Cassandra Kresnov 5: Operation Shield

by Joel Shepherd

  Sinta blinked. “I'm sorry, who do you think they might be?”

  “Every world has intelligence agencies, Detective,” said Hando. “Including a branch of the FSA, on every world, but others are independent, run by those local governments just as the CSA is run by the Callayan government. They're quite proficient in forging identification, and while they're not supposed to show up here, that doesn't always stop them.”

  “And they'll have access to Federal and Grand Council codes and networks through their world's ambassadorial links with the Grand Council,” Sinta finished. “Just great.” Muttering that last into her cup as she took another sip.

  “Your file shows that you are single with no children,” said Shin. “I must ask if you have a boyfriend, or other close family, for our protective detail.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Sinta with a forced smile, “I'm sure you guys know all about me by now.”

  “We are the Federal Security Agency,” said Shin quite seriously. “Were you a League citizen or a Federal employee, we would know all about you. But you are a Callayan citizen working for the Callayan government, so more likely the CSA knows something about you. This agency does not overstep its bounds, Detective.”

  “No, right,” Sinta agreed, placating. “No boyfriend. Very single. My parents live in Brookside, you don't think that…”

  “These operatives are focused, not vindictive,” said Shin. “Co-habiting family may be useful to them because of information you may inadvertently share with them. Your parents should be safe as they know nothing. Presumably.” Sinta nodded again, still worried. “We'll watch them all the same. Just to be sure.”

  “Detective,” said Ibrahim, and Sinta looked up at him. “I hear you found something.” Of course he'd heard, Sandy thought. On this, Ari was reporting to him. Looking at Sinta, she wondered if the detective was thinking the same thing.

  “Yeah,” she said, and gulped a mouthful of coffee. “As you've heard, my theory was that Idi Aba wasn't killed by League GIs at all. I figured that since whoever did it are clearly pros, and I was pretty stretched for resources, I wasn't going to find the assassins by any screwup they might have made. So I looked into the victim instead, to try and find what he might be into.

  “I won't bore you with the detective trail, though if you doubt me I can provide you with the full write-up later. But the short version is that Idi Aba had been going to a ‘massage parlour’ in Patna and seeing one masseur in particular, a guy—Idi Aba's gay—named Pon. Pon in turn is mixed in with a Christian group who provide cover for a network of emancipation activists, Freedom Rail…the name's partly inspired by the Underground Railroad in the USA in the eighteen hundreds that moved slaves from the slave-owning South to the free North. These guys have been helping to move GIs from League to Federation, or specifically Callay…”

  “We know the group,” Shin interrupted. “A lot of those people are former Intelligence themselves. They're very well hidden; we've been looking for their Callayan contacts and only found whispers. That's very good work, Detective.”

  “Anyhow, get this.” Sinta was leaning forward now, hands calmer, eyes intent. Maybe Ari really hadn't just been thinking with his dick, Sandy considered. “Pon's disappeared. No one knows where. No one in the Christian Group would talk, but some leads got me to an external drive, which stored personal communications between Idi Aba and a guy you'll certainly know—Ravi Das. Head of Abraham's Children, leading emancipation organisation in the League.”

  Nods around the room. “And wanted by the League on charges of sabotage and treason,” Hando added.

  “They were discussing a deal,” Sinta continued. “They didn't say what, they were being discreet, but it sounded big. Maybe an exchange of information. Ravi Das said it would blow the Federation opponents of emancipation out of the water. Said it would change the whole game; the Federation would find it very hard to oppose emancipation afterwards.”

  Everyone looked at Sandy. Sandy felt very cold. “They must have found something,” she said quietly. “Maybe the kind of thing about GI development in the League that I have nightmares about. If they were going to release that information here…”

  “League would have a big interest in stopping it,” Hando suggested.

  “Not as big as 2389,” said Sandy. “Supporting emancipation could get the Federation into another war, or that's the fear. Sinta mentioned the USA Civil War in the eighteen hundreds…that was about slavery. The Northern president then, Lincoln, his name was, declared emancipation in the middle of that war to strengthen his cause. Abraham Lincoln. Where Abraham's Children got their name, I think.”

