Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1)

by Joel Shepherd

  "I would convene the hearing for lunch," Hassan resumed, shifting back to a properly upright posture in his big leather chair, "but given the ... pressing nature of everyone's schedules at this time, I feel we should perhaps proceed immediately to questions, if there are no objections?"

  "Ms. Cassidy," a Union Party rep said immediately from the left end of the long double row of benches, "you are technically under suspension at this moment, are you not?"

  Silence descended once more upon the shifting, coughing gallery.

  "Yes, ma'am." No one used that feminine anachronism in the League, nor in the CSA. But here in the grand houses of Parliament, it remained, she'd been informed, the required mode of address to powerful women.

  "Why are you under suspension?" Seated on the very far left of the front bench. Sandy had to turn her head across to look at the woman directly. Distractingly, numerous of the gallery across that side began to lean forward, seeking a better view of her face.

  "There was an incident." And thought to glance across at Rafasan. Rafasan nodded for her to continue. "The bombing on the Derry riverside two nights ago. I caught the bomber. The SIB thought I took unnecessary measures in doing so, and placed me under suspension on a technicality of my Callayan citizenship conditions, pending further review."

  "You caught the bomber?" someone else asked. All twenty-six pairs of eyes across both rows of benches fixed unerringly upon her, with a mix of incredulity and surprise.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "How?"

  "I'm afraid," Rafasan intervened, leaning forward to her microphone, "that that information remains classified for now ..."

  "Isn't it true," said the first Union Party woman, "that you shot and wounded a pair of SIB investigators in the process of this ... apprehension?" Dead silence. Sandy looked at Rafasan. The President's senior legal advisor gave a long, dark look in the direction of the Union Party woman. And then shrugged to Sandy, helplessly. A go-ahead.

  "After they opened fire on me in an attempt to kill me for failing to stop when they said stop," Sandy replied. "I disobeyed because I was chasing the bomber, who was getting away. Upon coming under what I perceived to be an attack intended to be lethal, I responded by aiming to wound both of my pursuers, which I achieved, whereupon I resumed pursuit of the bomber and caught him."

  Another, building wave of murmuring from the gallery. It had been on the news, she knew. Lots of eye witnesses. The news media hadn't guessed it'd been her in pursuit, however, and the CSA had done a good job of confusing the issue, claiming multiple agents in pursuit ... technically true, but not exactly clarifying. Thankfully most people had been too confused or frightened, and the media too wrapped up in sensationalism, to get very close to the truth ... although that too would have been just a matter of time, even for the Tanushan press. The Union woman stared hard at her for a moment. Evidently it didn't correlate with what she'd been told.

  "Alita Bhattacharya," Rafasan leaned over to whisper in Sandy's ear, "Union Right." Sandy nodded, knowing what that meant. Religious groups and extreme, anti-League positioning. In this city, her ideological worst enemy. Doubtless the Senate Security Council had been talking to her.

  "You can corroborate your story?" asked Bhattacharya, with extreme disbelief.

  "It's on tape," Rafasan replied for her. "CSA protocols have recov ered traffic-control sensors which recorded the event. It correlates with Ms. Cassidy's recollection of events entirely."

  "And why haven't you released this tape?" Bhattacharya replied suspiciously.

  "Because the CSA and the Administration," Rafasan replied frostily, "are more concerned with performing the task circumstance has assigned to us, in accordance with the laws governing security restrictions and non-disclosure, than we are with scoring political points. Instead we are faced with a circumstance where one of this world's finest assets has been suspended for doing her job with excellence, while the SIB has been rewarded for doing its job extremely badly."

  "Speaking personally, Ms. Rafasan," said a man sitting two seats along from Bhattacharya, "I find this incessant CSA bashing of the SIB and its agents extremely disturbing, particularly under these circumstances, where a couple of SIB agents have actually been shot, to apparently very little remorse from the person who shot them, or the CSA, or indeed the Neiland Administration in general."

