Grounded!

by Claremont, Chris

  “That is nuts.” But even as she spoke, images popped like fireworks behind her eyes, of Russell on the boat, his being somehow personally responsible for saddling her with a death trap of a fighter, his turn as the DecoTrash maître d’.

  “What?” Rachiim prompted. “Something rang a bell.”

  “An image. I was older, different somehow, remembering”—she looked up at the Provost Marshal—“President Russell’s assassination.”

  “He’s already on the way up, so we’ll hold you here until he’s safely inside, then bring you down to the street.”

  “And then?”

  “Psychological evaluation at a secure facility. To determine how deep the conditioning goes and whether or not it can be eradicated.”

  “Better and better. You said you had a source.”

  “Something of a misnomer, he’s actually our prime suspect. You can probably guess who.”

  “Alex?”

  “I find it hard to believe myself, on the surface. But it fits his psych profile, not to mention his vehement opposition to President Russell’s Halyan’t’a policies. Underneath that American Prince facade, I’m sad to say, is one seriously sick puppy; Lieutenant,” he cried suddenly, “what’s wrong?”

  She staggered half a step sideways, waving back a fed who’d lunged forward to help—his three fellows keeping their distance and their hands on their weapons, making continually sure they had a clean shot at her, not taking the slightest of chances—going almost down to one knee before making a clumsy recovery, all the while looking wildly about the small office. She anchored herself by her hands to the edge of a desk, then flattened her back to the wall behind, like someone with vertigo frantically seeking some way of restoring the spinning-top world around them to sanity. Her teeth were chattering and she clenched her jaw tight to still them, shuddering harder inside at the thought of how this must look to the Provost Marshal and the feds, as though she’d gone totally off the edge. And for all she knew, she had.

  A pounding at the door nearly sent her leaping from her skin, the sight of Kymri and her father when an agent cracked it open didn’t help. The Hal didn’t bother with any niceties, he simply pushed and the agent as suddenly found himself flattened between door and wall, Rachiim frantically waving the others’ guns down as Kymri stalked over to her, Conal Shea stepping in hot on his heels, with an expression of barely controlled fury on his face.

  “What is going on here, Colonel?” he demanded, putting himself in Rachiim’s face and daring the other man to do something about it. Not at all daunted by the fact that Rachiim was clearly, sorely tempted.

  “That, sir, is none of your concern.”

  “This, sir, is my daughter. I am her attorney. If you are engaged in any sort of official capacity, you’d better be prepared to execute it to the full letter of the law.”

  “We are well within our rights, Counselor, this is a national security matter. By interfering, you leave yourself liable to arrest.”

  “Shea-Pilot,” Kymri called softly, his own face close to her, Nicole painfully conscious of how awful she must look, alternately flushed and pale, sheened with sweat that cooled clammily as it formed.

  “I cannot”—pause for breath—“focus.” Aware even as she spoke, no need to register the look of surprise from Kynjri, that it was Hal.

  “Incredible,” was his response. “That Rts’lai accent... ”

  A piece clinked into place. “How can I have an accent”—still speaking Hal, but aware now of a lilt that tagged the phrases—“other than my own?”

  “True enough. Ciari-Speaker provided most of your lingua tapes, and his is what we consider Standard, an essentially neutered form of the Speech, common to all while favoring none. And my own words are of a more northern flavor. Matai’s the BarRunner among us, a coastal clan, that’s most like her Speech.”

  “Still doesn’t answer the question. How is it I speak like her?”

  Kymri shook his head, absently scratching the jaw whiskers below his right ear. “No reason I can think of, save the osmosis of long association.”

  “We weren’t together that much. If anything, I should favor you.”

  “As Speaker, she was most attuned to you, which means by rights, she should echo your manner of speaking English. But the reverse... ”

  “Could a link have been established when we were both in Virtual? Perhaps through the system itself. It’s an interactive process, the CyberSpace interface acts on the subject as much as he does upon it. Only Alex’d know for sure, but there might have been some blurring of the lines of demarcation between us, a piece of me going to Matai and vice versa, I dunno. But Rachiim said we both came out of it simultaneously, we moved as one. The system was keyed to me, she was genetically keyed to me, almost like we were twins. My God—Kymri, when I came back to myself that night, I’d just raced across the base to find Alex and kill him. Only Matai was there before me.”

