“So how is Chandi?” he asked Ruben. He'd been working on the flight down and hadn't really had time to talk to his old friend. He'd recruited Ruben a little over ten years ago now, when Ruben was a young kid making trouble and getting rich in the Tanushan underground. Such young kids needed choices, Ibrahim had been certain, and were far from lost to notions of civic virtue. With guidance, they could become civic assets. It was a policy he'd continued until his final day as CSA Director—one that his successor was now, word had it, contemplating to change.
“You know, he's handling the pressures very well,” said Ruben in that familiar, offhanded drawl of his. “I mean, for a while there it was looking like he was losing control of the left side here, just above the ear?” He gestured to that part of his hair. “But then he attacked it aggressively with conditioner and some truly impressive comb work, and it's settled down nicely since.”
Ibrahim smiled broadly. There were those who'd never warmed to Ruben's humour, often he tugged the prophet's beard quite hard. But Ibrahim had always enjoyed it, even when, second-hand, he'd heard it aimed at himself. “And is there a symmetry between Chandi's hairstyles and his management techniques?”
Ruben sighed. “I wish. Maybe I'm just biased. It was better with you.”
“I hear he makes fast decisions.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ruben agreed drily. “He's an administrative chainsaw. Doesn't like too much deliberation.”
“He was quite recently a field agent. An excellent one. He was always outspoken against too much delay and deliberation.”
“A man of action.”
Ibrahim nodded. “Quite so.”
“It's not causing too much trouble now,” said Ruben. “But it will. It's probability theory again, you flip a coin a hundred times, the odds say most likely you'll get a pretty even spread of heads and tails, within 55-45. Anything more than sixty-forty is statistically unlikely. But a guy like Chandi comes in with fixed opinions and won't deliberate, and he's tough and he won't let go once he's latched onto something. A man of action won't just wait for feedback from his policies, he'll double down every chance.”
“He'll flip a head every time,” Ibrahim surmised.
“Exactly. And so you get a probability spread like 80-20, or 90-10, and the balance is gone. And that's how institutions get themselves into trouble.”
“On some matters, firmness works,” Ibrahim disagreed. “What distinguishes human institutions from random nature is that we make things happen. A doctor in a hospital does not leave patient survival to random chance, he stacks the odds. That's the thing that has freed human civilisation from the tyranny of natural randomness.”
“Sure, when the question is ‘would you rather granny lived or died?’ that's easy,” Ruben replied. “But the stuff we deal with is never that simple.”
Ibrahim glanced at the younger man. “If you're unhappy in the CSA, I'm certain a place could be found for you in the FSA.”
Ruben sighed. “Well, that's…that's nice, seriously. But you know me, I'm a Tanushan, my skills are best where they are, and civil security just isn't the FSA's field.”
“Your work in Anjula was superb. Commendation worthy, if we were allowed to admit what you were doing.”
“And I was so glad to come home,” said Ruben. “No offence, but if you want to recruit me to do more jobs like Anjula, I pass. Tanusha's my city, it's where I belong.”
“We'll see,” said Ibrahim, gazing across the cool green ocean. “We'll see just where the FSA's capabilities and interests expand. This current institutional overlap may have interesting consequences.”
Ruben looked suspicious. “You're planning something.”
“Not planning. Anticipating.”
“There's a difference?”
“Yes,” said Ibrahim. “I anticipate rain but cannot plan for it. Rain will do what it does.”
“Speaking of anticipating, sir, have you seen these crazy sociologist predictives Chandi's authorised?”
Ibrahim nodded. “I have.”
“Excuse my language, but this stuff is all fucked up.”
“I'm aware of your objections.”
Ruben gazed at him. “You read my reports? My CSA reports?”
“I still keep tabs on the organisation. On matters concerning.”
Ruben exhaled in relief. “Thank God! You don't like it either.”
“Not liking it, and finding it within one's authority to act against it, are two different things. My jurisdiction is the Federation; Callayan local matters are out of my hands.”
