota-10 Read online

  Honor of the Clan

  ( Legacy of the Aldenata - 10 )

  John Ringo

  Julie Cochrane

  Duty. Honor. Country.

  Three words that resound in the heart of the warrior. But what is duty when country is gone? Where does honor lie when allies are revealed as enemies, when friends are not who they seem and when enemies are the ones we love?

  For Cally O’Neal and the O’Neal Bane Sidhe, underground fighters against the tyranny of Earth’s Darhel “allies,” duty lies in the overthrow of the established order. For Major General Michael O’Neal, her father, duty lies in maintaining that order to prevent a reinvasion by the dreaded Posleen.

  When diamond meets diamond, when O’Neal battles O’Neal, the only sure outcome is fireworks.

  Honor of the Clan

  John Ringo and Julie Cochrane

  Dedication:

  Master Corporal Erin Melvin Doyle

  KIA in the Panjwayi District, Kandahar Province, Afghanistan, 11/8/2008.

  http://www.ppcli.com/files/Last%20Post%20Inserts/Serving%20Patricias/MCpl%20Doyle.pdf

  And

  SPC Ray Joseph Hutchinson (Hutch)

  KIA on patrol with Alpha Co 2/502 101st Airborne in Mosul, Iraq, 12/7/2003.

  http://www.rjhfoundation.org/bio.html

  They do not grow old as we who are left grow old.

  And

  As always:

  For Captain Tamara Long, USAF

  Born: May 12, 1979

  Died: March 23, 2003, Afghanistan

  You fly with the angels now.

  Prologue

  Saturday, December 19, 2054

  The room was ornate in a way that put rococo to shame. On the walls, many of the sub-details in the gilded reliefs incorporated fractals, so that one could have examined the gilded scenes and abstract curlicues with a microscope and not run out of exquisite detail. The base for the gilding was a white substance similar to ivory, but with an opalescent sheen that no elephant tusk could ever boast.

  All in all, the effect would have given a Himmit a heart attack, had one of those worthies tried to rest on that surface, and had it had a heart. The other surfaces were similarly ornate, reducing the Himmit on the carpet to a body surface of merely gothic levels of detail that shifted quiveringly. Every hour or so, the Himmit placed a forelimb against its head, as if it was in pain.

  In the center of the room was a large table of stone. In the stone was a sword. From the sword emanated a voice that was heavily modulated to prevent identification.

  “This situation disrupts the entire plan. It is grossly unacceptable. Curse the Epetar group for clag food! What were the rest of you thinking? Progress be damned, I’ll be hard pressed to salvage something other than outright war over this,” he fumed.

  “Abject apologies, Master.” The Indowy got no further.

  “Don’t bother. You, yourself, didn’t do it, so your apologies are hardly sincere for all that you speak for others. Shut up and let me think.”

  The Indowy decided that it was more likely than not to be in the interests of his clan to volunteer some information. “Master, I have news that the O’Neal is traveling to Barwhon to approach the Tchpth on a diplomatic mission,” it said.

  The leader of the Bane Sidhe, whoever it was, was not known for its sense of humor. Indeed, so seldom was its humor triggered that its existence was largely regarded as mythical. The Indowy before it and the Himmit in the corner were, therefore, shocked senseless when a strange sound emanated from the blade of the sword.

  “Stop… stop…” it rasped. “I’m not… it’s just… O’Neal… diplo… too funny.” The rasping crept into its voice. For just a moment it became normal enough to make out what sounded strangely like the melfluous tones of a Darhel.

  “The greater problem still exists,” the sword hummed with a last chuckle. “Whether this drives the plan backwards or advances it must be considered. I will give you orders in time. You are dismissed.”

  If the Himmit was affronted, neither of the other species had the experience with its expressions to discern it. The crack at the edge where the ceiling met the wall widened around the body of the Himmit as it exited, sealing back to invisibility behind it.

