Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1)

by Joel Shepherd

  Her preliminary scanning done, she descended the stone staircase and into the temple proper, leaving the pagoda's several other occupants to enjoy the night air alone. Candles and coloured lamps lit the main floor, red light misty with the fumes of burning incense amid the many rows of ceiling pillars that held up the roof. Many people moved between, barefoot and leisurely, and queued before various iconic statues or alcoves, to pray or make offerings, or light more incense. Red and saffron flower petals littered the stone floor, alternately rough and smooth underfoot. A sadhu in robes, with a long beard, swept the floor clear amid the throng, immersed in his endless task.

  She ducked a hanging flower-banner, and avoided a random clump of devotees praying before a two metre, many-armed icon, adorned with many garlands of coloured flowers. Her route took her past an adjoining decoratively styled doorway, through which she viewed a broad room, and perhaps a hundred people seated cross-legged upon an enormous carpet. On a low platform in front sat a yogi, robed and tangle-bearded, leading a meditation. Hands outstretched and palms out, murmuring incantations through his beard, an assistant seated to one side, a small gong before her crossed ankles. Sandy had only a very vague idea of what that was all about. But it looked peaceful, in the still of that broad, stone-walled room, surrounded on all sides by tapestries, flower decorations and icons, with only the light, unearthly chime of the gong to break the silence, and the yogi's unceasing murmurs. A light wind blew incense, sent tapestries drifting sideways, a light scattering of flower petals across the stone floor.

  Sandy held that image with her as she descended the stonewrought staircase, keeping in the downward stream as more people ascended the stairs upon the opposite side. She was still pondering the mass, silent meditation and murmured chants as she retrieved her boots from the simple wooden rack, and inserted a basic credit deposit into the temple's one concession to technology-a visitor's cardscanner, for upkeep donations. Wondering if, one day, she could join such a session herself, just for curiosity. One day, perhaps, when circumstances would allow her to do as she should have done tonight, in all honesty, and leave her gun with a holy man at the door. And with her boots refastened, she departed into the street, through the gathering throng at the entry gate, and the cries of the mystic doomsayer upon his box, largely ignored by the mostly (but not entirely) Indian patrons, who gathered and chattered with friends and family-temples were common enough gathering spots for the socially inclined.

  "The decadence of Tanusha has angered the Gods!" the holy man yelled above the voices and occasional traffic, in clear Tanushan English. A young man, with scarcely a beard nor a blemish upon his face, and dressed only in a pile of old robes. European, Sandy noted with interest. His tone seemed suspiciously Christian-sermonising. Probably a convert, getting his delivery styles confused, raving like a missionary. Most Tanushan Hindus disdained them. "Rama is displeased, yes, hear me, displeased and angry at our politicians and their conniving ways! His emissary shall descend upon us, and that emissary will be the Goddess Kali, and she shall descend upon us all with the very wrath of Heaven, and smite the wickedness of all ungodly folkthe followers of Mohammed, Christ and the Buddha too, yes, no one shall be saved from their descent into base greed and consumerism, and the vile lust for credit, and for wicked twists of mortal shape beyond our natural means! All that is living and ungodly shall be punished, and shall suffer eternal condemnation for all incarnations ever onward!"

  His cries rolled on, over the heads of the unheeding masses, as the only person who was perhaps truly listening, and pondering the content of his words, strolled unhurriedly away up the sidewalk. A pistol in her side-holster and determination upon her mind, on her way to meet the devil.

  The "backdoor" was easy enough to find for someone with intimate knowledge of League network security formulations. The electronic trail led her to a small office building nearby, and the floor of Denzler Securities, which registered as a small, niche-specialty network security business. A few words with the polite lady on reception there, and a brief mention of the name "Cassandra Kresnov," saw her hurried to a big, black street-cruiser with tint-out windows and armoured bodywork, and driven into the Embassy grounds through the main gate. Uplinked and sensitive to adjoining link codes, Sandy had a clear sense of the massive security integration as the car hummed up the driveway-the multiple overlaying network scans, the grounds surveillance, the interlocking fields of fire of many well placed marksmen ... The car continued past the front entrance and onto the less official rear driveway that curled around the side.

