Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (46 page)

Sandy sat at the centre of the long table before the elevated, arching semi-circle of benches with their carved panelling and plush chairs, her laptop set before her as she waited for the huge, noisy crowd in the chamber seats behind to arrange itself into some kind of orderliness. She estimated seating for perhaps six hundred. Some, she'd been informed by Rani Bannerjee, the President's new senior advisor, were being filled by congressors or senators not presently occupied with other matters. Most were taken by yet more lemmings, members of one or another off-world delegation, along with the many interested Callayan onlookers. Visitors' passes to the Parliament were rare these days, and most journalists had been banned from the room for this occasion, but still, milling behind her this jostling, unsettled crowd ... she caught snatches of conversation, some of it technical, but much of it, as she'd feared, specifically about her.

"... wish she'd turn around ..." was the gist of many conversations, as eager, curious, wary civilians strained for a look at this most significant of curiosities to descend upon their world of late. She had no intention of turning around. She'd gotten here early, straight from the small VIP flyer pad at the side of the complex, and sat in her required seat specifically in order to get here ahead of the gallery crowd and sit like this with her back to them as they entered. Not that she cared if they saw her face or not-the closed-circuit TV would, and would transmit these proceedings all through the corridors of power. Closed-circuit transmissions ran on fancy embedded encryption that erased themselves at any attempt to copy and disseminate, and did so in ways that could also melt the utilised equipment. She'd studied the software herself, briefly, and had been satisfied. This broadcast would only be seen once, and that only in select offices of power.

"Nervous?" asked Mahudmita Rafasan from alongside. The President's senior legal advisor was dressed rather conservatively today, in a dark outfit that looked almost as much dress as sari, with silvery trimmings and only a patterned orange shoulder-sash for the obligatory flash of colour. Earrings, bangles and other jewellery were untypically sparse and modest, and her gleaming black hair was bound conveniently short at the back.

"Wishing I'd sat in on the security checks," was Sandy's only com ment, uplinked to the room's security systems, for what little she could access past the impenetrable barriers that enclosed all the Parliament complex's systems.

"The, um, detectors and searches in the corridors are quite thorough," Rafasan reassured her, with a familiar nervous fidget at the bangles upon her left wrist. There was a ring there too, on the fourth finger, where a wedding ring might be upon a European. This ring, Rafasan had told her some time before, was a mark of graduation from her law school, some fifty years before ... Rafasan was seventy-five years old, though it was impossible to tell to look at her. She could have been a young thirty, and a very attractive one at that. Not all biotech advances, Sandy reflected, were disdained in Tanusha. It was the kind of hypocrisy in the Federation's anti-biotech stance that the League never failed to point out at every opportunity.

"Even so," Sandy replied, running her eyes across the lower front bench before her, "I'm never comfortable with so many people at my back." The congressors were all in place and seated, some examining notes, some taking in the scene before them. The second, upper bench held fifteen, the lower one eleven. Elected representatives, seated here in numbers reflecting the numbers of the lower house-seventeen for Union Party, and nine for Progress Party. A two-party system in the lower house, with their preference system and elimination ballots. Only in the proportional representation of the Senate, housed in the second point of the Callayan governmental triangle but a kilometre from here, did the minor parties run amok.

Security stood at various strategic points about the room, armed and alert. Most were facing the crowd ... white-shirted uniforms with gold badges upon their chests. All members of the gallery were VIPs of a sort, security cleared, sifted, and further checked in the outside hall before entry ... standard procedure these days with or without the presence of controversial, ex-Dark Star GIs. In truth, Sandy reflected, she was less concerned at the possibility of rogue terrorists in the gallery than at the presence of several leading Tanushan journalists of whose presence Rani Bannerjee had also informed her. There might be no legal means to broadcast her image or voice, but there was nothing to stop print or broadcast media from transmitting her words secondhand when she spoke in a public setting.

Do not, Bannerjee had further counselled her just minutes before, under any circumstances, say anything controversial. Be dull, boring and listless if necessary.

