Cassandra Kresnov 04: 23 Years on Fire

by Joel Shepherd

  A silence, save for the expectant squabbling of flickwings, the crash of surf, and the continuing chants of evening service.

  “That’s as many soldiers who died in the fucking war,” Sandy murmured.

  “But always the way, in all civilisation,” said Mustafa. “Wars get all the attention, but in truth nothing kills like bad government, or administrative collapse. The cameras capture the exciting battles, but the true carnage is off stage when no one is looking.

  “And from there it just broke down further. The administration was gone, and brutality reigned. With no other way of getting what they needed to live, people either signed their lives to one corporation or another, or tried to take it by force. Corporates themselves took casualties—remember, a lot of the best people had fled, and some of the more humane leaders were killed in the fighting whilst trying to make peace. Humane behaviour was thus discredited, and corporations being competitive environments, there were plenty of slippery-pole-climbers with newly-hardened attitudes determined to show what could be achieved with murderous aggression.

  “And it worked, of course, because what we call civilisation is really only controlled barbarism. You take away the control and the barbarism is all that’s left. Only now, quite a lot more of the infrastructure had been damaged, and some corporates didn’t limit their aggression to the common people, they began using it on each other. And so it all divided again, militant factionalism, companies acting like heavily armed gangs, all fighting over access to the basic sustenance that keeps them alive.”

  “Only now it’s even worse,” said Sandy, “because instead of continuing their downward spiral, they’ve stabilised, and are now going to dump all their bullshit on everyone else instead.”

  “That was the threat that Pyeongwha posed to the Federation,” Mustafa said somberly. “You dealt with that threat admirably, and the greater good was served. Now we must do the same for the Torah Systems, whether our respective governments like it or not.”

  The Federal Court was another of those institutions that Callay had not had to bother with before the relocation. Sandy’s authorisation gave her a pass to land within the grounds, not far from the FSA Compound, itself alongside the Grand Council. A short drive to underground parking, followed by security checks all the way into main chambers—these were Callayan S-2 security, with whom she was mostly on good terms, and a few of them even bantered.

  The halls were modernist, white marble with open walls, indoor gardens and expansive water features beneath giant skylights. And the halls were mostly empty, here in the secure sector, where the general public could not go. In truth, the Federal Court didn’t do very much. The Federation remained a federal system—most member worlds jealously guarded their individual legal processes, and very rarely did a case venture this far up the ladder. War crimes, or at least those committed in Federal wars, were one of those few categories that were exclusively within the Federal Court purview, and Sandy was quite sure they were going to make the most of their rare chance to justify all this expensive architecture.

  She had to pass into the public space to enter the courtroom, however, and the hall before the entrance was predictably crowded with journalists. No cameras, though. The courts had them built in, with selected footage to be released to the media pool if appropriate. Her lawyers were waiting for her, a grey-haired gentleman named Mohammed Iqbal at their head, one of the CSA’s favorites, with four more in his team.

  “Hi, everyone,” said Sandy with dismay. “So many of you.”

  “A serious and defamatory charge,” said Iqbal, with grim disapproval. “It deserves the most serious retort.” He gave her a prim once-over: jacket, jeans . . . and leather boots, her one concession to style. These were worn-in and comfortable, with no heels to speak of. “Formal dress would present the most flattering appearance.”

  “Good,” said Sandy.

  Iqbal frowned. “Are you armed?”

  “CSA agents on operational duty are always armed.”

  “Not while this courtroom is in session, they aren’t.”

  “This is not a formal session, it is a hearing,” Sandy replied.

  “Hearing or not, the Federal Court is Federal property pertaining to Federation law only. The Callayan Security Agency’s jurisdiction ends in this hallway.”

  “Not on security matters,” Sandy said calmly. “Section 72, subsection c of the Callayan Federal Territories Act: ‘all Federal claims to security may be overridden by Callayan security interests in the event of active emergencies.’ The CSA is currently on high alert, which means I’m declaring a state of active emergency.”