  It stopped at the rear, which was even more impressive, with a broad, bannistered verandah overlooking lush, green lawns and a thick covering of trees. Sandy paused for a moment as she climbed from the open door and surveyed the grounds on a multiple-spectrum sweepa high wall surrounded the Embassy to the sides and rear, and thick tree-cover blocked a clear view from higher office windows. Besides which, the entire, picturesque grounds were a cross-grid of trigger sensors. Puzzlingly, several peacocks wandered the maze with impunity ... intelligent sensors, perhaps, with a preference for peacocks. She gazed more closely at a pair of the birds as she was escorted by two guards up the path to the verandah steps, marvelling at the male's gorgeous plumage ... very easy to see why females could not resist. If she hadn't known the birds were real Earth natives (no doubt imported under some special enviro-friendly protections), she would have thought them a fanciful, customised concoction from some bio-lab. League-side, of course, as such things were likewise illegal in the Federation, much to the black market's delight.

  Peacocks. She pondered that puzzle as she was led (or, more correctly, escorted) into an exquisite corridor of polished floorboards and eighteenth century paintings and decorations ... historical nostalgia, as only Federation worlds knew how. British-occupied India, she thought, surveying a framed photograph, in black and white, of an Indian family in European-styled clothing, gathered for a leisurely day in the sun. A curious point in history to be so painstakingly remembered, given the evident Tanushan-Indian pride in their traditional, indigenous heritage.

  A turn through a broad sitting room, with large windows overlooking the rear lawns, and more gorgeous furnishings, and then a dining room beyond with several uniformed staff setting the table with gleaming china and crystal. Then another hallway, and voices beyond, muffled by shut doors, and more staff intent on business ... she was not, Sandy guessed, the only visitor present in the Embassy right now. In fact, judging by the degree of informal transmission traffic flying about on the local circuit, she was clearly intruding on a never-ending circle of talkfests. Thus the many harried staff, and the many closed doors, and the back-way route chosen by her escort.

  Several more backdoors later, she arrived at another, plain wooden door. A guard opened it, briefly surveyed the interior, then turned to face Sandy.

  "If you could wait in here, Ms. Kresnov," he said, in an inflectionless tone, "the Ambassador himself will be with you shortly."

  An IR shift showed fairly cool blue hues across visible portions of the guard's body. And no visible pulse from a jugular, the most obvious giveaway. She herself looked much the same in an IR scan.

  "What designation are you?" she asked the guard curiously.

  "Please await the Ambassador in this room, Ms. Kresnov," the GI replied, stony-faced. "I assure you it is secure and unbugged."

  She sighed. "As fun as upgrade surgery, you must be a reg." Looked him fully in the face, with careful scrutiny. Thinking it had been a long time since she'd had such face-to-face contact with any member of the artificial League soldiery who hadn't been trying to kill her at the time. "Do you know who I am?"

  Patient silence from both guards. She gave up, and entered the room. Doubtless they'd find out soon enough. The door shut firmly behind her, and footsteps departed.

  The room was difficult to put a name to. A study, perhaps? There were bookshelves, and a desk before the drawn curtains of the window ... she reckoned it mus
t look out over the front lawns, and the street beyond the wrought-iron fence. Best leave the curtains closed. A portrait on the wall, a white-bearded man in a plumed orange turban, his moustache intriguingly pointed as if in satirical protest at the stern glare on his face.

  She strolled to the bookcase, stretching and flexing her shoulders within her jacket. Old titles. Old-style binding. Such books, she knew, were popular in Tanusha as much for their decorative value upon the bookshelf as their contents. The same information on disk could be had for a fraction of the cost. The kind of impracticality that so many in the League found exasperating, but which remained so firmly entrenched here in the Federation. And she wondered again at this choice of premises for the League Embassy. Technically League property, but all Tanushan land was planned and accounted for in advance ... no doubt it was a lease, the terms of which stated occupancy and care of all pre-existing assets.

