There was nothing on TV. Nothing much anyway. She surfed channels, uplinked to room central. Images flashed by, millisecond fast. Dancing. Colourful costumes. More dancing. Martial arts action. She paused for a second and studied a scene. Two fighters, both men, hammering the crap out of each other to apparently little effect. Ludicrous. And they were so slow. Not to mention ridiculously flamboyant. Looking good, apparently, was more important than getting it right.
She continued surfing, seated legs out on the sofa, cushions propped with great care to support her sore, stiff, heavily bandaged body. Heavy bandage wrap showed thickly beneath the hem of her robe, further stiffening knees that were already near impossible to bend. She kept her arms folded with determination, whatever the pain, unwilling to allow the elbows to stiffen straight. It hurt, drugs and all. Days partly or mostly unconscious. More days since the courtroom interview. Follow-up questions from CSA reviewers. Court-appointed psych-specialists. Biotech experts. Even an NGO head on prisoner rights.
Do you have any complaints about your treatment, Ms Kresnov?
Sure. The door’s locked.
Not like she was in any shape to walk out of it, even if it wasn’t. She knew she should be happy. The pain meant she was healing, as did the stiffness. Djohan was incredulous at the speed. Had wanted to take blood samples and scan measurements. Had come, in fact, between interviews, just an hour ago and begged for her permission. She’d told him she’d tell the next government biotech reviewer who came in, and then he’d find himself investigated for collecting illegal research data. He’d retreated. After all, that was exactly what the FIA had been doing to her. Collecting illegal data. Things they weren’t supposed to know. Things no Federation person or organisation was supposed to know. Wilful, legally enforced ignorance. Djohan evidently found it hard to swallow. So, she knew for certain, did much of the Federation private sector.
Her left hand was numb. She abandoned her channel-surfing for a moment and examined it, lifting it to the golden sunlight that flooded from the windows behind the sofa. Her shoulder creaked like a rusty iron hinge. Flexed the fingers, one at a time. Coordination was down. Sluggish. Just the drugs, Djohan had said. They went after the left side of her body more, for some reason. He’d wanted to do tests on that too. Fat fucking chance.
She knew the basics, roughly. Artificial proteins, enzymes, hybrid-cells, micro-engineered biology and self-regulatory mechanisms … basic biosynth tech. Federation was already pretty good at most of those basics. She doubted Djohan could really learn much from her. There were plenty of legal applications here, from disease and injury treatments to life-extensions, to all forms of augmentation from cosmetic to medical to performance enhancing — all legal in the Federation. Consumers did vote, after all, and every year new laws pushed those self-inflicted boundaries. A bloody mess, all those laws. Terror at the prospect of artificial people. And difficult to find anyone in the League who didn’t think it’d all collapse eventually. League foreign policy already focused on that expectation, she knew only too well. In the meantime, her limbs stiffened, her tendons reknitted, and any idiot knew synthetic materials fixed themselves ten times faster than organic — it was another of those advantages that so scared the Feddie lawmakers. Lucky her, to be so advanced. Lucky girl.
She flicked to network uplinks — and winced in extreme displeasure as the insert plug overrode her browser software. As good as an iron cage, the whole vastness of the network was lost to her, inaccessible. Frustrating as hell, automatic censorship plugged into the back of her skull, more effective than a pair of handcuffs. But for a few select links … she scanned on automatic, vaguely interested to see what they’d left open to her of all the possible selections. Library functions. Basic entertainment. No high-level VR … no loss, it didn’t work well on her anyway. Live newsfeeds from various sources, though largely official and generalised, and thus heavily processed for commercial tastes. Waste of time, might as well watch TV. Games. Tourist info. Adult entertainment … God, they shouldn’t have put that up, it only frustrated her further. Celibate for over a week now. A real suicide-trigger, that was. She couldn’t even bend her legs, let alone spread them.
Parliament hookup. She shoved sardonic humour to one side and accessed. Got an internal visual of the main Parliament chamber, a broad semicircle of ascending benches facing a Speaker’s chair and middle table. Lots of politicians, lots of suits, salwar kameez and saris, and other traditional dress she didn’t recognise. There appeared to be a debate in progress. Tax reform, she found with a link to adjoining text-database. Curious as she was about civilian political process, she wasn’t that curious.
She chose a camera angle instead and scanned the Government front bench. Came to rest on the red-haired woman in the big chair. President Neiland. Zoomed closer. Neiland’s features were pale, handsome and strong. Thoughtful now, as she leafed through some documents, half listening to her colleague’s speech at the podium beside her chair.
Sandy accessed another text-link and more info sprang up. Katia Neiland. Forty-two years old, Doctorate with Honours in Communications Law, Ramprakash University … Class Dux. That meant best in class, she gathered. Youngest ever Union Party leader. Youngest ever Callayan President. Due for re-election in twelve months. An opinion poll graphic showed job approval at 78 percent, personal approval at 51 percent (curious discrepancy, she thought), and likelihood of re-election for Union under her leadership at 64 percent.
She watched for a long moment, internal visual. Wondering what Neiland had thought of her interview before the Supreme Court. Or interrogation, more precisely. The Union Party was the mainstay of Callayan politics. There were factions, but on issues like biotech they mostly stood together. The Progress Party was the main opposition. Not League-sympathetic, that was misleading. Just ‘progressive’, whatever that meant. She could expect more sympathy, ideologically speaking, from Progress. Union had the voters, by a wide margin. And Neiland was a technocrat, doubtless the present tax-reform debate held her attention longer. She’d take her advisors’ advice on security matters, no doubt. So who advised her?