  Iqbal’s frown grew deeper, and there was a pause as he checked his uplink, no doubt for a copy of that clause. Then his eyebrows raised. “You’ve done your homework.”

  Sandy shook her head. “No, I helped write that clause.” Several of the junior lawyers smothered smiles. “Let’s just say the CSA foresaw this eventuality.”

  “And what is the emergency this time?” Iqbal asked.

  “This is Callay, Mr Iqbal,” said Sandy. “There’s always an emergency.”

  “Her Honour may take a dim view of such argument,” said Iqbal, gesturing her to walk with him.

  “Yeah, well Her Honour can suck on it.”

  A few of the journalists called questions to her as she walked through. By the doors, finishing a cup of coffee, she saw the lanky frame of Justice Rosa. She waved her lawyers to go in without her.

  “Hey,” she said. “How’s the book coming?”

  Justice looked surprised that she’d stopped to greet him. And perhaps a little pleased. “Which one?” he asked.

  Sandy smiled. “It was a glib question. I didn’t expect to see you here, I’m told nothing substantial happens in hearings you can’t get from the transcript.”

  “Well that was my thought, too, only I hear the CSA is on security alert.” His gaze flicked down to the shoulder holster inside her jacket. “And I see that you’re about to venture armed into a Federal courtroom.”

  “Just last month, someone blew up Ambassador Ballan’s entourage in the Grand Council building,” Sandy reminded him. “One of the things I keep trying to drum into everyone’s thick heads is that real security means that you stop assuming there are places your enemies won’t attack you.”

  “In this city in particular,” said Justice with irony. It was one of those tired phrases the experts always used, recently to the point of cliché. Callay, with all its infotech complexity and shifting security frameworks, was just damn hard to secure.

  Sandy answered with the other groan-inducing cliché. “Price of freedom,” she said.

  Justice smiled. “My publisher wanted some tentative titles for the book. I gave her a few, but I have a favorite. I was wondering what you thought.”

  “Oh yes?” With trepidation.

  “23 Years on Fire,” said Justice.

  Sandy blinked. “But I’m 22,” she offered.

  “When I’ve finished the book, you’ll be 23. Do you like it?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Ask me on my birthday.”

  “When’s your birthday?” asked Justice.

  Sandy smiled. “No idea.”

  She entered the courtroom, leaving Justice to fend off journalists wondering what all that was about. Most of them knew that Justice was researching a book on her. It was a decision on her part she’d lately become more comfortable with, since Ari had volunteered himself a fan of Justice’s work, and called him “one of the few guys in Tanusha who really understands how this whole mess works.” Coming from Mr Mess himself, that was quite a compliment. She had no fears Justice would leak information without her approval—his ego was large and he’d never rob himself of exclusivity. And she’d discovered that journalists wrote and said less bullshit about her when they knew a respected, envied writer was getting the real inside story, and might contradict them in the near future.

  Inside the courtroom, Sandy notified the bailiff that she w
as armed, and showed him both pistols. That drew a lot of looks. Thankfully the bailiff appeared to know Section 72, subsection c, and made no complaint.

  Her Honour, when she entered the court, was another matter.

  “Name the nature of the security emergency,” she insisted, once Sandy explained the clause to her. Sandy was not at all surprised that Her Honour didn’t know the clause; most powerful Tanushans were only aware line-and-verse of those clauses that promoted their own power, not those that diminished them.

  “That’s classified,” said Sandy.

  “Nonsense,” said Her Honour. “This courtroom exists within an independent Federal jurisdiction, Ms Kresnov, and I take that independence very seriously.”

  “It’s Commander Kresnov, if you please, Your Honour.”

  Her Honour frowned. “The CSA should not think that they can just make up some security emergency whenever they please in an attempt to cow this court into submission.” How in the world the mere presence of firearms in her possession could do that, Sandy had no idea. Did they think she’d kill everyone in the room if the court ruled against her? She didn’t need guns to do that.

