Cassandra Kresnov: Breakaway Part 16

Maglevs, of course, being "A Grade" infrastructure a Sandy frowned, and turned to look at Anita.

"How do you know that?"

Anita pouted. "Know what? I didn't say anything, you must be hearing voices."

Sandy sighed, and leaned back in her seat. Hackers. If there was information, they got it, somewhere, somehow.

"So what do we tell Ari if he calls?" Pushpa wanted to know.

"You have to tell him anything?" Sandy replied. "He's not taking my calls, serves him right."

"You sure you shouldn't wait for him?" the other persisted.

"He's got his leads," Sandy said. "I've got mine." The car pulled up at the next designated mark, and the doors whirred open automatically. "Hey, nice to meet you both, I'm sure I'll be seeing more of you in the future."

"Oh, I hope so!" Anita said, enthusiastically shaking her hand.

"Don't work too hard," said Pushpa, in her turn.

Sandy smiled. "I'll try not to. Take care." And left the car to Anita's final call of, "And for G.o.dsake, don't trust the CSA!"

Which made her grin as she joined the flow of pedestrians headed for the maglev entrance, and the car lane b.u.mped haltingly along behind. Paranoid to the last, these hackers. And maybe with good cause. But she was flattered that Anita would automatically include her as "us" in the "us and them" equation. Unconditional love was a strange response to be facing, particularly from such intelligent people a but any Ta.n.u.shan League-sympathetic technophile would just die to meet a real GI in person, let alone the famous, super-advanced friendly GI the Neiland Administration had befriended. She didn't trust it. But it beat the h.e.l.l out of the alternative.

She tried Ari's connection again on the maglev. She was seated by the window at the very rear of the open tube, with a good, long, winding view of the people-filled interior. No response, not even an engaged signal to acknowledge the call. Busy, Ari? More secrets to pursue? Contacts to meet? She wondered. Mostly she wondered just how much she didn't know, and how much Ari hadn't told her.

CSA uplinks showed it was pointless to try Vanessa again-she'd been rotated onto standby at the hostage crisis, and her heart sank when she saw it. Please G.o.d, no shooting. Vanessa would be fine, she was sure, but civilians, targets and high-power firearms did not mix, and such unpleasant combinations could stain the memory for the rest of a person's life. Please no shooting. But she could only hope.

Another connection a and a temporary hold, then an auto-recog- ition a fuzzy static pause, then click a "Ca.s.sandra?" came Director Ibrahim's voice. "Where are you?" The auto-rec rechecking her freqs and racing through a positioning a.n.a.lysis a she didn't mind, there were two people in Ta.n.u.sha whose systems she trusted implicitly-one was Vanessa, and the other was Ibrahim. An, she thought a little darkly, was a long way from qualifying. Especially after tonight. "Ari said you'd been shot?"

"I had, but I'm fine now. Where is he, do you know?"

"He's busy a Ca.s.sandra, I tried to contact you earlier but you were apparently unconscious. I have spent much of today warding off queries and accusations from the SIB, Ca.s.sandra, apparently Ms. Izerovski was most upset after her agents 'lost' you on your motorcycle this morning. "

"Have they placed me at Cloud Nine?" As the possibility suddenly occurred to her-Cloud Nine was the name of the premises the GI had been chased into. The CSA were doing the follow-up investigations now, taking various mafia types into custody for questioning. Not that anyone expected them to be helpful.

"No a field investigation is not an SIB strong point, Ca.s.sandra, particularly not in fluid, chaotic realtime scenarios a although I do not discount the possibility that they may place you there eventually. " He sounded calm, as was Ibrahim's habit. The slight edge to his voice may have been adrenaline. Other people functioned worse in a crisis. Some functioned better in direct proportion to the seriousness of the situation. Ibrahim was one of the latter. And she wondered if it could be his SunniAfghan ancestry, perhaps, that made such a positive out of adversity. Or predisposed him to love a good fight. "I'm afraid the situation is actually much worse than that. "

"Of course it is," she formulated, dryly.

