Originator

by Joel Shepherd

  Amirah recalled what Sandy had been saying about the Talee. About synthetic Talee’s high position in Talee society. Was that where humans were heading? Was that a good or bad thing? And would others, like those in the crowd before her, launch a war to stop it from happening?

  “Couple of things,” said Amirah. “First, that’s crap that we don’t get scared. I get scared. I was scared this morning.”

  “You were there? At SIT?”

  Amirah nodded. “Yes. Second, GIs with command skills aren’t as common as you’re suggesting. We talk about this a lot amongst ourselves. We agree that most of us probably aren’t cut out for command . . . but some are, so sure, you’re going to get a fair few of us at senior command levels, especially as new asylum seekers arrive from the League.

  “Third, you’re drawing a line between us and you. Synthetics and organics. It’s also common knowledge that my friend Sandy Kresnov has adopted kids. And several other GIs have gone the same way, while more are thinking about it. I’m considering it myself.”

  “You are?”

  “Definitely. Not anytime soon and when things get much quieter, I hope . . . but one day, sure. Most synthetic people have had organics deciding the course of their lives, for all of their lives. Now that will swing back the other way a little. But it’s a pointless distinction anyway because it doesn’t really exist—we are you. And you are us. And we got attacked today—we, meaning all of us—and I promise you, we, meaning all of us, are going to do something about it.”

  Vanessa saw the cheers from the crowd on the cruiser’s forward display and shook her head in amazement. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said to Sandy, “’cause I know most people would say that the most amazing GIs in Tanusha are either you or Ragi. But I’d go with Amirah. Look at her. She’s young, hasn’t grown up with that much social experience really, but she’s standing alone before a hostile crowd and gets them eating out of her hand. I’ve never seen anyone with that knack, straight or synth.”

  “And it also undercuts her point,” Sandy said sombrely from the passenger seat as Vanessa piloted. “We do have an edge. If the numbers keep building up here, we are going to have a huge number of GIs in senior command, eventually. And we do see things differently.”

  Vanessa made a face. “Making artificial people was always going to cause problems, especially if they’re all smart and dangerous like you. That’s kinda why the Federation thought it’d be smarter not to do it.”

  They were flying to see Jane, who was in an FSA strong point isolated from HQ. Sandy didn’t like that, but Ibrahim had correctly assessed that Jane was a problem, given the deaths she had caused the last time she was here. Some in the FSA held her accountable, and no matter how useful she’d been here, they resented the idea that GIs were held to a separate moral and legal standard. They’d leak it to someone, and then there’d be trouble. So Jane was elsewhere, and hopefully secret for now, from most of the FSA’s own personnel.

  “Problem is,” said Sandy, “Ami’s talking shit and she knows it. League’s making another hundred thousand high-des GIs to deal with their internal security problems. They say they’re all going to be loyal this time, but how many of them you want to bet will turn up here in a few years, asking for asylum?”

  “Probably half,” said Vanessa, gazing out at her city. “God knows where we’ll put them all.”

  “If they all want to work security, we won’t have enough jobs for them here. They’ll have to spread out, other worlds will have to take them.”

  “See anyone volunteering lately?” Vanessa asked drily. “They still think GIs are the cause of half this mess, they’re all quite happy to let Callay take the heat.”

  “They might be right,” said Sandy. Vanessa frowned at her. “Of course, a hundred thousand high-des GIs given special powers to deal with internal instability . . . well, fuck, anything could happen. Given new Talee network tech.”

  Vanessa gazed at her for a long moment. Then grinned. “That’s what I love about you girlfriend, never a dull moment. You don’t think League could control them?”

  “In this environment?” Sandy snorted. “When I had my awakening, I was isolated. A hundred thousand high-des? With net tech that penetrates the lies and bullshit? My handlers didn’t like me watching the wrong movies, the idea that GIs might actually defect to the Federation was unthinkable. Feds were the enemy, they hated GIs, didn’t want us to exist. But now there’s us gang on Callay, big shots in the FSA and CSA . . . hell, you can’t stop smart people from having thoughts. Thoughts like ‘why can’t I do what I want for a change?’”