  “I can assure you Your Honour, this is not a made-up security emergency. I am currently patched into secure CSA channels and receiving updates on an evolving situation even as we speak.”

  “That sounds like just another day at the office for the CSA,” Her Honour snorted. Sandy refrained from smiling. No stupid woman, this. “I repeat my request that you name the nature of the security emergency.”

  “It’s classified,” Sandy repeated.

  “I’m tempted to compel you with contempt of court.”

  “In which case I would be obliged to walk out.”

  “In which case I could have you arrested.”

  “No, Your Honour, I think you’ll find that under the jurisdiction granted by Section 72, subsection c of the Callayan Federal Territories Act, anyone obstructing or attempting to obstruct a Callayan Security Agency operative in the performance of her duty will be in violation of Callayan security law. In which case it shall be me arresting you.”

  Her Honour said nothing. That was common in courtrooms, Sandy had discovered—instantaneous recall via uplink could place any number of relevant legal articles before a judge or lawyer’s internal vision, leading to many reading pauses. The subsection was all product of Sandy’s personal insistence, when the Federal Territories had been carved out of Tanusha’s Montoya District, that there be no seams, no gaps in the security infrastructure. No separate rules, separate personnel, the kind of thing that had led to disasters in the past. Federal Territories would be independent in everything meaningful, but to allow them any exclusions from the overarching security architecture was suicide, and not worth the salving of Her Honour’s pride.

  Her Honour looked at Sandy’s defence team. “Anything to add, Mr Iqbal?” she asked drily.

  Mr Iqbal stood. “Only that in my informed legal opinion, Your Honour, Commander Kresnov is right. We would be off to a most inauspicious start to this hearing should the defendant lead the Chief Justice off in handcuffs.”

  He sat, and gave Sandy a look of new respect. “Argued like a good lawyer,” he commended her.

  “I’m insulted,” said Sandy with a smile.

  Ari landed his cruiser by the police barriers and jogged into the mall. There was a crowd of pedestrians ahead, behind more police tape. The mall was spacious, apparently open air if not for the glass ceiling ten stories overhead, with lots of indoor greenery growing between. The store in question, next to a sushi joint, was a florist, flowers lined in bright rows before the windows. Lots of garlands. There would be a temple nearby—Hinduism was for florists what Christianity was for wrapping paper . . . only Hindus had things to spend money on all the time, not just once a year.

  He skipped under the police tape and flashed his badge at a cop. Through the doorway, police had sweeper wands erected, scanning the crime scene to compile a 3-D image. Cops ran sniffers over surfaces. There was a pool of blood by the counter, and droplets elsewhere, each tagged. Brass casings on the floor, bright amidst fallen flowers. Talking to the police lieutenant was a small Japanese-looking woman. Ari was not surprised.

  “Ayako!” he said, and went to her.

  Ayako Kazuma looked across. “Hi Ari. Thought you’d be here.”

  “How’s the girl?”

  The girl was Yvette White. She was a GI, one of the first to gain asylum in the wave that had followed Sandy. And she was one of the rare non-combat designations, with regular myomer musculature instead of combat myomer, and few physical superpowers to speak of.

  “She’s bad,” said Ayako, “shot ten times, but should survive. Even the non-combatants are tough. How about the law office?”

  She’d guessed Ari had just come from there. “Two dead,” he said. “Another one might be soon, two more wounded. Regular humans, not so tough. We’re locking down everyone in firms that have represented GIs.”

  “You’re sure that’s the connection?”

  “Never sure, just cautious.” He looked about the florist shop. “No surveillance?”

  Ayako shook her head. “And not at the law office, I’d guess?”

  “It was a grenade,” said Ari, chewing a lip. “Thrown from outside.” He looked at the blood on the floor. “Damn, trust them to pick on the one that can’t fight back.”

