Originator

by Joel Shepherd

  “Hang on, hang on,” Vanessa interrupted. “Bursteimer and Hafeez went missing together?”

  Ibrahim looked from one to the other with feigned patience. “You didn’t tell her?” he asked Sandy.

  Vanessa looked archly at Sandy. “Tell me what?”

  “Well, you see,” said Ibrahim, “your dear, trusted synthetic friend has decided that only other synthetics can be trusted on these matters. She arranged for Hafeez to escape, with Bursteimer.”

  “Bursteimer’s not synthetic,” Sandy said sullenly.

  “No,” Ibrahim conceded. “Bursteimer was going to take Hafeez somewhere in the League, where they were going to wrangle up some League Fleet ships . . . though Allah knows why they’ll listen to Bursteimer after he’s just destroyed one of their cruisers.”

  “They’ll listen to Hafeez,” Sandy retorted. “He’s senior . . . God damn it, you know where they are?”

  “Of course I know where they are,” Ibrahim said mildly.

  Vanessa was still looking at her, not upset but irritated in the way a friend might be at unsurprising yet exasperating behaviour. Sandy opened her mouth to defend herself, then stared again at Ibrahim, eyes narrowing. “You traced them some way that FedInt can’t detect? FedInt are spies, how do you . . .”

  Because FedInt were very good at detecting bugs and covering their tracks. Unless the trace was an uplink trace, but Bursteimer didn’t have that kind of uplink tech, at least not that would work in an urban environment. But Hafeez did. So how could Ibrahim have gotten Hafeez to . . .

  “Oh god,” she exclaimed as it came to her. “You talked to Hafeez? You turned him?”

  “Let’s not get dramatic,” said Ibrahim. “We agreed to cooperate, in this eventuality.”

  “But if FedInt only moved against Bursteimer, and Hafeez wasn’t with him . . .” she rolled her eyes as that came to her as well. “You knew I was going to do this, didn’t you?”

  Ibrahim gave her a patronising look. “You as good as announced it to me, last we talked. And I do know you rather well.”

  “And you’d have stopped me if you thought my plan was completely stupid!”

  Ibrahim conceded with a nod. “Cassandra, my office is watched rather closely. Hando is somewhat sympathetic to Ranaprasana and has been reporting to him, unsuspecting that I’m onto him. He’s not the only one.” Sandy remembered Ibrahim warning her that it was more complicated than she knew. “And if you’re going to work behind my back, I’m going to work behind yours. I like your plan, Cassandra. But it suits me better for the time being to be seen opposing it, inside the FSA and out. And I think your little team probably works better independently, rather than going through me all the time.”

  Sandy could have hugged him. Mostly, she suspected, Ibrahim had just wanted to see what they’d do. He liked to let independent experts have their head, and the more advanced the network tech became, the less within his comfort zone he felt.

  “Sir,” said Vanessa, “Shin keeps kidnapping our people. I vote we should do something about it.”

  “Oh, but you see,” said Ibrahim with a very rare glint in his eye, “he did far worse than kidnap one of our people. He kidnapped a Fleet Captain. He wouldn’t have done it if he’d thought I was entirely in control of my synthetic employees. Appearing to be out of control has its advantages.”

  “You’ve told Reichardt?” Sandy gasped.

  “And several of his newly arrived friends,” Ibrahim confirmed. “They’ve been coming in since Takewashi’s arrival, just in time to hear about the Talee attack and now FedInt’s opposition to any response, including the abduction of one of their Captains. They are quite displeased.”

  Sandy presented her ID at the FITH-Q front gate and waited. It was another warm Tanushan evening, the flicker of intermittent lightning upon distant orange storm clouds. Insects gathered in clusters about street lamps in the nearby park, where locals took an after-work stroll, with no apparent idea what this oddly charming building by the parkside, lost amidst a thicket of native trees, truly was. The gate clicked open, and she walked in, shoes crunching on gravel.

  The main door opened as she approached beneath the ornate stone frame and into the atrium, where suited FedInt agents awaited. “Commander,” said one respectfully. “What can I do for you?”

  “We seem to have misplaced a Fleet Captain,” said Sandy. “I heard a whisper he might be here.”