Exactly what constituted a controversy, Sandy remained unsure. She suspected it rather depended upon who was listening. And on a world like Callay, surely the only way to avoid offending anyone was to say nothing at all. It was all Neiland's problem now. She was surprised at exactly how cool she was about it. She only wished there'd been some way of keeping her gun ... but, of course, she remained technically suspended due to the SIB's investigation, and it would not do to be seen wielding a weapon in direct defiance of that suspension in the Parliament complex itself. Her weapon remained with an Agent Odano, a junior recruit from Investigations who'd been assigned to run this errand, and was presently seated in the gallery some short distance behind. He also had her badge. "Don't throw them to me if there's trouble," Sandy had told him on the flyer ride in. "I'll get to you first, believe me." He'd believed her.

A bell rang, a clear, rapid chiming. How anachronistic, Sandy thought, watching with interest as the sound emanated from a small, silver bell in front of the chairman. He was seated in the centre of the front row, a man of Arabic appearance, clad in the white robe permissible in Tanushan politics for those politicians who liked to display their cultural heritage instead of settling for the universal blandness of suits and ties. He wore a thick, black beard, which gave Sandy some indication as to his political leanings. Although, she'd been learning in Tanusha not to take anything for granted.

"The records shall note that the time is ten thirty-five on Central

Time Monday the fifteenth of March, 2543."

League time, it occurred to Sandy in idle thought, was tri-monthand-twelve when converted to the universal League calendar-decimals and averages-the general average of League-world years made convenient for the time-dilation of travelling starships and peoples a long, long way from Earth's rotational schedules. It made more sense than Callay's system of cramming a 325-day year into the same twelve Earth months, with months running to twenty-six or twenty-seven days to compensate. But none of the League's months were named after great Roman emperors who had lived more than two thousand years before, and were thus, in Sandy's estimation, rendered quite dull by comparison. Long live inefficiency and pointless complexity. She was certain that the reminder of past eras and histories was far more valuable than any gain in basic numerical efficiency.

"I," the chairman continued, "Khaled Hassan, declare this special Congressional Hearing open, and the speaker today is one ... Ms. April Cassidy." With emphasis that Sandy thought might be wry sarcasm. A murmur echoed from the clustered gallery behind. Some muted laughter. Tittering, nervous excitement. Rafasan spared her a nervous glance. Sandy sighed. "Ms. Cassidy ... just a procedural thing, could you please make sure you speak directly into the microphone so everyone can hear?"

"Yes, sir."

Another tittering murmur from the gallery. She wondered if maybe she'd said the wrong thing, reminding people of her military past ... well, she couldn't help that, calling people in positions of authority "sir" was as unshakeable a habit as breathing. She determined to keep her tone polite and deferential, free from the drill instructor formality that would surely intimidate a crowd such as this, however formal the occasion. She'd never been keen on drill anyhow.

"Now, Ms. Cassidy ... I understand you have a presentation for us, on behest of the President herself ... in order to demonstrate to us all, I gather, the nature and ... well, importance of your more recent work here on Callay ..." in the slow, pausing, long-winded manner of a professional bureaucrat, "... but first, if you would allow, of course, I would like to ask the freedom as chairman to ask you a few questions ... on behalf of my colleagues here, who will of course have their turn, as per the standing orders of this hearing chamber, to ask of you their own questions upon your completion of this ... presentation of yours. Is this sequence of events ... acceptable to you?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly acceptable."

More murmuring. And it occurred to her in a flash ... it was her voice. A good voice, to be sure, firm and strong. But high, clear, and unmistakably female. Wow. It amazed her that they were amazed. Just her luck to end up on one of the few worlds left in all human space where the idea of women as fighters still raised some eyebrows. They damn well knew the rest of human space had largely moved on, they simply didn't care, and women themselves were among the loudest objectors. And now this ... not only a GI, but a female one. And blonde. In Tanusha, when a teenage Indian, Arabic or Chinese girl wanted to upset her father, she dyed her hair blonde and wore European-style skirts several sizes too short. Blonde women were the sexually exotic, or, as Vanessa would say with a snort, the archetypal decadent, cultureless European morality vacuum. Not that anyone had noticed any shortage of libidinous activity among the Tanushan population in general of late, but some ethnic stereotypes died harder than others. It didn't seem something that most European Tanushans were trying very hard to fling off. Sandy empathised.