  “Her workmates here said she was aware there might be some kind of threat. But she didn’t care. They seem pretty upset, her workmates, I mean. A few of them are at the hospital now, since Yvette doesn’t have any family, obviously. They’re looking out for her. Seems she was quite popular.”

  “Yeah.” Ari looked about the walls for bullet holes, but saw none marked. Accurate shooter, then—novices firing ten rounds would miss a few, even at close range. Steady hands. But not a GI, or Yvette would be dead. “Sandy tried to get her security a few times, tried to bring her into the fold so to speak. But Yvette wouldn’t have anything to do with her. She just wanted to be a normal civvie. She was in logistics in League Fleet, but she wouldn’t even take up a civilian equivalent job when she arrived here. Just found herself a job at a florist. Said she liked flowers.”

  “Well,” said Ayako, flipping scan glasses over her eyes to view the latest crime-scene input, “you and your GI friends can be intimidating. Coming here, where everyone assumes GIs are soldiers, I can imagine an office worker might just want nothing to do with that.”

  “I came in here once,” Ari said sadly. “Introduced myself, just wanted to say hi. She knew who I was. Told me to get lost.”

  Ayako smiled. “Finally a GI you couldn’t befriend.”

  “Oh, there are plenty of those out there. Just not here, yet.”

  The police lieutenant came across. “What do you think?” he asked them. “Nutter-wallah, or something more organised?”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” said Ari. “Any ID at all on the shooter?”

  The lieutenant shook his head. “Not yet. A few witnesses said male, 180 centimeters, pale skin, no good look at his face. Doesn’t help much. Scene-scan shows definitely 180 centimeters, definitely right handed, and definitely a 7 mil. We’ll have more in five minutes once it processes some more. So I suppose the CSA will be taking over the case?” He looked glum at the prospect of losing something interesting.

  “No,” said Ayako. “You can lead, we’ll just set up a common file space and pool our data.”

  “Absolutely!” the lieutenant said brightly. “Ashni, get us a common net space up and running with our CSA friends, hey?”

  When good old fashioned crime scenes started accumulating, it made far more sense for the CSA to delegate to the Tanushan police on the ground—they were usually better at the grunt work anyway. The CSA would use the information the cops collected and put it together with the stuff they collected themselves. Sometimes it worked well, but sometimes the cops grew upset that the CSA didn’t share as much back at t
hem, and the relationship broke down . . . but it couldn’t be helped. There were plenty of great investigators in the police, but crime and security were two completely different fields, and the CSA simply wasn’t allowed to share a lot of the classified stuff with anyone outside the security field, which included the police.

  Ayako flipped her glasses up, and walked to the doorway. “Walked right in,” she said, retracing what she’d just seen on the scene-scan. “Stopped here, looked, saw several employees. Sees Yvette here.” She pointed, fingers drawn for a pistol. “Walks, Yvette sees him coming, runs to here . . .” other fingers indicating the spot toward the pool of blood, “. . . and here, with the angle past this display, fires three rounds. Walks to here, firing four more.” She stopped, next to the blood pool. “Three more here, then leaves.”

  “Only a ten round clip?” Ari suggested. “That’s unprofessional.”

  Ayako shook her head. “No, it’s very professional if it’s a thirty round clip. We’ve got the city seeded with ultra-mikes. We’re not allowed full video surveillance, but with all the interactives by the advertising screens and on the transport platforms, there’s microphones everywhere. Ultra-sensitive, we’ve got them programmed to grab specific sounds. One of the most reliable is magazines clicking together in someone’s pocket, or even rubbing against something—a jacket side, a wallet. So professionals tape mags together and pad them with a handkerchief or something so they don’t rub . . .”

  “So it’s harder to grab a new mag,” Ari finished, “meaning the hitter would rather keep half his magazine loaded in case he gets pursued.”