‘Sandy, I’m in Rawalpindi.’ Sandy’s eyes shot open, jerking fully upright against the wall. Mahud’s sending voice sounded hard and tense. Preoccupied. ‘There’s a building here, I don’t know which one, it’s on Vento Street, it’s an office district. We’ve parked nearby, we’re in two groups, I’m headed for the top floor, I’ll know more when I get there.’
‘You’re out of the van?’ Sandy sent internally, reflex preventing her from voicing her alarm to the open, silent car park. Did a fast race down an adjoining city-link … found Rawalpindi, broadscanned … shit, it was thirty kilometres north and she was leaping onto her bike, ramming on the helmet and activating the engine …
‘I’m out, we’re moving, the van had some kind of counter-measures locked in over the network, it can’t track this transmission once I’m outside …’ The engine throbbed into life, a deep-throated, whining growl, display screens flashed to life. Sandy turned the throttle and accelerated swiftly across the open ferrocrete, headed for the exit.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ she said, hitting the ramp hard and flying upward, ‘I’m thirty klicks away — that could be fifteen minutes on these roads…’
‘Sandy, I don’t think you’re going to get here in time, this is a big hit. We’ve got goddamn floorsweepers here. It’s gotta be a civvie target — there’s nothing else here. I think it’s biotech …’ Harsh shriek of tires around the bend, up the next ramp with a vicious thrust of speed, then a hard, wheelspinning U-turn and up the next…
‘Mahud, when they give you your target, just do it, okay? Don’t question it, just do it …’ She could hardly believe her own ears as she spoke, but her heart was pounding, her mind deadly calm and vision shifting at impossible intensity as the bike roared through slide after slide, climbing levels … there was traffic here now, and startled pedestrians, and a near miss past a car-side …
‘Kill civvies?’ Utterly disbelieving. ‘You want me to kill civilians?’ Somewhere through the knife-edge calm, terror stabbed. A sharp jab of unreasoning, terrifying panic.
‘What the fuck else can you do?!’ she snarled, a furious explosion as she ripped through a narrow space between car and rampside, spun the rear about to unseen evasions by terrified pedestrians …
‘Sandy …’ A pause, as if struggling to think of something to say…
‘Hold on,’ she told him, leaping off the final ramp and accelerating along the ground floor, snarled with traffic, hurtling up through the narrow gap between cars, locked brakes when some pedestrians didn’t move and clipped one, hard, as she accelerated past. And through the exit scanners, Central Control halting traffic once more to find space for this mad motorcyclist who was somehow riding outside the speed buffers with a death wish on her mind … she howled onto the road, dodging traffic once more at frustratingly low speeds, and searched through her links…
No Vanessa. No Ibrahim. There were other, general connections, doubtless she could get some board operator on Eagle One, but she wanted that direct connection, not trusting any others, not trusting the people who would answer … solid action, Vanessa had said. A brief jump onto a mainstream news network and scanned through a flashing succession of realtime pictures — trouble at the Parliament once more, security activity, seeming chaos, flyers hovering out of lanes and unauthorised activity progressing, communications blocked on all sides … Guderjaal. Guderjaal had ruled, and Dali’s power-grab had been found out of order. Solid action indeed.
She should have been happy. Now, she only thought of all the resources tied up at the Parliament right now, and no one could possibly get to Mahud in time, no one loyal anyway … She left an emergency parcel on Vanessa’s frequency, and on Ibrahim’s, streaked through more lights, then decelerated for the next turnoff and took it fast, and up the ramp toward the northern freeway, speed rising once more. Clicked back to Mahud.
‘Mahud, there’s trouble at the Parliament, I…’
‘I know, were moving fast. They think Dali’s not going to last another half hour — they want to be gone by then‘
‘No one’s going to get to you, Mahud.’ Her eyes sensed flashing light from behind as she screamed across to the freeway right lane, where traffic was sparsest and speeds faster … ‘I don’t think I can get there myself, just don’t do anything, all right?’
‘Okay Sandy‘ Flat and sombre.
‘You promise?’ Fear made its way into her voice, past her control. The flashing blue lights were close behind, matching her at 350 kph, hurtling along the empty right lane as traffic ahead shifted leftwards to avoid them.
‘I promise. Don’t crash, huh?’ And gone, with that last, gentle quip. Leaning low over her bike in the roaring velocity, Sandy’s throat was tight. Her right fist shook with effort to restrain another savage twist — it would go no further, and if she twisted any harder it would surely break. The lights behind were closer, and over the howl of wind and engine Sandy could hear sirens.
She reached into her jacket, and twisted slightly sideways in the saddle. Pulled her pistol, grasping the left handgrip, and straight-armed the pistol out behind her at 340 kph … emptied half the pistol magazine into the chasing police car’s bonnet, reholstered the pistol and recovered her briefly diminished speed in an instant, bending low to keep entirely out of the slipstream.
Behind her, two stunned police officers sat in their coasting vehicle, watching as the Prabati’s tail light grew rapidly smaller in the distance, and wondering how it was possible that their cruiser’s CPU was telling them that only the main drive feed was damaged.
She roared away from the freeway at mind-numbing speed, hurtling through the narrow gaps between traffic-filled lanes. Calling Mahud on continuous recycle but getting no response … had been getting no response for the last five minutes. Preparations would be beginning, his full concentration required. Terrified beyond words as the cars flashed by and pedestrians jumped back in shock, taking the next corner and accelerating again, a traffic snarl to one side and she switched lanes fast, a hard lean past a protruding tail light as Vento Street approached up ahead, beyond the next set of lights, and she twisted the throttle once more …
Central finally misdiagnosed her intentions, not expecting that acceleration approaching the lights, and the car that would have gone past ahead was suddenly right in line … brakes locked in a squeal of white smoke, and Sandy’s own brakes followed as she spotted the intersecting trajectories too late, saw the impact coming and leapt clear.
