A Private Little War(4)

Inside the comms tent it was warm—proscribed machinery bleeding heat as a consequence of information. Diane was guarding the FTL relay with crossed arms and a set jaw that radiated menace. The other controllers ignored her with a fixity that was reflexive. She was at the end of another night shift and wasn’t ever a terribly pleasant woman at the beginning of one.

Ted made for the relay. When Diane didn’t move aside quite quickly enough, Ted pushed her without really thinking about it. Not roughly, but still. When he moved to sit down, Diane felt the place where Ted’s palm had cupped her shoulder, trailing her fingertips across it as though hunting for the dissipating warmth of his touch.

Ted didn’t notice that either. He had eyes only for the technology. The screens were all live, but there was no picture, no telepresence. A zillion dollars in technology, and they were using it like two tin cans and a string hundreds of light-years long. He sat, put the phones on his head, coughed into his fist, and closed his eyes.

“This is Op Chief, Carpenter 7 Epsilon, TAG 14-447 actual. Go ahead.”





He’d guessed the call would come from Garros, deputy chief of external ops, based out of London, Earth—the ancestral Flyboy headquarters. Ted knew Garros a little and thought that the courtesy would not be completely unusual coming from his mouth. In the dark, he’d imagined the conversation a hundred different ways.

Or maybe it would be Jackson Chaudhary, the assistant deputy. That would be insulting, but not devastatingly so. Ted had decided long ago not to let it show in his voice if it was Chaudhary who made the call; that a courtesy was a courtesy even if it was delivered in a discourteous fashion. He would act the professional, bite his tongue, and remember to call Chaudhary sir no matter how much it pained him.

Tallis Marks, who managed operational security, would be bad, as would anyone in his department. If the call came from the security department, it would be a flag—a warning that meant arrests were imminent, or worse—and it would be expected that he would know that. To act appropriately no matter how deep the blood got.

Slava, Oliver, Victor Wes, that fat fuck Apostol who’d breadcrumbed his way into the CFO’s seat after Hinrik’s third stroke. It could be any of them. Loewenhardt, even, though that was probably expecting too much. Better that it wasn’t Loewenhardt, but Ted knew that so long as the call—the warning call, the one to inform him personally that the official bad news would be coming at some later date—came from someone above the line and inside the London headquarters, someone of management level or above, assistant to a deputy or higher, everything would be okay. It would be bad, but not, so to speak, fatally so. He’d won wars for his company. Bled for them. He’d spent so long in Indian country that he’d grown feathers—which was something he said now about himself because it was something that Garros had said to him once, years ago, when introducing him to a prospective client. Prinzi, come here. Gavril, this is Ted Prinzi, one of our battle captains. Where are you just in from, Ted? Doesn’t matter. Gavril, this man has spent so long in Indian country he’s growing feathers. I can’t even keep track of the fights he’s won…

“Commander Prinzi?” said the disembodied voice on the other end of the relay. Ted didn’t recognize it. He mentally checked Garros off the list. Chaudhary. Marks. Loewenhardt, of course. Also Slava, Oliver, Wes and Apostol, Ballard, Coley, Ma, Archer. Ted ran down the Flyboy org chart in his head. He racked his brain to come up with another name. Someone else. Someone who’d maybe been promoted since he’d left. Someone new.

“Who is this?” Ted asked.





Diane watched as Ted seemed to receive an invisible punch in the chest. He folded, put the points of his elbows on the table in front of him, and sunk his head down until he was gripping the back of his own neck with strong hands. She could see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. Panic breaths. Sharp and shallow like silent laughter. She could hear only one side of the conversation, but she was worried that she’d woken him for no good reason even though she had orders to fetch him for any call originating from the home office, at any hour. Standing orders, given to her almost a year ago and refreshed with maddening frequency anytime it crossed Ted’s mind to do so.

Ted said, “You’re a clerk in the accounting department…”

Ted said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Assistant clerk. How long you been working for the company, son?”

Ted said, “Two weeks?”

Ted said, “That must be really exciting for you…”