"Ca.s.sandra, Izerovsky has informed the Senate Security Panel of your 'escape from Senate-mandated surveillance,' to use her words." Among the many pa.s.sengers on the train, Sandy refrained from swearing, or placing her head in her hands. "The Security Panel have been demanding an interview with me personally. I have declined. They have accused me of orchestrating the whole thing, and have formally placed a deposition with the Parliament, requesting my resignation effective immediately."

Incredible. It took her breath away, the sheer, b.l.o.o.d.y-minded, single-focused stupidity. Demand the CSA Director's resignation over that small matter, in the middle of a Federationwide crisis? Those were their priorities?

"You're not going to accept it, I hope?"

"Only if Allah should command it, Ca.s.sandra." With a dry, deadpan, implacable resolve. "To the best of my knowledge, Allah cares little for the workings of the Senate Security Panel, and has no seat at the table. "

Nor did Allah have a place in the Neiland Administration, Sandy thought. Which meant Ibrahim was not intending to step down for any politician. Not now. The very prospect of changing horses in midstream was horrifying in its implications for planetary security. That anyone senior should possibly suggest such a thing, over any matter, was completely incomprehensible to her.

"News of this has spread through the major political parties, Ca.s.sandra. They cannot leak to the press without breaching security guidelines, but I cannot guarantee that the unofficial rumour mill will not carry this further. " No, he certainly could not. She'd discovered just today, with Ari's friends, how far and wide the rumour mill spread. "However, the President herself is of the opinion that this could prove sufficient distraction in tomorrow's debating session to effectively derail the day's proceedings. Some Members have threatened to withdraw from the process indefinitely until the Neiland Administration makes its position clear on this matter. "

"What do you want me to do?" She could feel him building up to it. She didn't like the implications. The whole d.a.m.n thing had been his idea, after all a "Ca.s.sandra, the President and I feel it would help matters considerably if you could make an appearance before a full sitting of the Parliament tomorrow morning." She blinked. Should have seen that one coming too. "The President and I a" b.l.o.o.d.y Katia Neiland and her wild improvisations on the run. It had her smell about it, the whole thing. "You have been making some progress on your review of Ta.n.u.shan security systems with regard to the threat of military-style infiltration. The President and I feel that a formal presentation from you on your findings so far would enable the Members to see for themselves the value of your presence here, and thus take the SIB's legs out from under them on this issue, so to speak."

To Sandy's vision, the interior of the maglev appeared to darken somewhat, the combat redness descending. Sounds came thickly, slurred and broken into individual vibrations a she'd been blindsided again by officialdom. It was becoming a habit. Of course, she was supposed to leap at this opportunity, a chance to prove herself before the elected representatives of the Callayan Parliament a she wondered if Ibrahim had planned this too, predicting the SIB's reaction when he authorised Ari to go walkabout with her. Or if the whole thing had been Neiland's idea from the beginning. Once again, she was the p.a.w.n, and she didn't like it one bit.

"Sir a my review is very preliminary to this point, I have no detailed a.n.a.lysis prepared, and in fact I should remind you that the whole thing is so far beyond my regular experience and qualifications that it was little more than an experiment in the first place. "

"I am aware of that, Ca.s.sandra. The sitting will not expect a detailed presentation, only a broad overview. Your preliminary opinions, not a.n.a.lytical conclusions. That is all that is required of you. In the meantime, I suggest you get some rest, and perhaps make some preparations, if possible. If you give me your location I'll send someone to accompany you-the President requires it, to give her credible denial of SIB claims that you have been left improperly supervised, you understand. "

"I do understand. I'm afraid that will have to wait, I'm busy. " Pause.

"Ca.s.sandra, I do not feel that now is the time for you to be 'busy.' Political events have taken a turn, and whether you like it or nota "

"With respect, sir," Sandy formulated, in her coldest replicated tones, "you began this. I know Ari's your boy. You put him onto this lead, and then he put me onto it, and now I'm going to finish it. If you want someone to supervise me, put me in contact with Ari and I'll tell him where to meet me."

