Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel

by Joel Shepherd

  Peacocks. She pondered that puzzle as she was led (or, more correctly, escorted) into an exquisite corridor of polished floorboards and eighteenth century paintings and decorations ... historical nostalgia, as only Federation worlds knew how. British-occupied India, she thought, surveying a framed photograph, in black and white, of an Indian family in European-styled clothing, gathered for a leisurely day in the sun. A curious point in history to be so painstakingly remembered, given the evident Tanushan-Indian pride in their traditional, indigenous heritage.

  A turn through a broad sitting room, with large windows overlooking the rear lawns, and more gorgeous furnishings, and then a dining room beyond with several uniformed staff setting the table with gleaming china and crystal. Then another hallway, and voices beyond, muffled by shut doors, and more staff intent on business ... she was not, Sandy guessed, the only visitor present in the Embassy right now. In fact, judging by the degree of informal transmission traffic flying about on the local circuit, she was clearly intruding on a never-ending circle of talkfests. Thus the many harried staff, and the many closed doors, and the back-way route chosen by her escort.

  Several more backdoors later, she arrived at another, plain wooden door. A guard opened it, briefly surveyed the interior, then turned to face Sandy.

  "If you could wait in here, Ms. Kresnov," he said, in an inflectionless tone, "the Ambassador himself will be with you shortly."

  An IR shift showed fairly cool blue hues across visible portions of the guard's body. And no visible pulse from a jugular, the most obvious giveaway. She herself looked much the same in an IR scan.

  "What designation are you?" she asked the guard curiously.

  "Please await the Ambassador in this room, Ms. Kresnov," the GI replied, stony-faced. "I assure you it is secure and unbugged."

  She sighed. "As fun as upgrade surgery, you must be a reg." Looked him fully in the face, with careful scrutiny. Thinking it had been a long time since she'd had such face-to-face contact with any member of the artificial League soldiery who hadn't been trying to kill her at the time. "Do you know who I am?"

  Patient silence from both guards. She gave up, and entered the room. Doubtless they'd find out soon enough. The door shut firmly behind her, and footsteps departed.

  The room was difficult to put a name to. A study, perhaps? There were bookshelves, and a desk before the drawn curtains of the window ... she reckoned it must look out over the front lawns, and the street beyond the wrought-iron fence. Best leave the curtains closed. A portrait on the wall, a white-bearded man in a plumed orange turban, his moustache intriguingly pointed as if in satirical protest at the stern glare on his face.

  She strolled to the bookcase, stretching and flexing her shoulders within her jacket. Old titles. Old-style binding. Such books, she knew, were popular in Tanusha as much for their decorative value upon the bookshelf as their contents. The same information on disk could be had for a fraction of the cost. The kind of impracticality that so many in the League found exasperating, but which remained so firmly entrenched here in the Federation. And she wondered again at this choice of premises for the League Embassy. Technically League property, but all Tanushan land was planned and accounted for in advance ... no doubt it was a lease, the terms of which stated occupancy and care of all pre-existing assets.

  Tanushan humour, she guessed, with growing amusement. Federation humour, at the anti-nostalgia, anti-history League. And more, an Indian embrace of an aspect of their history many Indians preferred to forget, the ignobility of a time when others had ruled their destiny. But they remembered regardless, and recalled it in the greatest detail, in the belief that in the act of recalling where they'd been, they would more accurately come to understand where they were, and who they were. The League condemned such notions as restrictive and tiresome. And this ... this building, and this choice of site for the Embassy, was the administration of Callay and Tanusha laughing at them.

  Several browsed books and standing stretches later, the door opened, and Ambassador Gordon Yao entered. Or Yao Gordon, she reflected, if one were in keeping with Chinese formalities. Closed the door behind him, and turned to face her. He wore a slick, wide-at-themiddle black tuxedo, a lot of gleaming hair spray, and a broad, welcoming smile.