The Prabati W-9 hit the rear left wheel of the passenger car at a shade over 200 kph and disintegrated, the car hammered wildly about as the Prabati’s rider flew a full forty metres down the road through the air, arms out, then shoulder rolling as she hit, sliding and tumbling on firmly braced limbs, over and over until she tucked into a tight ball and slammed into the back of a stationary car.
Sandy was up before her head had totally cleared, undoing the helmet and throwing it away as she ran, past staring pedestrians and shouted exclamations, people running the other way, toward the carnage at the intersection. Loose cloth flapped about knees and elbows, ripped clear in the slide. Sprinting fast along the roadway and then onto the sidewalk, flying past yet more pedestrians at inhuman velocity, yet agonisingly, horribly slow. Her right shoulder grated, damaged in that final impact with the car at the end of her slide. Her right hip was neither perfect, and the combination affected her run.
She turned hard onto Vento Street and saw another chaotic gathering of frightened, jabbering people about the base of a building. Flew that way, carved straight through the crowd, up the steps and into the ground floor, where several frightened people shouted at her to stop, that there was shooting upstairs, then she hit the stairwell door and was going up entire flights in single leaps. Somewhere up the stairs, her hand yanked the pistol from its shoulder holster, and took off the safety.
Out then, onto the top floor. Devastation. Through the smoke-thick air, there were desks and chairs strewn and wrecked, office spaces destroyed, partitions, some still burning, riddled with bullets … Sandy’s eyes took in the details without effort, analysing the pattern, the grenade blast-type, the calibre of weaponry. She strode, pistol ready and scanning, across the office space. There were bodies. Some dead from range, some executed with a point-blank shot to the head. She counted six. There would be others. Corridors and doors led to labs and filing rooms, storage and research … but the stairs to the roof were there, and it was the only path that could possibly matter — she leapt up them in a flash.
More bodies on the rooftop. The shatter-proof glass shattered, twisted frames of doors. She pushed them aside, past the lifeless legs of an FIA man … she counted two more who must be FIA, weapons in hand. Several civilians beyond that, hacked by fire as they’d tried to escape. And in the open space by the car park, beneath the leading edge of the aircar awning…
She sprinted. Slid in beside Mahud, pistol discarded, grabbing him by the jacket and … and … oh God, he was covered in blood, GI plasma, holes in his jacket, lying on his back and unmoving. Reached frantically into her jacket for her interface lead, reached back and jacked herself in, then behind Mahud’s head, feeling for the insert… found it, click and merge, barriers weak and the codes …
The eyes blinked open. Weakly, and her heart missed a beat.
‘Oh thank fucking Christ!’ she gasped, and was in tears. Just kneeling there beside him, linked direct, holding him, but scared to touch more. He looked at her, recognition faintly dawning … and the lips moved in a slight smile.
‘Sandy,’ he whispered, with evident pleasure. His hand raised feebly toward her and she grasped it tightly. ‘Sandy.’
‘Mahud, don’t move, there’s help on the way, you’re going to be all right, Mahud, we’re going to fix you up just fine. You hear me?’ With panicked desperation, bending over him, hand clasped with her left while her right brushed at his forehead. ‘You just hang on. You’re going to be fine.’
‘No.’ A single word. He looked up at her and his brown eyes were smiling. Distantly. There was blood across the side of his jaw, bullet strike. Sandy’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
‘T-5, Sandy,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing you can do.’ T-5. Chemical nerve suppressant. A GI killer. Degenerative and irreversible, fired from close range, execution style. Sandy just stared at him. Utterly stricken. His smile grew a little broader. ‘I got four of those bastards. There’s … another one behind the car … over there.’
‘Mahud …’ She was crying. ‘Why?’ she managed to whisper, strangled past the agony of tears. ‘Why… God, why didn’t you just do what they said … you didn’t need to do this!’
He managed a weak, slow nod.
‘Did.’ He let go her hand. Reached up, and brushed the tears gently from her cheek. His brown eyes were sad, beyond the smile. ‘Can’t live here, Sandy. Too strange. Don’t belong here. Can’t live here, can’t live there.’
‘But you said …’ Her voice broke, strangled and sobbing, ‘… you said you would … that you’d … Why?’ Pleading. ‘Oh God, why didn’t you just say?’
Mahud smiled up at her, a sleepy, sad-eyed smile.
‘Love you, Sandy,’ he whispered in reply. Like it was all the reason in the world. The only reason that had ever mattered. The only reason that ever would. Sandy broke down and wept.
‘I love you too,’ she managed to whisper, leaning down close, her tears wetting his face as they fell. Like raindrops, soft and gentle. She held him close, sobbing her life away as Mahud slowly died in her arms. About them, the towers loomed tall and gleaming in the cool night sky.
A howling scream of thruster engines and the last flyer departed, a mad flapping of rooftop awnings and decorative hedges. Across the rooftop, green canvas flapped, exposing a sprawled limb beneath, a patch of ground dark with dried blood. Forensics, 3D modellers and trace-scan technicians roamed the rooftop battleground, examining bodies, shell casings, bullet holes, piecing the scene together. Direct-linked to CSA headquarters, where complicated graphical programs attempted to reassemble the action realtime. With every piece of data, the picture grew clearer, the events slowly pieced together.
Vanessa Rice walked in on the scene from the stairwell, through the shattered doors that had been propped aside, stepping over the bodies. Beyond the grim rooftop activity, and the flash-and-strobe of blue phase-scan, she could hear the sound of sirens and street-level activity from below. Lights flashing off the windows of the building opposite. She spotted the scene commander nearby in conversation with a forensics man and walked that way.
