PRIDE never claimed responsibility, Raylee recalled. Never denied it either, but it wasn’t typical behaviour for genocidal fanatics. “So FedInt are using League’s problems as a cover? Kill Cresta and blame it on PRIDE?”
“Oh, PRIDE might have done it,” said the GI. “But it wasn’t possible without FedInt help. FedInt have sources in League security. We think they found out Cresta’s defences and leaked it to PRIDE. Or did it themselves.”
“So why are PRIDE here? Talking to Pyeongwha terrorists?”
“Hell,” said the GI. “They don’t pay me that much.”
CHAPTER TEN
Ari blinked hard against the blurred vision of G-stress and tried to flex. It was hard to breathe, and he tried to remember the training—short breath, hold, short breath, hold, tense the diaphragm. Prolonged Gs were now causing vision flashes, something about the compression of the optic nerve about the augmentation nodes. Spacers got different kinds to guard against exactly that, but they weren’t as effective . . . and how likely was he, a groundie who hated spaceflight, likely to be this frequently in space anyway?
He glanced sideways at Captain Reichardt, similarly reclined in his acceleration couch. Reichardt seemed to be sleeping, though more likely he was uplinked and processing. Vanessa, typically restless, was raising arm and leg against the Gs, considering how it felt. Director Boyle looked uncomfortable, but he had wisely had several shots from a strong-smelling flask before launch and looked to be managing. Farthest down the command hold, the two GIs, Poole and Tuli, were completely unbothered.
“That transfer shuttle just docked,” Reichardt announced above the dull roar of thrusters. Despite the consistent 2.8 Gs, his voice barely sounded strained.
“Yeah, their manifest is a mess,” Vanessa replied, uplinked and checking that. “No way it’s legal.”
“You can file against them if you want?”
Vanessa made a face. “Bit petty at this point.”
The shuttle had come from Nehru Station, the main civvie station, to Hanuman Station, the main Fleet station. It was under FedInt jurisdiction, and thanks to the manifest screw-up, they had no idea who or how many were aboard. Renaldo Takewashi’s ship was about to dock at Hanuman, and now FedInt were pouring faceless operatives onto station. Thus this rapid launch from Tanusha, at speeds that were only legal under emergency conditions, now requiring a full deceleration on approach to dock.
“Who has your confidence, on station?” Vanessa asked Reichardt.
“Next question,” said Reichardt. Vanessa gave him a long look, an arm in the air, flexing her right hand against the Gs. Pearl was docked at the station, with its full complement of marines—a First Fleet carrier, so far noncommittal on most of Callay’s recent politics. Mekong, Reichardt’s ride, was accompanying Takewashi’s vessel into station . . . but that meant its marine complement was off-station. “Got a final number on FedInt operatives on station?”
“Pick a number between ten and twenty,” said Vanessa. “They’ve been Fleet infiltrating like crazy, it’s not FSA HQ jurisdiction, nothing we could do.”
“And Ibrahim says we can’t bring Sandy,” Ari muttered. The thrust suddenly cut, and he gasped with relief. Optics showed shuttle trajectory matching station, now less than two Ks out, way within safe zone for approaches. No shit someone would notice that. Almost immediately the side thrust hit, shuttle reorienting a final time for hub docking.
“It was a good call,” said Vanessa. “It’s too personal with her.”
“Yeah, well, I’m tired of getting shot at,” Ari retorted. “And Sandy has a deterrent effect.”
“Hey,” said Poole. “What am I, chopped liver?”
“We’re here to get Takewashi before FedInt do,” Reichardt replied. “I think we can do that without shooting anyone, or having to worry about Sandy shooting Takewashi.”
That wasn’t a real possibility, Ari knew. More that Sandy would set a tone and make Takewashi defensive, which could clam up whatever information they needed immediately. Or other, unforeseen possibilities. Vanessa was right, Sandy and Takewashi in the same place made complications. Takewashi was the self-pronounced father of the synthetic neurology that had created Sandy and all self-conscious GIs. Given what was now known about the true origins of GI sentience, Sandy had a real issue with Takewashi. Even more than she usually did.
“Boyle,” said Ari. “What’s your prediction on FedInt? We’ve got a betting pool, twenty gets you in.”