She switched cameras again and found a better angle. Panned until she found a tall man in a blue suit, clipped dark hair and bland expression. Benjamin Grey, secretary of state. The CSA answered to him — he’d have the last say on this kind of thing. She scrolled through the text-link … and abruptly lost the whole feed, a sudden, disorienting collapse to static confusion.
‘You fucking morons!’ she shouted to the empty room. ‘How can I become a model Federation citizen if you won’t let me learn about the political system?’ Glaring at the space where her emissions-detection knew one of the numerous cameras to be, high in a corner. No reply. ‘Fools.’
She’d complain about it, when she got the chance. It was her only resort, complaints. It made her feel cheap. She slumped back against the cushions, arms folded tightly, trying to ignore the wrenching tightness across her bandage-swathed shoulders and back. Microsystems at work, repairing her tormented body. But she didn’t want to think of that. She was a special ops commander, not a technobiologist. And the memories hurt far too much.
She flipped on the TV again, desperate to take her mind off other things, bothering things. Normally she preferred music, but she wanted to keep her eyes occupied. Found a sports channel … tennis, she remembered the game was called. And spent the next ten minutes marvelling that even augmented human nervous systems were so imprecise that top players needed to hit the ball so far inside the lines to stay in the points. There was obviously no room for GIs in sport either. Ninety-nine out of a hundred tennis points wouldn’t get past the serve. No matter where she looked, she couldn’t help but find evidence of how unwelcome she was here. Funny how a week could change that perception so drastically. It had all looked so beautiful a week ago.
‘Cassandra,’ announced an unexpected voice over the room audio, ‘you have some visitors here. Please be courteous.’
‘Sure,’ she muttered, not taking her eyes from the screen. ‘I’ll refrain from bodily tearing them limb from limb.’ The door opened with a heavy clack of reinforced locks, and a pair of CSA guards entered, stun pistols in hand. She ignored them. A man and a woman followed them in.
‘Hello Cassandra,’ said the man, with surprising confidence. ‘I’m Aw Sian Thiaw. I’m an advisor to President Neiland.’ That got her attention. ‘And this is Mahudmita Rafasan, the President’s senior legal advisor.’ Doubly so. She stared in wary surprise. ‘Can we take a seat?’
Her usual sarcastic affirmative failed her this time. Thiaw sat anyway in one of the two opposing single leather chairs, and Rafasan took the other. Sandy stared at Rafasan in particular. She was one of those immaculately dressed Indian women only rarely seen in the League, where such ostentatious cultural displays were hardly vogue. Her sari was a blaze of red, orange and gold, intriguingly patterned. Gold bracelets and bangles chimed on her wrists, and a simple stud gleamed on the side of her nose. Saffron daubed the centre spot of her forehead. Brown skinned and dark eyed, hair tastefully arranged beneath the sari’s veil, she was the picture of South Asian feminine elegance. Sandy blinked again. In the League, senior government officials simply did not dress like that, be they Indian or otherwise. Tanusha, she was gathering, was different.
‘So, Cassandra,’ Thiaw said, leaning forward from the edge of his chair, elbows on knees, his face a model of well-practised, professional charm. ‘How are you being treated here? Well?’
A small man — Rafasan had stood an elegant half head taller. Also brown skinned, but East Asian features. Which could have meant anything. Guessing ethnicity was one of Sandy’s favourite distractions, and here in the Federation ethnicity was so much more pronounced. And celebrated. Thiaw’s suit was bland and flawless, his hair neat and short. Young, she reckoned, especially for such an important position. And very confident for someone in the presence of a GI for the first time. Rafasan fidgeted with her many bangles, and chewed on the inside of her lip.
‘What does the President want with me?’ Sandy asked. Thiaw pursed his lips, considering her. Spared Rafasan a meaningful glance. Rafasan’s return look was wary. Thiaw straightened, still perched on the edge of his chair, hands on knees.
‘Cassandra … forgive me if this sounds condescending, but there’s no other Way for me to ask this question of you … How much do you know about politics? And how much were you exposed to in the League?’
It rang an alarm bell immediately. The courtroom. It had to be.
‘What kind of trouble has that interrogation landed me in?’
Thiaw stared at her for a moment, almost surprised. Rafasan’s fidgeting increased. Thiaw exhaled hard, a big heave of small shoulders.
‘So you do know politics. What do you know about Callayan politics?’ Not enough, and she knew it. Military reflexes kicked in, the need for a wider briefing.
‘Enlighten me. Please.’ Guderjaal, her racing mind assured her, had most likely been safe. Ditto the Arabic judge. But the big, heavy-set man with the ruddy face … who backed him? How were judges appointed in Tanusha? What had that hostility been about, specifically? And why had these two senior advisors suddenly dropped into her lap? She didn’t like the implications one bit. Her ignorance made it worse.
‘Okay,’ said Thiaw, leaning forward even further, hands mobile before him, ‘I’ll try and keep it simple, not because I think you’re stupid, but because otherwise I’ll be here all week.’ That, Sandy thought, was not a comforting beginning. ‘First thing: Union Party.’ A firm, definite indication with both hands. ‘They’re the big deal. Sixty percent support base, they control the legislature. Now, being so big, they’ve got factions. The left are the cultural conservatives, anti-League, anti-biotech, anti-GI, all the religious groups are behind them — that’s the core of Union support, probably half. The right are more moderate. The Centrists don’t give a shit either way — they practise what the inner circle refers to as ‘pragmatic indifference’. President Neiland’s a Centrist. Generally. You copy?’
Sandy nodded slowly. Finding something more than vaguely incongruous in the situation — herself, bandaged and mostly immobile on the sofa, wrapped only in a bathrobe, being briefed on the Callayan political establishment by two of its more prominent insiders. Like a pair of religious preachers, attempting a conversion of a most unlikely neophyte. Not merely a GI, but a grunt-in-general. But Thiaw was clearly headed somewhere. Surely he hadn’t risen to his present position at such a young age by not being headed somewhere every time he opened his mouth.