Captain Khurana saw her coming, a small, armoured figure with a weary stride, moving through the ordered commotion, heavy rifle slung over one small shoulder. The forensics man went back to his work, but not without a lingering, respectful glance at the approaching lieutenant. Khurana stroked his impressive, black moustache and drew himself fully upright, thumbs through his belt. Vanessa stopped before him. Looked up at him blandly… not even shoulder height on the strapping chief investigator. Dark, sombre eyes considered him from beneath bedraggled, helmet-flattened hair.
‘It’s not pretty up here, is it?’ Khurana said, Indian accent lilting. Looking about at the bodybags and canvas covers.
‘Worse down there,’ Vanessa replied, with a faint indication back toward the stairwell. Looked about, following Khurana’s gaze. ‘Has Kresnov been here?’
‘Yes. Her Prabati W-9 is several blocks over there,’ pointing away past the near buildings. ‘She finally messed up an intersection, went into the side of a passenger car at about 200. Flew through the air for fifty metres, slid for another fifty, then hit the rear of another car waiting at the next intersection still going at about 100. Got straight up and kept running. Eyewitness reports said she was doing about sixty down the road on foot. She was in a mighty hurry, it looks like. Lucky no one else was hurt.’
‘Are the people in the car okay?’ Vanessa asked, still gazing off across the rooftop.
‘Yes, she hit the rear wheel. The impact nearly took the back off the car, though. Those Prabatis are big bikes — you hit something at 200, it gets damaged. If she’d hit the door side, it would have been nasty. But,’ he added on reflection, ‘I’m informed that Central Control did excellently well, and it’s unlikely that both it and she would have miscalculated by so much. A pity we could not get her to interface directly like the emergency crews do, then there would have been no problem. Damn Dali. How is Dali, anyway?’
Vanessa sighed. Thinking that Khurana liked the sound of his own voice just a bit too much. Broad-shouldered and snappily dressed, he looked like a moonlighting Indian movie star. The moustache looked suspiciously well groomed.
‘He’s in one piece,’ she replied wearily, ‘more’s the pity. We had a job talking him and his security down, though. They didn’t want to take Guderjaal’s word, wanted everything filed in triplicate and stamped. The President helped.’
‘Yes,’ said Khurana with heavy irony, ‘she would, wouldn’t she?’ Vanessa shrugged. ‘Where is Dali now?’
‘Locked up, I hope.’ Her eyes fell on a nearby cluster of people, kneeling and scanning, exchanging intent conversation, over the body at their feet. She could guess who that was. ‘Maybe we could just give him to Sandy for a few minutes,’ she murmured.
‘Sandy?’
‘Kresnov. Sandy short for Cassandra.’ Khurana frowned, following Rice’s gaze. And realised.
‘Hmm.’ He stroked his glossy moustache, eyes gone darkly sombre. ‘I’m sure that would violate a few interplanetary conventions, but I find the notion strangely appealing. I’d only worry for the person who has to clean up the mess after she’s finished.’
Vanessa nodded absently. Liking Khurana more for that.
‘Have you heard from her?’ Khurana asked. ‘Sandy?’ Vanessa shook her head.
‘Not a word. How long ago was she here?’
‘I could not say precisely.’ Khurana stroked his moustache, frowning to himself as he considered. ‘Judging from the GI’s time of death, I would suggest somewhere between thirty-five and fifty minutes. Forensics think she was here when he died. There was a lot of activity around then, according to eyewitnesses from downstairs.’ He paused. ‘And tears on his face, same time-date.’
Vanessa turned and stared up at him. Cold emptiness in the pit of her stomach. And a growing lump in her throat. Khurana gazed back at her, grimly curious. Vanessa exhaled, a hiss between clenched teeth.
‘Shit,’ she murmured, and looked back toward the cluster of forensics. For a moment there was no sound but the rooftop activity and the wail of sirens and crowd noise drifting up from street level.
‘Friend of yours?’ Khurana asked.
‘Yeah.’ Softly. ‘Isn’t that the damnedest thing, I only met her a few days ago. Who’d have thought that?’ Khurana looked at her for a long moment. Probably wondering what kind of a person could possibly count a GI as a friend. Vanessa didn’t care what he thought. Khurana unhooked his thumbs from his belt.
‘Come over here,’ he said, and walked off toward the cluster of people around the dead GI. Vanessa followed, stepping carefully to avoid treading on anything important. Forensics made a space for him and Vanessa moved up to his side.
The body at their feet was that of a young man. Brown-skinned, of Arabic appearance. Handsome, Vanessa realised, gazing at his face. Peaceful, but for the torn scar of a bullet wound across his jaw. He lay as if at a wake, long and straight, hands folded upon his breast. Sandy’s friend. She stood for a long moment at Khurana’s side, gazing down at the handsome young man before her. The ache in her throat grew worse and her eyes prickled.
‘See here,’ Khurana said with grim purpose, pointing back toward the nearest aircar in the rooftop parking space, riddled with holes. ‘He fell over there, covered behind the Ford. We’ve pieced together that much — that was the second time he was hit. First he killed his three FIA companions — the woman over there and the two men over by the doors,’ pointing across at the stairwell. About them, several of the forensics had paused in their examinations to listen.
‘Our best information is that he refused the assault order. They hit him first, that much is clear. But they failed to kill with the first shots and it cost them their lives … hardly surprising, considering what he is. He then took cover behind the Ford and waited for the civilians escaping from below to come up the stairs.
‘We have four dead biotech employees — the two there,’ pointing at the two shapeless, canvas-covered forms between them and the stairwell, ‘and two over there, behind the cars,’ turning about and pointing behind, past the parking space overlooking Vento Street. ‘Those two were last. These two,’ turning back around, ‘were killed first, shot from behind.’