“You don't think some bright spark in Psych will start pushing to take the program Federal? Sir, this is some of the scariest stuff I've seen in all my time above ground. They've got it figured so they're convinced uplinks are causing dangerous sociological phenomena everywhere, and they're only looking for evidence that proves it because we're a security organisation, not an objective think tank, and results that aren't dangerous don't interest us. So surprise surprise, that's what they find—it's a structurally self-proving theory.”
“They may yet be proven right, there are turning out to be far greater sociological implications of all uplink technology than we had previously figured.”
“But they don't know! They're interpreting data without the tools to analyse what they're seeing, so every phenomena may be perceived as dangerous. And once you get into that mindset, every phenomena can become any excuse to crack down, to lock up, hell, maybe to knock off anyone who's acting funny…because like Chandi always tells me, we're a security organisation, Ari, it's what we do.” With great sarcasm.
Ibrahim nodded slowly, thinking. It was nothing he hadn't thought himself at length. But there were alternatives to consider. To deliberate, that thing that Chandrasekar hated to do, though perhaps not quite as much as Ruben accused. And, the fact that he simply didn't have the influence within the CSA that he once had.
“I will consider options,” he said. “And observe outcomes.”
“You could declare this network psych profiling a Federal security risk and shut it down.”
“I could. But that would have consequences too, some of them possibly worse. All we can do is watch and be ready. But know that if you have vital information and find all other doors shut, mine will always be open.” He shifted his sunglasses down his long nose for a meaningful stare at Ruben. Quietly, he meant. Ruben nodded with evident relief.
“Yes. Good.” He ran hands through short, wavy hair. “Thank you, sir.” Only Ruben, Ibrahim mused, would express such relief at being asked to spy on his own organisation against a vital secret program. But then, Ruben had loyalty to principles, more even than institutions, places, or people. Ibrahim had nurtured Ruben as long as he had, and put up with all of his irregularities, because he felt that loyalty to principles, in this work, was the single most important thing there was.
If only he could tell Ruben what he one day hoped the younger man might become. But he knew that if Ruben saw a destiny being planned for him by others, he'd run from it as fast as he could.
The flyers arrived with little warning, two big military models, CSA registered. They roared overhead and circled, aiming back to the hypersonic jet in the clearing amidst the trees. Ibrahim and Ruben walked back, a slow trudge through soft white sand.
When they arrived, both flyers were down and the blowing sand already clearing, engines winding down and cargo doors open at the back. Ambassador Ballan, his aide, and the two GI-pilots were already waiting, as new arrivals walked from the flyers in old military jumpsuits or greens with the duffle bags and backpacks that were probably all they owned in the world. With weapons and other military equipment banned, they weren't left with much.
The first of them reached Ballan's group before Ibrahim and Ruben arrived. With any other arrivals, that breach of protocol might have alarmed Ibrahim, but with these he didn't think it mattered. And it gave him longer to look them over, as Ballan talked and the rest of the arrivals assembled behind. An
equal mix of men and women, no great variation in stature, an equal racial spread and collage of skin colours. All apparently young and attractive, with athletic builds and erect postures. They might have been a team of athletes on their way to a sporting competition.
He arrived, and Ballan turned to introduce him. “Director Ibrahim, these are Kiet and Rishi. Kiet, Rishi, this is Director Shan Ibrahim of the Federal Security Agency. And Agent Ariel Ruben, an investigator with the Callayan Security Agency.”
They shook hands with both. Kiet was East Asian–featured, with a sour twist to his mouth. He'd shot himself, Ibrahim had read in Cassandra's report, after leading the failed assault to free the remaining corporate GIs on Droze. Rishi looked South Asian, attractive like all combat GIs, wide cheekbones, short hair. She was Chancelry, high designation but young, had led the revolt that freed the Chancelry GIs. Kiet was a lower but still high designation, and much older, a former League soldier abandoned by the League withdrawal that preceded the crash. That experience meant he ought to be the smarter, like Rhian Chu had become smart, “only” a 39 series but now surpassing most young mid-40s. But Cassandra mistrusted Kiet's judgement, with apparent good reason.