  “Stands to reason, we’re stronger and faster than you.”

  “That’s not the point, don’t make fun! She’s Speaker because—as you just said—she resonates most closely to me, the way I think and feel and act. If that scenario was patterned to condition me to a specific course of action, she’d be just as vulnerable.”

  “Perhaps more so.”

  “The same way Ciari was overwhelmed by his configuration of the Speaker virus?”

  “A, possibility.”

  “Cojonel,” she called, “the President has to be warned.”

  “Of what, Lieutenant?” The Colonel was understandably perplexed, since Nicole and Kymri had been shifting arbitrarily back and forth between English and Hal.

  “Rachiim-Marshal, there is a more pressing threat than any posed by Shea-Pilot. Possibly from one of the Hal present. My runaway cyber tech, Matai.”

  “Christ, that’s all we need. Commander, there are almost two dozen of your people present!”

  “Boss is on the floor, gentlemen,” one of the agents announced, having gotten the word over his Com Link.

  “Kymri,” Nicole demanded, “could there be a link? Between her and me?”

  “If your theory is correct, it is possible. An empathic resonance, such as exists between—what was the word you used?” He growled in Hal, she gave him the translation. “Between identical twins. Not a case of being aware of Matai in any real-time sense, nor she of you. But you think in sympatico patterns, following the same paths. What she would do, so would you. And you, she. Mostly in terms of unconscious, reflexive actions.”

  “The duality of Self I’ve been feeling. Could it be a part of me trying to behave like her, cross-circuiting with the rest of me?”

  A nod.

  “She’s here. I’ll stake my life on it.”

  “A description,” from Rachiim, “for the Secret Service?”

  “The differentiations are too subtle for your kind, what is the saying: we all look alike? And she does not wish to be seen.”

  “Up to us, then,” from Nicole.

  “The hell you say!” vehemently, from the senior fed, blocking the door.

  “If I take a wrong step,” Nicole said to Kymri, ignoring the other man.

  “I pledge my life that you shall not.” And he stiff-armed Rachiim full in the chest, sending him tumbling into the agent between them and the door, pitching both over a desk-side trash can and dropping them in a shower of toppled papers, he and Nicole on their way before either man even hit the floor.

  Nicole didn’t bother thinking, she simply presented the situation to her back-brain and let it run her where it pleased, trusting, praying those instincts would play her true. She weaved fast through the press, working the crowd as she would the open sea, letting the occasional body contact push her further on her way, aware of a growing ripple of agitation along the periphery of crowd and perception as an alarm was flashed to the security bods.

  There was another stir up ahead, reminding her of a wave, so small and inconsequential when noted far out to sea
, building impressively as it crested towards shore and shallow water. Russell, had to be, confirmed by the briefest glimpse of him. One of those men who improved with age, hitting his prime when most other men were long past theirs. Silver hair, now mostly gone from the crown of his head—which served to emphasize the strong shape of his skull—counterpointed by a salt-and-pepper beard he’d grown on a camping trip his first year as President and kept ever since, trimmed to define the line of his jaw while masking the slightly sagging flesh underneath.

  He hadn’t in fact wanted the presidency, had been more than a little surprised when Bill Chen tapped him as running mate. Nobody’d imagined that Chen’s death twenty-five months later would usher Russell into the Oval Office, or that he’d come to like the job enough to run for it in his own right. Or that, winning once, he’d go for a second term.

  Would have been a shoo-in, too, if not for the Contact with the Halyan’t’a, and Russell’s proposed One World Treaty that came out of it.

  As a cadet, Nicole had marched in Chen’s inaugural parade, and then at his funeral. The latter was something she didn’t want to go through again.

