Cassandra Kresnov: Breakaway Part 18

Temper again. Where had that come from? Ramoja looked at her, eyes narrowed in direct consideration. She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, and surveyed the still-distant rear garden wall.

"You've changed, Captain." With grim, contemplative certainty. Smug p.r.i.c.k, Sandy thought. "You are not as your duty reports ill.u.s.trated. You have less control, certainly for a GI brought up on development tape and instinctive discipline. You are emotional. It clouds your judgment."

Sandy repressed a smirk. "You're just a walking "android cliche," aren't you?" Shot him a sideways look, and got only blank incompre hension in return. Shook her head in faint disbelief. "It's amazing. You'd scare the s.h.i.t out of people here. That's the problem with all the bulls.h.i.t they believe about GIs, all the cliches their bad TV shows and VR games have taught them, they're all frighteningly close to reality. But a lot of cliches are. How d'you know so much about me, anyway? You read up before you came here?"

"I read my share. Your case is not unknown among League hierarchy, Captain."

No, she bet it wasn't. Ramoja had a knack for understatement, it seemed.

"You're ISO, aren't you?" It suddenly fit. She stopped as they reached the decorative little stream that cut through the springily even lawn, bubbling over strategically placed rocks and miniature rapids. No frogs, though. Built across a broad river delta, Ta.n.u.sha was full of frogs. But she couldn't hear them croaking. Maybe all the electronic security scared them away. "This whole thing's ISO. That's why I never knew you existed. That's why you're qualified to do data-raids on civilian targets."

Ramoja smiled, an ironic twisting of handsome, full lips. "I'm surprised you didn't realise that earlier."

"Yeah, well, ISO aren't known to trust GIs in ops all too much. Fancy them having their own pet GI, and high-des too. They commission you?"

Ramoja turned to face her fully, arms folded, frowning at her like he was trying to figure her out.

"They requested me. Really, Captain, I find your evident distaste for the processes of your own creation quite surprising."

"League Internal Security Organisation requests a high-designation GI for their own specific purposes, and you don't find that just a little alarming?"

"Based on your model, Captain, and the remarkable success that you attained."

Sandy stared at him. s.h.i.t. She really wished he hadn't said that.

"You suggest we're related or something, I'll kick your a.r.s.e."

Ramoja smiled. Abruptly charming, in a most handsome, broadfeatured manner.

"After a sense, Captain, we're all related. I know the ISO quite intimately. I was brought up there, if you like. It is an honourable organisation, with the best interests of the League at heart. They've treated me as nothing less than an equal for all my waking memory."

Bet they did, Sandy thought, watching his face with expressionless intensity. Taller than her, a clipped, lean shadow in the dark. Dark Star had left her to fend for herself, mostly. She had her team to socialise with, and various straight humans about, whether ship or stationboard, or planetside between tours.

But the ISO didn't work in combat teams. Individual-oriented organisation, like all Intel. With their own advanced GI. No other GIs to socialise with, just straights. One of the gang. Of course they treated him well a operationally, if they wanted him to be any use, they didn't have a choice. In Dark Star, she'd tolerated the inevitable few non-GI officers and a.s.sorted supervisors who hadn't welcomed her company-she could ignore them if she wished, and go elsewhere. Ramoja hadn't had that option. She could just imagine the instructions before his first days on the job a "Be nice to the GI, or else." Or else he'll get mad and kill you. Or become increasingly disillusioned with the entire League ideology, and defect to the Federation.

Only she'd managed that without excessive ill-treatment, for the most part. So where'd it come from? Why was she here, on this side, and Ramoja, the opposite? What was wrong with him? Or, come to that, with her?

"The Zaiko Warren," she said, firmly stepping on the turmoil in her brain. "What were you doing there?"

"You are mistaken, Captain, I was not there."