‘It appears that Kresnov’s friend here covered the first two civilians to come up the stairs and told them to take cover behind the cars. The second two were caught halfway when the first FIA … or our first murderer, I should say …’ Here his assured, analytical tone turned particularly cold. ‘… reached the top of the stairs and shot them in the back. He was in turn killed by this young man.’ Indicating the GI. ‘Thus the third dead FIA man by the stairwell.
‘Then there was a firefight, during which this brave young fellow was further wounded, evidently his wounds to this point were troubling him gravely, or else the entire FIA team may well be dead, and he still alive. A pity.’ He stroked his moustache, looking down at the body. ‘The FIA then executed the two civilians he had been trying to protect, at point-blank range, and made sure of the GI with a chemical pellet containing something called Terrascovine, or more commonly T-5. Specially formulated chemical to disrupt GI nerve function. Like nerve gas for GIs, since they’re largely immune to the chemicals that will kill you or I. Evidently the FIA had anticipated trouble earlier, either from him or from the assault team that struck the President.’
A sombre pause. Down on the street another siren its wail echoing from the surrounding buildings. A clatter of equipment from across the rooftop — a new scanner being set into position.
‘The end result of which,’ Khurana concluded, ‘is that we are four down on the twenty-four fuckers we are looking for. ‘Fucker’,’ he added with a mild glance at Vanessa, ‘being the present investigative jargon for FIA. That leaves us with twenty fuckers still to find and hopefully kill. This young man did a very good, very brave thing. I intend to see to it that he is treated with the respect and dignity he has earned. Did he have any religious inclinations, do you know?’
Vanessa shook her head.
‘No,’ she said tiredly, rubbing her eyes with a gloved hand. ‘I don’t know, but I doubt it. Well leave all that stuff to Kresnov when we find her. Just don’t let any government pricks start poking about for research. She wouldn’t take that very well.’
‘I can imagine,’ Khurana said soberly. He put a hand on Vanessa’s armoured shoulder. ‘Are you all right? You’ve been on activation a long time, Lieutenant. Perhaps you should take a rest.’
They knew about the Berndt incident, Vanessa realised. Word had been spreading. And now the standoff with Dali, tensions at the Parliament … weapons ready and not knowing if Guderjaal’s order would be resisted with force … God, what an insane situation. Civil war indeed. In the end, she suspected, it had only been the realisation that he would surely lose any confrontation that had forced Dali’s hand. He had simply lacked the support among the men and women who carried the guns. So much technology, so much progress, and still it came down to guns. She rubbed her eyes for a while longer, as if to remove the memory of recent days from her brain. Khurana, she realised, was still waiting for a reply.
‘No,’ she sighed, ‘I’m okay. I can sleep later. It looks like this won’t last very much longer, one way or another.’ The observation met with grim silence on all sides. She lowered her hand, looking blankly ahead, past the gathered forensic experts. All were looking at her, awaiting her words. Even then, she couldn’t help but feel some amazement. Being a hero wasn’t something she’d ever given much consideration to. She wasn’t sure she liked it.
‘We have to find Kresnov again,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘I don’t think she’s going to be real happy right now.’ And immediately felt disgusted at herself for such a glib remark. She knew with a dark certainty what her new friend’s present state of mind would be … and it was painful to think about. And frightening. Please God, they had to find her, and soon. Before anything irreversibly horrible happened.
‘She made direct interface with the GI before he died,’ said a nearby forensics man. ‘We found traces. It’s possible that she managed to copy some of his codes … how good is her interface function?’
Vanessa blinked. ‘Full neural integration, no messy fiddling between organic and synthetic brain-function … how good do you think she’d be?’ There were some incredulous murmurs from the surrounding technicians. It evidently meant something to them.
‘Well then,’ he continued, taking a deep breath, ‘I think it’s possible that she’s copied some of this GI’s codes. Maybe even enough to get traces of that damn encryption they’re using to move around. Maybe enough to track them. If she’s as good as you say.’
‘She is.’ Vanessa thought about it, arms folded and chin in hand, a gloved finger tapping absently at her jaw. ‘If she’s got any leads, though, she hasn’t told us yet.’
‘Considering what the fuckers did to her friend,’ Khurana said mildly, ‘and considering what she is capable of doing to them … would you tell anyone?’
‘One of the FIA’s rifles is missing,’ a woman added, and paused as Khurana gave her a hard look. ‘One of the fuckers’ rifles, I mean.’ Khurana looked appeased. ‘Magazines too.’
‘Shit,’ Vanessa muttered. It looked like trouble. Big trouble. But… maybe a solution, too. It was a dark, nasty thought. But a logically sensible one also.
‘Good work,’ Khurana advised his people, ‘I’ll pass it on.’ And paused as he turned to go, looking at Vanessa. ‘Do you know this man’s name?’ Vanessa looked at him. And looked down again at the GI. At the young, handsome face. At the eyes that should have been open, the mouth that should have been smiling … And for a brief, frightening moment, she thought she could feel the faintest ghost of his Captain’s grief.
‘Mahud,’ she said quietly. ‘His name’s Mahud.’
Khurana spared Mahud one last, lingering glance. Murmured something in Arabic quietly and departed. Vanessa stood where she was, as the forensic team moved off about their various tasks. Arms folded about her small, armoured self, as if to ward off the gathering cold.
May your light shine with glory in Paradise, Mahud.
With a reflex unfelt since seventh grade, Vanessa crossed herself with one gloved hand. An unfitting symbol to go with an Islamic thought, perhaps, she thought as she refolded her arms and shivered. But fitting, perhaps, that he whom faith had deserted in life should be embraced by all faiths in death. Upon the young man’s cheek, Vanessa felt she could detect the slightest trace of moisture.
Sandy, she thought desperately. Where are you?
