"Security provisions," she said tiredly. "You know how it is."
Kresnov gave a faint shake of her head. "No," she said, gazing back out of the windows. And sighed, eyes suddenly distant, tuning away to the colours and light beyond. "I don't know."
Neiland pursed her lips, not knowing what to think. Kresnov confused the hell out of her. She remembered seeing her that first time in the staff office that the media were now calling 'the final stand' in their countless, repetitive and mostly inaccurate computer sim reruns of the attack, or what they knew of it. Barefoot, clad only in grey tracksuit leggings and a white T-shirt supplied by her security for the transfer to the airport. Covered in blood, most of which Neiland now knew had not been her own. Eyes narrowed beyond the dead-steady rifle, but only a little. Alert, aware and lethal.
Kresnov in combat had not swaggered, had not yelled with bloodlusting fury, had not made strong, heroic gestures or even looked fierce. She merely killed everything that came within reach that she deemed to be threatening, and killed it fast. The debriefing simulations had shown four Dark Star GIs in that room, with the last of Alpha Team dead. Kresnov had blown the ceiling with a shaped charge stolen from a dead GI and dropped through the hole with a pistol in each hand and the rifle slung over her shoulder.
Point two nine seconds later all four Dark Star GIs were dead or incapacitated. They'd simply made the fatal mistake of being in the same room as Kresnov when she had a weapon in each hand, initiative on her side and was looking to kill them. That being so, numbers were of no relevance. Twelve point four seconds later the last of the Dark Star GIs on that entire level was dead. As one of the Secret Service people who had analysed the tapes had said, at the risk of stating the obvious, the performance was simply inhuman.
And yet here, sitting on the bed alongside Kresnov, Neiland sensed nothing of threat or intimidation. Only a mild, intelligent woman with a subtle sense of humour whom she suspected would much prefer to be at a concert, or smelling flowers, or making love, than gunning down marauding hordes of her ex-comrades in arms. There were those among her staff who believed such simplistic analyses were misleading. That it was dangerous to judge a GI in human terms. Neiland truly did not know—it only confused her more. And she was almost surprised at herself for reaching out a hand, and resting it upon the GI's white robed forearm. Kresnov looked at it, as if it was some strange kind of butterfly that had landed upon her arm, and aroused her bemusement. Then looked up to Neiland, her eyes seeking an explanation.
"Captain," Neiland said softly. There was some deep, heartfelt emotion welling up from somewhere inside, but she was not certain what it was, or where it came from. "Captain, you saved my life. I ..." and she swallowed hard. Kresnov watched, unblinkingly curious. "I know you didn't do it just for me, that it's just for my office and I shouldn't take it so personally... but I can't help it."
She gripped the arm tightly. It was firm and human feeling beneath the robe. "I suppose I'd just like to say thank you," she finished lamely. Much to her amazement, Kresnov smiled. It was a small, sad little smile, and for a brief moment the fifteen-year-old GI looked as old and wise as the Louban Sea.
"You're welcome," she said.
"Why did you do it?" Neiland removed the hand and used it for support as she twisted round on the mattress.
Kresnov's smile slowly faded. "Why?"
Neiland nodded. "You're so good at tracking targets, you could have just avoided them. You might even have used the confusion to escape, possibly shoot your way out. You might have been free right now if you'd done that."
Kresnov's brows drew together in a pained expression. "And where would I have gone? Lived in some alley somewhere? Stolen some money, gotten some illegal surgery to change my appearance? I sure as hell couldn't get off the planet if everyone was looking for me, face or no face. I'd be stuck here. So I'd have to try and make a life of it."
"If anyone could have done it," Neiland countered, "I bet you could."
Kresnov shrugged. "Sure. I could have been a fugitive, always on the run, always looking over my shoulder. I couldn't have got a real job, or done any of the things I wanted to do. I'd have nothing."
"You were a fugitive before." Kresnov shook her head.
