Authors: Joel Shepherd
And now she was here, dreams of a peaceful civilian existence shattered. Perhaps she'd been stupid to think she could ever leave it all behind so easily. For what would she be without war and conflict? It was the first, last and only reason that she existed. To think that she could abandon it all for so distant a dream as peaceful domesticity now seemed, in the glare of hindsight, slightly absurd.
But she had always had dreams. Had lain on her bunk, with or without company, and stared at the overhead, wondering at the existence of other people and other lives. It had seemed so magical, by contrast to her own bland, grey world. And the stories she had read, and the music she had listened to, had only stirred her passion for more. Ideology, culture, debate, artistry, ethnicity ... she had grown fascinated by it all, and the more she had discovered, the more she had wanted to learn.
Sex may have been her favourite recreation, but learning was her passion. It filled her head with wonderful things, and gave rise to thoughts and ideas of which she had not previously thought herself capable. After a time she would wander the cramped corridors in the carrier's gut, squeezing past the constant traffic, barely even aware of her surroundings. In her mind, she was far, far away. And it was wonderful.
"Why were they killed?" Vanessa asked. Eyes wide with lingering horror. "How do you know?"
"I saw it coming." Softly. Gazing at the dancing life in the fireplace. "They weren't the first to go mysteriously missing. No documentation ... I broke in a few times, nearly got caught. I think they suspected. But it was politics."
"What politics?"
"Vanessa ..." She exhaled wearily. "It's too long. I can't. Not now." Her head was swimming with politics. She needed ... something else. Humanity. Conversation. The less harmful kind. Vanessa shrugged.
"Hey, sure ... that's good thinking, I won't ask." And blinked rapidly, still gazing at her. "Were your team anything like you?" Sandy smiled faintly. Repressed a short laugh.
"No. Not at all like me. But they weren't bad people. Mostly. Some were nice — you'd have liked them." To her surprise, Vanessa did not even look doubtful.
"Did you love them?" she asked instead.
The question surprised Sandy. She took several moments before answering.
"I suppose I did," she said then. With faintly pained, distant memory. "Not all of them. We had a turnover ratio ... they came and went. But I had my closer friends. They were only GIs, but... yeah," she nodded, sadness in her eyes, "you could say I loved them."
Vanessa, she saw, was intrigued, wanting to know more, for reasons other than strategic. For what reasons, Sandy could only guess ... but it felt nice, to be the attention of such innocent interest. She had not spoken to anyone of her past life, not since they'd left her. She felt a sudden, tired, emotional urge to talk to someone. She had not really talked to someone, meaningfully, in ... she could not remember how long. That told her something in itself.
"They're basically good people, Vanessa," she said. "Different designations from mine, lower numbers ... you can't tell a GI by the designation, not really, it's just a rough guide. But my guys were smarter than your average GI. More flexible. Their personalities varied more, they had nuances, traits ... character, I suppose. They were real people, only limited. And they tried, they really did. Like in Goan. You heard about Goan?"
"Course. The first time the League tried to turn it into a proper ground war." A frown. "
You
were there?"
"I was." She gazed back into the fire, conjuring memories she had not tried to recall for a year at least. Had not wanted to recall. "You remember the fuss about Federation civvie casualties?"
"They said the League basically targeted populated areas for no reason." Sombrely. "League said Federation troops were using populated areas for cover."
"Neither's true," Sandy said. "Federation don't want to admit their evac was all screwed up, that they had enough advanced warning to get nearly all the civvies out in time, but they screwed it. League never targeted civvies on purpose, but they didn't make an effort to avoid it. I wasn't real happy with the scope of what I saw. We were hunting out the last Fed units in the city ... not real easy. There was plenty of cover, and they were smart. But there were loose pockets of civvies around, hiding in buildings, abandoned rooms, underground shelters ..."
She sighed. Took a breath. "Anyway, League command told me that couldn't be helped. I ignored them, told my guys we weren't going to call in heavy strikes where civvies were present, we were going to use restraint where possible. They didn't see the point, of course ... but I said so, so they tried. It mostly worked, I was never sure how much they understood or agreed. They never argued with me. I think they knew when I was set on something.