“You're Kresnov's friend,” said Rishi to Ruben. “You were in orbit; you came to help.”
Ruben nodded. “But actually, we're both Cassandra's friends.” With a nod at Ibrahim. “It's just that he's a Director, you see, of some big organisation whose name I forget, and he has to pretend to be impartial to everyone.”
Rishi looked a little puzzled but saw them both smiling, and began to smile herself. As though slowly working through the joke. Young GIs were like that.
“And where is Cassandra?” asked Kiet. He spoke as though he had a mouth full of cotton wool, but clear enough.
“She's busy,” said Ibrahim. “We thought that a personal greeting by the Director of the Federation's primary security agency, and by the President of the Grand Council's Intelligence Committee should be sufficient.”
Kiet smiled drily. “Most appreciative.” He didn't look all that happy. Intel had prepared them for that, too. He looked around. “It's hot here.”
“After Pantala I imagine that must be a shock,” said Ballan, a tall, enigmatic former-Brazilian, his parents had emigrated to Nova Esperenza when he was a child. “Don't worry, it turns out heat is better for GI physiology than cold, and heat means you have to drink more—the fruit drinks here have to be tasted to be believed, they're delicious. Would you like a tour?”
There were thirty GIs in total, they'd come down at a high-security Fleet airbase at Denver on the southern continent of Argasuto, four hundred kilometers south of this, the Maldari archipelago. This first thirty would soon be followed by two hundred and six others, once Kiet and Rishi established that the Feds had kept their end of the deal.
Ballan and Ibrahim led them on a walk up the sandy main road, where packed earth foundations were already surrounded by piles of precisely cut timber and pre-fab fittings. Lots of trees had been left, making lots of shade, and in several places were imported recyclers to keep the surroundings pristine and provide all the water they needed. Power in this weather was solar all year long.
“How long does it take to build a house?” Rishi wondered, eyeing the deconstructed kits.
“Inexperienced builders might take sixty days for ten people to build one house,” said Ballan. Much of the organisation for this had taken place amongst his personal staff, so he was intimately informed. “Experienced builders, probably less than thirty. So each house can take eight people, so thirty-five houses for all of you…the whole lot shouldn't take you much more than two months. GI strengths being what they are, probably less.”
“One month,” said Kiet. “We learn fast. And it doesn't take us as long to move heavy things.”
“No,” Ballan agreed with pleasure, walking with a slight limp from the assassination attempt by Pyeongwha radicals four months ago. “I'm sure you'll develop your own methods for doing it faster. I'll be intrigued to see updates as you progress.”
Ballan brought them around a corner of thick trees and flowering bushes, to a house that had been built earlier by the military contractors who'd done the work so far. Mostly timber, it stood off the ground on stilts, storage and generator below, a wide balcony above, nice timber floors, big windows, and a second storey for three total. Tasteful and homely, it reminded Ibrahim of holiday bungalows he'd stayed in with Radha and the children, when they'd all been much younger. The GIs looked mostly very pleased, no doubt it was a significant upgrade from their previous accommodation. And the surroundings even more so. They'd be in tents for as long as it took them to build, and then this. For pure material advancement, it seemed a good deal…if material advancement was all one was seeking.
Most GIs remained behind with the pilots, Ruben, and Ballan's assistant, while Ballan and Ibrahim walked on with Kiet and Rishi to the pagoda and the Krishna temple that had preceded any development here. Priests in saffron robes greeted them—there were many in these wilds, happy in contemplative isolation. These included former senior CSA Agent Rohit Gupta, to whom they now introduced both GIs, grey now with a long beard, well more than a century old and still fit and lean with a combination of technological assistance and sparse, healthy living. It was not an uncommon thing for elderly Callayans to spend their final years in spiritual contemplation, and Gupta had been very pleased at the prospect of sharing that contemplation with a new flock of innocents, however it interfered with his isolation. He and his priests would stay long enough to impart as much enlightenment as possible on the new arrivals, and then any who wished for isolation once more could always move on to one of Callay's countless other deserted islands, coastlines, or mountains.