“I think they’re defending a special recipe for meatloaf,” said Boyle.
“Yeah, me too.” Ari glanced at Reichardt.
“This fucking war,” Reichardt said calmly, watching the shuttle’s docking approach on uplink, “was fought over a series of ideological positions that all proved untenable. The thing with hypocrites is they all have secrets. FedInt’s built up thirty years of secrets in the war, and now nine more after it finished. Whatever it is, it’s big, and it’s probably got friends.”
“If FedInt helped kill Cresta,” Poole volunteered, “seems logical that whatever they killed ex-President Balasingham to hide, Takewashi might know something about. Which might explain why he’s suddenly here.”
And thus the mad rush to stop FedInt getting to him first.
They got off at Hanuman Station hub, a clash of locks and a blast of freezing air, ears popping, then down the tube to main hub, hauling at handles along the guideline in the zero-G with Reichardt in the lead, flipping salutes at spacers who saluted back harder. Vanessa set up tacnet for him as they moved, something she did far better than any spacer, and let it propagate on station networks Ari could vouch the security of.
“LT I want you here asap,” Reichardt told Ndaja, his marine commander, as they went. “Damn the procedures, just blast it to the rim lock and come in armed.”
“Aye, Cap,” said Ndaja.
“Po, put the second shuttle at three-quarters off diameter, full weapons. I don’t want anyone sneaking up on this sucker in dock. Hold Mekong at two point five and await further.”
“Aye, Cap.” That was Po, Reichardt’s second, currently acting-Captain with Reichardt off-ship. Po was new, an experienced Captain of a smaller vessel in the last few years of the war, but carriers were something else again, and no one commanded one without first holding second-chair. Ndaja had been with Reichardt for nearly twenty years, an extraordinary partnership by any measure.
They made the personnel elevator, grabbing rails without time for proper strapping as the car took them down—Ari missed his hold and would have hit the ceiling had not Reichardt snagged an arm and dragged him with the car’s motion. They were all armed, Vanessa, Poole, and Tuli with short rifles; Ari, Reichardt, and Boyle with pistols . . . not that Boyle looked to have any idea what to do with it; it threatened to drift clear of his suit pocket now as his jacket floated up in the descent. No armour, that would have been a breach of protocol too far.
“Tell him to stay in his damn ship,” Reichardt said aloud as the shaft whizzed by the car windows, airless and smooth. Talking to station, Ari saw with a glance at tacnet audio, fighting disorientation as the gravity increased. “Tell him he doesn’t have clearance to leave.”
“He wants to get out,” came station’s reply. “He’s insistent.”
“Well, his own people keep trying to blow up his ship,” Vanessa reasoned, off-line. “Figures he’s safer with us.”
“Tell him . . .” deep breath, “. . . tell him I can’t guarantee his safety if he leaves his vessel.” He glanced at Ari. Could a neuro-synth genius take a hint? Vanessa pulled on a cap from her thigh pocket, calculated the brim to keep the overhead lights out of her vision, then sighted the rifle against the wall, adjusting optics. All business, and preparing to shoot people, if necessary. She was as good at it these days as a lot of GIs. Ari felt his heart thump harder.
“We can’t run, or we risk drawing fire,” Reichardt told her. “At a brisk walk, how long?”
“Twelve minutes,” said Vane
ssa, calculating on the station map. “Thirteen if Boyle finds a brisk walk too much.” Boyle was too distracted by nervous tension to reply. He was a bureaucrat, not a soldier, but he was coping so far, sweaty brow and all.
“Okay, I’ve got people at strongpoints on the main junctions,” Reichardt continued, making mental references on the tacnet map. An incoming audio began flashing. “It’s mostly station security, didn’t rate them more than a bucket of spit in the war, it’s less than that now.”
“I did a two-week exercise run with them a few months ago,” Tuli volunteered, waiting patiently with weapon ready. “A bucket of spit is generous.”
“S’not their fault,” said Vanessa. “They’re techs with guns. You gonna answer that?”
Reichardt answered the new audio. “Captain Reichardt.”
“Hello, Captain, please stand by for a connection with the Grand Committee Chairman.”
