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.”