Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1)

by Joel Shepherd

  "Vanessa, just ..." Sandy winced, holding up a forestalling right hand, "... just stay a little calm, huh? I'm a GI, you seem to keep forgetting ...

  "Forgetting! Christ, how can I forget? You get shot and you're off running around like an action hero ... where'd you get shot? How?"

  "As soon as you've calmed down a little, I'll tell you everything."

  "She's right, LT," said Singh, squatting nearby with observant interest. "You're getting hysterical." Vanessa glared at him.

  "You shut the fuck up."

  he Doghouse was as chaotic as she'd seen it. Med ward was filled with minor cases, exhausted SWAT grunts treating various sprains, strains and armour stresses. All found time to watch with interest as she was found a table and duly set upon by several enthusiastic medics, who were joined in short time by the resident augment-surgeon, then two assistants, then a biotech specialist who appeared out of breath, having evidently run down from Intel to "assist" ... while she lay almost naked on the exam bench and tried not to feel ridiculous amid the crush.

  Treatments and technical possibilities were offered, and questions asked ... when directed at her, she mostly just shrugged helplessly and reminded them tiredly that she was a grunt, not a doctor. Previous midriff bandaging was cut away, wounds inspected, recleaned-provoking argument over correct disinfectant, with added earnestness due to the enhanced GI vulnerability to micro-organ isms-and then basic electro-stim applied. Someone found a sonicscanner and wheeled it over, and then began mapping with the handset to compile a three-dimensional picture. After a search someone found the benex supply they'd ordered from labs especially for her-a myomer relaxant, they called it benex for short. Sandy knew little beyond that, except that it'd always been used for short term relief from extreme stresses. More discussion over dosage and location of hypo-shots, about which she was more useful, having had plenty back League-side.

  Basic stress relief achieved, then came the full physical ... blood pressure, pulse rate, nervous feedback, blood chemistry-the basics were very human-ish, and provoked further intrigue from surrounding meds, and no few of the present, aching SWATs. Yes, she replied to one curious question, her chin rested on folded hands upon the bench, GIs did get sick, especially if they didn't exercise, eat well, or suffered vitamin deficiencies. Yes, she'd several times had flu, or something close to it. GI immune systems were heavily engineered and required frequent boosts, artificial micros simply didn't handle virus and organic micros as well as straight human systems. Yes, she'd once known a GI to drop dead from a particularly nasty measles strain. Yes, straights serving with GIs for long periods required extra boosters for the GIs' safety more than their own. No, that wasn't likely to be a problem with her, she was one of the lucky fifty per cent of GIs with few quirks in their immune systems. But the odd extra shot for those she most frequently came into contact with in the CSA definitely would not hurt her feelings.

  The rest was just physical recovery, several benex shots into major muscle groups, and a lot of electro-stim and massage. With little more to be done, excess medical personnel drifted reluctantly away to more pressing concerns. Freed of the crowd, she lay mostly on her stomach, a polite towel across her buttocks, and took the time to chat with the other SWATs. All were from other teams, and all had been busy-per sonnel were alternating between rapid reaction, fixed security and mobile patrols, and sometimes, particularly in the evenings-when the delegations were all most actively engaged-patrols in pairs or fours, just to make sure there were trained shooters on scene quickly if something went wrong. The police were doing an okay job, but ... well-eyes were rolled-you wouldn't want them leading the charge when the shots started flying. And they'd been flying all too frequently of late. Qualified, combat-capable personnel were suddenly in very short supply across Tanusha with its 57 million inhabitants. All the grunts looked tired, and some of the men didn't look like they'd shaved in days. Several were troubled by various augments acting up under the strain of too much time in armour-supplemented arm and leg ligaments, tendon sheaths, muscle attachments, all the key points. And she found room to be glad that whatever her problems, at least she didn't have to put up with that-mutually opposing systems, organic and artificial. She was all one system. And that, of course, was the GI performance advantage.

