Crossover (15 page)

The flight path dropped further. Lower buildings below gave way to green parkland and trees, winding paths and glints of water. Glimpses of people out strolling as they cruised by overhead — the Parliament botanic gardens, nearly as famous as the building itself. Far ahead, the faint speck of the first convoy vehicle was curving around, still descending, towards the rear of the building's right wing.

Sandy gazed at the building as they neared, a red-brown sandstone structure, impossibly large for such primitive materials. It was modern underneath, obviously. Perhaps ten storeys high with great arching balconies supported by columns opening onto grassy lawns, the famous gardens beyond. The roof domes were perhaps Islamic by inspiration, although the teardrop windows and deep, earthy finish were more specifically Indian. The rest was colonial European, with alternate influences everywhere, baffling and pleasing the eye.

Such were the grand symbols of power that the first settlers of Callay had built, reflective of their hopes, dreams and aspirations. Callay was a new world, and Tanusha was its capital, but in their hearts and souls the Callayan settlers had never forgotten their roots. In the League, they built great, modern edifices of grandiose, imaginative, totally original design within which to house their elected representatives. All semblance of historical nostalgia was to be purged, a new beginning made, a fresh start, free of all the historical ills that had plagued the human species.

Not here, or in the Federation generally. The great domes and reddish arches rose magnificently above the brilliant green lawns, a triumphant pronouncement of all that humanity had achieved, built, created and brought
with
them, out among the countless stars. In the League, history was a page in a textbook. In the Federation, it was everyday life, rich, varied, ever-present and celebrated at every available opportunity. And Sandy knew, in that moment, exactly why she'd come here and abandoned the place of her creation. And she knew why, whatever the difficulties, she could never go back.

The side wings, workplace of much of Callay's civil service, sprawled out below. The aircar turned steeply left now, presenting a stunning view of pillars, domes and open lawns out of the left side window.

Sandy looked ahead as they levelled out, saw that the first two aircars were already down on the broad sprawl of landing pads below, a third making its approach. The pads were atop another impressive structure, arrayed in a broad rectangle across the top of the rear-wing building's nearside flank, which loomed impressively above an outdoor arrangement of gardens, pools and tennis courts ...

Some strange frequency signals then, and the co-pilot's head jerked upwards as if in surprise ... old reflexes jumped, and Sandy's heart missed a beat. The guards on either side had stiffened, leaning sideways, scanning the skies.

"What's happening?" Sandy demanded, forgetting herself for a moment. The pilot's hands shifted, the engine throbbing beneath them as the car changed attitude. Scanned hard out the windows, vision snap-shifting in unconscious reflex. Only towers. Ahead, people were running, one car preparing to lift again, the other aborting its approach ...

In the front seats, the pilot was shouting something, but she couldn't hear what. Her pulse was pounding now, a familiar hard calm settling as the car rebuilt its speed ... realising only too well this was the only time a Presidential convoy would be vulnerable. It fitted too, too well...

"Incoming!" she shouted then as a flame trail erupted from up ahead ...

"Fucking hell!" from her left, and a violent twist from the pilot, throwing them all sideways.

"Five bogies!" Sandy announced, tracking that launch to the five widespread bodies on high V approach, hurtling out of nowhere. A huge double flash from the landing pads, someone's frightened voice yelling, "They hit the fucking President!" then a very nasty tracking signal that had Sandy grabbing hard for the handles overhead.

"Brace yourselves guys," she said calmly, pressing hard with her feet into the forward shield, "that incoming's got us totally nailed." A wild, downward manoeuvre threw them against the restraints, her companions fumbling wildly for their handles as the tracking signal suddenly dopplered, badly, and getting worse extremely fast. Then everything blew up.

... A wild nightmare trapped amid smoke and flaming wreckage, rushing wind and tumbling, falling, over and over ... a brief glimpse of rushing green grass and landing pads ...
wham!!!
everything smashed forward. Bounced, tumbling over with a violent, terrible momentum, then
bang!!!
hit something else and spun around.

