Killswitch: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1)

by Joel Shepherd

  Ramoja's very existence had been a revelation to her, just two years before. A GI with a higher designation than her own. Until that moment, she had not been aware that there were such GIs in existence ... although that assumption seemed fairly naive, in hindsight. He'd been commissioned by the League's Internal Security Organisation, the ISO, based upon her own, somewhat controversial design, and the success it had attained. Well, before she'd proven a failure by defecting, anyway. Now, he was the ISO's pointman on Callay, running out of the very heavily watched and defended League Embassy in downtown Tanusha. An enclave full of very capable League GIs, right in the heart of Tanusha, made no local officials happy. And in that particular piece of anti-GI xenophobia, Sandy was right there with them.

  "Can I ask what business you have with Senator Lautrec?" Ramoja asked now, with a charming smile.

  "You can," said Sandy.

  "More troubles with weapons procurement?"

  "We're having an affair," Sandy said flatly.

  "He's one hundred and three."

  "Doesn't look a day over seventy-five. The wrinkles grow on you."

  "That would be the only thing."

  "And what would the Vice-Ambassador's visit be in aid of?" Sandy returned.

  Ramoja made a vague gesture. "League Ambassadors are very popular these days. They get around."

  "So does herpes."

  "An amazingly resistant little virus." Nothing, and no diversionary tactic, would ever leave Ramoja short of something to say. "Today's strains would kill a pretechnology human rather quickly, I understand, so resistant they've become to everything we throw at them."

  Sandy made a face. "They have the galaxy's most unstoppable delivery mechanism. STDs have always been the hardest bugs to kill. They spread so easily."

  Ramoja's eyes flicked toward the office doors. "On top of centurian senators' desks, one would believe."

  "The Afghan carpet, actually." She shrugged. "It's easier on his back."

  Ramoja smiled broadly. He'd been smiling quite a lot, lately, within the parameters of his usual clipped formality. As far as Sandy was aware, Tanusha was Ramoja's first truly civilian posting. And it seemed to be working its spell on even him. There came voices from inside the Senator's office, and the door handle turned-an aide emerging first, as the conversation wound up within. Sandy gave the major a bright smile.

  "Well, it was entertaining as always," she told him. "Until the next time."

  "Cassandra," Ramoja intervened before she could move through the door. She looked at him, expectantly wary. "I have a request to make."

  "Yes?"

  Ramoja looked slightly pained. Or perhaps bemused, it was often difficult to tell. "As a personal favour to me," he said, "do you think you could please refrain from asking Rhian too many questions regarding Embassy scheduling and activities?"

  And Sandy found that it was her turn to smile. "Okay. I'll only ask her about the Embassy's security posture then."

  "It was a very gracious act from Ambassador Yao and the authorities back on Ryssa to allow Rhian to live with you." Very, very reasonably. As if the very thought of challenging such a reasonable assertion was unthinkable. "I do understand that the two of you have a very special relationship. I understand that her loyalties have become somewhat ... conflicted. We do not begrudge her that. But please, do not make her situation any more difficult than it already is."

  "Rhian's not having a difficult situation," Sandy told him. To her side, several aides had emerged from the Senator's doorway, and were awaiting the Vice-Ambassador. "She's having a ball. I've never seen her so happy and lively. And her social development's been amazing. I'm loving it, I've no intention of making her life difficult."

  Ramoja's eyebrows were raised, and he rubbed at his clean-shaven jaw, thoughtfully. "She is becoming a remarkable young woman, I must admit. And we're all very grateful for everything you've done with her, and very pleased that she's been able to experience such personal growth. But she is under direct instruction to report if you ask her certain questions ..."

  "She's told me so," Sandy said frankly.

  Ramoja nodded. "Then we're understood. It would be a great pity if certain authorities, above my head, began to get nervous, and decided that the present arrangements should cease." Now the ViceAmbassador was emerging. Ramoja flashed her a truly dazzling smile. "It was a pleasure, Commander. Until next time."

