Originator

by Joel Shepherd

  “Sandy,” said Captain Reichardt as soon as she’d entered the doors, “you have a moment?”

  “No,” Sandy formulated her response, “but I can make one if it’s important. Come meet me in the bay, I’ve got press rounds.” Nodding and waving hi to several people in the halls and offices as she passed.

  “No, you come meet me. Better keep it away from the press.”

  “I’m not coming to meet you,” Sandy retorted. “That’s a whole five floors out of my way.”

  “I see ‘gratitude’ isn’t part of your programming,” the Fleet Captain said drily. Sandy smiled and headed for the nearest stairwell. He was referring to the number of times he’d saved her neck, at considerable risk to his own. For that, she’d let the gratuitous synth-phobic remark about programming slide.

  She found him in his FSA temporary office, with a one-way view of gardens and rain, surrounded by holoscreens on his big semicircle table. Lew and Bursteimer were also there, also Captains, who’d taken Reichardt’s side in recognising the new FSA-appointed Grand Council government in the interim. Lew was slim, Asian, and commanded a mil-freighter, a massive thing that made even Reichardt’s carrier look small. Bursteimer was squat, broad, and frequently amused, a Runner Captain with a war record even more impressive than Reichardt’s.

  “Hey, it’s the hot girl,” said Bursteimer, popping dried fruit. “How’s it going, hot girl?”

  “So what warrants me climbing a whole five floors?” Sandy asked them, little more than an eyebrow raised at Bursteimer. At times, Bursteimer gave a very convincing impression of a fourteen-year-old boy. Or other people’s fourteen-year-old boys, certainly not hers.

  Reichardt triple-sized the system-graphic on the holodisplay, and Sandy found herself looking at the Callayan System, Callay in orbit about its sun, the various planets, stations, facilities, la grange defence points, and current Fleet positions. Sandy was no expert, but she’d been involved in enough Fleet operations to know what she was looking at, and what all the symbols, lines, and accompanying algebra meant.

  “Looks good,” she said. “That all?”

  “Friendly, isn’t she?” said Bursteimer.

  “You know what all this is worth if the Talee came after us?” Reichardt asked her. “Jack shit.”

  “You think the Talee are coming after us?” Sandy asked.

  “The Talee,” said Reichardt, his Texas drawl even more relaxed than his lanky frame in the chair, “have wiped themselves out twice in around six thousand years. Now Cai don’t need to tell us that. We think it’s friendly advice, we think ‘gosh, ain’t that sweet? He’s concerned for us.’ What if that wasn’t just friendly concern? What if that was a warning?”

  “A warning about what?”

  “Don’t fuck with us, we’ve been known to wipe out entire species.”

  Sandy looked at the holographics. As she understood such things, the defensive grid was solid. The physics of jump made it impossible for ships to enter a system too close to the center of a gravity well, they had to come in farther out, which gave them more time to be intercepted, whatever their residual speed. Moons like Cresta were harder to defend because Cresta orbited a gas giant, itself farther out from the system’s center of mass—its sun. So whatever hit Cresta came in real close and gave very little reaction time. Callay didn’t have that problem. Against human ships.

  “Can Talee push that entry point down the gravity slope?” she asked.

  “Hell, you were on Pantala, you saw what they did there.”

  “I was occupied at the time,” she reminded him. “But I saw the replay. Few folks I spoke to aren’t sure that Talee came in from any farther out than you did, it’s just their stealth is so much better and we can’t see them.”

  “Maybe,” said Reichardt. Sandy got the distinct impression he wasn’t telling her everything.

  “You’ve seen more than Pantala, haven’t you,” Sandy said flatly. Ran her gaze across the three Captains. Lew and Bursteimer looked at each other, then at Reichardt. “Talee ships doing things even crazier than that.”

  Reichardt pointed to the holograph once more. “Jack shit,” he repeated. “That’s all I’ll say.”

  Sandy folded her arms. “Why tell me? Not like I couldn’t guess.”

  “You’ve got advanced uplinks, descended from Talee tech. I figure if anyone can work out how Talee think, it’s you.”

