Killswitch: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1)

by Joel Shepherd

  She made her way along the line, talking briefly to each of the four who were awake, reliving the scenario and voicing her strong approval of their efforts-she'd uplinked the full tac-net record upon arrival, and knew exactly what had happened. Then she reached Vanessa's bed, and pulled up a chair.

  "Hi, gorgeous." Leaned to kiss her on the cheek, not wishing to make too much of a fuss in front of the troops. Vanessa caught at her hand as she sat back-a light, grateful grasp. She wore her cps jacket over the dressing gown, stitched with many patches on the arms and shoulders. SWAT Four, Sandy recognised one. And the main CSA patch. Her college coat-of-arms patch too, though that had nothing to do with military service-Ramprakash University, she'd done an MBA there, of all things. It had been Vanessa's habit, back in SWAT, to adorn her jacket with all the units she'd served in, and all the places she'd once belonged. Somewhere along the line, other CDF officers had started copying that habit, and then the enlisted troops too. Although less than two years old, the CDF was already beginning to accumulate peculiar traditions.

  "Cold?" Sandy asked, with a glance at the jacket, knowing full well that wasn't why Vanessa was wearing it.

  "Feel stupid sitting in this damn polka dot gown." Vanessa glanced down, distastefully. "I mean seriously, polka dots? Which idiot in procurement ordered these horrible things?"

  "Not my department." Sandy gave the standard reply.

  "We're soldiers, not nursery rhyme characters."

  "Let me make a note of that."

  Vanessa snorted, giving her a wry sideways look. Sandy was relieved to see that she didn't look too bad. The bandages were wrapped diagonally, covering most of her right eye, cheek and ear. There was a cheek fracture, she'd already been told, and a corresponding one on the back of her skull where it had been slammed on the platform. Otherwise it was just concussion, which healed nearly as fast as fractures with microsynth treatments. Bits of wild dark hair stuck up through the swathed bandages, defiantly. Under the eyes, the last traces of blackness from the previously broken nose were still faintly visible.

  "Been getting beaten up a lot, lately?" Sandy suggested.

  "So what else is new? Does Krishnaswali know you're here?" With a sombrely measuring look from her good left eye. Sandy shook her head. "Great, so either he finds out and orders you detained, or he doesn't find out, and gets furious because no one told him."

  "Fuck him," said Sandy. Vanessa considered that for a moment, offhandedly.

  Then, "Yeah, I guess so," she decided. And gazed blankly across the ward for a moment. Sandy followed her gaze, turning in her seat. And saw young Private Moutada, unconscious in his bed, right arm swathed in bandages over bio-casts within a mass of fluid-tubes. The microsolutions healed the burns, encouraged the growth of new, unscarred skin, and formed new nerve pathways where the old ones were destroyed.

  "He'll be okay," Sandy said quietly. "They can reconstruct the hand and wrist, it'll be just like new. Maybe better."

  "Doesn't help the others much, does it?" Vanessa met Sandy's gaze once more as she turned back around. "Nor all Duong's marines." Pause. "Nor Duong."

  "It wasn't your fault."

  "Damn it," said Vanessa, with a sudden flash of dark irritation, "I don't need a lecture. I know it wasn't my fault. The whole fucking system was compromised from the beginning. They snuck a GI right into the damn Chambers through the underground. The missile attack drives everyone right into the exact place they wanted them. We were set up from the start. I'm not blaming myself, I can do my own damn shrink-work."

  Sandy gazed at her for a moment. "Well, good," she said, injecting just enough of an edge into her tone, "I'm real pleased to see you don't have a problem."

  "I'm angry," said Vanessa, a little more calmly. "And I'm not going to deal with all this emotional shit now. I have things to do."

  Sandy took a deep breath. If that was the way Vanessa wanted to play it, she would oblige. "Are you going to be okay with the rosters?" she said instead.

  "Sure, I've got Rupa doing revision plans on her spare time, even Arvid was surprised to learn he does know one end of a comp-slate from another. It's not so hard when suddenly no one's going home to sleep. We'll cover for you. Though it might be nice to know how long for?" With a questioning look.

