Crossover (11 page)

"The League military structure is not the fascist dictatorship that Confederacy propaganda might have you believe, Your Honour. I was an officer among other officers, some human, others augmented like myself. Our every thought was not war, death and destruction. We had our entertainments, like any military. Most watched the vids, or did VR simulations, direct interface or otherwise. I roamed the library archives." Another faint smile, mildly self-deprecating. "I'm rather well read, actually."

"Then you would know Shakespeare?" Guderjaal pressed. "The
Ramayana
?"

Sandy nodded. "Yes ... and Pushkin, and Tagore, Narayan and the Mughal poets from your own culture too, Your Honour." Guderjaal blinked in utter astonishment. "I used to quote lines, occasionally, in my periodic general reports. Confused the hell out of the psychs, I'm sure."

"A chimpanzee can read Shakespeare or Oscar Wilde, Captain Kresnov," the big man interrupted. "Understanding them is another matter."

Sandy blinked, somewhat taken aback. "Your Honour, if manners maketh man, as someone once said, then I am surely more human than you."

The Arabic woman grinned outright, repressing it with difficulty. Guderjaal just looked at her, eyebrows raised high, as if lost in thought, or a sudden realisation. The big man merely glowered.

"Captain Kresnov," he said after a moment of narrow-eyed reflection, "I do not doubt your sentience. I doubt your right to exercise it."

Sandy's eyes narrowed in return. "My right?" she said disbelievingly.

"Your right," the judge repeated, firm and hard. "Callay is a civilised world, as are the other worlds of the greater Federation. Our respective constitutions are founded not only upon the responsibility of the State toward the individual, but the responsibility of the individual toward the State. Some individual freedoms must be sacrificed for the good of the whole. For this reason, ordinary civilians cannot own or purchase weapons without special permits, about which there are rigid regulations. For the same reasons, ordinary civilians cannot gain surgical augmentations beyond a certain level, because some of those capabilities may legally qualify their own bodies as lethal weapons.

"But you, Captain, you
are
a lethal weapon, with or without firearms. There is no single part of you that has not been designed with that single purpose in mind."

"Your Honour ..." Sandy began.

"Tell me what my current body temperature is, Captain," the man continued. "Tell me now."

Sandy's lips pursed to a thin line. The other two judges watched impassively. She tuned her vision, shading to reds, golds and blues. "From what I can see, it's thirty-seven point two five degrees."

"Good. Where did I last have surgery, of what you can see?"

"You have broken your left collarbone. It's an old injury, fully healed."

"Except for the faintest of joins and blood vessel displacements where the residual effects of bio-engineering have lowered that region's ambient blood temperature, yes. I broke it playing football when I was twelve. How many residual energy emissions do you perceive currently operating within this courtroom?"

Sandy shook her head, her jaw firmly set. "The shielding is too strong."

"I did not ask you to judge their strength, Captain, merely to give a number."

"Your Honour ..." looking exasperatedly at Guderjaal.

"Please answer the questions, Captain," Guderjaal said. Sandy exhaled hard.

"More than ten."

"Such modesty, Captain. You know very well there are in fact sixteen, don't you?" She gave a flat, disinterested shrug. "And finally, please show the court your little trick with your trigger fingers? Both, if you please, since you are ninety-nine point eight percent ambidextrous."

Sandy stared at him. Angry. It showed in her eyes, despite her control. To his credit, the big man appeared not to notice.

"Whenever you're ready, Captain."

Reluctantly, Sandy raised both arms, wrists bound before her and tightly encased. Spread the fingers on both hands. And moved both index fingers in a hard, tense reflex. They blurred back and forth so fast as to vanish before the naked eye. And she stopped, resettling the brace on her white-robed thigh. The other two judges were watching with eyebrows raised. Sandy continued to stare at the big judge, totally unimpressed.

"At that speed," he said, "I'm reliably informed that you could empty a twenty-five-round pistol clip nearly as fast as an automatic assault rifle — all twenty-five rounds in less than a second. Provided you did not wear out the trigger mechanism first, that is. And at a wild guess, I'd suppose that all twenty-five rounds would pass more or less through the same impact hole, wouldn't they Captain? Even from range."

"And your point is?" Sandy asked.

"My point, Captain, is that you are dangerous. That particular index finger reflex has no other purpose than to assist you in the operation of modern firearms. It does not exist on any of your other fingers. It is a custom design, specifically tailored to suit your purposes.

"And I need not remind my colleagues of the reinforced alloy blast door that you ripped from its hinges during your headlong flight from the FIA agents with only five well-placed kicks. You possess skills and capabilities that no member of any civilised society should possess, even its soldiers. Here in the Confederation there is legal precedent for this. The laws of the Confederation make every effort to uphold the notion of 'humanity' as more than just a word, and to preserve it against the encroaching tide of synthetic technology.