“Yeah,” said Reichardt, glancing as the elevator dial counted toward the rim, and gravity approached a full G, “could you tell the Chairman I’m a little busy . . .” Click, as the connection went through. “Great.”
“The Chairman can’t make his own calls?” Vanessa wondered.
“He’s a busy man,” said Reichardt, drily.
Click. “Captain Reichardt,” came Ranaprasana’s voice, “I’m somewhat concerned about what I see described to me as a . . . situation, aboard Hanuman Station. I have a complaint from Chief Shin of Federal Intelligence that you and FSA Command are seeking to deny him access to Mr Takewashi. Is that correct?”
Reichardt looked at the wall as the car’s motion slowed. Lips twisted as he considered. Tell Ranaprasana that they worried FedInt were going to have Takewashi killed? That FedInt were involved in an active cover-up, which, it appeared, had included assisting PRIDE to destroy an entire League moon and kill a quarter of a million people? That FSA HQ had just gone red on FedInt, effectively regarding them as an enemy entity?
“Mr Chairman, this is Special Agent Ari Ruben,” Ari cut in. “I’m with Captain Reichardt at this moment. Sir, you might recall that the FSA’s final report in the aftermath of Operation Shield concluded that there were unaccountable and dangerously autonomous elements within Federal Intelligence whose actions during that crisis remain largely unilluminated. Sir, we feel that those elements may now have negative intentions toward Mr Takewashi.”
The car stopped, and the elevator doors opened. Everyone yawned to pop their ears as the pressure changed, Vanessa immediately in the doorway with rifle ready to be extended, checking quickly one way then the other.
“Agent Ruben, it is my task to investigate all agencies involved in the Operation Shield events, including FSA HQ and the CSA.” Vanessa indicated that they move, Tuli joining her side, Reichardt behind, then Ari and Boyle, with Poole guarding the rear. The tight metal corridors were nothing as pleasant as the civilian stations, all exposed rivets and panels, with no sign of people. “I’m alarmed by FSA HQ’s tendency to accuse other agencies of improper conduct, and then to declare jurisdiction and run by decree. Federal institutions and agencies should work collegiately together on these matters. I would like to see FSA and FedInt working together on this Takewashi matter, with equal access to all. Failure to do so could see FSA receiving unfavourable mentions in my final report.”
“Understood, Chairman Ranaprasana,” Reichardt said sweetly, striding on long legs after Tuli and Vanessa. “We will endeavour to cooperate with your wishes in entirety.”
And disconnected before the Chairman could try again.
“Say, where’d you learn to speak fluent bullshit?” Vanessa wondered, quick-scanning up side corridors as they passed, small legs at nearly a jog to stay ahead of Reichardt.
“Academy,” said Reichardt. “They run a special course, along with brown-nosing and ass-licking.”
“Aren’t those kind of the same thing?” Poole wondered from the back.
“Well, you’d have failed,” said Reichardt. They turned left onto a junction corridor, past station security watching them warily. No one saluted—on duty they didn’t have to, but Ari thought it was more than that. Fleet, so united during the war, remained riddled with factionalism. Reichardt was as loathed by many as he was loved by some.
“Captain,” came Ndaja’s voice, “we’re docked. Two minutes to unseal, we’ll be on scene in seven.”
“Copy, LT.”
At the next junction more security were blocking the way, several with face masks. A station officer stepped forward to Reichardt, a hand raised.
“Captain, we’ve a pressure drop in Section 14 A through D, pressure doors are down.”
“Open them, we’ll risk it.”
“Sir, I must insist you detour to Level Three rearside, that will take you through . . .”
Reichardt pulled his pistol and levelled it at the officer’s head. “Open the doors. You have five seconds.”
The officer paled and hurried to comply. Station security stared wide-eyed. Vanessa and Tuli watched them intently. Any twitch toward their weapons would see them gunned down well short of firing, and they all seemed to know it. Ari recalled those constitutional arguments claiming that the mere presence of GIs in one security institution but not in others upset the fundamental power balance. Damn right it did.
The heavy doors opened to a wail of sirens. Reichardt holstered his pistol. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Carry on.”
They walked fast, Poole walking half-backward to keep all in sight. Trying his reflexes would be just as much the death sentence as with Vanessa and Tuli.
“What if there really is a pressure drop?” Ari wondered.
