Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel

by Joel Shepherd

  She undid her visor as she walked closer, then unhooked the connections and did the whole helmet, pulled loose and dangling in one hand. Stopped before her. Eyeing her with a reluctant half-twist to her lips, as if in apology. And raised an eyebrow, questioningly. Amazing, Sandy couldn't help thinking, in that dazed, helpless instant, to have someone who knew exactly how she felt. She'd never had that before. Vanessa just knew.

  "Too easy," she murmured tiredly. Took a deep breath, and ran a gloved hand through her tousled hair. In the corridors beyond, back toward the main entrance, she could hear people running, the first of the outside commotion headed inward. "Just ... too easy." Her voice nearly broke, although whether from tiredness or something else, she couldn't tell.

  "I know," Vanessa said. "But no one else could have done it."

  She knew that. Three targets at different ranges-tracked only through the weapons armscomp-and zero visibility ... a standard human nervous system, even severely augmented, did not possess the degree of interface required to have acquired absolute target certainty in the split-second available, with a hostage in the middle. They'd been such simple targets. She couldn't possibly have missed. But a straight human would have seen only confused shadows, and would have been unable to translate what armscomp was telling them into reliable targeting information ... she just saw. She was designed for it. It was no effort at all.

  "How's the kid?" she asked, abruptly realising. "I didn't have time to look ..."

  "Bruised," said Hiraki. "Sharma thinks they might have drugged him, he should be okay." Put a firm, armoured hand on the back of Sandy's neck, and gave her an affirmative shake. "Good job, Sandy. Good job. You saved a life today." And strode off with thudding, armoured steps to see to the clean up.

  "For once, he means," Sandy muttered.

  "He meant what he said," Vanessa said firmly. Behind her, armed police were running in, taking up positions. Investigators followed, and paramedics rushing stretchers, just in case. If they'd known it was her doing the shooting, they might not have bothered.

  "Should have shot to wound," Sandy muttered, watching the circus come swarming in, lugging forensics and sim-scans. "Didn't need to kill them."

  Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Sandy, cut out the bullshit ... if you'd shot to wound, I'd have to kick you out of the force."

  And she was right. Sandy knew that, everyone knew that. It was illegal to shoot to wound in a hostage situation. The lives of hostages were paramount, any actions lessening the hostages' chances of survival were impermissible, including leaving the hostage-takers alive. The other letters Vanessa had emblazoned across an armoured shoulder spelt out the word KISS-Keep It Simple, Stupid. Unnecessary complications increased the chances of failure. That meant killing. But Sandy was feeling sorry for herself.

  Dropped her head with a sigh, slumped back against the side wall as the first suits and paras came rushing past, loaded with equipment. Still exasperated, Vanessa took her head with both hands, and planted a firm kiss on her forehead.

  "Quit moping, if you hadn't done it I'd have had to." Dropped her hands onto both armoured shoulders, staring her hard in the face. "I already got two myself upstairs. D'you see me crying about it? No. And d'you know why?"

  "You're an obsessive, hyperactive morality freak," Sandy murmured, but her heart wasn't in it. Vanessa ignored her.

  "Because I'm not such a naive little girl that I've managed to convince myself that these things won't be necessary any longer. I know you got out of the League expecting that everything would be better elsewhere ... I've got news for you, Sandy, it's not. There's bad shit that happens in all corners of the universe, and if you happen to have skills particularly suited to dealing with bad shit, and are employed to use those skills, you can expect to continue seeing your share."

  "I'm not a naive little girl." Quietly, as a group trundled a pair of stretchers between them and the atrium railing. "I'm a highly decorated special ops combat veteran."

  "You're an ignorant, idealistic, wide-eyed army-bumpkin, Sandy." With ferocious affection, dark eyes intense and narrow. "It's what makes you so irresistibly gorgeous. Now, as your effective CO, I'm ordering you to get your cute little blonde head together and snap to some kind of orderly, soldierly attitude of common sense and efficiency or I'll kick your butt so hard you'll hit the ceiling. You hearing me?"

  Sandy raised her gaze to meet her eyes directly. It hurt, being knocked down several pegs by the best friend she'd ever had. But Vanessa, she knew from experience, was usually right about these things. It wasn't a skill she'd seen very much of, in the League military. Personal skills. But Vanessa had them in as ample a quantity as she had martial skills, and SWAT Four was all the more effective for it. So why had Vanessa's marriage ended up in such a mess?

