Free Honor of the Clan by John Ringo Page A

question the orders of a clan head.
    The walls of the cabin were the same purplish-gray as a Himmit in its natural state. Maeloo supposed it was the other entity's idea of restful. He'd known Himmit, of course, but this was the first time in his long years he'd had occasion to leave Prall, and therefore his first time encountering a Himmit on its own ground.
    "Are you ready for your call?" the Himmit asked.
    "Yes. Have you initiated the connection?"
    "It should be coming in momentarily."
    The image of a sword sticking out of a stone appeared in the air.
    "Himmit Harlas. What brings you to contact me?" the sword sang.
    "The call is on my behalf, Master," Maeloo began. "There has been a catastrophe on Prall. The plan is in shambles."
    "Explain."
    The sword apparently wanted the story in the same level of detail as Himmit Harlas would have expected later. For Maeloo, this was something of a relief, as it meant that he only had to relate the horror once.
    "Your people believed it was a good idea to take sides between business groups?" The disbelief came through despite the harmonics.
    "While it was not my choice, as my own clan has no people involved with loading and unloading ships, my understanding is that nobody, not even the wisest on Prall, foresaw the actual collapse of a Darhel clan. Some clans did a few individual favors that should not have had more than a marginal impact on the fortunes of the Epetar Group. Business is not my people's strength. Are we to blame for the bad decisions of Darhel? We did not orchestrate this, nor did we take a side. What, for us, do the fortunes of Gistar and Epetar matter? My information on those events is incomplete, for obvious reasons." Maeloo shuddered.
    "True. Being used to a group's benefit or detriment is not the same thing as choosing support or opposition. I will help you. As you can see, your people are known, not secret, as are your hiding places and methods. Go to Earth. While it is, of course, obvious that the Bane Sidhe are quite active among the humans, their primary location is, as yet, uncompromised. I can protect you there until I sort out this mess and can formulate some plan for rebuilding. This is, indeed, catastrophic. Nearly a thousand years of work, multiple generations." The sword hummed for a moment unhappily. "Earth. Go to Earth. And do not annoy me with your petty differences with the humans. I have helped you. You must hope they are willing to do the same. I take my leave."
    Maeloo faced the now-empty space grimly. "Himmit Harlas? If I may impose on you and one of your fellows once more, I would like to send a message to Adenast."
    "Certainly. This is a very good story. A very good story indeed. Although I am personally sorry for your circumstances, of course."
     
    Michelle O'Neal sat on a low bench, against the wall of her construction bay, which could have accommodated several modest airplane hangars from Earth and still been uncrowded. One wall of the bay faced the street outside, with great doors through which finished product could be flown out on the Galactic equivalent of an anti-grav forklift. This was, of course, not the top floor of her building. That space was reserved for the really big jobs.
    The mentat quashed her very unprofessional case of project envy and looked down at her hands, which rested on her knees. Said knees were laid down extremely slantwise of her feet. Had they not been, they'd have been propped halfway to her chin, as the bench was built for Indowy, not humans. She had chosen the seat in deference to the being beside her. It was in her interests—O'Neal interests—to keep the Indowy Roolnai happy. Or, rather, it had been, as the balance of favors had lately been very much in his direction. Until now.
    "Allow me to be certain I understand." She picked a tiny fleck of lint off her brown mentat robe. "After breaking with humanity and Clan O'Neal so severely that you almost jeopardized my entire slate of contracts you are now coming