"A GI killed a man by the name of Lu Fayao in the Zaiko Warren," Sandy continued impa.s.sively. "Lu Fayao was a member of a shadowy Ta.n.u.shan underground group who indulge in all kinds of illicit information-crime related activities. This group is connected to a hacker named Sai Va, who just happens to be a dedicated anarchist-a common affliction among the underground. Sai Va used League-issue attack codes to infiltrate Lexi Incorporated. Sai Va then pa.s.sed on the scheduling information from this infiltration to a bunch of radical ideologues called the Human Reclamation Project. They used it to plan and execute an attack upon top Lexi executives. You do understand, Mr. Ramoja, that whichever League agency or operative who allowed Sai Va access to those League-issue attack codes is therefore directly responsible for whatever purposes that information was put to after it was stolen?"

A calm, expectant look from Ramoja, waiting for her to come to her final point.

"The League retains many operational activities in Ta.n.u.sha that the CSA finds greatly concerning," Sandy continued. "Your ties to Ta.n.u.shan mafia groups and their blackmarket trade in illegal biotech and other information foremost among them. On behalf of the CSA, I'm here to formally request you sever all such ties and contacts, and ask all such groups acting on your behalf or upon the understanding of your future support to cease, and cease immediately-before we have any more explosions or mafia-funded goons running around public areas firing militarygrade weapons at anyone who comes into sight."

"And the League is to blame for the existence of Ta.n.u.shan mafia?" Ramoja asked mildly. "For the presence of self-styled a.s.sa.s.sins, who dress and operate in the manner of drug-crazed civilians who play too much combat-VR and watch too much television?"

"Not for their presence, Mr. Ramoja." Coldly. "For their employment."

"I a.s.sure you, Captain, League operatives would never seek to employ such erratic and unreliable individuals on any matter."

"Friends of yours did."

"No friends of mine, Captain. I am a recent arrival here. I did not initiate any activities. I am here to put things right. League operating policy has been less than perfect in the past, I'll warrant. Thus my presence."

"You're their fix?" Vision locked onto him with deadly intensity. "You're their idea of a problem solver? Jesus a you transmitted League encryption on an open street near active and operational netmonitoring software. How do you think the GGs found you so fast? How do you think I was tracking you? You don't even understand the basics of a civilian infotech network infrastructure, this is an entirely alien operating environment for you a"

"Oh, I knew you would track me." Smiling calmly. "Your patterns were very obvious on the network. I wanted you to catch up." Sandy's gaze remained unwavering and unresponsive. "The mafia-the GGs, as you call them-were a possible nuisance, but I thought it worth the risk. To meet you, Ca.s.sandra. Well worth the risk indeed."

She could feel her stomach tightening. Memory of the bullet strikes of that meeting a but also the cold, hollow feeling that not everything was as it had previously seemed. Amba.s.sador Yao, so delighted to meet her. His daughter Ying, telling of her father's hopes for the possible return of their runaway GI a Obviously it had been on the Amba.s.sador's mind a lot, if he had even confided in his daughter about it. The new GI contingent arrived with the new League delegation, sent by a new League administration in power after the new elections that had crushed the old hardliners in a ma.s.sive landslide. So much new. So much changed since she'd been a soldier of the League armed forces. New hopes and new priorities for a new administration. Loose ends to tie up. Lost sheep to gather back into the flock.

"I'm never going back," she said softly. "Never."

"ISO would welcome you, Ca.s.sandra," said Ramoja. A soft, comforting note to his voice. "You appear to have shown a real flair for intelligence of late. You need not return to your old post at Dark Star a special ops alone does appear something of a waste for a creative intellect of your credentials."

"You put me back in Intel," she said, just as softly, "I'll go through Recruitment back offices with an a.s.sault rifle, I guarantee it. Clean out all the human waste your shiny new government didn't have the guts to axe."

"They are no longer a factor, Ca.s.sandra." Eyes narrowing somewhat, despite the conciliatory tone. "Every administration has its factions. Just look at the Callayan Parliament."

"The Callayan Parliament never murdered my friends."

"Many of them would like to murder you, given the chance."

