“I hope it’s good, Cally. I have to be a diplomat as well as manage operations. Right now, through no fault of yours, you and your team are squarely in the middle of politics again. This time, it’s our fault, and I’m sorry. Our faulty intelligence got you into this situation.” He smiled wryly, passing her a cup of coffee. He had used the good Jamaican stock. Charm and a bit of courtesy went both ways. She was a friend, not an enemy, of course, and he’d love to approve her mission if she made a good enough case for it. It’s just that with Ms. O’Neal a man had better always be quite sure he’s thinking with his brains. Even an old priest, he acknowledged ruefully.
“It’s good. First, Michelle will pay the same amount over again in level two code keys, under the table. A private reserve for us. The whole pay package, thirty percent now, thirty percent after a necessary intermediate run, forty percent on delivery,” she said.
“But pay wasn’t our problem. Please tell me you have more.” The Darhel’s lackey in Burma, a corrupt priest in Ireland, three businessmen who sold out a factory of captured Posleen equipment in Durban, that too-able subordinate of Worth’s in Cleveland…
“I’m getting there, Nathan. I’ve got a file with her initial results studying the Aldenata device, the one this research is based on, before this Erick person took off with it. Buckley, send it and stay mute,” she said.
Father O’Reilly’s eyebrows arched.
“Yeah, I keep my buckley’s emulation set a little high,” she shrugged. “Anyway, I know it’s not much, but that’s where the intermediate mission comes in. Fleet Strike recovered the device on Dahl, and that initial report, as well as the observations of their field technician, will be in Fleet Strike’s secure AID files at Fredericksburg. There are a lot fewer unknowns there, and they just aren’t used to getting hit, so they’ll have decent security, but not great. They’re used to security against Posleen and the occasional humanist nutballs, not other trained humans. They’re not trying to protect a nasty mind-control gadget against rival businesses.”
“So you’re hoping you can get me to approve the Fredericksburg run to get enough data to approve the job you really want. And if you get there and the records you want have been deleted? Wouldn’t the group sponsoring this Erick want to clean up behind themselves?”
“Michelle doesn’t think they have. I think they might consider it an unnecessary risk. What do they gain? Michelle admits she can’t make anything workable from the initial field observations, and our potential targets have the device in hand. Who would they be keeping the information from? Besides, she says the initial observations probably will help her make a more convincing decoy for the switch.”
“Might and Michelle says and probably. It’s still a bit thin, Cally.”
“I know. But you get sixty percent of the total just for this. That’s a hundred and twenty percent of the original fee. Half of that in code keys you can actually use. Just for the initial intel gathering mission. With nothing counterproductive to Bane Sidhe interests. I would think that’s a pretty sweet deal. Of course there’s risk, but isn’t there always? It’s a good deal, Father.”
“Yes, it is.” He sighed. Am I succumbing to feminine charm, or making a rational decision? The keys are the kicker. They reduce our direct dependence on the Tchpth in the short term, and open a favor-trading relationship with a potential alternate source, with the strongest clan of connections, which provides a future margin of safety. The Tchpth planners would see a difference between ceasing to provide us with keys, versus cutting us off from alternate supplies. As a Michon Mentat, Michelle O’Neal’s judgment carries weight that they might not interfere with. They would consider her decisions more reliable than that of the leaders of the Indowy Bane Sidhe, since she does not — or has not until now — engage in intrigue. A tenuous thread, but better than we have now, which is no backup. It’s a sound rational basis for the decision, and damn my juv hormones for confusing the issue.
“You have my approval for the Fredericksburg run. But if what you find isn’t conclusive, I won’t be able to approve the rest of the job in good faith. I also need much more than ‘Michelle says’ about how we’re going to get an agent in place for the main job,” he said.
“There’s a file on the cube with job listings and requirements. We fake up the ID’s and resumes, her guy in personnel makes sure at least one of us gets hired. I took the liberty of downloading it to buckley to cross-reference with our prior missions and build a file for the covert identifications department. I hope I can get authorization to get them moving on this. Time is tight.”
“Fine. If Michelle still wants to hire our services, knowing that this in no way commits us to the rest of her project, then do it.”
O’Reilly stared after her as the door closed behind her. Heavenly Father, I hope I’m doing the right thing. He crossed himself and picked up his own coffee, sipping it before it got cold.
As a “live” priest, prewar, to him the area of finance had always been something other people dealt with. Ever since he’d come inside and taken over the base management of the Earth headquarters for the Bane Sidhe, he had learned more about budgets and cash flow and overhead than he had ever wanted to know. But he had come in as one of the leading experts on xenopsychology — albeit only known as an expert by a select few. The Tchpth hadn’t a clue about finance. As long as they were undisturbed in their figurative ivory towers, they let the Darhel deal with such mundanities. Which was half the reason the Galactic situation had become, so long ago, what it was today.
There were no Darhel here. The likelihood of the Tchpth or the Indowy outside the O’Neal Bane Sidhe figuring out that they had more level two code keys than they should was, well, infinitesimal. It just wasn’t the way they thought. Some Himmit somewhere would notice, sometime. But they wouldn’t share the information. They liked to gather stories; they didn’t seem to have nearly as much fun telling them.
A strategic reserve wouldn’t solve the fundamental problem of Crab-dependence, but that was going to be a tough nut to crack. They were not going to be able to out-Crab the Crabs. The solution was going to have to be a matter of reducing, not ending, their dependence on the Crabs, while finding other Galactic trade goods than mercenary soldiers. And that last might well turn out to be the impossible dream. But if solved, that would likely be solved after one Father Nathan O’Reilly had joined his maker, rejuv or no rejuv.
Connections with Michelle O’Neal wouldn’t hurt, but mentats tended to be so aloof from the real world that it was far more likely than not to be a one-off, of no long-term help. Still, plant enough seeds and something was bound to come up.
The slightly built man with the straw blond hair falling over his eyes looked barely old enough to be in a club. Even one as relaxed in its standards for clientele as the Pink Heat Showbar. In fact, despite a chin full of carefully cultivated stubble, he had had to bribe the doorman to ignore the presumed-fake nature of his ID. The ID really was fake, but not for the reasons the doorman assumed. George Schmidt was a forty-one-year-old juv whose usual profession involved taking out the worst of the world’s human trash. Worst by O’Neal Bane Sidhe standards, that was. By his own best guess, he’d only killed four people in his career who were not themselves directly involved with the deaths of numerous innocent humans. One of the four he knew about was simply a too-convenient fool for the Darhel. The other three were regrettable collateral damage. He couldn’t have counted the number of targets he’d serviced that he considered guilty. He’d never tried. A bunch.