  Sandy frowned. “I’m not an alien, Arron.”

  “Thing is,” Reichardt continued, “as I see it, someone at the heart of this whole goddamn mess should be taking it into account. Talee psychology. If they want us dead, we’re dead. Probably most of humanity. I’m telling you, no human Fleet can defend it, not League, not Federation.”

  “So now you seriously think they’re a threat? What about their behaviour the past century or so has been so threatening?”

  “Sandy,” Reichardt said with a dead-level stare. “They’re alien. We don’t understand them. They seem to like it that way. They’re prone to explosive, rapid self-destruction. They get scared easily, Cai just admitted it. And it’s my job to spend time worrying about this kind of shit.”

  Sandy exhaled hard. Looking at the holographics, thinking. Bursteimer held out his packet of dried fruit. Sandy took one and munched.

  “You want me to look at this?” Sandy asked them. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously would be preferable,” said Reichardt.

  “Then you get me the psych modeling Fleet’s done on Talee,” said Sandy.

  No expression from Reichardt. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, then clearly you’re not taking it seriously,” said Sandy. “I know Fleet’s done psych modeling on what they know of Talee psychology. No chance at all I can do anything with this until you get that to me. If it’s too hard, then obviously this . . .” pointing to the hologram, “. . . isn’t as serious as you say it is. If it were, you’d find a way.”

  “If they’re seriously advanced with their uplinks,” said Lew, “couldn’t you try and run some sims on third-level abstraction theory? I’ve got a functional-psych degree, just that could give us some possibilities to model. . . .”

  “Lew,” Sandy said firmly. “They’ve got two brains.” No disagreement from the Captains. “Unless you know specifically otherwise, but that seems to be the consensus. Fleet have been watching them a hell of a lot longer, I was only introduced last year. I’ll bet anything Fleet Intel’s been watching navigation patterns for decades, figuring what’s physics, what’s tech, and what’s just going on in Talee heads. Assuming they have heads. Get me that, and you’re right, I’m probably better equipped than anyone else to set up those sims, and I might get you some parameters. Unless you want to ask Ragi?”

  “Don’t trust Ragi,” said Reichardt.

  “Fine. You want results, you get me real data.” She went for the door.

  “Commander,” said Bursteimer, “you free for a date?”

  “With you?” Sandy said over her shoulder. “No.”

  “She likes me,” Bursteimer said, smiling as she left, still chewing. “She took my fruit.”

  Vanessa had turned Briefing One into a holoroom when Sandy arrived, one of the fancier room setups in HQ. Projectors turned the space into a 3D graphic, blocked by occasional shadow as Vanessa moved within it, other projectors detecting and boosting to compensate. Holographics was always weak compared to VR clarity, but the little bundle in Vanessa’s arms was unable to join her in cyberspace.

  “Bothering you?” Sandy observed, as Vanessa frowned and zoomed on a building top that enlarged and rotated where the room’s central table had been before Vanessa had pushed it aside.

  “Yeah,” said Vanessa. “Trajectory’s this way, you were here.” The building raced away, a red line tracing sniper fire toward Subianto Stadium, alight with intricate detail as it moved into the middle of the room. “That shot is 1,240-odd meters. At your cruiser’s velocity it was a .61 degree deflection,
plus the stadium makes slight deviation in the crosswind at that angle. What would you guess a high-designation GI would miss by, at that range?”

  “Me, maybe twenty centimeters,” said Sandy, circling the room to get a better view. “Rhian, maybe three meters. League don’t use many above a designation forty these days. . . . I’d think at least a two-meter average. It’s a strange shot to take.” And she was distracted, predictably, by the sleeping baby in Vanessa’s arms.

  “Right, so look at the cluster.” A new projected image appeared above the stadium—Sandy’s cruiser. It enlarged, red dots highlighted where sniper rounds had hit it. They were quite close together, forward of the rear gens, aft and down of the cabin. “That’s very tight for a forty.”

  Sandy folded her arms, considering it. “So either it was a high-designation GI with a bad sight, which isn’t likely with a high-des League operative. . . .”