Katia Neiland wearily walked the familiar route down the Parliament’s central corridor. Armed security were everywhere. Local Parliament guards stood by the ornate major doorways that led to Congress House, weapons at port arms. SWAT personnel strode with brisk purpose across the further end. Harried interns scurried in all directions, rapid footsteps up the huge marble stairs at the far end. And in front and behind her walked four members of Alpha Team in pairs, dark-suited, com-wired and terminally, professionally suspicious. The usually immaculate red carpet that ran the length of the enormous floor was scuffed beneath the traffic of heavy-duty boots. The huge, ostentatiously ornate hallway echoed with urgent activity.
Katia wanted a bath. Followed by a long rest in her favourite chair back at the Quarters, a relaxing raga on the stereo and a glass of something strong. Judging from the present circumstances, however, she guessed it would be a while before these wishes could be fulfilled.
An intern gave her a wary, concerned look as he passed. Katia straightened her jacket self-consciously and brushed at her hair with a tired hand. In difficult circumstances the President more than ever needed to appear in control. She flexed shoulders that were aching from too much nervous sitting on the edge of a chair, hunched over a control screen back at the Presidential Quarters while Guderjaal and Ibrahim had attempted negotiation with Dali and aides and SWAT flyers circled the Parliament once more, explicit threat in a situation whose manoeuvres had long since ceased to be subtle.
It had not been easy. There had been communications problems at conveniently inconvenient moments. Threats from Dali to make media announcements regarding the Neiland administration’s involvement with a dangerous and unstable League GI who was presently on an uncontrolled, government-approved, vendetta-style rampage through the city. Of illegal and improper contact between President and Adjudicator. Of criminal conduct and abuse of power by the Director of the CSA. Of threats, information theft, grandstanding and general grave misconduct from the Neiland administration. Of a widespread conspiracy among senior Tanushan parties to undermine the constitution and the rule of law.
In the end, Neiland thought wearily as she matched her stride to the Alpha Team agents in front of her, he had only refrained from acting on those threats because of the realisation that in the long run, no one really cared. To be sure, there were those in the Progress Party who were only too keen to make political mileage from the already prevalent perception of an arrogant, dictatorial President … but out among the general public, such political machinations counted for little.
Dali was a Federal representative. Every citizen in Tanusha understood the pact through which the Federal Governor’s presence was tolerated. Callay was one world of the Federate Alliance of Worlds. Membership had considerable benefits. The majority of people on all member worlds believed in the importance of some form of central governing body, overseeing the affairs of all humanity and making sure that the species did not split itself off into separate, alienated groups, who would over a period of centuries become unrecognisable to each other. Dali’s presence was the sacrifice that the people of Callay made of their own sovereign independence for the greater good of interstellar human civilisation.
But Dali had broken that trust, and while constitutional law may have been on his side, the vast majority of the Callayan population were not. Membership of the greater human diaspora sounded nice and cosmopolitan to the average citizen, but no one ever expected that Dali would actually do anything. He was just supposed to sit there, and placate their good-natured idealism by his presence alone. Taking over the government wasn’t what they’d had in mind. Running it under the guidance of shady, FIA-connected advisors certainly wasn’t. When they’d used the release of that information as a counterthreat to Dali’s own, the end had been nigh. To that point even senior Progress Party members had been distancing themselves from the more rabidly opportunistic of their number.
A good thing, she thought as her entourage accompanied her up the huge central stairway, that there had been no shooting. The Governor had brought his own security with him from Earth, and there had been little doubt of their willingness to use force if ordered. And then there was the assigned wing of Parliamentary Security required by law to guard the acting Head of State, and a certain boot-licking captain who had not switched sides until the game had already played out…
It made Katia fume even now. God knew how these people attained their positions. Some in every organisation, Ibrahim had told her, matter-of-fact as ever. Katia could only marvel at his restraint — that damn woman had risked a firefight between people who were supposed to be on the same side simply because she was too chickenshit to deviate so much as a punctuation mark from the damn manual, and hadn’t wanted stain on her record. Katia strode down the corridor toward the Presidential Office, wondering darkly if there were any legal way for the President to intervene in a certain security officer’s performance review…
Then she caught sight of the tangle of milling, arguing people in the euphemistically named Garden Room — the waiting room outside her office, for anyone needing to see her on short notice. And nearly stopped in her tracks. Twelve, she counted, her poor secretary trapped behind his desk in the corner, trying to answer calls and sort through a teetering stack of papers while the dozen intruders milled about, arguing loudly … Oh no, Kishen Chandresakar was there, haranguing her Finance and Internal Affairs ministers, and Mahudmita Rafasan hovering on the periphery. All faces turned her way as she entered, escort dispersing about this safe territory — just when I most need them, Katia thought desperately — and all voices raised in a single, urgent entreaty…
‘Just bloody wait,’ she shouted at them, striding through their midst, hands raised in defence. ‘I’ve got an ongoing security crisis. Everyone’s just going to have to wait another five minutes. Where’s Ibrahim?’ reaching the doors and looking sharply around.
‘He let himself in,’ called Sarpov, her secretary, from the rear of the crowd.
‘Did he now,’ Katia muttered, opening the door …
‘Ms President,’ interrupted Chandresakar, ‘I really must speak with you immediately with regards to the …’
‘There are fifteen dead people at Rawalpindi,’ Katia cut him off brutally, ‘gunned down by FIA. We might have more before the night is over. You’ve got something that tops that?’ Staring hard at the Progress Party leader.
Chandresakar glared. ‘I’ll wait,’ he snapped shortly.
‘Maisie,’ Katia said loudly as she walked through the door, ‘in here, now.’ Left the door open for Rafasan to scamper through, closing it behind her.
Ibrahim was waiting by the windows behind her desk, gazing out at the city lights beyond dark shadows of Parliament gardens. One-way armoured glass, Katia recalled soberly, moving directly to her comfortable leather chair. She was in the habit of remembering such details, lately. Sat down with a heavy sigh and leaned right back, closing her eyes. Comfortable, for a brief moment.