  "Cassandra." Beaming at her in a manner that was almost fatherly. And sighed, happily. "Cassandra. It is so good to finally meet you, I can't tell you how excited I was when they told me you had finally shown up. I would have extended you an invitation for dinner long ago, but there was never a quiet moment for either of us since your arrival, and ... well, it did not seem entirely appropriate."

  Sandy carefully replaced the book she had been browsing on its shelf, folded her arms and looked him over. A somewhat portly Chinese gentleman, with broad, friendly features ... a quick flash-retrieve to a memory file, several matching ID images, age, height, previous assignments, the full CSA file, one of numerous she'd taken on since they'd taken her on board. Yao seemed harmless enough, a career diplomat, no military service or shady dealings, just a civil servant bureaucrat fluent in nineteen languages and with a taste for travel. Nineteen ... she blinked in astonishment. Tape-teach made it easier, but it still required some talent.

  "Hello, Ambassador," she said quietly. "Lovely place you have here."

  "Oh it is, it is," Yao agreed, with surprising enthusiasm, strolling several paces into the room. "You know, it was originally intended as the Indian Trade Representative's building, but then some Indian media found out the design and protested that it didn't send the right message." With great amusement, his broad face jovial. "As if Delhi should worry that Tanushans were in danger of forgetting their true heritage, such typical Earth-bound ignorance of the outer worlds. And so some Tanushan planning bureaucrat, no doubt in a fit of hysteria, decided that this should become the League Embassy. You do get the joke, of course?"

  "I do." Sandy discovered, to her own partial surprise, that she was disappointed. She hadn't wanted Yao to be likable. Nor even interesting. Unfortunately, he had so far appeared both.

  "I have been told that about you," Yao said, nodding curiously. Watching her with great intrigue. And, apparently, absolutely no fear at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. "You always took an interest in old heritage. Books and music. Your supervisors were most surprised, I gather."

  "You are aware, of course, that I did not come here to reminisce."

  Yao smiled broadly. "Of course, I understand. You are working for the CSA now. And how have the CSA been treating you? Are you finding civilian life agreeable?"

  "Most agreeable."

  "And you did receive my message, I trust?"

  "I did. I called on Governor Dali personally."

  "Did you? And was he ... forthcoming?"

  "No."

  "I am keeping a most senior delegation of bankers and finance officials waiting," Yao continued, covering her laconic silences with nimble skill. He indicated back toward the door. "I told them I had an important call ... would you please mind waiting another fifteen minutes? We were just concluding."

  "Of course." And because Ibrahim's curiosity meant that she really ought to ask ... "What do banks and finance companies want with the League?"

  "Money," said Yao, with a grateful wink as he departed once more. "I'll be back shortly ... Cassandra, it's just wonderful to meet you, I'll send someone for you very soon."

  The door shut. Sandy gazed at it for a moment. Wondering, now, at the wisdom of coming here at all. Memories crowded, old, jittery reflexes, well remembered claustrophobia and fears. Worries over her supervision. Frustration at the caution of those she had contact with. The paranoia of her direct superiors. The unscheduled "check-ups" for psyche evaluation, which had long since ceased to yield meaningful results, so easily had she learned to manipulate the questions. It felt surreal to be back here again, among these people.

  And she remembered, unbidden, Vanessa recounting with great humour one of her worst recurring nightmares-that she
found herself still a teenager, and back in school, unprepared with major exams looming. The horror, Vanessa had opined with typically enthusiastic wit, had come not so much from school, but from the realisation that her entire life since, and all her new-found maturity and self-assurance, was all a lie, a transparent film that lay fragile and flimsy across the mass of childhood insecurities that was her true self.

  Sandy had never known childhood. Had never been to school, nor shared those experiences. But that was what this felt like, only ten times worse. Back again, where she'd never, ever wanted to be, ever again. And Yao was friendly, and treated her as if she were one of his own. Damned if she was. It made her mad just to think of it. And being what she was, Sandy disliked being mad. Mad had never been a good idea. Unlike most people, she could not afford to lose her temper.

