Tanusha had many museums and art galleries, but the neighbourhoods were both. People paid enormous amounts to live in such accommodation simply because it was nice there. Secure regions like this one also made perfect exclusive zones for VIP accommodation, difficult to infiltrate through the winding streets and limited public access, and therefore easy to defend. Thus the cultural character was maintained as a part of the city's basic infrastructure. It was much, much better than a museum, Sandy thought, gazing about at the peaked tile roofs and high, shuttered windows. People lived here. Culture was not something to hang on a wall or keep in a glass case. Culture was to live, to breathe, to touch and feel. As little as she knew of such things, she believed very strongly that this was true. And sometimes, such as right at this moment, she yearned for it. She yearned so badly she could taste it.
A guard patrolled the garden path below, beneath the tree's spreading branches. Flower beds lined his path and water tinkled into a broad pond. Beneath the surface ponderous red shapes slowly swam. The guard stepped up to the verandah. Slow, measured footsteps sounded on the wooden boarding below.
Sandy sensed the man behind her well before he reached the adjoining doorway. A quick race through the network hookups showed her a form, an image, and then a face. The door behind her opened and footsteps scuffed the patio.
"Mr Ibrahim, I presume," Sandy said without turning. Behind her, CSA director Shan Ibrahim closed the door with a gentle clack. Wooden door, with patterned glass insets. Very un-modern. Another part of this wonderful cultural allusion.
"Hello Cassandra." Accented voice, mild and calm. The footsteps approached her and Sandy visualised his size and build from the sound. Old reflex. With the gun at her side and the harness beneath her jacket, it was all coming back to her.
The man leaned on the railing beside her, hands apart, weight dispersed. A moment of silent breathing, gazing out at the dim outlines of roofs and trees, illuminated in patches by streetlights and an orange glow from the windows. Beyond, a scatter of air traffic wove between the looming towers, winking and multicoloured lights in lazy motion.
"The night must look different to you," Ibrahim said then. Which surprised her, and she glanced across. Ibrahim's features were as strikingly Arabic as his name and accent. Brown skin, a large, hawkish nose and prominent cheekbones. The small pointed beard accentuated the sharpness of his chin. And his eyes, as he gazed out at the murmuring night, were deep brown, brimming with focused intelligence. Strikingly handsome, Sandy thought him. Barely a glance and she was impressed. It did not happen to her often.
"Everything can look different," she replied. "It depends on my mood." Ibrahim gave a faint, imperceptible shake of his head.
"I prefer the night as it is," he said. "There's nothing more beautiful than a contrast of light." Unbidden, Sandy thought of a painting she'd seen in the Tanushan Gallery of Art. Broken fingers of sunlight spilling through clouds.
"I agree," she replied. "Not every visual shift I do is functional. I can find some beautiful combinations sometimes."
Ibrahim nodded to himself, as if considering that. And then he looked at her. His eyes registered no surprise, and he took no time to assimilate her, almost as if, Sandy thought with a faint chill, he felt he already knew her personally.
"I'm here to offer you a deal," he said then. "You probably guessed that." Sandy managed to resist rolling her eyes, and stared away at tire distant towers instead.
"Look," she said somewhat testily, "I don't even know what my status is. One minute I'm threatened with being shipped off to Earth, and the next I'm told the city's shiny new security codes have granted me some kind of special status, and I find people throwing firearms at me and telling me to defend the President."
"Our investigative teams have traced some promising leads back to a major biotech corporation," Ibrahim stated calmly, as if he hadn't heard her. "We suspect others may be involved, but we have no proof yet. Recent security measures give the CSA powers of entry and arrest in order to uncover evidence. I have a team standing by at this very moment, organising the raid. I want you to help them."
For a long moment Sandy did not move. In her mind, several loose ends clicked resoundingly into place. And she turned, straightening, leaning on her left arm as she looked directly at him.
"And why should I do that?"
"I can get you legal documentation," Ibrahim said flatly, "signed by myself and the President. It'll guarantee your rights as a citizen of Callay." For a moment Sandy thought her heart might have stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.
