Originator (21 page)

“She doesn't say that in seventeen minutes the fight actually starts,” said Sandy. In the passenger seat, Poole looked out the window, as though preoccupied. “Then we find out what they're doing here.”

“That first ship's real quiet, aside from IFF,” said Poole. “You'd think someone wanting us to save his ass would be shouting and screaming about now.”

“Hmm.” Who did League want to kill so badly they'd send warships into Callayan system space to destroy? “Could be PRIDE. Could be something else. Be nice to interrogate more than a cloud of dust.”

“Bet it's nothing good,” said Poole. Sandy glanced at him. “What is, these days? Coming from that direction?”

Sandy said nothing. For a moment, they flew through the late-morning rush in silence, a gentle weave between soaring towers. Panic or no panic, morning rush looked the same as ever, throbbing, alive. Below, express-ways streamed automated traffic, and maglevs whisked along elevated rails. Millions of people, all in motion.

“I don't think we're going to make it out of this,” Poole added.

“Don't say that,” Sandy murmured.

“I just don't see how it can last.”

“How long what can last?”

“Me. Being happy.” Poole had taken his time adjusting. He was only eleven years old, commissioned two years before the war's end and too young in early phase development to see any combat. He'd “grown up” in administrative mess, at the war's end, unwanted and unneeded, as most high-designation combat GIs had suddenly become. In that mess, trying to puzzle out what his life was for, made for a war that had recently ended, he'd encountered stories of Sandy Kresnov's big break for freedom in the Federation. It had seemed better than the mess he'd been in, so he left. Or so he told it.

“You're happy?” Sandy asked.

Poole shrugged. “Sure. I guess. Better than two years ago. But it doesn't seem the natural state of things, does it? I mean, it's such hard work.”

“I find it's as hard as you make it.”

Poole smiled. “Well, you're higher des than me. Things come easier.”

“Happiness is not a designation.

“If you say so.”

It took half an hour for the fight to start, Callay time, adjusted for lag. When it happened, there was very little for them all to hear, clustered into Reichardt's office on the fifth floor, where his bank of monitors made a miniature bridge for him. Even Ibrahim came down, leaning against a wall and stroking his goatee, helpless like the fifteen others in the room, as Reichardt watched the screens and doubtless wished he were up with
Mekong
. . . but
Mekong
was at full power away from Callay to effect a third-layer of interception defences if required, and God help any League cruiser that got within range of that firepower.

“Mark One is evasive,” Reichardt observed, peering at events that happened a quarter of an hour ago, millions of kilometres from Callay. Mark One was the first unidentified entry. That meant the League ships were shooting at it. “Very evasive,” Reichardt corrected, reading new data.

“Defensive weaponry?” Assistant Director Hando asked. Tall and bald, Hando was an Earth native. Upon the war's end, he'd been offered a senior political role in Mozambique, where he'd been born. Instead, he'd remained FedInt, and now FSA. “Anti-missiles?”

“No telling,” said Reichardt. “The feed's not clear, probably League jamming. Maybe . . . oh wait. Jump pulse. Next manoeuver. Counter-pulse, I think Burstie saw that . . . detonation, armament scale. League's evasive, shooting back, they're serious.”

Sandy leaned against the doorframe and said nothing. She didn't need to see the screens to read them, uplinked to internal vision, displayed across the room before her. Bursteimer's support made it four-on-two, about to be seven-on-two as the next Fleet ships came into range. Two station firepoints out that way had sent ordnance that would be arriving shortly—bundlers, Fleet called them, a package of missiles that scattered, shotgun-like, across whole sections of space, course-adjusting all the way. Two League ships had no chance, just hanging in long enough to hope for a lucky hit on their target.

Occasionally a captain would speak, a terse exchange, so laden with jargon and strained with heavy Gs it was unintelligible to any but the more experienced. Sandy translated it nearly as easily as Reichardt, having spent many hours locked in cramped ship holds, trying to follow data feeds just like this one, which would determine whether she lived or died. She'd hated it then, and hated it now. The memories brought tension, tightening her hands, dropping the redness onto her vision.

