Another feed showed her CSA SWAT now descending on Callayan Parliament. Parliament hadn't shut down aerial defences either, so SWAT had simply bombarded them from range, and for whatever internally chaotic reason, anti-missile defences weren't working. It was creepy, seeing those red brick arches and domes obscured by smoke from massive explosions. In the midst of the confusion there was more shooting, flashes of staccato fire as SWAT stormed various entrances, but she didn't have time for a direct feed and had to trust Arvid could handle it…which she had no doubt.
Suddenly a new feed, tacnet couldn't ping the location, so that meant somewhere heavily shielded, ID coding lost somewhere in the replication. “This is Agent Teo, FedInt, I have an outside line for the moment. Mr Ragi, can you backtrack this connection into the GC main grid?” So Teo was with Ibrahim, Sandy supposed. And FedInt were suddenly being useful…only now that it was clear who was going to win.
“Mr Teo, I can't gain direct access from here, but I can overload their processing, hold on…”
Sandy's visual managed some fast gymnastics, showed her the massive graphical shield of Grand Council's construct, and around it…something ridiculous, golden and clinging like some hyper-dimensional parasitic vine, flickering and replicating around the barrier, destroying interactive functions before they could even propagate, with careless flicks of golden tendrils. But Ragi couldn't fully penetrate. Capabilities still somewhere short of Cai then.
“Cassandra.” Ragi again. “Their internal feeds are now self-replicating; they'll have to devote massive processing to shutting it down. It should slow down everything by a second or two. Including fire control.”
On the other side of the cruiser, Gamma 4 looked at her. Marco, his name was. “Should?”
“Okay, guys, time the approach. Full speed down the middle.” She illustrated what she meant, a fast manoeuvering of icons, tactical formations, and how it ought to play out. If Ragi was right.
“That looks interesting,” Rishi remarked drily. Sandy did a fast double check—she hadn't even noticed Rishi was one of those who'd grabbed a taxi cruiser; everyone was using unfamiliar IDs, and she hadn't had time to check everyone's identities. Or perhaps was subconsciously preferring the luxury of not knowing who was dying when.
“You guys are all volunteers,” Sandy replied, broad-net. “You can opt out if you want.”
“If I ever meet the people who made me,” Rishi replied, “I'll be sure to thank them for volunteering me for everything dangerous and scary.”
Sandy was astonished. Not that Rishi showed no signs of bailing, but at the obvious and intentional sarcasm. A high designation, Rishi. Like Amirah. A few months ago she wouldn't have understood something that sarcastic if spoken to.
“Hey, Rish,” said Sandy, still on broad-net. “Love you guys. Thanks for coming.”
“Those Krishna priests who lived where we were building our houses said none of us are in control of our destinies anyway,” said Rishi. “So what the hell, right?”
“Hey, did they get out?”
“No.” A silence from Rishi. “They refused to leave. Another reason why I'm not bailing.”
“We may yet prove them right,” Sandy murmured.
Ahead lay Montoya. Even now, several defensive missile emplacements were firing, and almost immediately the missiles looped back upon themselves, or took abrupt turns, and blew each other to pieces.
“Damn, that's a nice trick,” said Lorenz, one of Rishi's friends. “Can you do that, Sandy?”
“Sure,” said Sandy. “Give me a week to plan and half an hour to execute.” And one-handed, pumped three magfire rounds into another battery that was holding fire. Her rounds streaked two kilometers, a brief high-velocity arc toward the base of an apartment building, then two small explosions followed by a massive one as the ammunition detonated. She hoped the civvies in the building were well gone from there. The recently free-and-lively net was full of warnings for locals to get away from anything that might be targeted, and showing easy-to-read locations. There were commercial buildings nearby that would have served as cover just as well, all empty, but Operation Shield wanted propaganda corpses for the cause.