  And he swept off, to clear a path for his important charge. Sandy waited at the doorway as the Vice-Ambassador and his aides left, the two CSA agents close behind, no doubt transmitting furiously to others in the hallway outside. No damn way Ramoja was only here as a bodyguard, Sandy reflected darkly. It was an excuse to talk to people. To move in the corridors of power. Ramoja, like herself, was no ordi nary GI. Exactly what that meant, for her old friend Rhian Chu, she'd yet to properly decide.

  And she walked into the office, and closed the door behind her. The grey-haired Senator Lautrec was standing behind his desk, his walls adorned with books and flags, awaiting her with a broad smile.

  "Cassandra! Do come in, do come in. And how are you feeling today?"

  Sandy exhaled a long breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. "Like I've just gone five rounds with a homicidal laser scalpel."

  CHAPTER

  e's getting worse," Vanessa muttered as they strode together beneath the covered walkway from the CSA HQ buildings to the flat rectangular sides of what had once been the SWAT Doghouse, and was now CDF headquarters. Further along loomed the cavernous new hangar bays, opening onto a vast courtyard crowded with military flyers. The space provided was, of course, far too small, but the CDF's new facilities on the periphery of the city were not yet completed, and so they were stuck with hasty renovations and add-on wings, for now.

  "We'd be screwed without him," Sandy replied. General Krishnaswali had just finished chewing them out, with particular attention to Sandy's Parliament appearance. He had not, he'd stated, been at all impressed with such advocatory positions. The role of the CDF, he'd insisted, was to serve, not to champion. He'd been particularly unimpressed with Sandy's reminder that her role as CDF second-incommand was in conjunction with her role as a special secu rity advisor to the President herself. She'd also considered pointing out that in her cybernetic-memory stored English dictionary, "advocatory" was not a word. But she hadn't reckoned it was the right time.

  "He moves in bureaucratic and political circles that would drive either of us nuts," she continued as they strolled. "He gets our funding, he gets the bureaucratic and legal tangles ironed out, and he organises the broad framework like a dream. I couldn't do it."

  A gust of wind scattered leaves across the grassy lawn, tossing the lush trees and garden plants. Thunder boomed and rumbled, echoing off surrounding buildings. A flash of white light lit the gardens, reflecting in windows.

  "Even in SWAT he seemed more interested in organising than soldiering," Vanessa complained. Her nostrils stuffed full of cotton wool, her voice sounded somewhat nasal. "I wonder just how sharp the sharp end is ever going to get with him in charge."

  Sandy shrugged. "The requirements of the job depend on the environment. A large part of our environment here is political and bureaucratic. If we didn't have someone in charge who knew how to do that, I doubt we could function at all."

  Another boom of thunder split the air. The warm wind smelled of approaching rain, above the sweet scent of flower blossoms. The first heavy drops of rain spattered from a thunderous sky onto the transparent shield of ped-cover above the path.

  "But then because the second-in-command is almost entirely in charge of strategic and combat considerations," Vanessa countered, "and her XO handles Personnel, it leaves the two of us with the most operational expertise having to answer to a technocrat who resents the fact that our real authority within the CDF is actually greater than his ... only everyone's too polite to say so."

  Sandy sighed, gazing out across the lawns as the rain really started to come do
wn in a gathering rush. A frog hopped upon the grass, happily greeting the downpour.

  "How the hell did us two idiots end up running an army?" she wondered aloud.

  "We volunteered." Arriving at the door, security systems recognised them and slid apart immediately.

  "Yeah, that'd be right."

  Vanessa took another route through the corridors, headed for her next combat simulation drill in the training wing. Sandy headed straight for the maintenance bays. A brief uplink connection to her office schedules showed that she had the next two hours set aside for further work on the A-9 assault flyers, followed by the usual array of procedural reviews and strategy development sessions. Bureaucracy may have been Krishnaswali's speciality, and personnel management was Vanessa's obvious strength-her own was combat, pure and simple. New weapon systems, new unit organisation and coordination, a whole flock of new recruits, and someone had to put it all together and work out what it all did, in the event that something actually happened that required their services.