"But one time ... we hit a Fed unit. They'd been hiding, I think using some civilians for eyes. We didn't know the civvies were there ... just saw the Fed outpost, guns and communications, watching the street, set to ambush the next League patrol that went through. So we hit them. A short firefight ... but someone on their side panicked, started cutting loose with a rapid autocannon, only got off a few shots, but one of them hit a ground floor wall where their civvies had been hiding. Blew the floor out."
Vanessa was staring, meal forgotten. Sandy was unsure where she was going with this. It wasn't necessary to remember it. But it seemed important for some reason she could not, at that moment, entirely fathom. And very relevant to Vanessa's question.
"So we went in there ..." Memories struck, typically powerful past the faded suppression of tape, and she pressed on with concentrated focus. "There were several rooms they'd been using, had supplies, cooking equipment, a small generator, a whole living space there ... mostly ripped up where the shell had hit. Ten civvies, mostly family, I think. Two were already dead. Another three injured ... they'd been in the side room by the outer wall. The other five had been sleeping further away — they were protected. I think these five had been making a meal, there was kitchen stuff and food blasted about the place.
"One of the injured ones was a little girl, about five, I think. She didn't scream or anything. One of my GIs — Chu — was the medical specialist ... I got her to work on the girl. There was lots of blood. Her mother was screaming. Her little brother was already dead, one of those two. Lots of crying. People thought we'd execute the rest of them, being GIs and all. It was bad."
There was a lump growing painfully in her throat. Vanessa's eyes were wide, fixed in a mute, unblinking stare in the orange flicker of firelight.
"The girl lived for a while, then lost consciousness. Then nothing. And we were still busy. We had to keep a perimeter in case other Feds came along, there was other activity in the sector ... I'd thought Chu would just go back to work when the girl died. But she just walked over to me, through all this household wreckage and sobbing relatives, and she just ... she just kept saying, over and over. 'She smiled at me. Cap, she smiled at me', white faced and staring, like she'd seen a ghost. And I couldn't get her to focus on anything for another half hour ... I mean Chu had seen dead people before — civilians, children, everything. I hadn't even known she'd had any idea what was special about children, why civvies placed such value on them. I still don't know. But basic psychology says a 39 — that was Chu's designation — generally isn't going to have that kind of emotional response, in those circumstances. But I'd hardly seen a GI so affected.
"I still wasn't sure, after it was over. So I took Chu with me up to the ship Captain's quarters the next time I went — I got invited sometimes. And I showed her the pictures of the Captain's children, and some of the vid-messages they'd sent, and the things they'd got up to at school ... and Chu just broke down crying. Ever since, I always noticed, the only time she took interest in straights was with people who had families ... every time, she'd ask them about their children. Just little questions. I don't think she understood half the answers. I just think she felt better to know that there were other children out there somewhere who weren't in war zones, and were happy and uninjured."
She paused. Wiped at her eyes, which were threatening to spill over with moisture, and swallowed hard.
"All of which," she continued, "is a very round-about way of saying that yes, I did love Chu. And some of the others. I loved Chu when she cried. It made me feel less alone."
"Did you feel alone very often?" Vanessa asked quietly.
"Sometimes." She took a deep breath. "Yeah, sometimes I did. But never so alone as when they died. I couldn't stay then. I just ... couldn't stay in the League. I had to get out."
It had been that, or kill everyone associated with her team's deaths ... difficult, even for her. Technically and emotionally. She knew those people. She'd hated them for what they'd done, but had been unsure of the degree of complicity. It was all a part of the system. Everything was. And whatever she did, the system would remain intact, making any violence meaningless.
Besides which, she'd wanted to live.
"So now you know something about me," she said, looking across at Vanessa. Feeling suddenly tired as the events of the day came crashing down on her. She wanted to rest. She wanted to sit here by the fire, and talk of interesting, pleasant, harmless things. Like Vanessa's university course and lifestyle decisions. Like music. Like Vanessa's husband, and what married life was like. Like children. It was possible, she realised with interest, that Vanessa had some of her own. "What happens now?"
"Well ..." Vanessa stretched slightly, as if suffering her own stiffness, post armour. "I think the Director wanted to have a word with you, once the initial chaos had settled down. Tonight."