  "Sir," Rafasan said very coldly, nervous fingers clasping hard together on the table as she leaned forward, "if you care to examine my own personal record of statements in legal and academic arenas, you will find that my own attitude toward the SIB has generally been extremely positive for a great many years. As the President's senior legal advisor, you can trust that I have frequently supported the SIB's procedures on many things, often against the President's own feelings, or that of her various other advisors or ministers. I felt that the SIB possessed a degree of intellectual, academic sophistication worthy of the city that Tanusha, and the planet of Callay, was aiming to become.

  "Recent events have come as something of a shock to me, I now most readily confess. They have revealed stark flaws in the SIB's operating procedure, most notably that its links to the Senate, and particularly the Senate Security Panel, have held its agenda hostage to narrow, often extremist and unrepresentative interests that in this case have sent it on the most disgraceful witch hunt that I have ever had the disgust to observe in all my years in the legal profession. The degree of extremist xenophobia ..."

  "Ms. Rafasan ..." the chairman said loudly.

  "... and the accompanying dangerously irrational attempts to interfere with legal government process," Rafasan continued, her accent lilting in a pronounced, angry rush, "have as far as I can see worked only to the detriment of law-abiding people across this planet

  "Ms. Rafasan, if you please ..."

  "... and to the broader security circumstance in general, much to the endangerment of everything that all law enforcement agencies upon this world should hold dear and sacred in the extreme."

  "Thank you, Ms. Rafasan, I believe your point has been made ..."

  "Ms. Rafasan," from the Union side, "I really can't believe what I'm hearing here ..."

  Sandy glanced across at the senior legal advisor, who sat flushed and angry, her jaw set at a stubborn angle. She'd gotten to know Rafasan reasonably well over the last month of consultations on one legal matter or another, but she'd never seen her this worked up. Demure South Asian femininity indeed ... quite against the popular media images of delicate Indian beauty queens and assorted glamour princesses, she'd always thought Indian women among the most formidable people in Tanusha. Whenever they opened their mouths, that was.

  "Please, please, people," cut in Chairman Hassan wearily before Rafasan could reply to the Union congressor's disbelief, "this hearing was not convened to discuss the strengths and failings of the Special Investigations Bureau, but rather to hear a presentation and ask questions of Ms. Cassidy here, who is doubtless extremely busy, as are we all..."

  "Ms. Cassidy," spoke up another man from the Union side, "my name is Aramel Afed, I am a member of what you will know as the Union Left." A narrow-faced, dark-skinned man. North African, Sandy guessed. "I feel this might be an opportunity for us, the elected representatives of Callay, to actually get to know you, at least a little ... after all, we've heard so much about you, but until now have had no opportunity to attach a face, or indeed a personality, to this person of whom we've been hearing. So if you will allow me, I will begin by asking you to tell us all a little about yourself. What are your first memories, if I could begin at that early stage of your life?"

  Sandy looked at Rafasan. Rafasan nodded encouragingly. Union Left. Neiland's support base, them and the Centrists ... most of the trouble came from the Right. And she suspected immediately that this man, this Congressor Afed, was most likely offering a planted question-a prearranged strategy worked out with members of the Neiland Administration to steer the hearing in a desirable direction. So. This, she realised, could tak
e quite some time. She settled herself more comfortably into her seat, stretched her ankles more firmly out beneath the table, and began to tell them about her life.

  It was another three hours before she departed via the guarded side entrance, achingly stiff despite the comfortable chair and repeated, subtle attempts at stretching during the questioning. Parliament staff had somehow arranged lunch, plates of sandwiches, falafels and samosas for herself, Rafasan and the twenty-six elected reps, while the gallery had sat on in silence, and those who hadn't brought a packed lunch no doubt wished they had. Someone had even brought herself and Rafasan tea, which the congressors did not get, doubtless there was a staff shortage of such things, but the harried young intern had left them a teapot with milk and sugar lumps ... assuming, of course, that she did drink tea, common enough assumption in Tanusha, addictive Indian habit that it was.