  She entered the main maintenance hangar into the deafening racket of powerful engines, klaxons and maintenance equipment in a confined space, and took a moment to glance about and marvel at the progress that had been made over the last two years. All this used to be SWAT, attached to the Callayan Security Agency and vastly undermanned and underequipped to cope with the kinds of security threats currently facing Callay. Nine teams of fifteen "agents," it had then been, with some upgraded civilian flyers and armour suits.

  Now, her gaze moved over rows of sleek, dangerous shapes about the hangar-assault flyers of several models, sinister in dark matte finish, weapon pods underslung with gun muzzles protruding like the stingers of dangerous insects. The CDF's airwing currently comprised four squadrons-troop-carrying slicks with assault-ship fire-support. Five hundred and twenty sharp-end soldiers-some from the old disbanded SWAT teams, the others recruited from police, public security, general volunteers and the occasional returning Fleet veteran. And they were still expanding, another two squadrons in the works and recruitment working overtime to find those rare candidates with sufficient physical and mental dexterity to handle the job-Vanessa's department. Five thousand people all told, when the office workers, technicians, planners and others were counted. A nine-to-one combatto-support ratio was somewhat greater than she would have liked, but civilian-oriented organisations did things differently than the hardedged military precision she was accustomed to. And besides, it wasn't her money to be worried about. So long as the sharp end was sufficiently sharp, it hardly mattered ... and the CDF, she was increasingly proud to observe, were becoming very sharp indeed.

  Captain Reichardt strode along the vast, echoing expanse of dock, eyeing the commotion that filled the upward-curling horizon. The scene was a confused jumble of loading flatbeds and personnel carriers amidst a small sea of people, many armed with placards, some merely with loud voices and bad language. About the berth entrance to the Arnazon, armoured marines formed a protective cordon, weapons at the ready. Full battle dress, Reichardt saw, lips pressed to a thin, hard line as he strode. Duong was losing patience.

  "Captain, what's the plan?" First Lieutenant Nadaja strode at his shoulder, in standard "away dress" for on-duty personnel-light armour hidden beneath combat greens, rank and Mekong patches prominent, as was the heavy pistol upon her right hip. About and behind, five marines under Nadaja's command were similarly dressed and armed. Reichardt could smell their tension as the echoing yells of the crowd grew louder. These were men and women who had seen combat against the League. High-powered weapons and armour, they knew how to handle. Unruly civilian mobs engaged in a peacetime protest was something else entirely.

  "Neutrality," Reichardt said loudly enough for them all to hear. "Remember, the Third Fleet remains neutral." It didn't sound right, even as the words left his lips. The Third being neutral implied that the Fifth was not. And the implications of a split between two integral parts of the Federation Fleet were frightening, to any true servant of the Federation. "We want confidence, not aggression. Aggression will provoke a hostile response. We are neutral mediators, you shall only strike to defend yourselves, no more."

  He could feel the unhappiness radiating from Nadaja as they walked. She'd requested full battle dress, like the Amazon marines. Only it hadn't been the crowds that alarmed her. The situation between Third and Fifth Fleet representatives was becoming intolerable. It wasn't supposed to be like this. In all the military stories Reichardt had devoured as a boy, the various units of armies were invariably united, bonded together in the service of a great and powerful state representing great and powerful ideals. There had been competition between various units, and occasionally rivalry, but never outright hostility.

  The Fleet, however, had grown into a strange beast indeed, during three decades of war against the League. Individual ship captains were often separated from their commanders for months on end. Command decisions were usually made in isolation. Captains interpreted orders, and followed personal hunches and biases. Alone and isolated in hostile space, ship loyalties became fierce, and loyalties to one's own captain above all others even fiercer.

  Now, to make matters worse, the elements of the Fifth Fleet around Callay were ideologically extreme, due to some creative personnel distribution over the past few years. Internal divisions within the Grand Council and Fleet HQ had effectively rendered both institutions useless. At least during the war, captains had had the comfort of knowing that HQ did actually exist, however distantly removed. Now, with all command infrastructure gridlocked into a hopeless, ineffectual mess, where there should have been a single chain of command, there appeared only a yawning, empty void. No one, least of all a middle-seniority Third Fleet captain, had seen anything like it before-independent, strong-willed Fleet captains set free to deal with situations as they saw fit, while answerable to no immediately obvious higher authority. It wasn't supposed to be this way. This was worse than alarming. This was frightening.