"And my friends here would try and stop them. I have people here who value me for who I am rather than what I am. In the League everyone a.s.sociated with me has some kind of vested interest or position to protect. No one in the Federation shares responsibility for my existence. In some ways I'm less politicised here than back there. I'm certainly much safer. I don't think you can realise just how many powerful people would want to silence me if I returned unless you've actually served in the frontlines during the war, and know just how much there is to cover up a"

"So I've heard speculated before." Ramoja cut her off, his brow furrowed. "I think you'd be surprised at the extent of ISO resources within all branches of the military a"

"And what d'you reckon happened to Torres Station? What do your reports tell you?"

"An unfortunate accident." His frown deepening. "Federation warships blew their own station rather than let us have it, they weren't aware of the civilians still on board."

"I took that d.a.m.n station, me and another team under my command. I bet you didn't know that either." No, the look on his face said as much. "I took it with minimal loss on either side. We got the com mand centre and shut down the guard stations which let the ships in. It was a d.a.m.n pirate raid for the Fourth Fleet, we stole their supplies, then loaded their civvies onto transports for deposit elsewhere while they blew the station. Feddie cruisers were using it for home base from which to raid our shipping through the Batik Corridor. They said they'd get all the civvies off before they blew it, but I thought the cargo manifests didn't add up with the extra supplies they were taking on board-I checked it and they were a full seven thousand people short of what I already knew were on that station. Seven thousand. Just like the Feddie newscasts said, seven thousand civilian deaths. They had the choice between cargo or saving those seven thousand a they chose the cargo, sealed the exits with all those people still aboard, backed off and blew it just as the Feddie reinforcements came in from jump a Jump approach is autofire, the Fed captains themselves could never be certain in the rea.s.sessment that some of their rounds hadn't mistracked in the confusion immediately after jump. They could never rule out the possibility that they had blown their own station by mistake-that was the Fourth's intention. And, of course, the civvies they had taken on board were no wiser. They couldn't see what was happening, all they knew was they'd come under attack after the undock, the last transport hadn't been able to dock and the station had been hit by Federation fire."

"Then how do you know?" His dark stare was intense. "You hadn't access to bridge data either, you wouldn't have seen what was going on."

"I asked the Captain." Meeting his gaze with expressionless certainty. "Carlotta Teig, Captain of Firebird, common ride of mine in the Fourth-fast a.s.sault carrier, perfect for Dark Star ops, I'm sure you know it. Ask her when you get back. Tell her I sent you. She won't be surprised. She's a tough, cynical old thing, always told me I was wasted in the military-one more thing she was right on. Sure as h.e.l.l she wasn't surprised when I went AWOL. You ask her, privately and off the record. She'll tell you what happened at Torres Station. She nearly resigned herself after that one. She b.i.t.c.hed so hard they would have removed her but they didn't want a mutiny on Firebird, she was that popular."

Ramoja's frown remained. Intent. Troubled. A light breeze shifted the branches about the broad, gra.s.sy yard, gentle whispers in the dark. Water bubbled in the landscaped stream, splashing over carefully laid pebbles beneath the ornate, arching footbridge. Something in Ramoja's gaze unsettled her. As if he himself was unsettled. She hadn't expected that at all.

"What?" she asked him.

A pause from Ramoja before replying. Then a "Captain Carlotta Teig is dead. Suicide. A few months ago. She overdosed on neuro-enhancement prescription pills, left a suicide note telling of the lack of purpose in her life after the new Expenditures Review Committee announced the decommissioning of Firebird. "

Sandy stared at the pretty little footbridge for a long moment, nestled among the drooping native willows that swayed in the night-time breeze. Took a deep, slow breath.

"I'm very sorry," Ramoja said with quiet sincerity. "I know from your review files that the two of you got along. She invited you for dinner and backgammon on occasion." He had done his homework on her if he knew that much. "She wrote in her diary that she thought you yourself were one of the most hopeful, positive things to come from the entire war. She said that you were a clear demonstration of the "ultimate futility of violence." It seemed to me a curious sentiment from one of the League's most accomplished naval captains. I wondered what she meant."

