Crossover

by Joel Shepherd

  There was little to be found on database. The storage units were so huge even Sandy, with her dramatically enhanced data-processing capability, had few ideas where to start. Cody did, and eagerly awaited legal instruction to carry out a search through his beloved data for offending and illegal material (a notion that appeared to intrigue him), but legal instruction, besides shutting off all unauthorised access or transfer, was yet to arrive, so there was little else to do with the local network systems. That left physical storage.

  "Hey Sandy," Bjornssen said as they entered the 65th-floor lab, "need a spare?" Standing beside a transparent cylinder of clear, red-tinged liquid, within which an extremely human-looking leg hung suspended. Vanessa gave him a dark look, and clumped off past rows of other cylinders toward the stowage lockers. Sandy made a more graceful armoured progress to Bjornssen's side, and peered at the limb.

  "Won't do me any good," she said mildly. "It's made for you. My brain doesn't speak the same language. You stick that on me it'll be useless."

  "What is the red stuff?" asked Sharma, moving further along the row, gazing at yet more suspended body parts with morbid fascination, heavy rifle balanced over her armoured shoulder.

  Sandy thought back over what little she knew of human biosynth. "Bio-environment, I guess. See the monitors?" Pointing a gloved finger at the cap seal on each cylinder end. "I guess it's a way of acclimatising each part before attachment. That's a full synthetic-biological environment in there, lots of micro-thingys floating about. I guess that's the red tinge."

  "Micro-thingys," said Bjornssen, raising a blonde eyebrow in her direction. "That's a technical term, is it?"

  "I'm a grunt, Sven, not a biotechnician. Besides, this is supposed to be based on your biology—it's got nothing to do with me."

  "Yes, but you are the GI," Sharma replied with a theatrical head-tilt, "you are supposed to know these things. I mean, logically, just as Sven, being a regular organic human, can doubtless recite the technical terms for each and every part of his own physical anatomy."

  "I was just asking," Bjornssen replied, hands up, signalling a strategic withdrawal. Sandy thought that wise. Indian women were good with words. Some were lethal. Bjornssen evidently had the sense to know when he was outmatched. Uplinked, Sandy sensed an active probe in the regional security net and turned to see Vanessa fiddling a direct connection to a wall panel between rows of cold stowage racks in sliding shelves.

  "That any good?" Sandy asked. Vanessa made a face, tapping buttons.

  "Sure. Deny all access to uncleared company personnel. What good's it going to do if the FIA's got people in senior middle management on the payroll?" Disconnected her insert plug and folded the coil to a loop, one end hooked into the collar socket where the helmet connection would normally go. Walked along the aisle of stowage racks, checking lighted lock displays with a critical eye. Paused at one, tapped in a code, and yanked at the shelf. It slid open, and Sandy strolled over to look.

  Beneath clear, hard plastic were circular partitions. In each, things appeared to be growing. Micro-things, in weird patterns and colours.

  "Nano?" Vanessa wondered.

  "More likely synth," Sandy replied, shifting to maximum zoom ... it didn't help much, micro was micro and her zoom didn't even get close. "That's where the money is these days."

  "Yeah, it's also where the restrictions are. I don't like this security much, doubt it's going to pass inspection."

  "What would? If the FIA were helping get League tech in this far?" With a questioning look at Vanessa, vision doing a fast readjustment. Vanessa gave an exasperated shrug.

  "You can tell the powers that be their grand campaign for the preservation of natural human biology is doomed to failure no matter what they do. I just collect my pay-cheques." And gazed back down at the shelf-display. "I can't even see the difference. Looks like a bunch of regular cell cultures to me."

  "That's the point." Some streaked across their circular solution-dishes in straight lines, others in fuzzy masses, some colourful, some bland. "If you could tell the difference, it wouldn't work. This is the important stuff, though ... big structures are important, but for serious synthetic biology it's all these small systems that really matter. Anyone can make a replica human limb—making it function like a real limb is the real trick. And that's all microsystems. Where the League's real edge is, of course." Silence for a moment as Vanessa considered that, but for the clumping of armoured footsteps in further parts of the lab as Sharma and Bjornssen continued their once-over.

  "How much of this kind of stuff would they have got from you?"

  "Plenty." She was nearly surprised that she could think on it so calmly. But she was armed, armoured and operational, which meant calm came naturally. "Nerve endings, feedback mechanisms ... the whole self-regulatory system, it's all micro. Can't study it on dead war casualties—you need a live subject. And my neurology's different from any other GI's. Interacts differently with my physical systems. Using me for an active comparison against what they've already gathered from other GIs ... yeah." She shrugged, mostly invisible within the armour. "Invaluable, I guess." She looked up. Found Vanessa looking at her, slightly incredulous.

  "Pretty expensive for a grunt, aren't you?"

  Sandy managed a faint smile in return.

  "I'm worth it." The smile faded. "At least the FIA seem to think so."

