Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (13 page)

"Thank you, Ms. President, I will." And retreated from the room, appearing both pleased and amused despite the stony-faced formality. Sandy couldn't help but feel approval. Neiland, she'd gathered, had never paid her personal security much attention before. Until they'd all been brutally killed, sacrificing their lives against futile odds to protect her. Now she knew all the new Alphas by name, had their important family occasions bookmarked for Presidential well-wishings, and bantered with them in spare moments like a proud aunt to her respectful nephews and nieces. Sandy wasn't sure what the previous bunch of Alphas had actually thought of their President. But it was clear that this bunch would die for her even more cheerfully than the last. Though hopefully it wouldn't come to that again.

"Come on, have a seat," said the President, putting a hand on Sandy's back and ushering her to the comfortable chairs in the centre of the room. As if on cue, another side door opened and a staff member entered, holding a tray with steaming tea and biscuits. "Were they a bit rough?"

"No, just confiscated my weapons ... I know the procedure, it's not me they're worried about, it's any loose weaponry being scooped up by traitorous staff members or visitors. They have to account for every firearm. They do a good job."

"They do, don't they? Been surfing lately?"

"Yes, just today." Sat on the big sofa by the coffee table, Neiland in the single chair to her left. "I had my first half-day off in a week, hired a flyer and went out to Rajadesh for the morning."

"Oh, it's nice out there, isn't it?" Took an offered cup of tea from the staffwoman with a nod. "I used to go beedie foraging on the headlands just a few Ks up from there with my father and brothers when I was a girl ... you know beedies?" Sandy shook her head, taking her own tea. "Black shellfish as big as your hand, you crack them open with a big knife. The meat's just bite-sized, fry it over an open fire camping by the beach, just heavenly. Tastes all smokey and sweet and juicy. Can't get them confused with banyas, though, those things will kill you. Well, me, anyway, probably not you."

The staffwoman left the tray on the table and departed. Sandy sipped the tea-Chinese green tea, fragrant and hot. She'd liked it last time she was here, she recalled. Neiland must have remembered, and had staff prepare a pot. She wasn't sure if such forethought ought to make her suspicious or not.

"The surf was good?" Neiland pressed.

"Very good. Nice waves at Rajadesh. Good breaks, plenty of tubes, you can ride for nearly thirty seconds on the best ones."

"How long did it take you to master it?"

Sandy repressed a smile, sipping at her tea. A subtle, mild, mellow taste. Amazing. The military food of most of her life's experience was not known for subtlety.

"I don't know if you could say I've mastered it. The best riders are expressive as much as technical."

"But you've mastered it technically?"

"Sure. Took about five decent waves. I was doing most of the moves within a few hours."

Neiland grinned. "You know, anyone else, I would think they were boasting. But not only do I know what you're capable of, I know you're not the boastful type, anyway."

Sandy shrugged offhandedly, and sipped her tea again. She enjoyed Neiland's compliments as much as she enjoyed anyone's, especially as she was very prepared to believe that Neiland genuinely liked her, on a level that went well beyond simple gratitude. She didn't think it wise to be flattered by them, however. Neiland was too good at compliments when it suited her. It was a big part of her job.

"Surfing never occurred to me as a sport," Neiland continued. "I played basketball. Couldn't shoot to save my life, I just liked the energy."

"There's a basketball court at the Doghouse. I tried it once. Hit my first ten shots from six out to twelve metres. Kind of lost its appeal after that."

"That's really sad." With contemplative concern, chin in hand, elbow resting on the chair arm. "It never occurred to me before I met you that being technically perfect would make everything boring. Is there any sport you find challenging?"

Sandy shook her head glumly. "Not really. Only mind games. Chess, sometimes."

"I'd imagine, given your tactical prowess, you wouldn't lose many times at chess either, would you?"

"No. I only play the computer, no one else lasts more than twenty moves. The computer tells me I'm a level below Grand Master, and I've never really played it that much." She shrugged. "It's not much to be proud of, I'm psychologically structured for spatial awareness and numerical sequencing. In chess I just count, memorise and project. Sub-level memory and processing implants carry most of the workload, I just give the directions."