"No," she said quietly with the dawnings of a faint, sadly wistful expression. "I wasn't a fugitive at all. I was April Cassidy, cognitive software technician. I was going to have a nice job, and a nice apartment, and I'd go out nights and see bands, and meet people and make ordinary friends who knew all kinds of interesting things. Maybe I'd even get a boyfriend ..."
She trailed off, gazing with sad, blue eyes at the blinking motion of lights beyond the windows. Neiland felt her breath catch in her throat, watching her. And she had no idea why Kresnov should affect her so greatly, except that the expression she wore now was as sorrowful as she'd ever seen on someone without the presence of tears. Not upset. Just deeply, deeply sad.
"And so you thought what?" Neiland said quietly into that silence. "You thought that if you saved the President, you'd get a pardon?"
Kresnov sighed, a short, silent heave of broad, white-robed shoulders. And shot Neiland an unreadable sideways look.
"You can't pardon me from being a GI," she said. "It's a life sentence."
"No," Neiland agreed, "but hell, it's got me sitting this close to you without having a division's worth of security dragging me away by the armpits. Your popularity rating among some of the people I've spoken to recently has skyrocketed."
Kresnov snorted. "I was bottom-dwelling river sludge," she retorted. "Now I'm only pond scum."
Neiland fought down a smile.
"That as may be," she said with what she hoped was a reassuring touch of humour, "but people are beginning to accept the possibility that you might not be evil. A lot of them thought you were. Or otherwise just not to be trusted. But you've got them wondering. So if that's what you were intending, I'd commend you for picking a good option."
Kresnov thought about it for a moment. Her lips pursed, twisted slightly to one side. Neiland found that intriguing, and again could not say precisely why. It was like in those movies of first contact she'd occasionally seen, back in that earlier life when there had been such a thing as leisure time, where the alien and the human finally met face to face, and discovered that they shared a common facial gesture. An awe-inspiring point of similarity, of togetherness. Neiland's brain said that Kresnov was not human. And yet everything, everything she saw in Kresnov said utterly otherwise.
Which simply did not make any sense. There was not a single organic cell in Kresnov's body. There was a strong thread of philosophical argument, particularly common in the wartime Federation, that GIs were not even life forms. They were imitations. Reflections of humanity's self-perception made real through the organs of commerce, technology and politics. The philosophers claimed that as such they had more in common with works of art than genuine life forms.
But damn, how could you argue with a deadpan sense of humour, an active libido and that damnably subtle little wrinkle above the left eyebrow that she got whenever she considered something difficult? Neiland watched that wrinkle now, an intelligent narrowing of the eyes, considering her last statement. Then she shook her head as the conclusion arrived.
"That's not why I did it," Kresnov said. And looked at her, as if slightly puzzled by her own conclusion. "I think I did it because I could." Neiland frowned. And Kresnov sighed again, in that very human way of hers.
"I know, it probably sounds a little odd. But they were trying to kill the President of Callay, and I was in a position to stop them. And ... I don't know, maybe that's just what I am, and the way that I operate. Maybe I just need to be useful. I just can't imagine having found myself in that position, knowing that I could stop them, and not doing anything." She shrugged helplessly. "That's just the way I am."
"And I'm very glad of it," Neiland added with feeling. Kresnov glanced away, eyes calmly scanning. Her report said that she enjoyed se
nsory pleasures, Neiland remembered. Certainly she seemed reluctant to turn her eyes away from the view.
"I don't know if you should be thanking me for that," she said a little sourly. "I'm probably just designed that way."
"Oh God," Neiland sighed painfully, getting to her feet and stretching, "no more philosophy of human free will, please. I'll die." Walked two steps to the head of the neighbouring bed, took a pillow, and settled it against the end frame. Climbed gingerly up, and leaned back, half seated against the pillow, long stockinged legs stretched out before her. Kicked off her shoes on an impulse, and settled properly with a long sigh, tugging the dress hem firmly to her knees.
Looked back to Kresnov, and found her watching, looking surprised. And a little amused.
"You're just like me after two days with no exercise," she said. "I creak like a rusty gate every time I sit down."