  Where is she, Nicole thought, once more bitterly coming up empty after a sweep of the crowd, too many people, too much space, painfully conscious that time was almost gone, expecting any second to feel the hands of the Secret Service on her, dragging her back into custody, afraid as well that she was as primed a trigger as Matai, needing only proximity with the target to go off. No—she shook her head suddenly—not where is she, where would I be? How would I approach the Man! And she forced herself to come to a stop, becoming a rock in this human current, letting the others sweep for a moment around her, taking the time to settle herself, giving her instincts the chance to lock in.

  Blur of motion from the corner of her left eye, cries of fright and panic as Kymri kicked into high gear straight for Russell. In that same moment, Nicole found herself angling off the other direction, to a point ahead of the presidential party. Images strobed across Nicole’s vision, the Hal lunging forward, slapping aside a Secret Service agent as he wrapped both arms around the startled President and tackled him down, simultaneously with a mahogany-furred arm coming up, a viciously ugly shape clutched in its hand, kicking ever so slightly from the recoil as she pulled the trigger, screams erupting now, one of the shells clipping Kymri’s side, impact pitching him and Russell to the floor, the gun tracking towards its primary target.

  By then, Nicole had slammed into Matai, body-checking her off her feet while making a grab for the gun arm. But Matai planted a foot to check her fall and swept that arm around with a strength that beggared description, so that Nicole found herself flying through the air, holding on for dear life, knowing that if she was thrown loose Matai would have a clear shot at her. She was in Matai’s arms, the Hal with a hand to her throat, and Nicole thought that was the end. One sharp slash and Matai’s finger-claws would savage both jugular vein and windpipe.

  But the Hal didn’t fight like a Hal, she hammered a rabbit punch to the small of Nicole’s back and a heel to the back of her knee, pitching her onto her back. And the thought came absurdly to Nicole as she fell that, she’s fighting like I would! And she responded in kind, grabbing the Hal’s legs as she looked around for Russell, heaving herself across Matai’s body as it hit the floor to sprawl across her gun arm and sink her teeth into the heel of her hand.

  Matai cried out, but couldn’t do much more with Nicole on top of her. Most importantly, though, she opened her hand, allowing Nicole to grab the gun and roll sloppily away, desperately fumbling with the weapon—trying to find grip and trigger and get the barrel pointed the right sodding way. The Hal was already coming for her as Nicole brought the gun up, ignoring the threat of the weapon and Nicole’s cry of warning, hands going for Nicole’s throat, fangs bared, as the gun bucked—seemingly of its own accord—the bullet making the Hal woman stagger in midair, before, all direction fled, she thumped down beside her. Nicole lashed out, free hand and feet pushing her across the slick-slippery floor in the same frantic motions that also shoved the fallen body away from her, gun staying leveled at the end of an arm that remained stubbornly, disconcertingly steady, finally allowing herself to come to rest when there was a good two-meter separation between them.

  All the while, Matai didn’t move.

  She registered agents closing in on Matai’s body, Rachiim’s massive hand closing gently on hers, his voice deep and reassuring in her ears—she didn’t register the words, wasn’t even sure he spoke any, it was the tone that mattered and the calm it spread over her like a quilt—giving her leave to release the gun to him. There was a wetness on her cheek and she reached up to wipe it away, dimly registering—without the slightest surprise—that it was blood, covering much of her left side, its harsh, coppery taste in her mouth.

  “Kymri,” she said, as though expecting him to be right there beside her. And when he didn’t answer, called again, louder, a voice that threatened to top the agitated hubbub swirling through the room as the crowd was ushered away.

  “He’s hurt, Lieutenant,” Rachiim replied. “Leave him to the medics.”

  She nodded, that made sense, noting dispassionately that she seemed to be in shock, and she wondered why, since she had no recollection of being hurt.

  “The President,” she asked.

  “Not a scratch.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Thanks to you two.”

  “Matai.” That wasn’t a question, but a call to the other woman, accompanied by a gesture—reaching out to her, body starting to shift so that it could crawl after—forestalled by Rachiim’s hands on her shoulders, holding her in place.