  Tanushan humour, she guessed, with growing amusement. Federation humour, at the anti-nostalgia, anti-history League. And more, an Indian embrace of an aspect of their history many Indians preferred to forget, the ignobility of a time when others had ruled their destiny. But they remembered regardless, and recalled it in the greatest detail, in the belief that in the act of recalling where they'd been, they would more accurately come to understand where they were, and who they were. The League condemned such notions as restrictive and tiresome. And this ... this building, and this choice of site for the Embassy, was the administration of Callay and Tanusha laughing at them.

  Several browsed books and standing stretches later, the door opened, and Ambassador Gordon Yao entered. Or Yao Gordon, she reflected, if one were in keeping with Chinese formalities. Closed the door behind him, and turned to face her. He wore a slick, wide-at-themiddle black tuxedo, a lot of gleaming hair spray, and a broad, welcoming smile.

  "Cassandra." Beaming at her in a manner that was almost fatherly. And sighed, happily. "Cassandra. It is so good to finally meet you, I can't tell you how excited I was when they told me you had finally shown up. I would have extended you an invitation for dinner long ago, but there was never a quiet moment for either of us since your arrival, and ... well, it did not seem entirely appropriate."

  Sandy carefully replaced the book she had been browsing on its shelf, folded her arms and looked him over. A somewhat portly Chinese gentleman, with broad, friendly features ... a quick flash-retrieve to a memory file, several matching ID images, age, height, previous assignments, the full CSA file, one of numerous she'd taken on since they'd taken her on board. Yao seemed harmless enough, a career diplomat, no military service or shady dealings, just a civil servant bureaucrat fluent in nineteen languages and with a taste for travel. Nineteen ... she blinked in astonishment. Tape-teach made it easier, but it still required some talent.

  "Hello, Ambassador," she said quietly. "Lovely place you have here."

  "Oh it is, it is," Yao agreed, with surprising enthusiasm, strolling several paces into the room. "You know, it was originally intended as the Indian Trade Representative's building, but then some Indian media found out the design and protested that it didn't send the right message." With great amusement, his broad face jovial. "As if Delhi should worry that Tanushans were in danger of forgetting their true heritage, such typical Earth-bound ignorance of the outer worlds. And so some Tanushan planning bureaucrat, no doubt in a fit of hysteria, decided that this should become the League Embassy. You do get the joke, of course?"

  "I do." Sandy discovered, to her own partial surprise, that she was disappointed. She hadn't wanted Yao to be likable. Nor even interesting. Unfortunately, he had so far appeared both.

  "I have been told that about you," Yao said, nodding curiously. Watching her with great intrigue. And, apparently, absolutely no fear at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. "You always took an interest in old heritage. Books and music. Your supervisors were most surprised, I gather."

  "You are aware, of course, that I did not come here to reminisce."

  Yao smiled broadly. "Of course, I understand. You are working for the CSA now. And how have the CSA been treating you? Are you finding civilian life agreeable?"

  "Most agreeable."

  "And you did receive my message, I trust?"

  "I did. I called on Governor Dali personally."

  "Did you? And was he ... forthcoming?"

  "No."

  "I am keeping a most senior delegation of bankers and finance officials waiting," Yao continued, covering her laconic silences with nimble skill. He indicated back toward the door. "I told them I had an important call ... would you please mind waiting another fifteen minutes? We were just concluding."

  "Of course." And because Ibrahim's curiosity meant that she really ought to ask ... "What do banks and finance companies want with the League?"

  "Money," said Yao, with a grateful wink as he departed once more. "I'll be back shortly ... Cassandra, it's just wonderful to meet you, I'll send someone for you very soon."