"She believed in her politics," Sandy said quietly, gazing at the little bridge, peaceful and calm. It helped against the growing pain in her throat. "Not in violence. She always hated the necessity." Another deep breath. She wiped at her eyes. Ramoja watched in sombre curiosity. "She meant that the best weapon is intelligence. Intelligence with which to kill the enemy. But my intelligence made me wonder if I should be befriending them instead. She thought that was wonderful. Said it gave her hope for the universe."

Long-suppressed memories came rushing to the surface. Late-shift meals in Teig's quarters, a gla.s.s of whisky for the Captain, tea for herself-whisky did nothing for her. "My condolences," Teig had said upon hearing that, and meant it. Ship smells, metal and synthetics, dull-smelling air from the purifiers. The comfortable, familiar rustle of jumpsuit fatigues. Spa.r.s.e furnishings, a complete lack of clutter, all loose items locked away in case of sudden manoeuvrings. The clank and whine of cylinder rotation, the gravity that kept them seated.

Discussions of politics. Economics. The bread and b.u.t.ter of what the fighting was all about. Teig was committed pa.s.sionately to the League cause, whatever her distaste for some of the methods. Sandy herself, the Captain had told her, was reason enough to believe the League position on artificial humanity was sound-far from the old fears of artificial intelligences turning on their creators, Sandy's greater intelligence increased her degree of emotional attachment and commitment. The irony, Teig had said, was that in their search to create a more lethal killing machine, League bio-engineers had made her less dangerous, not more so. A machine could kill innocents and feel no remorse. A greater, more developed intellect would agonise about whether to pull the trigger-morality was nothing if not a higher intellectual function. Sandy herself hadn't been all too sure of the rationale behind the argument, having read a great deal about certain highly intelligent tyrants in past human history, but she was willing to concede the Captain's basic point, if only to make herself feel better.

What had happened to Sandy's team must have hit Teig hard also, when she heard. She'd never had a chance to talk to her before leaving. Leaving had been a fast decision, a spur-of-the-moment thing. Just a fake ID with some fancy hack-work to get her a spot on an outgoing freighter from G-4 station in Argonis...o...b..t. By the time the overstretched, under-manned staff at that chaotic base station realised she was missing, the freighter had already jumped, and there was no way of telling if she'd actually been on it, so many freighters had been coming and going in those last, desperate, chaotic months before the final election, and the peace treaty that had immediately followed the old administration's overthrow. The battered military infrastructure had been struggling under impossible resource demands, plummeting budgets, horrendous periphery casualties due to the newly aggressive Federation a.s.sault squadrons having perfected decimating system strikes that left League shipping and system infrastructural facilities smashed and defenceless. There was no hope in h.e.l.l that anyone was going to be able to trace the whereabouts of one maybe-AWOL GI who was awfully good at forging electronic credentials for whatever purpose she required. And who had technical skills that made her an automatic selection for any merchant's crew in need of an extra specialist or two a and in those times, that meant everyone, personnel were abandoning posts to see to their families in the crisis and there weren't enough hands to go around. She'd just vanished. And of those she'd left behind a several might possibly have taken it hard. Teig had been one.

But hard enough to suicide? No chance. Teig had a family she'd been greatly looking forward to seeing again. Teig had wanted to go to a rock concert again-live, loud and sweaty-she'd talked about it often. Teig would have been happy for her, getting out and off on her own while the whole marvellous, glorious League system imploded like a collapsing neutron star behind her. Teig knew d.a.m.n well she'd head to the Federation. But she doubted greatly that that explained Teig's death. No. Far more likely it was Torres Station and a few other such incidents, and threats of review before newly appointed investigatory committees established under the new administration. Certain folks in the old administration would have felt mighty threatened by such a prospect. Dear G.o.d. Now a now, of all times, she wanted to kill someone. She had a pretty fair idea she knew who.

"If she was going to kill herself," Sandy said quietly, "she'd have blown her brains out. Pills were not her style." And turned a dampeyed, burning stare at Ramoja. "Neither was suicide. There's no f.u.c.king way, Ramoja. No f.u.c.king way. You know that, don't you?"

