Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (12 page)

"Any excitement lately?" she asked the two Alphas in the front seats, as the course bent again, taking them northwards toward Canas, a small, exclusive suburb not five minutes' flight time from Parliament. The ground faded from sight as they gained altitude, only the dim shadows of towers visible through the downpour, even to Sandy's super-enhanced vision.

"Alpha Team is not at liberty to discuss operational occurrences," was the predictable answer.

"Did you implement Tactical Adjustment B58?"

"Sorry, ma'am, can't talk about it."

"I wrote Tactical Adjustment B58," she said dryly. "I saw your predecessors buy the farm in person, I was subsequently asked to critique your operational procedures and where they went wrong at the Parliament Massacre. For all your sakes I hope you implemented it, because I'm not the only one keeping tabs on your operational performance."

Silence from the front. They knew all right. She wasn't yet sure how any of them felt about it. She'd saved the President's life, for sure. Perhaps they felt she'd belittled Alpha Team in the process, achieving single-handed what all of Alpha Team could not. And she certainly hadn't managed to save any of them. It was possible she could have. But it would have forced her to strike early, thus lessening her chances with the President by conceding surprise. Strategic objectives just didn't work like that. She'd rarely in all her operational career managed to have her cake, and eat it too. She'd chosen the President. Alpha Team, given their entire reason for existence, surely could not have found fault with her choice. But the fact remained that they were all dead, she could have done more to prevent it, and hadn't.

Welcome to war, boys. Now you know why I wanted to become a civilian.

Canas was exceptionally pretty. The cruiser landed in a yellow-striped security transit zone beside a residential park on the neighbourhood outer perimeter, underside wheels unfolding. Once through the heavy scanner outer checkpoint with its five guards, they were allowed to drive in through the roadway gap in the tall stonework. The outer security wall quickly gave way to ancient-styled brick and stonework buildings, wooden shutters and hand-carved signwork in Spanish, all wet and gleaming in the sunlight now that the black stormclouds were moving on toward the west. Wheels vibrated over road cobbles, the cruiser steering down narrow streets that were little more than lanes, winding mazelike with no regard for orderly geometry. Wood-railed balconies overlooked the street in places, and once a small church, its steeple rising beneath a beautiful spread of native raan-tree canopy, and colourful orange blossomed creepers spreading over stonework walls.

Canas, of course, was a museum piece, crafted in memory of a particular Earth culture that city planners had thought worth remembering. It was also impenetrably high security, shut off from the rest of Tanusha, lived in only by those Tanushans whose security rating war ranted the protection. That meant the President, a majority of ranking politicians, and their closest family. Only public servants, though ... private sector heads in need of security (meaning biotech CEOs, these days) could presumably afford their own. Politicians, whatever the public cynicism about their salaries, did not make that much money.

The Presidential Quarters were also sometimes called the Hacienda ... Spanish for house, Sandy had gathered. Or mansion. Not much was visible from the road, by intention. The cruiser rounded a slow, tight corner behind a high stone wall, then up the narrow lane to a heavy metal gate. Pause, while various scanners did their work, and then the gate wound slowly open. A paved roundabout served as a driveway, circling a large fountain draped in lush greenery. Several vehicles were parked by the disembarking apron, all aircars, heavy armoured cruisers crouched low on compressed suspension, several drivers waiting with other armed security, all totally conspicuous in dark suits. They pulled up behind the last vehicle's bulky rear end, Sandy catching all the while the continual flash of encrypted security codings across local airwaves ... Doubtless there was more she could not catch-direct laser com-vehicles such as these were equipped for such things. Doors hummed upward, Sandy collected her bags and got out.

The Hacienda was big. Exactly how big was difficult to see from this vantage-tall trees and lush, four metre ferns and palms surrounding, all dripping from the recent downpour ... The fragrance of sodden greenery in the moist air was powerful and delightful. They were parked by the end of a long, rectangular wing, stairs leading up to ornate doors, frame glass windows overlooking, late afternoon sunlight gleamed orange on colourful, sloping rooftiles amid mottled patches of shade. Another such wing showed faintly through gardens lush enough to pass for heritage botanic gardens, glimpses of lovely stonework and arches amid the profusion of gleaming leaves and branches. Not only pretty-it made outside surveillance difficult. Every millimetre would be trigger-tripped and monitored.