Sandy raised an eyebrow. "Naidu's been bumped?"
"Ibrahim's a hands-on kind of guy. I'm surprised you haven't met him earlier. And Naidu's kind of busy right now."
"Suppose he would be." She remembered her meal and wearily set about finishing it before it got cold. The thought of food that good going to waste seemed yet another small tragedy on a night of too many tragedies. She was sick of tragedies. "I'm surprised the city's still functioning."
"Yeah." Vanessa managed a small, wry smile. "Me too."
CHAPTER 9
The night air was cool up on the rooftop. Wooden railings ringed the patio, and city light dimmed the stars to a few scattered, bright points. Trees rose up from the courtyard below. Shifted gently in a cold gust of wind, a soft rustling of leaves.
She could see the street from here as she leaned against the railing, absently shifting spectrums from one to another as the night took colour and form. The street was unusual ... paved with stone, reminiscent of ancient techniques. The houses beyond were large, spacious and open to the air. Balconies and trees. Wooden shutters, brightly painted, stone walls and coloured plaster. Beyond, the rising spire of a church tower, stone with a Christian cross, and a genuine brass bell. It looked, felt and smelled like a Spanish-Colonial township. Authentic did not begin to describe it.
Beyond, and all about, at varied distances, the grand towers rose soaring into the night sky, alive with light and colour. The faint hum and whine of air traffic, ever present, but distant. It was a different world, this neighbourhood, nestled in comfortable seclusion amid the towers, shielded by its lovely stone walls and throwback architecture and the profusion of spreading branches from the thoroughly modern world beyond. Sealed by electronic barriers, a centralised network of scanners and security software that monitored every millimetre under its jurisdiction.
Along a nearby street a car was humming. She could hear its engine and the thrumming of tires on flagstones. The faint glow of lights reflecting off surrounding stonework, a glimmer on the greenery. Turned and faded, Sandy shifting to network connections to track it, absently monitoring its progress along the winding streets.
Tanusha had many such neighbourhoods, she knew. They were exclusive, to say the least. Tower views were commonplace among the citizenry. Ground level, customised private houses were much rarer, and reserved for the truly privileged, or the simply lucky. And the neighbourhoods varied in style and character. This one was Spanish, others reflected other Earth cultures, direct copies, representations from historical records and artistic recreations. There were Japanese sectors, Chinese, Indian, Italian, German, Thai ... she remembered meaning to visit the Thai section sometime after her first arrival. Lovely wooden houses on stilts, stylised carvings, step-over doorways to keep the evil spirits out, statues and ornamentation, open balconies overlooking the network of canals that spread from the Shoban River tributaries, overhung with leafy branches, a spiderwork of clear reflections on a bright and cloudless day...
Tanusha had many museums and art galleries, but the neighbourhoods were both. People paid enormous amounts to live in such accommodation simply because it was nice there. Secure regions like this one also made perfect exclusive zones for VIP accommodation, difficult to infiltrate through the winding streets and limited public access, and therefore easy to defend. Thus the cultural character was maintained as a part of the city's basic infrastructure. It was much, much better than a museum, Sandy thought, gazing about at the peaked tile roofs and high, shuttered windows. People lived here. Culture was not something to hang on a wall or keep in a glass case. Culture was to live, to breathe, to touch and feel. As little as she knew of such things, she believed very strongly that this was true. And sometimes, such as right at this moment, she yearned for it. She yearned so badly she could taste it.
A guard patrolled the garden path below, beneath the tree's spreading branches. Flower beds lined his path and water tinkled into a broad pond. Beneath the surface ponderous red shapes slowly swam. The guard stepped up to the verandah. Slow, measured footsteps sounded on the wooden boarding below.
Sandy sensed the man behind her well before he reached the adjoining doorway. A quick race through the network hookups showed her a form, an image, and then a face. The door behind her opened and footsteps scuffed the patio.
"Mr Ibrahim, I presume," Sandy said without turning. Behind her, CSA director Shan Ibrahim closed the door with a gentle clack. Wooden door, with patterned glass insets. Very un-modern. Another part of this wonderful cultural allusion.
"Hello Cassandra." Accented voice, mild and calm. The footsteps approached her and Sandy visualised his size and build from the sound. Old reflex. With the gun at her side and the harness beneath her jacket, it was all coming back to her.