  The agent smiled. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  “It was a very strong whisper,” Sandy insisted. And waited while that was relayed to someone via uplink. Then, after a moment, she was beckoned to follow down the main hall. Into the old-style, high-ceilinged interior, where busy agents at various terminals spared her wary looks, then up the stairs at the back. And finally, to the same room in which Takewashi had been kept when she’d come to visit him here.

  In that room, on the same decorative chairs, sat Captain Bursteimer, Chief Shin, and Chairman Ranaprasana. Ranaprasana and Shin rose. Bursteimer did not, looking at her critically. Perhaps covering for a bad case of embarrassment.

  “Nice to see there are still two gentlemen in this line of work,” she told Bursteimer pointedly. “Chief, Chairman. Captain.”

  “Commander, please join us,” said Ranaprasana, coming to take her hand. He was a small man, grey-haired with a thick Tamil accent and a penetrating squint to his expression. “A drink?”

  “Whisky, straight.” Which got an odd look, but another agent went to attend to that. This seemed the time to be demonstrating the synthetic invulnerability to hard liquor, among other things. She took a seat on the sofa alongside Bursteimer. “How are you, Burstie?”

  “I’m fine, Commander, you?”

  “Very well. Take a wrong turn?” Bursteimer took the teasing with relatively good grace.

  “The Chief and I were just discussing the alarming new plan we hear that Fleet and the FSA are hatching,” said Ranaprasana. “To declare war on an alien race. Is this true?”

  “They declared war on us,” said Sandy, accepting her drink. “Perhaps you missed it.”

  “This is unacceptable,” said Ranaprasana very firmly. “This kind of thing makes one think that perhaps the people who were implementing Operation Shield had a point.”

  “We’re going to Pantala,” Sandy replied, taking a sip. “With a League invitation. We think the Talee have factions. We think one faction has taken Pantala.”

  “A League matter.”

  “League invited us.”

  “From your dungeons?” Ranaprasana scoffed. “You trust the word of an ISO agent?”

  “Say,” Sandy wondered, “where is our ISO friend anyway?”

  “He jumped out,” said Bursteimer. “When our cruiser’s controls were taken. At about five hundred meters.”

  Sandy shook her head faintly at Shin. “Sloppy.”

  Shin shrugged. “It’s proof enough of what you’re up to. Federal Security should consider its position.”

  “Commander,” Ranaprasana said angrily, “the PGC’s current primary task is to consider alterations to the Federation constitution in light of recent upheavals. I trust you understand that the position of the FSA itself is in question. The FSA is acting like a loose cannon. New controls can be written into the constitution if necessary.”

  “You’re assuming,” Sandy replied, “that a fully functioning Grand Council wouldn’t support us.”

  “Absolutely I’m assuming that!” Ranaprasana retorted. “I think it a certainty.”

  “And who elected you?” She gazed at him pointedly.

  The Provisional Grand Council Chairman straightened. “You think my views that unrepresentative? I was appointed on the authority of the member worlds of the Federation.”

  “And I believe that if the relevant officials of those worlds were to assemble in a security council, like the one we had before Operation Shield trashed everything, those experts would agree with me that the FSA’s current actions were
the only sensible course. Now this is all hypothetical, because without a functioning democratic system, there is only one unelected tyrant—me, versus another unelected tyrant—you. In the absence of such a system, what are we to do?”

  “I’m not about to negotiate this, Commander,” the Chairman insisted. “Either the FSA changes course or prepares for a future constitution that negates its power.”

  “You declaw the Federation just after we’ve been attacked? Then you’re no better than Operation Shield. You saw what we did to Operation Shield.”

  Ranaprasana’s jaw set. “Are you threatening me, Commander?”

  “I’m stating facts. Whether you choose to take them as a threat depends entirely on you.” From somewhere outside FITH-Q walls, there came a whining noise, getting louder. “Do you gentlemen know why democracy was invented? People today seem to think it was about all this cute, touchy-feely stuff about making everyone’s voice heard. In actual fact, that had nothing to do with it.”

  The whining became a keening, louder all the time, and Ranaprasana and Shin looked to the windows in alarm. Bursteimer remained seated, smiling as he recognised the sound.