"Ari is indisposed, Ca.s.sandra." Ibrahim knew exactly where Ari was, Sandy was sure. "Ca.s.sandra, I am under rather direct instruction from the highest civilian authority on this planet. As you might understand, such instructions are not to be taken lightly. "

"So I suppose you know everything about League operations in this city?" Sandy replied. No response from Ibrahim. "There is a delegation here. Which of course no one would ever dare have informed me of in advance, me being ex-League and all, lest my sympathies suddenly change direction. There's a delegation here, and I don't doubt they're in discussion with all relevant parties regarding the current direction of Article 42. Now obviously, if you're so eager for me to go home and sleep, you'll be fully informed as to the League delegation's present operations, their numbers, their personnel, and GIs in particular, the people they're meeting with, etc, etc. Because the GI at Cloud Nine was very pleased to see me, before he shot me, and called me by name. I had this strange, crazy idea they might talk to me, where they would not to someone else. Perhaps I could learn something. But, of course, if that particular information is of no real use to you, I could just go home and sleep, as per your recommendation. "

Still there was no reply. The maglev whined in deceleration, a station stop approaching, and some pa.s.sengers got to their feet. The night-time city slowed its gleaming rush past the windows, a thick line of traffic pa.s.sing below, hemmed by explosive thickets of holographic neon and sidewalk traffic.

Then, "Stay out of trouble, Agent Kresnov. Talk to them, if possible, no more. If they don't want to see you, don't push your luck, you've been shot once already today and you do not want to make that a habit in this city. I'll expect a full report at the earliest. "

"Sir, I shall exercise the utmost circ.u.mspection, cognisance and diligence, I a.s.sure you." An influence of Indian bureaucratic English, she had discovered, that led to the usual proliferation of pointless vocabulary through the back corridors of CSA officialdom. Vanessa hated it. Sandy found it amusing.

"I'm very sure. Oh-nine-hundred tomorrow, Agent Kresnov. The Parliament shall be waiting. " d.a.m.n right they would be. She'd bet her life on it. "And Ca.s.sandra? Please bear in mind the possibility that your old comrade Chu may no longer be alive. "

The maglev began accelerating once more. Sandy gazed at the whizzing platform, lights and people in a gathering blur, then at the buildings and roads below, lines of moving, lighted traffic.

So Ibrahim was aware of her other motivation. Even if she had not yet fully admitted it to herself, Ibrahim was aware. She had not wanted to think about it so openly. Finding Mahud, only to lose him once more, had been a pain almost beyond her capacity to bear. Hoping for news of Chu was almost too painful, especially when it came this close, somewhere within the League Emba.s.sy compound. But whatever her need for useful delusions, Ibrahim had no such luxury.

"I'll bear that in mind, sir. " Quietly.

"I know you will. And I wish you luck. "

The maglev got her halfway across town. The adjoining subway got her to Zaiko, and she walked the rest of the way. Barely an hour from leaving the house, and she was there-Ta.n.u.shan ma.s.s-transit was a marvel, and nearly military-like in its precision. If only, she mused, the city's people were as orderly as their machines. But then, on reflection, that would not work either. People chaos was the energy that drove the seamless technological systems, as surely as hydrogen combustion powered her motorcycle. You could cut the combustion, but doing so would cost you power.

Her bike awaited her in the cycle-park a short stroll from the riverside where she and Ari had enjoyed lunch earlier that day-it seemed eons away. People still strolled the sidewalk beneath the trees along the riverside walk, although the outdoor cafes were largely shut, tables packed away for the night as 9:00pm approached a Zaiko was a tourist and business spot, mostly, only in the more residential regions did the cafes and restaurants stay open till the wee hours. She climbed onto the bike, unhooking the helmet from the rear lock, and pondering further if her "people-chaos theory" applied equally to Old Earth too. Of course it did. The proof could be found in the colourful confusion emanating from a broad apartment balcony across the road-an Indian wedding of one ethnic division or another. Colourful dress, flashing fabrics and jewellery, thunderingly rhythmic music and many people dancing on the balcony that overlooked the river a no doubt some illegal fireworks would follow, they usually did at such occasions, to the police's continual dismay.