  Civilians. God ... she stretched hard, and ran both hands through her hair. Her stomach hurt, as did a dozen other places, jolted for the worse by her rapid descent and landing. It was all too confusing. But that, she supposed reluctantly, was Vanessa's point. Sandy the bumpkin. Always confused, always staring about at the civilian world with wide-eyed fascination or bewilderment. Of course Vanessa was right. She felt lost.

  "Help," she said in a small voice. Vanessa reached a hand, brushed it through Sandy's hair and rested it there, just gazing, with a wry, affectionate, exasperated smile ...

  "Lieutenant Rice." A recently familiar voice, coming closer. They glanced and saw Commander Azim striding toward them, eyeing the smoke-strewn corridor behind with sharp consideration. Glanced at Sandy, then at Vanessa, stopping before them, his lieutenant in tow. Vanessa reluctantly dropped her hand from Sandy's hair.

  "Commander. Can you handle it from here? We're getting out, we've got a flyer down on the roof in five minutes."

  "I'll want an ... um ..." Another glance at the paramedics moving amid the dissipating smoke. "... the full report for admin, if you'll arrange the protocol ... how long d'you think that will take?"

  "Fucked if I know," Vanessa told him flatly. He repressed a grimace, evidently reckoning the obvious truth in that, amidst this chaos. Glanced again at Sandy.

  "Your idea, Agent Cassidy?" With another glance at the apparent carnage within the corridor.

  "My orders," Vanessa replied. The Commander nodded, regarding them warily. And, realising he wasn't going to get any further response, nodded his respect and edged past, headed to inspect the damage. The broad lieutenant paused, as did the two men with him.

  "Bloody good job," he told Sandy, and passed with a whack at her shoulder armour. The other two voiced similar praise.

  "I'm becoming an underground success in this city," Sandy muttered as they departed in the other direction. "Funny, considering this is exactly the kind of thing that terrifies so many people about me."

  "Bah." Vanessa made a disgusted face, ushering Sandy along with a hand to her armoured back. "They're all hypocrites, they don't mind you being dangerous, Sandy, just so long as you kill the right people."

  They were halfway through armour lockdown back at the Doghouse when her right hip totally seized, taking the thigh and most of her lower back with it. Half-armoured only from the waist down, Sandy hit the ground between stowage lockers with a hard thud and rolled for space, contorted with pain and desperately fighting the cramp that wrenched up her back and snapped her leg out as straight as a metal beam amid alarmed shouts from those around.

  "Back!" she shouted, half seated and straining past gritted teeth to grab her elusive toes as her calf began to go, pulling the heel back and pointing her foot away from her. Vanessa burst around a couple of startled SWAT troops and gave a startled yelp, moved to dash forward ...

  "Get the fuck back!" Sandy yelled at her, and Vanessa stumbled to an uncertain halt before her. "I'll put a fucking hole in you, keep back!" Someone grabbed Vanessa's shoulders and roughly jerked her back several metres.

  The tension gripped Sandy's right shoulder blade with ferocious power, pulling hard along her spine. She thumped
back against the floor, grabbing her right wrist and pulling the arm up hard above her, trying to counter the pressure.

  "Sandy!" Vanessa's voice, with incredulous alarm. "What's wrong, Sandy?"

  "Looks like cramp," Devakul observed more calmly.

  "Bloody hell," someone exclaimed, incredulously.

  "Yeah, no shit," Sandy snarled past the tension, stretched tight and rigid on the floor between armour lockers. "Bloody stupid, I should have known this would happen." It hurt ... God, she'd forgotten how much it hurt. It had only happened a few times before to her memory, all after injuries, all when her schedule had prevented her from using as much caution as she'd ought to.

  "What can we do?"

  "Wait."

  Eventually the tightness began to fade, first from the hip and lower back, then from the extremities. Her right knee began to bend, and she pulled it up. It came reluctantly, like a stuck door hinge. Grabbed her shin with both hands and pulled, drawing the knee up against her chest, armoured thigh-guard heavy against her bare singlet, bare arms straining to keep the knee from springing back out again. The resistance slowly faded, as did the worst of the pain.

  "Okay now?" Vanessa asked. Sandy looked up at her. A crowd had gathered, half of SWAT Four, some half-armoured, others like Vanessa sweaty and crumpled in their undershirts and tangled bio-sensors.

  "Yeah." Released her leg and got her elbows under her as Vanessa came scampering around to her side. "Jesus, if you see that happen again, don't come rushing in. I could get a convulsion or a sudden unlock, it'd take your head off."

  "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."

  lie 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 f
light 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.