"Ma'am," said another Alpha, blocking her way from the cruiser, "please leave your gear in the vehicle."

"I'm not having this discussion again."

"Ma'am, only security-authorised weapons are allowed within proximity of the President. You can keep your pistol, but please leave your bags in the vehicle."

"Do you have a guard room in the premises?" The Alpha's silence said as much. "I'll leave them there. I'm not leaving my gear in a vehicle that could get called away with me not in it."

A moment's silent consultation, uplink frequencies flicking encrypted messages back and forth. Sandy was aware of others standing about. Of the guard station built into the heavy stone wall by the gate at her back. Of any number of possible lethal and non-lethal weapons systems built into the picturesque surroundings. Even she wasn't allowed knowledge of these systems, heavily upgraded as they'd been of late.

"Very well," said the Alpha. And put out a hand. Sandy gave him the bags. Reached inside her jacket, slowly pulled out her pistol in full view, rechecked the safety, de-chambered the loaded round, removed the magazine and placed it into her jacket pocket. Pointed the weapon at the ground, clicked the trigger five times to demonstrate it was empty, rechecked the safety and tucked it back inside her jacket. It was politeness. Alphas were employed to be nervous, and any exception made in security protocol was a dangerous precedent.

She followed the Alpha with her bag up the stairs ... Someone opened the door for them from the inside, admitting them into a long hallway. The Alpha with her bag immediately turned into a near room, and she followed a new Alpha down the hall, another pair bringing up the rear. Her boots squeaked on floorboards ... wonderful things, floorboards, of all the things she'd thought, prior to becoming a civilian, that one could do with wood, walking on it hadn't occurred to her. They stretched polished and gleaming down a hallway of smooth plastered walls, with paintings, decorative potted palm fronds and overhead chan deliers. She gazed about as she walked, security technicalities temporarily set aside, and felt somewhat better about the whole thing. Being in Tanusha, moving among people of power, had its benefits-even when she got in trouble, it landed her in a lovely house like this one, with the smell of polished timber and lush gardens, and never mind the nervous armed escort. It wasn't like they could threaten her anyway.

The hallway ended and they entered into the body of the Hacienda proper, large rooms, ornately furnished, rugs on the floors, offices and people in suits working ... the President's personal staff and key Administration figures. They worked here when not at Parliament, the President dividing her time between debates and sittings in chambers, and then paperwork, meetings and strategy discussions here at the Presidential Quarters. Another corridor then, entrance flanked by a pair of permanent Alpha guards, and into a waiting room, the President's personal secretary sitting behind a big desk on the side, locked into his information system with headset and multiple display screens before him. A pair of big double doors beyond.

"Hi, Sandy," said the secretary, Alexei Sarpov. A mild young man with pleasant manners and an unbreakable concentration span. "How are you today?" Like she was a regular visitor. Well, she'd been here twice before in the last month, more than most people could boast.

"I'm fine, Alexei. How are you?" Simple civilian courtesies still sometimes eluded her. It took a conscious effort to remember what was appropriate and polite at what moments.

"I'm doing great, Sandy ... the President would like to see you immediately, though I do believe she's in the middle of an important teleconference right now ..."

"I'll stand in a corner and be very quiet."

Alexei smiled. "That would do perfectly."

The lead Alpha opened one of the double doors, and peered through. Opened the door fully, and gestured for Sandy to enter. She edged past, aware that two of them followed her in before closing the door behind her.

The French Office, as it was called, was of course superb. Large and grand without succumbing too much to self-conscious ostentation, it had a somewhat darker, more thoughtful mahogany feel than she'd expected when she'd first visited. The room got its name from the row of french doors that spanned the rear wall behind the main desk, a broad view leading onto a wide balcony that overlooked gardens and trees surrounding a wide, overgrown courtyard. The opposing face of the rear wing spanned beyond, more brickwork and balconies showing through the trees. The office was decorated with the paraphernalia of authority, bookshelves, cabinets, paintings of several famous figures. A comfortable sofa set ringed a coffee table in the centre of the office.