  “O’Neal. A diplomatic mission,” the sword hummed once more. “Too funny. Oooo. I have an idea…”

  Then it vanished.

  Chapter One

  Covered in sweat and blood

  Yet still our heads held high

  Actions have consequences

  When you live for foolish pride

  — Atreyu, “Honor”

  Sunday, December 20, 2054

  Major General Mike O’Neal rolled his AID, then slapped it onto his wrist forming a band. Slapped it on hard.

  “Hey,” Shelly said. “Don’t take this out on me!”

  “Sorry,” Mike said grumpily.

  He was intensely bored. Bored of gaming, bored of reading newsfeeds, bored of reading, period. Bored of watching movies, TV and every other form of video broadcast. Porn just wasn’t his style but he’d even watched some of that. And found it very boring indeed.

  In part it was his own fault. When he’d been recalled to Earth and boarded his first Fleet vessel he had treated the Fleet officers with even more disdain than usual. Fleet had, year by year, sunk lower and lower in his opinion. The officers were slovenly and corrupt, the sailors were abysmal and the only reason the ships operated at all was that they were Indowy made and damned hard to break. He’d never been the diplomatic type and his dislike of Fleet was displayed by saying he’d be in his cabin. An orderly, or whatever you called it in the Fleet, brought his meals, he made trips to the tiny gym and that was that. For the last five months the only time he’d spoken to a living soul was at starports.

  The rest of it wasn’t on him. First of all there was the fact of five months on board ships. That was just insane. These weren’t even the bulk transports they’d used in the first part of the war. These were Fleet vessels, the fastest in the universe. But between having to hunt from star system to star system and tween-jump transits, not to mention jump transits, it just took forever to get to Earth from out on the edge of the Blight.

  Then there was the recall. It read damned near as relief. Just a simple order to turn over command of the First Division to his assistant division commander and return to Earth. No clue as to why, no incoming division commander. Nada.

  So five months of not speaking to a living soul and worrying, any time he let it get past his iron self-control, about what the orders meant.

  Probably it meant a staff job on Earth. He’d done them. It wasn’t his favorite job by a long shot but he could do the deal. But that begged the question why there wasn’t an incoming division commander. And if it was just a staff job they’d probably have said that in the orders along with “and General So-And-So will be along at some point to take over the Division.”

  It could be forcible retirement. But Fleet Strike didn’t have an “up or out” policy. To avoid the cronyism that was destroying Fleet, positions were purely merit based. To get his division, some younger brigadier would have to show that he was better at running the division than Mike. They rotated potential commanders in from time to time, shuffling the commander off to a staff position or sideways. But most of the time the new commanders, after a reasonable time to learn the job, went back to a lower rank or wherever they hell they’d come from. Mike and Major General Adam Lee Michie had been running divisions of the ACS corps for nigh on thirty years. Some time in and out but mostly in command. Mongo Radabaugh was the junior, having beaten out Bob Tasswell about five years ago to take over one of the division commander’s
slots.

  Mike probably could have taken Corps at some point if he wanted it. George Driver was an excellent corps commander, no question. But Mike figured he had the edge. Thing was, Corps wasn’t his style. It was a thankless job since the divisions were spread across a sizeable chunk of the galaxy clearing Posleen worlds. Corps Command was based on Avauglin, a marginally habitable “recovered” world about sixty light-years, and a month transit, from Earth.

  The divisions, though, moved as a unit, lived as a unit, dropped as a unit. Mike knew every guy in the division, more or less. Hell, with the way that the ACS hadn’t been restocking, First Division wasn’t much larger than a brigade. One of the things he planned on bringing up whatever the reason that he’d been brought back to Earth. Surely they could get some ACS restock. It was getting as bad as back in the Siege…

  And here he was stuck in the loop. Again!

  “Shelly, time to Titan orbit?”

