Killswitch: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel Page 4

  "Fine," Reichardt said immediately. Bhargouti frowned. "Don't service them. Frankly, I don't give a pinch of sour owl crap. The only thing that's concerning me right now is this." He pointed to the line of armoured soldiers positioned about downramps and the central stairway, surveying the crowd with expressionless, visored stares. "Fleet protocol don't allow the dock to be blockaded, sir, not in peacetime and not in war. Admiral Duong is obliged to clear this dock, one way or the other. Now first and foremost, I don't want anyone hurt here, and I don't want anything happening that leads to something else happening, and then before you know it, we're all neck deep in cowshit, you got that?"

  "Let 'em come!" someone shouted. "Let 'em try and move us, just come and try!" Some cheers went up, but the enthusiasm was by no means universal.

  "Son," said Reichardt, turning in the direction of that outburst, "don't be a damn fool. You've made your point, you got the media their pretty pictures ..." with a nod toward the small group of station media people, now manoeuvring for an angle on this new confrontation, but blocked by the surrounding wall of protesters, "... and staying here's only going to cost jobs, money, and a bunch of broken skulls. Don't service their damn ships if that makes you happy-they can do it themselves, they have the personnel if they have to. But let's not start something nasty here that we'll all regret later because we couldn't put common sense ahead of emotion."

  "Five of our people were assaulted!" shouted a woman from Reichardt's left, elbowing her way to the front. "Three are still hospitalised! We're not the ones putting emotion ahead of common sense!"

  "All the captains have spoken about that situation at length, I can assure you none of us are happy about it. But ma'am, when emotions run high like this, I can only suggest that dockworkers don't hurl insults at marines in bars-marines aren't known for walking away from fights, and they're not known for losing them, either ..."

  "One of those in hospital is a fourteen-year-old boy!" the woman retorted hotly. "The doctor says he was kicked at least ten times once he was down. Now what the hell could he have said to a group of Fleet marines to have deserved that treatment?"

  Reichardt stared at her for a long moment, as the crowd rumbled and muttered, darkly. Then he turned his stare upon Bhargouti, questioningly. Bhargouti nodded.

  "Rahul Bharti," he confirmed. "Green sector quartermasters's son. Real smartarse, sure. But just a kid, being stupid."

  Reichardt felt a slow, burning anger building from somewhere deep in his gut. He didn't bother to hide it. "I'll find out who did it," he said. And turned a hard-eyed stare upon the woman who had spoken. She seemed somewhat surprised at his reaction. And, perhaps, a little intimidated. "They'll answer for it. I promise."

  There was a low, murmuring silence. Bhargouti just looked at him, arms folded across a broad chest, eyes full of consideration.

  "We'll talk about it," Bhargouti said then. "Give us a few minutes."

  "Sure." Reichardt clapped his hands. "That'd be fine ... ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening, y'all just take all the time you need. Excuse me, please." He began moving through the crowd toward the cordon of soldiers, as senior dockworkers converged about Bhargouti. Third Fleet or not, he still received many dirty looks from the parting crowd as he passed. He did not, however, feel a need to glance around and check his blindspots. That was what Lieutenant Nadaja and her squad were for.

  He arrived at the bottom of the ramp that led up to the massive, reinforced bulkhead between the FS Amazon and the station, the enormous mass of warship held suspended in one rotational gravity by several huge support gantries. At the top of the ramp, the main airlock was sealed shut, and further guarded by several more armoured marines.

  "I'd like a word with Admiral Duong," Reichardt said to the foremost sergeant on guard at the bottom of the ramp, who saluted. Reichardt returned it.

  "The Admiral is indisposed, Captain," said the sergeant, his voice muffled within the harsh, unwelcoming faceplate and breather. His eyes were barely visible behind the reinforced, graphically overlaid visor.

  "We have civilian media at six o'clock, Sergeant," Reichardt returned. "A prolonged disagreement at your dock between me and you will surely make headlines. Is it your duty to create divisive headlines on Callay?"

  "No, Captain."

