Cassandra Kresnov 04: 23 Years on Fire (27 page)

“Only a ten round clip?” Ari suggested. “That’s unprofessional.”

Ayako shook her head. “No, it’s very professional if it’s a thirty round clip. We’ve got the city seeded with ultra-mikes. We’re not allowed full video surveillance, but with all the interactives by the advertising screens and on the transport platforms, there’s microphones everywhere. Ultra-sensitive, we’ve got them programmed to grab specific sounds. One of the most reliable is magazines clicking together in someone’s pocket, or even rubbing against something—a jacket side, a wallet. So professionals tape mags together and pad them with a handkerchief or something so they don’t rub . . .”

“So it’s harder to grab a new mag,” Ari finished, “meaning the hitter would rather keep half his magazine loaded in case he gets pursued.”

“And changing magazines is a very distinctive sound.”

“That’s clever. You’re working on devious things in Investigations.”

It had been Ayako’s big move some while back, when someone had suggested her skillset might lead to more action and faster promotion in Investigations as opposed to Ari’s preferred Intelligence. She’d been Ari’s partner before that, back when Ari had still been on probation in the agency and untrusted by many. Not that that had really changed. But his old partner’s move had paid off. Some were now discussing the possibility of her moving up to what was effectively Investigations’ number three in the reshuffle after Chandrasekar had moved up to CSA Director. And of course, CSA Directors almost always came out of Investigations, Intel was considered just too narrow a skillsbase for overall command. It wasn’t a bad career progression plan for a former underworld private security contractor who as a teenager had been on the CSA’s watch list.

“But it also means that if that’s what’s going on,” Ayako finished, “this hit man knew about the ultra-mikes.” And she frowned at Ari. “Speaking of which, why don’t you know about the ultra-mikes? You always know everything.”

“I’ve been busy elsewhere,” Ari said drily. “You know those microphone setups won’t last once the civil liberties people catch on.”

Ayako shrugged. “But fun while it lasts.”

Ari was scanning as they talked. He could do that on a level that even most highly augmented humans could not. Data rushed before his eyes, familiar network paths, old and new codes tried and discarded, keys and barriers interlocking, opening, rejecting.

Ayako regarded his silence. “What’s bothering you?”

“I’m not finding any communications trace linking the legal office attack with this one, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

“Well, sometimes the bad guys are pretty good at this stuff, too.”

“But that’s not the main thing. Sandy’s in court.”

Ayako frowned. “The war crimes hearing?”

Ari nodded. “And what better time to go after a bunch of people that she’s been helping to protect, than when she’s indisposed? And if this is a political statement of some kind, what better time than when she’s headline news?”

“You think this isn’t over?”

“Not by a long shot.”

Mr Iqbal was arguing over the admissibility of evidence. The prosecutor was one Padma Chaury, a known enemy of the CSA, and one of the SIB’s favorites. She had quite an amazing array of evidence, including the names and family backgrounds of all the people on Tropez Station who’d died. Mr Iqbal was challenging to discover where that information had come from, since personnel data from League secret facilities was usually, well, secret. Ms Chaury wouldn’t say.

Sandy wasn’t really paying attention. She was uplinked and watching the data pool grow larger as feeds from multiple crime scenes compiled into an increasingly complex picture. A grenade attack at a legal office that had represented several GIs, the shooting attack on Yvette White, and just now a sniper shot had killed a friend of John Tompkin’s at a rented apartment he was sharing with three other GIs with asylum claims pending. The friend was not a GI, had just been visiting, dropping off a suit for Tompkin to borrow for his next court appearance. Investigations had the shooter tracked to a rooftop six hundred meters away, so obviously they had inside information on GIs’ residences in Tanusha. That had everyone on high alert, and their families.

Rhian had taken the family to Rakesh’s sister’s house, and was standing guard herself—that was probably enough, but they’d sent some cops as well. Every GI residence was under guard or observation, UAVs and SWAT units airbourne, sim-scans highlighting possible sniper points, surveillance assets watching those locations in hope of grabbing another hitter. Tompkin was demanding to be included in the operation, firearms and all—the poor guy was distraught. He’d arrived four months ago, was trying to make friends and a good impression on his new home, and one new friend, a guy he’d met at a pub, had just been killed when the sniper mistook him for a GI.