  “Or whoever it was, missed on purpose,” Vanessa finished.

  “A distraction?” Sandy wondered. “Speaking of distractions . . .” She lifted the baby clear of Vanessa’s arms, careful of the head. Little Sylvan wriggled a little and slept on. People said he had Vanessa’s nose, and Sandy knew she was supposed to nod and agree, but she couldn’t. Babies were such odd little things; it was hard to think of them as the same species at all.

  “Focus,” Vanessa reprimanded. “A distraction from what? It was just before Subject A’s death. We know League were there, the dead GI at the scene is a bit of a giveaway and the autopsy matches, but we don’t know if they killed Subject A or not. Has Cai confirmed that was him that killed the GI?”

  “Cai maintains mysterious noncompliance.” Looking at the baby. “Save for, you know, telling us the Talee could spontaneously combust at any moment.”

  “So it didn’t really distract you at all, did it?” Vanessa was very focused, Sandy noted. She hadn’t really gotten that stir-crazy. Phillippe was taking twins duties even more than her, but it had still been a two-month layoff when the twins emerged from the tank. Now she focused and talked like a woman with something to prove, if only to herself. “Knowing your capabilities, as a high-des GI would, you just changed cruisers and continued. The only thing it did do was activate all our fire-support backups, bring them into the area . . . but still not fast enough to catch this sniper. Fast enough to catch the next one though.”

  Sandy frowned. “Next one?”

  “If there’d been a next one.”

  “You think this sniper was trying to save me?”

  “Save someone. Activate our defences so the next attack is sure to fail. Which would indicate knowledge of another high-des GI, someone who wouldn’t miss.” Sandy thought about it. “Well, it’s my theory for now.”

  “No no, it’s good,” said Sandy. “You’re right, nothing else makes sense.”

  The door opened, a quick flood of light in the darkened room. Ari entered, and it closed again. Sandy showed him Sylvan, sleeping peacefully, and smiled.

  “I know, I know, don’t tell me,” said Ari with a forestalling hand, racking his brain. “I know this one, let’s see . . . it has no discernible intelligence or ability, it’s quite dysfunctional, it’s constantly demanding attention, and it screams and poos itself when it doesn’t get it. So I’m guessing it’s either a baby or a politician.”

  “Or an Intel Agent,” said Vanessa.

  “So either you’re allowed to bring babies to work,” Ari continued, “or we’re now recruiting analysts very early.” He peered at Sylvan from by Sandy’s shoulder.

  “Rank has privileges,” said Vanessa. “I’m only doing analysis, and Phillippe’s got Rupa since she loves the violin. If I can triangulate counter-com strikes while under fire and manoeuvring, I can certainly look at some damn holograms with a baby on my arm.” Sandy detected a little tension. “You here for something?”

  “We’ve confirmed identities on the gunmen Sandy knocked out at the wedding,” said Ari. “Mostly foreigners, some former spec ops, one former Fleet marine. Underground affiliated. Say they were paid to hit Mr Moily. No idea on their employers, they genuinely don’t know.”

  “So you think FedInt,” Sandy concluded.

  Ari shrugged. “It fits. Hell of a desperate move if I’m right, hiring armed goons to do their dirty work . . . but it happens enough among gangs and big corporate disputes handled by other means. I mean, we’ve seen it.”

  “Would have worked too, if Sandy hadn’t been there,” Vanessa said flatly.

  Ari looked displeased but didn’t argue. “Could be any of that, we can’t prove it’s FedInt, which is the point. I’d guess with Cresta dead, they panicked and tried to eliminate everyone linked but couldn’t use their own people to do it, knowing how we’d all be out in force.”

  “Linked to what?” Vanessa asked with dry scepticism.

  “If I knew that, I’d get paid a lot more. Obviously FedInt are linked somehow to Cresta. And Moily’s the key.”

  “Moily knows nothing,” Sandy replied. “It’s his Pyeongwha friends that are the key. Subject A was talking to them, my guess is about NCT.”

  “Great,” said Vanessa. “They can swap notes on the most efficient methods of genocide in the modern age.” Again the tension. Sandy thought she could guess.

