Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (42 page)

"Can you move?" Zago was at her other side, the two of them working on her armour buckles, clacking open the connections.

"What brought that on?" Vanessa, she thought, looked quite shocked. She didn't like that. She sometimes suspected that Vanessa hadn't necessarily accepted what she really was, but had rather chosen to overlook it ...

"I'm okay," she said with some irritation, choosing not to assist them with her armour for now. "I'm just overworked, I haven't been stretching properly ..."

"Shit, you mean this is going to happen a lot?" Vanessa retorted with alarm.

"No, just after I get shot and keep working like nothing's happened ..."

"You got shot!" Incredulously. "When! Where?"

"LT," Zago said calmly, working to get Sandy's boot ties unhooked, it couldn't have been in our furball, none of them fired a shot."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Accusingly. "Jesus, you can't just keep running around after you get shot, Sandy, what the fuck were you thinking! I'd never have let you take point if I'd known ..."

"Exactly why I didn't tell you," Sandy retorted, "you're not qualified to know what difference it makes, Ricey, I am."

"Qualified? I'm your damn CO, that's all the qualification I need

"Vanessa, just ..." Sandy winced, holding up a forestalling right hand, "... just stay a little calm, huh? I'm a GI, you seem to keep forgetting ...

"Forgetting! Christ, how can I forget? You get shot and you're off running around like an action hero ... where'd you get shot? How?"

"As soon as you've calmed down a little, I'll tell you everything."

"She's right, LT," said Singh, squatting nearby with observant interest. "You're getting hysterical." Vanessa glared at him.

"You shut the fuck up."

he Doghouse was as chaotic as she'd seen it. Med ward was filled with minor cases, exhausted SWAT grunts treating various sprains, strains and armour stresses. All found time to watch with interest as she was found a table and duly set upon by several enthusiastic medics, who were joined in short time by the resident augment-surgeon, then two assistants, then a biotech specialist who appeared out of breath, having evidently run down from Intel to "assist" ... while she lay almost naked on the exam bench and tried not to feel ridiculous amid the crush.

Treatments and technical possibilities were offered, and questions asked ... when directed at her, she mostly just shrugged helplessly and reminded them tiredly that she was a grunt, not a doctor. Previous midriff bandaging was cut away, wounds inspected, recleaned-provoking argument over correct disinfectant, with added earnestness due to the enhanced GI vulnerability to micro-organ isms-and then basic electro-stim applied. Someone found a sonicscanner and wheeled it over, and then began mapping with the handset to compile a three-dimensional picture. After a search someone found the benex supply they'd ordered from labs especially for her-a myomer relaxant, they called it benex for short. Sandy knew little beyond that, except that it'd always been used for short term relief from extreme stresses. More discussion over dosage and location of hypo-shots, about which she was more useful, having had plenty back League-side.

Basic stress relief achieved, then came the full physical ... blood pressure, pulse rate, nervous feedback, blood chemistry-the basics were very human-ish, and provoked further intrigue from surrounding meds, and no few of the present, aching SWATs. Yes, she replied to one curious question, her chin rested on folded hands upon the bench, GIs did get sick, especially if they didn't exercise, eat well, or suffered vitamin deficiencies. Yes, she'd several times had flu, or something close to it. GI immune systems were heavily engineered and required frequent boosts, artificial micros simply didn't handle virus and organic micros as well as straight human systems. Yes, she'd once known a GI to drop dead from a particularly nasty measles strain. Yes, straights serving with GIs for long periods required extra boosters for the GIs' safety more than their own. No, that wasn't likely to be a problem with her, she was one of the lucky fifty per cent of GIs with few quirks in their immune systems. But the odd extra shot for those she most frequently came into contact with in the CSA definitely would not hurt her feelings.

The rest was just physical recovery, several benex shots into major muscle groups, and a lot of electro-stim and massage. With little more to be done, excess medical personnel drifted reluctantly away to more pressing concerns. Freed of the crowd, she lay mostly on her stomach, a polite towel across her buttocks, and took the time to chat with the other SWATs. All were from other teams, and all had been busy-per sonnel were alternating between rapid reaction, fixed security and mobile patrols, and sometimes, particularly in the evenings-when the delegations were all most actively engaged-patrols in pairs or fours, just to make sure there were trained shooters on scene quickly if something went wrong. The police were doing an okay job, but ... well-eyes were rolled-you wouldn't want them leading the charge when the shots started flying. And they'd been flying all too frequently of late. Qualified, combat-capable personnel were suddenly in very short supply across Tanusha with its 57 million inhabitants. All the grunts looked tired, and some of the men didn't look like they'd shaved in days. Several were troubled by various augments acting up under the strain of too much time in armour-supplemented arm and leg ligaments, tendon sheaths, muscle attachments, all the key points. And she found room to be glad that whatever her problems, at least she didn't have to put up with that-mutually opposing systems, organic and artificial. She was all one system. And that, of course, was the GI performance advantage.

Some thoughtful tech actually brought her clothes up, having somehow finagled access to her locker, and she got dressed to the protests of several grunts that no one ever did that for them ... the embarrassed tech (male, of course) retreated before things got ugly. Then out into the unseasonal traffic in the med halls, walking loose limbed and flexing within her casual duty pants and jacket, readjusting her stride for the unpredictable looseness of muscles brought on by the benex shots. Several passing whitecoats recognised her and offered greetings, which she returned-she'd gotten to know these halls well enough in past weeks, recovering from previous, more serious injuries.