  “Thoughts like emancipation,” said Vanessa. Sandy nodded. “You got any notion whether that’ll make the League’s situation better or worse?”

  “Nope,” said Sandy. “But it couldn’t be worse. GIs don’t get Compulsive Narrative Syndrome. I’m going to give them the power to take charge, if they want. If there’s a soft coup in a few years, or a hard one, and the power to make war rests in the hands of League GIs, it should be much safer.”

  “Of course it would be creating a new autocracy right next door,” Vanessa added. “Those don’t have great records.”

  “No longer our problem,” Sandy replied with a shrug. “Slave societies don’t deserve democracy. Let them reap what they sow, I’m tired of them dumping it on our . . .” Her uplinks blinked, a priority signal. Vanessa got it too and flicked an incoming transmission onto the cruiser’s forward display.

  “That’s coming from the Callayan Parliament.” It was a press conference, the local construct showed a dozen media feeds going out live. Sandy jumped to one of them and found a visual of a man in a suit, presumably a politician, talking to journalists upon the steps of the Callayan Parliament. “Who’s that?” asked Vanessa.

  “Amit Gaur,” said Sandy as face-rec told her. “Former Shadow Attorney-General.”

  “Crazy,” Vanessa mused. “Remember the days when we’d know the Shadow Attorney-General of Callay on sight?”

  “The world got bigger,” said Sandy.

  “. . . come to my attention that the Federal Security Agency has in its custody a high-designation GI responsible for grave crimes in Tanusha, five years ago. In particular, this individual is responsible for the deaths of two Tanushan civilians. . . .” Sandy refrained from swearing.

  “Someone talked,” Vanessa observed.

  “. . . demand that the FSA be open and transparent about this individual, and should tell us what they intend to do with her. With the lack of transparency demonstrated by the FSA of late, I think we should all be concerned that this individual should not be allowed to escape Callayan justice, and should be made to answer for her crimes.”

  “You’d think with the former Prime Minister in jail the nationalists would shut up for a while,” said Vanessa.

  “Jane did commit those crimes,” Sandy said quietly. “It’s hard to argue with.”

  “Except that she had the psychological maturity of a vacuum bot at the time.” Vanessa peered at Sandy, searching for a reply. “Right?”

  Sandy said nothing.

  They landed on the big house’s rooftop pad. It was HighGate, a very expensive neighbourhood on a slight rise within a river loop. Towers clustered close east and west and farther everywhere else, where visible between lush surrounding trees.

  Sandy and Vanessa went downstairs, had their badges scanned by security, and emerged into familiar Tanushan luxury—a huge, tiled floor between columns, with a sunken lounge adjoining a hall and vast kitchen, and windows looking onto a large garden. Within was a pool, where golden fish drifted beneath green lilies.

  On a reclining chair by the windows sat Jane, reading a paper book. There was a collar about her neck, with inserts into the back of her head, monitoring uplinks. Sandy knew those collars well. Any disagreeable move from Jane, and a shock would knock her unconscious.

  “Who put that on you?” Sandy asked, taking a seat opposite. Vanessa did her customary once-o
ver of the premises, scanning visually and with uplinks. The adjoining rooms contained heavily armed guards, keeping a low profile. Several were GIs—trainees often got shift duty and spent the time studying.

  “It’s okay,” said Jane, lowering the book. She had a red cut across one cheek, smeared with a transparent bandage. She had other shrapnel injuries as well but wore a pair of plain jeans and a shirt that bore the Sadar Institute of Technology logo. Someone’s sense of irony, no doubt. “It was either the collar or restraints. This way I get to walk around. I try to remove it, it zaps me.” No drugs though, Sandy reflected. GIs would usually be given a muscle relaxant to make them less dangerous. But there were other high-des GIs in the house guard, so even if Jane tried something before the zapper activated, she’d do limited damage. “How’s Svetlana?”