  “Democracy was invented,” Sandy continued, “as a dispute-solving mechanism between factions. Without it, the only way to decide the outcome of a dispute was violence. And then the idiot with the biggest axe would win, and idiots with axes often make very poor choices, so democratic institutions were created to transition societies through various disagreements, and decide outcomes, without everyone having to kill each other all the time.”

  Chief Shin went to the windows and peered out onto the pretty green park next door. Hovering over it, at an altitude of several hundred meters, was a Fleet assault shuttle, the kind of monster that was never allowed to penetrate city skylanes except in extreme emergencies. Engines roared fit to rattle every suburban window for a kilometre, and weapons systems capable of punching holes through space stations now levelled upon the FITH-Q’s stone walls. From several lower portals, armoured assault suits were jumping in squads to take up position on the perimeter.

  “So here we are,” Sandy continued. “With our own domestic dispute-solving mechanism currently out of order. Who do you think will win any given dispute in such a situation?”

  Hovering behind Shin’s shoulder, Ranaprasana stared at her in horror. Bursteimer smiled and got to his feet. “The person with the biggest axe,” he said. “And as axes go . . .” he nodded out the window. “Trust me, it’s a beauty.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Ranaprasana exclaimed in horror. “This is madness!”

  “You abducted a Fleet Captain in time of war,” Sandy told him. “In some statutes you’d be lined up and shot.”

  “Abducted? We’re just having a little chat! I assure you I had no intention of . . .”

  “He was under FSA protection,” Sandy retorted. “You took him. Against his will, without consulting us or Fleet. We had no idea where he was, for a little while at least. If our Director weren’t so damn good at this game, we still might not know now.”

  “And this isn’t a time of war!” Ranaprasana came back, again looking to Shin. Shin remained silent, formulating on uplinks as commotion doubtless broke out throughout the building. Unwilling to support the Chairman, not now. He knew he’d lost this round and would pin the whole thing on Ranaprasana—Shin himself had just been following instructions. Of course. “The FSA does not get to decide when the Federation is at war!”

  “Normally you’d be right, but with the GC out of order, we do, and Fleet does. And unlike Operation Shield—this time, Fleet’s with us.” The FSA hadn’t paid enough attention to Fleet the last time, before Operation Shield. Now FedInt and Ranaprasana made the same mistake. When central government broke down, Fleet became the true power in the Federation. They were very poor at making decisions but very good at picking sides once someone else had made them.

  “Commander,” said Bursteimer, “should we go? Don’t want to keep our ride waiting.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Combat jump was different from civilian jump. Once upon a time, as a green Dark Star Lieutenant who felt the need to know everything about the aspects of modern combat that affected her troops, Sandy had looked into faster-than-light physics and the various modalities thereof employed by League Fleet in operations. She’d quickly decided as smart as she was, the space in her brain was far more usefully employed on other matters, because unless you had multiple physics doctorates and dreamed every night in algebra, it was almost incomprehensible.

  And so she knew what any other grunt did about FTL—civilian jump was disorienting and occasionally made you sick. But combat jump was painful. She blinked about herself now, head swimming, like awakening from the deepest sleep. Her head wouldn’t come clear, and her mouth tasted like acid. A sip of water would be nice, but she had her faceplate down . . . and further disorientation, because combat jump back in the League was not done in full armour like this armour. League armour was basic assault layout, full environment but light, you could unstrap, pop the faceplate, turn your head. This was hopper-armour, FSA-style, and everything was strapped down and immobile, like her own private spaceship.

  She blinked on faceplate graphics as her uplinks took time to acquire. Direct feed from Mekong, it showed her command feed, which was . . . unusual. In Dark Star, they’d never let her see unfiltered bridge data, but FSA command was different. She blinked, fighting the unaccustomed sensation of double vision. Her muscles ached, old injuries twinging, but she dared not stretch properly in case she damaged the still-inert armour. Vision resolved into . . . a planet. Various ideal approach lanes, outlaid by Mekong’s nav comp.

