Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (34 page)

Apolitical city my arse, Sandy thought, as she gunned the bike into life. Tanushans were only apolitical because their carefully constructed environment gave them no cause to be otherwise, even on the biggest issues of all, and there had been nothing overtly traumatic to argue about. Well, now they had cause, and the old cultural instincts were leaping back to life, and dragging most other ethnicities with them.

India, she recalled, was also called the most ideological country on Earth ... that and chaos, apparently, went hand-in-hand. It had condemned them to what in hindsight was unbelievable poverty for a full half-century after nationhood, many centuries ago, when the rest of the world was developing fast. Then the ideology had switched to capitalism-a supposedly "western" concept, it had then been thoughtwhich the Indians in conjunction with the Chinese had absorbed and "Indianised" as thoroughly as they'd absorbed and Indianised the genteel English sport of cricket, or cups of tea, or the English language itself. And by 2050, she recalled from her historical readings, the great "western" capitalist powers were complaining bitterly about the Indi- anisation of global economics, and the threatened trade sanctions against European nations who failed to fight against the encroaching "cultural sterility" of the modern economy ... a western phenomenon that Indians, East Asians and Africans recoiled from in horror to this day. Cultural ideology, the western powers complained, had no place in economics. To which the Indians had responded that cultural ideology was about what was good for the soul, and if western economics had nothing to say on this matter, then who needed it? And so the entire apparatus of the global economy had never been the same since ... and, Sandy couldn't help but think, thank God for it. Thank God for culture, and thank God for the perspective it brought upon the dry, rational worlds of science and finance.

Here, and now, the ideology was yet to be decided. Biotech. GIs. The value of organic, human life. The nature of humanity itself. The deciding issues that separated League from Federation. With her in the middle, trying to help them make up their minds.

She flicked on the headlight, helmet in place, and cruised smoothly out along the road. Colourful party-pops lit the streetside behind her, a cascading fall of blue, green and saffron light, and the angular officefront windows bloomed in spectacular reflection as she passed.

The League Embassy did not appear on any map. Not in those words, anyhow. From her pagoda view atop the temple, Sandy had a good view of the grounds across the avenue, though somewhat obscured by leafy trees before and within the grounds. Behind the high, wroughtiron fence lay an estate in miniature-a wide grassy lawn with a Uturn driveway that swept in front of the columns of the patio before the main entrance. The building itself was two-storey, rectangular and whitewashed end to end. Building and grounds together reminded her of the images she'd viewed of old British colonial properties in India, dating from the time of the occupying Raj. Only the scale was smaller-squeezed between a pair of modest, low-key office buildings. A casual passer-by might dismiss such a building as another of Tanusha's many pieces of historical nostalgia, and not spare it a second thought. And not notice that the gates were locked, the physical and network security intense, and there was no sign or advertisement to announce the building's purpose to the street. A light, civilian-level query of the net-presence came back to her as "government building," with no more information provided.

There were a lot of those, of course, and high security was hardly rare among them. Of course, discovering which was the League Embassy was easy enough, if you knew who to ask. Previously, it had not been an issue. Now, she watched on full-zoom/infrared, and counted the soldiers on the roof, laid flat behind the lining flowerbeds with rifles at ready. There were eight visible, and doubtless more inside and about the grounds. They'd been receiving a lot of "interested queries" lately, she guessed. And that being League property in there, they were allowed to provide their own firepower as insurance to keep the natives at arm's length.

Her preliminary scanning done, she descended the stone staircase and into the temple proper, leaving the pagoda's several other occupants to enjoy the night air alone. Candles and coloured lamps lit the main floor, red light misty with the fumes of burning incense amid the many rows of ceiling pillars that held up the roof. Many people moved between, barefoot and leisurely, and queued before various iconic statues or alcoves, to pray or make offerings, or light more incense. Red and saffron flower petals littered the stone floor, alternately rough and smooth underfoot. A sadhu in robes, with a long beard, swept the floor clear amid the throng, immersed in his endless task.