  “You hit her square, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing you can do. She’s dead.”

  * * *

  thirteen

  The wound was nastier than it looked, but Kymri proved tougher, and by morning the hospital was allowing him—albeit reluctantly—the occasional visitor.

  His Intensive Care cubicle was an eclectic mix of Terran medical technology and Hal, the hospital staff at turns unnerved and irresistibly intrigued by their Hal counterparts (who, in all fairness, were no less edgy, no less fascinated). He was bare to the waist, where the folded bedsheet began, telemetry leads scattered all across his torso, the fur around them shaved to allow for positive skin contact, with a far larger patch about the entry and exit wounds, mercifully covered now by bandages. The luster was lacking in his color, his breathing slow but shallow, the general consensus being that he was incredibly lucky. Also—this overheard by Nicole from the Hal staff—that he’d be back on his feet in comparatively short order.

  There was another Hal present in the room, slim and slight of form, distinctively older than Kymri, wearing a Speaker’s robes, with diplomatic sigils worked in precious metals and gems up by the right shoulder.

  Kymri cracked his eyelids as Nicole stepped hesitantly through the doorway, and gusted a small breath, stretching lips over foreteeth in what she interpreted as a smile of greeting.

  “I came to see,” she said softly.

  “I have been more impressive,” was his reply, a basic strength to the words even though they could barely be heard.

  “Hardly. You’re the story of the morning, the Hal who saved the President.”

  “From another,” came his counter, with a subvocal rumble of fury that set the monitors nickering and prompted looks of concern from the nurse’s station outside, “who nearly killed him.”

  “Matai’s being portrayed as an aberrancy, the same as we have among our own kind.”

  “Expedient. Understandable. But she does not deserve such dishonor.”

  “I’m sorry, Kymri.” Nicole wanted to look away, to cast her gaze anywhere else, but she found she had to meet his eyes. “I,” she began again, before letting her voice trail off helplessly.

  “It had to be done.”

  “I didn’t have to kill.”

  “I submit
you did, Shea-Pilot, else you would not have done so.”

  “That’s a neat rationale.”

  “It happens. Here. On Range Guide. The same.”

  “That’s right, the same.”

  “And as there is no need for crucifying yourself for the one, so also for the other. Shea-Pilot, she would have killed you. And then your President.”

  “Intellectually, I understand—!”

  “Phauggh! I was her Commander. We were sworn by oaths only fractionally less binding than those offered to Shavrin herself. Yet she fired at me without hesitation.”

  “It wasn’t her fault, Kymri. It isn’t fair she had to die for this.”

  “A truth.”

  “Those same newslines,” the Speaker interrupted diplomatically, “speak of a suspect.”

  “Alex Cobri,” Nicole said. “Nothing’s quite official yet, everyone’s treading as softly and carefully as possible, the public release is that he’s wanted for ‘questioning.’ But the subtext is that he’s their man. Once he’s caught, I doubt he’ll ever be let free, no matter how good his lawyers are.”

  “You have a question about that?” This from Kymri, a gleam of interest in his eyes.

  “I don’t know. To be honest, I’d have thought him smarter than this.”

  “Remember,” the Speaker noted, “the conditioning strike was aimed at you.”

  “Except that it hit Simone Deschanel first, only she died from it.” Now that the pieces had fallen pretty much all into place, it had become clear that had been the only way Simone could do her duty. She was sworn to protect the President, with her life if necessary, yet she was trapped in a Virtual sequence that was designed to create a presidential assassin. She couldn’t break loose, but she couldn’t allow herself to be so used. So she went for what must have seemed the only viable option. And somehow been killed. And in Virtual, as with aboriginal mysticism, the fate of the spirit became that of the flesh. “At a time when,” Nicole continued, “as far as Alex knew, we might not have even been on base. I mean, if the man was plotting to tum me into an assassin at the same time he was actively romancing me aboard his boat—that, gentlemen, is cold.”