"It won't be worth the paper it's written on if Guderjaal doesn't sign it," she thought to say, her mouth working on autopilot as her brain raced.
"He'll sign it too. The security lockdown makes it possible. You can talk to Guderjaal if you don't believe me—I already have. But you have to do it now, because later won't be any good for us."
Good God. What were they asking of her? What did they expect her to do? And why? There were sure to be catches.
"Do I keep my privacy," she asked, a touch breathlessly, "or will I be public?"
Ibrahim nodded. "As private as the laws allow. Your case still falls under state security provisions, Callayan citizen or not. Making you public knowledge would be dangerous."
Sandy stared at him. "And the politicians?"
"They do not advise the CSA on security matters. If they did, the emergency provisions would oblige me to ignore them if I found them unhelpful. In your case, you can be assured that I would find it most unhelpful. And contrary to Tanusha's most immediate security needs.
"But you have to help us, Cassandra." Firmly, leaning imperceptibly forward. "I know that your treatment these past two weeks has at times been less than perfect. I apologise for that, as CSA Director I have many distasteful political necessities to contend with. But we need you now, Cassandra. And I believe you may need us."
His lidded dark eyes held a very direct, very determined meaning. And she felt her heart skip a beat. A cool breeze gusted and whipped the hair from her brow.
"You know," she said quietly. He gave a brief nod.
"CSA Intelligence is perhaps more advanced in matters of League operations than many of our politicians are aware of. I have made sure of it during my tenure. We know that only GIs command GIs. For an operation like this, only a top level GI would have been utilised in command. And from post-analysis of your own actions at the Parliament it was decided that even you, with your undoubted capabilities, could not have made certain tactical decisions as quickly as you did without some degree of prior knowledge, or at least educated guesswork, as to the operation's next moves."
Sandy exhaled hard, leaning both hands on the railing, and gazed out into the night. Ibrahim waited a moment longer before continuing.
"Your actions have displayed to us clearly that you have no loyalty toward or involvement with those involved in this plot. But you told Lieutenant Rice just now that you were very close with your former comrades. And that you blame your superiors for having them killed. That was why you left, was it not?"
There was peace out in the cool, murmuring night, amid the lighted towers and the soft thrum of traffic. She sought it, yearned for it, gazing into the vastness. But she was reminded only of other possibilities, of who might possibly be hiding out there. Her past, waiting for her, somewhere amid those 57 million Tanushans. And she nodded briefly to Ibrahim's question.
"I would not seek to harm such a person, Cassandra. Or persons. Lower-designation GIs do what they are ordered. I do not believe such a person could be held responsible for such actions. I only wish them stopped, prevented from visiting more harm. As I believe you do. But on present evidence, GIs within this FIA mission are considered expendable. There must be some doubt that any of your ex-comrades will survive the mission, if left to the FIA. Or if they do, and are transported back to the League when it is all over, they may well meet the same fate as your other comrades. Murdered by their superiors."
>
Her jaw trembled. She couldn't believe it. They were all dead. She knew they were. Maybe ... maybe ... Her mind raced, desperately seeking alternative possibilities. Maybe someone had copied her patterns. Someone in Intel, perhaps, or one of her minders. She'd published such things, occasionally, in electronic form... but that was GI-specific strategy. Straights had trouble internalising so much high-speed multidimensional graphical detail all at once. It took a GI to internalise the complexities, to plot them, to make them work in the field. And she'd seen it first-hand. Had run through the Parliament corridors, had made contact with the enemy, and had seen them respond in exactly the patterns she'd laid out for GIs of that designation ... She dropped her head, eyes closed. Ibrahim waited, with silent patience.
Possibilities collided, and she felt trapped between them, crushed and breathless. Her old life, a Dark Star comrade still alive, and here in Tanusha. And Ibrahim, Vanessa, the whole Tanushan government and security apparatus, suddenly desperate and trusting in their need for her assistance. A chance. A huge chance. Trust, perhaps asylum, perhaps strong enough to override even Federal laws ... someone had tried to kill the President, for God's sake. On security issues of critical importance to both the Federation and member worlds, Federation concerns trumped all challengers. But here, Tanusha's threat was greater. If they needed her badly enough, even the Feds couldn't drag her away if the CSA were determined enough to keep her. Under present circumstances, however long they lasted. From the chaos the city had descended into since the strike, 'present circumstances' could last a fair time.
