Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1)

by Joel Shepherd

  "Mr. Director," Bhaskaran began. Took a deep breath. "Ms. Kresnov has detection capabilities far exceeding the security norms of your other agents. We are not requesting that her security be degraded below the standard of others. Merely that it be equalised."

  Ibrahim looked at Kresnov. She stood fixed to her spot. Her rigid posture, and the set of her jaw, suggested contempt.

  "Without my codes," she said, with a dark, forced calm, "I am vulnerable. I am entirely synthetic. My brain function allows a far greater bandwidth of interaction with any com network than does organic brain function. I integrate at approximately a factor of seventeen beyond what an organic mind can achieve. I am more effective, but as such I am more vulnerable to infiltration. My enhanced capabilities are necessary to protect me from my enhanced vulnerabilities. If you remove them, my safety becomes severely jeopardised."

  "We are only talking about your attack barrier function, Ms. Kresnov," Bhaskaran told her. "Your defensive codes will remain entirely intact."

  Kresnov looked at Ibrahim. Jaw set and eyes hard, Ibrahim detected that she wished to speak to him. Alone.

  "Thank you very much," he said to the two SIB agents. "I'll give due regard to your report and assessments. Good day."

  "Thank you, sir." Bhaskaran turned and walked out, her junior partner in tow. Kresnov waited until the door had shut.

  "This is nuts," she said after the click. "You're not going to take this seriously."

  Ibrahim blinked, very calmly. Kresnov was not prone to rash outbursts. This was as close as he'd seen her come. She was, he judged, severely agitated. By Kresnov's standards, anyhow.

  "Cassandra," he said after a moment, "you knew the SIB had you under surveillance. I myself informed you, just twenty days ago, when you returned from vacation." Her eyes darkened, imperceptibly. Perhaps it was the mention of her "vacation," and the memories it stirred. Ibrahim filed it away for later study.

  "They're incompetent," Kresnov said shortly. "If they'd done it properly, I might not have noticed."

  "Ah," said Ibrahim. Tapped his jaw with a forefinger, short bearded chin in his hand. "So that's it. You fried them because they were incompetent, and a top flight professional like yourself could not tolerate the dent to your ego."

  "I fried them because they were violating my security perimeter," she retorted. "Not to have fried them would have been ..."

  "... a dereliction of duty on your part, I know." Ibrahim held up a hand, waving the argument away. Scratched at an irritating beard itch. Looked back at her. "You don't think you overdid it?"

  "Blasting them from the sky would have been overdoing it. I felt I was being generous."

  Ibrahim sighed. "Cassandra ... I know you find it bothersome, this tailing business. But you should by now have learned enough to know the political necessity." The jaw tightened again. So that was the soft spot.

  "I'd had something more discreet in mind," she said coldly. "Some network checks, the occasional tracker ... But anything that interferes with what I judge as my mission effectiveness, I'll eliminate, within good reason. If you were in my position, you'd do the same."

  "Cassandra, the SIB belong to a totally different command structure than the CSA. I have no authority over them, nor even ranking superiority. In some ways, they exist to investigate us, if necessary. They've always had priority in special Senate interests, and right now, whether you like it or not, that means you. The Senate is full of the President's enemies, and it's full of people who would be your natural enemies as well. And you cannot fight them, not with the weapons presently at your disposal.

  "Instead, what you've just done is to start a brawl. Certain antibiotech senators will read this report and conclude some very negative things about yourself, and your place in this society. Right now they want your network codes. Tomorrow, and some new incident, and perhaps they'll demand limiting your freedoms. And although you don't like it, you're going to have to learn that within this system, aggres sive confrontation can frequently only exacerbate the problem. You have to be patient. I'm asking you to be."

  "You won't fight for me." A flat statement. Her arms were folded, her eyes hard and unblinking.

  "I did not say ..."

  "You'd fight for someone else." Ibrahim frowned at her, not accustomed to interruption. "You'd fight for Rice. Damn right you'd fight for Vanessa, if the SIB were hounding her over something. You'd kick their butts."

  "That's different."

  "I know." With evident sarcasm. "It's so very different."