"Very well, then, Ms. Cassidy ..." Hassan paused for a moment, reading from the screen before him, stroking absently at his ample beard. "... first of all, could I perhaps inquire if "April Cassidy" is in fact your real name? There was some conjecture earlier, among my colleagues ... some said it was only a CSA-given pseudonym."

Sandy smiled. "April Cassidy is a pseudonym, Mr. Hassan." Her voice echoed clearly through the chamber, projected from invisible speakers with great clarity. "My real name remains protected for now, as do my other personal details."

"I see." Another beard stroke, watching her with curiosity. He seemed, Sandy reckoned, a rather mild sort of man. Union Party Leftist, Bannerjee had briefed her. Muslim, of course, but in the measured, secular way of most mainstream Callayan politicians where religious affiliations were concerned. "And how did you come about this ... rather curious pseudonym, if I may ask?"

"Of course." Repressing a broader smile. "I chose it myself. From a couple of public figures back League-side. Something I didn't think anyone would automatically associate with me."

"Which pair of public figures?"

"If you must know, Mr. Hassan, from a pair of holovid pornstars."

Utter, disbelieving silence for a moment. Then a surge of laughter, building to general commotion. Fading just as quickly as people remembered they weren't supposed to make any noise. To her left, Sandy saw that Rafasan was staring at her with a somewhat stricken expression ... poor woman, she'd been hoping her administration's tame GI would make this session easy on her, what with her usual chaotic schedule now including the injunction proceedings against Governor Dali's extradition as well. Sandy managed with difficulty to stop her smile turning into a grin.

"I remembered one male soldier under my command in Dark Star," she continued with unfazed amusement, "once made the observation to me that this one particular pornstar looked rather like myself ... it was a long, boring period with nothing much to do, you understand, and they were looking for various entertainments to pass the time." More amusement from the gallery. "Anyhow, this lady's name, I believe, was something-or-other Cassidy. Her partner's name was April." Outright guffaws from directly behind her. Rafasan was just staring, in utter disbelief. "I put the two together. I thought it catchy."

And she sat for a long moment, and surveyed the carnage she had wrought upon the sombre, orderly proceedings in just a few short moments, with laughter and hubbub from the gallery, and numerous congressors exchanging disbelieving looks, and sometimes laughter, in their utter surprise.

"Well," said a woman on the Progress Party side of the benches, this hearing has started absolutely nothing like I'd expected." Which provoked even more laughter, a continuing release of built-up tension. On the Union side of the benches, the mirth was considerably more subdued. Although suspicious of Progress Party motives in general, she was certainly happy to have them there. They were the ones, generally speaking, who were not scared of her. Some were using her to attack Neiland and Union in general, but attacks on herself were comparatively rare from Progress.

"You realise that you'll never live this down?" asked another Progress rep with a broad smile.

"Sir," Sandy replied, "right now, that's the least of my problems."

From there it was details and procedure. She was fine with thatshe'd done her share of briefings before this, before panels of very senior League military officers, and occasionally League Government bureaucrats or elected representatives. This, of course, was entirely different, both in surroundings and content. But concentration had always been a strong point of hers, and she simply focused on the information upon the laptop screen before her, and shut out the rest of the room.

She started with the Plexus Grid. Built by Plexus Corporation to make the Callayan system navigable to the frequent traffic of freighters and passenger liners that plied the lanes, it had undergone numerous upgrades in the two hundred years since Callay had been first settled. The most extensive upgrades, of course, had occurred between seventyfive and fifty Callayan years ago, when the newly founded technologybased centre of Tanusha had been first commissioned upon the Shoban River Delta, just south of the coastal fringe of the Tuez Range, on the eastern coast of Taj, the second largest of the northern continental landmasses. No one had quite predicted just how successful an experiment in urban planning the new settlement would become, nor were they quite ready for the implications on what had been a mostly agricultural, low-intensity-development world up to that point.