Cassandra Kresnov 04: 23 Years on Fire (8 page)

This one gave her a huge eight-foot drop, from which she launched immediately into a cut back, a top turn, then a high floater off the lip as the whole thing collapsed beneath her. The roar of exploding foam humbled her with its power. She liked that. Perhaps she needed it. Humility, for someone like her, was sometimes infrequently encountered.

She thought back to recent sex, her first time with someone other than Ari in a long time. She didn’t like being in charge all the time. It got tiresome. Ari was her intellectual equal, and in some things superior, but in other things . . . what had Vanessa said? Nice to be back amongst your own kind? What was “her kind” anyway?

Mustafa had tried another wave. This time he lost it right at the top, and fell eight feet off the lip with a crash that would have made Sandy wince if she hadn’t known what he was.

“Most intelligent beings of any kind need to fail several times before they succeed,” Mustafa observed as they paddled back out together.

“Well you’ve certainly got the failing part together,” Sandy observed mercilessly. Advantages against Mustafa were rare and precious things, to be enjoyed to their fullest.

“Actually,” he said as they resumed their seats beyond the break, “I’ve come to ask a favour.”

“Ah,” said Sandy. “Now we get to it.”

“It has come to ISO attention that an individual has come to Tanusha, whom it would be in all of our interests to see apprehended.”

“A GI,” Sandy told the gathered CSA chiefs, the display screen filled with all the information that Mustafa had shared with her. “Goes by Eduardo.”

“Designation?” asked Naidu.

“GI-4337-HK. That’s pretty high; 37s were about the fifth successful variant on the 43 series, known to be a little unstable on three of seven main psych-axes. There were a few non-combatant 4339s made for Intel and service functions.”

“Poole is a 4337,” Chandrasekar observed.

“Yes,” Sandy confirmed.

“Unstable, you say.”

“Poole’s eccentric,” said Sandy. “No signs of instability.”

Chandrasekar shrugged. “Just saying.”

Sandy gave him a longer, displeased look. Chandrasekar was unbothered. They all were these days, all these CSA old hands; she didn’t intimidate any of them. Which was nice, because it showed how intimately she was trusted, and how many friends she had. But sometimes, it came with disadvantages.

“How did he get in?” Lodra asked.

“Stealth approach to farside, then hiked in.”

“Not many ships stealthy enough to get through our grid,” said Alam with a frown.

“Which implies whoever put him in is well equipped,” said Naidu. “One of the Torah Systems.”

The Torah Systems were everyone’s problem these days. Seven years ago, the old League regime had collapsed, replaced with a new government that grudgingly accepted its defeat at the Federation’s hands. Several League systems, only made viable by the centralised economics of the war effort, had been abandoned as the League’s economy shrivelled. Reports from those systems had not made pleasant reading. Whole cities had imploded, civilisation collapsed, rampant violence, along with disease and even starvation.

Federation humanitarians had wanted to intervene and help, but the Torah Systems were still nominally League territory, and a Federation push there could potentially restart the war. The League said it had everything under control, and everyone played along with that pretense in the name of peace. Meanwhile, the Torahns died.

Until recently, when a semblance of new authority had emerged. New Torah, they called themselves. The more astute media commentators thought “New Terror” more appropriate. Media of any kind were not welcome in New Torah, and several intrepid outsiders who had penetrated inside, to attempt to find out what was going on, had never returned.

What was known was that New Torah had military tech, and lots of it. Those systems had been the engine room of the old League war machine, and were now stuck with lots of weapons industries, and no one to sell to. Sandy had always wanted to know if those weapons industries had included the capability to make GIs. Mustafa and other League officials had always insisted otherwise. Sandy remained unconvinced.

“Seems likely,” Sandy agreed. “Ramoja says Eduardo is not here on League authority, yet it seems that unlike some others, neither is he here to defect. Exactly what options that leaves open, Ramoja won’t say, save that it’s better we find and grab him before we find out the nasty way.”

“Any idea why Ramoja’s talking now?”

