Killswitch: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel

by Joel Shepherd

  "Some think they shouldn't," Sandy replied. "Some think people shouldn't. They say that we should turn the other cheek." The flyer lifted from the street, then banked gently to the left, picking up speed. For a long moment, they had a perfect view of the Embassy gardens, and the steps behind the front Corinthian pillars. Atop the steps, holding a limp right arm with the left hand, a dark figure stood in silhouette against the bright doorway behind, and watched them leave.

  "One time, back in the League," said Rhian, eyes fixed upon that lonely, receding shape. "When I learned you'd left. I thought you might have agreed with them. About turning the other cheek."

  "Maybe for a little while I did," said Sandy. The flyer nosed down, picking up speed and altitude, and the cargo door whined upward to close. "Ultimately, I think it's a balance. There are many paths. We have to choose which to take, and every choice is different."

  "Choosing is hard," said Rhian. More quietly, and more sombrely, than Sandy could ever remember her speaking. "I'm so used to being sure. Now, sometimes ... I just don't know."

  Sandy smiled, sadly. Reached with her cast-bound left hand, and tipped Rhian's gaze her way with a touch at her jaw. "And that's what makes us human," she said.

  President Katia Neiland stood before the broad windows of her Parliament office, and surveyed the grounds. Ground lights illuminated paths across the vast, grassy surface, and lit trees into beautiful, ghostly outlines. A typical summer lightning storm danced and flickered across the horizon, brightening the sharp silhouette of towers. The drink in her glass was strong-an off-world whisky, sharp and angry upon her tongue. A present from one of the foreign ministers, although she forgot which. Upon the signing of a deal, to join his world to the pact that would overwhelm the old powers of Earth, and force the relocation of the Grand Council on the terms of the Federation majority, not just the homeworld minority.

  She took another sip, watching a convoy of cruisers departing overhead, running lights blinking, some important VIP or other heading home for the night ... wherever home was. She thought of her son, Reese, now living in the Canas hacienda where the security was tighter. It was a serious inconvenience for an independent twenty-year-old. He'd always supported his mother's political ambitions. Had enjoyed having the President for a mother, in fact, having inherited from her a similarsized ego, as well as the dark red hair. Well, it wasn't so convenient now. It interrupted his social life, his studies, and his penchant for arriving home at four in the morning. And having twelve special security operatives hanging off one's elbows only impressed the chicks for so long.

  He'd wanted her home, this evening. He'd been cooking. So that was one good thing to come of this present, dangerous mess. Two good things, in fact, as Kacey was helping him. Kacey the steady girlfriend. Both the cooking and the girlfriend had been features of the hacienda for the past few months. The food was surprisingly good, and the girlfriend surprisingly smart and agreeable. Reese had known her for some time, apparently, but merely as a friend. She'd been interested (of course) but he'd been too preoccupied with the chase to bother about the possession. Now, chasing girls in crowded, popular nightclubs had become somewhat hazardous for the President's only child. Security forbade it, for the most part. And so, stuck at home, he'd sat still long enough to discover his buddy Kacey.

  Katia shook her head, smiling faintly, and took another sip. She didn't even want to think about how closely that entire behavioural pattern fitted her own, at his age. It was uncanny. And more than a little worrying. Maybe Kacey would be a feature long enough to iron him out a little. Kacey had blonde hair, worn shortish, but with style. The inspiration, she freely admitted, was Commander Kresnov of the CDF. She positively gushed about Sandy. How brave, and how courageous, to have overcome the odds of her creation, and become something special. Somehow Katia doubted that Sandy would appreciate being regarded like a handicapped child who'd only recently learned to walk ... but then, as she'd said, appreciation of any kind beat the hell out of the alternative.

  She was pleased Sandy was okay. Truly relieved, when she admitted to the plaintive demands of her conscience, during weaker, quieter moments like this. Of course, Sandy being Sandy, it was always unwise to bet against her. But then, as Ibrahim had reminded her on several occasions, even Sandy was not immortal.