The adjoining wing took her back to Doghouse proper, bypassing the chaotic duty rooms that Medical had been so thoughtfully situated next to. Corridor windows gave her an overview as she left Med, the broad landing pad crowded with armoured flyers in a blaze of flood lights ... maintenance and flight crews were making standby walka- rounds, with no time for more intensive checks. The open flight-bay beyond was lit yellow by the worklights, awash with the scuttling activity of three times the usual operational load of flyers and other vehicles. She could see small groups consulting out on the pads, arms waving over the whine of thrusters, fingers being pointed in many different directions. Even as she watched a new team were disembarking, a line of armoured figures doing a quick jog toward a waiting flyer, running lights blinking in readiness. SWAT Nine, she saw with a quick zoom ... and they were twelve-strong, four short of full strength. Injuries and maintenance breakdowns ... the schedule was starting to take its toll.

Nine SWAT teams to cover 57 million people and several tens of thousands of senior foreign delegates ... not enough. Not even close. But the cops weren't trained for lethal force on the required scale, and the SIBs were discovering that legal edicts and SCIPS had their limits against determined political subversion of whatever ilk or motivation. Who the hell else was there? In this usually peaceful city? Investigations was huge, a great sprawl of compound across the whole West Block, and had many personnel in various departments capable of basic weapons, but they'd been overstretched from even before the whole constitutional crisis, let alone now that the floodgates had opened and all the crazies were pouring out of the woodwork ...

She puzzled over it all the way to debrief, over on the west side of the Doghouse, facing Central. Too far a walk, was the other thought that came to mind. Too much admin in SWAT ... it wasn't a large operation, really, just nine SWAT teams ... in Dark Star they'd managed three times the strikepower with half the admin, at least. She'd yet to figure what half the SWAT admin people did. Worse, she didn't think admin itself was entirely sure.

Debrief had already started when she got there ... it was a lot to get through, most of which had happened at 214 Park Street well before she had gotten there. The crowd of Intel attending was nearly as large as the assembled SWAT Four, seated or standing about the front and sides of the class-sized room, watching the main display, full tac-graphic unfolding across the front display. The team lounged in more comfortable deep cushions, some sprawled with feet up, others seated against the back wall with legs out and jackets unzipped, hair wet and dishevelled from recent showers, cold packs and strapping held to troublesome augments or plain muscle strains. All paused to look when she entered.

"Hey, babe, you okay?" Vanessa was seated up front in a thick reclining chair-commander's seat, boots up on the rim of the long, central table. A long, concerned look from weary dark eyes under untidy, curling dark hair.

"No worse than the rest of you lot," Sandy replied.

"That bad, huh?" Vanessa held out a hand. Sandy went over and took it, a brief, public handclasp, and a pat at her backside as she went to the back of the room. More hands extended from reclining, exhausted grunts, and more pats as she passed ... and with some, even a brief, approving contact of eyes. It felt good. She messed Singh's hair as she passed, knocked knuckles with Kuntoro, and headed straight for Bjornssen and Hiraki, seated against the rear wall by the corner against the windows. There was no room, but Bjornssen got the idea and spread his long legs. Sandy dumped herself unceremoniously between and leaned back against him-Bjornssen was a big man, a head taller and far broader than her, and it seemed a waste of chest space when the wall was all taken. He surprised her by wrapping arms around her tightly, and giving her a brief, affectionate shake ... not always the most lighthearted man, Bjornssen-dour and matter-of-fact at most times. Viking heritage, he liked to call it. Ethnic heritage was the most chic of fashion accessories in Tanusha, Sandy reckoned. Something real. Something you couldn't buy. There weren't many of those left, these days.

"These guys have a clue?" she asked Hiraki in a low voice as the debrief continued and multi-graphical displays swung and glowed across the huge forward screen. Hiraki scanned the row of watching, note-consulting Intels across the front of the room with narrowed, thoughtful eyes. And gave a faint shrug.

"They function." Sandy rolled her head against Bjornssen's broad shoulder and gave him a flat look.

"All Intel functions," she retorted softly. The scene at Park Street had been a mess, and she wasn't at all sure there'd been a need for it. Someone should have exercised a command prerogative. It was a CSA operation, it should have been a CSA call.

Hiraki shrugged again. "We are still alive."

"Thank Vanessa for that."

"True. But nonetheless." The assistance hadn't gotten them killed, he meant. Bad assistance could do that. Hiraki seemed aware of it.

"You smell nice," Bjornssen remarked in her ear.

"GI pheromones." She rolled her head back, rested against the big Scandinavian's Jaw. "Potent and highly addictive."

"Soap."

She smiled. "That too." And she took a moment to enjoy the close male proximity, as up the front the debrief continued, and grunts pretended to pay attention. It was for Intel's benefit, not theirs-they'd been there, they didn't need someone else to tell them what had happened. Vanessa, to her credit, fielded most of the questions, and let her team rest. With Bjornssen's warmth against her back, his breath in her ear and arms loosely about her, Sandy realised something with great abruptness.

"Oh God, I desperately need a fuck." Bjornssen managed to keep his laughter below audible volume. "Oh, what?" Still quietly, but with some indignation. "It's easy for you, I can't find anyone who's not terrified of me or isn't some totally obsessive Intel geek."