  Some thoughtful tech actually brought her clothes up, having somehow finagled access to her locker, and she got dressed to the protests of several grunts that no one ever did that for them ... the embarrassed tech (male, of course) retreated before things got ugly. Then out into the unseasonal traffic in the med halls, walking loose limbed and flexing within her casual duty pants and jacket, readjusting her stride for the unpredictable looseness of muscles brought on by the benex shots. Several passing whitecoats recognised her and offered greetings, which she returned-she'd gotten to know these halls well enough in past weeks, recovering from previous, more serious injuries.

  The adjoining wing took her back to Doghouse proper, bypassing the chaotic duty rooms that Medical had been so thoughtfully situated next to. Corridor windows gave her an overview as she left Med, the broad landing pad crowded with armoured flyers in a blaze of flood lights ... maintenance and flight crews were making standby walka- rounds, with no time for more intensive checks. The open flight-bay beyond was lit yellow by the worklights, awash with the scuttling activity of three times the usual operational load of flyers and other vehicles. She could see small groups consulting out on the pads, arms waving over the whine of thrusters, fingers being pointed in many different directions. Even as she watched a new team were disembarking, a line of armoured figures doing a quick jog toward a waiting flyer, running lights blinking in readiness. SWAT Nine, she saw with a quick zoom ... and they were twelve-strong, four short of full strength. Injuries and maintenance breakdowns ... the schedule was starting to take its toll.

  Nine SWAT teams to cover 57 million people and several tens of thousands of senior foreign delegates ... not enough. Not even close. But the cops weren't trained for lethal force on the required scale, and the SIBs were discovering that legal edicts and SCIPS had their limits against determined political subversion of whatever ilk or motivation. Who the hell else was there? In this usually peaceful city? Investigations was huge, a great sprawl of compound across the whole West Block, and had many personnel in various departments capable of basic weapons, but they'd been overstretched from even before the whole constitutional crisis, let alone now that the floodgates had opened and all the crazies were pouring out of the woodwork ...

  She puzzled over it all the way to debrief, over on the west side of the Doghouse, facing Central. Too far a walk, was the other thought that came to mind. Too much admin in SWAT ... it wasn't a large operation, really, just nine SWAT teams ... in Dark Star they'd managed three times the strikepower with half the admin, at least. She'd yet to figure what half the SWAT admin people did. Worse, she didn't think admin itself was entirely sure.

  Debrief had already started when she got there ... it was a lot to get through, most of which had happened at 214 Park Street well before she had gotten there. The crowd of Intel attending was nearly as large as the assembled SWAT Four, seated or standing about the front and sides of the class-sized room, watching the main display, full tac-graphic unfolding across the front display. The team lounged in more comfortable deep cushions, some sprawled with feet up, others seated against the back wall with legs out and jackets unzipped, hair wet and dishevelled from recent showers, cold packs and strapping held to troublesome augments or plain muscle strains. All paused to look when she entered.

  "Hey, babe, you okay?" Vanessa was seated up front in a thick reclining chair-commander's seat, boots up on the rim of the long, central table. A long, concerned look from weary dark eyes under untidy, curling dark hair.

  "No worse than the rest of you lot," Sandy replied.

  "That bad, huh?" Vanessa held out a hand. Sandy went over and took it, a brief, public handclasp, and a pat at her backside as she went to th
e back of the room. More hands extended from reclining, exhausted grunts, and more pats as she passed ... and with some, even a brief, approving contact of eyes. It felt good. She messed Singh's hair as she passed, knocked knuckles with Kuntoro, and headed straight for Bjornssen and Hiraki, seated against the rear wall by the corner against the windows. There was no room, but Bjornssen got the idea and spread his long legs. Sandy dumped herself unceremoniously between and leaned back against him-Bjornssen was a big man, a head taller and far broader than her, and it seemed a waste of chest space when the wall was all taken. He surprised her by wrapping arms around her tightly, and giving her a brief, affectionate shake ... not always the most lighthearted man, Bjornssen-dour and matter-of-fact at most times. Viking heritage, he liked to call it. Ethnic heritage was the most chic of fashion accessories in Tanusha, Sandy reckoned. Something real. Something you couldn't buy. There weren't many of those left, these days.

  "These guys have a clue?" she asked Hiraki in a low voice as the debrief continued and multi-graphical displays swung and glowed across the huge forward screen. Hiraki scanned the row of watching, note-consulting Intels across the front of the room with narrowed, thoughtful eyes. And gave a faint shrug.

