Страница 90 из 134
Finally he gave up and hit Send.
The next message was from Cally and it, too, was everything he had come to expect. Cally's messages were not nearly as frequent as Michelle's and the two sisters were clearly developing in . . . somewhat different directions. Cally also did not have access to GalTech and, therefore, sent a standard text message.
Hey Daddyo
We had visitors this week; some ladies from the nearby Sub-Urb and a couple of snake-eater buddies of Baldy. They had some kids with them who were, like, totally weird. They'd never been outside or shot anything and the weirdest shit freaked 'em out. I mean, don't even mention Posties around these guys or they got, like, spastic.
No big news other than that. Baldy shot a feral up the hill, but that's no big news. I mean, I got a deer, Baldy shot a feral, Wow!
Oh, Baldy's made some mention of one of the ladies that was visiting shacking up with him. Maybe. I'll believe it when I see it. She's a nice old biddy and I think it would be good for him to get laid once in a while; maybe he'd lighten up. But I'll believe it when I see it.
Oh, yeah, DUDE! Way to stack some horse up in Rochester! Can we O'Neals kick ass or what?
:-)
Take care and remember: HVMs Smart!
Cally
Mike sighed, hit reply and blanked. All things considered, he preferred the Rampage to the Robot, but replying to Cally had its own problems. Should he point out that referring to her grandfather as "Baldy" was probably not the best of all possible actions? Or that at thirteen, worrying whether her grandfather was getting laid often enough was probably not her business? For that matter, it probably wasn't her business at forty.
For that matter, was she sexually active? I mean, Dad would probably pass that on to him, but there wasn't much Mike could do about it if she was. What was he going to do? Sitting the guy down and having a man to man talk with him was out; he was five hundred miles away.
And then there was the whole bloodthirsty edge she had developed. He had noted it in Tommy Sunday as well. The generation that was being raised in the war was a generation soaked in blood; they were desensitized to a degree that he found unhealthy.
Maybe it was a valid reaction to the conditions, but a generation so . . . disinterested in the value of life—it seemed to extend to humans as well as Posleen—was not going to be reconstructing a positive, growing, functional society after the war.
There was some fundamental spark, some flare of optimism, that really seemed to be missing from them. Maybe Horner was right, maybe he just wasn't cold and hard enough for this world. God knew at times like this he just wanted to lay the burden down, to just say "get somebody else." But there really wasn't anybody else. To lead the battalion or even carry the spark; his was one of the last generations that was raised in the "golden age." If they didn't keep their eye on the prize, which was to recover the world not just to a survival level, but to recapture the beauty and art and science, then nobody would. Humanity was going to sink to the level the Darhel chose for them. And the only ones who could stop that were these feral wild-children of the war. Who had as much co
Well, frankly, there was nothing they were more disco
This really sucked.
Dear Cally:
Rochester was . . . difficult. We were successful, but the battalion took more casualties than I would have liked. I'm personally and professionally happy that we were able to push the lines back to Cayuga, but all things considered I would have preferred that the necessity not drive it.
I'm glad to hear that you had some visitors, especially female visitors. I know that it must be hard growing up with only your grandfather for company. I hope that you will be able to learn . . .
He backed up and erased the last sentence unfinished. Using the phrase "ladylike" assumed both that the ladies were and that Cally wanted to be. And assumed that "ladylike" was a useful condition, which was a major assumption. Given the choice between a retiring maid and a little war-child, and given the conditions, he'd take war-child any day. Let the world and the future go hang as long as his daughter survived.
. . . only your grandfather for company.
By the way, I hope you're not calling him "Baldy" to his face. If you are, I'm going to have to come down and prove that I can still tan your bottom. And before you say "You and what army?" let me point out that I guarantee I can still pin you in about three seconds without armor and if you decide to treat me like the Division Sergeant Major there's always the armor to fall back on.
:->=
I've come to the conclusion that I want to resume civilian life after the War. That will give me the opportunity to spend the few years that remain before you flee the nest being "around." I look forward to that and to having Michelle home as well. I think of you often and love you very much.
Your Dad. Who is not going Bald.
The last one was from his father.
Mike:
Rochester looked like a fucking nitemare. I'm glad you survived. And glad it was you and not me. We had some visetors last week. Jake Mosovich, I knew him in Nma, stopped by with some women from the Franklen Urb. There was some kids and his NCO Mueller. Their both snake-eaters with this corps, but their Fleet. We had a good time and I'm go
I got your last mail. You sound like your burnt out. I hope you get a rest. You need a R&R in Hong Kong and get laid. But I think the Posleen have eat all the whores. Maybe you should try one of the corpswhores in your area. If you show 'em youre metals you might even get it for free.
We got your last cair package and I put it away safe. I appresiate the helop in these trying times. And if you ever need anthing, you no where it is.
Take care and don't forget to duck.
Dad.
It took him the usual two reads to interpret his father's missive. His dad was not illiterate or unintelligent, but when Michael O'Neal, Sr. had grown up in Rabun County, going to the eighth grade was for over-educated nerd-boys. Mike's father had been pulled out in the sixth grade to work the fields and had done so until he was seventeen and could escape to the Army.
And, unlike some of his peers, Papa O'Neal had never improved his writing. He was well-read, indeed he read military history voraciously, but the reading never seemed to translate to his written vocabulary or grammar.
That was okay by Major O'Neal, though. In a way, his father was just about the only person he could open up to, even if his advice was sometimes rough and ready.
He was just begi
"Incoming priority message from General Horner."
So much for R&R.
Mike looked at Horner's image and sighed. "Where?"
Horner opened his mouth as if to start a spiel and then seemed to deflate. "Rabun Gap. It's . . . gone, Mike."
Major O'Neal set his jaw and tapped the AID. "Schematic, Shelly."