Sandy shook her head. “You know what it’s like whenever the ISO tell us anything. It’s pointless speculating why they’re telling us until we know more. Usually their intel’s good; they know we can make their life real difficult if they screw us with bad info. Let’s just grab Eduardo and then start speculating.” There were nods around the table, no one disputing. “He’s given us some uplink codes, apparently recent, and a very short psych profile. The summary of which is ‘unstable.’”

Another glance at Chandrasekar. Chandrasekar raised his eyebrows, innocently.

“Well,” said Director Ibrahim from the head of the table, “I think that concludes whatever useful discussion we can have. Let’s take this information and get to work. Cassandra, I’m presuming you’d like to be included in the ongoing investigation, should your other activities not preclude it?”

“Yes,” said Sandy, not at all surprised that Ibrahim anticipated her wishes. “The FSA’s on wind-down for the moment, and SWAT are doing quite well without me.”

“Well, insert yourself into the investigations construct at the earliest, I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you. And Cassandra, good job on Pyeongwha.” His gaze was very intense, and sincere. “An excellent conclusion to a truly serious problem, and well worth the cost.”

Nods and loud approval from around the table. Sandy knew what Ibrahim said was true for herself, without needing to be told. Yet it still surprised her how much better she felt to hear it from his mouth, and to hear the approval of these men and women whose opinions she respected.

“Thank you,” she said, with genuine gratitude. “All of you.”

“Cassandra,” Ibrahim added, “if I could speak with you before you leave.”

She waited until the others had gone, and the door shut behind them. Ibrahim, Sandy was always pleased to see, looked little changed and little older than when she’d first met him. He had one of those faces, angular and big nosed, Afghan and statuesque. He’d have looked old when he was young, but now hardly seemed to age.

“Well,” he said, with a faint smile. It was affection, as much as a man like Ibrahim ever showed in this professional world. Sandy treasured it. “Good to see you back safely. Not that I had any doubt of it.”

“Good to be back safely.” Sandy never commented on her chances. Others thought her more indestructible than she knew she was. Even she needed luck, and she’d been lucky on Anjula, and lucky in every fight she’d been in. One did not toy with luck by pronouncing oneself safe from harm.

“There is a conference next month,” said Ibrahim. “Closed to the public and media, experts only. The topic is GIs in the Federation. I’d like you to be the keynote speaker.”

“Hmm,” said Sandy. She’d never done public speaking, unless one counted the occasional TV interview, Senate questioning or, of course, command addresses to her troops. She thought keynote speaking ought to be easier, since no one would be shooting at her. Hopefully. “Who qualifies as an expert?”

“Oh, very many people who probably do not qualify as such,” said Ibrahim, with a faint smile. “But you’ll get that at every such gathering.”

“Rainbow Coalition?”

“No. No politicians, no activists. Academics and experts in the security field. Field expertise only, no one without it gets in.”

“You can enforce that?” Sandy asked with a raised eyebrow.

“You’ve become very cynical in your time here,” Ibrahim observed with amusement.

“I believe the word is ‘experienced.’ But sure, if you ask, I’ll do it.”

“I don’t hear much enthusiasm. It should be a positive exercise, I believe there is significant progress to be made, simply by education. The recent arrivals on Callay are mostly doing very well; a study of that progress, presented by yourself, ought to help that process of education along.”

Sandy sighed. “I’ve become wary of injecting myself into these debates. It becomes about me, and we lose focus on the issue.”

“Cassandra,” Ibrahim replied, with that impressively mild-yet-firm tone he had when delivering a lecture, “I’m afraid you cannot avoid becoming a spokesperson on this issue, at least among the experts. Not if you wish to remain as heavily involved in the matter as you presently are. And as your immediate superior, in your primary capacity as a CSA operative, I then become accountable for your actions, for they involve the CSA as well by virtue of your employment here.

“Now, I am happy to support you on this, not because of our friendship but because I genuinely believe that your approach is most constructive, and the best course for Callayan security. But my responsibility for your actions directs me to make you available, from time to time, for a more direct interrogation from those who consider themselves to be the CSA’s peers and colleagues, and in some cases, its oversight.”

“You give a good lecture,” Sandy told him.

“I do, don’t I,” said Ibrahim.