  "They function." Sandy rolled her head against Bjornssen's broad shoulder and gave him a flat look.

  "All Intel functions," she retorted softly. The scene at Park Street had been a mess, and she wasn't at all sure there'd been a need for it. Someone should have exercised a command prerogative. It was a CSA operation, it should have been a CSA call.

  Hiraki shrugged again. "We are still alive."

  "Thank Vanessa for that."

  "True. But nonetheless." The assistance hadn't gotten them killed, he meant. Bad assistance could do that. Hiraki seemed aware of it.

  "You smell nice," Bjornssen remarked in her ear.

  "GI pheromones." She rolled her head back, rested against the big Scandinavian's Jaw. "Potent and highly addictive."

  "Soap."

  She smiled. "That too." And she took a moment to enjoy the close male proximity, as up the front the debrief continued, and grunts pretended to pay attention. It was for Intel's benefit, not theirs-they'd been there, they didn't need someone else to tell them what had happened. Vanessa, to her credit, fielded most of the questions, and let her team rest. With Bjornssen's warmth against her back, his breath in her ear and arms loosely about her, Sandy realised something with great abruptness.

  "Oh God, I desperately need a fuck." Bjornssen managed to keep his laughter below audible volume. "Oh, what?" Still quietly, but with some indignation. "It's easy for you, I can't find anyone who's not terrified of me or isn't some totally obsessive Intel geek."

  "I think Rupa wins the pool," Hiraki murmured with amusement.

  Sandy rolled her head back and frowned at him. "What?"

  "Some people made bets on how long you'd take to ask someone. There is much amazement you've lasted so long."

  Sandy snorted. "Vanessa's rumours, I bet, no respect for my self control."

  "Pity you're not gay," Bjornssen said in her ear.

  "God, I've heard that sooo many times lately." Pause. And she realised why he'd said it. And, in a further flash of insight, what else they must have talked about, behind her back. "Look, it's just as well I'm not, it wouldn't be real smart for Vanessa to fall in love with me. Don't worry about her, she'll be fine. She's hot for that techie girl down in Ops-mech, anyway. Lopez."

  "No no no," Bjornssen said with quiet amusement. "She just wants a woman again after so long. She was very good for a very long time. We were all amazed. But she likes girls. It was very hard for her. Lopez is the first target, that's all."

  Sandy thought about that for a moment. Gazed out the windows to the right, at the multi-storey, blazing lights of the Central compound, the major offices of admin and Intel. All awake with endless activity, despite the increasingly late hour.

  "And," added Bjornssen, "it has been extra frustrating for her having you around."

  "Frustrating?" She didn't like the sound of that. "Why?"

  "Because you are exactly her type, Sandy." Brushed some loose, damp hair back from her ear. "Exactly. But she knows she cannot have you, and so she goes hunting for others."

  "Why am I her type?" Suspiciously. SWAT grunts who played psycho-analyst. She didn't trust it, this newly discovered side to Bjornssen. Some over-confident types reckoned they knew everything. Bjornssen was certainly confident.

  "Pretty. Strong. Dangerous."

  "Unattainable," Hiraki added with nodding certainty from along-

  side.

  Sandy gave him a long look. "I think you're underestimating her."

  Hiraki shrugged again ... a controlled, precise gesture on him. Relaxed.

  "We have known her much longer. You are new here."

  Sandy shook her head. "You're forgetting I'm a GI. You saw her just now when I cramped, she nearly panicked. And she never panics. No way has she come to terms with what I am yet. No way. She's intrigued, sure, but she's not attracted."

  "Now it is you underestimating her," Bjornssen replied, "our LT is not so easily put off, believe me ..."

  "Would you fuck me?" A moment's consternation from Bjornssen. "Oh, come on, you're Scandinavian, you like blondes with nice arses, I heard you say so-that's me."

  Hiraki was looking at him now, mildly curious. Bjornssen gave an exasperated sigh.

