Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (36 page)

"You knew!" Ying was annoyed. "How did you know?"

"We can tell, Ms. Yao," he said, with mysterious knowing. "We GIs, we automatically know each other, it's like a special psychic bond that we all share."

Ying stared, wide-eyed. And stared at Sandy.

"He's talking crap," Sandy advised the girl, calmly, still seated cross-legged, stretching her back. "On a busy street I wouldn't know him from the next person. We met before."

"You met?" Ying was amazed. "How could you have met, Mustafa's only been here a day?"

"Like I said," repeated Mustafa, "it's a special psychic connection." His eyes remained locked on Sandy's, lively and penetrating. Sandy's return stare was inexpressive. "We both just happened to end up at the same place, at the same time, looking for the same thing." He shrugged. "A little coincidence, a little romance, a little exchange of fire ... I found the encounter most invigorating."

Sandy sat quietly. Feeling cold. She'd suspected this, the moment she'd first confronted him. Had always suspected it, really, on one level or another. Even though she lacked all evidence, and had searched frequently, she still suspected. And now, it seemed, the proof confronted her.

"What's your designation?" she asked him, quietly. No way was this man a reg. Nor even a mod. She'd known mods. Her entire team had consisted of them.

"GI-5182-IT." With a calm, almost amused look. He knew what that meant to her. He knew the shock at hearing those numbers. Most evidently, he knew a hell of a lot more about her than she did about him. "You thought you were the only one." A flat statement. Already knowing the answer.

"Obviously." She'd seen it coming. She hadn't wanted to be shaken. But she was. So much of her life had been lived in the supposed knowledge that she was unique. The only one. The sole GI to possess this particular level of mental sophistication, by design. It shouldn't have mattered. But it did. And she didn't have a clue what that meant. 5182 ... higher than her. Not that that meant anything. And ... IT? Intel? She'd never heard of that. Of GIs designated with anything other than frontline combat in mind. Her own designation was HK, for Hunter/Killer. She didn't know whether that meant he should be scared of her, or vice versa.

"Was that why you came here?" he asked. "To find out more?"

Sandy refocused more fully upon his face, with sudden intensity. More about you? Don't flatter yourself.

"I work for the CSA," she replied flatly. "You were observed committing criminal acts at a crime scene. I'm here because the League is sticking its nose in where it doesn't belong. I want the details."

"You observed no such thing," Mustafa said with amusement. "I was merely strolling down a street to take what I had intended to be a very pleasant walk along the river when a gang of hoodlums accosted me and forced me into a chase through a building to escape. How you happened to be there too I have no idea."

"You might want to try explaining to the CSA the death of one Lu Fayao in premises nearby, they'll be most interested."

"Ah yes," said Mustafa, nodding with exaggerated realisation. "The CSA. That glorious, upstanding Tanushan institution. Federation institution, I should say. How are they treating you? Defenders of the liberal political idealism that they are? Doubtless you've made countless friends, and everyone's welcomed you with open arms?" With palpable, humoured sarcasm.

Sandy thought of the dark looks, the bitching, the wafts of undercurrents, things said behind her back, complaints lodged by various senior officials and department heads, alarmed meetings in Ibrahim's office after hours ... and she thought of Vanessa. A warm, pleasant thought, right there. And the technogeeks in Intel, clustering enthusiastically about, wanting to please. Ibrahim's measured confidence. N'Darie red-faced and yelling before the Senate Security Council, defending her.

"I have friends," she told Mustafa, with quiet certainty. "I have friends the likes of whom I've never known before."

Mustafa snorted. And settled himself comfortably on the floor opposite, a leg stretched out before him, somewhat gingerly. Stretched, carefully. It caught Sandy off guard, just for a moment. Triggered old memories ... GIs so often conversed in such settings, seated or lying flat, stretching out. An idle moment was a moment to stretch. GIs always stretched during informal conversation, particularly with each other. She hadn't realised she'd missed it until that very moment.