Back on Earth, China was a great power, but India ruled overall. Or would do, if they ever figured out who was really in charge. The self-professed most chaotic nation on Earth, its technological prowess was nearly as legendary as its people's love of parties, theatrics and political crises. The Chinese had never fully abandoned their fear of chaos. The Indians embraced it. And so the Chinese remained perpetually frustrated by the fact that despite their immense collective power, Indians continually outnumbered them in most truly revolutionary fields by two-to-one or more. China continued to hold itself separate from the world, as a national and ethnic ent.i.ty. Indians diverged, spread, travelled and multiplied. And so when FTL truly arrived, the Indians went first, and the Chinese followed for fear of being left behind a or in many cases to escape the conservative, Earth-bound mindset in search of alternative ideologies. The League was full of Chinese. Chinese and LEUs-for Los Estados Unidos, as ex United States of America residents were widely known in the League-the latter group endeavouring to confirm its cultural heritage, in search of a new great frontier, and the former group wishing to escape and start anew. The Federation held many of all cultural groups, but the Indians, equally comfortable in both the old world and the new, were particularly prominent. "Going League" implied the agreement with a particular "progressive" philosophy, and the majority of Indians felt uncomfortable in surroundings that offered no arguments, ideological battles or mad political catfights. Those that had "gone League" were derided as fanatics, extremists, or Pakistanis upset with the reunification, and looking for a new Kashmir.

Apolitical city my a.r.s.e, Sandy thought, as she gunned the bike into life. Ta.n.u.shans were only apolitical because their carefully constructed environment gave them no cause to be otherwise, even on the biggest issues of all, and there had been nothing overtly traumatic to argue about. Well, now they had cause, and the old cultural instincts were leaping back to life, and dragging most other ethnicities with them.

India, she recalled, was also called the most ideological country on Earth a that and chaos, apparently, went hand-in-hand. It had condemned them to what in hindsight was unbelievable poverty for a full half-century after nationhood, many centuries ago, when the rest of the world was developing fast. Then the ideology had switched to capitalism-a supposedly "western" concept, it had then been thoughtwhich the Indians in conjunction with the Chinese had absorbed and "Indianised" as thoroughly as they'd absorbed and Indianised the genteel English sport of cricket, or cups of tea, or the English language itself. And by 2050, she recalled from her historical readings, the great "western" capitalist powers were complaining bitterly about the Indianisation of global economics, and the threatened trade sanctions against European nations who failed to fight against the encroaching "cultural sterility" of the modern economy a a western phenomenon that Indians, East Asians and Africans recoiled from in horror to this day. Cultural ideology, the western powers complained, had no place in economics. To which the Indians had responded that cultural ideology was about what was good for the soul, and if western economics had nothing to say on this matter, then who needed it? And so the entire apparatus of the global economy had never been the same since a and, Sandy couldn't help but think, thank G.o.d for it. Thank G.o.d for culture, and thank G.o.d for the perspective it brought upon the dry, rational worlds of science and finance.

Here, and now, the ideology was yet to be decided. Biotech. GIs. The value of organic, human life. The nature of humanity itself. The deciding issues that separated League from Federation. With her in the middle, trying to help them make up their minds.

She flicked on the headlight, helmet in place, and cruised smoothly out along the road. Colourful party-pops lit the streetside behind her, a cascading fall of blue, green and saffron light, and the angular officefront windows bloomed in spectacular reflection as she pa.s.sed.

The League Emba.s.sy did not appear on any map. Not in those words, anyhow. From her paG.o.da view atop the temple, Sandy had a good view of the grounds across the avenue, though somewhat obscured by leafy trees before and within the grounds. Behind the high, wroughtiron fence lay an estate in miniature-a wide gra.s.sy lawn with a Uturn driveway that swept in front of the columns of the patio before the main entrance. The building itself was two-storey, rectangular and whitewashed end to end. Building and grounds together reminded her of the images she'd viewed of old British colonial properties in India, dating from the time of the occupying Raj. Only the scale was smaller-squeezed between a pair of modest, low-key office buildings. A casual pa.s.ser-by might dismiss such a building as another of Ta.n.u.sha's many pieces of historical nostalgia, and not spare it a second thought. And not notice that the gates were locked, the physical and network security intense, and there was no sign or advertis.e.m.e.nt to announce the building's purpose to the street. A light, civilian-level query of the net-presence came back to her as "government building," with no more information provided.