Sandy glanced at the tabletop. “You’re right, of course. As always. But it’s not the protocol I have a problem with. It’s that I’m being asked to argue for a position I’m not sure I entirely support.” She looked up, and met his gaze. “I’m arguing for Callay and the Federation to accept further asylum applications, perhaps even encourage more high-des GIs to come, if they wish. But I really don’t know how safe it is. Maybe we’re just lucky so far, that fifty-plus have come and they’re all relatively sane. But then there was Jane . . .”

“Yet Jane was precisely what she was intended to be,” Ibrahim countered. “From a security standpoint, it’s the unstable ones we’re concerned of. If we know what they’re going to do, we can counter it, even if those intentions are bad. It’s the ones that pledge one thing, then change their minds, that do the most damage, and we haven’t had one of those yet.”

“But you trust me so much,” Sandy said, leaning forward on the table. “And you should, because I’m yours, I’m Callay to the bone. But I’m being taken as a representative of my kind. Of GIs. And they’re not all like me. Some of them are assholes. Others are unstable. Some have poor or non-existent moral judgment. I’ve seen it, and sometimes it’s even made me doubt myself and what I am. You got lucky with me, and maybe with these others—the very fact that they wanted to come to the Federation in search of freedom shows they’re a self-selecting group. I don’t think you’ll get that lucky with the rest.”

“So you’d like to argue for greater restrictions,” Ibrahim suggested, with a considered frown.

“I’d like to argue for the very, very careful processing of asylum claims. This isn’t like accepting refugee claims from some poor sods from New Torah who only want a place to raise their kids in peace. GIs can’t have kids, we don’t think in terms of society so easily. Morality and ethics are all very sketchy, and even when strongly held, they’re shallow, easily manipulated.”

She thought of Pyeongwha, of League uplink technology that rewrote human brain function. Was it the right time to raise that fear as well?

“Then that’s what you should argue,” said Ibrahim. “These people will welcome a considered and even-handed argument. If you argued to trust every GI ever made, they’d respect you less.”

“And in doing so I undermine my own advocacy for current policies,” Sandy finished. “Because you don’t win a policy argument by making the other side’s case for them.”

“Politics does have that way of dividing the issue, then polarising each side,” Ibrahim admitted. “All that I can advise you is to always stand for the truth. The truth can be difficult, but if you have faith in the decency of people, and in the rightness of your cause, then it is the only option possible.”

Sandy smiled. It was what Ibrahim did—resolve difficult issues with an appeal to moral certainties. You’re not in control, he reminded her. You can’t play the system. Just do your best, and the rest is up to fate. Or in Ibrahim’s case, to Allah.

“That’s good advice,” she said. “I’ll remember it.”

She rose to get up. “Cassandra,” he said. “One more thing. I may not be Director of the CSA for very much longer.”

“Oh, no. The circulation fanatics aren’t finally winning, are they?”

“Circulation” was what they called the natural cycle of top officials in big organisations, as the head stepped down and was replaced by the next in line. Before Callay’s troubles had begun, it had been the way things were done—the Director of the CSA would serve for three or four years, then stand aside for his deputy. “Circulation” filtered downward, allowing the queue of eager ladder-climbers to move upward, making everyone happy. Until something happened that ensured the CSA was genuinely, seriously needed for something, and everyone realised that the man currently at the head of the queue was significantly better at his job than any of his would-be replacements.

Next-in-line had been Ulu N’Darie, five years ago, but she’d pointedly resigned in order to end that argument, and had taken up a senior post at a think tank instead. She wasn’t Ibrahim’s equal in this job, she’d stated quite plainly, and nor were the next four rungs down, and probably never would be, and the CSA was simply too important an institution to be changing horses now or into the foreseeable future. It hadn’t stopped some of the most eager ladder-climbers, however, from claiming that Ibrahim had been there too long, and it was time for a change.

“No,” Ibrahim said. “No, I do love this job for all its challenges, and would not normally have any intention to leave. Unfortunately, as with most things, these choices in life are never entirely up to any of us.”

Sandy frowned, awaiting an explanation. Ibrahim’s lips pursed. It was emotion. Upset. Ibrahim almost never showed that.

“My wife Radha is ill,” he said finally. “A rare form of cancer.”