  The mob appeared to draw down to eye-level as they approached, no longer suspended on the angle of the station rim's upward slope. Dockworkers mostly-they looked more or less the same on every station Reichardt had ever visited, in worn, often grimy overalls or jumpsuits, and a taste for unruly hairstyles or personal adornments that contrasted sharply with familiar Fleet discipline. Along the station inner wall, less involved crowds had gathered at the fronts of stores, bars and hotels, watching the commotion with a mixture of enthusiasm, concern and worry. Fifty metres away Reichardt discerned a small delegation forming on the near side of the mob. They waited by a low, thick-wheeled dock runner, arms folded, watching the Mekong crew's approach.

  "Captain," said a broad, Arabic-looking man in shoulderless overalls, extending his hand. Reichardt took it as he arrived, his marines standing back, surveying the chanting, placard-waving crowd. The Arabic man's grip was powerful, his arms bulging with muscle. A small silver chain dangled from an earring, and curls hung at the back of his side-shaved scalp. His voice, when he spoke, was a deep Callayan-accented bass. "I'm Bhargouti, head machinist on station."

  "Are you in charge of this demonstration?" Reichardt asked, voice raised above the echoing shouts.

  "No one's really in charge, Captain," replied Bhargouti, with no small measure of defiance. "It's a spontaneous uprising." "And what," were the unspoken words that followed, "are you going to do about it, military man?"

  "Okay then," said Reichardt, allowing his natural Texan drawl to reenter his voice, and displace the military formality. "What seems to be the problem?"

  "The workers of Nehru Station refuse to service any Fleet vessel at dock until our list of demands are met." Behind Bhargouti, a large section of the crowd was now facing Reichardt's way, cheering loudly as that statement was made.

  "We demand an immediate withdrawal of military customs posts and ID checks!" Bhargouti continued, raising his voice for all to hear. Another cheer echoed off the overhead, workers clustering closer for a view
of the new confrontation. Lieutenant Nadaja's troops eyed the closing crowds with hard, wary stares. "We demand an immediate cessation of the intimidating presence and behaviour of Fleet marines and spacers on this station!" Another cheer. "And lastly, we demand that the Fleet immediately comply with the lawful commands of their democratic representatives in the Grand Council, and begin an immediate withdrawal of all Fleet vessels from station!"

  A third cheer, raucously loud. Bhargouti looked around in satisfaction. Reichardt sized up the situation, gazing about with a level stare. When the noise died down somewhat, he spoke.

  "I'm presently the senior captain of the Third Fleet in this system," he told them. "Now personally, I have no problem with your demands. Unfortunately, it ain't all up to me."

  "And just who is it up to, Captain?" asked Bhargouti shrewdly above several shouted interjections yelled from nearby, quickly shushed by others. "Isn't your friend the Admiral taking orders any more? Or does he just make them up as he goes?"

  "It's a fucking coup!" someone yelled. "That's what it is!" A chorus of supporting yells went up, echoing high and wide off the vast, cold metal walls of the station dock. Reichardt held up his hands, half-concedingly ... and was a little surprised when the crowd quietened.

  "I'm not going to get into a political debate here, sir," Reichardt told the burly dockworker. Despite his size, Bhargouti was clearly no muscle-head, his dark eyes gleaming with hard intelligence. "I'm a soldier. I take orders."

  "You'd be the only one!" some wit cut in, to laughter and applause. Reichardt accepted it calmly.

  "The point here, sir," Reichardt continued in much the same manner as he'd often heard his father discuss the price of cattle with neighbours back on the ranch near Amarillo, "is that you guys aren't exactly playing by the rules here either. Your stationmaster assures me this demonstration isn't authorised, and that you've all been instructed to return to work before this here station comes grinding to a halt. You've got ships backed up out there nose to tail waiting to get in, you've got no time for a protest strike now and you know it."