There were a lot of those, of course, and high security was hardly rare among them. Of course, discovering which was the League Emba.s.sy was easy enough, if you knew who to ask. Previously, it had not been an issue. Now, she watched on full-zoom/infrared, and counted the soldiers on the roof, laid flat behind the lining flowerbeds with rifles at ready. There were eight visible, and doubtless more inside and about the grounds. They'd been receiving a lot of "interested queries" lately, she guessed. And that being League property in there, they were allowed to provide their own firepower as insurance to keep the natives at arm's length.

Her preliminary scanning done, she descended the stone staircase and into the temple proper, leaving the paG.o.da's several other occupants to enjoy the night air alone. Candles and coloured lamps lit the main floor, red light misty with the fumes of burning incense amid the many rows of ceiling pillars that held up the roof. Many people moved between, barefoot and leisurely, and queued before various iconic statues or alcoves, to pray or make offerings, or light more incense. Red and saffron flower petals littered the stone floor, alternately rough and smooth underfoot. A sadhu in robes, with a long beard, swept the floor clear amid the throng, immersed in his endless task.

She ducked a hanging flower-banner, and avoided a random clump of devotees praying before a two metre, many-armed icon, adorned with many garlands of coloured flowers. Her route took her past an adjoining decoratively styled doorway, through which she viewed a broad room, and perhaps a hundred people seated cross-legged upon an enormous carpet. On a low platform in front sat a yogi, robed and tangle-bearded, leading a meditation. Hands outstretched and palms out, murmuring incantations through his beard, an a.s.sistant seated to one side, a small gong before her crossed ankles. Sandy had only a very vague idea of what that was all about. But it looked peaceful, in the still of that broad, stone-walled room, surrounded on all sides by tapestries, flower decorations and icons, with only the light, unearthly chime of the gong to break the silence, and the yogi's unceasing murmurs. A light wind blew incense, sent tapestries drifting sideways, a light scattering of flower petals across the stone floor.

Sandy held that image with her as she descended the stonewrought staircase, keeping in the downward stream as more people ascended the stairs upon the opposite side. She was still pondering the ma.s.s, silent meditation and murmured chants as she retrieved her boots from the simple wooden rack, and inserted a basic credit deposit into the temple's one concession to technology-a visitor's cardscanner, for upkeep donations. Wondering if, one day, she could join such a session herself, just for curiosity. One day, perhaps, when circ.u.mstances would allow her to do as she should have done tonight, in all honesty, and leave her gun with a holy man at the door. And with her boots refastened, she departed into the street, through the gathering throng at the entry gate, and the cries of the mystic doomsayer upon his box, largely ignored by the mostly (but not entirely) Indian patrons, who gathered and chattered with friends and family-temples were common enough gathering spots for the socially inclined.

"The decadence of Ta.n.u.sha has angered the G.o.ds!" the holy man yelled above the voices and occasional traffic, in clear Ta.n.u.shan English. A young man, with scarcely a beard nor a blemish upon his face, and dressed only in a pile of old robes. European, Sandy noted with interest. His tone seemed suspiciously Christian-sermonising. Probably a convert, getting his delivery styles confused, raving like a missionary. Most Ta.n.u.shan Hindus disdained them. "Rama is displeased, yes, hear me, displeased and angry at our politicians and their conniving ways! His emissary shall descend upon us, and that emissary will be the G.o.ddess Kali, and she shall descend upon us all with the very wrath of Heaven, and smite the wickedness of all unG.o.dly folkthe followers of Mohammed, Christ and the Buddha too, yes, no one shall be saved from their descent into base greed and consumerism, and the vile l.u.s.t for credit, and for wicked twists of mortal shape beyond our natural means! All that is living and unG.o.dly shall be punished, and shall suffer eternal condemnation for all incarnations ever onward!"

His cries rolled on, over the heads of the unheeding ma.s.ses, as the only person who was perhaps truly listening, and pondering the content of his words, strolled unhurriedly away up the sidewalk. A pistol in her side-holster and determination upon her mind, on her way to meet the devil.

