Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1)

by Joel Shepherd

  The Hacienda was big. Exactly how big was difficult to see from this vantage-tall trees and lush, four metre ferns and palms surrounding, all dripping from the recent downpour ... The fragrance of sodden greenery in the moist air was powerful and delightful. They were parked by the end of a long, rectangular wing, stairs leading up to ornate doors, frame glass windows overlooking, late afternoon sunlight gleamed orange on colourful, sloping rooftiles amid mottled patches of shade. Another such wing showed faintly through gardens lush enough to pass for heritage botanic gardens, glimpses of lovely stonework and arches amid the profusion of gleaming leaves and branches. Not only pretty-it made outside surveillance difficult. Every millimetre would be trigger-tripped and monitored.

  "Ma'am," said another Alpha, blocking her way from the cruiser, "please leave your gear in the vehicle."

  "I'm not having this discussion again."

  "Ma'am, only security-authorised weapons are allowed within proximity of the President. You can keep your pistol, but please leave your bags in the vehicle."

  "Do you have a guard room in the premises?" The Alpha's silence said as much. "I'll leave them there. I'm not leaving my gear in a vehicle that could get called away with me not in it."

  A moment's silent consultation, uplink frequencies flicking encrypted messages back and forth. Sandy was aware of others standing about. Of the guard station built into the heavy stone wall by the gate at her back. Of any number of possible lethal and non-lethal weapons systems built into the picturesque surroundings. Even she wasn't allowed knowledge of these systems, heavily upgraded as they'd been of late.

  "Very well," said the Alpha. And put out a hand. Sandy gave him the bags. Reached inside her jacket, slowly pulled out her pistol in full view, rechecked the safety, de-chambered the loaded round, removed the magazine and placed it into her jacket pocket. Pointed the weapon at the ground, clicked the trigger five times to demonstrate it was empty, rechecked the safety and tucked it back inside her jacket. It was politeness. Alphas were employed to be nervous, and any exception made in security protocol was a dangerous precedent.

  She followed the Alpha with her bag up the stairs ... Someone opened the door for them from the inside, admitting them into a long hallway. The Alpha with her bag immediately turned into a near room, and she followed a new Alpha down the hall, another pair bringing up the rear. Her boots squeaked on floorboards ... wonderful things, floorboards, of all the things she'd thought, prior to becoming a civilian, that one could do with wood, walking on it hadn't occurred to her. They stretched polished and gleaming down a hallway of smooth plastered walls, with paintings, decorative potted palm fronds and overhead chan deliers. She gazed about as she walked, security technicalities temporarily set aside, and felt somewhat better about the whole thing. Being in Tanusha, moving among people of power, had its benefits-even when she got in trouble, it landed her in a lovely house like this one, with the smell of polished timber and lush gardens, and never mind the nervous armed escort. It wasn't like they could threaten her anyway.

  The hallway ended and they entered into the body of the Hacienda proper, large rooms, ornately furnished, rugs on the floors, offices and people in suits working ... the President's personal staff and key Administration figures. They worked here when not at Parliament, the President dividing her time between debates and sittings in chambers, and then paperwork, meetings and strategy discussions here at the Presidential Quarters. Another corridor then, entrance flanked by a pair of permanent Alpha guards, and into a waiting room, the President's personal secretary sitting behind a big desk on the side, locked into his information system with headset and multiple display screens before him. A pair of big double doors beyond.

  "Hi, Sandy," said the secretary, Alexei Sarpov. A mild young man with pleasant manners and an unbreakable concentration span. "How are you today?" Like she was a regular visitor. Well, she'd been here twice before in the last month, more than most people could boast.

  "I'm fine, Alexei. How are you?" Simple civilian courtesies still sometimes eluded her. It took a conscious effort to remember what was appropriate and polite at what moments.

  "I'm doing great, Sandy ... the President would like to see you immediately, though I do believe she's in the middle of an important teleconference right now ..."

