Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (4 page)

"You're damn right it is." Thinking furiously. He couldn't patchand-disable Claude's uplink trigger by remote, Claude could mistake it for a warning transmission and blow them both to pieces. He needed to knock him out cold, but carried no stunner. Dammit. Last time he made that oversight.

"Ariel, I know about you ... most of my friends know about you. Opinion is divided but I, I, Ariel, I alone believe you to be a decent person. But you serve the wrong side, why don't you see that? These ... these people, Ariel, they believe in ungodly things, they would vote for things that would forever warp and ... and distort all of humanity in evil ways, and they would use this vote in the houses of power, Ariel, and life for all God's children would never be the same again!"

"Claude," Ari said, with what he thought was commendable calmness, "I respect your beliefs." Holding up a placating free hand. The arm was definitely throbbing now. It made concentration difficult. And holding one's temper. "I respect your beliefs, and I respect your right to hold them-and to voice them to whoever may choose to listen. But there are other ways to voice your beliefs than to go about killing people ... "thou shalt not kill," Claude, does that ring a bell?"

"Like they're killing us?" Eyes blazing. "Like they're wanting to turn us all into some ... some damn synthetic machines for their profits and their portfolios and their grand corporate empires!? Like they're wanting to kill our souls, Ariel? Dammit, man, how can you be so naive? You know better than anyone how the system works, you're a part of it! You know the politicians are in the corporate executives' pockets! And you're protecting them, you're protecting the whole, twisted, immoral system!"

Like it was such a horrible, sinful thing to do. Well, Ari'd heard that one before. And from saner people than Claude Christophson. He pursed his lips in exasperation.

"You know, Claude ... you've nearly convinced me. Really. Why don't you put that explosive vest away, and rather than blowing yourself and all your very convincing rhetoric into very small pieces, you can live on, and stay here in Tanusha ... You'll get a trial, it'll probably be public, with all the civil rights attorneys who'll no doubt do your case for free because of the publicity ... You'll get a planet-wide broadcast podium, everyone will be listening, and then you can tell them all what you've just told me and everyone will believe, and then everything will all be right again. What d'you say?"

Too sarcastic, was his immediate thought. It was his usual flaw. But Claude actually hesitated. Ari could see it in his eyes, the faint uncertainty, the pause for thought. And maybe, just perhaps, that little voice of self preservation whispering in the background, looking for excuses, reasons to be listened to. Religious loonies always believed their truths were universal. That there was such a thing as truth itself. It was their weakness.

A blue flash lit the air. Claude jerked and convulsed, then fell from the bench.

Reflex overcoming initial surprise, Ari leapt forward, awkwardly catching the falling body one-armed, the other ready in case the vest tumbled from its hiding spot ... it didn't. He dumped the young man's limp body upon the floor between stainless steel benches and checked his vitals. Racing heartbeat, but he was still breathing.

"CSA give you that too?" he asked, searching Claude's pockets.

"Of course," said Ayako, coming down the aisle and repocketing her stunner. "You can get them through the underground, of course, but they're too expensive."

Ari found the sidearm, an Ubek-5 again, and plenty powerful for a concealed weapon.

"That Claude?"

"Yeah ... I think he's the last. There's at least two outside. Four's the absolute limit I'd have thought could get in. The rest of it looks pretty well covered."

"And you left someone alive to question this time." Ayako sounded impressed. "You're evolving as a CSA operative, Am"

"First guy who gave me a choice," Ari replied, finishing with one leg, then the other. There was a light thump as Ayako leapt onto the counter behind, and started to gingerly remove the explosive vest from up against the ceiling. "You know," he added, "I always picked Claude for a nutter, but suicide vests are just a bit extreme."

"The future of the human race is something that tends to make them a bit upset." After disarming the vest, Ayako pulled it down. A simple contraption, a basic vest with flat, body-hugging pockets, a few wires and a trigger switch. Too slim to be visible under an evening jacket. "You know, if this keeps up, you're going to lose all your lunatic friends very shortly."

"Oh no." Ari gazed down at the young terrorist's calm, sleeping face. "I can always make new friends. Plenty more where these came from."

he swell was large today.

Sandy sat on her board, part submerged in the heaving sea, and watched the churning curl of the last wave pass, thundering on toward the beach. Breaking, a muffled roar of collapsing water, headed for the distant shore. A surfer emerged from the churning wash, nose first, and resumed paddling. Lost, momentarily, as the swell took her down again, and moving dunes of water rolled between, glittering in the pale light of an overcast sky.

The wind was changing. Sandy turned to face into it, brisk and salt-smelling from the south-east, blowing leftwards along the north-south coastline. And tending now to onshore, she thought, as it whipped at careless strands of salt-wet hair, narrowing her eyes as it chopped the heaving seas to a broken mess. Soon it would be completely onshore, and the scudding patches of low cloud would turn to thick, blackening thunderheads, dark with the lateness of autumn.

Another swell lifted her, and suddenly, she could see a long way. The long, thin line of coast, stretching away to the southern distance. Nearby to the right, Lindolin Heads, a flaring mass of dark rock and sprawling reef, the surrounding sea flat with white, broken wash. Further out, the breakers pounded, exploding white spray along the outer reef. Beyond, a pleasure boat was cruising a rolling, bounding course through the roughening seas. Back on the near beach, the small figures of people, watching from the shore.