  “She’s going to be okay. A few weeks in hospital, but it’s just muscle. She’ll barely notice it in a month or two.”

  “Good,” said Jane, nodding to herself. To call it “relief” would be stretching it, Sandy thought. Satisfaction, perhaps. “She’s a good kid. Danya and Kiril?”

  “Fine. Well, Danya’s not sleeping and Kiril’s upset . . . mentally I think Svet got off best. It’s not good for kids to go through things like that. They shouldn’t have to.” Her voice tightened, and she swallowed hard.

  “But they can get tape, right?”

  “Right. Danya doesn’t like that either, but even he knows that he has to get sleep. I try to tell him that stress is an injury, like shrapnel. But he’s so used to living with stress that he gets stressed at the idea of being without it.”

  “Makes sense to me,” said Jane. “Everything we do and experience has consequences. You try to deny those experiences, you deny who you are. Worse, you lie to yourself and to everyone around you.”

  “The kids want you to come and live with us,” said Sandy. Jane blinked at her. Astonished. “When this is all over.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea.” Mercilessly. Jane wasn’t one for flowery sentiment. “I said I didn’t know if you were safe. To those around you or to yourself.”

  Jane looked out the window. Agitated and a little confused. Then looked back, frowning. “Why do they want me to live with them?”

  “They have this idea that you’re family,” said Sandy. “I said you were pretty messed up. They said join the club.”

  A smile tweaked the corner of Jane’s mouth. She looked amazed. “They do understand that . . . well, I know I called you ‘sis,’ but I’m not stupid. GIs don’t have family.”

  “You didn’t meet Kiet. Kiet thought we were all family. Brothers and sisters, every one.”

  “Sounds painfully idealistic.”

  “You’re the one who found religion.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t shove it on others,” said Jane. “I have a personal relationship with Allah. It’s about me. You may think it’s nuts, or your buddy Amirah—I don’t care. That’s the point, it’s mine. I don’t go around telling every GI I meet that they all need to read the Koran and follow its teachings, or that they’re all my brothers and sisters.”

  “Do you follow its teachings?” Sandy looked about the vast room. “I don’t see a prayer mat.”

  “Because I don’t pray. I’m selective.”

  “Ah.” Sandy repressed a smile. “Nobody really explained this religion thing to you first, did they?”

  “Don’t give me shit about being selective. You’ve been at odds with your own command enough times to get yourself shot, in most places. Director Ibrahim must be a very tolerant man.”

  Sandy gave the ceiling a warning look, then back to Jane. Jane looked unruffled, calm, and faintly amused. And not about to let slip that they were plotting things.

  Vanessa appeared behind Sandy, having finished her inspection, and leaned by the big windows, looking Jane over. “Vanessa, Jane,” said Sandy. “Jane, Commander Vanessa Rice.”

  “Second-in-Command of FSA special operations,” said Jane. “And your best friend, I know.”

  “You saw the politicians are after you now?” Vanessa asked.

  Jane nodded. “So what happens now? Do you hand me over?”

  “No,” said Sandy. “You’re a security asset. You know important things, and federal security takes precedence over Callayan justice.”

  “I bet the guy on the feed just now is going to love that,” Jane said drily. “And all his friends.”

  “It’s not Callayan justice pushing this thing,” Vanessa disagreed. “It’s FedInt. They found out you’re here—not surprising, they’re spies. They were scared of GIs in the FSA getting too much power. Now we’ve got new Talee technology, that power advantage is about to get serious. They’ll set the Supreme Court on us, and Federation public opinion will follow.”