The Grand Council was three Ks out, invisible at this low altitude, weaving now between lower buildings, over a stretch of suburban houses, a lake, some sports fields by a school…. “We need to overload them, everyone max v, mix up the altitudes, crisscross vector so we overlap their fire zones.” With real-time illustration, assigning roles. There were only five cruisers, ten hoppers total. And now tacnet was finding more information on defensive emplacements, cross-referencing from her own schematic files, plus all the additional wheeled units Shield had been placing around it. Magfire, not missiles…and even without tacnet drawing all the kill zones onto the map, Sandy could see that without Ragi's armscomp delay, they'd be one hundred percent KIA within ten seconds of entering range. With the delay…well, local armscomp could realise its circumstance and recalculate. They had to take out most of those units on the way in. And if they did…she figured sixty percent casualties.
Meaning the odds suggested that, most deadly combat GI ever built or not, she was more likely than not about to die. She took a deep breath.
“Hit ’em with everything,” she said. “We need as much distraction as…” And suddenly tacnet was showing vehicles airbourne about Montoya, abruptly changing direction and heading toward the GC. Some civvie cruisers, taxis, all on automation—empty, she presumed.
“Got you some help,” said Ragi. “Good luck.”
GC defences opened up on them as soon as the complex became visible, the big O-shaped building emerging behind towers amidst a drifting cloud of glowing, incoming fire. Sandy stayed with the cruiser as long as possible, as the first magfire flashed past at armour-shredding speeds, explosions on proximity charge…then leaped, as Marco jumped from the opposite side, hit the thrusters and smashed at ten Gs as the cruiser was hit repeatedly, smashed instantly to pieces that got progressively smaller as fire shredded the wreckage of the wreckage, leaving nothing more than an expanding cloud of metallic debris.
Tacnet returned missile fire on automatic, their remaining missiles leaping from back racks, hoppers streaking along a deliberate scatter of trajectories as suddenly defensive fire was readjusting to the unburdened cruisers that came rushing at them from the surrounding towers. And then it was all crazy, cruisers exploding, anti-missile defences erupting about the grounds like some crazed, explosive sprinkler system, and Sandy herself pumping magfire as fast as she could into the mess, calculating how many shots it might take to penetrate the heavy armour of defensive emplacements, and reckoning most of the use might be in distraction. She twisted repeatedly as magfire ripped close to her path, Gs levelling out as thrusters reached maximum and rapidly overheating, took shrapnel from proximity blasts, saw one of her friendly icons on tacnet abruptly vanish, then another.
And found herself clearing the top of the building, fire chasing her toward the apex, and she dove, spinning even now to pump fire from her white-hot rifle into emplacements, hitting all but silencing only one…and now the bottom of the big circular building, right in the bull's-eye, a central floor of glass surrounded by walkways and gardens. Sandy hurtled at it like a missile, upending at the last moment as she passed roof level, battery fire ceasing so it wouldn't hit the building, and crashed feet first through the glass at 300 kph.
Luckily the Grand Council's main chamber had a high ceiling. But she was still travelling at 200 kph when she hit the central floor right on top of the Chairman's table. And smashed, blacked out, and came to her senses even as she hit the floor face-first. Struggled, aware that others had hit the ground around her, chairs in the grand circular chamber, the most famous in all the Federation, now burning and smashed from thruster-blasting crash landings.
And now they were under fire, as armoured troops rushed the chamber's perimeter doors. Sandy levered her broken suit into a roll, fire pinging and cracking off her arm
our, then a concussion of grenades, levered herself up on an awkward knee, and discovered her big magfire rifle was still working when it had no right to be, and thank god for Tanushan arms tech. And began unloading her remaining ammo at infantry troops with armour to withstand medium-caliber small arms, but nothing like this two-meter-long tank killer. Two exposed soldiers disappeared in pieces, others diving for cover or sheltering behind door frames, which Sandy summarily blew apart, pivoting in a continuing circle, shell feed clanking and humming, leaning into the recoil like a sailor in a gale. Her comrades joined in, five besides her, several with street-clearing grenade launchers put fragmentation rounds into walls, ripping a thousand holes in representatives’ seats across swathes of chamber.