"I don't doubt you have individual friends ... but do you really think that the system is ever going to accept you?" Incredulously. "Just look at where you are now ... there are interest groups on all sides against you, particularly the religions, the Senate is mostly against you, the media is mostly against you ... Cassandra, if it were just the fringe, that would be one thing, but it's the mainstream here. This is the major dividing ideology that separates League from Federation, this isn't just going to go away overnight."

"Mustafa." Flatly. Not liking this lecture from any League jackboot, let alone a GI. Not to mention someone who'd just recently plugged her with two rounds from point-blank range. She was rational. She didn't take it personally. But she had her limits. "What's your full name?"

"Major Mustafa Ramoja, at your service." Leaning gingerly forward to clasp his ankle with both hands. Very tender in the thighs, she noted. Well, they were even. Kind of.

"Mustafa's a Turkish name. You look African. You know why that works?"

"Not a clue." Still stretching, eyeing her curiously.

"African Renaissance, late twenty-first century. Africa finally caught up with the rest of the world, lots of manoeuvring for trade blocks, counters to the India/China split ... the Middle East's the natural sphere of African influence. Arabs and Africans became close, Islam became dominant in Africa. Cairo became the capital of the Arab/African alliance. Lots of cross-cultural moves, some Turkish or other Middle Eastern names became popular among Islamic Africans. Lots of GIs have cross-cultural names. Me, for example. I've often wondered why."

"Does it matter?" With quizzical regard. Sandy restrained her disbelief.

"Only fools and League ask that question. You can't understand the Federation without knowing why that matters. You can't understand Callay or Tanusha without knowing why it matters. Biotech ideology didn't just materialise, it was created by a whole host of cultural, religious and historical factors. This whole Article 42 debate is governed entirely by those factors. And in you come, the bloody know-it-all League, with your supposed tech-edge and your damn superior, selfinflicted ignorance, and think you can fix it all. Running into sensitive sites, stealing information with all guns blazing, telling me I don't know what I'm doing trying to make a home here ... what the hell are you doing here, anyway? Hasn't Ryssa had enough of their little covert adventures? Haven't they figured what damage it causes, for them and everyone else?"

Her voice was raised beyond what she'd intended. She was losing her cool. It'd been happening with disturbing frequency lately. Ramoja's gaze showed that he'd noticed.

"Are you trying to make a home here?" he asked.

She wriggled her spine, creating tension ripples that flexed through her shoulders.

"I'm sure as hell not going back with you." With firm intensity.

"Not after I've been here. The claustrophobia would be stifling."

"Claustrophobia?" Frowning.

"You don't have a clue, do you?" His return gaze was calmly uncomprehending. She shook her head faintly. "Forget it. Life's too short."

"We should take a walk. I have questions."

"Yeah. Me too. I'll have the CSA make your life real difficult if you don't answer them satisfactorily, believe me."

"My questions for yours." Patiently. "Quid pro quo."

"That's Latin," she jabbed, in determined pursuit. "You know what it means, literally?"

"No, what?"

"I've no idea. But it's the difference between the two of us. You don't care. I do."

"Why?" he asked calmly, eyebrows raised.

"You tell me," she replied, her stare burning. "I'm the product of League intentions and League designs. League wanted me this way. Capable of seeing the broader strategic implications. Know thy enemy. I'm good at that. I was so damn good at that, I realised my enemy wasn't who I thought it was. There's a lesson in there for all of you. Until you figure it out, I'll never go back. Ever."

Ambassador Yao entered the room before Ramoja could reply. Blinked in surprise, seeing Ying seated on the chair opposite, listening with bewildered fascination. Did a fast double-take, then frowned and said something forcefully in Mandarin ... something about illicit wanderings, homework and little girls who should learn to do what their parents told them ... Mandarin was Sandy's best non-English language, she'd heard enough of it in the League. Ying scowled and got to her feet.

"I gotta go." In vaguely accented English-Ryssa accent, Sandy reckoned, though it'd been a while since she'd heard it. "Are you gonna come back and visit sometime?"

Sandy managed a lopsided smile. "It's possible." She held out her hand. Ying walked over and took it, and they shook. "Nice to meet you, Ying. Don't grow up to be a fool like your elders, huh?"