The man leaned on the railing beside her, hands apart, weight dispersed. A moment of silent breathing, gazing out at the dim outlines of roofs and trees, illuminated in patches by streetlights and an orange glow from the windows. Beyond, a scatter of air traffic wove between the looming towers, winking and multicoloured lights in lazy motion.
"The night must look different to you," Ibrahim said then. Which surprised her, and she glanced across. Ibrahim's features were as strikingly Arabic as his name and accent. Brown skin, a large, hawkish nose and prominent cheekbones. The small pointed beard accentuated the sharpness of his chin. And his eyes, as he gazed out at the murmuring night, were deep brown, brimming with focused intelligence. Strikingly handsome, Sandy thought him. Barely a glance and she was impressed. It did not happen to her often.
"Everything can look different," she replied. "It depends on my mood." Ibrahim gave a faint, imperceptible shake of his head.
"I prefer the night as it is," he said. "There's nothing more beautiful than a contrast of light." Unbidden, Sandy thought of a painting she'd seen in the Tanushan Gallery of Art. Broken fingers of sunlight spilling through clouds.
"I agree," she replied. "Not every visual shift I do is functional. I can find some beautiful combinations sometimes."
Ibrahim nodded to himself, as if considering that. And then he looked at her. His eyes registered no surprise, and he took no time to assimilate her, almost as if, Sandy thought with a faint chill, he felt he already knew her personally.
"I'm here to offer you a deal," he said then. "You probably guessed that." Sandy managed to resist rolling her eyes, and stared away at tire distant towers instead.
"Look," she said somewhat testily, "I don't even know what my status is. One minute I'm threatened with being shipped off to Earth, and the next I'm told the city's shiny new security codes have granted me some kind of special status, and I find people throwing firearms at me and telling me to defend the President."
"Our investigative teams have traced some promising leads back to a major biotech corporation," Ibrahim stated calmly, as if he hadn't heard her. "We suspect others may be involved, but we have no proof yet. Recent security measures give the CSA powers of entry and arrest in order to uncover evidence. I have a team standing by at this very moment, organising the raid. I want you to help them."
For a long moment Sandy did not move. In her mind, several loose ends clicked resoundingly into place. And she turned, straightening, leaning on her left arm as she looked directly at him.
"And why should I do that?"
"I can get you legal documentation," Ibrahim said flatly, "signed by myself and the President. It'll guarantee your rights as a citizen of Callay." For a moment Sandy thought her heart might have stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.
"It won't be worth the paper it's written on if Guderjaal doesn't sign it," she thought to say, her mouth working on autopilot as her brain raced.
"He'll sign it too. The security lockdown makes it possible. You can talk to Guderjaal if you don't believe me — I already have. But you have to do it now, because later won't be any good for us."
Good God. What were they asking of her? What did they expect her to do? And why? There were sure to be catches.
"Do I keep my privacy," she asked, a touch breathlessly, "or will I be public?"
Ibrahim nodded. "As private as the laws allow. Your case still falls under state security provisions, Callayan citizen or not. Making you public knowledge would be dangerous."
Sandy stared at him. "And the politicians?"
"They do not advise the CSA on security matters. If they did, the emergency provisions would oblige me to ignore them if I found them unhelpful. In your case, you can be assured that I would find it most unhelpful. And contrary to Tanusha's most immediate security needs.
"But you have to help us, Cassandra." Firmly, leaning imperceptibly forward. "I know that your treatment these past two weeks has at times been less than perfect. I apologise for that, as CSA Director I have many distasteful political necessities to contend with. But we need you now, Cassandra. And I believe you may need us."
His lidded dark eyes held a very direct, very determined meaning. And she felt her heart skip a beat. A cool breeze gusted and whipped the hair from her brow.
"You know," she said quietly. He gave a brief nod.
"CSA Intelligence is perhaps more advanced in matters of League operations than many of our politicians are aware of. I have made sure of it during my tenure. We know that only
GIs
command GIs. For an operation like this, only a top level GI would have been utilised in command. And from post-analysis of your own actions at the Parliament it was decided that even you, with your undoubted capabilities, could not have made certain tactical decisions as quickly as you did without some degree of prior knowledge, or at least educated guesswork, as to the operation's next moves."