"You don't mind if I stay here for a moment, do you?" Neiland thought to ask her. As President, she wasn't much in the habit of asking." This is probably the only room in the hospital I can go without being mobbed by panicking administrators or officials wanting to show their unutterable relief that I'm still alive."
Kresnov shrugged. "I could use the company, I suppose."
"Good." Neiland nodded to herself absently. Thinking about what she'd just said, and how lucky she was to actually be alive. Very, very lucky, she supposed. It ought to have been a thought that stuck, and stuck hard. But it floated, and was impossible to pin down, however hard she sought to focus.
It had yet to fully strike her, she knew. But she knew that it would, sooner or later. She was not looking forward to it.
"How badly were you hurt yourself?" she thought to ask Kresnov then.
"A few bits of shrapnel," Kresnov replied, gazing off out the windows again. "Mostly grenade fragments from the landing pads. Dug them out with tweezers, no trouble." Like a gardener talking about trouble with insects in her rose garden. No trouble. Just routine really.
"You've had those before, I take it?" Flash, an impact of explosions, driving breath from the lungs and sense from the brain ... She blinked, and took a deep, shuddering breath.
"A few times," Kresnov replied, not appearing to notice. Or choosing not to, more likely. "My muscles work like body armour. Two things make them harden to critical pressure—one is signals from my brain, and the other is a hard, high V impact. Pressure like that triggers the hardening reflex. Most shrapnel doesn't get much further than skin deep. Not with personnel grenades, anyway."
"Interesting material," Neiland said.
"Your muscles work on the same principle," Kresnov told her. "Mine just take it to an extreme." Neiland nodded, trying to think on that. Flash, and the grenade went off again, and a glimpse of a body flying, violently torn and everything going sideways ... her heart was suddenly racing again, thudding violently against her ribs. A stuttering roar of gunfire, shots thudding home in murderous succession...
"Take deep breaths," Kresnov calmly advised her. Neiland held up a reassuring hand, blinking her vision clear.
"I'm all right," she said a little dazedly. "The doctor gave me tape to lessen the shock. It hasn't really hit me yet."
"It will," Kresnov said. "Tape can only cover for so long." Like she was speaking from experience. Neiland gazed at her, heart settling in unpleasant, heavy thumps against her ribcage. Wondering if Kresnov, too, suffered from post-traumatic stress, or if the League doctors had taped it all over, and made her forget. Or if her brain was structured differently to help her deal with such distractions.
And yet Kresnov professed to have a conscience. She claimed to have been disturbed by the things she'd seen and done. Neiland did not see how that was possible without a clear memory of those individual, violent incidents. And now she'd recently killed twenty or more of her former colleagues, and appeared completely untroubled by the experience. Although, then again, she claimed not to have liked them very much. The thought gave Neiland a cold, sharp chill.
Kresnov just watched her, blue eyes unblinking. If the restraints or her seated posture gave her discomfort, she gave no sign. Her eyes were startlingly clear.
"You're staring at me," she said.
Neiland blinked. Glanced reflexively away to the blank wall by the end of her bed. And looked back, irritated at herself for being so flustered.
"I suppose I am. You must get that a lot."
Kresnov smiled wearily.
"No. It's a totally new experience for me. Nobody here seems to understand that."
* * * *
It was another hour before Neiland emerged from Kresnov's hospital ward. Benjamin Grey was waiting for her.
"Ben, I want to talk to you." A sideways glance showed that the corridor was empty. Grey nodded, thin brows drawn downward in concerned concentration. His dark eyes appeared too large for his unremarkable, soft-chinned face. Neiland impulsively took him by the arm, and drew him several steps away from the doorway, where scrupulous agents, doubtlessly with enhanced hearing, stood guard.
"Ben," she said in a low voice when she was sure he was paying attention, "what are you planning to do with her?" Neiland was tall, but Grey was taller. She spoke to a point somewhere level with his shoulder, leaning close, looking up at him from under serious brows without tilting her head.
"Well," Grey said slowly, "I'm not sure it's entirely up to me, Shan's investigations are underway now and I'm not certain that I want to pre-empt..."