The "backdoor" was easy enough to find for someone with intimate knowledge of League network security formulations. The electronic trail led her to a small office building nearby, and the floor of Denzler Securities, which registered as a small, niche-specialty network security business. A few words with the polite lady on reception there, and a brief mention of the name "Ca.s.sandra Kresnov," saw her hurried to a big, black street-cruiser with tint-out windows and armoured bodywork, and driven into the Emba.s.sy grounds through the main gate. Uplinked and sensitive to adjoining link codes, Sandy had a clear sense of the ma.s.sive security integration as the car hummed up the driveway-the multiple overlaying network scans, the grounds surveillance, the interlocking fields of fire of many well placed marksmen a The car continued past the front entrance and onto the less official rear driveway that curled around the side.

It stopped at the rear, which was even more impressive, with a broad, bannistered verandah overlooking lush, green lawns and a thick covering of trees. Sandy paused for a moment as she climbed from the open door and surveyed the grounds on a multiple-spectrum sweepa high wall surrounded the Emba.s.sy to the sides and rear, and thick tree-cover blocked a clear view from higher office windows. Besides which, the entire, picturesque grounds were a cross-grid of trigger sensors. Puzzlingly, several peac.o.c.ks wandered the maze with impunity a intelligent sensors, perhaps, with a preference for peac.o.c.ks. She gazed more closely at a pair of the birds as she was escorted by two guards up the path to the verandah steps, marvelling at the male's gorgeous plumage a very easy to see why females could not resist. If she hadn't known the birds were real Earth natives (no doubt imported under some special enviro-friendly protections), she would have thought them a fanciful, customised concoction from some bio-lab. League-side, of course, as such things were likewise illegal in the Federation, much to the black market's delight.

Peac.o.c.ks. 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 a 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 Ta.n.u.shan-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, m.u.f.fled by shut doors, and more staff intent on business a she was not, Sandy guessed, the only visitor present in the Emba.s.sy 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 Amba.s.sador 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 Amba.s.sador in this room, Ms. Kresnov," the GI replied, stony-faced. "I a.s.sure 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 a she reckoned it must look out over the front lawns, and the street beyond the wroughtiron 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 t.i.tles. Old-style binding. Such books, she knew, were popular in Ta.n.u.sha 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 Emba.s.sy. Technically League property, but all Ta.n.u.shan land was planned and accounted for in advance a no doubt it was a lease, the terms of which stated occupancy and care of all pre-existing a.s.sets.

Ta.n.u.shan humour, she guessed, with growing amus.e.m.e.nt. 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 ign.o.bility 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 a this building, and this choice of site for the Emba.s.sy, was the administration of Callay and Ta.n.u.sha laughing at them.

Several browsed books and standing stretches later, the door opened, and Amba.s.sador 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.

"Ca.s.sandra." Beaming at her in a manner that was almost fatherly. And sighed, happily. "Ca.s.sandra. 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 a 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 a quick flash-retrieve to a memory file, several matching ID images, age, height, previous a.s.signments, 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 a she blinked in astonishment. Tape-teach made it easier, but it still required some talent.

"h.e.l.lo, Amba.s.sador," 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, his broad face jovial. "As if Delhi should worry that Ta.n.u.shans were in danger of forgetting their true heritage, such typical Earth-bound ignorance of the outer worlds. And so some Ta.n.u.shan planning bureaucrat, no doubt in a fit of hysteria, decided that this should become the League Emba.s.sy. 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 a 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 a 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 a "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 a Ca.s.sandra, 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-a.s.surance, was all a lie, a transparent film that lay fragile and flimsy across the ma.s.s 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. d.a.m.ned 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 straighta 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 s.p.a.ce 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 a she winced, relaxing that. Her tightening shoulders informed her they needed more work. Which her stomach would prevent. d.a.m.n. 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 a.r.s.ea The door handle turned and she froze in mid-reach for her weapon a slow entry was no way to a.s.sault a GI in a closed room, all her instincts remained green. Voices from somewhere down the corridor outside a 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 pa.s.sing 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 circ.u.mstances 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 Amba.s.sador Yao's daughter?" A nod. Which explained the late hoursurely an Amba.s.sador's twelve-year-old would be used to it by now. "Do you live here? At the Emba.s.sy?"

"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.