  "I'll stand in a corner and be very quiet."

  Alexei smiled. "That would do perfectly."

  The lead Alpha opened one of the double doors, and peered through. Opened the door fully, and gestured for Sandy to enter. She edged past, aware that two of them followed her in before closing the door behind her.

  The French Office, as it was called, was of course superb. Large and grand without succumbing too much to self-conscious ostentation, it had a somewhat darker, more thoughtful mahogany feel than she'd expected when she'd first visited. The room got its name from the row of french doors that spanned the rear wall behind the main desk, a broad view leading onto a wide balcony that overlooked gardens and trees surrounding a wide, overgrown courtyard. The opposing face of the rear wing spanned beyond, more brickwork and balconies showing through the trees. The office was decorated with the paraphernalia of authority, bookshelves, cabinets, paintings of several famous figures. A comfortable sofa set ringed a coffee table in the centre of the office.

  The President sat behind her main desk, her back to the windows, conversing to some person or persons on the display screen before her. She leaned back in her comfortable chair with informal disregard, hands clasped behind the back of her head, elbows out. The windows behind the President made Sandy slightly nervous, her mind on security. But vantage points were limited thanks to the greenery and opposing wing, and all opposing windows and balconies were continually occupied while the President was working. They also allowed her security to watch her at all times. Somehow Sandy doubted President Neiland appreciated that very much. Though no doubt last month's fatal carnage at Parliament had changed her perspective somewhat.

  The President saw Sandy over the top of the screen, and waved at her to come forward. She did, with security close behind.

  "... look," the President was saying, ". . . you have to make it conditional on the funding bill. I'm not handing that chairmanship to someone who won't even back us on funding for the very apparatus he's supposed to be advocating. Tell him he gives us the support on the bill or no chairmanship, and his faction can damn well eat him alive, for all I care. None of them have any say on legislation without a seat on the committee and he knows it."

  The reply was silent, no doubt uplinked to Neiland's inner ear. Sandy glanced about. There were paper files on the President's desk, a whole stack of them-some documents still circulated in paper, low confidentiality ones. Another small box contained encrypted memory chips for high confidentiality documents. Several thick books sat to one side-academic titles, Sandy noted, from local university presses. And read from the spine of the largest Interstellar Federation Law: Founding Principles and Practice. And Markets of Light: Interstellar Trade and the Physics of Economics. She nearly smiled. Light reading, Ms. President? The third book was in Hindi, in which all senior Tanushan politicians were fluent by necessity ... and often Arabic, too. Neiland, she knew, added Bahasa, Mandarin, Spanish and her own native Dutch to that tally. Seven languages was not exceptional in Tanusha, language tape-teach worked better on some people than others, but irrespective of that, it generally reduced the amount of time taken to learn languages from between fifty to ninety per cent.

  "... fine," Neiland was saying now, "... just get it to him before the next sitting. I don't want to waste time arguing with him myself. Get him briefed and make him fully aware of his position, because I'm not sure he's realised yet what trouble he can get himself into." The screen went off, and President Neiland got up.

  "Hi, Sandy." Came around the desk and surprised her with an offered kiss on the cheek, Arabic-style ... Sandy returned it, repeated on each side. It always surprised her, her instinct was to salute. Neiland pu
lled back to look at her, hands on her arms in a most friendly manner. There was a faint smile in her sharp green eyes, a lingeringly dangerous amusement. Sandy was surprised at how good she looked. She'd half expected to see a haggard, weary President with dark rings under the eyes, irritable and short tempered with all around her. Instead Neiland looked bright and alert, red hair neatly bound at the back with a comb and clasp. She had on a green suit jacket that was only moderately formal, a red bow-ribbon at the collar that bordered on flamboyant. Civilians, Sandy remembered the prejudice back in Dark Star, lacking military discipline, tended to get weak and flaky under great pressure. Between the Callayan President and the CSA Director, Sandy reckoned she'd seen enough evidence to cast great doubt upon that reckoning. "How are you?"