"It was mentioned as a possibility," Ramoja replied sombrely. "Things in the last year have been crazy. Everything's changed, from the economy to the administration. It's been chaos, and many investigations have been launched. Intelligence and law enforcement resources have been severely stretched. Not all investigations begun have yet been completed."

"If you need anything. Anything. You come ask me. I'll give you anything you need to get the f.u.c.kers who killed her. Or any other similar matter you have on file. You say the ISO's improved a you do this, you d.a.m.n well prove it to me, nail these sc.u.m to the wall. Hard."

"Madam," Ramoja said with all seriousness, "it would be my great pleasure." Their stares locked. He seemed sincere, Sandy reckoned. Greatly so. "Ca.s.sandra, the war has ended. It allowed much to develop within the bureaucracies that was not desirable, most of it kept from public view by wartime security restrictions. But there is a new administration in power now. Things are not perfect, it will be a long time until they are, if ever. But the steps are being taken, and the ISO is stepping alongside. On the civilian, democratic side. You must believe me on that."

"Surely you didn't come all this way just for me. What did you expect to find when you arrived here? What was your mission?"

"To help put things right." Sandy just looked at him, unimpressed by such cryptic utterances. He took a breath. "I certainly hoped not to find that unauthorised parties had been allowed access to cla.s.sified League attack codes. We are in the process of tracing the parties involved. The leak will be plugged, I a.s.sure you."

That was the raid. Sal Va's accomplices. Tracking him, and tracking who'd given him those codes. She brushed loose hair from her brow as a light gust caught at it, her gaze unwavering.

"Lu Fayao was a Ta.n.u.shan citizen," she said. "A criminal, perhaps, but not a convicted one. His death qualifies as murder. Surely you realise that."

"Prove that I was there," Ramoja replied-a certain, quiet challenge. "Prove that it wasn't self defence. Prove that the perpetrator wasn't under orders. Prove that in the grand scheme of events currently under way in this city, one minor criminal's death really matters. Shutting down such dangerous leaks will save lives. The choice is obvious. And diplomatic immunity still applies, as it does for all the other hundreds of official representatives from various other Federation worlds and administrations who are currently engaged in bilateral or multilateral negotiations that could easily result in far more deaths than one single disruptive underworld influence."

It was as good as an admission. Probably he knew that any recordings she made would be of little legal use in a court, given her presently dubious legal status with the CSA. And diplomatic immunity meant it wouldn't get to court even if she was right.

And the message was clear and straightforward enough-League resources had been used in an attempt to kill people on that boat. The League resented being implicated for something it had never condoned. The League meant to demonstrate to various wayward Ta.n.u.shan groups how dangerous it was to make them angry. If only, Sandy thought sourly, they hadn't established so many dubious connections with so many of these dubious groups in the first place as an article of League foreign policy.

Former foreign policy, Ramoja insisted. Did that mean that the entire events of last month were not approved by the current League administration? The temporary removal of the Callayan President from office following the attempt upon her life? She wasn't willing to bet on it. Biotech infiltration into the Federation private sector was one of those peripheral activities that no League government liked to a.s.sociate itself with directly. But that did not mean they didn't know it was going on a just that they'd failed to take steps to stop it, or moderate the implementation. Individual League field agency commanders, usually ideological extremists, had the final say. And the glimpses of potential profits involved in the new technologies now drove Ta.n.u.shan BT corporations to press for independence from the Federation, and freedom from those restrictive, profit-squeezing antiBT regulations. Potential profit determined political ideology. Ideological determinism. League foreign policy at work.

That it had necessitated cutting her open on an operating table while she'd been awake and screaming a a small price to pay for the future progress and ideological stability of the human species. The needs of the many, the line went, outweighed the needs of the few.

It had taken many years for Sandy to learn to distrust such logic. The many were the few, after all, only multiplied. And if a civilisation could not even guarantee the rights of the few, the rights of the many were surely beyond their grasp.