  "Well, I think that went quite excellently," Rafasan was saying as they walked side by side down the hallway, kept largely empty of pedestrians for security purposes, Sandy guessed. Agent Odano walked two steps behind, and a pair of Parliament security behind him, in addition to the two who walked before them, leading the way. "All things considered, that is. You are a very good public speaker, I did tell the President that I thought it would be a good idea to get you to talk to the Party, I did believe you would make an impression, and now I honestly think you have."

  "I'm glad you think so." Not prepared right now to argue the point that only recently, most had not thought it a good idea at all. But things had changed, evidently. Many things were changing very, very fast ... for all she knew, the next suggestion would have her running for public office. She sincerely hoped not.

  It had been enough just to sit before that double row of elected representatives and recount to them in broad terms, and occasionally specific ones, the general course of her life. The reasons she'd left the League. The things she still liked about League-side, and the things she'd grown to dislike. Her combat operations. Her combat history, from ever-changing locations across the broad, ever-shifting "front" of the League-Federation conflict. The battles she'd engaged in that they might have heard of. The majority of small engagements that they never would have. Her escape to the Federation, her impressions of the Federation, her first job, her first pay cheque, her first decadently "civilian" experience (dancing to African rhythms in a street party, she'd remembered ... only she'd left out the bit about flirting with a very handsome young dancer for the better part of an hour's exertion, and ending up in his hotel bed for the night for some equally energetic exertions). Her perspective on Callayan, and especially Tanushan, politics. Her feelings about the CSA, the SIB, the recent events, and the direction of Article 42.

  She felt tired, and more than a little drained. As if she'd poured out something of herself in that hearing room, leaving the space it'd come from somehow empty.

  "Where to now?" she asked Rafasan.

  "Upstairs," said Rafasan brightly, her stride light, heels clacking upon the smooth floor. "We promised some of the congressors that we'd let them meet you in person. Of course the Progress Party reps wanted to meet you, but a lot of our Left do too ... especially now, after that performance."

  "How many people?" With that familiar sinking feeling she got when being manoeuvred around by political people for political reasons into things she hadn't agreed to in advance because she hadn't been told about them. It was becoming a depressingly accustomed feeling.

  "Oh, don't worry," Rafasan said dismissively, waving a be-ringed and bangled hand, "it's not so many, everyone's busy, so they'll just come in when they're available-you just need to shake their hand, say hello and be generally agreeable. I'm quite sure you can manage that for another hour or two."

  She wanted to complain that she was beginning to feel like a zoo exhibit ... but she didn't see any point in complaining to Rafasan, there was nothing she could do about it. In fact, there was nothing anyone could. Neiland needed her here, and she owed Neiland ... well, everything. She only hoped the persuasion her presence worked upon the wavering middle-ground of Parliament actually came to something positive. For everyone.

  The upper corridor was broad and more well travelled, with large, stylish wooden doors to either side, and many people going by who looked curiously as they passed.

  "The chambers are just up here a ways," Rafasan said, and they walked to an exquisitely decorated intersection with carved wooden panels to match the seamless patterned tiles on the floor ... turned left, and found the big double doorway upon the right wall almost entirely blocked by a chaotic gathering of people engaged in animated argument with officials in suits. Several more whiteshirted Parliament security hovered warily on the perimeter. "What in the name of ... ?"

  The agitators, Sandy observed as she held determinedly to her stride despite Rafasan's surprised pause, did not appear your typical Tanushan political power group. They wore robes of wildly varying colours, though saffron and cotton-white predominated. Some had long, wild hair and, among the men, tangled beards. Most, it appeared, were barefoot, or clad in no more than simple leather sandals. She counted twelve in all, at least half of whom were currently engaged in a heated, hand-waving argument with suited or uniformed officialdom, which appeared to be trying to remove them from their place before the big double doors.