Incoming fire ceased, and Sandy cracked her broken armour, rolling onto her back to free her legs from the suit's unresponsive limbs. Wriggled out amidst smoking-hot steel and the stench of scorched thrusters, found her personal weapons mangled on her armour rack, and so scrambled up an aisle between chairs, willing her hypertense leg muscles to work properly, found a dead Shield soldier with serviceable weapons. And found the GC network relatively open to transmission.
“This is Kresnov,” she snarled to all defenders. “I'm in the building with friends. Good luck, assholes.”
Ibrahim gazed up from his chair in the war room at the end of a long table with all kinds of high-tech displays and implants. Mostly dysfunctional for now, but he'd been following as much as he could and issuing commands where possible. He had been. Now he gazed dazedly at the blurred figure before him and recalled that he'd left the short rifle on the table before him…but he could not see it clearly, not quite recall how it operated on short notice. He'd known such things as a younger man. But it had been so long ago. And if the figure before him now was hostile, there was little he could do about it.
The figure crouched and put a hand on his shoulder. Blonde hair, messed askew. Blue eyes, calm intensity. Not especially beat up this time. “Director,” said Cassandra. “Are you okay?”
“I think so.” He blinked, eyes resolving blurs into clear shapes. “I don't know what happened. I was here, on the displays, and then…”
“Augment stress,” said Amirah on his left. Ibrahim stared, not having seen her there. She was seated, far more bedraggled than Cassandra. Unaccustomedly, for a GI, she looked exhausted. “It happens when you push an organic body harder than it could normally take. You're not a young man any longer, sir.”
“No.” He rubbed his face. “Evidently not. Cassandra, what…?
“They surrendered,” she said. “Once we got inside. I did write a paper on that a while ago, on the flaws in the GC architecture, let us get directly into the main chamber. They were finished once that happened, they can't match us in the corridors. Had a hard enough time with Amirah by the looks of it.”
“Indeed,” said Ibrahim. And looked at the other GI with admiration. “Extraordinary, Amirah.” Given her first real taste of combat had been only a month ago, had nearly killed her, and caused her considerable trauma. “Quite extraordinary.”
Amirah nodded, face strained. Took a deep breath, elbows on knees, attempting composure. Sandy said nothing.
“Amirah?” Ibrahim pressed.
“I don't like fighting,” she managed, voice strangled. “I don't care how I'm built, or how good I am at it. I don't like it.”
Ibrahim leaned and extended a hand. Amirah took it. “I'm so sorry,” he said quietly. “But I had no choice. You were an asset I desperately needed.”
Amirah nodded. Tried to reply but couldn't. Gasped again for air, and composure, tears streaming.
“Sir,” said Cassandra. “Someone needs to talk to the media. Now. Not some broadcast message, I mean face to face. The people need to know what's happening, the population's roused now, and if they think it's just another coup, they could be storming the walls.”
Ibrahim nodded. “It should be me. Let's give them enough time to assemble…are the grounds secure enough? It should be here.”
“Yes, sir. Sir, I've already taken the liberty of summoning them. You've been unconscious for fifteen minutes at least?” She looked askance at Amirah. Amirah nodded. “I'm not sure you're in any condition.”
“Sir,” Amirah added, “your pulse rate is very elevated.” They could see that, Ibrahim realised. Infra-red vision, watching pulses of heat, blood, and tissue. “With respect, I'm not sure the first thing people see of the new authority is a man who can barely stand.”
“Well, then I can get a shot to keep me on my feet.”
“Absolutely not,” Amirah retorted sternly. “That's against all medical regulations for a man your age with augment stress. Need I remind you what happened to Commander Rice? And she's young and fit.”
Ibrahim repressed a tired smile. Amused at this new condition in his life—female GIs who could kill with the flick of a wrist, now scolding him like his wife and daughter.
“And Commander Rice is well?” he asked. And looking at Cassandra, knew the answer immediately. “Of course she is, good.” Because Cassandra would be considerably more distraught than Amirah if it were otherwise. “Well then. If it must be immediately, and it cannot be me, it must be you.” With as firm a stare as he could muster. “Cassandra.”
A year ago, she might have protested. Six months ago, even. Now, she just gazed at him with that familiar, calm blue stare. “I know,” she said. “There's a few things I want to say.”