"It still technically qualifies you as a genius."

"By whose standard? I can't write a concerto, paint a masterpiece or turn out a novel. I'm still struggling with chicken fettuccini. I certainly don't have much aptitude for poetry, my language skills aren't much above average, and while I'm good with raw numbers, I'm sure as hell no mathematician. I'm just good at three-dimensional spaces and rapid-track calculation, but much of that is reflex rather than thought."

"You have a specific set of skills, Sandy. When you learn to apply them to other things, you'll discover they work equally well on things other than military strategy and network engineering, I'm very sure. It's only your lack of experience in anything non-military that makes you think you're not good at it."

"Maybe." She sipped her tea. "Or maybe it'll turn out I'm just a mass of trigger-sensitive programmed reflexes guided by an over-large ego with an identity crisis and delusions of grandeur."

Neiland smiled. "So what's the attraction to surfing? Since you obviously don't find it difficult?"

"It's not a competition. It's just me, and the wave. And ..." She pursed her lips, thinking of how to explain it, what words would be adequate. Sipped her tea, for the inspiration of flavour. "It's like admiring a nice sunset. Or a great view from a mountain top. It's something beautiful, the force in that wave, the sound it makes and the shape as it curls and breaks, and to ride along with it somehow makes me feel a part of that force. I couldn't give a damn how many cutbacks or floaters I pull off, though that's fun. It's a way to appreciate each wave, and get a feel for its different aspects. Technical difficulty's not the point-and it's not much more of a challenge than basketball, really. It's just a beautiful sensation."

Neiland just looked at her for a long moment, smiling at her contemplation, teacup dangled thoughtfully from long, elegant fingers.

"Must give you a good rush of blood," she stated. Meaningfully. "Get your heartrate up. Might take a while for those feelings to fade away after you get out of the water."

Sandy took a deep breath. "I don't think that's got anything to do with how I handled the SIB tail."

"No." Decidedly. "You eliminate all direct threats all the time, regardless of circumstance. It's what you do."

Another deep breath. One learned to be wary of casual chat with politicians and senior officials. One learned that disarming chitchat about weekend pastimes was often little more than the slow circling of a razorshark about a slow and unwary surfer. In deep water and a long way from shore.

"Ms. President, I have been instructed many times by advisors in your own staff, and senior CSA people, not to let the SIB boss me around. I am advised to conduct my affairs as I deem prudent. Security arrangements are largely my job now in the CSA, I couldn't just allow such a blatant violation of my security perimeter. It's a precedent that allows all kinds of direct threats to have that much more chance of targeting myself or those I'm guarding."

Neiland sighed. "Sandy, the political realities were explained to you ...

"You wanted my experience." Flatly. "You said my military background and lack of political compromise was what the CSA needed at present, that I'd help close up the loopholes that too much political compromise and lack of resolve had allowed to develop."

"Sandy, you're a soldier." More firmly this time. "A good soldier knows the need to understand her strategic environment, surely. To learn the lie of the land. I'm asking that of you now-learn how things work here, learn how the politics shape everything. Otherwise you'll just walk blind into an ambush like you did today."

"Ms. President, if I'm not allowed to be me, and utilise my strengths, what real use am I to you?"

"Sandy, please, call me Katia. At least in private."

Sandy nodded slowly, accepting that wordlessly. She wasn't sure she liked it at all. She liked Katia Neiland, whatever her judgments to the better. She wasn't the slightest bit sure that it was wise to do so. And now, the requested informality was troubling. She could deal with Katia Neiland as a superior. Rank was something she understood intimately, as a founding principle in her life's experience. She knew the boundaries, the responsibilities, what was reasonable and unreasonable behaviour for both superior and underling respectively.

Deal with Katia Neiland as just a friend? Whatever else she was, Neiland was a politician, and a damned accomplished one at that. Nothing she did was without an ulterior political motive. Nothing was ever just as simple as "friendship" with such a person. Inexperienced as she was in such matters, she knew enough to know that for a very certain fact.