  "That's why I'm here." There was no point keeping her voice down—the soldiers in nearby beds could no doubt hear, with their enhanced hearing. But amongst CDF soldiers, she didn't mind the knowledge spreading. "That last lead we were on. Went back to the Senate."

  Vanessa frowned. "That stray arms shipment?" Sandy nodded. "Where in the Senate?"

  "Don't know. It gets kind of lost after that, even Ari can't get access to Senate files real easy. But he did find out what was in the shipments. Hi-Star multifire-type twos, plus ammunition."

  "So somehow," Vanessa said slowly, "a couple of military grade, multifire rocket launchers get through customs en route to a Senate address, then wind up in the hands of a Tanushan radical nationalist movement. Ari should have fun trying to join those dots."

  "Well, he's hardly bothering with the Senate," Sandy replied, "that's just banging your head against a bureaucratic wall. But he was talking to some contacts who know the Callay Rashtra. It looks like this was coming for a while."

  "I bet Ari's real pissed he didn't notice."

  "Well, that's the thing," Sandy countered, "Callay Rashtra were such patsies, they had everything fed to them on a spoon, and they bought it. Someone in the government gave them the equipment, gave them the intel, set them up for the whole thing. Ari reckons they were lured to make the rocket attack, and think it was their own idea. He doesn't think they knew about the GI."

  "So the home grown Callayan loonies take the blame," Vanessa concluded, "while the real masterminds stay hidden."

  "Giant fucking setup," Sandy confirmed. "And it worked."

  "Yeah," Vanessa murmured. Her gaze slid to the small display screen upon the opposite wall, angled so the rest of the ward could view it. It was a local news channel, of course. The broadcast had slipped into what was being called by some the "holy shit" mode, where the screen was filled with blurred, uneven live images of explosions and flaming wreckage. Glimpses of weapon fire and confused carnage were interspersed with experts, espousing their very well-paid opinions. Several, to Sandy's small surprise, had books to sell, or analysis-services to promote. A few had once been CSA. And, worse, Special Investigations Bureau.

  "Been following this?" Vanessa asked, sombrely.

  "My seekers buzz me whenever something interesting comes up," Sandy replied. "Lots of buzzes lately."

  "Saw Benale's speech?"

  "Uh-huh."

  There wasn't much more to say. The Secretary General had been furious. The kind of shaking, head-sweating fury that usually followed a close brush with death, in Sandy's experience-particularly when the person in question was utterly unaccustomed to such things, and was inclined toward mortal offence at the smallest inconvenience to his person. Or, rather, his Very Important Person.

  There had been a huge barrage directed at the CSA and the CDF, for their "utter and inexcusable failure to provide even the smallest modicum of basic security." And another barrage for the Neiland Administration, and President Neiland herself, for "direct responsibility in stirring up some of the basest emotions at work within the Callayan political spectrum." Such an incident, he had stated, with beads of sweat gleaming in the lights on his shaved scalp, was "a grave provocation to the forces of Federal unity that Earth and its institutions represents."

  "That last line was certainly a killer," Vanessa completed their mutual train of thought. "`If the government of Callay cannot even provide the basic security required for a simple summit meeting, how in the galaxy can they possibly be trusted to hold and protect the very seat of all Federation authority?"'

  "Subtle little fuck, isn't he?" Sandy murmured.

  "What's the Fleet doing?"

  "They're in conference," Sandy said with a si
gh. And hung her head, elbows forward on knees. Her neck was stiff, and she had the beginnings of a most rare condition-a headache. "Official next in command of the Fifth is Captain Rusdihardjo. Makes Duong look like a moderate. It's not going to be pretty."

  "Convenient," said Vanessa. Flatly, her good eye dark with sombre meaning. "For people who'd like that promotion." Sandy nodded, wearily. "We're going to lose the stations, aren't we?"

  Sandy nodded again. "They'll interpret their security prerogative independently, as is their right. Earth's a long way away, they're authorised to take whatever action they require. Intel thinks it'll be a full blown blockade. Maybe worse."

  "That's not good." There was a brief silence, but for faint footsteps in the corridor beyond, and a muffled conversation between doctors. "A blockade is already a violation of Callayan sovereignty within the Federation charter. Anything more is ... well, war."