“
I think that’s it,
” Vanessa said in her ear, from her command seat in the back of SWAT One’s flyer. “
We’ve got pretty much every connected person secured: lawyers, friends, residences . . . there’s not much else they can hit for now. Their best option would be to wait until we’ve settled down, then try again.
”

“
It’s League,
” Sandy formulated. “
I’ll bet anything.
”

“
Not the ISO?
”

“
No. League government operatives, not Internal Security. They’re not getting along real well at the moment. My bet is
Eternity
either came with some new operatives we missed, or its arrival activated some sleepers. Probably they’re using some local patsies, one of these wanna-be terror groups who don’t like GIs. Train them up, give them money, buy weapons on the black market, and we’ve got a local terror insurgency running in Tanusha that could last for months.
”

“
I think you’re probably right,
” Vanessa said cautiously, “
but that’s an awful lot of guesswork from just a few attacks. Let’s wait until we catch a few people.
”

“
Sure,
” Sandy said grimly. “
Whatever.
”

Chaury was now arguing that she didn’t need to say where she’d gotten the prosecution’s information, because the information itself was obviously true, and the rules of a hearing stipulated that the only requirement for the prosecution was to establish a general “weight of evidence.” Fucking lawyers.

Mustafa returned her several recent messages. “
It’s not us,
” he told her.

Sandy already knew that, but wasn’t about to say so. “
Well give me something, or we’ll start responding as though it is.
”

“
If anything, it’s our government trying to frame us, they know we’re working with you on New Torah.
”

“
And how do they know that?
” Sandy wondered drily.

“
Common knowledge, I’m afraid. Look, we just don’t know at the moment. I’m asking around and twisting a lot of arms. The ISO has a lot riding on this too, don’t forget.”
They didn’t want to get kicked off Callay, he meant.
“But these attackers will likely be Callayans with League handlers, so most available evidence will lead to people you’ll have far better data on than we do.
”

Just like she’d thought, then. But surely Mustafa could get better information if pushed. “
Not good enough,
” she told him. “
Do better.
” And disconnected.

Sitting here was going to drive her insane. Ms Chaury was now presenting evidence that a team of GIs had hit the Tropez Station, presenting radar recordings, station logs and audio files from the fight itself. Extraordinary. League had given her all that? After going to the trouble of doctoring it so meticulously? Until now, League hadn’t admitted these black facilities even existed. She leaned over to Iqbal.

“The last three people who tried to reveal information this detailed on League black facilities in the war, all turned up dead within weeks,” she whispered. “How is it that she knows this stuff, and has so little fear presenting it so openly?”

Iqbal nodded, thought for a few seconds, then stood up to interrupt Ms Chaury, as was his right in a comparatively informal hearing. He repeated what Sandy had said, almost word for word.

Chaury’s response was evasive and uninformative, and Iqbal read some notes on a slate that one of his assistants handed to him while she answered. He showed it to Sandy, eyebrows raised in question. It was a selection of news reports, posted within the last hour, of the attacks throughout the city. Sandy nodded in affirmation and pointed to her ear, the universal sign for an uplink.

“Your Honour,” Iqbal cut in again, “I should inform the court at this point that the security emergency that Commander Kresnov alluded to at the beginning of proceedings is just now hitting the news networks. There have been a series of attacks on GIs and those associated with them. Two people are dead at a law office and one recent asylum recipient is severely wounded, among others. And now we have Ms Chaury here, sporting information clearly granted to her by secret operatives within the League government, launching what is effectively the second arm in a pincer attack against League defectors in this city . . .”

“Your Honour, I object to this appalling slander!” Ms Chaury retorted. “To suggest that a courtroom opponent is in any way implicated in something as terrible as murder is below the belt even for Mr Iqbal, and I demand that those remarks be stricken from the record.”

Sandy gave Chaury a look of faint, uncharitable amusement.
You’re playing with fire, dear. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if, once they’re done with you, you’ll end up like those three others.
Chaury saw her looking, and frowned. Then paled a little, and her eyes darted away, as though guessing Sandy’s thoughts.

It was late afternoon when Ari entered the walker shop. The workshop was wide, a plain ferrocrete floor echoing with the clanks and whines of machinery under repair. Tanushan planners loathed industrial estates. These working spaces were stacked in high-rise around a central, empty core, up which large loading elevators brought customers and equipment from the ground. Workshops and factory operators bought or leased either a separate space like this one, or an entire floor with no dividing walls.