She strode the back hall to the media room off the lower main entrance, adjusting the armour suit she'd borrowed for the occasion. A GI was guarding the doorway ahead, watching the newly arrived and arriving media outside, weapon at cautious cross-arms. Kiet now pressed past him, coming to see her. From his face, she sensed bad news.
“They found Rishi,” he said quietly. She'd disappeared off tacnet, one of four from Sandy's final assault to do so. Marco had been found alive, his suit winged, he was hurt but would live. They'd been hoping a similar story for Rishi. Kiet's expression said otherwise.
Sandy hugged him. They clung to each other for a long moment, repressing the occasional tension tremor from the armour.
“There wasn't much left,” Kiet said quietly. “So at least it was fast.”
“She was the first to rebel,” said Sandy. “Others fought back, and some like me escaped, but she led the first true rebellion. I'll see that that's remembered. That they're all remembered.”
Kiet pulled back to look her in the face. “How?”
Sandy managed a faint smile. “Watch,” she said.
She moved past and strode into the media room. And here they were, rows of some of her least favourite people in the world, journalists. Net casters, source collectors, independent traffic aggregators. With modern tech anyone could be a journalist, could gather news themselves, but still most people went through the aggregators for convenience. And the aggregators packaged and spun, this way or that, because a firmly stated opinion gathered more viewers than bland objectivity. They pretended to be independent, but most of them were sheep, the groupthink elite, who interacted mostly with each other and thus viewed the universe from within that cage, peering through their narrow bars.
Sandy walked to the podium behind which one or another Grand Council importance would normally stand, the GC logo behind, and Federation flags. And placed her assault rifle deliberately upon the podium where all could see it. Rows of nervous faces confronted her. Rows of cameras, large 3D spectra-lenses, small portables, active-pulse laser scanners that her combat vision disliked, a distracting flicker on hypersensitive synthetic retinas. They hadn't liked being called in like this, Dahisu had done it, had said there'd been exclamations and disbelief. She was putting their lives in danger, they'd said. She was going to make threats. Surely they should wait another hour or two to confirm all was safe?
Fine, she'd relayed through Dahisu. There will be an announcement in thirty minutes. If you don't want to cover it, don't come. Your competitors will get t
he live feed, it's not my problem. She could see the fear and excitement battling on faces, the instinct for self-preservation against the desire for the story. About two hundred of them, all told, crushed to standing room only at the back.
“You've seen our evidence against Operation Shield,” she told them without preamble. “I'm not going to rehash it. I'm not a spokesperson, I'm a soldier. If you still need one of us to convince you of what Operation Shield really was, with everything we've shown you, then you're probably beyond our ability to convince anyway.”
“Why was this necessary then?” called out some vaguely familiar face, who was probably famous or something, Sandy wasn't sure and didn't care. “It's one thing to accuse Operation Shield of wrongdoing, and maybe you're right. But a full-scale war in Tanusha? There are at least a hundred civilians dead so far, hundreds more injured…”
“You,” said Sandy, pointing a finger at the maybe-famous journalist. “Shut up and wait your turn.”
“You can't just threaten a journalist!” shouted another.
“I can,” said Sandy. “And I'll tell you why. None of you raised your very opinionated voices against Operation Shield. Not one. It took independent media operators like Rami Rahim, and traffic shunters like Splinter Group and Kalita Constructs, to get subversive and ask questions. There will be investigations. Not done by us, we're just soldiers, but by independent judges, probably not even Callayans, since a Callayan could be considered compromised given the emotion of what's just happened. But investigations will happen, into Operation Shield, and into the role of everyone who backed it, or supported it, or was otherwise suspiciously silent with the questions, when it's supposed to be your job to ask them. Now a lot of you are probably just spineless and compliant rather than guilty, but we've evidence against some who were definitely Shield mouthpieces, bought and paid for, possibly even some in this room. So am I threatening you? You better believe it. With justice, independently administered. We're dealing with treason here. That's about the only thing people are still put to death for. Think about it.”
Cassandra Kresnov 5: Operation Shield Page 52