  "What really shits me," Sandy said with eyes narrowing, "is that for someone out there, this is turning out exactly the way they'd planned. I have to find that GI. She's the link between us and whoever's planning this whole mess. And if she's leaving you cryptic messages to pass on to me, maybe she'll talk rather than shoot."

  "Track record there doesn't seem great," Vanessa murmured.

  "GIs," Sandy said firmly, "are unpredictable. They're not machines. Higher-designation minds can't be programmed like regs. I think the message was a sign of that."

  "Or maybe it's exactly what she was told to say," Vanessa replied blandly. "Maybe it's a part of a plot to get your hopes up and your guard down."

  Sandy shrugged, concedingly. "Either way, I have to try. It's so much easier when they talk without shooting."

  "All the same to me," Vanessa muttered. Sandy gazed at her, worriedly. Vanessa turned her single-eyed stare upon her, with dark emotion. "If she won't play civilised, promise me you won't go all soft and mushy, huh? You can't play a gentleman's game with a chimpanzee, Sandy. If she so much as blinks, you fuckin' waste her, you got me?"

  It was fury, pure and simple. Worse than fury. Hatred. Sandy gazed at her friend for a long moment, and felt a slow, creeping dread moving in the pit of her stomach.

  "Sure," she said finally. "Sure I will." And glanced down, for the first time, at the comp-slate resting on Vanessa's lap. Zoomed on the writing there. It was a letter. To Mr. and Mrs. Hussein, parents of young Private Omar Hussein. And she recalled in a flash a cocky, confident young man with an easy grin. A little arrogant, in the way of so many young Tanushan men, but full of spirit and life ... "esprit," Vanessa had termed it before, in her fluent French. A word larger than itself, and much to be admired. She'd never had to write a letter like that herself, Sandy realised. All the soldiers she'd lost directly under her command had been GIs. And GIs had no one waiting at home to grieve when the letter arrived.

  "It's not fair what GIs can do, Sandy," Vanessa said quietly. "It's real convenient when they're friendly and on your side. But on the receiving end ... it's just not fucking fair. They were good kids. Good soldiers, too. They didn't stand a chance."

  "Ricey." Sandy reached for Vanessa's hand upon the covers. Clasped it gently, and gave a light squeeze. "She's her. I'm me."

  William Reichardt sat in Mekong's captain's chair, and listened to the procession of bad news over station com. About him, the cramped metal spaces of the warship's bridge glowed the dull red of full alert, all posts occupied, terminals and operators interfacing in a familiar embrace.

  "Captain," called the com officer, "we've reports of shooting in green sector, as many as seven casualties. Dockworkers, I think."

  Reichardt set his jaw hard, and did not answer. Station feed was still broadcasting full schematics on Fleet encryption, and on his chair's primary display screens he could see the small blue dots of Fifth Fleet personnel spread throughout the station's circumference. It still ached-the stationmaster's final pleas for intervention clear in his memory, the thumping crashes in the background as Amazon's marines had battered through the last barriers of the desperate bridge crew. There were few things William Reichardt enjoyed less than sitting helpless and watching while bad things were done. He was not, at this moment, feeling at all pleased or proud of himself. From the expressions on the faces surrounding him, he knew he wasn't the only one.

  "Sir," said Cho from armscomp into that pause, "shouldn't we at least talk to Rusdi?"

  "That's Captain Rusdihardjo on this bridge, shipmate," Reichardt replied, eyes not leaving the displays. "And we've got nothing to talk about."

  "Captain ..." Cho persisted, "... couldn't we at least try and get the stationmaster out of detention? That's just nowhere in the procotols, it's just plain illegal ..."

  "And shooting recalcitrant dockworkers with Fleet marines is?" Reichardt glared across the tight, display-lit space at his first mate. Cho looked exasperated, tense with anger and concern. "The Fifth just lost its admiral, Cho. This isn't a rational military procedure. This is revenge. Talking won't help."

  "Captain," came first com again, "I have a secure transmission from Pearl River."

  "Captain's chair," said Reichardt.

  "Billy," said Captain Marakova in his ear the second his connection established, "I've given you an hour to think it over, and now I want an answer. What's your next move?"