Looked up and saw Rafasan waiting, chewing a fingernail and looking anxious as usual. Her normally immaculate sari appeared slightly rumpled, some hair loose about her fringe.
‘For God’s sake, Maisie,’ Katia said tiredly, ‘have a seat and relax. All these bloody people determined to kill themselves worrying. Get yourself a drink if you want one … something for you, Shan?’
‘Um … he doesn’t drink, remember?’ Rafasan said hesitantly. Walked to the drinks cabinet. Katia had to smile.
‘Forgot we had a genuine practising Sunni Muslim in our midst,’ she sighed. ‘So many Indonesians and regressive Indians in this place … Scotch and soda for me, thanks Maisie.’
‘Well this regressive Indian gratefully accepts your offer,’ Rafasan said, unstopping a bottle and pouring into ornate glasses. ‘My nerves are shot to pieces, if I ever see another gun in my life, it shall be far, far too soon.’
Rafasan, Katia remembered, had been here at Parliament all along — as legal advisor, she had various consultative functions with branches of the public service, representing the Administration’s position on this or that legal matter. She had been here, albeit in another wing, when the flyers had come circling overhead and Guderjaal’s decision had been announced. Near enough to hear the shooting certainly, if the worst had happened. Katia sympathised. Firefights, she knew from experience, were no fun at all.
Jesus. How had they got into this situation? Just public servants, all of them. It was a career. This, or medicine, tech-science or law … or in Mahudmita’s case, both. But no lawyer’s resume ever stated ‘risked life in hail of bullets’. Yet here they were. Public servants with armed protection, directly targeted for selective political violence. The universe, Katia concluded, had gone mad.
‘Must have been touchy here for a while,’ she said to Rafasan.
‘Touchy!’ Rafasan’s voice was unsteady. ‘That is to put it very mildly … I was just terrified. I think I made at least twenty basic grammatical mistakes in my briefing to the Revenue Department…’
Katia laughed. Rafasan glanced at her, surprised and pleased at the response. Went back to pouring drinks.
‘Of course, it’s nothing compared to what you went through … Shan, would you like a juice or mineral water?’
‘A soda, thank you.’ From behind Katia’s chair, facing away, gazing out of the window.
‘Decadent,’ Katia commented.
‘A creeping darkness of the soul,’ Ibrahim agreed mildly. Walked slowly around the desk as Rafasan brought the drinks over. Katia watched him surreptitiously.
‘Thanks Maisie,’ she said, reaching for her own drink. And saw Ibrahim rest a brief, absent hand on Rafasan’s shoulder as he took his drink then retreated to a chair. Typical of the man, Katia thought. A gentle man, in many ways. A man of simple, forthright concerns. And yet, somewhere in the translation of principle to action, cold, hard purpose set in. The necessity for ruthless action.
The curse of all power, Neiland pondered darkly, sipping her drink. No good could be done without also causing harm. To do good required firm resolve. And firm resolve, inevitably, got people hurt. And she wondered, not for the first time, at the wisdom in her choice of career.
‘So what’s the latest?’ she asked Ibrahim as he settled into the available chair. Ibrahim sipped absently at his drink. His attention seemed elsewhere.
‘Well,’ he said after a slight pause, ‘Chenkov Biomedical Designs have made some interesting transactions we’ve dug up on external records. It seems fairly obvious that they were in it up to their ears. There’s nothing left of their own records, of course, but we suspect they were a major distributor on the underground network. Evidently they knew something important, or were vulnerable to disclosure for some reason … possibly we’ll never know. There’s not very much left.’ A brief, silent pause. ‘But I suppose that hardly matters now.’
‘And the FIA?’
‘We’re following all available leads.’ Wearily. ‘We’ve been detaining, questioning and even arresting a steady stream of people since the Tetsu raid, and some of them are unquestionably involved, but there’s just no legal means of obtaining the information from them within the time required, and they’re determined not to talk … I think more than a few are afraid for their lives. Which means we have to do everything ourselves from scratch. We’ve got plenty of leads, and over the time of a normal investigation I would be very confident, but now, working to this deadline …’ He shook his head. ‘If I had another five thousand people we might have a chance, but I doubt the expenditures committee would go for it.’ There was an edge to the sarcasm that Neiland could not remember hearing before from Ibrahim, at any time.
‘More difficult than you thought, huh?’ Katia asked him solemnly. Ibrahim’s eyes locked on hers, a darkly penetrating gaze.
‘You have no idea.’ Sounding nearly exasperated. Which was also a first. ‘This city … there are layers upon layers upon layers. A million different means to conceal your presence or actions, and a million more places to hide. We have become so reliant upon information networks, and so unquestioningly faithful that open information flows are the panacea that guarantees all rights and all goodness in a modern, pluralistic society …’ He shook his head. Took a deep breath.
‘Large-scale institutions created the networks. If you have money and expertise and technology, you can manipulate information as easily as Old Earth societies ever censored the paper press or TV broadcasts. Far more easily, when there are places on the networks where independent monitoring is not allowed. Further regulations could help, but even then … there are difficulties. And it’s too late for any new regulations to stop the FIA now.’
‘You never thought you would be advocating Big Brother, did you?’ Rafasan inquired wryly.
‘No.’ Ibrahim sipped at his drink. ‘Never. I wrote papers about it, back in my student days. About the ultimate futility of information controls in an infotech society. I thought then that such controls were a waste of effort and money because they could never succeed. But now… I wonder.’