  “Oh, you’ve already lost Federation public opinion,” Jane said wryly. She scratched at her hair and gazed out the windows. Sandy had somewhere along the way acquired a basic concern for appearance, but Jane lacked even that, always preferring drab, practical, and even scruffy. Like a statement of nonchalance, to show how little she was bothered by anything. That she was above all that stuff. Sandy wondered how much of it was an act, if any. “A Federal Security Agency, based on a world half the Federation’s already envious of, now running the Federation single-handedly while the rightful Grand Council sits in limbo. . . .”

  “We do not run the Federation,” Vanessa said firmly.

  “That’s a fact,” Jane agreed. “Versus strongly held opinions, facts aren’t very important. If FedInt makes me the face of the evil synthetic FSA, you might have to let me go. You’ve got other things to do, you can’t sacrifice the FSA’s authority defending me.”

  “If it comes to a trial,” said Sandy, “we’ve got damn good lawyers. You were a different person then, you were made by others to follow orders ruthlessly and without question. . . .”

  “You can’t standardise that,” Jane said calmly. “Laws are about stan-dardising behaviour. I’m a different model of GI. You say I’m responsible for this at this age, but not responsible at that age . . . and then other GIs are responsible at that age, but not at this age . . . and then where does personal responsibility go? The philosophical cornerstone of criminal law? And how many people in the Federation are by now completely sick and tired of GIs being held to a different moral standard than everyone else?”

  “Plenty,” Sandy retorted. “But if they’re going to judge us collectively as synthetics, then they have to take responsibility collectively as organics for making us in the first place. None of this was our idea. Sure as hell wasn’t yours . . . which I told you at the time, if you recall.”

  Jane smiled faintly. Eyes momentarily distant. Sad. “Yes. I recall. Only dimly, but . . .” she took a deep breath. “And fuck it all if you weren’t completely right. About everything. I never thanked you for that. It gave me something to think on, the last six years with Takewashi. After you let me go, when you probably should have killed me. If you hadn’t said those things, I wouldn’t have chosen what I’ve chosen since.”

  “So if they want to bring this to trial,” Sandy continued very firmly, “then we can and will get you off. It’s not your fucking fault, Jane.”

  “Yes, it was,” Jane murmured. She looked out the window again. “I did it. I didn’t have to. If we don’t hold people accountable for their actions, there’s no hope for society.”

  “So you’d kill innocent people again?” Sandy challenged.

  “No.” With a hurt look. Not quite angry. But annoyed. “Of course I wouldn’t.”

  “Hafeez said you’d been Takewashi’s assassin.”

  “Trust me,” Jane said drily. “Takewashi had enemies who deserved it. Including some you’d throw me a fucking party for killing, if I told you.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “One day. I owe Takewashi more discretion, for now.”

  Ibrahim met them by the HQ fr
ont entrance. “Hafeez is gone,” he said. With a very suspicious look. “Just disappeared from our cells. The moment one of our agents went in to ask some questions, he vanished from surveillance. It had been a false image all this time.”

  “Fancy that,” said Sandy.

  “Bursteimer is gone too,” Ibrahim added.

  “To orbit?” Vanessa asked the obvious.

  “No. He never reached Balaji. He and his Fleet escort disappeared off the grid three kilometres out from HQ.”

  Sandy stared at him. “Shit . . . that’s either Talee or FedInt, I fucking warned him! Are we tracing him? What are we . . . ?”

  Ibrahim held up a hand, quite calm. And Sandy was hit by a familiar sensation, confronting Ibrahim—the feeling that she was not at all as in control of the situation as she’d thought. “The thing with Fleet Captains,” he explained, “is that while they’re cunning as wolves in their natural environment, they’re like poor lost sheep on the ground. I had him bugged, something I’m sure even FedInt won’t find.”

  “He’s not dead? It wasn’t Talee?”

  “No. FedInt activated several of their Fleet agents to infiltrate his guard, the very same ones he called from Balaji Spaceport at your request.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Very much so,” said Ibrahim in the manner of an elder schoolmaster lecturing an unruly pupil. “But as with all such rushed jobs, FedInt has been unable to cover their tracks as they’d have preferred.”