Then: “Big flash. That's a kill, he's gone.” On the screen, one of the League ships disappeared. No one celebrated. It was all so unglamorously brutal, a play of numbers and chance, the mathematics of velocity, mass and energy. The League captain gambled against high odds, and lost.

“
Yeah, scratch that
,” came Bursteimer's voice, strained at G. “
Re-calc, Caribbean is boosting to fraction five on tangential! All grids, re-calc and re-load!
” As the attack pattern swung its full force onto the remaining League vessel.

“He's boosting up,” Reichardt added, meaning the League vessel, as it pulsed its jump engines to gain velocity. “He's running, heading for jump.”

“God knows where he'll go from here,” someone muttered. “He can't do a U-turn, he's carrying too much V. He'll end up deeper in Fed space.”

Another boost, then another, and the speed became tremendous, a measurable fraction of light, racing away down the gravity slope. Then a pulse of energy, and he was gone.

“
Caribbean has hot pursuit. Nav comp to follow. See you on the other side
.”

Bursteimer would have some ideas where that League ship would arrive and would head for the most obvious, and hope to catch him there. Others were following. Well, that was the last they'd see of Bursteimer for a few weeks, at least. However annoying the man was in person, Sandy was in no doubt that Bursteimer possessed the mental stamina and discipline required to do that job, as his record indicated he did.

“Amirah,” said Ibrahim. “Make the announcement, please.” At her place beside Reichardt's desk, Amirah nodded and left.

“Hold it,” said Reichardt, and Amirah paused. He highlighted a new feed coming through. “That's Mark One. Looks like a manifest.”

There were crew names. A captain, officers . . . twenty of those, a big ship then. To get here through Federation space, hightailing it with League cruisers in pursuit, probably it was big with powerful engines. More names, regular crew . . . and passengers. Sandy's gaze froze on the first listed.

Renaldo Takewashi.

“Wow,” someone murmured. “Didn't see that one coming.”

Raylee first noticed something wrong as she walked from the bathroom to her bedroom, wrapped only in a towel. Some window blinds were open. She lived on the twenty-seventh floor of Denpasar District hub, with a partial view of a river bend, lots of nightlife, and good restaurants. But when the blinds were open, the five-star hotel guests across the road could see right in, so she usually kept them closed . . . and why hadn't the room minder polarised the windows?

Then she saw the man in the kitchen doorway, eating an apple.

“Bakav sa!” she yelped.

And froze, because her apartment was very secure, and anyone who wanted
to get past that security must be a serious operative. Serious operatives didn't mess about, so if he was going to kill her, he'd likely have done it by now. Unless he wanted information and was going to torture her first.

The man looked her up and down, munching the apple. He was powerfully built, square-jawed and handsome. A GI, she could just about smell it on him. And high designation too, given his nonchalant style and the masculine way his eyes travelled over her. It was personality, for better or worse. Lower designations didn't have it.

“Nice,” he opined. “For a straight.”

“Nice for a GI too,” she retorted, dry-mouthed and heart thumping. Maybe if he liked her, she'd be safer. GIs didn't rape, she remembered Ari saying once. Though high-des GIs were inventing new, atypical behaviours all the time. If this one wanted to, then there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it, new augmentations or not.

Augmentations! She tried her uplinks, and got . . . nothing. Not even a failed connection light, just nothing. No portal view on her vis-cue, where the graphic usually appeared to show her what connections she could make. Someone was jamming her. No prizes for guessing who. How it was possible, with Ari's various security measures built into the apartment, she wasn't qualified to guess.

The GI made a face. “GI girls aren't built like you,” he said. “You're leggy, not built for balance or speed. But you're hot, considering you're useless.”

Great, a synthetic chauvinist. And a lippy one. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

“Want to talk.” He bit the last part of the apple—so he'd been here a few minutes at least. “These are great, can I have another?”

“Sure.” Drily. Maybe she'd live through this after all. “Help yourself. Meanwhile I'm putting some clothes on.”