Ari watched the walkers as he went, wishing he wasn’t so busy—he loved these things. They’d been his first technology passion when he was little, watching the emergency service units parade on a local holiday. The huge, humanoid machines lined the walls, strapped into repair bays, worked over by people or awaiting their turn. On the open floor, a worker was testing one’s systems by trying some dance moves, making several tonnes of whining, clashing metal and servos look almost graceful to the beat of music on the speakers.

Ari walked to one unit, worked on by several guys, recognising the tattoos on one’s arms. He stopped.

“Hey, Pino!” he shouted over the racket. Pino turned and looked down. An average sized guy but muscular. The arm tattoos were the usual stuff, save for the one on the upper arm, which was Marines. “Come down, wanna talk!”

“What’s in it for me?” Pino retorted.

“How about a jelly bean. You like jelly beans?” Pino went back to work. “Or how about a kick in the ass?”

Pino climbed down from the scaffold and landed before him with a heavy booted thud. “What?” He was a white guy; stubble jawed, tough dude, wiping his hands on a rag where hydraulic fluid had leaked on them.

“Where were you this morning?”

“Right here.” His accent was offworld. He’d grown up on Trevellian, only settled on Callay after his Fleet service. He’d served with an officer who had family in the walker repair business, and had promised him work.

“Bullshit,” said Ari. “You got into work at eight, left at 8:33, got back again at 11:02.”

“Bullshit yourself,” said Pino, smugly. “Check the worksheet. I’ve been right here, ask anyone.”

“You think I trust a fucking worksheet?” Ari said scornfully.

Pino scowled. “You fucking network freaks, you think you can come around just snooping behind a private business’s barriers? You know, I don’t care what you think you fucking know, the worksheets say I was here, and whatever you’ve got ain’t admissible evidence.”

“Girl got shot over in Patterson at 9:50,” said Ari. “Know anything about that?”

“Heard it on the net. Wasn’t that some skinjob bitch like the ones I used to kill in the war?” His buddies up on the scaffold were laughing. Places like this employed quite a few ex-military people. Despite appearances, most of them made more than suits, Tanusha having a surplus of suits and not enough grease monkeys. But not all of these guys were ex-Fleet, some were just assholes.

“No, not like those ones. They were military, this one was a civ, non-combat.”

“A GI that can’t fight? About as useful as a badge on a net monkey like you.”

Ari smiled. “Did you do it?”

“Sure,” laughed Pino, “like I’d just tell you. Wish I had.”

“Wish you had what? The balls?”

Pino applauded, sarcastically. “Oh, that really hurts. I bet you’d have done her, wouldn’t you? Like that Kresnov bitch, bet you wish you could do her, too.”

“Sure do,” said Ari, smiling more broadly. “She’s hot.”

“Friend of yours, isn’t she?” Like that was a bad thing.

“Sure is. I’ll tell her what you think of her, and the girl who got shot. She’s real nice about that stuff. If it turns out you did do it, you might be real lucky and she won’t pull your ribs out and pick her teeth with the splinters. But you don’t look that lucky to me.”

Pino wasn’t smiling now. He’d fought GIs close up. Regs, Marines had learned to handle. But in Fleet, tales of Dark Star were like tales of ghost ships, scary stories that could keep a Marine awake at night.

“I bet you would, too, wouldn’t you?” Pino said coldly. “Turn on your own kind, for them. Fucking traitor.”

“There is no them,” said Ari. “They’re us. I can’t betray what doesn’t exist.”

“Spoken like a traitor.”

Ari knew a lot of good ex-Fleet, and some currently serving ones. The CSA and FSA had quite a few of them. Some were even Sandy’s friends, and friends of other, recently arrived GIs. But then there were guys like Pino, tribal in their hatred. On one level it was understandable, GIs were scary to fight again, and Pino had lost buddies. Ari would forgive a guy like Pino far more readily than some others, and he knew Sandy would, too. But Sandy wasn’t equipped with the expertise or job description to track guys like Pino, seek them on network forums, listen to their rants in VR seminars, chat anonymously with their buddies, learn where they hung out, who their underground contacts were, who kept their military-tech upgrades in good order, who might be willing to sell them weapons.