‘Progress are the other main mob. They’ve got factions too … all you really need to know is that they’re the ones who are usually accused of being too close to the League. Settlers’ spirit, advance or bust, Earth has too much influence, Callay for Callayans … you get the idea, all the usual self-indulgent euphoria. Of course, they’re not allowed to indicate direct support for the League, even though some of their factions clearly sympathise, but they’re not so big on central restrictions, including biotech restrictions … it’s basically a League-ish platform. And I’m sure you’re pretty familiar with that, right?’
‘Sure.’ And because she figured a greater show of understanding might be called for … ‘League was founded on those principles. Fifty years of debate on whether or not to settle the border stars created a huge divide between expansionist idealists and cultural conservatives. Idealists went League, cultural conservatives stayed Federation, thus the split.’
‘Of course, sure. Great.’ With hand-heavy emphasis on each, apparently relieved to know he wasn’t completely wasting his time. ‘Now, Cassandra … here’s the problem. The CSA needs you, Cassandra. Director Ibrahim has especially put in a good word for you. He’s very alarmed at this FIA infiltration and wants all the help you can give him. But now we’ve had the official court hearing, and your case is running around in legal and security circles within the Parliament, Cassandra … that’s not the whole Parliament, your case is still very restricted, but the number of people now involved has increased … well, it’s increased a lot.’
‘And the Opposition …’ she paused uncertainly, ‘… the Progress Party, are going to give the President trouble for allowing the CSA to harbour me?’
‘No,’ a vigorous shake of the head, ‘no, Cassandra, that’s not the point. That would be manageable. Progress don’t have the numbers in the House anyway. And Progress are League-inclined anyway … they don’t like the biotech restrictions much at all. In fact, if you were going to find support within any major party in Tanusha, you’d find it in Progress.’ Sandy blinked, not liking the implications of that.
‘You mean the Union Party factions …?’
‘Exactly. The President’s own Party, Cassandra. Cultural conservatives. Religious groups. Anti-biotech in general. Probably the essence of what makes the Federation different from the League…’
‘That Judge.’ As the connection quickly came clear in her head. ‘The big guy. Which group is he?’
‘Oh, oh, wait, wait, wait …’ waging both hands with an exasperated smile, ‘… no, really, Cassandra, you don’t want to get into that territory now, that’s judicial appointments, the bureaucracy’s all different, the Judiciary’s a whole ‘nother cricket match. No, the important thing to focus on here is that it’s out now, and there are officials and bureaucrats who are alarmed. They’re figuring it’s only a matter of time until this whole thing becomes public, in which case they’ll be answering to their various constituencies at the next election …’
‘No, wait, hang on a moment,’ Rafasan interrupted for the first time. ‘I think she has a point.’ Sandy raised her eyebrows at the legal advisor, surprised at the decisiveness of the interruption. From the delicate appearance and nervous fidgeting, she hadn’t figured Rafasan for the decisive type. ‘I mean, Judge Pullman is at issue here, and the Judiciary, at least to some extent…’
‘Sure,’ Thiaw said with exaggerated calm, ‘but I’d like to keep us focused on the key question here …’
‘Oh enough with the constant spin, Thiaw, let’s tell it to the woman like it really is.’ Thiaw shrugged defeat and withdrew defensively. Rafasan recrossed her legs and turned her dark-eyed attention upon Sandy, the fingers on her right hand playing with the bangles on her left wrist. ‘Judge Pullman — that is the man who showed such displeasure toward you at the hearing — was elected to the bench on the advice of the President’s attorney-general as a sop to the various vociferous mouths in the Union Left who felt they were underrepresented in the Judiciary. I, of course, advised her against the move … ,’ with a self-conscious tilt of her head, and a vague motion of manicured fingers, ‘… but, for better or worse, the President is not always inclined to accept the more pragmatic advice ahead of the purely political.’
She sounded, Sandy reckoned, somewhat miffed. Her accent was perhaps more Indian than many Tanushans. Sometimes, she’d gathered, accents became institutionalised within certain professions and colleges, further reinforced by educational tape-teach. Perhaps law was one of those culturalised institutions within Tanusha.
‘So you are right in your assumption,’ she continued, hurrying through the sentence on nervous energy, ‘Judge Pullman was merely pleasing his constituency before the cameras as any politician would — more of the pervasive politicising of the Judiciary that I and some others have been campaigning against most strenuously … but, well,’ she coughed briefly into her hand, ‘now the Senate Security Council are onto your case, and certain of their members are closely connected to the aforementioned Mr Pullman, and that is basically why we are here.’ In a rushed, nervous finish. Sandy frowned. Turned that frown upon Thiaw. Thiaw took an exasperated breath.
‘As I was about to say, Cassandra,’ he said, ‘the Senate Security Council are charged with the broad purview of all Callayan security matters. They have an investigatory branch, the Special Investigations Bureau, or SIB, directly attached to them and answerable only to Security Council review. Now,’ he cricked his neck, with emphasis, ‘this is the Senate, Cassandra, not the Legislature. They’re elected by different means, proportional representation, which means …’
Sandy raised her hand. Thiaw stopped, hands frozen in mid sentence. When she was sure she had their complete attention, Sandy spoke. ‘The mindless, headkicking grunt portion of my brain just lost you. How does any of this affect me and my situation?’ Rafasan, she noted, cocked her head in curiosity at that turn of phrase. As if impressed, and surprised to be so. Thiaw took another deep breath and threw Rafasan a brief, reproachful look. It had all fallen apart since her interruption, obviously, all his carefully planned explanation. The technocrat and the spin-doctor. Not a good match. But they seemed to know each other well.