A familiar sound interrupted her next question. A sharp, distant echo. Again, and once more a the same sound, deflected off multiple highrises. Thump. And another a Explosion. Perhaps fifteen kilometres off, maybe more. She and Ramoja stared at each other for a moment, with knowing recognition a Sandy uplinked at rapid speed, and found a Junshi. She hadn't realised it'd been that close. The hostage drama. Vanessa. s.h.i.t.

"Offensive," said Ramoja, his eyes distant. Concentrating. "Penetration explosive. Probably they took out a wall."

Several walls, ceilings, and probably floors too, with Vanessa in charge. She didn't do things by halves.

"I've gotta go." Quietly. "I'll speak with you later."

"Captain a" Ramoja frowned in surprise. "a we have much to talk about yet, I was hoping to ask you about a"

"Plenty of time later," Sandy replied, turning and striding back toward the brightly lit rear verandah, and the guards on ready-standby about the railings and parked cars at the rear. Ramoja accompanied her, matching her pace. She felt suddenly tight, tense and claustrophobic. Scared. She had to get over there. "Please don't venture outside of these premises more than necessary, for everyone's benefit."

"It rarely proves necessary." Still frowning, with evident puzzlement. "You are leaving because of the hostage drama? They were always going to attack, Ca.s.sandra, and most likely at night. The hijackers are a most disagreeable sect, something religious, I forget the name. Probably your CSA has put their best SWAT commander onto the job. From what I've heard of local SWAT, he should be perfectly adequate. I don't understand why you must leave now."

"No," Sandy muttered, striding faster toward the verandah. The tightness in her stomach pulled on recent wounds, a painful cramping. "No, I don't imagine you would." And realised something in a sudden shock, and turned on him forcefully a "Chu! Is Chu still alive? Do you know where she is?"

Ramoja looked totally blank for a moment. Then recalling a "Rhian Chu, your old Dark Star comrade?"

"Yes!" With agonised impatience, heart beating hard against her ribcage a "I'm sorry, Ca.s.sandra a I don't know." Helplessly, alarmed at her evident distress. "Honestly, I don't a those elements that took in the survivors of your unit were among the first to technically "disappear" when everything started collapsing in those final days a I just don't know. She might be alive, but I've no way of telling."

A new sound reached her maximised hearing, a faint, drifting reverberation on the cool breeze a weapons fire, light and percussive. Lots of it. She turned and ran.

fie eastern border road along Junshi Park was a ma.s.s of cluttered emergency vehicles, tracer-lights and cl.u.s.tered, sheltered personnel. Sandy halted her Prabati before the roadblock and flashed her ID at the policewoman a got a somewhat dubious look from the cop, then a signal to pull the barrier aside. Simple metal barriers, Sandy noted, as used in road construction-the police were unused to this sort of thing, and had no more specialised equipment. She repocketed her ID and nudged the throttle, the Prabati accelerating smoothly away and up the main, six-lane road toward the chaos ahead.

Firetrucks, police cars, equipment vans and control vehicles blocked the road several hundred metres further on, the odd civilian cruiser dispersed among the ground vehicles. Toward the perimeter of those sat several aircars, sleek lines with bulbous nose and rear field-gens, and a single hulking, broad-shouldered flyer, thrusters angled down at the road surface. She sped down the empty stretch of open lanes with the forethought of someone who knew the precise meaning of "field of fire" first-hand. Applied brakes as she hit two hundred kph, coming to a sharp, nose-standing halt by the flyer's broad, armoured side. Stood the bike, deactivated the engine and racked the helmet, sparing a skyward glance at the humming, whining reverberations that hovered about the site overhead a several aircars that her Ops-site active uplink tagged as CSA surveillance, and a circling flyer in orbit several kilometres out-SWAT backup, Team Six-running lights off and barely visible on normal light. Traffic Central had rerouted all civilian air traffic out to a kilometre. There were now many grounded vehicles within the exclusion perimeter that had been stuck there for half the day a doubtless their drivers weren't happy about it.