  "The last time a BT company cornered a major market segment like that was Zhangliang Inc. fifty years ago with self-replication programming. That's corporate folklore. They got such a monopoly the Federation government had to split the company. They created a whole new market field almost overnight. Trillions of Feddie dollars. And they wonder if BT corps fiddle around the restrictions at all... Christ, it doesn't take a genius when you figure the money. And the fear of someone else getting there first."

  Sandy sighed. "I dunno. If it weren't for the FIA, maybe the restrictions would work."

  "Centrally imposed restrictions haven't had a huge record of success in market economies. Decentralisation creates wealth. Wealth rules."

  "And you think about this a lot?" Looking at the small SWAT lieutenant curiously.

  Vanessa smiled. "I did an MBA remember? It's a hard conclusion to escape."

  "I don't know." Glumly, stretching her achingly stiff shoulders. "Human systems exist to serve human ideals and principles—they always have."

  "The systems determine the ideals, Sandy," Vanessa said firmly. "That's humans. We're adaptive, we don't cling indefinitely to things that don't work in new environments."

  "That's ideological determinism," Sandy replied. And gave her another curious look. "You're arguing like you're from the League."

  Vanessa smiled. "And you like you're from the Federation. Fancy that."

  * * * *

  She completed a physical inspection of several floors of security systems, searching for blind triggers that weren't hooked to the central network. Official personnel were descending in droves and the corridors were increasingly filled with departmentals, some in suits, others in Labs & Research in white coats and lugging gearbags of analysis equipment. She watched the people with as much attention and more interest than the security systems, noting their uniforms, official or otherwise, their gear, their manner, ID tags and general efficiency. Civilian personnel. She'd never seen so many, not working on the job like this. Not while armoured and armed in the aftermath of a raid. But they seemed efficient enough and spared her barely a glance in the corridors, evidently accustomed to working in the presence of SWAT.

  Up on the executive floors, her uplinks showed the meetings with Milanovic and the Tetsu bigwigs were intensifying. Already the upper landing pads were a constant traffic snarl of incoming and outgoing government flyers and cruisers. About them, and on the surrounding networks, media were clustering like carrion eaters on the scene of a fresh kill. They kept their distance for now—the hunters were still feeding—but that would not last. The prospect made her nervous. And impat
ient, as she completed yet another section of corridor, past labs and test-spaces, squeezing past a large piece of equipment several whitecoats were wheeling between offices.

  "Ricey," she radioed on basic SWAT freq, "how long's this interrogation going to last?"

  "Dunno," came the voice in her earpiece, "could be hours. There's the whole CSA Intel to get through then the specs from tech-gov ..." That, Sandy had gathered, was the department in charge of enforcing biotech restrictions. "... then cross-exam from the evidence we find, if any, and then the corporate squad might want to grill them about cashflow technicalities and the like. That's how they catch half this illegal stuff when they do—it shows up in the books somewhere."

  "That sounds like it could take days." The lab corridors opened into a floor entrance foyer, big elevators and electronic displays for guidance. A secure transparent wall, centred by a scan-equipped door, blocked the labs from new arrivals. Big, gold letters on the fake-marble walls opposite the elevators read TETSU LIFE SCIENCES. And below it, in more subdued lettering, Research Division. Several suits and whitecoats clustered there beyond the secure-wall, deep in conversation.

  "It's been known to." With the flippant disregard she'd expect of a SWAT grunt for Intel chicanery.

  Sandy triggered the secure-door with a mental uplink signal, the side panel light blinked green and beeped. Several of the whitecoats glanced her way as the transparent door swung ... beyond the glass in the office adjoining the foyer, she noted, several more suits were going through desks and drawers. Beyond sprawled the city, darkening beneath black morning clouds. So much plexiglass, she pondered, breaking up the marble and hard walls. Tanushans loved their views.

  "We don't have days. I've got some questions I'd like to ask now."

  "Um, yeah, well, clever folk in Intel can get real touchy about their territory ... I'd suggest you wait until there's a break in the schedule."

  "Ibrahim didn't put me on this job so I could wait my turn." Paused by a water fountain and bent for a sip ... not an easy manoeuvre in armour.

  "Sandy, Intel know you're here, Ibrahim told them ... I'm sure they'll invite you up when they're ready..."

  "At the speed the FIA could be moving, any wasted time is too much." Leaning one glove-armoured hand on the drink fountain, watching the suits stripping the office behind adjoining glass walls. "Ibrahim put me here to make use of my judgement. Do you want to come with me, or should I just go in there alone?" That last because it was prudent, and she had no wish to be a loose cannon ... such things went down badly in civilian and military environments both.

  Vanessa gave an exasperated snort. "Look, can you wait just five minutes?"

  "No." Headed for the elevator. Prudence did not, however, impact upon her sense of efficiency. "Get there when you can. Don't worry, I won't kill anyone."

  "Gee, you promise?"

  The elevator paused several times on the way up, admitting or expelling passengers. Some wore less formal civvies—some government departments, she knew, were less strict on dress codes than others. Most of the less formal wore salwar kameez or saris. Exceptions, she guessed, were granted on cultural grounds above most else. All the civvies kept a respectful distance from the sinister-looking armoured figure in the elevator's rear corner. Which was only prudent.