  "Cassandra," Ibrahim said, with measured patience, "this is a huge political brawl. I've never seen its like. I hope to never see its like again. It's my job to keep the planet safe. That's a very big, very important task. If I start taking sides in this, politically, it will only make my task more difficult. I have 120 million lives under my responsibility. And I'm sorry, you're not Vanessa Rice, Vanessa Rice is not a GI-you are. And as such, you are very much in the middle of this, whether you like it or not. That is how it stands. I cannot change that fact. You cannot. We can only deal with it as best we can."

  "You want my codes?" Arms still folded, staring at him.

  Ibrahim blinked. Off guard, for the moment. Kresnov could do that to him, where few others succeeded.

  "The SIB Director wants your codes. Several chairing senators want your codes. I don't."

  "But you'll give them to them anyway." The hard, blue stare locked with his own sombre brown one.

  "I've yet to decide that." Quietly. "My instincts are against it. But the political pressure that can be applied, where your case is concerned, Cassandra ... is quite considerable. It is a matter of gain and loss. I must balance the scales. It's my job."

  There was a quiet silence. Outside Ibrahim's broad office windows, the sky had turned a dark shade of grey. Distant lightning flickered, lighting the overcast in faint, staccato bursts. Soon it would be raining. Hard.

  "It's such a load of bullshit," Kresnov said quietly. Gazing out of the window, past Ibrahim's head. Her eyes were suddenly distant. Deflated. "Populist politics running the CSA. Who'd have thought."

  Ibrahim was uncertain if it was intended as an insult ... but it was accurate, insult or not. He understood her frustrations. He shared them. But it was an old, long debated topic for him, and he was accustomed to its predictable lunacy. Kresnov, evidently, had yet to adjust.

  "Would you be upset" he asked, just as sombrely, "if your attack codes were to be removed?"

  "It would significantly reduce my usefulness to you or anyone else," she replied.

  "That's not what I'm asking." There was another silence. Then she shrugged.

  "I'd feel violated," she admitted. "But what the hell, it's hardly the first time."

  Ibrahim sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, with quiet sincerity. "It may not happen. We'll see what eventuates. But in the meantime, please refrain from similar responses, however provoked. There's only so much that I can do for you under the present circumstances, Cassandra. Nothing would please me better than to help you more. Callay and its citizens owe you a debt far greater than most of them or their representatives appear to realise. But you understand what's at stake here. And I know you understand my limitations."

  She got out late in the afternoon, after Ops briefing, and waited in the Doghouse personnel landing bays for a ride as the rain hammered down beyond the open outer-bay doors, and thunder rumbled across a rapidly soaking city outside. There was a queue, as always, and she dropped her gearbags to the ferrocrete behind a group of people in assorted admin suits and techie overalls, and another two who'd already changed into civvies. Those closest to her looked at her.

  "Hi," she said, with the pleasant smile she'd been practising of late. The admins looked uncomfortable. Wind gusted as a cruiser passed in a low, throbbing hover that echoed within the enclosed ferrocrete hangar, drowning the roar of falling rain. Techs were clambering over a broad-shouldered flyer against the opposite wall, automatic tools clanking and yammering
periodically, punctuating the ever-present whine of engines. Another cruiser came in more slowly, approaching on autopilot, a sleekly angular, broad rectangle, its nose and hindquarters a mass of repulsor-lift generation, the seats empty behind aerodynamically angled windows. Doors slid upward as it came to rest, engines a deep, pulsing throb, and the first five people in line got in. And departed, leaving her with two very nervous, silent admin personnel. Desperately short of airborne transport, all CSA personnel, save the highest officials, had been reduced to air-pooling or public transport. It could take a long time to get home with passengers being dropped off in all different parts of the city. But with all the other transport reserved for security ops, lower-priority concerns had to make do with whatever they could scrounge.

  "Where do you guys live?" she asked the two admins.

  "Mananakorn," one said quickly.

  "Denpasar," the other.

  "Mananakorn's right near me, I'm in Santiello," she said. "Easiest to do us two first, don't you think? Sorry, Denpasar's a bit far for a twoperson detour."

  The Denpasar resident shrugged. "Fine."