‘Cassandra,’ Thiaw resumed with long-suffering patience, ‘the Senate Security Council are concerned at your presence. You are a GI. Right?’ Eyebrows raised expectantly. Inviting revelation. Sandy frowned. ‘Cassandra, you’re in the Federation now. People here don’t like GIs much. We fought a war about it with the League, precisely to stop the spread of Gl-oriented technology. In many ways it’s the fundamental ideological split between the Federation and the League …’
‘No it’s not,’ Sandy replied calmly, ‘it’s just the most obvious manifestation. League progress-or-bust triumphalism goes all the way to the bone. GIs are only the main area of dispute … if not for that, there would be others.’
‘Fine, right, sure, whatever.’ Rafasan, Sandy noticed, was eyeing her colleague with increasing bemusement, some of the nervousness fading. ‘The point is, Cassandra, that the President’s own party are putting pressure on her, since that courtroom hearing, to hand you on to the Feds. Over Director Ibrahim’s objections. If you don’t prove more cooperative than you have, then we’re going to run out of excuses to keep you here on Callay, and then you’ll get handed over to some Federal party who’ll take you to Earth, where old mentalities are strongest, and where the FIA has most power, and where you’re no damn good to Callay or the CSA in trying to find the bastards who’ve penetrated our security and could easily do so again. Does that make sense to you?’
It did. She stared at Thiaw for a moment, perched on the edge of his chair, eyebrows raised expectantly, looking pained. Rafasan, too, looked subdued, glancing at her lap with a resumption of bangle-fiddling.
‘I’ve already given you a whole stack of information from League Intel on the FIA’s own biotech research,’ she challenged half-heartedly. ‘Mr Naidu was very impressed.’
‘Yes, and I thank you for that, Cassandra, that’s valuable background information … much of it we already knew, but it certainly filled in the gaps. But we need operational detail. We need to know the specific operational details as to how the League is infiltrating local biotech firms, how the FIA are doing it, and on the possibility that they might be working together on this. And you’ve refused any detailed questioning on those matters, haven’t you.’
Sandy gazed back at the TV. A tennis ball spun backwards and forwards over the net. She had refused it. Repeatedly. And if they were speculating on complicity between the League and the FIA, supposedly the worst of enemies … then they were evidently quite advanced in their research. She sent the TV a mental signal, and the screen went blank. But still, she had her reasons.
‘Okay,’ she said, quietly. ‘How do I know that if I help you, I’ll get something for it? That I won’t just get carted off to wherever as soon as you’ve milked me of everything I know?’
‘We’re working on getting you a firm guarantee from Justice Guderjaal,’ Rafasan said. ‘If you cooperate, we can …’
‘You’re working?’ Fixing Rafasan with a firm, hard gaze. Rafasan looked desperately at Thiaw.
‘Cassandra,’ Thiaw said earnestly, ‘it’s the best we can do under the present circumstances. There are legal precedents for services rendered to Callay. Asylum of sorts has been granted under those circumstances, right?’ At Rafasan. The legal advisor nodded quickly.
‘Of course, absolutely. There are numerous cases, most of them regarding far less vital information than we presently require from you …’
‘You’d grant asylum to a GI?’ Staring very directly. The lawyer met her gaze with commendable conviction.
‘Legally … well, it would, um …’ flick at one elaborate earring, ‘… it would be an adventure. But Callayan law on the recognition of artificial sentience is actually very advanced. I’m … I’m actually quite confident, in all honesty, that if the process went to trial, you could definitely achieve asylum. Of some kind.’ Rearranging bangles on the other wrist. Despite the fidgets, Sandy nearly believed her. Nearly.
‘And that,’ she said dryly, ‘is of course why all the cultural conservatives are so scared of letting me stay on that long, isn’t it? They’re scared I might win.’
Dead silence from them both. Evidently not having expected that much insight. She didn’t know the details. But she could think. And she could guess. It had always been her strong point. Now, a whole range of unpleasant possibilities were opening up before her.
‘Do I really have a chance?’ she asked, into that silence. ‘If I cooperate?’
‘If the information you provide leads directly to the capture of some of the FIA infiltrators,’ Thiaw said, and shrugged, ‘of course, definitely, your chances then are extremely high.’
‘Despite the fact that my revealing League military secrets will attract the attention of all the top Federal military, political and security apparatus, FIA and otherwise, who will all demand access to me and my knowledge, and will use some overriding Federal security law to get past any temporary asylum that Callay might offer me. They do have those kinds of overriding security laws, don’t they?’ she asked Rafasan. Rafasan glanced distractedly out the broad windows, and the sunny sprawl of the metropolis beyond. Nodded, reluctantly. ‘Then I’ll want something more watertight than what you’re offering before I tell you anything. Otherwise, opening my mouth any further is only going to land me in even bigger trouble.’
‘Cassandra,’ Thiaw pressed, ‘your trouble doesn’t get any bigger. If you don’t cooperate fully, Cassandra, then the political implications for you are … well, they’re not good. Right now it only looks like you’re protecting someone …’
‘Damn right I’m protecting someone,’ Sandy cut in, with a hard stare and cooling voice. ‘Me. I know some basics about Federation security laws. Like Federal security in general, it takes precedence over the security of member worlds like Callay. That means they can declare me a Federal security asset or risk at any time and whip me off to Earth, and there’s not a damn thing you or any of your puny local laws can do about it.’