  "Lidya, I have no authorisation to deal with this situation." It took several seconds for the signal to reach Pearl River and return, from midorbit to high geostationary and back. Reichardt's display counted the seconds for him.

  "Utter nonsense, those gutless fools left you in charge, they're in no position to complain if they don't like your actions. Rusdi's always been half-crazy, you know what I think happened here. "

  "Yeah," Reichardt replied, not bothering to keep the frustration out of his voice, "I'm not real interested in political conspiracy theories right now, Lidya. Neither am I in any frame of mind to initiate hostilities with the Fifth Fleet."

  His eye strayed over the nav display as he spoke. Four major stations servicing the world of Callay. The Third Fleet, under his unofficial command, had one warship docked at each, and three more in geostationary "watch." Mekong was the only carrier. Pearl River was an intercept cruiser, as were three others of similar class-plenty fast for deep space engagements, but equipped with only small marine complements, and not designed for boarding and occupying. The other two were rim hunters, midsized and equipped for outer-system sweeps, where pirates and raiders liked to hide. Lots of sensory gear, plenty of mobility, but not much firepower.

  In situations short of a shooting war, carriers were most useful, and most provocative. Amazon's complement of three hundred marines, plus another three hundred from the Yangtze, now held Nehru Station, and its entire thirty-thousand-strong resident population, completely under Fifth Fleet control. Carriers on two of the other three stations had done likewise-Ryan Station was oldest and smallest, and only required several cruisers' complements to secure. Four carriers ... one hell of a provocation. One didn't send four carriers to a supposedly friendly system unless there was a great suspicion that they'd be required. Damn right his old friend Lidya Marakova was suspicious.

  "Hell, Lidy," he muttered into his headset mike, "thirty years. Thirty years we've been doing it this way-a planet here, a few stations there. Thirty years out in the cold, away from civilisation, making our own rules against opponents who didn't always believe in them. Now we're back in civilisation, and it doesn't recognise us ... or we don't recognise it. What the hell's happened here?"

  "Someone should explain to Rusdi that she was never betrayed." Marakova's voice was filled with contempt. "The Federation didn't abandon her or her values. Rather it had never accepted her damn values in the first place. Somewhere out there in the cold, she forgot. That is all that's happened here."

  "She thinks she came home from the war to find her husband in bed with another woman," Reichardt countered. "That's what we're dealing with here. She's real pissed, and I'm not going to start play
ing chicken with someone who doesn't know how to flinch." His screen illuminated briefly, indicating another incoming call. "Hold on, Lidya, I've got Verjee on the line." He switched to the local, station line. "Hello, Captain Verjee, what can I do for you?"

  "Captain Reichardt," came the new voice, with none of Marakova's easy informality. "Due to recent events, the station is now facing crew shortages in cargo and docking departments. This is an official request from actingAdmiral Rusdihardjo that you deploy a complement of your troops to help fill this vacancy."

  From the neighbouring seat, Cho stared at him in disbelief, sharing the higher officers' linkage to all operational com. Reichardt took a deep breath.

  "I'm not deploying anyone from Mekong into an unworkable environment," he replied, with what he thought was commendable calm. "You reinstate the stationmaster to his rightful post and release all the dockworkers you've detained, and I might reconsider your proposal."

  A pause at the other end. "Is he fucking kidding?" Cho mouthed to him, silently. Reichardt just shook his head.

  "You misunderstand the nature of this communication, Captain. This is not a request, it is an order from a senior officer."

  "I do not accept Captain Rusdihardjo's new promotion," Reichardt replied with a hardening tone.

  "We are a long way from any committee to decide the issue, Captain. As I understand the order, you shall either comply with this instruction, or you shall be found to be in defiance, and removed hencewith. "

  "Like fuck you will," growled someone from the other side of the bridge. "You can try," Reichardt said simply. There was no immediate reply from the other end. Anxious faces around the bridge turned Reichardt's way. Familiar faces. Close friends, many of them. People who'd been there when Kresnov had ordered the orbital strike upon Tanusha's Gordon Spaceport, and gotten them embroiled in this twoyear-long mess. Some who'd been there far longer than that, through combat against the League, through horrors and terrors he'd never have wished on anyone, least of all his friends.