Sandy exhaled hard, leaning both hands on the railing, and gazed out into the night. Ibrahim waited a moment longer before continuing.
"Your actions have displayed to us clearly that you have no loyalty toward or involvement with those involved in this plot. But you told Lieutenant Rice just now that you were very close with your former comrades. And that you blame your superiors for having them killed. That was why you left, was it not?"
There was peace out in the cool, murmuring night, amid the lighted towers and the soft thrum of traffic. She sought it, yearned for it, gazing into the vastness. But she was reminded only of other possibilities, of who might possibly be hiding out there. Her past, waiting for her, somewhere amid those 57 million Tanushans. And she nodded briefly to Ibrahim's question.
"I would not seek to harm such a person, Cassandra. Or persons. Lower-designation GIs do what they are ordered. I do not believe such a person could be held responsible for such actions. I only wish them stopped, prevented from visiting more harm. As I believe you do. But on present evidence, GIs within this FIA mission are considered expendable. There must be some doubt that any of your ex-comrades will survive the mission, if left to the FIA. Or if they do, and are transported back to the League when it is all over, they may well meet the same fate as your other comrades. Murdered by their superiors."
Her jaw trembled. She couldn't believe it. They were all dead. She knew they were. Maybe ... maybe ... Her mind raced, desperately seeking alternative possibilities. Maybe someone had copied her patterns. Someone in Intel, perhaps, or one of her minders. She'd published such things, occasionally, in electronic form... but that was GI-specific strategy. Straights had trouble internalising so much high-speed multidimensional graphical detail all at once. It took a GI to internalise the complexities, to plot them, to make them work in the field. And she'd
seen
it first-hand. Had run through the Parliament corridors, had made contact with the enemy, and had
seen
them respond in exactly the patterns she'd laid out for GIs of that designation ... She dropped her head, eyes closed. Ibrahim waited, with silent patience.
Possibilities collided, and she felt trapped between them, crushed and breathless. Her old life, a Dark Star comrade still alive, and here in Tanusha. And Ibrahim, Vanessa, the whole Tanushan government and security apparatus, suddenly desperate and trusting in their need for her assistance. A chance. A huge chance. Trust, perhaps asylum, perhaps strong enough to override even Federal laws ... someone had tried to kill the President, for God's sake. On security issues of critical importance to both the Federation and member worlds, Federation concerns trumped all challengers. But here, Tanusha's threat was greater. If they needed her badly enough, even the Feds couldn't drag her away if the CSA were determined enough to keep her. Under present circumstances, however long they lasted. From the chaos the city had descended into since the strike, 'present circumstances' could last a fair time.
She'd wanted this. It was, in fact, quite possibly a better scenario than she'd previously envisaged, when she'd first arrived in the Federation and built a new identity for herself. This meant she could be herself. Be real and accepted ... as much as she could expect to be. She'd wanted civilian life, a civilian identity and all the other things civilians took for granted. A life free from war. A life filled with inconsequential pleasures, like friendship, entertainment, evenings out on the town, taking in the sights.
And now, once again, her old life had intruded. And she almost regretted it. And, and ... oh God, the thought hit a nerve like few had ever hit before, and a pain speared behind her eyes. And damn, she felt guilty for it. For leaving, when possibly — it seemed — not all of her team were dead. And for having such trouble reconciling her new, desperately desired life, with the old military one. She ought to be overjoyed to hear one of her team-mates was still alive ... dammit, she
was
overjoyed. And confused. And scared, and ... and nearly every other emotion she'd ever felt or imagined, all at once, and all so sudden and unexpected ...
She breathed in long, deep breaths, hands tight around the smooth wooden rail. Voices below, guards talking in low, murmured tones. The flitting, erratic pulse of bat sonar, weaving somewhere above the trees in pursuit of insects. And she knew then what she had to do, knew she had so little choice. Like a piece of flotsam racing downstream, she would go where the river took her.
"I'll help you," she murmured. Ibrahim watched in silence. Measuring that response with dark, penetrating eyes. "But you have to promise you'll do everything you can not to harm anyone out there who's just following orders. Anyone League."