“Like a kicked hornet’s nest?” Papa said.

“Angry like a supernova is hot?” Cally asked.

“Angry like I’ll get if you two can’t take this seriously!” O’Reilly shouted. “Cut off. NO support. None! Totally on our own!”

“We’ve got funding,” Cally pointed out, shrugging. “A lot more funding than we did before this went down.”

“Would you care to consider what we don’t have?” O’Reilly asked sarcastically. “Just consider the following. No access to GalTech. No access to Galactic medicines. No access to Galactic injury care, not nannites, not even a tank much less a slab. We don’t even have human medical support. The next time you get seriously injured, you’d better be able to do internal surgery, Cally, because otherwise you’re going to die for real and for certain.”

“Oh,” Cally said.

“No access to GalTech weaponry,” O’Reilly pointed out, turning to Papa. “No plasma weapons. No grav-guns. No armor. No plasteel. No logistic support except what the Clan can provide. And entirely out of Clan funds instead of the trickle of continued support we got. We’re entirely on our own for buying ammo for what weapons we’ve got or buy on the open market. Only our own access to black market.”

“Stewart can help there,” Cally said.

“Minimally,” Papa pointed out. “Unless you want to get my son-in-law killed.”

“Not… usually,” Cally said.

“No access to Bane Sidhe intel,” O’Reilly continued. “Or Himmit. No—”

“Okay,” Cally said. “Okay. Got the picture. I fucked up. I was under a certain amount of pressure at the time.”

“Not a good enough excuse for the mess you’ve created,” O’Reilly said. “However, even though you were intimately involved in the unfolding of this mess, I can’t figure out a way to help in the salvage operation.”