"What're my chances?" Ying retorted as she left. Passed her father, who held the door open for her. Sandy's gaze rested on the Ambassador.

"That depends," she said.

"The one thing I have never understood about straights," Ramoja was saying as they walked slowly across the gravel drive at the back of the house, "is why they over-protect their children." Stones crunched beneath their feet. Sandy recognised the car that had brought her in, among the others. Several guards stood nearby, rifles in hand. Standard defensive format, the positions and angles translated reflexively in her head. "Young Ms. Yao seems a very intelligent child. She was learning of important issues that will shape her life in years ahead. Yet the Ambassador removed her, and was displeased."

Ambassador Yao had left them to their discussion, feeling that perhaps his presence would have been intruding. And perhaps it would.

"Most civilians in modern societies place a value upon childhood innocence, Major," Sandy replied. Scanning the garden as she walked. Trees and landscaped flowerbeds. A pond and artificial stream spanned by a footbridge. Light from the house spilled golden across the broad lawns, and trees cast long shadows that fled toward the rear wall, crossed and overlapping as the night reasserted itself. "Life is so chaotic, there are so many hard truths and reasons to be cynical. People think childhood should be sacrosanct. A refuge of innocence."

"Amazing." Ramoja smiled faintly to himself. "Such a broad universe, and so much to learn. I often wonder why people don't take more pride in themselves and their capabilities. At being able to cope with the universe, and understand it properly. Yet they call it cynicism, and shield their children from it, thus creating unrealistic expectations and adding to the weight of disillusionment when it does finally arrive with adulthood." They left the gravel, feet suddenly soft on springy grass. "So much modern civilisation in the Federation seems built on regret and self doubt. Regret that they ever achieved modernity in the first place, and self doubt at failing to live up to the standards lauded in the common mythology of pre-modernity, glorifying some bygone era that never truly existed in the first place."

Inexplicably, Sandy found herself fighting back a smile, and turned her head to make sure Ramoja didn't see it. Fancy a GI making such ruminations. It was also unsettling. She had no idea why it suddenly struck her as funny. Perhaps she was thinking of her team, back in Dark Star, and the blank stares they'd given her when she'd indulged in similar ponderings herself.

"I can feel a League diatribe coming on," she volunteered dryly, cycling through spectrums to see the patterned distortion caused by a local laser-grid detection system hidden nearby, laid flat barely millimetres above the grass between trees. Easy to spot, if you knew what to look for ... with super-enhanced vision, of course.

"It is a League advantage," Ramoja said, unperturbed. His methodical approach was all GI, and all military. His voice was melodious, and often thoughtful. His manner was always calm. A more bookish, studious version of herself, she guessed. That was unsettling too. "Less of the old, mythological baggage means a fresher, more realistic view of the universe, and of humans generally. The Federation is always being bound up in cultural mores that are increasingly meaningless in a modern society, whether it's engagement with the Talee or other nearby alien civilisations, or the pursuit of synthetic replication biotech, or the labyrinth of mostly conflicting legislation surrounding the protection of genetic coding data ... the whole Birthfile accreditation system is a bureaucratic nightmare and a security sieve. The Federation will never catch up with the League as long as these kinds of basic progress continue to be held back."

"Who won the war?" Sandy reminded him.

"Size is no indication of moral righteousness."

"Yes it is. It indicates that the vast majority of humanity are not yet ready for the kinds of advances that the League espouses. That's democracy."

"The League is no part of Federation democracy, what right does the Federation have to impose its will on the League?"

"Every right, since the League always claims to be acting in the best interests of the species. With a hand on their heart and the anthem playing in the background, a tear of patriotic humanism spilling down each rosy cheek."

"I can't believe," Ramoja said, fixing her with a hard sideways look, "that you could possibly find yourself identifying with a set of philosophies that actively deny your right to even exist."

Sandy snorted, running a hand through loose, more-than-regulation-length hair. Beside Ramoja and his African shave-cut, she felt smugly unregulation. She liked it. She felt herself.

"What do I have to do with it? If a policy's wrong, it's wrong. Where I happen to fit into the equation is irrelevant."