  “Of course,” said Sandy, “the most likely explanation is that League killed Subject A, given that he’s, you know, friends with people who just succeeded in killing a League moon with a quarter million people on it.”

  “Without first finding out what he’s doing here?” Ari asked.

  “Maybe they already know?”

  “No no,” Ari shook his head, quite adamant. “We’re not sure what he’s doing here. Was doing here. No way is League’s Intel in Tanusha better than ours.”

  Sandy was unconvinced.

  “Spec ops meeting in ten minutes,” said Ari. “Ibrahim’s office, if you can make it.”

  “Why couldn’t I make it?” Vanessa asked suspiciously.

  “I was talking to the baby,” said Ari. “But you can come too if you want.” Sandy slapped his arm.

  The door opened again, and Rhian entered. “Oh, a baby!” She came over, hands outstretched. “Give me the baby.”

  Sandy smiled. “What if I want him a bit longer?”

  “You must give me the baby,” Rhian insisted. “It’s compulsive. Baby baby baby baby baby.”

  “Rhi,” Ari said seriously, and put a hand on her shoulder. “What have I told you about this? You only came to this room because you knew you’d find a baby here, didn’t you? Your addiction can be cured, Rhi, but first you have to admit that you have a problem and learn to say no. Just walk on past that door, Rhian.”

  “Baby!” Rhian said plaintively.

  Sandy and Vanessa walked a hallway on the third floor, as the top floors where the big meetings would otherwise be held were still out of action with all the construction.

  “You okay?” Sandy asked her.

  “Oh, you know.” Vanessa ran fingers through her short curls, looking a little like she didn’t know what to do with her hands, now that Rhian had commandeered Sylvan for the next half hour. “Hell of a time to be raising twins.”

  “It’ll always be like this,” Sandy reasoned. “There’ll always be a reason for people like us not to have kids, and it’s never a good time. But kids are tough, and no kid was ever raised in a perfect environment. That’s just human.”

  “It’s just . . . hell, you know me. I like to work, I like to focus, and this stuff is so important. And now I’m distracted, and I feel guilty for it. . . .”

  “I know.”

  “And I feel guilty if I’m not distracted enough. . . .”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, it’s only the survival of the entire human race. . . .”

  “I know.”

  Vanessa managed a wry smile. “How completely unsurprising that you also do motherhood better than me.”

  “Oh, my kids are easy,” Sandy said dismissiv
ely. Vanessa raised an eyebrow. “Well, compared to newborn twins. Mine had been looking after themselves in a warzone for the last five years, all they need from me is love and time. I think you’re doing great.”

  “I don’t feel like I’m doing great.”

  “I don’t care what you feel like you’re doing. I think you’re doing great.”

  Vanessa smiled at her affectionately.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Poole walked from the rear of the grounded SWAT flyer to the road in Safdajung District. All around were flashing lights, police vehicles, and barriers to keep back the swarms of locals. Some of the cops had light armour and assault weapons, a new development for Tanusha. Most just kept the crowds back and cast concerned looks over their shoulders at the new SWAT arrivals, as the flyer’s engines wound down from their previously ear-shattering howl.

  Poole led his new contingent of armoured, helmeted agents to the police command vehicle parked a hundred meters down the road. From there to the river bend, hidden behind looming apartment towers, all had been cordoned off. A lot of these crowding civilians were not just annoying spectators; they were locals directed to leave their comfortable apartments an hour ago, now wondering when they could go home again. Poole spied some children amidst the crowd, holding parents’ hands or being carried. Behind the glass front to an apartment lobby, he glimpsed a temporary crèche, bemused cops even now carrying in armloads of stuffed animals and toys for the toddlers playing on the carpet and amidst the expensive leather lounge chairs.

  Near the barrier around the police command vehicle, journalists and cameras clustered. The cop by the vehicle side door indicated they could enter. Within was a command station, police sitting at posts, uplinked and watching displays. In the middle of the vehicle, a cleared space for a central table with holographic projection, around which clustered cops and a single CSA Agent—Commander Arvid Singh, head of CSA SWAT.