"You, Captain Kresnov, clearly fall outside of this definition. The very act of your creation was an insult to the morals and principles that Confederation law holds dear. In a truly civilised society, Captain Kresnov, you would not exist."

The big man was clearly far, far more than mere threat and bluster. He had succeeded in doing something that she had not thought him capable of. He had frightened her.

Again, the judges glanced downward. They were monitoring her fear. Doubtless expecting some explosion of mindless violence, despite the drugs, the restraints and the guards nearby with their stunners.

"You may well be right," she replied instead. Her voice was not holding out so well now — hoarse, and with a hint of a quaver. She needed a drink. "Don't think that I haven't thought of that." She paused. Feeling their eyes upon her. Studying her. Not for the first time, she wondered what they saw, or thought they saw.

"But here I am. I had no more say in my own creation than any of you did. I exist. I am sentient. And given the chance, I would claim before the highest ideals of your legal system that I do, in fact, have rights." Deathly silence. She fancied she could even hear the guards behind her as they breathed. "In what brief time I had to myself in your city, I was enjoying life. I searched for a job, a job I would have done extremely well had I got it. I saw some sights, and enjoyed the art gallery. Once I threw a football with some children. And once I made love."

She looked at the three of them, one after another. Her eyes were hurting. Not leaking ... just hurting. "I have no desire to hurt anyone. And I have no political motivation left. I am no danger to anyone or anything. And it is your fear, not my reality, that makes you think otherwise. I only wish to be left alone."

"Captain ..." Guderjaal broke off, glancing down at his screen. And back up again, his expression sombre. "Given what you are, and where you are, that hardly seems likely. Does it?"

"No." Her voice broke, and she recovered it. "No, Your Honour. I don't suppose it does."

CHAPTER 5

There was nothing on TV. Nothing much anyway. She surfed channels, uplinked to room central. Images flashed by, millisecond fast. Dancing. Colourful costumes. More dancing. Martial arts action. She paused for a second and studied a scene. Two fighters, both men, hammering the crap out of each other to apparently little effect. Ludicrous. And they were so slow. Not to mention ridiculously flamboyant. Looking good, apparently, was more important than getting it right.

She continued surfing, seated legs out on the sofa, cushions propped with great care to support her sore, stiff, heavily bandaged body. Heavy bandage wrap showed thickly beneath the hem of her robe, further stiffening knees that were already near impossible to bend. She kept her arms folded with determination, whatever the pain, unwilling to allow the elbows to stiffen straight. It hurt, drugs and all. Days partly or mostly unconscious. More days since the courtroom interview. Follow-up questions from CSA reviewers. Court-appointed psych-specialists. Biotech experts. Even an NGO head on prisoner rights.

Do you have any complaints about your treatment, Ms Kresnov?

Sure. The door's locked.

Not like she was in any shape to walk out of it, even if it wasn't. She knew she should be happy. The pain meant she was healing, as did the stiffness. Djohan was incredulous at the speed. Had wanted to take blood samples and scan measurements. Had come, in fact, between interviews, just an hour ago and begged for her permission. She'd told him she'd tell the next government biotech reviewer who came in, and then he'd find himself investigated for collecting illegal research data. He'd retreated. After all, that was exactly what the FIA had been doing to her. Collecting illegal data. Things they weren't supposed to know. Things no Federation person or organisation was supposed to know. Wilful, legally enforced ignorance. Djohan evidently found it hard to swallow. So, she knew for certain, did much of the Federation private sector.

Her left hand was numb. She abandoned her channel-surfing for a moment and examined it, lifting it to the golden sunlight that flooded from the windows behind the sofa. Her shoulder creaked like a rusty iron hinge. Flexed the fingers, one at a time. Coordination was down. Sluggish. Just the drugs, Djohan had said. They went after the left side of her body more, for some reason. He'd wanted to do tests on that too. Fat fucking chance.

She knew the basics, roughly. Artificial proteins, enzymes, hybrid-cells, micro-engineered biology and self-regulatory mechanisms ... basic biosynth tech. Federation was already pretty good at most of those basics. She doubted Djohan could really learn much from her. There were plenty of legal applications here, from disease and injury treatments to life-extensions, to all forms of augmentation from cosmetic to medical to performance enhancing — all legal in the Federation. Consumers did vote, after all, and every year new laws pushed those self-inflicted boundaries. A bloody mess, all those laws. Terror at the prospect of artificial people. And difficult to find anyone in the League who didn't think it'd all collapse eventually. League foreign policy already focused on that expectation, she knew only too well. In the meantime, her limbs stiffened, her tendons reknitted, and any idiot knew synthetic materials fixed themselves ten times faster than organic — it was another of those advantages that so scared the Feddie lawmakers. Lucky her, to be so advanced. Lucky girl.