  There were three CSA agents in the car when it hit the main Executive Level—Investigations, she guessed from the chatter, which concerned legal technicalities that went entirely over her head. She gestured them ahead of her when the doors opened, and followed. This elevator foyer was no bigger, but decorative ... hell, it was patterned glass and wood panelling on the walls, polished floors, tasteful corridors and a number of intent-looking personnel on the move. Uplinked to the general location, she guessed a direction and followed the three suits to the left. They all turned into a broad meeting room ... a glimpse as she passed of a huge, gleaming table for perhaps twenty, massive graphical display screens for presentations ... the ostentation told its own story—of a corporate culture not ashamed to openly display such profligate wealth. Everything gleamed and caught the eye, from polished windows to paintings on the walls, a small sculpture upon a miniature table inset in a corner ... she turned another corner and was in the main northside hall, broad and panelled, big glass doors at the far end that led to the Executive Office.

  And who said civilian societies didn't recognise rank, she thought sourly as she advanced. The whole grand passageway was constructed like a temple, stairs ascending to the grand altar. Kneel before your God. Overcast morning light gleamed grey beyond the glass doors ahead, silhouetting the two CSA guards who flanked it. And those would be the great lord's guardian angels, she reckoned. Both men, tall, broad and impassive. 'Heavies', in civvie lingo.

  "Any problem?" one of them asked as she approached with a clump of armoured footsteps on the broad, polished floor.

  "I'm Cassidy," she told them. Even Ibrahim wasn't using her real name about the CSA. The old identity served well enough. The civilian one. "I've come to see Milanovic." Stopped before them. They stared at her closely. Both a full head taller, despite her armour.

  "You're Cassidy." The shaved-headed agent. Like he didn't believe her. She gave him a look. To his credit, he didn't flinch. Maybe he really didn't believe her.

  "I've got some questions," she said calmly. "Ibrahim's business." That unfroze them, after a pause. One reported into his headset mike, terse and businesslike. Both continued to stare at her. A moment later the big doors opened and a new agent appeared—young and European with slicked black hair. To her irritation, he stood before her and let the doors shut behind him. His gaze was just as wary as those of the two guards.

  "You're Cassidy?"

  No, I'm the Porn-a-Sim cyber hump-bunny of the month. Are you deaf?

  "Yes," she said instead. The man's gaze furrowed, as if slightly incredulous. Or more than slightly. A half-exasperated grin escaped his control then was quickly swallowed. Sandy watched this procession of expressions, halfway between curiosity and the unpleasant, sinking feeling that things here were a hell of a lot more complicated than they ought to be.

  "And what do you want?" the young agent asked, resuming a fair approximation of a straight face. He was deaf.

  "I have questions for Milanovic," she replied. She was not often afflicted by impatience. But this was different. Urgent. "I'm on this raid because Ibrahim put me here personally, I need to put these questions to him and I need to do it fast."

  "Look, um ... Ms Cassidy." Scratching his jaw, as if wondering how to put it. "There's, um, kind of a busy schedule right now, as you might see ..." She glanced past him and the glass doors. The office beyond opened onto an immense span of city-view windows and was crammed with people, sitting and standing, milling and talking in groups, conferencing around data screens inside and outside the main office. "I'm afraid you're really just going to have to wait your turn. Everyone's business is equally important here."

  "Tell that to Ibrahim."

  "Lady, we all work for Ibrahim. Take a number." Sandy stared at him. In Dark Star she had rank on her shoulder to get past these obstacles. Plus no one messed with Dark Star, let alone a Captain. And if that failed, she could simply push her way in—Dark Star were expected to be slightly crazy, and no one was stupid enough to retaliate with like force—they'd just throw their hands up with resigned disgust. If she tried that here, someone might just be stupid enough to try to stop her. Which would not do at all. And she couldn't just contact Ibrahim. He was no doubt busy, and it surely would do her own credibility no good to be calling on the boss at the first sign of an obstacle ... Civilians. How the bloody hell did one deal with protocol nonsense like this?

  "What's your name, kid?" came Vanessa's voice from back down the hall, above the muffled thump of approaching armour, a fast, light stride. The young agent frowned over Sandy's shoulder.

  "My name is Agent Patziano," with an emphasis suggesting a dislike at being called 'kid'. "Lieutenant...?"
>
  "Rice," Vanessa drawled, "I led the raid that got you armchair wonders in here without getting your pretty suits creased. How'd you like to feature on my report to Krishnaswali—all about how you blocked Ibrahim's special addition to my team from doing the job she was personally assigned by him to perform? I reckon that'd hit Ibrahim's vision within about five minutes of my submission."

  Patziano stared at her. The towering guards to either side offered no comment. Vanessa stopped before him, and gave a pleasant smile.

  "Well?"

  Patziano blinked and looked at Sandy. Sandy waited. She was good at that, given something to wait for.