  Well, it had worked. Ben Grey and the other rats in the State Department had been flushed out. That was sad, too, for she'd long considered Grey to be a friend, whatever his various inadequacies. But then, her sources had also told her that he'd long been dabbling in corners with people he shouldn't have been dabbling with, and so it was really no surprise when Ibrahim had come to her, one fine morning six months ago, with evidence of an FIA mole somewhere in the State Department.

  To try anything big, in undermining Callay's security and helping the Fifth Fleet's designs, they would need to penetrate Callayan defences, Ibrahim had told her. Once, that would not have been difficult. Now, there was the CDF ... which although showing signs of promise, was not yet an effective institution from top to bottom, and relied heavily upon the input of its senior officers, Commander Kresnov in particular. Remove her, and you opened a gaping hole.

  Katia took another, longer sip, waiting for the pleasant, warming numbness to take effect. It had been taking longer and longer, of late. Too many drinks, Reese warned her. Alcoholic presidents were common enough, but damned, he'd said, if he was going to tolerate an alcoholic mother. Well damn him too. It was all going to be over soon, one way or the other ... or this little, dramatic phase would be, anyhow. Then she'd revert to green tea. But not yet.

  They should have warned Sandy. Even now, her conscience demanded so. Ibrahim had agreed ... in principle. But where information to Sandy was concerned, there was now the matter of Ari Ruben ... who had a knack for finding out everything, eventually. And without whose steady input of additional clues, Ibrahim would never have been able to suspect the State Department mole in the first place. Ruben had too many friends in the wrong places-precisely what made him so valuable to the CSA. But also precisely why they couldn't warn Sandy. The trap would have a better chance of success, Ibrahim had stated, if she and Ruben were ignorant. He hadn't liked it either. But where Shan Ibrahim was entirely, consistently reliable, it was in doing what he thought was in the best interests of Callayan security.

  No one had known about the killswitch. That had been Ruben's discovery alone. Had she known ... Katia shook her head, and took another, longer sip. Lightning sped across the horizon, forking and spreading like a blanket of blue fire, then gone. Had she known just how much danger the bait would then be in ... maybe she wouldn't have let it all go ahead. It was only politics, after all. She could have closed down the State Department anytime, technically. But the political ramifications within the left of her own party, to lose one of its shining lights so ignominiously and without proof, to say nothing of the upset to ongoing State Department negotiations with various other Federation worlds ...

  It could have destabilised everything she'd been working for, these last two hectic, frightening years. So she'd lied to Sandy, and to Major Rice, in that last meeting at the State Department. Put on a good performance, pretending to be angry, pretending she hadn't known anything about the State Department mole, nor her own culpability in using its desperation to remove Sandy, to give her the excuse she needed to shut the whole thing down. Flush the entire State Department, if necessary, and all connected to it. And if she'd tried that, without party room backing ... God. Her own wonderful, loyal, praiseworthy colleagues would have torn her to pieces. She'd needed proof. And Sudasarno, bless his honest, naive heart, had been innocently played right along with the rest of them.

  Probably Sandy would discover the truth eventually. Indeed, with An Ruben sharing her bed, she'd bet on it. She'd answer those questions when the time came. Right now, she needed her world's sharpest, most lethal weapon entirely focused upon the job at hand. Take the stations. Truthfully, she hadn't been as concerned at t
he plan as she'd let on at the last meeting either. Sandy was right-there was very little choice, if Callay, and more broadly, the Federation were to become what they had all toiled in the hope of making it become. But she'd wanted to confront her senior military leader with all her darkest fears and doubts, and see that look in her eyes. That look of unerring, certain confidence. Sandy was no "yes man." She never had been, and she never would be. That look in her eyes would help the President sleep tonight, her belly full of her son's experimental cooking, and hopefully no nasty side effects from either, the following morning.

  It was a long way to come, for a small world upon the periphery of Federation politics. And for a technocrat president previously more interested in communications law reform than transforming her world into the epicentre of human power in all the universe. One way or another, Callay and its president were about to come of age. She just hoped that the cost, for either, would not prove too great a price to bear.