“Nice touch,” said Kiet, as they sat beneath the pagoda and sipped delicious, cool fruit drinks the priests gave them. “Having us make the houses ourselves. Gives us a sense of ownership and control.”
“And simplified our logistics considerably,” Ballan reminded him with a finger raised against cynicism. “Finding reliable contractors who were not a security risk was hard. Having them hang around for months longer building houses would increase the risk.”
“Who else knows?” asked Rishi.
“As few as possible,” said Ibrahim. “We'll keep it that way for as long as possible.”
“And then what?” Kiet asked tiredly. “How long do we sit in this…very attractive prison cell we're assisting you to build around us with our own hands?”
“The sentence is a short one,” Ballan said reasonably. “We needed a window to manage relations with the League, and you were in the way. Respectfully. Now we have the Chancelry data on League's various sociological dysfunctions that you were sitting on, and we can attempt further negotiations on their collective resolution. League don't want events on Pantala advertised widely; they'd take that as a hostile position, so for their sake and ours, we need to keep you quiet for a while. And so this.” He gestured around. “Your attractive prison cell. But be assured, the situation with the League is fluid and fast moving. The circumstances that force you to be here are constantly changing. It's possible you may be free to leave sooner than you think.”
“And then asylum?” Rishi asked. “Should we want it?”
“Asylum for three hundred would cause a large stir,” Ballan said cautiously. “But yes, it's the logical next step.”
“And our hospital cases? You can guarantee their security in Tanusha?”
“They'll receive the best care at secure facilities, yes,” said Ballan. “We can fly you up yourself personally, if you want, on a covert trip to see Tanusha and see that their facilities are what we say.” He looked at Kiet, whose mood seemed unimproved. “Kiet. Your concerns?”
“We gave up a lot for this,” said Kiet. “Not physically. But we didn't do this to have nice houses on a beach. It was a revolution, and we were fighting our fight. We'd done them damage, we'd gained control over the means of our own pro
duction, in Chancelry at least. And then we gave it up. To be comfortable.”
“You had the illusion of power and control,” said Ballan with a directness that Ibrahim found impressive. “The Federation's arrival was the only thing keeping you alive. League tried to nuke you. If we weren't there, you and all the inhabitants of Droze would be dead, your rebellion a cloud of radioactive dust.”
Kiet gazed away, past the temple and into the trees.
“The powerful have control,” Ballan continued. “You may not like it, but that is how it is. The Federation controlled that situation and held your lives and the fate of your rebellion in our hand. We found value in a deal with you, and we shall keep our end of that bargain—you have many friends here who will ensure we do. You fought the impossible fight, and you survived and gained a strategic advantage with the greatest human power. You sit now speaking directly to the head of its preeminent security agency, and the third in total rank in the Grand Council. This is not nothing.
“Your mistake is that you presume that your battle is over. Do not view this as an ending, Kiet. This is a beginning. There lie many moves ahead of you, depending on what you choose as your path. What is your path?”
“Emancipation,” said Kiet, eyes burning. “Total. Unconditional.”
“You have it here,” said Ballan. “The Federation allows you to be whatever you choose.”
“Not just for me. For all of us, all GIs. All synthetics. Most of them remain in the League.”
“Alas, we do not have jurisdiction over the League. And we will not fight a war for emancipation in foreign territories, however much we may wish it.”
“Then like I said, I feel I'm in the wrong place.”
Ballan gazed at him for a long moment. This, Ibrahim thought, was the crux of the emerging game. The only force in human space that could bring about synthetic emancipation was the Federation Grand Council. Those who supported using that force for emancipation would welcome Kiet and Rishi's presence here. Those who did not, would not. And this game, he knew well, could easily become far more dangerous than just a contest of political number counting. Those who did not want to renew tensions with the League would prevent it at any cost.
Cassandra Kresnov 5: Operation Shield Page 26