  “North and South then were already at war before emancipation was declared,” Ibrahim countered. “Declaration did not cause the war.”

  “And yet the war was always about emancipation whether the participants admitted it or not,” said Sandy. “The idea of emancipation was the catalyst, because freeing the slaves would destroy the Southern economy, just as freeing GIs will destroy the League's strategic advantage. Northerners begged Lincoln not to declare emancipation. Before the war, many hoped that stopping him would stop the war, in vain as it turned out. Now we have 2389 doing everything they can to rein in ‘out of control’ Federal power, and…”

  “They're more interested in keeping the Feds from their own backyards,” Hando interrupted. “Like Pyeongwha. Threatening to strip warmaking powers is just a ploy.”

  “And that ploy got all the pacifists, and all the political groups who just want to avoid another war at any costs, on board with 2389,” Sandy replied. “And that gives them the numbers in the GC to be as powerful as they are. Possibly a majority, if they keep building like this. And at that point, which cause controls which?”

  Ibrahim gazed at her for a long moment, with heavy-lidded eyes. He knew. She'd read a lot about this, the American Civil War and the slaves in particular. Lincoln and emancipation. He'd suggested it once, long ago, saying that it intrigued him how closely some of the parallels ran between the situation of the slaves then and GIs today. Perhaps he was now wondering if his suggesting it had been wise.

  “The question,” said Ibrahim, “is whether the release of this information from Ravi Das, through the channels Detective Sinta has uncovered could possibly reverse that sentiment? If large-scale abuses of synthetic rights, or should I say human rights, have been committed in the production of GIs elsewhere in the League, as Cassandra has feared for many years, then it's conceivable it could swing popular support in favour of emancipation here in the Federation.”

  Sandy nodded. “As I see it, the Federation general public isn't the problem, most of them are reasonable, and reasonable people don't want another war, but neither do they want to see atrocities. The problem lies with those groups that have all come together in 2389 to try and control the general public opinion, whether it's corporations, political parties, NGOs, whatever. They claim to be representative of the people, but of course they're not, no institution is, because popular opinion can change. So they try to control it. And it looks like controlling popular opinion, in this case, meant silencing Idi Aba by any means necessary.”

  “So who?” said Shin thoughtfully, unfolding himself from his chair and heading for the small table where a secretary had left a tea set, gently steaming. “Detective Sinta. As I understand your work, you look for motive, means, and opportunity. But this is the Grand Council. Motive will not narrow anything down, motive will include every declared member of 2389, and many of the non-declareds as well. Thousands of individuals and tens of thousands of associated sympathisers on this world alone.”

  He looked around for fellow tea drinkers. Ibrahim and Hando declined. Sandy nodded. “Means will of course determine opportunity,” Shin continued, pouring tea, his movements precise, graceful. “Only a few in the Grand Council can command such means officially, but unofficially the possibilities are vast. If our controlling agent were acting as a parasite within the GC system, using offworld
operators and GC codes and networks to keep it all obscure.”

  “They're too good,” said Sandy, accepting the teacup he handed to her. Green tea, and fragrant. Sipped. “There were too many command codes in what they were using. I can see them stealing a few and leeching minor operations off the system. But what I ran into today wasn't that. And after I left, they all disappeared. That capability can only come from someone very well placed, with access to the highest-level functions.”

  “You have people in the Grand Council now?” Sinta asked. “Tracing where those operations were coming from?”

  “It's nearly untraceable,” said Ibrahim with distaste. “I tried to change this when the Council was relocated to Callay, but as in many things I was overruled in favour of retaining old systems and status quo. Grand Council security protocols remain opaque, they call it secrecy, but in truth it's obfuscation. Too many people in that building do not want anyone on the outside to know what they do, with our current predicament the inevitable result.”

  Sinta stared at him. Not stunned, just…wondering at the surrealness of it all, Sandy reckoned, having such cynical matters explained to her by the FSA Director himself. Like the kind of tales Detective Sinta might herself tell some ordinary citizen over a drink one night, about the kind of thing a cop might hear on the job regarding some extremely famous person and how their sparkly public image did not match with the sordid things they'd been doing out of the public gaze. One might suspect such a thing, in general cynicism, but to hear it from the mouth of authority was still a shock.