She flicked to network uplinks — and winced in extreme displeasure as the insert plug overrode her browser software. As good as an iron cage, the whole vastness of the network was lost to her, inaccessible. Frustrating as hell, automatic censorship plugged into the back of her skull, more effective than a pair of handcuffs. But for a few select links ... she scanned on automatic, vaguely interested to see what they'd left open to her of all the possible selections. Library functions. Basic entertainment. No high-level VR ... no loss, it didn't work well on her anyway. Live newsfeeds from various sources, though largely official and generalised, and thus heavily processed for commercial tastes. Waste of time, might as well watch TV. Games. Tourist info. Adult entertainment ... God, they shouldn't have put that up, it only frustrated her further. Celibate for over a week now. A real suicide-trigger, that was. She couldn't even bend her legs, let alone spread them.

Parliament hookup. She shoved sardonic humour to one side and accessed. Got an internal visual of the main Parliament chamber, a broad semicircle of ascending benches facing a Speaker's chair and middle table. Lots of politicians, lots of suits, salwar kameez and saris, and other traditional dress she didn't recognise. There appeared to be a debate in progress. Tax reform, she found with a link to adjoining text-database. Curious as she was about civilian political process, she wasn't
that
curious.

She chose a camera angle instead and scanned the Government front bench. Came to rest on the red-haired woman in the big chair. President Neiland. Zoomed closer. Neiland's features were pale, handsome and strong. Thoughtful now, as she leafed through some documents, half listening to her colleague's speech at the podium beside her chair.

Sandy accessed another text-link and more info sprang up. Katia Neiland. Forty-two years old, Doctorate with Honours in Communications Law, Ramprakash University ... Class Dux. That meant best in class, she gathered. Youngest ever Union Party leader. Youngest ever Callayan President. Due for re-election in twelve months. An opinion poll graphic showed job approval at 78 percent, personal approval at 51 percent (curious discrepancy, she thought), and likelihood of re-election for Union under her leadership at 64 percent.

She watched for a long moment, internal visual. Wondering what Neiland had thought of her interview before the Supreme Court. Or interrogation, more precisely. The Union Party was the mainstay of Callayan politics. There were factions, but on issues like biotech they mostly stood together. The Progress Party was the main opposition. Not League-sympathetic, that was misleading. Just 'progressive', whatever that meant. She could expect more sympathy, ideologically speaking, from Progress. Union had the voters, by a wide margin. And Neiland was a technocrat, doubtless the present tax-reform debate held her attention longer. She'd take her advisors' advice on security matters, no doubt. So who advised her?

She switched cameras again and found a better angle. Panned until she found a tall man in a blue suit, clipped dark hair and bland expression. Benjamin Grey, secretary of state. The CSA answered to him — he'd have the last say on this kind of thing. She scrolled through the text-link ... and abruptly lost the whole feed, a sudden, disorienting collapse to static confusion.

"You fucking morons!" she shouted to the empty room. "How can I become a model Federation citizen if you won't let me learn about the political system?" Glaring at the space where her emissions-detection knew one of the numerous cameras to be, high in a corner. No reply. "Fools."

She'd complain about it, when she got the chance. It was her only resort, complaints. It made her feel cheap. She slumped back against the cushions, arms folded tightly, trying to ignore the wrenching tightness across her bandage-swathed shoulders and back. Microsystems at work, repairing her tormented body. But she didn't want to think of that. She was a special ops commander, not a technobiologist. And the memories hurt far too much.

She flipped on the TV again, desperate to take her mind off other things, bothering things. Normally she preferred music, but she wanted to keep her eyes occupied. Found a sports channel ... tennis, she remembered the game was called. And spent the next ten minutes marvelling that even augmented human nervous systems were so imprecise that top players needed to hit the ball so far inside the lines to stay in the points. There was obviously no room for GIs in sport either. Ninety-nine out of a hundred tennis points wouldn't get past the serve. No matter where she looked, she couldn't help but find evidence of how unwelcome she was here. Funny how a week could change that perception so drastically. It had all looked so beautiful a week ago.

"
Cassandra
," announced an unexpected voice over the room audio, "
you have some visitors here. Please be courteous
."

"Sure," she muttered, not taking her eyes from the screen. "I'll refrain from bodily tearing them limb from limb." The door opened with a heavy clack of reinforced locks, and a pair of CSA guards entered, stun pistols in hand. She ignored them. A man and a woman followed them in.

"Hello Cassandra," said the man, with surprising confidence. "I'm Aw Sian Thiaw. I'm an advisor to President Neiland."
That
got her attention. "And this is Mahudmita Rafasan, the President's senior legal advisor." Doubly so. She stared in wary surprise. "Can we take a seat?"