The other surfer continued out on a different angle, briefly hidden by the rolling swell. It was no one she recognised.

Weather for serious surfers, she thought idly, scanning the surrounding sea for other dark, wetsuited figures upon the broken surface. There were several, widely spaced across the broad stretch of beach front.

A faint smile played at her lips. So she was a serious surfer now. Vanessa thought so. Vanessa had wanted her company at lunch, with friends and family. Vanessa hadn't understood how a weather report could make that impossible. A serious surfer was surely someone who, given several hours' respite from the worst security crisis the planet had ever seen, would grab her board and wetsuit from her CSA locker, hire a flyer from a regional hire company and head out to the coast. Most agents spent such precious time-outs sleeping, or, like Vanessa, catching up with friends and family, mostly unseen for the last few weeks. Lacking family, not needing much sleep, and her attention consumed with the surf report, Sandy's priorities were different.

The swell loomed up in front, not quite the correct angle of face. She let it go, a giant heave and rise over the lip, then sliding down the back. Roar and crash as it broke behind her, churning on toward the beach. A wonderful sound. The last opportunity she'd had, on a precious rotating weekend off, she'd camped overnight on a beach near this. Vanessa had been with her that time. Lying in the dark, wind rippling the canvas tent walls, they'd talked about many things, and looked out the window mesh at the stars, while the waves had pounded and roared out in the dark.

Meteors that night, she remembered, reseating herself upon the board, facing the wind. Shooting stars, Vanessa had called them. Another of those strange civilian terms, unconnected with reality. Yet all the more charming for it. Sandy gazed out into the freshening wind, beyond the lumpish horizon of sea in motion, and remembered the most spectacular meteor storm she'd ever witnessed. Nothing natural could rival the aftermath of a trans-orbital battle. Wreckage that burned in brilliant flares, flaming pieces that lit the sky in their multitudes and turned a moonless night to noon-day glare. Yet another difference between her perceptions and those of the people around her. She had stopped counting long ago.

Further out, another dark swell was looming ... and another behind it, she saw, as another rise took her higher ... even larger than the first. She thought it looked very nice, very promising. And felt a flare of excitement, watching that first, looming wall of water grow. Rode it all the way up, a fast ascent, then plunging over the lip as she saw, to great delight, that the second had indeed been worth waiting for. Roar as the first broke, rushing away. She lay flat and turned the nose of her board back toward the shore. Behind her, the mountain rose, dark and glistening.

And then it was on her, several sharp thrusts from her arms to accelerate as the board tilted forward, and the massive wave lifted her clear of the flat surface ... then plunging forward, upward shove from tightly gripped hands, and a smooth swivel got her feet under her. Firm grip of bare skin on the roughened board as she plunged and bounced down the huge, racing wave face. Decelerated at the bottom and cut hard left, back up the face, shooting upward and slicing back ...

... and for an exhilarating, flying moment, she hung upon the vertical face, high above the flat sea below ...

... and plummeted down, a rush of wind and racing water, a mad vibration of board on water that jolted through her legs. Sudden explosion of foam everywhere, half the lip collapsing behind as the wave broke, and she cut left again, aiming to keep ahead of the surging mess. Up and racing at double velocity across the face. Flat sea below, balanced midway up a rushing, vertical wall that roared with howling, salty wind and spray.

She laughed out loud, soundless against the roar. Trailed the fingertips of her left hand along the racing wall-face, and at that hurtling, shuddering velocity, it felt solid as concrete. Spray erupted along her path as she zigzagged madly up and down the vertical face. And then, with heavenly grace, the lip curled over to fall like a giant curtain on her right, and she was in a tube.

Time slowed. Encircled by rushing, shimmering water, everything echoed. The curl of arcing sea above her head was possibly the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. The world turned green and shimmering blue, refraction of moving light and water. It was eerie, and heavenly, and utterly exhilarating.

And suddenly ending, as she shot into open sky amid erupting spray from the blowhole effect, the wave collapsing further ahead. She cut back hard right, falling downslope, and sensed the rest of it falling in behind her, like a cliff-face collapsing. Everything exploded, with massive force, blasting her forward ... within which she held her balance, inhumanly, and came back down on her feet ... except that the board was no longer under her.

Wham. Roaring silence, everything churning over. Muffled thunder. A few exploratory strokes, to test resistance. Direction. Up from down. Felt herself rising, as the foam passed, and stroked in that direction.

She broke the surface, a rush of light and sound. Hauled her board in by the leg strap, grinning uncontrollably, and looked around for the next set. There was another one out there, rising nicely and coming her way. What a day. She threw herself jubilantly back onto the board and began paddling back out to sea.

Frequency alarm-a sharp register in her inner ear. She frowned, still paddling, and accessed. Click and response, a merging tune into frequency ... a shielded line with priority code, but no message. A specific recall, just for her. Someone wanted her back at work. She swore, loudly. Several more strokes and she decided that she had to stop paddling. Dammit. Ahead, the next wave exploded into towering whitewash, and she was nearly too annoyed to bother rolling under.

She emerged from the water several minutes later, board under one arm, bare feet trudging over rough, shell-strewn sand. Wiped dripping hair from across her face. Refused to hurry, the recall would have told her if it were urgent. More damn procedural rescheduling. Some politician had probably slipped in the shower and twisted her pinky. To hell with politics, didn't they know the surf was up?