She'd wanted this. It was, in fact, quite possibly a better scenario than she'd previously envisaged, when she'd first arrived in the Federation and built a new identity for herself. This meant she could be herself. Be real and accepted ... as much as she could expect to be. She'd wanted civilian life, a civilian identity and all the other things civilians took for granted. A life free from war. A life filled with inconsequential pleasures, like friendship, entertainment, evenings out on the town, taking in the sights.
And now, once again, her old life had intruded. And she almost regretted it. And, and ... oh God, the thought hit a nerve like few had ever hit before, and a pain speared behind her eyes. And damn, she felt guilty for it. For leaving, when possibly—it seemed—not all of her team were dead. And for having such trouble reconciling her new, desperately desired life, with the old military one. She ought to be overjoyed to hear one of her team-mates was still alive ... dammit, she was overjoyed. And confused. And scared, and ... and nearly every other emotion she'd ever felt or imagined, all at once, and all so sudden and unexpected ...
She breathed in long, deep breaths, hands tight around the smooth wooden rail. Voices below, guards talking in low, murmured tones. The flitting, erratic pulse of bat sonar, weaving somewhere above the trees in pursuit of insects. And she knew then what she had to do, knew she had so little choice. Like a piece of flotsam racing downstream, she would go where the river took her.
"I'll help you," she murmured. Ibrahim watched in silence. Measuring that response with dark, penetrating eyes. "But you have to promise you'll do everything you can not to harm anyone out there who's just following orders. Anyone League."
"I have 120 million lives under my care, Cassandra," Ibrahim replied, in quiet, measured tones. "57 million of them in Tanusha. When it comes to their security, I'm afraid I am not in a position to promise anything."
"You can try," she whispered. Ibrahim just watched her. She spared him a glance, trying to keep the pleading from her eyes ... and was uncertain if she succeeded. Ibrahim did not sigh or fidget. He only considered. And finally he nodded, shortly and without reservation.
"I can try," he said. "And I will. In the meantime, if you are to help us, you will serve according to the needs of the CSA, and only the CSA. No other government agency will have authority over your actions. Do you understand?" She nodded weakly. "You have knowledge of League and FIA connections to Tanushan biotech corporations. There is a raid planned for tomorrow morning. I want you on it. Can you manage that?"
CSA SWAT. Civilian operations. To an ex-Dark Star captain, hardly intimidating. She took another deep breath in the cool, murmuring night.
"Sure." What was the civilian expression? "Piece of cake."
Chapter 10
The CSA flyer shuddered roughly through the predawn air. Sandy frowned, Leaning forward from her holding-brace behind the pilot's seat, scanning out the canopy side. Could make out the faint outlines of scattered cloud above, barely distinct against the faint glow of the eastern sky. Tanushan weather, so frequently idyllic, could change fast. The cloud was torn and broken, frayed at the edges like wet tissue paper. Again the flyer shuddered and bounced.
The pilot craned her head round to look at her. "Be thankful we're going in before dawn," she said loudly over the dull keening of engines. Shudder and bump, something metal clacked and rattled in the back. Indicated with a gloved finger the gathering cloud, fractured shards across the flat span of sky ... like sea ice breaking up, Sandy thought, viewed from below the surface.
"Damn northerly stream," the pilot half shouted, guiding the flyer one-handed through a gentle leftward bank and pointing with the other. "Ocean's only fifty clicks that way," jabbing with the finger back toward the west, "warm southerly currents meet the cold northerlies ... you get these rapid weather changes. Things just blow up with no warning a few hundred Ks out, maybe a few thousand. This is nothing. This is just the on-shore flow ... wait three or four hours, it'll be lightning city and pouring rain."