  "I gotta get prepped for duty tonight," she continued determinedly. "Patrolling till about three am, there's not enough security to go around for all these parties and talkfests right now. How about you guys?"

  The whine of another approaching cruiser interrupted any reply, the engine note throbbing downwards as the cruiser slowed ... A lower note than previously. It was a larger cruiser, larger field gens and noisier, indicating an extra weight that might have been armourplating, to judge from the rugged, bulkier appearance. It came to a halt at the curbside barrier that marked the front of the queue, windows entirely blanked out, reflecting like mirrors. Sandy uplinked and found its ID tag before it had consciously occurred to her that it might be a good idea-government ID, Alpha Team. The Presidential bodyguard.

  The sinking feeling began almost immediately. Alpha Team was occasionally used to run personal errands for the President-it wasn't strictly their job, but excess personnel were rare in the crisis, and people improvised. She guessed what they were after before the doors had even opened, and the lean, armed, neat clipped and shaven men inside had gotten out.

  "Agent," one said, looking at her, "please come with us." Their stance made her uneasy, one to each side, ready as if prepared for trouble. She looked at them sourly for a long moment. If they thought they could handle any "trouble" she might cause, they were even more stupid than certain unkind CSA jokes reputed them to be.

  "Does the President want to see me?" she asked them.

  The two admins stood very still and quiet, eyes wide, no doubt wishing very strongly they were elsewhere.

  "We're not at liberty to discuss it," said the shorter of the two Alphas. "Please accompany us now, Agent."

  "If the President wishes to see me," Sandy continued dryly, "she need only ask. I am obliged by her rank to consider that a direct and immediate command, and would make my way directly to see her at whatever location she requires. I don't need a guard or an escort."

  "Nevertheless," said the shorter Alpha stubbornly.

  She didn't like it. But it wasn't a good idea to argue with Alpha Team. These Alphas were all new, all volunteers, all ruggedly, unwaveringly dedicated to the point of obsessiveness. Their predecessors had all been killed a month ago. It hadn't deterred the newbies. On the contrary, the defiant self sacrifice of the original Alphas was now folklore, the veracity of which Sandy could testify to personally, having witnessed the events first-hand. Competition for a coveted position in Alpha Team had increased even more among potential recruits. The look in this pair's eyes suggested that it wasn't a good idea to do other than they suggested. Being young, idealistic and utterly determined to live up to the legacy of their predecessors, she reckoned they might be prone to rashness if pushed. And the President, with her newly discovered soft spot for all her personal security, would be sorely upset with her if she had to rough them up.

  "Fine." She picked up her gearbags. They rattled with weapons and ammo, to the admins' further discomfort. "I'll register my complaint in person."

  One of the Alphas made to take the bags from her, blocking her way. "No unsecured weapons in the hold." The young man before her was of Chinese ethnicity. His face was impassive, jaw smoothly shaven, and he smelt of aftershave. Her vision caught the faint refractory shift of light in one eye-telltale military-grade enhancement, Vanessa had it too.

  "Kid," Sandy told him, "I'll wait here all day if I have to." Meeting his gaze calmly, head tilted, nose barely twenty centimetres from his. Most straights, knowing what she was, melted before such a gaze.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said firmly, and grabbed the bag handle. Sandy held fast, her eyes not leaving his. "Ma'am, I have my instructions."

  "I am a SWAT agent. These are my weapons. Read your rulebook, kid. You try and remove these from me, I have to stop you."

  "Presidential security takes precedence."

  "In matters of emergency, yes. Not here." She caught the faint trace of transmission from his partner. The Alpha glanced, once. Then stood aside without further word. Sandy got into the broad rear seats, knowing better than to expect an apology. Doors hummed closed as the Alphas got into the front seats, and she locked her belt harness into place. Less insulted than she might have been-if she were being truly "escorted," one would be sitting in the rear with her. Perhaps they were smart enough to know that if she didn't wish to accompany them, there was damn little they could do to force her. But this was Alpha Team. Appearances had to be maintained.