  She felt tense, all over. Anita had good fingers, but already the tightness was returning, a slow, inexorable creeping that bled through her muscles and joints. The one and perhaps only thing she would willingly trade with a straight-a body that didn't cramp itself into knots every twenty hours without rigorous persuasion to do otherwise. Getting shot surely hadn't helped.

  Well, there was enough space on the floor, and so she lay down on her back, put her arms above her head and stretched. She could only reach a little before her stomach pulled tight with a painful jab, sympathetic pains chasing and tingling their way through hips, back and hamstrings ... she winced, relaxing that. Her tightening shoulders informed her they needed more work. Which her stomach would prevent. Damn. She tried wriggling sideways. Grabbed one wrist overhead and pulled over. It caught an as-yet undiscovered spot at the rear of her shoulder joint, which unwound with a nearly audible pop! A whole knot of muscle tightness went with it. She relaxed again, still wriggling, trying to find the next lot of vulnerable tight spots. Little good it'd do her. Impact concussion had thrown everything out of whack, she was tightening fast. Invulnerable killing machine, my arse...

  The door handle turned and she froze in mid-reach for her weapon a slow entry was no way to assault a GI in a closed room, all her instincts remained green. Voices from somewhere down the corridor outside ... probably a visiting delegation member exploring, or lost on the way to the toilet. A little girl stuck her head around the corner, peering cautiously. Paused in amazement, seeing Sandy sprawled upon the floor, flat on her back. Sandy waved with her free hand.

  "Hi." The girl took it for an invitation, ducked quickly inside the room and shut the door. Turned back to Sandy.

  "What are you doing on the floor?" Chinese, with more than a passing resemblance to Mr. Yao, she reckoned. Short hair attractively arranged about a decorative blue hairband. She wore a matching blue dress of a denim-like fabric, neat and tidy. Polished brown leather shoes. She looked, Sandy thought, like a child who had been dressed for an occasion by her parents. A late occasion, at nearly 11:00 p.m.

  "I'm stretching. I'm very stiff, I've had a busy day." Propped herself up on her elbows, watching the girl curiously. The number of genuine conversations she'd had with children could be counted on one hand. Or maybe two. Several of those had been under circumstances she'd rather forget. To be approached, out of the blue, was very rare.

  "Why do it in here?" the girl asked, somewhat dubiously. "You know there's a gym in the outer wing?" She looked about twelve, Sandy guessed. Young enough for innocence, old enough for basic maturity. She'd gathered. Although different children matured at different rates. Tape-teach and alternative learning methods could lead to discrepancies. And parents counted for a lot. Her curiosity deepened.

  "I'm a guest, I don't know my way around. I got told to wait in here." Pulled herself properly upright and crossed her legs. "Are you Ambassador Yao's daughter?" A nod. Which explained the late hoursurely an Ambassador's twelve-year-old would be used to it by now. "Do you live here? At the Embassy?"

  "No, we all got pulled in here by security." With disdainful emphasis. "They say it's too dangerous at home. So we've gotta live here now, until everything calms down." She sounded utterly annoyed with the whole scenario. Sandy empathised. "I haven't been off the grounds for the last week, not even with an escort." She strolled briskly to the chair by the table before the window, pulled it out and thumped herself down there. "I'm so bored I can't stand it." Sandy smiled faintly to herself, straightening her back and arching. It was an interesting perspective. She liked interesting perspectives.

  "There are worse things in life than being bored, you know," she

  said.

  "No there's not," said the girl sullenly, kicking her heels. Looked at Sandy. "What are you here for, anyway? I bet you're not with this stupid finance committee, you're dressed better. They all dress like narks."

  "You like the way I'm dressed?"

  "Yeah, I like casual. Leather's great. Dad won't let me wear casual in public." She made a face. "Says we've got appearances to keep up. Fat lot of good that does."

  Mature kid, Sandy reckoned, to voice so many opinions so clearly, and with a complete stranger. Confident. And totally naive of the dangers.

  "Your dad's an important man," she replied. Being a non-controversial devil's advocate. "He's got a lot of responsibilities, you can't blame him for that. He's just good at his job."