‘And,’ Thiaw shot back, ‘you’ll end up there anyway if you don’t help us. Your one chance is to help us catch the FIA infiltrators here, and hope that that builds up enough local support for you in the corridors of power that…’
‘With all respect, Mr Thiaw,’ Sandy said coldly, ‘but you can’t be fucking serious.’ She could feel her stomach tightening, a painful cramping through the bandages. ‘Politicians here are going to overlook the mass anti-GI panic out there because they feel grateful to me?’
She hadn’t wanted this at all. To become a political pawn. To get caught up in the doubtless labyrinthine machinations of the Callayan corridors of power, and all the populist nonsense that went with it. To be backed into a corner, forced to tell more of what she knew, knowing this would cause trouble … so much damn trouble that she didn’t want to contemplate it, it went too deep, and stretched too far into matters that she knew far too little about. She was feeling increasingly lost and threatened in the whole calamitous mess …
Thiaw sighed, oblivious to her growing anxiety, shoulders slumping.
‘Cassandra … why don’t you just think about it, huh?’ He gave her a wry, winsome smile. ‘I’ll be frank. We need to catch these FIA. The Security Council is increasingly alarmed, as are the President’s more predictable opponents … and we need to catch them soon. You think about it. I’ll call on you again soon, once you’ve had some time to consider your options.’
He rose to his feet, looking deflated, and Rafasan made to follow…
‘Wait.’ They both paused. Sandy gazed past them at the far wall. Uncertain of what she was doing. She was confused. Frightened even. But not just for herself. ‘Sit down.’ They sat. Sandy gazed at the wall for an indeterminate moment. Wondering if she was about to sign her own effective warrant to bureaucratic hell. But she was running out of alternatives. Had, in fact, run out of alternatives long, long ago. Only now was she starting to realise it. She hated bureaucracy. Here, with its links to alien, populist politics in a society that actively disliked and distrusted GIs and advanced synthetic-replication biotechnology itself, it made her nervous in the extreme. But she was here now. She could not escape it. She was in the game, for good. Once in it, she had to learn to play within the rules. It was a slim chance. But it was the only chance she had. She switched her gaze to Thiaw. Thiaw looked back expectantly. Poor guy, she thought. You’re in for it now.
‘This is how it works,’ she said quietly. ‘The League have an official policy of changing the Federation from the inside. League theory on modern human evolution dominates all policy, including security. Market- and demand-driven forces cannot be challenged, cultural resistance just creates temporary hiccups. They’re all convinced the Federation will embrace advanced biotech eventually, it’s just a matter of time. They try to push the process along by feeding advanced biotech to various plants within the Tanushan BT industry. But you know all that.
‘The FIA benefit from this too — they’re pragmatists, they view GIs in particular as the League’s primary strategic advantage and thus the Federation’s primary threat. Federation biotech restrictions mean they’re unable to carry out their own research … legally. And so, in this case, and several others I’ve read about on League Intel reports, they’ve teamed up and are effectively working together — the FIA gains invaluable data, and the League gets to spread the advanced biotech gospel through the Tanushan private sector, which is where all the illegal research is based. Got that?’
Thiaw blinked. Doubtless he’d heard it all hypothesised before. To hear it direct from someone who knew … the cameras were recording. Everything she said was being recorded. In this room, everything always was.
‘Now the FIA have abducted me. Whole stacks of research right there. I’m experimental, obviously. Something of a gold mine for them, I’m sure.’ She took a deep breath, not liking where these conclusions were logically taking her. ‘Only in doing so they’ve brought the CSA down on their heads. Their mission could easily have been compromised. The way they planned it, with the whitecoats you captured, it looks like they figured being caught was inevitable. Which means they’re prepared for it. Which means they’ll start shutting things down before the CSA gets to them, now that the CSA knows where to look. When the mission gets compromised, there’s a withdrawal procedure. It’s what the Intels call an MEK application … Most Extreme Kind. If it gets activated here, in this city, you’ll know about it. Believe me. If the League’s here too, I’d look for something heavy. Possibly GIs. But I’m just guessing, I’ve never been involved with anything like that myself. My superiors kept me well away from covert stuff … probably they were worried I’d be contaminated by too much civilian contact and wouldn’t want to fight any more. And they’d have been right too.’
Thiaw stared at her for a long moment. Rafasan too. No one spoke.
Then, ‘Heavy?’ Thiaw asked, cautiously. ‘You think the League has a presence here too? For this … this escape clause? How heavy?’
‘The FIA would be orchestrating it,’ Sandy replied tonelessly. ‘They’re the ones with the inside knowledge. As for how heavy …’ She shrugged. ‘… it’s the FIA. Go figure.’
‘The FIA are … are …’ Rafasan waved a beringed hand in search of the appropriate term. ‘… well, they’re not exactly civilised, and I know they’ve been out in the dark for a long time, what with the war and the secrecy legislation enforced over such wide distances and dubious regulatory mechanisms … but, I mean, they’re a legal entity!’ With some indignation, although at precisely what, Sandy could not tell. ‘Surely there are some limits on their behaviour?’
‘Ms Rafasan,’ Sandy said dryly, ‘I’ve been privy to things that go on in areas of space no Federation official ever sees reports on or is encouraged to care about. You’d be amazed. Truly amazed, I assure you.’ The assertion met with no response. Outside the room, Sandy was certain there would be commotion, calls being made. Doubtless a whole further mass of officialdom would descend on her in short order. Well, at least she’d done something. Tired of being drugged and prodded, she’d kicked back. Now let them panic, she thought darkly. She only hoped that throwing the proverbial shit so directly at the fan did not spray too much of it back into her face. But it was a civilian city. Anything seemed possible.