"Sandy, look." Neiland recrossed her long legs, bare from just above the knee ... indecorous of an Indian or Arabic politician, she'd gathered, yet tolerated with a decadent European. "This isn't the military. I might be President, but I can't just give orders like an admiral and expect them to be followed-it's every politician for themselves. And they're all beholden to their factions and interest groups ... even within my own party, be it the religious conservatives on the Left, the moderates on the Right, or the pragmatists like me in the Centrists. And then there's the Senate, which has a different voting system. There are more minor parties, and upstaging the two big parties on populist, ideological issues is what they live for ..."

"I know, I know," Sandy said tiredly, "and the Senate Security Council includes members of the Rainbow Coalition due to a political trade-off a few years back. No one thought it would matter having a few conservative religious activists on the council-because no one on Callay ever took security issues seriously before now. I have been paying attention, Katia."

"Have you really?" With a pointed expression beneath raised brows. "You do know then that the Senate Security Council sets the agenda for the SIB, and that they value their independence from the CSA and executive power more than just about anything? If I'm seen interfering in that independence, Sandy, it'll be seen as a dictatorial attack upon the Callayan constitution. I have to live with them. That's why they were created, to force me to live with them."

"Ms. President ... I can't think about public relations in operational circumstances. It's against everything I'm trained to be, and every instinct I have."

"You're going to have to learn. Don't think of it as PR. It's just another set of factors to include in your operational parameters, just like any tactical mission ... I'm reliably informed by Shan and Krishnaswali that you're a tactical genius, Sandy. I'm certain you can do this if you try."

"And leave jobs incomplete, objectives unaccomplished?"

"Your objective, Sandy, is to be effective. If you accomplish your field objective only to cause destabilising political consequences as a result, that's a tactical failure on your part. I'm asking you to see the bigger picture. You can't change this system, no matter how stubbornly you attack it. Your only choice is to work within it."

Sandy took a deep breath. Ran a hand through her hair, and stared briefly out the broad windows of the french doors, across the view of ornate brick walls and gardens beyond. Restrained a grimace with an effort.

"Okay ... if this is a public relations issue, why not let me go public?"

"Because we need you as a CSA security operative, and that role will be severely undermined if you throw yourself headlong into the media spotlight-your personal information will become fair game, people will know your face, your name, your details. It'll raise more questions for the Administration and the CSA, the whole works. Sandy, people know some good things about you-they know you saved my life, that you played a big part in stopping the Parliament Massacre, that you're an important security asset to this planet. The rest of it, the moral issues of GI technology and the policy ramifications of that ... it's a hornets' nest, we can't afford it right now, it'd be a massive distraction. It can all just wait for another, quieter day."

"You don't think the mere appearance of my pretty blue eyes and firm breasts in the public arena will improve public opinion?"

Neiland raised an eyebrow. "You could arrange to show them in an interview?"

"I serve at the President's pleasure."

"It's not me who'd get pleasure from it."

"Your suggestive hemline never helped you get elected?"

"Oh sure, my red hair too. Blonde is rare enough on Callay, redheads are downright exotic. My pollsters had taken another five centimetres off my hemline and added five new hairstyles to my repertoire by the end of the campaign. It worked wonderfully." Smiling broadly. "Sandy, public debate on Callay is not exactly advanced at this point in time. I also got elected because people liked my management style and the ideas I had for revamping the legal system regarding network protocols ... People here know that stuff, it's their everyday lives and business. They don't know much about League-Federation politics and have only basic knowledge about the war. Give it time, they're not stupid, just under-informed."

"And the only people doing the informing are the radicals who think I'm going to break into their homes at night and murder their children."

"And whom most Callayans don't take very seriously, Sandy. The political wisdom is that whatever the prominence of religion and cultural values in people's lives, only about a third of Callayans actually vote on those issues, and only a third of them are total, close-minded conservatives. But the more ammunition you give the radicals, the easier you make it for them."