“Sure, spoil my day.” She headed for the bedroom. “Leave the door open. So you don't go for a gun.”

“Why would I go for a gun against a high-des GI?” she retorted, heading for the wardrobe. It was in clear line of sight through the bedroom door. She repressed the impulse for modesty, tossed the towel, and pulled on her nearest pants and top.

“Some straights panic,” the GI explained, settling on the arm of her sofa,
munching a new apple. His gaze never left her. Ari also said that GI men were not the slightest bit sexist, due to GI women being so formidable. Or did that fair-mindedness not extend to straights? “Ever have sex with a GI?”

“No.” Her heart, slowly settling, now galloped again. “And I'm not starting now.”

An offhanded shrug. “Just asking. I'm not here to hurt you.”

“Why then?” She pulled on the top and strolled back out, barefoot on the floorboards. Forcing herself to calm, recalling that a GI would see her racing pulse, with IR vision that would show the blood pumping in her veins. She was a cop, and this was an information source. Act like it, silly girl. “You're League?”

He nodded. Slightly spikey, raffishly cut hair, a jawline and neck that suggested zero excess body mass, and a ripped physique beneath shirt and jacket. Hot, it occurred to her. If she'd seen him in a club, back in the days she still went to clubs, she'd have been interested.

“You here to defect?”

He smiled. “Like Kresnov? She's an idiot.”

“Kresnov is many things,” Raylee said firmly, “but she's no idiot.”

“She wants to live famous in the bright lights,” the GI replied. “She wants to be a big hero. She doesn't like what GIs are, she wants to be free to pick flowers and join the circus. It's bullshit. We're killers. And that's okay. It's the price we pay for being superhuman. We have great lives and less choice. But rather than dealing with it, she sulks and stamps her foot and comes out here where she works as a security professional. A professional killer, yet again. So much for choice.”

He bit his apple again. Raylee padded past to the kitchen, the GI watching her all the way. “You're Internal Security Organisation,” she observed. He shrugged. “Their GIs are League patriots.”

“Plenty of military GIs too,” the man countered. Raylee poured herself some makani juice to wet her dry mouth. “League military's pretty stupid, they haven't treated their GIs the best. I get that. But they're improving a lot now. Kresnov thinks all the League GIs are going to follow her, but she's wrong. League love GIs. Federation don't. Her vision of a synthetic-friendly Federation's a mirage.”

“You came here to tell me
this
?” Raylee leaned in the doorway, sipping her juice. If this man liked her for her looks, and wasn't going to take without asking, she wasn't above exploiting it. She angled her hips, just a little.

“No. Federal Intelligence is not your friend. You know they killed the PRIDE Agent we've both been chasing? FSA called him Subject A.”

“You didn't kill him?” Just like Ari said, then. “Even though PRIDE killed Cresta?”

“It's called intelligence,” said the GI. “We gather information. It doesn't work when the source is dead. Which is likely why FedInt killed him, to stop us both from learning.”

Raylee frowned. “Us both?”

“He was talking to another GI when he was killed.” The GI's gaze held and fastened, intense for the first time. Half lidded. “What do you know about him?”

“Nothing I'm allowed to say.”

“We're not allowed to talk about him either. It makes a logjam. I can't talk, you can't talk. I think we have the same problems and enemies. So I came here.”

“Your superiors don't know?” No reply from the GI. “Ah. A free thinker.”

“FedInt knows more about that GI than they're saying. And more about the Talee.”

A silence. If there was one thing Raylee knew that she and her shiny new FSA clearance were
not
allowed to talk about, it was the Talee. Least of all with the enemy. Which she was pretty sure League still were, particularly with the way things were looking lately. Federation patriot that she was, she knew that this conversation now teetered on the verge of treason. And yet . . .

“He's our guest,” she said. “We don't tell him what to do. You know his capabilities. He comes and goes as he pleases.”

A solemn, sober stare. “I'm not sure that's wise.”

Raylee rolled her eyes a little. “Well,
obviously
the League doesn't want us friendly with Talee. You think they should be best friends with
you
. So you can get all their technology, restart the war, and wipe us out.”