  "Well ... I mean, Sandy, you're very pretty ..." Mildly patronising, Sandy thought dryly, tolerating another light shake, "... and you smell very nice ... but no. No, I do not think I could." A light shrug against her back. "I'm very sorry. I don't mean any offence, but I'm ... I'm just not attracted to GIs."

  "Now there's a wild generalisation," Sandy retorted quietly. "If no one had told you, you wouldn't even realise ..."

  "But I am not the LT," he continued, ignoring her. "She is extremely stubborn and she is not scared of anything ..."

  "Bullshit, everyone's scared of something."

  "You," Hiraki said. Looking at her, calm intent in dark, slanted eyes. "What are you scared of?" Sandy met his gaze, firmly. And decided she would not be drawn into such personal revelations at this time.

  "Of going more than a month without sex. It's bad for me. I'll wear out my fingers." There was a pause in the room, other conversation halted. Bjornssen put a hand on her face and turned her head toward the front of the room. Senior Intels were looking at her. Several of the team turned to look, too. Someone had asked her a question. Ooops. "What?"

  She managed to say it with incredulous innocence, and several grunts sneezed laughter.

  "Agent," said the head Intel ... Richter, Sandy recalled her name was ... "I appreciate that you've had a long and hard day, but we're on rather a tight schedule and we'd like to be done here as soon as possible, so could you please pay attention?"

  It was all Sandy could do to keep from smiling. She had never, in all her memory, been caught not paying attention in a briefing. Probably because she always had been paying attention. There had been an undercurrent of contempt, back in Dark Star, for civilian ill-discipline. Strange now to find herself becoming one of those unruly, undisciplined few. Strange, but not unwelcome.

  "But, Marlie," someone protested, "you're so damn boring." Tired, repressed laughter around the room. A few of the Intels hid smiles with difficulty. Richter waited impatiently for it to finish.

  "I'm sorry," Sandy said, with a diplomatic smile. "What was the question?"

  She was directed into Ibrahim's office by a weary staffer, who murmured something about her being expected ... further down the waiting foyer, the main Ops hall was buzzing, screens alive and displaying to all surrounding alcoves and offices. A warren of early morning activity at three in the morning. Like a Chinese ghost story, someone had said to her recently-things only get really nasty when the sun goes down. She pushed through the main doors, the inner corridor all deserted, as were the meeting rooms and adjoining offices behind glass wa
lls. Ibrahim's office was the one you couldn't see into, a plain door with "Director" on it. Real flashy. It suited the man entirely.

  She knocked, and thought to do up her old duty jacket properly, at least, and close the zippers on the shoulder pockets-her old military reflexes remained very much intact, she thought wryly, reaching further to zip her thigh pockets too. The realisation failed to bother her. She was what she was. No reply, and she knocked again. Uplinked to the local security grid-an old reflex-and found everything very much in order, and totally impenetrable. Glanced about the corridor again ... everyone was either out consulting, working or resting. She grasped the door handle and found it unlocked.

  The office was dark. Her vision switched accordingly, and she walked in, unneeding of the light. A dark bundle lay on the floor along the right-hand wall ... a person, wrapped in a blanket, on cushions borrowed from the room's one sofa. She closed the door behind her, blocking out the light from the corridor, but with vision tuned to IR that made it easier to see. Only the compound lights gleamed brightly through the windows, casting faint, multi-directional shadows across the floor.

  "Sir." No response. His breathing was deep and steady beneath the blankets. "Sir." She padded softly over, not wanting to startle him. Knelt on the floor beside the improvised bed of cushions, and shook gently at his shoulder. "Mr. Ibrahim." He caught a breath. "Sir, it's Cassandra Kresnov. You wished to see me."

  "Hmmm." A low, waking groan. "Cassandra." Another deep breath. "Just a moment."

  "Can I get you a glass of water? Or there was a drinks dispenser in the corridor, I think?"

  "No ... no, I shouldn't want to wake more than necessary." He pulled himself half upright, wincing and rubbing at his eyes. His dark hair was shaven too short for disarray ... shorter than she'd remembered. She decided he must have had it done recently, to avoid precisely that appearance in days when he had so little time for grooming. Practical solutions from perhaps the most practical person she'd ever met. And one of the most complex.