  They cruised to the broad exit, lifting above the open flightyard tarmac beyond and into the pelting rain. SWAT flyers and assorted vehicles sat in parked rows, overlooked by admin offices, grey shadows looming through dimming sheets of water. Bank and climb, gaining altitude, the broad, angular CSA compound dimly visible below in an orderly, regular arrangement of low buildings and humble greenery. It looked a hell of a lot nicer in sunlight than some of the security compounds she'd seen League-side, with their square-edged architecture of ferrocrete blocks and barely a tree to be seen. But it was still a functioning high security zone, scandalously unconcerned about aesthetic trivialities by Tanushan standards, and the several kilometres of trigger-rigged wall that ringed the perimeter was not for show.

  "Any excitement lately?" she asked the two Alphas in the front seats, as the course bent again, taking them northwards toward Canas, a small, exclusive suburb not five minutes' flight time from Parliament. The ground faded from sight as they gained altitude, only the dim shadows of towers visible through the downpour, even to Sandy's super-enhanced vision.

  "Alpha Team is not at liberty to discuss operational occurrences," was the predictable answer.

  "Did you implement Tactical Adjustment B58?"

  "Sorry, ma'am, can't talk about it."

  "I wrote Tactical Adjustment B58," she said dryly. "I saw your predecessors buy the farm in person, I was subsequently asked to critique your operational procedures and where they went wrong at the Parliament Massacre. For all your sakes I hope you implemented it, because I'm not the only one keeping tabs on your operational performance."

  Silence from the front. They knew all right. She wasn't yet sure how any of them felt about it. She'd saved the President's life, for sure. Perhaps they felt she'd belittled Alpha Team in the process, achieving single-handed what all of Alpha Team could not. And she certainly hadn't managed to save any of them. It was possible she could have. But it would have forced her to strike early, thus lessening her chances with the President by conceding surprise. Strategic objectives just didn't work like that. She'd rarely in all her operational career managed to have her cake, and eat it too. She'd chosen the President. Alpha Team, given their entire reason for existence, surely could not have found fault with her choice. But the fact remained that they were all dead, she could have done more to prevent it, and hadn't.

  Welcome to war, boys. Now you know why I wanted to beco
me a civilian.

  Canas was exceptionally pretty. The cruiser landed in a yellow-striped security transit zone beside a residential park on the neighbourhood outer perimeter, underside wheels unfolding. Once through the heavy scanner outer checkpoint with its five guards, they were allowed to drive in through the roadway gap in the tall stonework. The outer security wall quickly gave way to ancient-styled brick and stonework buildings, wooden shutters and hand-carved signwork in Spanish, all wet and gleaming in the sunlight now that the black stormclouds were moving on toward the west. Wheels vibrated over road cobbles, the cruiser steering down narrow streets that were little more than lanes, winding mazelike with no regard for orderly geometry. Wood-railed balconies overlooked the street in places, and once a small church, its steeple rising beneath a beautiful spread of native raan-tree canopy, and colourful orange blossomed creepers spreading over stonework walls.

  Canas, of course, was a museum piece, crafted in memory of a particular Earth culture that city planners had thought worth remembering. It was also impenetrably high security, shut off from the rest of Tanusha, lived in only by those Tanushans whose security rating war ranted the protection. That meant the President, a majority of ranking politicians, and their closest family. Only public servants, though ... private sector heads in need of security (meaning biotech CEOs, these days) could presumably afford their own. Politicians, whatever the public cynicism about their salaries, did not make that much money.

  The Presidential Quarters were also sometimes called the Hacienda ... Spanish for house, Sandy had gathered. Or mansion. Not much was visible from the road, by intention. The cruiser rounded a slow, tight corner behind a high stone wall, then up the narrow lane to a heavy metal gate. Pause, while various scanners did their work, and then the gate wound slowly open. A paved roundabout served as a driveway, circling a large fountain draped in lush greenery. Several vehicles were parked by the disembarking apron, all aircars, heavy armoured cruisers crouched low on compressed suspension, several drivers waiting with other armed security, all totally conspicuous in dark suits. They pulled up behind the last vehicle's bulky rear end, Sandy catching all the while the continual flash of encrypted security codings across local airwaves ... Doubtless there was more she could not catch-direct laser com-vehicles such as these were equipped for such things. Doors hummed upward, Sandy collected her bags and got out.