  Then came bridge-chatter, a lot of talk about optimum-this, and outlaid-that; even with all her Dark Star experience it was hard to make sense of. But the graphics didn’t lie. They were inbound on Pantala, less than fifteen minutes out at present speeds, but they’d start shedding speed soon, before increased proximity to planetary mass made that hazardous. Barely thirty-five minutes with adjusted velocity. Now to begin hunting for defences and trying to make sense of what they were up against, if anything.

  Local tacnet established, just her unit. “All marks, this is Snowcat, report in.” They called back, one after another—not strictly necessary as their suit schematics and vitals were all available to her, but she preferred to do it audibly, just for the reassurance of human voices. Most advanced combat unit in the Federation they may have been, but very few of them had done a Fleet-supported system assault before.

  When they were done, Lieutenant Ndaja called. “Hello, Snowcat, do you have status?”

  “Hello, Strike One, we’re all good.” And she relayed that status to Reichardt, who would see it indicate somewhere on his vision. He didn’t need the details; he was far too busy—just that little green light to tell him his strike force was ready. Now he just had to deliver it in one piece.

  “Okay, boys and girls,” she told her team, “looks like we’re in and clear. Should be quiet for another few minutes, then it gets interesting.”

  Approach was the worst. Thirty minutes. You could die any second, though the statistics said it was most likely immediately after arrival (if the enemy had a good ambush set up) or as you neared your destination. They were still alive, so it seemed there was no ambush. And now began a space of time too long to be lively and too frightening to be boring, where the seconds felt like minutes, and the minutes like hours, where at any moment all hell could break loose, or some piece of unseen ordnance or dark obstacle on the approach could kill everyone onboard before you even knew you were dead.

  To calm herself she flipped a recording onto her vision, where it played as background, unobtrusive enough to not be distracting. It was the kids, out surfing—she’d tasked a micro-drone to film them a few times, ostensibly so they could watch their best rides together later on. But also, she’d known that when the inevitable foreign mission came, leaving them was going t
o be hell, and a few still images weren’t going to be enough. And so she watched them now, multitasking on several things as she in particular knew how, and smiled at the sight of Danya on a wave, with Svetlana whooping in the background.

  The kids were with Rhian. With Svetlana’s leg healed enough to let her walk on crutches, Rhian and husband Rakesh had agreed to take their whole family—eight-year-old Salman and baby girls Maria and Sunita—into FSA protective custody. That meant weekly transfers between heavily guarded residences that now, with the latest network tech upgrades, they had a reasonable chance of defending against even Talee. Rakesh had waved away any notion that it was a sacrifice—Salman got along well with the Kresnov kids, and the Kresnov kids were good with the babies, and Danya was practically a third adult anyway. So now it was Rakesh and Rhian, and six kids, and various FSA-appointed security, including several GIs. And it was a stunning gesture, for all Rakesh’s protests to the contrary—to knowingly place his entire family in harm’s way, given what had nearly happened before, just so Danya, Svetlana, and Kiril wouldn’t have to spend these upcoming weeks alone. Even if, as it seemed, the worst of the threat had temporarily passed.

  Rhian had of course wanted to come, but that wasn’t going to happen with only one eye. Several of Sandy’s underground contacts had suggested ways to procure new ones in time, but Sandy had quietly instructed FSA legal to come down very hard on the prospect, when it seemed they might have looked the other way. And so Rhian remained one-eyed and medically unfit for combat duty, much to Sandy’s delight. Whatever happened out here, at least Rhian would be okay. And her own kids would have the best possible surrogate parents, and in Rhian, a protector nearly the equal of herself. Surely even trusting Rhian had become a little suspicious at the end, with FSA legal’s sudden obstinacy regarding black-market eyes. Sandy didn’t care, and she was pretty sure Rakesh didn’t either.

  Amirah was looking out for them too, at Sandy’s insistence. She’d been gearing up to come and do her duty as a high-des combat GI, but Sandy had noticed the atypical lack of smiles, the distraction, the general distress. She’d arranged with Ibrahim for Amirah to stay—she was genuinely becoming too important for FSA command to risk on such operations anyway. Amirah had protested and eventually cried, saying that she didn’t want to let anyone down. But was relieved, in the end, when her synthetic comrades had made clear that she’d done enough already and was due to sit one out. Sandy was nearly as delighted at her absence as she was Rhian’s and knew most others felt the same.