  “One hour and twenty-three minutes, General,” the AID said liltingly. “You did well, this time. Six minutes and seventeen seconds from the last time you asked. That’s up from your mean of three.”

  “Iron self-control, Shelly,” Mike said. “Iron self-control.”

  “Message from General Wesley’s AID,” Shelly said. “You’re on another shuttle from Titan to Fredericksburg immediately after landing. Quote: Get some sleep on the shuttle; briefings immediately on landing so you can quit asking Shelly what’s going on. The answer is good news and bad. Close quote.”

  “My iron self-control is clearly well known,” Mike said.

  To human eyes, the Ghin was an average-looking Darhel. To human eyes, Darhel fur looked metallic gold or metallic silver, with black traces threading through it, and the Galactic’s eyes a vivid green in a white sclera, laced with purple veining.

  There were no humans in the office. The Tchpth who was present saw the Ghin in a rather different light. The eyes, so vivid to humans, were rather dull; but the fur glinted brightly, like the color play across anodized titanium.

  “I greet you, Phxtkl. Thank you for granting me the favor of a game,” the Ghin said.

  “It is always a pleasure to instruct, O merely expert student of aethal.”

  The Tchpth bounced rapidly upon its ten legs, tapping in a sequence that was either arhythmic or too complicated for the Darhel to decode. No one knew if the Tchpth meant to give offense or not when they used blunt descriptors in speaking to others. Since they were similarly descriptive with their own, more often than not, and still seemed to interact in a functional way, the other Galactics had decided that tact was absent from the Tchpth makeup.

  It didn’t matter. Tact was no part of the Ghin’s purpose today. He made no further commentary, but merely moved to the aethal table in the center of the room. Pieces were positioned within a holographic display.

  “I wished to start from this position and play out the problem, if you would.”

  “You are placing me in a position of much advantage, although you are allowing yourself much opportunity. Are you sure you wish to choose this starting configuration?”

  “Yes. Very sure.”

  “This is quite likely to be in my critique at the end of the game.”

  “I understand. Perhaps better than you realize.”

  “Ah. So you have a purpose in your choice. You make the game interesting. And, of course, your problem draws from existing conditions, with much variation.”

  “Of course. Many problems and configurations may arise in the game,” the Ghin offered.

  “Within reason, O erring and insufficiently experienced student,” the Tchpth said.

  Their play proceeded at a dignified rate, Phxtkl withholding commentary for most of the game, as was his custom. He would wait until major crises in a problem emerged before lecturing on errors and the alternate options which a lower ranked opponent might have selected.

  Merely rating high expert in the game, the Ghin was not ranked in the Galactic standings. Tchpth and Indowy masters played him on request out of deference to his position, but equally from what the humans would call the “waltzing bear” factor. Very few Darhel treated aethal with anything other than tolerant contempt, as a meaningless distraction from the realities of power and commerce. Intangible relationships had power only so long as they were honored. Darhel only honored relationships as stipulated by contract, rendering the alliances and intricacies of aethal meaningless from their point of view. Or, more accurately, irrelevant to their own lives.

  The game drew to a crisis, a positioning almost certain to weaken the Ghin’s position enormously and, by extension, grossly distort the interactions of Phxtkl’s pieces in an unfavorable way.

  “Now it is time for my comment, O arrogant slave to physical items.” The master highlighted a section of the display in a red haze. “Observe this section and how it is now cut off from the influence of your web, held by only the tiniest of threads, the minimum connection that never ends. It may seem an insignificant set of resources, but look at the potential.” The Tchpth pointed to various nexus pieces above the table. “Despite the loss of face here, here, and here, or the losses in several of your tertiary relationships, this was a critical play.”

  “I see that. I will set up an alternate problem for just a moment,” the Ghin said. He had no worry of losing the current game which was, of course, saved in his AID. If Phxtkl was surprised that the referenced alternate problem was already crafted and saved, he gave no sign, bouncing and tapping upon his low stool as always.