She ducked a hanging flower-banner, and avoided a random clump of devotees praying before a two metre, many-armed icon, adorned with many garlands of coloured flowers. Her route took her past an adjoining decoratively styled doorway, through which she viewed a broad room, and perhaps a hundred people seated cross-legged upon an enormous carpet. On a low platform in front sat a yogi, robed and tangle-bearded, leading a meditation. Hands outstretched and palms out, murmuring incantations through his beard, an assistant seated to one side, a small gong before her crossed ankles. Sandy had only a very vague idea of what that was all about. But it looked peaceful, in the still of that broad, stone-walled room, surrounded on all sides by tapestries, flower decorations and icons, with only the light, unearthly chime of the gong to break the silence, and the yogi's unceasing murmurs. A light wind blew incense, sent tapestries drifting sideways, a light scattering of flower petals across the stone floor.

Sandy held that image with her as she descended the stonewrought staircase, keeping in the downward stream as more people ascended the stairs upon the opposite side. She was still pondering the mass, silent meditation and murmured chants as she retrieved her boots from the simple wooden rack, and inserted a basic credit deposit into the temple's one concession to technology-a visitor's cardscanner, for upkeep donations. Wondering if, one day, she could join such a session herself, just for curiosity. One day, perhaps, when circumstances would allow her to do as she should have done tonight, in all honesty, and leave her gun with a holy man at the door. And with her boots refastened, she departed into the street, through the gathering throng at the entry gate, and the cries of the mystic doomsayer upon his box, largely ignored by the mostly (but not entirely) Indian patrons, who gathered and chattered with friends and family-temples were common enough gathering spots for the socially inclined.

"The decadence of Tanusha has angered the Gods!" the holy man yelled above the voices and occasional traffic, in clear Tanushan English. A young man, with scarcely a beard nor a blemish upon his face, and dressed only in a pile of old robes. European, Sandy noted with interest. His tone seemed suspiciously Christian-sermonising. Probably a convert, getting his delivery styles confused, raving like a missionary. Most Tanushan Hindus disdained them. "Rama is displeased, yes, hear me, displeased and angry at our politicians and their conniving ways! His emissary shall descend upon us, and that emissary will be the Goddess Kali, and she shall descend upon us all with the very wrath of Heaven, and smite the wickedness of all ungodly folkthe followers of Mohammed, Christ and the Buddha too, yes, no one shall be saved from their descent into base greed and consumerism, and the vile lust for credit, and for wicked twists of mortal shape beyond our natural means! All that is living and ungodly shall be punished, and shall suffer eternal condemnation for all incarnations ever onward!"

His cries rolled on, over the heads of the unheeding masses, as the only person who was perhaps truly listening, and pondering the content of his words, strolled unhurriedly away up the sidewalk. A pistol in her side-holster and determination upon her mind, on her way to meet the devil.

The "backdoor" was easy enough to find for someone with intimate knowledge of League network security formulations. The electronic trail led her to a small office building nearby, and the floor of Denzler Securities, which registered as a small, niche-specialty network security business. A few words with the polite lady on reception there, and a brief mention of the name "Cassandra Kresnov," saw her hurried to a big, black street-cruiser with tint-out windows and armoured bodywork, and driven into the Embassy grounds through the main gate. Uplinked and sensitive to adjoining link codes, Sandy had a clear sense of the massive security integration as the car hummed up the driveway-the multiple overlaying network scans, the grounds surveillance, the interlocking fields of fire of many well placed marksmen ... The car continued past the front entrance and onto the less official rear driveway that curled around the side.

It stopped at the rear, which was even more impressive, with a broad, bannistered verandah overlooking lush, green lawns and a thick covering of trees. Sandy paused for a moment as she climbed from the open door and surveyed the grounds on a multiple-spectrum sweepa high wall surrounded the Embassy to the sides and rear, and thick tree-cover blocked a clear view from higher office windows. Besides which, the entire, picturesque grounds were a cross-grid of trigger sensors. Puzzlingly, several peacocks wandered the maze with impunity ... intelligent sensors, perhaps, with a preference for peacocks. She gazed more closely at a pair of the birds as she was escorted by two guards up the path to the verandah steps, marvelling at the male's gorgeous plumage ... very easy to see why females could not resist. If she hadn't known the birds were real Earth natives (no doubt imported under some special enviro-friendly protections), she would have thought them a fanciful, customised concoction from some bio-lab. League-side, of course, as such things were likewise illegal in the Federation, much to the black market's delight.