‘There,’ said Dr Djohan, cutting away the last bandage from around her knee. Probed and prodded at the joint for a moment, tapping the kneecap experimentally, fingering recently separated skin. It would show him nothing that sonic-mapping had not already displayed through the bandages, Sandy knew. He then stood back to examine her from a greater distance, arms folded with some satisfaction. Flat on her back, fully restrained and totally naked, Sandy was not entirely sure exactly what he was looking at.
‘Can I get up now?’ she asked mildly. Djohan actually blushed. She saw it on heat scan.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He rapped himself absently on the head and stepped quickly to the door on his small legs. Sandy watched him go. Strange little man, she thought, partway between sarcasm and curiosity. The door closed behind him, locks snapping. A moment later the restraints automatically released and she eased herself up on the bed.
Her joints hurt. Most of her did, a dull, aching, multi-level pain. She stretched a leg out before her and looked at it. There was a clear red line about the knee, around the top of the kneecap, raised in a small ridge. She touched it. Probed with both hands. Nothing hurt. Everything was more or less where she remembered it to be. The underside tendons were sore and twinged unpleasantly when she flexed. Her other knee was much the same.
And it hit her, suddenly, what had happened … she squeezed her eyes shut, very hard, attempting to fight off the surge of horrid memory. She had been a special forces soldier. She had seen terrible things in the war. Operating theatres were not strange places to any GI, least of all one with her experience, for both battlefield injury and surgical upgrade as League biotechnology had improved. She recalled the familiar, antiseptic stench, remembering previous occasions when she had smelt the same … she had to cope with it. She had no other choice but to cope. She was a GI, after all, and unlike a regular human she could deal with such things. Physically, at least. Mentally … was another question. But she knew her physical nature. She knew she could endure, and recover. She knew that even the physical scars would be gone in time. She held to that thought with firm determination and resolved to be what she was and do what she knew best. To be a soldier, and cope.
The procession of CSA interrogators had receded at last, finally convinced she had nothing left to tell them. Which was good, because she didn’t. She stood now, legs wide apart and cautious of her balance, before the apartment windows. She ached. A strange, all-over ache that throbbed and pulsed through her very bones. That was good. Very good, in fact — it meant that the systems were knitting together once more, responding to each other as any organism’s would in full health. If she shifted balance from one leg to the other too fast she would get a shooting pain through a knee, or a hip, sometimes racing with electric reflex up her spine and shoulders. But that was good too. Dr Djohan told her so. And she believed him.
Outside, it was another stunningly clear, blue-skied, sunny day. She was located, she’d gathered, in the district of Largos, just south of mid-western Tanusha. One district looked more or less like another, however. Only the bends in nearby river tributaries and the location of distinctive building landmarks told the difference. Her building was just beyond the periphery of a business-district hub, she’d gathered, but facing outwards. Before her sprawled an unobstructed view across open, low-density suburbia swathed in spreading greenery. Several kilometres beyond, another hub, a rising cluster of buildings haphazardly flanking a huge, gleaming mega-rise. Mid-rises sprawled about more built-up urbanity, following a river course, and another soaring mega-rise, then gave way to suburbia again. And on and on the patterns stretched, across all the visible cityscape. There was a lot of cityscape visible. In Tanusha there always was.
The questioning had been intense. She reflected over the day’s interrogation, since her revelations to Thiaw and Rafasan yesterday. Evidently she’d made some people nervous. And right that they should be. But even she did not know what was coming. If anything. It was all a mystery to her too, this covert ops — as she’d told Thiaw and Rafasan, and all subsequent interviewers, she only knew as much as she’d gathered from a distance. And a disinterested distance at that. She’d had better things to worry about back in Dark Star. Like keeping her team alive from one mission to the next.
She needed to move. Desperately. Thankfully, someone had set up an exercise bike further along the windows for exactly that purpose. She slipped carefully out of her bathrobe and into the comfortable tracksuit that that same person had thoughtfully slung across the bike seat, then climbed on.
She was still pedalling a half hour later when Naidu walked in.
‘Cassandra,’ he announced, loudly over the noise of the African rhythms thumping from the stereo, ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Sure.’ Leaning on the handlebars, legs going round in steady circles in time with the rhythm. ‘Turn the music down if you like.’ Naidu went and did that — some straights had hearing augmentation, she knew, but it usually failed to reach her extremes. The music faded and Naidu walked back over. He looked as rumpled as ever, jacket open, longish hair straggling about the collar. Age was of course always difficult to tell, thanks to technology. She judged he could be at least eighty. He had that slightly worn, weathered look about his broad, brown features. He stopped by the sofa, arms folded as he gave her a critical looking-over.
‘How are you feeling?’ She managed an absent shrug, still pedalling.
‘Sore. I’m nearly fully flexible again, just a little slow. Miracles of League engineering and all that.’ A corner of Naidu’s moustachioed mouth twitched, recognising, she reckoned, that jab at Dr Djohan. ‘Itches like buggery. I’m sure I’d heal faster if I weren’t full of drugs too.’
‘Dr Djohan assures me otherwise,’ Naidu replied, with understated irony, deep in his throat.
‘Don’t get any closer,’ Sandy said with bland disinterest, still pedalling, ‘I’m just a half hour away from my next repressant shot. You know how I get then — all slavering and bloodthirsty.’ Naidu just looked at her a little reproachfully, restraining a smile. A full day of interrogation on suppressant shots (self-administered, of course) and a constant wary armed guard had worked on her temper. ‘Are there any innocent virgins in the CSA? I eat those, you know. Three a week, when I’m not dieting.’