"So you're going to leave her cuffed to the bed and drugged to the eyeballs until Shan says that it's safe to release her?"
Grey frowned in surprise. The wall was behind him, and retreat was impossible. "Release her? Who said anything about releasing her?"
Neiland took a breath. "Ben," she said with forced calm, "she's not dangerous—to us. Any idiot can see that. She shouldn't be locked up like this."
Grey stared down at her from beneath furrowed brows. "That may be so, but many of the people and the groups she's connected with are most certainly very dangerous ..."
"That's no damn reason to lock her up, Ben. We should put her to work for us, dammit. She'd be a real help in Shan's damn investigations if you let her ..."
"Wait wait wait." Grey shook his head, hands raised in defence. Neiland stopped, arms folded, her stare burning. Grey took a breath. Doubtless he realised that his position had just become precarious, interrupting Katia Neiland in mid-flight. "Ms President, this is a GI we're talking about here. Now, I know she just saved your life. I'm as grateful to her for that as you are, believe me. But to make the leap from there to saying that this is our ally and comrade-in-arms is ... is a very big step, and one I'm not convinced is supported by the available evidence."
"Why would she save my life, Ben? Twenty-four hours ago you'd have been grateful if she'd just refrained from killing me, given the chance. Not only did she pass up that chance, she purposely and with forethought placed her ass in the middle of a hail of bullets with no other intention but to save my life."
Grey was frowning. Neiland knew what he was thinking—that his beloved President was letting her emotions run away with her. Again. Neiland liked Benjamin Grey, but sometimes she wanted to hit him.
"Just for once, Ben, you quit that damn bureaucratic poker face you like to pull and try looking at things from her side. She does have a side, you know, it's not all just cogs and gears turning in there. You tell me, why would she give a damn what happens to me, given everything that my administration's done for her so far? Why, huh?"
Grey stared at her for a long, troubled moment. Then shook his head, conceding defeat.
"Because she's not half as bloody rational as you are, that's why." Grey blinked. "You heard me." Neiland's balance was restored, and she was beginning to feel like herself again. Strange how a verbal barrage could do that for her.
"She's got feelings, Ben," she continued, just as forcefully, staring up at him with unwavering intensity. "I'm not talking touchy-feely here, I'm talking politics. She beli
eves in things. That's how damn advanced those fools in the League finally got with her. They created a GI who is not only capable of free and independent thought, but who is actually capable of forming her own ideology independent of her creators and superiors.
"She didn't save me because she loves me—she didn't even know me. She just doesn't think people have the right to go around assassinating democratically elected Presidents, that's all. Now what does that tell you?"
Grey still looked puzzled. And baffled, as if trying to guess an answer that might possibly placate her, truthful or otherwise. Neiland felt a surge of exasperation.
"We're talking about principles here for God's sake, Ben. I can recognise it very easily because it's so damn rare among my colleagues and opponents. Kresnov is naïve, inexperienced and principled. That means she's either our worst enemy or our best friend. Now given recent events, which do you think is most likely?"
Grey scratched at the side of his nose with a finger, and grimaced. "What are you suggesting we do with her?"
"Do with her?" Hadn't he been listening? "I'm telling you that she's not our enemy, and given a little friendly persuasion she might even be a friend. How would you normally treat a friend, Ben?"
Grey just looked at her. Obviously, he didn't have a clue what she was talking about. Neiland exhaled hard.
"Look," she said, "just give her to me." She pretended not to notice his startled look. "She'll need a high security place to stay, and the Presidential Quarters are probably the only place in the whole damn city we could put her that wouldn't arouse suspicions. She'll be invisible there."
Grey was staring. "You're serious," he said then, like it had only just occurred to him that she might be. The muscles in Neiland's jaw tensed, very tightly.
"I'm not a comedian by nature Ben," she said coldly. "Give her to me. She might even be grateful."
"Ms President, I'm not sure that I can authorise something as ..."
"I can," she snapped. "I'm the President of Callay and Tanusha. That's got to count for something."
Crossover Page 16