Peacocks. She pondered that puzzle as she was led (or, more correctly, escorted) into an exquisite corridor of polished floorboards and eighteenth century paintings and decorations ... historical nostalgia, as only Federation worlds knew how. British-occupied India, she thought, surveying a framed photograph, in black and white, of an Indian family in European-styled clothing, gathered for a leisurely day in the sun. A curious point in history to be so painstakingly remembered, given the evident Tanushan-Indian pride in their traditional, indigenous heritage.

A turn through a broad sitting room, with large windows overlooking the rear lawns, and more gorgeous furnishings, and then a dining room beyond with several uniformed staff setting the table with gleaming china and crystal. Then another hallway, and voices beyond, muffled by shut doors, and more staff intent on business ... she was not, Sandy guessed, the only visitor present in the Embassy right now. In fact, judging by the degree of informal transmission traffic flying about on the local circuit, she was clearly intruding on a never-ending circle of talkfests. Thus the many harried staff, and the many closed doors, and the back-way route chosen by her escort.

Several more backdoors later, she arrived at another, plain wooden door. A guard opened it, briefly surveyed the interior, then turned to face Sandy.

"If you could wait in here, Ms. Kresnov," he said, in an inflectionless tone, "the Ambassador himself will be with you shortly."

An IR shift showed fairly cool blue hues across visible portions of the guard's body. And no visible pulse from a jugular, the most obvious giveaway. She herself looked much the same in an IR scan.

"What designation are you?" she asked the guard curiously.

"Please await the Ambassador in this room, Ms. Kresnov," the GI replied, stony-faced. "I assure you it is secure and unbugged."

She sighed. "As fun as upgrade surgery, you must be a reg." Looked him fully in the face, with careful scrutiny. Thinking it had been a long time since she'd had such face-to-face contact with any member of the artificial League soldiery who hadn't been trying to kill her at the time. "Do you know who I am?"

Patient silence from both guards. She gave up, and entered the room. Doubtless they'd find out soon enough. The door shut firmly behind her, and footsteps departed.

The room was difficult to put a name to. A study, perhaps? There were bookshelves, and a desk before the drawn curtains of the window ... she reckoned it must look out over the front lawns, and the street beyond the wrought-iron fence. Best leave the curtains closed. A portrait on the wall, a white-bearded man in a plumed orange turban, his moustache intriguingly pointed as if in satirical protest at the stern glare on his face.

She strolled to the bookcase, stretching and flexing her shoulders within her jacket. Old titles. Old-style binding. Such books, she knew, were popular in Tanusha as much for their decorative value upon the bookshelf as their contents. The same information on disk could be had for a fraction of the cost. The kind of impracticality that so many in the League found exasperating, but which remained so firmly entrenched here in the Federation. And she wondered again at this choice of premises for the League Embassy. Technically League property, but all Tanushan land was planned and accounted for in advance ... no doubt it was a lease, the terms of which stated occupancy and care of all pre-existing assets.

Tanushan humour, she guessed, with growing amusement. Federation humour, at the anti-nostalgia, anti-history League. And more, an Indian embrace of an aspect of their history many Indians preferred to forget, the ignobility of a time when others had ruled their destiny. But they remembered regardless, and recalled it in the greatest detail, in the belief that in the act of recalling where they'd been, they would more accurately come to understand where they were, and who they were. The League condemned such notions as restrictive and tiresome. And this ... this building, and this choice of site for the Embassy, was the administration of Callay and Tanusha laughing at them.

Several browsed books and standing stretches later, the door opened, and Ambassador Gordon Yao entered. Or Yao Gordon, she reflected, if one were in keeping with Chinese formalities. Closed the door behind him, and turned to face her. He wore a slick, wide-at-themiddle black tuxedo, a lot of gleaming hair spray, and a broad, welcoming smile.