  “Thus my conjecture,” said Shin, settling gracefully back into his chair, tea in hand. “We may yet still catch the perpetrators by works of cunning, but first we must narrow the pool of suspects.”

  “You mean you may still catch the perpetrator,” Hando said sourly. “Official investigations into the GC are a waste of time, for the same reasons the Director explains. Which leaves us with unofficial investigations. Mr Shin's specialty.”

  Spymaster Shin sipped tea and ventured no comment.

  Kiril was asleep when they got home. She carried him upstairs to his bed in his and Danya's room and tucked him in in his clothes. And sat there on his bedside for a moment gazing at him, knowing she had no right for him to be this good to her. She'd gotten him into a dangerous situation, a scary situation, then kept him waiting in the FSA cafeteria, then offices while she attended important meetings, and to hear it told, he hadn't complained once. Or maybe just once, when he didn't like what the FSA cafeteria had optimistically called sausages. And again when his AR glasses wouldn't penetrate FSA security and he couldn't see outside the building.

  Her heart was beating just a little too hard sitting there, looking at him, and she didn't want to leave him, even asleep. Funny that she didn't seem to do “love” emotionally, as straight humans understood it—that monogamous, brain-meltingly intense thing that all the songs were about. That was a thing between adults, and while she loved certain adults as intensely as anyone could love anything, it had nothing to do with that poetic sex-love stuff. That part of human experience, which all other humans seemed to have, was missing in her. And so she'd just expected that this part also, the motherhood part, would also be missing…because what were the odds that a walking killing machine would feel this kind of love anyway? Presumably she was missing that other kind for a reason, the same reason she'd probably be missing this kind too.

  But here it was. And its discovery was at once confounding, exhilarating, and terrifying.

  Despite it being so late, she sat with Danya and Svetlana for an hour after they'd washed and just talked, about what had happened, and about as much of the case with Sinta as she could considering it was classified, but the kids had seen some of it now and could know a little more, she'd cleared that with the relevant people. It was hard for kids to keep a secret if they didn't know exactly what it was, and an incomplete story would only get them asking more questions, and posing a greater risk than if they knew more.

  And she apologised for getting them into a situation where they could have been hurt. Or worse. Only her brain just wouldn't accept “worse” when she tried to confront it rationally.

  “Oh, that was nothing,” said Svetlana, curled against Sandy's side in her pyjamas. “This one time, this real scary guy followed me through some deserted buildings. I was alone. I tried every sneaky trick I knew, but I took nearly an hour to lose him. That was scary, today was fun compared to that.”

  “She's right,” said Danya. “The two months we've been here have been by far the least dangerous two months we've had. Since the last five years, anyway.”

  “It's still not right,” Sandy insisted. Danya was sitting in the next chair across. He didn't do pyjamas, wouldn't take to them like Svetlana had, and wore tracksuit pants instead. Sandy wished he'd come and snuggle up like Svetlana but knew better than to suggest it. “Kids shouldn't be put in danger at all. I was wrong to do it, and I'm going to kick Ari's butt when I see him.”

  “Not for real, right?” said Svetlana.

  Sandy smiled down at her. Concern for someone outside of her immediate little circle. That was good. “No, Svet, of course not for real. I love Ari. But he still needs to be told when I'm pissed, because Ari doesn't always look at things from other people's perspectives. Sometimes he needs it shoved in his face.”

  “I don't know,” said Danya, sitting sideways in the chair, knees up. Looking thoughtful. “I mean, what are we going to be doing once we're grown adults anyway? I can't see myself sitting in some peaceful office job.”

  “Yet I kind of wish you would,” said Sandy sadly.

  “I don't know what I'll do, but I'm so caught up in this security stuff anyway, I figure I may as well do it for a profession. It's not like I could leave it alone now even if I wanted to.”

  “I know.”

  “Which means it wasn't the first time I've been shot at and won't be the last,” Danya reasoned. “Think of today as work experience.” Sandy gave him an unimpressed look. Danya looked almost amused. Which both alarmed and pleased her. Having kids seemed to do that to her a lot—scared and happy, all at once.