  The door shut. Sandy gazed at it for a moment. Wondering, now, at the wisdom of coming here at all. Memories crowded, old, jittery reflexes, well remembered claustrophobia and fears. Worries over her supervision. Frustration at the caution of those she had contact with. The paranoia of her direct superiors. The unscheduled "check-ups" for psyche evaluation, which had long since ceased to yield meaningful results, so easily had she learned to manipulate the questions. It felt surreal to be back here again, among these people.

  And she remembered, unbidden, Vanessa recounting with great humour one of her worst recurring nightmares-that she found herself still a teenager, and back in school, unprepared with major exams looming. The horror, Vanessa had opined with typically enthusiastic wit, had come not so much from school, but from the realisation that her entire life since, and all her new-found maturity and self-assurance, was all a lie, a transparent film that lay fragile and flimsy across the mass of childhood insecurities that was her true self.

  Sandy had never known childhood. Had never been to school, nor shared those experiences. But that was what this felt like, only ten times worse. Back again, where she'd never, ever wanted to be, ever again. And Yao was friendly, and treated her as if she were one of his own. Damned if she was. It made her mad just to think of it. And being what she was, Sandy disliked being mad. Mad had never been a good idea. Unlike most people, she could not afford to lose her temper.

  She felt tense, all over. Anita had good fingers, but already the tightness was returning, a slow, inexorable creeping that bled through her muscles and joints. The one and perhaps only thing she would willingly trade with a straight-a body that didn't cramp itself into knots every twenty hours without rigorous persuasion to do otherwise. Getting shot surely hadn't helped.

  Well, there was enough space on the floor, and so she lay down on her back, put her arms above her head and stretched. She could only reach a little before her stomach pulled tight with a painful jab, sympathetic pains chasing and tingling their way through hips, back and hamstrings ... she winced, relaxing that. Her tightening shoulders informed her they needed more work. Which her stomach would prevent. Damn. She tried wriggling sideways. Grabbed one wrist overhead and pulled over. It caught an as-yet undiscovered spot at the rear of her shoulder joint, which unwound with a nearly audible pop! A whole knot of muscle tightness went with it. She relaxed again, still wriggling, trying to find the next lot of vulnerable tight spots. Little good it'd do her. Impact concussion had thrown everything out of whack, she was tightening fast. Invulnerable killing machine, my arse...

  The door handle turned and she froze in mid-reach for her weapon a slow entry was no way to assault a GI in a closed room, all her instincts remained green. Voices from somewhere down the corridor outside ... probably a visiting delegation member exploring, or lost on the way to the toilet. A little girl stuck her head around the corner, peering cautiously. Paused in amazement, seeing Sandy sprawled upon the floor, flat on her back. Sandy waved with her free hand.

  "Hi.
" The girl took it for an invitation, ducked quickly inside the room and shut the door. Turned back to Sandy.

  "What are you doing on the floor?" Chinese, with more than a passing resemblance to Mr. Yao, she reckoned. Short hair attractively arranged about a decorative blue hairband. She wore a matching blue dress of a denim-like fabric, neat and tidy. Polished brown leather shoes. She looked, Sandy thought, like a child who had been dressed for an occasion by her parents. A late occasion, at nearly 11:00 p.m.

  "I'm stretching. I'm very stiff, I've had a busy day." Propped herself up on her elbows, watching the girl curiously. The number of genuine conversations she'd had with children could be counted on one hand. Or maybe two. Several of those had been under circumstances she'd rather forget. To be approached, out of the blue, was very rare.

  "Why do it in here?" the girl asked, somewhat dubiously. "You know there's a gym in the outer wing?" She looked about twelve, Sandy guessed. Young enough for innocence, old enough for basic maturity. She'd gathered. Although different children matured at different rates. Tape-teach and alternative learning methods could lead to discrepancies. And parents counted for a lot. Her curiosity deepened.

  "I'm a guest, I don't know my way around. I got told to wait in here." Pulled herself properly upright and crossed her legs. "Are you Ambassador Yao's daughter?" A nod. Which explained the late hoursurely an Ambassador's twelve-year-old would be used to it by now. "Do you live here? At the Embassy?"