She stretched briefly, arms overhead, trying to loosen her shoulders and back, irritated at how fast she was stiffening up. Her stomach hurt when she tensed.

Beyond the wroughtiron fence around Junshi Park on the right, IR vision caught emergency personnel moving in the dark through the greenery, sweeping to keep it clear. CSA uplink showed the whole park was off limits a big place to cordon off, she'd walked through Junshi Park, it was broad and beautiful, only a half hour's run from home.

Gave arms and legs a final shake to get the remaining kinks out, and ran quickly to the first firetruck, then on through the vehicles beyond, up onto the road verge to give waiting vehicles a wide berthalong with the various uniformed and plainclothed officers, agents and public services officials crouched and waiting behind their cars. All lights off, she was pleased to see a there'd been a worrying habit of leaving emergency lights flashing at such occurrences, for reasons she knew not, all it did was interfere with surveillance gear and draw fire. But there were far too many people here, she reckoned, dodging along the verge for some room-too many spectators, too many officials come to survey the action, too many pointless suits taking notes and sipping tea.

Then the building came into view past the nearside obstruction, and she ducked left and halted behind a police car bonnet, crouched more to remain inconspicuous than for protection. They were not sure about the nearer building, she'd gathered, and the regular cops had volunteered to sweep it floor by floor a not strictly their job, but there simply was not the personnel to do it full kit. Thus the blockade stretching far down Park Street, beyond the bend, although the affected address, number 214, was out of view. There had been numerous shots fired at police in the opening stages, writing off several vehicles, and no one was taking chances. No one had been hit, though. It told her something about the calibre of terrorist they were dealing with, and their weapons.

Number 214 was billowing smoke along the front half of its top storey, where the Roads and Safety Branch of the Department of Central Services was located. Why the Human Salvation Jihad had targeted Roads and Safety was anyone's guess. Probably because they were so inoffensive no one would ever have suspected them a target, and security was lax. She scanned full-spectrum through the smoke and darkness a plenty of broken windows on the top two levels, lots of smoke but no fire. Evidently the fire systems were still working. OSA uplink showed the SWAT team inserted, from floor and ceiling simultaneously, large chunks of which were now missing a yeah, she thought, reckoning over the graphical construct she saw in her mind, that was a Vanessa pattern, wreckage everywhere. Extreme violence, efficiently applied. Ricey would have made an excellent spec ops, on either side of the war. Though she was glad she wasn't.

The problem now was the bed.a.m.ned Ta.n.u.shan architecture. It was one of the first axioms she'd learned upon being a.s.signed to SWAT-Ta.n.u.shan architects are a pain in the a.r.s.e for active insertions. Not content with designing a building with square back and sides, manic aestheticism had driven some Ta.n.u.shan design genius to make 214 Park Street into a "curvaceous rectangular prism," like a box but tapered upward, curved at the corners and rounded here toward the front where it looked out onto the road, and Junshi Park beyond. Lovely view, nice architecture, it had doubtless made the planners happy. The problem was the natural skylights, multiple-storey central atriums and the adjoining rear connection to 221-the building behind, which was office s.p.a.ce blending to a retail/food hall square blending to shopping stretch a everything blended. Again, pretty and aesthetic. For an armoured a.s.sault against well secured, trigger happy defenders, a b.l.o.o.d.y nightmare. Her present access to the tac-net showed her enough for a very educated guess at the cause of the present hold-up. But not confirmation. She needed to talk to someone.

And that would be a she glanced quickly across and noted the biggest truck with the biggest aerial antennae, several importances in uniforms and suits gathered at the rear. Too d.a.m.n easy to spot. Lucky the terrorists had nothing heavier than rifles a d.a.m.n, it'd be easier if she could just talk to Vanessa direct, but Vanessa was locked into the command circuit and that was tight security, she didn't want to break that and cause alarms, that would be just plain reckless.