‘No,’ said Naidu, with that expressive flick of the head that was peculiar to Indians, she’d noticed. ‘I’m afraid the CSA is the wrong organisation to be looking for innocent virgins. Particularly Intel.’ The bike wheel whirred, forcing looseness back into her legs. It felt good just to be moving and free of bandages. And she needed the exercise, like any normal human. Her heart was beating again for one thing, with great, thumping beats that felt suspiciously like relief. Blood flowed. Temperature built up, a warmth upon her brow. After so long it felt wonderful, and well worth the occasional, inexplicable shooting pain.
‘Cassandra, some of our agents discovered an apartment a couple of FIA agents appear to have been using as a part of their network. No arrests, they’re far too slippery for that. Bat we did find a pair of very non-standard weapons there. Tobra twenty-twos, and forty full mags. Full works.’
More information. She’d been granting information to anyone who asked for the last full day. The implications scared her, when she thought about them. Generally she tried not to. She could only trust that it would get her somewhere and not merely land her in even greater trouble. She sighed, still pedalling. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Do you have any knowledge, in your field experience, of the FIA having cause to use the Tobra? Or anything of that magnitude of firepower?’
‘The FIA have about twenty branches that I know of,’ she said wearily. ‘You probably know them better than I do — this is just League Intel reports I read. About five are field branches. Two are effectively special ops. Only one officially exists.’
Naidu nodded. ‘I know, Green Section are the registered lot. We understand they’re actually more of a training and development base for the main black ops, but even we don’t know what they’re called. They’re labelled in our reports as ‘FP’ — it’s an ironic acronym for FIA ‘Foreign Policy’. It can also stand for ‘Fascist Pigs’.’ Sandy made a face at that — League Intel had much the same opinion. ‘We think it’s almost certain that it’s this FP branch that we’re up against here. But none of our Intel are very clear on their operating procedures. We thought you might be.’
No. She wasn’t. Not really. Just one damn report she wasn’t supposed to have read, and whatever ‘clause Z’ was … drastic, she remembered thinking. And the FIA had Tobras in town. Her mouth was suddenly drier than usual. It had only been speculation before. Now it seemed suddenly real.
‘There’s only a few instances I can definitely say I had experience with them,’ she said finally. ‘They’re very good. But Tobra twenty-twos — that’s not a covert weapon, that’s an assault weapon. You can’t exactly hide it in your pocket.’
‘Exactly,’ Naidu said grimly, arms folded tightly. ‘They may have acquired it here, or they may have brought it with them.’
‘Not through customs, surely?’
‘No. If you were planting a covert team on Callay, how would you do it?’
‘Well…’ The old mental reflexes were unfolding, like an old, creased sheet-map long disused but still perfectly functional. ‘… What’s this solar system’s defence grid like? A place as important as Tanusha, you’d think it’d be pretty solid?’
Naidu grimaced, a pained twist of pepper-streaked moustache. ‘Private system. No separate military function, it’s all integrated … high quality as far as it goes, but… well, you’d know the ‘but’ with any integrated system. Callay never came under direct threat during the war — it’s too far away. The very idea is unthinkable.’
‘Jesus.’ Sandy was staring at him in genuine disbelief. ‘But, I mean, it’s a good system? I’ve seen the technology here. It’s as good as anything I’ve ever seen in League, and they’ve got some killer systems.’
‘It definitely deters casual raiders. But it’s Federal security codes, Cassandra. Fleet security for any solar system is a Federal matter — all military is Federal. Individual worlds don’t have anything independent. So the FIA…’
‘Of course.’ Her legs continued pumping, her attention now entirely elsewhere. ‘Like a knife through butter. So they came in, landing somewhere out there in the wild, and hiked in to Tanusha, weapons and all. No customs.’
‘No customs. We don’t know what else they brought, besides the Tobras. We don’t know how many agents or weapons. We can’t monitor their activity because all their communications are tapped into the local network, which is heavily shielded from government monitoring, because that is the grand Tanushan code — free enterprise, free communication, minimal government interference. Now you see the scale of the problem.’
She did indeed. It was crazy. How crazy?… that depended on one thing.
‘Now you just need to know what they need the Tobras for. Have the whitecoats talked?’
‘No,’ said Naidu, with frustrated resignation. ‘They claim not to know anything more. Just that it was an operation to gather data on you. How they knew you were here, and what the data was for … they say they don’t know. And we can’t threaten them to make them talk, they don’t fall under our legal system — as Federal agents in an FIA operation, they’re automatically answerable to Federal law. We can’t do a thing.’
Sandy bit her lip, considering as she pedalled. Escape clause. She didn’t really know what it meant, not in the way it’d been used. League Intel had their little games, and she’d kept her attention entirely focused on her own operational concerns. She could only guess. Until now she’d had no firm hints with which to guide her guesses. Now, there were the Tobras. The FIA rarely did things by halves. And now the firepower. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.
‘Look,’ she said, on a sudden burst of inspiration, ‘while you’ve got me, why not let me in on the investigation? Just hook me up to a terminal, and let me see everything, realtime.’ Naidu’s frown deepened. She wasn’t entirely sure herself why she offered. She was in enough trouble already. But Tobras were serious … any assault weapons in a civilian city were serious. And lately she’d had the unsettling suspicion that maybe this was all at least partly her fault. Her fault for coming here. Her fault for being so naïve that she hadn’t bothered to consider the other things that Tanusha was known for, besides infotech jobs, nightlife and scenery. Naidu’s expression, however, was not positive. She stopped pedalling, leaning heavily on the machine armrests, and studied Naidu’s dubious expression. ‘Why not?’
‘Cassandra,’ Naidu sighed, ‘I am under specific instructions to limit your involvement. Instructions from Secretary Grey, you understand. The President’s administration, Director Ibrahim answers to him.’
‘You want me to help you,’ Sandy said slowly, ‘but you don’t really want me to know too much. So obviously you don’t want me to help you, in which case there’s nothing else I can do.’
