“Very well. It was my project, for the Darhel group that holds my debts, when Erick stole the technology. They are holding me personally responsible.” She shrugged beneath the enveloping robes, agitation betrayed by a slight fluttering of her hem as some of the wind finally got through.
“Wait a minute. How can you still be in debt and afford us, the code keys, all of that? I’m lost. This makes no sense.” Cally said.
“I have disposable income. That is not the same thing as being out of debt. We never get out of debt. Even appearing to try will get your debts called in then and there. Every tool and tank I have is deeply mortgaged, as are the tools of everyone else. When I die, the equipment will revert to the Epetar Group to pay the debts. Unless the debt is called in beforehand, as it will be if I do not at least remove the device from the hands of the rival group.”
“So what if they do call your debts? You can teleport. Just move on. Disappear. Let them take the damned tools and go to hell. It’s not like it hasn’t been done before. Just because you were raised by the Indowy doesn’t mean you have to sit there and starve to death. We’re human, not Indowy. You have to know there’s no way we’d just leave you to your fate like they would one of theirs.”
“Yes, I can teleport. The possibility of which is a secret held by few, and worth more than my life. My daughters cannot, and the Epetar Group also holds their debts. If you fail, I will let my debts be called and you certainly will leave me to my fate, for their sake and for the reasons you would not understand. But no, I would not wait to starve. There are quicker ways.” The Michon Mentat squared her shoulders. “This discussion is pointless. You, and the very few who must know, can, at least, keep a secret. I have risked worlds and more on that decision — far more than I should. You must justify my trust,” she pronounced.
“For the moment, we will presume my offering price for the code keys is acceptable. Here.” She pulled a brown cloth bag out of her robes from somewhere, though for the life of her Cally couldn’t see where, and thrust it into the blonde woman’s hands. “Grandfather can carry out the next step in the dealings. I do not understand the purpose of the… work that you do, but you are quite effective at it and you will not fail. You will succeed at retrieving the device, or, if necessary, you will destroy it. It is an obligation to serve Clan O’Neal which you will understand. So the question of failure does not arise, does it?”
This time, she did vanish, leaving Cally staring at a pair of indistinct footprints, already being erased by the blowing sand. She shivered in the cold wind, sand stinging her face, as she turned and walked back up the beach. Summer was definitely over.
Michael O’Neal, Senior, sat on the comfortable but patched living-room sofa trying to talk some sense into his most lethal granddaughter. He was pretty proud of how she’d turned out. A real survivor. Deadly, but ethical. Sometimes too damned moral for her own good. Like now.
“I don’t want a frickin’ bonus, I want a raise!” Cally hissed over her shoulder at him as she poured a fresh cup of coffee. Two bright dots of color on her cheeks showed more real emotion in this family squabble than she would have ever revealed in the field. Shari had fastened the dark blue, denim nightblinds over the windows to keep the electric light from leaking out into the darkness. Clan O’Neal, and its Sunday branch, were meticulous about not displaying more wealth and development than they ought to have. Most bounty farmers had electric enough for their scanners, but little generator power to spare for other applications, even if their homes had been wired for it. None had buried antimatter plants with community power transmission. For bounty farmers who were not O’Neals, “burning the midnight oil” was not just a figure of speech. Cally leaned back against the counter, cupping the warmth of the mug in both hands. She gave Shari a tiny headshake, obviously warning her not to intervene. Michael O’Neal, Sr., was making extra effort to be reasonable. He didn’t feel reasonable. She calls in after all these years and I don’t get to speak to my own granddaughter. What, does Michelle think I’ve got leprosy or something?
“This is professional,” he said. “You take your pay when and how you can get it. That’s the business we’re in.” Papa opened the gray and blue salt-glazed jar on the counter next to the fridge, hand hesitating between the familiar red and white foil pack and the leather pouch with Billy’s Cuban-Salem blend.
“It’s bad enough becoming a thief for a cause. I’m not going to turn into a common thief just because Mommy needs a new pair of shoes. Granpa, if we don’t have some principles, we’re no better than the damned Darhel,” she said.
“What, you’ll kill people for a living but you’re too good to profit off a raid? A raid of that Darhel enemy you’re so busy despising, little girl.” He could tell the ironic, mocking edge to his tone lit a slow fire under Cally’s temper. Good. She needed to be shaken up a little.
“Well, that’s below the belt!” Her hands were fisted at her sides as she tried to control herself, but her voice was rising.
“Could you two keep it down! The children!” Shari backed out of the room, closing the door to the den as an extra buffer between the kitchen and the kids’ rooms.
“You aren’t making a dime off the theft; you’re making a commission on a sale,” Papa said.
“Okay, so now I’m a fence?” Cally said.
“A frickin’ barbed wire one,” he muttered under his breath, as he turned and spat into a chipped blue mug with no handle.
“What?”
“Nothing. Look, we live in an imperfect world. We are working to make it better. If you agree to the commission, I’ll use it as leverage to work on a raise. We all agree that a raise is necessary and fair. If you want it to happen, I need bargaining chips.” Her grandfather spread his hands, the picture of reason. Stir her up, then calm her down.
“So you’re trying to tell me you’re not actually going to do this ten percent thing?” she asked skeptically.
“I can’t bargain with a bluff. Hey, I’m not just using this as an excuse to get around you. Holidays are coming up, you know. I’ll ask for the raise first. If they won’t see reason, we take the commission to get through their thick skulls so the next time I bring it up, they’re not so pigheaded,” he said.
She still didn’t look happy.
“What, you’ve got a better way to get through to them?” As he asked, looking her in the eye, he could practically see her playing Christmas in her head. If he let even a flicker of triumph show in his eyes, she was going to dig in her heels. He kept a poker face, leaving her nothing to think about but a bare tree and empty stockings. She drank her coffee, probably playing for time. Besides, good coffee was too expensive to waste. He waited, watching, until finally she sighed and set the cup down.
“Against my better judgment. But if they offer a raise instead, and it’s at all reasonable, we take it. Whether the numbers match up or not,” she said.
“You’re going to get all stubborn and noble over that, aren’t you? Fine. I’ll be leaving money on the table, I just know it, but fine. I swear, I never should have let you spend all those years with nuns. Went and turned you into a dewy-eyed idealist,” he groused.
“And any part I take of it goes for the girls,” she said.
“Fine.” As she left the kitchen on her way to bed, he let a tiny quirk at one corner of his mouth get through. She was stubborn. Just like Mike had been. Always saw sense eventually, but you sometimes had to get her attention with a two by four first.