  “Here is a starting problem. You will see the relationship to a recent past current Galactic situation. Here is the current situation. You see, of course, the likely moves if no sacrifices are made to alter the web.”

  The alien creature was silent for a long few moments, looking at the three displays. “I disagree with a number of the particulars of the various patterns, but… your overall point is taken. Isolation is loss of influence. Avoiding that is worth much. Worth enough, in this case.” Phxtkl was still for a few seconds, in his species’ equivalent of a deep, martyred sigh. “This is one of the least enjoyable games of aethal I have ever played, O intriguing schemer of much age. Today, I have been the student; unpleasantly so. I must make some necessary social sacrifices to continue the movement you have begun just now. I wish you success, O annoying one, and I leave.”

  “Leave for Earth.” The Ghin was uncharacteristically blunt. “You have something to repair.”

  Her silver-blond hair framed her face, drawing attention to the startlingly intense, cornflower-blue eyes. Other than a subconscious awareness of the soft brushing against her face and neck as she walked, her hair was the last thing on Cally O’Neal’s mind as she rubbed sweaty palms on her jeans before entering Monsignor Nathan O’Reilly’s secular sanctum sanctorum.

  “Cally. Good, you’re here. Can I get you some water or a soft drink?” the priest inquired gently.

  Uh-oh. Whenever the leader of the O’Neal Bane Sidhe started out with the kind and gentle routine, you knew you were in for it. Not that it was her fault. At least, she didn’t think there was anything serious going on that was her fault. She was a bit late on her expense report for the last mission, but she’d think he’d give her some slack for blowing it off over Christmas. She had had a feeling something was wrong, but this was obviously more serious than she had thought. She allowed a wrinkled forehead to show her worry as she started to get up. There was a cooler just outside.

  “Just water, I’ll get it,” she said.

  “Sit.” The gentle tone carried the force of command; he pulled a pitcher from his small refrigerator and poured her a glass.

  Her eyebrows lifted as Granpa came in, sitting across and facing her. They were both facing her. She instantly noticed that Papa O’Neal had no chew, and no cup. This was not good.

  “Papa, can I get you anything?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “Can I ask?” the assassin asked.

  “Cally, you h
ave got to learn not to kill someone on a job just because he’s a bad man and he’s in your way,” the monsignor said. “In this case, he wasn’t even in your way.”

  “What in the world was wrong with killing Erick Winchon, and if you didn’t want him dead, why the hell did you send me? Dead’s what I do.”

  “The Aerfon Djigahr was your target, not Winchon,” Papa pointed out. “Also, if you remember, we didn’t pick you for this mission, your sister did. Not that we wouldn’t have anyway. Personally, I think the little prick looked a lot better as a corpse, granddaughter, but there have been… complications.”

  “Michelle said she could deal with all that.” She absently brushed her hair back, tucking the strands behind her ear.

  “No, she said she’d try,” O’Reilly said. “It didn’t work. We’ve been disavowed.”

  “Disavowed by who and why? I thought violent mass-murderer scumbags like Winchon were persona non grata with all the races.”

  “The Tchpth, the Himmit, the Indowy with whom we still had a minimal backdoor relationship,” the monsignor said with a sigh. “Thank God Aelool and Beilil felt too much personal responsibility to join the exodus. The whole reason the Crabs wanted Pardal dead was that plotting the death of one of only five emergent human mentats, the beginning of our species’ enlightenment, was a far worse evil. Turns out, they viewed it as a problem on the scale of the Posleen war. That is the only reason they authorized the killing of Pardal, to protect Michelle. And then you have to go and kill one of the other four mentats!”

  “He was a freaking psychopath,” Cally said. “A powerful and dangerous one for that matter.”

  “They feel they could have managed that,” O’Reilly said, holding up his hand to forestall a reply. “The point is, I’ve tried to find words to describe to you how angry they are, and I can’t come up with anything remotely adequate.”