Naidu looked frustrated, ran a hand through his long, dishevelled hair, grimacing tightly. It was politics, she thought. Obviously It was. Factions within this Senate Security Panel, among others, were leaning on the CSA, and on Neiland, and on everyone connected to her. So they were not allowed to trust the GI on anything, even if they’d previously been inclined to.
‘Do you trust me?’ she asked. Naidu looked at her through narrowed eyes.
‘Yes.’ The answer almost surprised her. ‘As a person. As an ex-League special forces soldier, however, there are political considerations to be weighed before sharing sensitive information. It’s not personal.’
‘But you agree with it?’ With increasing desperation. She couldn’t see a way to help — neither her way nor theirs. She was trapped. Naidu just looked at her, pondering. ‘What if I applied for asylum? Citizenship?’ Naidu let out a sharp breath. ‘Ms Rafasan said she would try to arrange it.’
‘You’re very game, aren’t you?’
‘Why not? Where else am I going to belong, if not to this place? I can’t go back now. Where else is there for me? Where else can I be useful?’
‘Cassandra …’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘… I feel I should tell you, the atmosphere at present is against it. Not within the CSA … Politically.’
‘I can’t stay here,’ Sandy told him. The desperation grew worse. ‘I can’t just stay here indefinitely, in this room. This can’t be my life, Mr Naidu. I’ll go crazy.’
‘Cassandra, we’ll do what we can … it may take some time, it’s true. There are political considerations, security secrets, Federal issues …’
‘Naidu, my own side don’t want me, the Feds cut me into little pieces, now Callay … God, I could be so much help here, you know? I’m good at these information systems, I have expertise no one else in the CSA has … but shit, I’m running out of options here.’ Her voice held a faint quaver, and she swallowed with difficulty. Naidu appeared distracted, a flick of the eyes suggesting he was receiving … he backed up a step, watching her. And she realised.
‘Oh Christ …’ and glared up at the nearest camera inset in the ceiling, ‘Djohan you fucking fool, I’m not about to attack him. I’m upset, dammit. I’m allowed to be upset, just occasionally.’ Looked back to Naidu. He backed up another step. Her eyes hurt. ‘Oh come on,’ she told him, with shaky exasperation. ‘I’m drugged, my joints hurt … Christ, I wouldn’t hurt you anyway. Please.’
‘Cassandra …’ His voice was level, not at all frightened. Just very, professionally wary. ‘Maybe I should come back some other time and discuss this with you. You’re obviously finding this upsetting right now.’
‘Look, for God’s sake …’ She climbed off the bike in exasperation … white, blinding light hit her, flashed at agonising intensity through her skull.
Then she was lying half sprawled on her back, one shoulder propped against the bike stand. Her head hurt like hell, and her vision refused to come properly clear. The shoulder wound ached, presumably from the fall. Her back did. Her vision gradually cleared to normal light, and the humming in her ears receded. She raised her head, looking blearily about. The room was empty. She lay alone in a golden patch of sunlight beside the bike. A pot plant frond floated nearby, a translucent, dreamy green against the glowing blue sky. She got an elbow beneath her and raised herself carefully. Pain shot through elbow and shoulder joints but she ignored it, propping her back against the bike stand. And sat there, stupidly, knees up and surveying the empty, comfortable room that was hers. Naidu had gone. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. It felt like a few seconds. It could have been longer.
The sensor plug had shocked her. Triggered by Djohan, no doubt, who had been reading her impulses. She wanted to damage the man … and put a very fast, tight lid upon that impulse, the sensor plug still monitoring her more extreme reactions, reading her temper. No doubt Djohan had set a predetermined threshold above which she was to be considered ‘unsafe’. Evidently she had crossed it.
God. She put her face in her hands wearily. Wishing it would all go away. Wishing there was a conceivable way out of this system, for whom she was useful but could never be accepted as an equal. That was what had upset her. That Naidu, intelligent, open-minded man that he evidently was, himself still had trouble seeing beyond that barrier. Whatever else he was, he was a professional. However personable he may have appeared in conversation, he never forgot what she was … doubtless he’d read all the Intel reports, all the technical analyses, wanting to know what he was dealing with, conversing with. He trusted her as a person, he’d said. She’d believed that much. She still believed it. He simply did not know what happened to GIs when they were angry. Doubtless most straights assumed that a being designed for combat would necessarily become aggressive when angry, aggression and combat instincts being intrinsically linked in straights.
Well, they were not entirely disassociated in GIs either. God, she did get angry sometimes, and it did trigger combat reflex … That was the worst part — in some respects, they were nearly right in their assumptions. They were right in thinking anger and combat reflex were connected. But to assume she would lose all control, all sanity … ludicrous. But how could she prove it? How could she prove intent? There were only words, and words proved nothing.
She pulled her hands away from her face and looked at her arms. Rolled up the tracksuit sleeves, examined the red marks, a single red line up the centre of her inner forearm. Rubbed an aching, twinging shoulder. Felt at the invisible incisions there, also, and received an unexpected jab of pain. Felt, then at the back of her head, and the sensor plug that nestled in the insert socket … one tug and it would shock her again, if she tried to remove it. She felt like a wreck. Hunched on the floor, monitored, drugged, shocked, recently mutilated and still aching from the scars. Imprisoned. Humiliated. Hopeless.
She could feel the tears coming. She welcomed them, for the release they brought, and the escape. She sat beside her exercise bike, curled in her soft grey tracksuit, and sobbed into her hands. High in the walls, the cameras watched, and monitor technicians watched the screens. She knew they were watching. She hoped they were confused as hell. But that was not why she cried.