  CHAPTER

  ooks like they're really leaving," said the scan tech, igazing at his screen. Captain Verjee observed over the scan tech's shoulder, lips pursed. A distrustful frown creased one eyebrow as his experienced eyes followed the two dots on the nav screen, automatically translating the two-dimensional graphics into three-dimensional time and space. Callay, its five small moons, a remarkably civilised G-4 sun, twelve outerlying worlds and countless system settlements and intersystem traffic. A busy system, but nothing compared to Earth. The traffic within the Jovian system alone was heavier than the Callayan system in entirety. Although once Callay became the Federation's capital world, God forbid, that might change.

  "Pearl River and Kutch are both Chandaram-class," Verjee replied. "That's some of the most mobile firepower in the Fleet, and I don't trust two-hour-old V-signatures for a second. Keep an eye on them, let me know the moment they finally jump."

  "Yessir," said the scan tech.

  And where could they be going, Verjee wondered as he straightened and surveyed the Nehru Station bridge. He knew Captain Marakova too well to easily believe she'd abandon her old friend Reichardt ... not without at least chewing his ear off in an attempt to change his orders. There had been any number of opportunities to send for help with departing freighters. Probably he should contact Captain Rusdihardjo about it-Admiral Rusdihardjo, he corrected himselfexcept that she doubtless knew already, and had been watching developments on board the Euphrates. God only knew what she'd been doing in there the last Callayan week since Duong had been killed. Hardly anyone had seen her, save the constant stream of staff from Secretary General Benale's new station office-which had been established directly opposite the Euphrates Berth Four, unsurprisingly enough.

  Verjee wished she'd let someone else in on the party. He hated station bridge duty, but ever since they'd been forced to lock up the uncooperative stationmaster and his bridge crew, Fifth Fleet crew had been forced to substitute with their own staff. And from the bridge of his own ship, he would be that much better positioned to keep an eye on that traitorous fool Reichardt, whose warship and crew were far too impressive to be left unwatched for any period of time, and whose actions were notoriously unpredictable.

  Verjee's eyes flicked to a dock monitor screen, across which Reichardt and his small marine contingent had walked a minute ago, on their way to a captains' meeting in the rooms upon the other side of bridge-section. The meeting, ostensibly, was to begin discussions on the partial transfer of station command back to the Callayan authorities. And it was about time that the Third Fleet had finally started to realise the operational reality. The Fifth needed to resume Nehru and the other three main trade stations to at least fifty percent of their previous efficiency, both in order to free up their own personnel, and to make some kind of reduction in the size of the growing queue of freighter traffic that clustered now in high polar orbit, awaiting an increasingly rare station-slot. With the troublesome dockworker unions smashed, their ringleaders either imprisoned or otherwise disposed of, there wasn't an awful lot of traffic moving through any of the stations right now. With Reichardt signalling that the Third Fleet representatives were finally ceasing their ideological obstinacy, the chances looked good that the Callayan administration would recognise the hopelessness of their situation, and begin discussions on separating Fleet Command from the new Callayan Grand Council.

  With their fledgling military hopelessly outgunned and without any space capability to speak of, their influence with the Grand Council limited, Fleet HQ unwilling to oppose the Fifth's actions, and their economy losing billions each day from lost trade, it didn't appear that the Callayans had any choice in the matter. Ultimately, one day, these soft, pampered civilians would realise that it was those with the most firepower who decided the course of history. The Fleet remained unrivalled. And Earth, thank God, controlled the Fleet. God willing, it always would.

  A signal light flashed above the bridge's main security door. Verjee saw one of the marines on guard signal to him, and walked over, down the central aisle of chairs before multigraphical display screens. The first blast door opened, then closed behind him. Then the outer door, with a massive hiss of hydraulics. Reichardt was waiting in the metal hall beyond, lightly armoured and with a sidearm at his hip. It was less armour than Fifth Fleet personnel were wont to wear about the docks these days-snipers had accounted for five soldiers so far, one of them an officer, although none of the injuries were serious. Despite repeated sweeps, and extensive interrogation of suspects, they still hadn't found all the culprits. Soft Callayan civvies or not, they were proving remarkably stubborn once aroused, and reports indicated the other three stations were no better.