  "Good." Volunteering more to the President didn't seem a good idea until she knew what she was here for. Neiland smiled, seeming genuinely pleased to see her. And looked at the two Alphas at her back.

  "Thanks, guys, we need to be alone for a moment."

  "Yes, Ms. President." And turned to go, offering no argument.

  "You didn't give her a hard time, did you, boys?" Neiland called after them.

  One turned, still backing to the door. "No, Ms. President."

  "You sure?" Playfully. The Alpha kept walking backward while his partner went for the door, apparently well familiar with his boss's mood.

  "Very sure, Ms. President. She was most cooperative."

  "She could have had you all for breakfast, you know that, don't you?"

  "Of course, Ms. President."

  "He doesn't believe me." To Sandy. And to the Alpha, "Thank you, Mahesh. Wish your sister happy birthday for me."

  "Thank you, Ms. President, I will." And retreated from the room, appearing both pleased and amused despite the stony-faced formality. Sandy couldn't help but feel approval. Neiland, she'd gathered, had never paid her personal security much attention before. Until they'd all been brutally killed, sacrificing their lives against futile odds to protect her. Now she knew all the new Alphas by name, had their important family occasions bookmarked for Presidential well-wishings, and bantered with them in spare moments like a proud aunt to her respectful nephews and nieces. Sandy wasn't sure what the previous bunch of Alphas had actually thought of their President. But it was clear that this bunch would die for her even more cheerfully than the last. Though hopefully it wouldn't come to that again.

  "Come on, have a seat," said the President, putting a hand on Sandy's back and ushering her to the comfortable chairs in the centre of the room. As if on cue, another side door opened and a staff member entered, holding a tray with steaming tea and biscuits. "Were they a bit rough?"

  "No, just confiscated my weapons ... I know the procedure, it's not me they're worried about, it's any loose weaponry being scooped up by traitorous staff members or visitors. They have to account for every firearm. They do a good job."

  "They do, don't they? Been surfing lately?"

  "Yes, just today." Sat on the big sofa by the coffee table, Neiland in the single chair to her left. "I had my first half-day off in a week, hired a flyer and went out to Rajadesh for the morning."

  "Oh, it's nice out there, isn't it?" Took an offered cup of tea from the staffwoman with a nod. "I used to go beedie foraging on the headlands just a few Ks up from there with my father and brothers when I was a girl ... you know beedies?" Sandy shook her head, taking her own tea. "Black shellfish as big as your hand, you crack them open with a big knife. The meat's just bite-sized, fry it over an open fire camping by the beach, just heavenly. Tastes all smokey and sweet and juicy. Can't get them confused with banyas, though, those things will kill you. Well, me, anyway, probably not you."

  The staffwoman left the tray on the table and departed. Sandy sipped the tea-Chinese green tea, fragrant and hot. She'd liked it last time she was here, she recalled. Neiland must have remembered, and had staff prepare a pot. She wasn't sure if such forethought ought to make her suspicious or not.

  "The surf was good?" Neiland pressed.

  "Very good. Nice waves at Rajadesh. Good breaks, plenty of tubes, you can ride for nearly thirty seconds on the best ones."

  "How long did it take you to master it?"

  Sandy repressed a smile, sipping at her tea. A subtle, mild, mellow taste. Amazing. The military food of most of her life's experience was not known for subtlety.

  "I don't know if you could say I've mastered it. The best riders are expressive as much as technical."

  "But you've mastered it technically?"

  "Sure. Took about five decent waves. I was doing most of the moves within a few hours."

  Neiland grinned. "You know, anyone else, I would think they were boasting. But not only do I know what you're capable of, I know you're not the boastful type, anyway."