‘There has always been a strong anarchic streak through the media lobbies in this city,’ Rafasan added, fingering an elaborate earring. ‘And through the academic institutions that support their arguments. The panacea of information, the notion that all information is good — it’s yet another form of academically inspired ideological utopianism that’s just typical of this city. They think information is like water in a desert — you can never have too much. We need a system of accountability here … perhaps my bias toward the libel system reflects my legalistic roots too strongly, but we clearly need to give thought to some kind of control mechanism. It’s the broader philosophy that concerns me, and we all know the limitations of centrally imposed controls, we need a system of personal responsibility enforceable by law … oh! I’m sorry, I’m rambling. Too much coffee and adrenalin and my brain thinks it’s in court arguing a case …’ She sipped again at her drink, looking anxious once more.
Katia smiled. ‘You want to commission a report?’ she asked. ‘We could put together a community study group. You’d chair it, table a recommendation for Parliament to debate.’ Rafasan blinked. And blinked again.
Then, ‘Really?’
‘Really. That line between censorship and governance is supposed to be invisible, but somehow it keeps tripping people up. This whole mess just shows how much of a rethink we need. I can get you funding by next sitting. Say a week.’
Worship shone in Rafasan’s eyes. Several months of mind-numbing legalistic debate, semantic hair-splitting and the concept-redefining techno-legalese — lawyer heaven. Rafasan looked positively emotional with gratitude.
‘Oh my.’ Halfway between bewilderment and excitement. ‘I’ve wanted to do something like that since law school. How will I ever …? Oh, perhaps …’ The eyes became distant as the mind raced on ahead. Her drink hung from absent fingers, temporarily forgotten. Katia looked at Ibrahim. He raised an eyebrow at her, the ghost of a smile upon his lips.
‘Living proof,’ he said, ‘that the distance between heaven and hell is merely a matter of perspective.’ Rafasan ignored the jibe, lost in mental calculations. Katia sighed and took a large mouthful from her glass. Swallowed hard.
‘So, Shan. What are our chances of catching them?’
‘The CSA’s chances?’ He shrugged, all traces of humour vanished. ‘Almost none. For the reasons we’ve been speaking of. They’ve just vanished. And our best inside contact is now dead.’
‘No word from Kresnov?’ Ibrahim shook his head grimly.
‘No. It could be good news. She made direct interface with her friend before he died. His interface possessed certain codes for use in this operation. Theoretically they’re not transferable, but considering how well Kresnov knew him over their years together, it is certainly possible that she now has possession of certain leads that we are not privy to.’
Neiland considered that for a moment.
‘And she hasn’t told us.’ Pointedly. Ibrahim gave a single nod, acknowledging that line of thought. Darkly. For a moment, Katia did not know what to think. ‘Well, I suppose that would solve a problem for us. Should it eventuate.’
‘I would like to question someone,’ said Ibrahim.
‘Why should they tell you any more than the bunch we’re holding right now have? They’re Federal agents, Shan. Their cases all fall under Federal jurisdiction. As soon as that damn committee gets here, they’re gone. No matter what they’ve done.’
The tension about Ibrahim’s mouth and brow spoke of certain very dark thoughts passing through the Director’s mind. Katia knew exactly how he felt.
‘I have a question.’ It was Rafasan, emerging from her dreamworld. She sounded uncharacteristically subdued. Katia nodded.
‘Go ahead.’
Rafasan took a breath. ‘If Kresnov does find them … and something happens …’ a long pause. ‘Do we still need her? Technically speaking?’ Katia stared hard at Rafasan. Her legal advisor looked almost ashamed of the question. Katia opened her mouth to retort … and shut it. God help her, with Dali gone, and herself back in charge, and the FIA out of the picture one way or another … Kresnov’s presence would be a huge problem. Knowledge of her existence would assuredly get out. There were too many people who knew already. Questions asked. Interviews requested. Parliament shouting matches, pointed fingers … God, political mileage fit for Kishen Chandresakar’s wettest of wet dreams. A League GI, employed by the CSA, granted protection and even citizenship by the grace of the President herself under undemocratic, unconsultative emergency powers. To say nothing of the outcries from various lunatic biotech conservatives and religious nuts who argued that GIs did not have souls and could never be recognised as sentients by the courts, which meant legal challenge, news show interviews, death threats by the hundred … God knew where these people got their financial backing, but she knew damn well it existed. Mosque, Church and Hindu temple united, an unholy alliance. Not to mention certain insultingly wealthy academics who should have known better but didn’t, and wrote bestselling books explaining why.
But if Kresnov were to get herself killed, and die a hero … God, she nearly hated herself for thinking it, but it would solve a lot of problems. Not the least of which being that, politically speaking, Kresnov could theoretically expect more support from the right-wing Progress Party than her own Union Party colleagues. And an awful lot of her own party would number themselves among the most seriously dissatisfied. By Christ, it was going to get complicated.
‘Let’s just get through the next 24 hours, shall we?’ she replied finally, with a tired sigh. ‘It’s going to be a nightmare few months ahead, whatever happens.’
‘Who’d we lose?’ asked Petr Shimakov, striding into the plush coffee lounge. People lounged in chairs, weapons on laps, or leaned against the walls. The only light came from several small, shaded lamps. City light gleamed silver through the broad windows that counted for the far wall, towers and traffic. Here on the top level, the street was only six storeys below — disturbingly close, to Shimakov’s thinking. But it was the place they had, and it would do.
‘Schroeder,’ said Wong, a tired, cracked voice. Shimakov stared at him, a dark figure, slumped against the wall near the windows. Feeling a cold anger brewing. ‘Ramesh, Togodo, Pham. All confirmed.’
‘Fuck,’ Shimakov pronounced with controlled fury. Deathly silence in the room. ‘Was it the GI?’ The dark shadow that was Wong nodded.
‘I don’t know what happened. But there was shooting on the roof about twenty seconds before zero-signal. We went early, did the deed with no help from the roof, chased some stragglers up the stairs … and Togodo got hit. Right through the chest, real accurate. We just started shooting back …’ He shrugged. ‘Suppose we had more firepower. Skin was already real shot up. We hit him with a T-5 to be sure, finished off the last marks and got the hell out. Guess he bugged out on us. Schroeder said we should have whacked him after the big hit.’