  Then several saw the new arrivals, and there was more commotion, and much loud, rapid talking in a language that sounded distinctly Indian but was not immediately recognisable as one of the five or six she could usually identify by sound alone. A young, sari-clad, barefoot woman was tugging hastily upon the shoulder of an old man, who was shuffling away from the confronting officialdom to observe, through the gathered crowd, what new arrivals came upon him down the hallway.

  "Oh no," said Rafasan, hurrying to keep up and sounding much aggrieved, "it's Swami Ananda Ghosh ... how on Earth he got over here from the Senate building I've no idea ... Sandy, I don't know if you should go over there, I'll get someone to remove them ..."

  "Nonsense," Sandy said calmly, observing the group with interest as they stopped. The two lead security guards walked to their compatriots guarding the doors, and asked them, no doubt in polite, low voices, what the hell was going on. "What language are they speaking?"

  "Them?" Fidgeting with familiar nervousness at her side. "Oh, that's Sanskrit, it's the Swami's organisation, Sandy, I forget the San skrit name, but it means "guiding light," he has everyone in the group talking in Sanskrit so they can better understand the ancient texts."

  "Sounds nice. I've only seen it written before, not heard it spoken." As the discussions continued, she eyed the distance between herself, her group, and the group of traditionally, but shaggily, attired people blocking her way. All arguments had ceased, and all those before her were still, waiting patiently for the security discussions to end. Not all of them were Indian, Sandy noted. Only half, in fact. Two were European, one African, and the other three looked East Asian ... though it was not a huge leap, she'd gathered, from Buddhism to Hinduism, the Buddha himself having been a Hindu once. "Sounds a bit Arabic, only smoother."

  "It's actually, um, closer to Farsi, Urdu and Pashtun, it's one of that family from Egyptian and Arabic carrying on across to northern India-that was all a civilisation once, or a series of civilisations. The birthplace of civilisation itself, actually. Most of the old Hindu texts and stories are written in Sanskrit, you could say it's the equivalent of what Latin is for the Europeans."

  Sandy spared Rafasan an intrigued glance. "You speak any?"

  "Oh yes, I was rather fluent back in my student days ... it's been far too long now, of course, I can't remember half of it." Sounding almost wistful. "I'll get back to it one day. There are poems in Sanskrit that are like ... like nothing else I'll ever ..."

  She broke off as the Swami began to walk forward. He was an old man, and it seemed he had disdained the youthful effects of bio-treat- ments, for his gait was slow and he walked with a large, stout cane in one
gnarled hand. The young sari-clad woman walked at his other hand, holding his arm. The Swami's face was mostly hidden behind a long, flowing white beard, and an equally long torrent of wispy white hair. Security stood to the side and said nothing, and the Swami stopped before her, clad only in an old white dhoti that wrapped up between his old, bare legs and over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. He looked at her, equal to her in height, and his eyes were dark and beady amid a maze of wrinkles in weathered brown skin. Sandy realised he was smiling, although she could barely see his mouth through the beard. But the eyes wrinkled up in joyful good humour.

  "Hello, Mr. Ghosh," she said pleasantly. "I'm very pleased to meet you finally." The Swami laughed, a breathless, triumphant little laugh, and half shuffled about to look back at his gathering and point to her in knowing humour. As if amazed that she spoke. Sandy raised a quizzical eyebrow. Rafasan sighed and fidgeted. As if slightly embarrassed, Sandy thought. Embarrassed, it occurred to her, like Vanessa had once been embarrassed at the prospect of her meeting a particularly eccentric aunt of hers. And she realised in a flash that Rafasan was actually quite fond of the old man, as were most of his detractors, even some of those commentators who referred to him as one of the Senate's "lunatic fringe." But people had voted for this man-in the Senate, at least. And however cynical those commentators were about the Tanushan population's appetite for lunatics, Sandy determined that the recipient of those votes had at least earned the right for her audience, at least for the moment. The Swami shuffled back around to face her, the young woman at his elbow aiding him with practised skill.