The President sat behind her main desk, her back to the windows, conversing to some person or persons on the display screen before her. She leaned back in her comfortable chair with informal disregard, hands clasped behind the back of her head, elbows out. The windows behind the President made Sandy slightly nervous, her mind on security. But vantage points were limited thanks to the greenery and opposing wing, and all opposing windows and balconies were continually occupied while the President was working. They also allowed her security to watch her at all times. Somehow Sandy doubted President Neiland appreciated that very much. Though no doubt last month's fatal carnage at Parliament had changed her perspective somewhat.

The President saw Sandy over the top of the screen, and waved at her to come forward. She did, with security close behind.

"... look," the President was saying, ". . . you have to make it conditional on the funding bill. I'm not handing that chairmanship to someone who won't even back us on funding for the very apparatus he's supposed to be advocating. Tell him he gives us the support on the bill or no chairmanship, and his faction can damn well eat him alive, for all I care. None of them have any say on legislation without a seat on the committee and he knows it."

The reply was silent, no doubt uplinked to Neiland's inner ear. Sandy glanced about. There were paper files on the President's desk, a whole stack of them-some documents still circulated in paper, low confidentiality ones. Another small box contained encrypted memory chips for high confidentiality documents. Several thick books sat to one side-academic titles, Sandy noted, from local university presses. And read from the spine of the largest Interstellar Federation Law: Founding Principles and Practice. And Markets of Light: Interstellar Trade and the Physics of Economics. She nearly smiled. Light reading, Ms. President? The third book was in Hindi, in which all senior Tanushan politicians were fluent by necessity ... and often Arabic, too. Neiland, she knew, added Bahasa, Mandarin, Spanish and her own native Dutch to that tally. Seven languages was not exceptional in Tanusha, language tape-teach worked better on some people than others, but irrespective of that, it generally reduced the amount of time taken to learn languages from between fifty to ninety per cent.

"... fine," Neiland was saying now, "... just get it to him before the next sitting. I don't want to waste time arguing with him myself. Get him briefed and make him fully aware of his position, because I'm not sure he's realised yet what trouble he can get himself into." The screen went off, and President Neiland got up.

"Hi, Sandy." Came around the desk and surprised her with an offered kiss on the cheek, Arabic-style ... Sandy returned it, repeated on each side. It always surprised her, her instinct was to salute. Neiland pulled back to look at her, hands on her arms in a most friendly manner. There was a faint smile in her sharp green eyes, a lingeringly dangerous amusement. Sandy was surprised at how good she looked. She'd half expected to see a haggard, weary President with dark rings under the eyes, irritable and short tempered with all around her. Instead Neiland looked bright and alert, red hair neatly bound at the back with a comb and clasp. She had on a green suit jacket that was only moderately formal, a red bow-ribbon at the collar that bordered on flamboyant. Civilians, Sandy remembered the prejudice back in Dark Star, lacking military discipline, tended to get weak and flaky under great pressure. Between the Callayan President and the CSA Director, Sandy reckoned she'd seen enough evidence to cast great doubt upon that reckoning. "How are you?"

"Good." Volunteering more to the President didn't seem a good idea until she knew what she was here for. Neiland smiled, seeming genuinely pleased to see her. And looked at the two Alphas at her back.

"Thanks, guys, we need to be alone for a moment."

"Yes, Ms. President." And turned to go, offering no argument.

"You didn't give her a hard time, did you, boys?" Neiland called after them.

One turned, still backing to the door. "No, Ms. President."

"You sure?" Playfully. The Alpha kept walking backward while his partner went for the door, apparently well familiar with his boss's mood.

"Very sure, Ms. President. She was most cooperative."

"She could have had you all for breakfast, you know that, don't you?"

"Of course, Ms. President."

"He doesn't believe me." To Sandy. And to the Alpha, "Thank you, Mahesh. Wish your sister happy birthday for me."