Shimakov stood silently in the middle of the room for a long time, unmoving. Thinking that something most certainly did not make sense. Thinking that the Skin just hadn’t been smart enough to start a rebellion on his own … and whatever he thought about GIs, they just didn’t do that. They followed orders. Unless they got instructions from elsewhere.
Had they been doublecrossed? Had Dark Star given him different instructions? No damn way, The Skin had been as dangerous as any Skin was likely to get. It’d helped plan a damn good hit on the President’s convoy — no way he or any FIA guy could have done the same, unfamiliar with GI capabilities and operating techniques as they were. It wouldn’t have waited until such last-minute desperation before pulling a stunt like this — more likely it would have killed them all in their beds, hunted them down, if that had been its instruction. Or jumped out of the moving van and left a grenade behind.
It didn’t make sense, that last-minute, foolhardy change of plans. And the Skin being dead did not make him any more comfortable with the situation. Dead or not, he felt edgy.
‘I want full guard on this whole damn building,’ he told them coldly. ‘If you think you’ve got it locked tight now, lock it tighter. We’re out of here in two hours, people. I’ve got the cars on the roof, just two more hours and we’re headed out of this damn city. Let’s not fuck it up now.’
Night-tuned eyes watched through the windows as the agents climbed to their weary feet and moved out. Heat silhouettes on the darkened glass, human shaped, multiple shades of red and orange. One figure stood still in the centre of the room. Facing the window, as if seeing the dark, crouched figure who watched him from afar.
Finally, he turned and left the empty room. The eyes zoomed back a touch, scanning the building layout. Small luxury office building. Six storeys, tucked into the pleasant greenery of the Ringold commercial/residential district. Standard fare for Tanusha’s multitude of small design and technology firms — specialised, wealthy and flexibly creative. A different style from the mega-conglomerates that populated the mega-rises. In Tanusha one did not need to be big to be successful.
Feelers raced down nearby links, probed security barriers, hightech and sensitive. Probed the layout, vision scanning through light reflective glass, making out shapes, patterns, supports and variations. More links found an architectural display site, open for public viewing … found the designer name, and the layout in question, and found a near-match. Accounted for custom alterations … and began to put together a picture.
More scanning, a fast zoom toward movement through lower windows. Noted the deployment. Noted the pair of large capacity aircars on the rooftop pads. And began summing the accumulation of security measures, their weak and strong points, probing cautiously, careful not to trigger any alarms.
Then, when the framework had been constructed, the whole assembled in a workable form, a new link opened. Communications. Within seconds it was answered.
Ibrahim recognised the signal immediately, and made a fast switch onto the frequency.
‘Cassandra, where are you?’ Urgently, as the CSA cruiser in which he was riding began its curving descent toward HQ, a short, four-minute flight from the Parliament. Overflew what looked like an open-air concert ablaze with waving spotlights that strobed the night sky and teeming crowds … past midnight now, and still the city raged. For a moment there was no reply, only the distant, rhythmic thump from below beneath the thrumming whine of engines.
Then, ‘I can solve your problem.’ A soft, empty voice. Ibrahim stared ahead at the looming side of CSA headquarters. Growing larger, as the engines throbbed on a new, descending note and the horizon gently tilted.
‘Cassandra,’ he tried, ‘where are you? Which problem?’
‘The problem.’
‘Cassandra, why don’t you just tell me …’
‘It’s going to happen, authorised or unauthorised. Which do you want?’
Silence. Ibrahim closed his eyes, attempting calm. Weighing the options. Attempting dispassionate judgment. Uncertain if it was possible. He had been half expecting this call. Half hoping for it. And dreading it all the same. There were no good possibilities, only bad and worse. A balance of horror.
Another man might have questioned his faith and the God who presided over such futility. But Ibrahim knew that it was in such circumstance that Allah’s presence could be most keenly felt. If the world were perfect, there would be no need for Paradise. If the world were perfect, there would be no need of Allah himself. Beyond the calming darkness behind his eyelids, Ibrahim thought of the teachings of his parents and grandparents. Of the wisdom of his God. And prayed that he, of humble thought and deed, should make the right decision in this moment of choice.
He thought of Neiland. The wreckage of aircars upon the Parliament wing rooftops. Bodies sprawled, hacked and shattered. Neiland herself nearly killed. Thought of more recent assassinations, of Chenkov Biomedical. Of Kresnov’s dead friend. Of Kresnov herself and the horror she had suffered.
He had seen this coming. This decision. Kresnov’s actions. If she went without approval, she would be a fugitive. That would hurt Neiland when news of Kresnov hit the media. Having placed trust in a fugitive GI who proved unstable. It was bad politics. As was capturing the FIA infiltrators, only to lose them as soon as the Earth Committee landed, and took them away for Federate justice. There was nothing for Tanusha there. Nothing for Callay. No justice. No satisfaction. No guarantee that it would not happen again. To do what they had done … not just these individual FIA, but the FIA in entirety … was unspeakable. It violated law, local and Federal. It violated decency. It violated sanity. For them to get away with it, even to live, and see a Federal jail cell for the rest of their days, would solve nothing. It did not punish the masterminds. They were untouchable, either way. But they needed a message. They needed to know what it cost. For everyone.
Morally, technically and politically, someone needed to pay.
‘Do it,’ he said simply, in a calm, quiet voice.
‘Copy.’ A brief, silent pause. ‘Give my love to Vanessa.’
Silence again as the link went dead. The aircar cruised lower, locked into close range approach. Ibrahim gazed out at the gleaming blanket of lights and wondered if things had always been this way, in the end. The way of humans. And the way, sadly, of their Gods. For in the battle of good and evil, even Gods were, in the end, victims of circumstance.