  Sandy shrugged offhandedly, and sipped her tea again. She enjoyed Neiland's compliments as much as she enjoyed anyone's, especially as she was very prepared to believe that Neiland genuinely liked her, on a level that went well beyond simple gratitude. She didn't think it wise to be flattered by them, however. Neiland was too good at compliments when it suited her. It was a big part of her job.

  "Surfing never occurred to me as a sport," Neiland continued. "I played basketball. Couldn't shoot to save my life, I just liked the energy."

  "There's a basketball court at the Doghouse. I tried it once. Hit my first ten shots from six out to twelve metres. Kind of lost its appeal after that."

  "That's really sad." With contemplative concern, chin in hand, elbow resting on the chair arm. "It never occurred to me before I met you that being technically perfect would make everything boring. Is there any sport you find challenging?"

  Sandy shook her head glumly. "Not really. Only mind games. Chess, sometimes."

  "I'd imagine, given your tactical prowess, you wouldn't lose many times at chess either, would you?"

  "No. I only play the computer, no one else lasts more than twenty moves. The computer tells me I'm a level below Grand Master, and I've never really played it that much." She shrugged. "It's not much to be proud of, I'm psychologically structured for spatial awareness and numerical sequencing. In chess I just count, memorise and project. Sub-level memory and processing implants carry most of the workload, I just give the directions."

  "It still technically qualifies you as a genius."

  "By whose standard? I can't write a concerto, paint a masterpiece or turn out a novel. I'm still struggling with chicken fettuccini. I certainly don't have much aptitude for poetry, my language skills aren't much above average, and while I'm good with raw numbers, I'm sure as hell no mathematician. I'm just good at three-dimensional spaces and rapid-track calculation, but much of that is reflex rather than thought."

  "You have a specific set of skills, Sandy. When you learn to apply them to other things, you'll discover they work equally well on things other than military strategy and network engineering, I'm very sure. It's only your lack of experience in anything non-military that makes you think you're not good at it."

  "Maybe." She sipped her tea. "Or maybe it'll turn out I'm just a mass of trigger-sensitive programmed reflexes guided by an over-large ego with an identity crisis and delusions of grandeur."

  Neiland smiled. "So what's the attraction to surfing? Since you obviously don't find it difficult?"

  "It's not a competition. It's just me, and the wave. And ..." She pursed her lips, thinking of how to explain it, what words would be adequate. Sipped her tea, for the inspiration of flavour. "It's like admiring a nice sunset. Or a great view from a mountain top. It's something beautiful, the force in that wave, the sound it makes and the shape as it curls and breaks, and to ride along with it somehow makes me feel a part of that force. I couldn't give a damn how many cutbacks or floaters I pull off, though that's fun. It's a way to appreciate each wave, and get a feel for its different aspects. Technical difficulty's not the point-and it's not much more of a challenge than basketball, really. It's just a beautiful se
nsation."

  Neiland just looked at her for a long moment, smiling at her contemplation, teacup dangled thoughtfully from long, elegant fingers.

  "Must give you a good rush of blood," she stated. Meaningfully. "Get your heartrate up. Might take a while for those feelings to fade away after you get out of the water."

  Sandy took a deep breath. "I don't think that's got anything to do with how I handled the SIB tail."

  "No." Decidedly. "You eliminate all direct threats all the time, regardless of circumstance. It's what you do."

  Another deep breath. One learned to be wary of casual chat with politicians and senior officials. One learned that disarming chitchat about weekend pastimes was often little more than the slow circling of a razorshark about a slow and unwary surfer. In deep water and a long way from shore.

  "Ms. President, I have been instructed many times by advisors in your own staff, and senior CSA people, not to let the SIB boss me around. I am advised to conduct my affairs as I deem prudent. Security arrangements are largely my job now in the CSA, I couldn't just allow such a blatant violation of my security perimeter. It's a precedent that allows all kinds of direct threats to have that much more chance of targeting myself or those I'm guarding."

  Neiland sighed. "Sandy, the political realities were explained to you ...