Sudden awareness, a horrible, crushing pressure, bending her neck ... realised she was upside down and twisted violently, limbs tangled with what might have been wreckage, and might have been other limbs. Something was burning, the smoke filled her nostrils. A last heave tore her legs free, curled and sprawled beneath hard pressing leather, someone's bodyweight pressing into her side, trapping her further. Her brain snapped into gear with an electrifying jolt. The car was upside down, and she was lying on the ceiling. Everything had been flattened, and the seats were trying to crush her from above. Beyond the immediate vicinity of the rear seat compartment she could see nothing. She didn't even know if the front of the car still existed.

There were sounds from outside, explosions and gunfire, very distinct. She had to get out.

Twisted around with a desperate, trapped wriggling, grabbing the body by the suit lapels and pulling around ... he was dead, there was blood everywhere.

"Cassandra!" The other guard, in pain and sounding trapped. "Cassandra, wait ..." Definitely in pain. A massive explosion nearby, vibrations through the wreckage. "Don't move ..." Thunder of crossfire, rounds smacking ferociously off the sides, everything shaking.

Sandy pressed herself past the guard's body, found a small space to see out from. Landing pad beyond, a scattering of wreckage. An armoured flyer landing, crossfire ripping every which way, scattering crazily off the tarmac, a door gun traversing to fire back ... more shots hit them, and the entire wreck shuddered and rocked as she ducked back.

"Get my cuffs off and I'll get us out of here!" she yelled at the CSA man. She couldn't see him, unable to turn about further.

"I can't...!"

"Are you hurt?!"
whumph!!
A grenade hit them, shockwave blinding, wreckage tearing. For a moment she couldn't see for the smoke. "Are you hurt, dammit?!"

Something fumbled at her ankle cuffs, and her legs were suddenly free. She shoved a knee hard upward, straining against the drugged weakness, then a crunch as something gave way and she could turn, wriggling about sideways.

"Wrists!" she yelled at the agent — he looked in bad shape, face covered with blood, but she had no time to ponder it, got a brief look out the shattered window beyond, saw the pad perimeter, walkways and barriers rapidly getting cut to hell, things burning ferociously beyond.

Her wrists came loose, and she slithered forcefully over the agent, tearing his heavy calibre pistol from the shoulder holster, then ammo from the pocket, the man protesting weakly, a hand pawing her arm ... good thing about the calibre, if this was what it looked like, she was going to need it.

"Stay here!" she told him, and slithered out the shattered window opening.

Rolled flat on the tarmac, rounds zipping past, the full roar of battle assaulting her eardrums. Heard another grenade shot and covered instinctively, exhaling hard as the shockwave hit and the ruined car lurched aside. Shrapnel scattered and she was up, target scanning through the covering smoke.

Two flyers, larger than standard aircars. Troops in defensive positions, military patterns, gone straight through the side doors and into the building where the fighting was corridor by corridor. Between them was another aircar, burning furiously. Bodies of security personnel. On her exposed side, surviving security were pressed to the walls, five of them, returning fire where they could.

The screaming whine of engines brought her head snapping about, a flyer arcing about to one side, level with the pads. Fire erupted from a door mount — KW-laser cannon flaring staccato blue light that blew across the security's remaining positions, bodies falling amid flames and erupting masonry.

Sandy sprinted away from the grounded flyers and toward the walkways and barriers of the pad perimeter, the airborne flyer twisting about to acquire her as she raced across its path, angled her right arm out at full sprint and spraying ten rapid shots from the corner of her eye, blowing the door gunner's head off. Fire cut past from behind, shattering transparent barriers ahead — she threw herself, hit shoulder first and smashed through in a scattering of broken shards.

Quick crouch to gain her bearings, heavy rounds streaking across the pad in pursuit, past her ruined car ... more shattering barriers and she ducked and rolled, three times, propped up and fired four quick rounds to drop two of three runners headed for her car, the third diving for cover. The airborne flyer was twisting to acquire her with the other side gunner — she killed him too, five rounds through the right eye from fifty metres.