Vanessa had command, SWAT Six supervised from the circling flyer, and from there the relay went back to CSA HQ, and down to this ground station. CSA HQ was always monitored by a.s.sociated services, they doled out information to whoever they felt needed to know-Parliament, SIB, even news services on rare occasions, though not on this occasion, thank G.o.d. If she called HQ, the SIB would monitor it, and that wouldn't be good. She doubted they'd ever suspect she'd be calling from the on-site ground station. And, of course, there were no SIBs actually here. On a field op crawling with sweaty cops and SWAT grunts, heaven forbid.

She moved, crouched low and weaving past the sides of cars, and behind several police snipers, heavy-mag laser rifles plugged into portable recharge-good for snipers, lasers avoided the need for deflec tion shots. She just hoped they knew the difficulties with reflective gla.s.s and smoke penetration. She personally preferred slugs, nothing argued with velocity. Pulled up at the rear of the control van and straightened, stomach hurting, and shouldered her way between several suited men who could have been insurance salesmen for all she knewa "Who's in charge?" And was nearly surprised at how people jumped, heads snapping about. Had it been that long since she'd used her best command voice? The van's side was open, graphical screen displays alight inside, more personnel in chairs or standing behind a "Who the h.e.l.l are you?" one man shot back at her, incredulously, with the frayed air of someone who'd had to deal with wandering bureaucrats too many times now. Sandy pulled her badge and tossed it to him, jumped up to the van's sideboard as he caught it and another protested a She caught sight of a policeman with Commander rank on his shoulders, consulting with several others further down, and shouldered toward him past men a head taller than her.

"Commander, you in charge?"

He glanced up, frowning, face lit up in the wash from multiple screens and the hushed, working atmosphere of tense voices and speaker-com.

"Who are you?" his second snapped, displeased at the interruption. Another man. Jesus, it was over eighty per cent men, she guessed, and at least half of them Indian a she'd heard they dominated the more specialised segments of basic policing, anything involving guns and potential violence. Had heard grumblings about the Old Boy Raj at police HQ.

"I'm Ibrahim's secret weapon, I want a duty uplink, I can help."

"Says she's CSA," came a voice behind her, recent arrival from outside. "April Ca.s.sidy, Intelligence." Sarcastically. Sandy uplinked to police files, fast, and broke about twenty security procedures with a flurry of attack overrides through the security barriers a "We don't need Intel here, thank you," the colonel said dryly. "Please step outside, you're not wanted here." She found the files she wanted, cracked them open with no regard for subtlety, unleashed a flood of information that racketed past at speed a "Commander Azim, right?" Pressing the side wall as someone edged past in the enclosed s.p.a.ce. "Nikil Azim, age fifty-three, fifteen years in special security, four commendations, one for active service. You're not in charge here, Commander, you're just supervising. Command rests with SWAT Four Commander Rice, I want to speak to her. I'm on temporary a.s.signment to Intel, I'm technically SWAT Four, she's my CO." Frowns all round at that.

"Don't you know anything?" said the second, incredulously. A lieutenant, Sandy saw. "Go through CSA HQ. Don't bother us, follow procedure and stay the f.u.c.k out of our faces."

A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind. Civilian men always tried to solve command disputes with aggression. Especially civilian men in positions of power. They thought it made them more effective. Sandy wondered briefly how such twisted logic had ever crawled from under a rock and seen the light of day. It limited her options severely.

"Come on, blondie, let's go," said the man behind her, pulling at her shoulder. The lieutenant returned to his discussion slate, shaking his head and muttering something about b.l.o.o.d.y pathetic females a She took the man's hand off her shoulder, and squeezed. He turned white. A twist, and his knees. .h.i.t the floor. She grabbed a handful of belt and a handful of shirt collar, lifted, carried him back to the open van door, and threw him out. He crash-landed five metres away and tumbled.

"Don't call me blondie," she called after him. Hit the door close mechanism, and the side of the van came whining shut behind as she squeezed back up the narrow aisle to where the Commander and his lieutenant were standing stunned. The lieutenant panicked and tried to reach for his gun. Sandy grabbed his arm and yanked him forward, then dumped him back up against the reinforced side wall, and pinned him there with a straight arm to the upper chest.