She levelled out of the turn, rectangles matching, passing through on the navscreen. Bump and wobble as they flattened out, and Sandy gripped the overhead more firmly with a gloved fist. The tops of towers soaring by, spire lights and roof lights ablaze, tall and majestic beneath the ragged ceiling of cloud. Incredible sight. The looming towertops sprawled off for many kilometres in all directions above an intricate carpet of ground light. Another wobble, pulling her arm-grip tight, more equipment rattling in the back.
"How strong's the wind?" she shouted to the pilot to be heard above the earphones.
"Sixty, sixty-five knots. It's not the speed, it's these damn towers," another indicating finger as the flyer curved through yet another one-handed turn. "Turn a steady stream into soup. It's like flying in a washing machine. I'd go lower, but it's not in the profile."
In the left seat, the co-pilot looked a lot more occupied than the pilot, eyes shaded and interfacing something complicated. Navcomp interface. Co-pilots were always busiest, inbound. Rifle at her side and headset com-plug in her ear, it was all feeling very familiar to Sandy. Not to mention head-to-toe ablative body armour, a familiar, bracing weight that was no weight at all.
She half turned to glance back at the hold, never losing the all-important grip. The rest of SWAT Four were locked in two facing rows down either side, armoured and armed, just like her. Helmeted, like her, some checking equipment or weapons, others talking. One or two glanced her way, disinterestedly curious, or appearing to be ...
"Arvi!" shouted Lieutenant Rice from the commander's post behind and to Sandy's left. Barely an armspan opposite, Special Agent Arvid Singh glanced up from his graphic-slate expectantly. "Haven't you memorised that damn thing yet?" Singh grinned, a good-natured flash of white teeth within a young, brown, thin-bearded face.
"Don't mind me, chief, I'm a little bit stupid." Some laughter down the rows, and Vanessa half glared at him, lock-strapped into her swivel seat.
"No argument here," she replied.
Sandy had had the introductions, hours earlier. Vanessa's team, SWAT Four, armed and armoured civilians, for those rare occasions where civilian law enforcement required something more than tasers and wrist-tape. She'd done a brief, half-hour cram of SWAT operational, jacked into a database at CSA headquarters, and had been suitably impressed—CSA SWAT followed a basically practical, professional approach centred on training fundamentals and top-line technolo
gy. It wasn't flashy, but civilian operations rarely were, and the recorded track record looked solid. The last thing she wanted was a last-minute detachment to an overambitious unit determined to stretch themselves beyond their basic capabilities. Vanessa, she noted, had the initials KISS rather flamboyantly emblazoned in black letters on her armoured shoulder—Keep It Simple, Stupid. Although she suspected Vanessa enjoyed the more suggestive interpretation also.
Vanessa tapped her mike function, swivelling fully about to face her troops. "Okay you guys, listen up. Final thoughts. We're after data. If Tetsu's into illegal biotech, we want the evidence. Data has priority, we get the lockdowns in place early, secure the terminals, let the automateds do the job and wait for the Intel geeks to arrive and sift.
"Don't discount the human element. We're not carrying live ammo for nothing. Remember, Tetsu encryption codes were used to purchase the flyers that launched the attack on the President. Yes, we want data connecting Tetsu to the attackers, if it exists, but don't forget the basic point—if there's a direct connection, we've no idea who might be home when we come knocking. For all we know, the building itself might be harbouring armed GIs ... we doubt it, Intel suggests otherwise from surveillance, but we're not taking any risks. Intel want us data focused—I want us people focused. Data won't put a bullet in your head. Any questions?"
There were none. No one looked particularly worried, Sandy noted. They checked equipment, weapons, com-gear, armour tensions and visor readings, occasionally exchanging brief, professional remarks. Singh, Sandy noted, had something emblazoned in Sanskrit across his helmet above the visorplate. A man named Devakul had a similar blaze, this time in Thai. And there were others, too ... she wished her language skills were better. Another thing to work on at some stage. Vanessa's was one of the few in English—a smiley face surrounded by the words 'have a nice day'. Above what would be, when lowered, a fearsome visage of armoured visorplate and breather, in frowning, deadly intent.
Crossover Page 20
