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"Not a soldier," Aelool said. "The Cybers would never stop the killing until the last was done. And they are very good assassins."
"Perhaps we should send a few groups of our own," O'Reilly said bitterly. "It's not as if we don't know the Devil when we see him with our own eyes."
"Dol Ron is a known quantity," Aelool said with another grimace. "If he were removed, we would have to develop an information network on a completely different Darhel. Not the easiest thing to do. And then, of course, we could lose it at any time if we run into a 'Cyber' moment. It might be well to, sometime in the near future, create another 'Agreement.' The only problem being that they are often so entangling."
"Well, I'm going to pull in my horns and teams," O'Reilly said. He knew that Aelool had been against the Cyber agreement. The Indowy was clan chief only by dint of being the senior survivor of over fourteen million other clan members; he no longer tended to worry about the odd loss here and there. "As well as sending a warning to some 'exterior' groups."
"The O'Neals?" Aelool asked.
"Yes, among others," the monsignor answered. "We don't have a team there anymore; we lost Team Conyers trying to prevent the Ontario sanction. So I think they'll be on their own. But I'll warn them that there might be hostile visitors."
"Keeping the O'Neals, and Michael O'Neal specifically, functional has positive long-term implications," Aelool said with a nod. "It is a thread that is being monitored at the very height of the Bane Sidhe. I have methods to contact them discreetly; would you prefer that I do so?"
"Go ahead," O'Reilly said. "And then get ready for a storm."
* * *
Shari ran her finger up a long scar on Papa O'Neal's stomach and fingered a twist of gray chest hair. "That was very nice; you're good."
"Thanks," O'Neal said, rolling over without breaking contact and snagging the bottle of muscadine wine he'd left by the side of the bed. "So are you; you wear an old guy out."
"Fat chance," Shari said with a chuckle. "I'm pretty old and tired myself."
"You're not old at all," O'Neal said, pulling her closer against him. "You're no teenager, but I wouldn't want a teenager in my bed; a person who doesn't have any scars isn't worth my time."
"I don't have any scars," she said, deliberately misunderstanding. "See?" She waved down her body. "Well, an appendix scar, but that's about it."
"You know what I mean," O'Neal replied, looking into her eyes. "I think for all the knife slashes and zippers I've got on my body, I've probably got fewer scars than you. Not many fewer, but fewer."
"Liar."
"When you say that, smile," Mike Senior said, but he smiled as he said it. "Seriously, I made a mistake a long time ago thinking that young and pretty was enough. It's not; a person who hasn't been through the fire doesn't know what the world is about. They think that it's all sweetness and light. It's not; the world is at best chiaroscuro. I swear, my ex-wife still believes you can talk to the Posleen and show them the error of their ways. 'Bring them to the Goddess.' It makes me want to puke. Especially when I think about all the time and effort the 'peace at any price' assholes cost us in the early days of the war. And there are people that are, frankly, five times as bad as the Posleen. The horses don't have any sense or a way out of their cycle; humans can choose. The fact is that too damned many of them choose evil."
"I don't think that violence settles everything," she said. "And calling humans evil is pretty questionable, even my ex-husband who is about as close as it gets. But it is certainly the only language the Posleen understand. I . . . didn't always believe that. But I haven't been the same person since Fredericksburg."
"I know," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "You're better."
She leaned into him and nipped at his shoulder. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"No, I'm saying that to get laid," O'Neal said with a laugh. "If you feel better, that's what they call a fringe benefit."
"What? Again? Did you get a Viagra prescription?"
"For you, baby, I don't need no Viagra!" O'Neal intoned with a waggle of his hips.
"What?" Shari yelped. "Now that is corny! Not to mention insulting!"
"Sorry," the farmer repented with a laugh. "I must have been cha
"Well, as long as you don't come out with something like 'baby, you got real ugly' I'll let you live," she said with a kiss.
Later she ran her fingers up his spine and whispered in his ear:
" 'Bad Ash, Good Ash, you're the one with the gun.' "
CHAPTER 21
Clarkesville, GA, United States, Sol III
0115 EDT Saturday September 26, 2009 ad
"So, Goloswin, how does it go?" Tulo'stenaloor asked.
The Posleen technician looked up from his monitor and flapped his crest. "It is going well. We have received a new piece of . . . intelligence."
"Ah?" Tulo'stenaloor asked. "From the Net?"
"Yes," Goloswin answered, gesturing at the monitor. "From a Kessentai who was on Aradan. It seems he has gained access to control codes for the metal threshkreen communications. We are now 'in their net' as the humans would say. This includes communications between the chief of all threshkreen in this land and the metal threshkreen. Also, there are other threshkreen who use this communications medium; among others your lurp friends. I also have their numbers and disposition in the entire U.S.; the only available unit is in its quarters in the area the humans call 'Pe
"Excellent," Tulo'stenaloor said, flapping his crest in reply. "The assault starts tomorrow at midday. With this information we can know when the damned 'ACS' is coming."
"We can change some of their information," Goloswin said. "Make them think that things have been said which have not or tell them false items. But that will quickly be detected. Or we can simply listen in. As long as they do not realize that we are acting on the basis of the information they should never know."
"That is good," Tulo'stenaloor said. "I think we'll just listen for now. Ensure that Esstu has this information."
"I shall," Goloswin bubbled happily. "It is so very timely!"
"Yes," Tulo'stenaloor said, fingering his crest ornament in thought. "Very timely indeed."
* * *
"Balanosol, your forces are a mess," Orostan snapped. He cast a baleful eye over the Kessentai's oolt and raised his crest in anger. The oolt'os were half starved, many of them showing prominent shoulders and backbones, and their equipment was falling apart.
The Kessentai, on the other hand, was a resplendent figure in gold and silver harness—he had enough heavy metal on his harness alone to feed his oolt for a month—and his tenar sported the heaviest model of plasma gun.
"I think," the oolt'ondar continued, "that all things considered, you shall have the honor of leading my portion of the assault on the morrow."
The conversation was taking place under the light of a half moon, just north of Clarkesville where the millions of Posleen were opening up and getting in position to begin the assault. It would be a three hour movement for the front rank from this rear assembly area to the forward assembly area in the ruins of Clayton. By the time they reached Clayton, they could be expected to be under artillery fire; not that that should last long for once.
"Well, I don't think so," Balanosol said, raising his own crest in defiance. "I have seniority over half these young nestlings, including your sorlan here. Let them take the honor of the front rank; I intend to survive this assault."