She ran, burning wreckage on the pads beyond these to her right, and more people shooting, then into the building and what would have been the reception foyer in saner circumstances — patterned tile floor and corridors off to the sides. Used the smooth tiles to come to a sliding halt on her rear, back pressed to a side wall. Quick check of the magazine — sixteen rounds left —
chack!
Levelling that arm back the way she'd come, scanning the corridors around —
bang!
as a pursuer grenaded his approach for cover, then two figures diving through the smoke ... she dropped them with a rapid volley whilst barely looking their way, which gave her the warning to dive-roll explosively left as someone burst around a left-hand corridor and sprayed that spot with bullets, Sandy already returning fire from a left-handed tile-slide, up and still shooting as the body snapped backwards, and blew his partner three metres down the corridor as the recoil thumped comfortingly through her arm.

Quickly recovered his weapon, scooping left-handed while emptying the pistol's remaining rounds down the corridor to keep it clear. Saved a last pair for the wounded man at her feet, two shots point-blank to the head, necessary precaution with GIs. Sidestepped the corridor mouth, pumped a grenade from the newly acquired rifle into an adjoining corridor, then another back the way she'd come. Then she ran.

She was not frightened. She saw no people, only targets. Her world held no straight lines, only the shifting stains of colour and movement, heat and vibration. Everything blended together. Everything made sense. Pieces fit into place, like a giant, moving puzzle. The corridors, landing pads and intervening walls seemed abstract, as if seen from a distance, or in a VR sim. And within it all, she was now confident that she knew what was going on. Someone was trying to kill either her or the President, or both. That narrowed down her options, because she could take care of herself. The President was another matter.

They hit the convoy during landing with a mobile attack force — the only way it could be done, considering the nature of permanent ground security. How they had got so far, and past the Parliament perimeter systems, was something she did not have time to ponder. Equal forces down on both landing pads, one airborne to provide cover ... ten troops in each flyer besides the crew, that meant forty on the ground.

She had seen where the convoy cars had landed. Knew how the security would be stationed, and how they would react. And most importantly, she knew how the attack would go, if she had planned it herself. The relevant question was simple: if she was going to screw up her own attack plan, what would she do?

When the attacking craft had first broken standard flight patterns, Shigeru Mishima had failed to believe what his security posts, defence grids and his own eyes were telling him. This state of disbelief lasted a touch over five seconds. Those five seconds proved fatal.

Mishima was head of Security detail Alpha. There was no detail more important than Alpha. Alpha meant the President, and Mishima was the best that the Callayan Special Service had to offer. His capacity to handle technical detail down to the last micro-digit on his command override frequencies was nearly inhuman, even for rare augmentations of his type. And his capacity to handle his job, while simultaneously juggling all of these details, had got him his position as the President's senior bodyguard.

Mishima ran a tight ship. He tolerated no oversight among his juniors, no matter how small. On this particular day, the Parliament Building's aerial defence grids had been functioning perfectly. All transgression coding had been altered and secured according to the random numerical programming that Mishima himself had provided. Emergency interlink channels with all security, administrative and legal units throughout Tanusha, and over all Callay, were fully established and locked out.

His people were On. They were focused. They had left no procedural, technical or conceivable stone unturned. And so, when his feeler networks had relayed an air-traffic control alert regarding five Andra-model transport flyers suddenly breaking away from established airlanes at a number of random points, Shigeru had made a microsecond judgment of the possible reasons.

It may have been a hardware-related problem — the model of all five bogies was identical, making a manufacturer-specific cyber-glitch seem entirely possible. And then there were various hitches and cyber-echoes the controller systems had been suffering at the interface levels recently — electronic figments of the system's own imagination emerging from cyberspace as object reality.

Even when it became plain that they were diving at the Parliament Building in a loose but rapidly assembling formation, Mishima had hesitated. Stickler for detail that he was, he simply could not perceive of the incredible range of factors that would need to have been manipulated in order for this to actually be an attack. Without the knowledge of those factors, he was dealing with an unknown quantity. In order to take effective counter-measures, he had taken the time to assemble those factors in his mind.