  "So people keep telling me. So what are you?" With growing impatience, and curiosity. Sandy reckoned telling anything but the truth could be problematic. Possibly dangerous.

  "I'm a GI."

  "Get out, you are not." With derisive irritation at so stupid a comment. As if she thought she was being made fun of. "GIs are narks. They're all yessir and no sir, they couldn't have a conversation to save their lives. Not the muscle-headed peabrains in this place, anyway."

  "No, I am a GI. I work for the CSA. You watch the news at all?" The girl stared at her for a moment. Then it dawned on her. Excitedly.

  "Oh no way!" With amazement. "That's you?" Sandy reached into her jacket, pulled out Ari's newly issued CSA badge and tossed it to her. The girl caught, opened and stared at it. "Oh wow! April Cassidy ... so that's your name! Dad said some stuff about you earlier, I think ... oh wow, he must be excited to see you, huh?"

  A Federation child, Sandy reflected, might have reacted with terror. Or at least nervous apprehension. This girl was League bred, through and through. As the Ambassador's daughter, GIs were just a normal part of life, guarding the doorways, patrolling the perimeter, keeping an eye on things. Totally unexpectedly, the thought gave her a twinge of regret. All the children out there in Tanusha right now, doubtless terrified into nightmares and bed wetting by their parents' tales of the evil machine-people that lurk on the other side of the invisible Federation-League border. League children, by contrast, associated GIs with safety, guardianship and unconditional trust. Neither was correct, but the League kids had it closer to the mark. In her opinion.

  "Why would he be so excited to see me?" Curious. Ambassador Yao had been very enthusiastic. Surprisingly so.

  "You're such big news, everyone's heard of you! Dad was saying you left the League because of all the corruption in the ISO."

  "Did he now?" It was a good enough explanation to a kid. Though "corrupt" wasn't quite the word she'd have used for the Internal Security Organisation.

  "Yeah, he said the ISO's gotten much better now that the new government's in power, they shook everything up, lots of people got sacked. That's why he wanted to see you, he thought maybe you'd like to come back to the League."

  The simplicity took her breath away. For a moment, she couldn't think of anything to say. Where to begin? Why couldn't she return? There were so many reasons. But how to explain it? She wasn't sure that she could.

  "It's not just the ISO ..." she said finally, "... what's your name, by the way?"

  „Y ng „

  "Ying. It's far more than the ISO, Ying. It's the whole system. It's no place for a person like me. For a GI like me. I just don't like it there, and I don't think they'd want me back anyway."

  "Why no
t? I mean, if they've fixed everything?"

  Sandy sighed. Restrained a smile.

  "They didn't fix anything, Ying. Not really. I've read the CSA reports, I know what's been happening since I left. They sacked the most visible people, the ones who were embarrassing the politicians. The ones the media could pick on. Problem is, the people who ran the whole special operations section that I was part of weren't very visible. They never got punished, they just disappeared from sight for a while. They'll reappear eventually, they always do."

  "Recruitment" was the monster department of League wartime administration. With barely half a billion people in the League, versus roughly 27 billion in the Federation, the League relied upon Recruitment to even up the odds through the production of GIs. Recruitment was so full of secrets and broken rules that no League politician even liked to admit the extent of its powers-namely that if it didn't exist, the League's war-fighting capability would be naught. Sandy had no wish to rush back into its embrace.

  "But wouldn't you like to go somewhere where people don't hate you?" Ying asked. She looked puzzled.

  "Not all people here hate me." With more confidence than she felt. "It's just a few. They make a lot of noise, that's all."

  "You'd get treated better in the League," Ying replied, with great certainty. "You fought in the war for them, they'd be really grateful."

  "Maybe." She'd be dead real fast if she went back, new administration or not. She knew far too much. She was taking a risk even being here. She questioned her sanity even now. More so when the door opened at that moment, and the GI who'd shot her not so many hours earlier walked into the room.

  "Mustafa!" Ying said brightly. "You'll never guess who this is!"