  “Well, I'm going to be a supermodel,” said Svetlana. “In the daytime, that is.”

  “And at night?” Sandy wondered.

  “An assassin!”

  Sandy sighed. “Of course you will.”

  An uplink registered. Local Canas services, a delivery. Sandy frowned. “There's a delivery coming, did either of you order anything?”

  Head shakes. It was very late, but the house was probably registering that she was still up and informing the delivery service. Uplinks showed a car arrive out front, then the gate opened, and a delivery bot entered, holding a box. Danya was right, it did look a little creepy, she thought, with its projecting eyes and awkward gait. Or maybe she was just learning to see things from a child's perspective.

  She went to the door and took the box—uplinks showed it was an outside delivery, checked by hand at Canas gate two, and passed through so many sensors she had no concerns of danger. Besides, she could faintly smell the contents, and they smelled delicious. She put the box on the kitchen cabinet and opened it. It was a cheesecake, with berries and a dusting of chocolate.

  “Cheesecake!” Svetlana exclaimed. “I'm suddenly hungry, can I have a midnight snack?”

  “Me too,” said Danya. “We got shot at today, I think we deserve some cheesecake. Who's it from?”

  There was a card, hand written. “For the kids,” it said. “Hope their well. AR.” She knew two ARs, but only one of them liked cheesecake.

  “Arron Reichardt,” said Sandy. “It's from the Captain. He must have sent an order electronically, and they laser copied this card and his signature.” She'd learned from Vanessa and Rhian's weddings that some cake shops worked late in Tanusha. Wedding orders could rush in and keep them working all night, the deliveries could come any hour if you let them.

  “And he misspelled ‘they're,’”
said Svetlana, peering at it. “Don't they teach spelling to fleet captains?”

  “That's odd,” Sandy agreed. “It's his handwriting; it's not possible the machine made an error, it's a facsimile not a translation.”

  “Actually that's grammar, Svet, not spelling,” said Danya, taking a knife from the drawer and cutting. “He hasn't spelt it wrong, he's just used the wrong form. He's in the middle of those negotiations out at Pantala, he's probably under some stress.”

  “No, not there, here!” Svetlana demanded, seeing his next cut and pointing to where she thought it should be.

  “It's eighths, Svet,” Danya retorted. “Four people, two slices each, this is eighths.”

  “Yeah, but you'll mess it up! Do quarters first, then you can judge eighths better between the quarters!”

  Because if they'd ever been so lucky as to encounter a cheesecake on Droze, the precise sharing of every last millimeter would have become a matter of monumental concern.

  Danya's knife hit something. He frowned. “There's something in here.” He cut over it, carefully pulled out a slice onto the plate Svetlana provided, then pulled out the metal object inside. It was as long as Danya's hand, and slim. He cleaned the cake off one side with a finger.

  “Hey!” said Svetlana before he could clean off the other side, and did that herself, then sucked her finger. And looked at the thing in Danya's hand. “What is it?”

  “It's a handfile,” said Sandy, taking it from Danya. “An antique, though I imagine some old-style woodworkers might still use them.”

  “Why would Captain Reichardt put an old woodwork tool in a cake?” Danya wondered, not sufficiently preoccupied with the mystery to keep him from eating. “I suppose Canas security saw it wasn't dangerous and let it through. Maybe the cake maker lets people do that for a joke or something.”

  It gave Sandy a very odd feeling. And she suddenly remembered a story Vanessa told her, five years ago, in the conclusion of the Battle of Nehru Station. She and Reichardt had finally secured the Nehru Station bridge against Fifth Fleet marines. Reichardt had suggested he'd probably end up in prison for the rest of his life, at the least. Vanessa had joked that she'd send him a cake with a GI baked inside, and had had to explain to Sandy what that meant—in the old days, when prisons had been made out of concrete, iron and other things that crumbled, prisoners had tried to smuggle things into prison, in gifts and the like, that would allow them to tunnel walls or break bars over a long period and escape. The oldest cliché was something baked in a cake, Vanessa had said. Something like a file.