  "Captain," said Verjee, with a nod. Reichardt returned it. Some times there were salutes, between captains of equal rank. And sometimes not. Now, it hardly seemed appropriate. "What can I do for you?"

  "Stop being an arrogant puss-head and change your mind."

  Verjee smiled, tiredly. Glanced about at the fully armoured marines guarding the bridge doors. Reichardt's own small contingent from Mekong waited several metres down the corridor, fronted by Lieutenant Nadaja. Nadaja was known by reputation from several major battles during the war. Her broad, African face was neither attractive nor expressive. Verjee had seen bulkheads that radiated greater warmth. The marines too wore light armour, with breastplates and webbing, but no faceplates or powerpacks. That too was defiance-it openly differentiated Third Fleet from Fifth before all the station's people. The Third Fleet had nothing to fear from Callayan locals, it meant. And thus condemned them, in the eyes of many captains of the Fifth, as traitors.

  "Change my mind about what, Captain?" Verjee replied finally, glancing wearily up at him. Reichardt was too damn tall to be a Fleet carrier captain. God knew how he fit into his command chair, let alone through the numerous smaller hatches. He was also a sandy-haired, coarse-mannered, undisciplined, arrogant American with an appallingly irritating Texan accent. Verjee could not help but respect Reichardt's formidable combat record. But the man clearly didn't like him, and he saw no point in bothering to conceal his own opinions.

  ,,You know."

  "You know, William, I really don't." Verjee shrugged, expansively. "There's nothing left to discuss. It's over. The Fleet will get its way. As if there was ever really any doubt."

  Reichardt winced slightly as he scratched an itch on his scalp. The man didn't even bother with a helmet. "That's your final position?"

  "What are you even doing here?" Verjee said in exasperation. "You've got a meeting down that hall, the others will not leave their ships until you're in the room, I suggest you go there and sit down before someone decides to have you rounded up and put there forcibly."

  That was security too-none of the Fifth Fleet captains wanted to be sitting together in a meeting room without Reichardt sitting there first. If he tried something, or had the room rigged somehow with the rebel terrorists he was doubtless in communication with, it would happen to him too.

  "I don't suppo
se that would be you making that decision, would it, Aral?" Reichardt remarked wryly.

  "Captain," Verjee replied, with mock sincerity, "you know I hold you in the highest esteem."

  Reichardt smiled at him, grimly. "That's what I thought," he said. And he pulled the sidearm from his holster, and shot Verjee in the head.

  The next two rounds went straight through the guard's visorplate at point-blank range. It shattered in a spray of blood, the armoured body collapsing with a crash as Nadaja's fire took down the second. Alarms rang, deafeningly, Sergeant Pollard leaping across one body to the access panel as the armoured outer door slid rapidly closed. Reichardt stepped back as Nadaja leaped past, headed for the corridor's opposite end as Twan did the same in the other direction. Pollard fed a card from his portable unit into the access slot and began feeding in code as the outer doors crashed closed. Private Anwar provided cover at his side.

  The corridor abruptly rang with the thunder of Nadaja's rifle fire, then screams from further down above the racket of alarms. Then from Twan at the other end, multiple bursts and a grenade that detonated with the familiar sharp crack of an AP round, and more screaming. Pollard stared at his handheld screen, apparently oblivious, watching the patterns and numbers count down. Then, with a hiss, the sirens silenced, and the bridge doors hissed open.

  Reichardt pulled a grenade and flattened himself to the side bulkhead. The second door opened, and fire ripped from within, hammering the corridor wall even as Anwar fired a rifle grenade through the gap, fading left before the fire could reach him. An explosion tore the bridge even as an answering grenade hit the corridor wall, Reichardt, Pollard and Anwar ducked and covered as the explosion blew them sideways and peppered their armour. Reichardt recovered and on reflex threw his own around the corner. It detonated with a heavier, concussive thud, followed by a lot of white smoke. Anwar charged in, Pollard following, visors in place and rifles blazing with sharp, precise bursts, spreading chaos before them.