“Then the whole station will absorb the pressure difference for a few minutes and there might be a slight breeze to ruffle your curly hair,” said Reichardt. “Fucking amateurs.”
Ari didn’t ask if Reichardt would have pulled the trigger.
They exited onto station docks opposite Takewashi’s berth, a wide, cold expanse of curved steel decking. A glance each way up the sloping horizon showed no pressure doors down, no sign of emergency or depressurisation issues. Gathered around the main access tube to the newly docked ship were station personnel and several dark suits. They turned now to see Reichardt approaching with his small group.
“Marks left,” Vanessa formulated on tacnet audio. Tacnet highlighted several watching suits along the inner left wall, another behind a dock transport two berths down, scattered personnel in between. Tuli and Poole could put bullets on those marks in a split second if required; Vanessa, only a fraction longer than that. Still Ari wished Sandy were here—she could do it in several directions at once, almost doubling her killing arc over even high-designation GIs.
“Marks right,” Poole added, highlighting targets that way. They formed out, three killers, open on the dock with guns still pointed at the plating but ready to come up at the slightest provocation. Ari and Boyle continued behind Reichardt, up to the berth.
“Agent Raman,” said the lead FedInt, empty-handed and palms out. That was smart. “FedInt wasn’t provided with any explanation of your purpose here, Captain?”
“FOG claiming jurisdiction on Fleet authority, on behalf of FSA HQ.”
“Ah.” Raman scratched his nose. “Would have been simpler if you’d said that from the start.”
“But so much less fun.” From up the sloping docks, a vehicle came humming, dodging working runners and pedestrians. On its back, Lieutenant Ndaja and four more armoured Mekong marines.
“Director Boyle,” Boyle identified himself, though the FedInts doubtless knew that. “Chief, League Affairs. We get first dibs.”
A dry smile from the spook. “Ranaprasana doesn’t think so.”
Sandy sat in the command chair of SO1 and watched the operation unfold. The shuttle carrying Takewashi was arcing about on final approach, through multiple looming thunderclouds. SO1 circled Balaji Spaceport, an hour’s flight from Tanusha. Two other FSA flyers flew support patterns, and drones made low pas
ses over jungle and farms between here and the city outskirts.
FedInt agents were accompanying Takewashi also, by Rana prasana’s order. It made everyone nervous. Word was that Takewashi had shut up completely upon seeing those tensions for himself and was now not talking to anyone. The four GIs who had accompanied him were coming down on another shuttle. All noncombat designation, all female. Voluptuous, the word was. Subservient. It made Sandy want to smack Takewashi around even more. A few of her male non-GI colleagues were more amused at her reaction than at Takewashi’s companions. “Feminism” had never been her thing—it presumed a degree of identification with mainstream Federation gender roles that she simply didn’t possess. But this, she understood. And had some satisfaction that Vanessa might smack him around for her on the way down.
In the meantime, she had to keep Takewashi alive. The weather was poor, flight control showed the shuttle bounding in the thermals on the approach. Ari would hate that, being as disenchanted with flying as with space travel. Vanessa would probably be asleep. Or pretending to be, while keeping an eye on the FedInt agents on the shuttle with them. Rain swept across green forest in sweeping grey veils, hiding the nearby mountains. Such pretty country, across the northern continent. So little of it she’d gotten to see, even now. Her life was the city, and her rural recreation was the beach.
The shuttle landed, a cloud of white smoke from the tires. Another ten minutes until transfer to a flyer. Then a secure transmission from Ari.
“We have confirmation of new FedInt agents on standby at shuttle docking. Request clearance for removing Takewashi clean, if we have to.”
“You have clearance,” came Ibrahim’s reply. “Just try to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”
Because Takewashi might provide the first clue what the hell was going on in the League, and who killed Cresta, and why. Well, PRIDE killed Cresta, that much seemed certain . . . but the GI who broke into Raylee’s apartment said FedInt leaked them the information they needed to do it. Which jibed with Captain Reichardt’s assessment of Cresta’s considerable defences, and that it had to have been an inside job. FedInt could have done that. But then, it seemed to Sandy, so could ISO, or League Fleet, or any other combination of League forces. So why the suspicion on FedInt?
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