Her usual sarcastic affirmative failed her this time. Thiaw sat anyway in one of the two opposing single leather chairs, and Rafasan took the other. Sandy stared at Rafasan in particular. She was one of those immaculately dressed Indian women only rarely seen in the League, where such ostentatious cultural displays were hardly vogue. Her sari was a blaze of red, orange and gold, intriguingly patterned. Gold bracelets and bangles chimed on her wrists, and a simple stud gleamed on the side of her nose. Saffron daubed the centre spot of her forehead. Brown skinned and dark eyed, hair tastefully arranged beneath the sari's veil, she was the picture of South Asian feminine elegance. Sandy blinked again. In the League, senior government officials simply did not dress like that, be they Indian or otherwise. Tanusha, she was gathering, was different.

"So, Cassandra," Thiaw said, leaning forward from the edge of his chair, elbows on knees, his face a model of well-practised, professional charm. "How are you being treated here? Well?"

A small man — Rafasan had stood an elegant half head taller. Also brown skinned, but East Asian features. Which could have meant anything. Guessing ethnicity was one of Sandy's favourite distractions, and here in the Federation ethnicity was so much more pronounced. And celebrated. Thiaw's suit was bland and flawless, his hair neat and short. Young, she reckoned, especially for such an important position. And very confident for someone in the presence of a GI for the first time. Rafasan fidgeted with her many bangles, and chewed on the inside of her lip.

"What does the President want with me?" Sandy asked. Thiaw pursed his lips, considering her. Spared Rafasan a meaningful glance. Rafasan's return look was wary. Thiaw straightened, still perched on the edge of his chair, hands on knees.

"Cassandra ... forgive me if this sounds condescending, but there's no other Way for me to ask this question of you ... How much do you know about politics? And how much were you exposed to in the League?"

It rang an alarm bell immediately. The courtroom. It had to be.

"What kind of trouble has that interrogation landed me in?"

Thiaw stared at her for a moment, almost surprised. Rafasan's fidgeting increased. Thiaw exhaled hard, a big heave of small shoulders.

"So you
do
know politics. What do you know about Callayan politics?" Not enough, and she knew it. Military reflexes kicked in, the need for a wider briefing.

"Enlighten me. Please." Guderjaal, her racing mind assured her, had most likely been safe. Ditto the Arabic judge. But the big, heavy-set man with the ruddy face ... who backed him? How were judges appointed in Tanusha? What had that hostility been about, specifically? And why had these two senior advisors suddenly dropped into her lap? She didn't like the implications one bit. Her ignorance made it worse.

"Okay," said Thiaw, leaning forward even further, hands mobile before him, "I'll try and keep it simple, not because I think you're stupid, but because otherwise I'll be here all week." That, Sandy thought, was not a comforting beginning. "First thing: Union Party." A firm, definite indication with both hands. "They're the big deal. Sixty percent support base, they control the legislature. Now, being so big, they've got factions. The left are the cultural conservatives, anti-League, anti-biotech, anti-GI, all the religious groups are behind them — that's the core of Union support, probably half. The right are more moderate. The Centrists don't give a shit either way — they practise what the inner circle refers to as 'pragmatic indifference'. President Neiland's a Centrist. Generally. You copy?"

Sandy nodded slowly. Finding something more than vaguely incongruous in the situation — herself, bandaged and mostly immobile on the sofa, wrapped only in a bathrobe, being briefed on the Callayan political establishment by two of its more prominent insiders. Like a pair of religious preachers, attempting a conversion of a most unlikely neophyte. Not merely a GI, but a grunt-in-general. But Thiaw was clearly headed somewhere. Surely he hadn't risen to his present position at such a young age by not being headed somewhere every time he opened his mouth.

"Progress are the other main mob. They've got factions too ... all you really need to know is that they're the ones who are usually accused of being too close to the League. Settlers' spirit, advance or bust, Earth has too much influence, Callay for Callayans ... you get the idea, all the usual self-indulgent euphoria. Of course, they're not allowed to indicate direct support for the League, even though some of their factions clearly sympathise, but they're not so big on central restrictions, including biotech restrictions ... it's basically a League-ish platform. And I'm sure you're pretty familiar with that, right?"

"Sure." And because she figured a greater show of understanding might be called for ... "League was founded on those principles. Fifty years of debate on whether or not to settle the border stars created a huge divide between expansionist idealists and cultural conservatives. Idealists went League, cultural conservatives stayed Federation, thus the split."

"Of course, sure. Great." With hand-heavy emphasis on each, apparently relieved to know he wasn't completely wasting his time. "Now, Cassandra ... here's the problem. The CSA needs you, Cassandra. Director Ibrahim has especially put in a good word for you. He's very alarmed at this FIA infiltration and wants all the help you can give him. But now we've had the official court hearing, and your case is running around in legal and security circles within the Parliament, Cassandra ... that's not the whole Parliament, your case is still very restricted, but the number of people now involved has increased ... well, it's increased a lot."