  "Please contact the Admiral." The sergeant retreated several steps up the ramp, turning his armoured back to further muffle any conversation that followed. Reichardt folded his hands to the small of his back, and waited. Lieutenant Nadaja and her marines continued to scan up and down the enormous, busy, curved expanse of dock, looking for vehicles, piles of cargo cans, dockfront doors or windows-anything that might give vantage to a hidden observer. Local security had issued a sniper alert for the docks nearly twenty-four hours ago, and while they seemed to be doing a good job of containing the problem, no one was taking any chances. Or rather, Nadaja had curtly observed in private just twenty minutes ago, no one except her stupid, stubborn Captain Reichardt was taking any chances, ordering an away mission without full armour, and wouldn't it just be her luck if some halftrained civvie terrorist managed to achieve what League marines, warships and GIs hadn't managed in ten years of war ...

  The Amazon lieutenant turned and beckoned to Reichardt, who followed him up the ramp, Nadaja's contingent behind. The heavy, double-sided airlock hummed open, revealing a harshly lit passage beyond. That passage in turn connected to a white, retractable passage with accordian walls and a narrow metal walkway along the middle. Breath frosted in minus twenty degrees celsius, the familiar chill pinching the cheeks, numbing the fingers. Then through the heavy, double-reinforced main hatch of the warship itself, and along narrow, familiar grey-metal passageways, ducking bulkheads and dodging saluting crew at regular intervals.

  The Admiral's quarters were just off the bridge. Reichardt waited alone, Nadaja and her marines waiting in the mustering hall near the main airlock, as was customary for the escorts of Fleet captains. The Amazon marine knocked, his armour rattling. Passing crew gave wary, distrustful looks. The door hummed open. The lieutenant saluted, and departed with a thumping of armoured footsteps.

  The Admiral's quarters were as sparse and cramped as any on board a warship. Admiral Duong rose from the chair at his narrow workdesk as Reichardt entered, plain and unadorned in a simple jumpsuit and jacket. They exchanged salutes. Reichardt's was calm and measured. Duong's, stiff and sharp. His angular, Asiatic features were drawn in an expression of hard displeasure.

  "Captain. What brings you to my dock?"

  "Sir," said Reichardt, carefully, "I thought I could be of assistance."

  "I did not ask for your intervention, Captain."

  "I thought it prudent." The look in Duong's eyes might have reduced many other Fleet officers to nervous trembles. Reichardt felt only caution. And that too, he knew, was a reason he'd been chosen to play this most unwelcome of parts. "Have the protesters dispersed?"

  "They are beginning to," Duong replied coldly, in a tone that suggested he hardly thought it mattered. "Your infamous initiative reaches new heights, Captain. I wonder what you shall try next, beyond your authority?"

  "I have all the authority you do, Admiral."

  "You are a captain," snapped Duong. "In this room, on this ship, you should know your place."

  Reichardt held his tongue, lest he say some things he would doubtless come to regret. Besides, he was in no mood to start cursing Duong when the choicest of his curses were reserved for the spineless cowards back in HQ who hadn't had the guts to assign anyone above the rank of captain for these duties. Everyone knew that Supreme Admiral Bertali and his little gang of pro-Earth hardliners were behind the Fifth Fleet's move on Callay. Bertali's gang were a minority among senior officers, but still the rest of HQ were running scared, and no line admiral worth his or her salt had volunteered for the job of keeping an eye on Duong. And so it had fallen to the Callayan System resident, Captain Reichardt, whose notorious involvement in certain incidents two
years before had kept him locked in local orbit, answering charges and political attacks from all sides.

  The normal course of action would have been for the captain to be stood down, and answer the allegations in person while removed from duty. Instead, Fleet HQ had simply made FS Mekong's Callayan posting permanent. Thus he had become something of a celebrity over the last two years, and gained a great deal of access to various Callayan leaders, including those in charge of establishing the new, controversial Callayan Defence Force. And seeing that he'd become something of a local expert on what was euphemistically known as the "Callayan problem," HQ had begun deferring to his expertise on the matter ... not that they'd ever have dared to actually promote him in accordance with his new importance. Thus, when the Fifth had arrived in system a little over a month ago, it had fallen to the reliable Captain Reichardt to figure out how to deal with the problem. Damn right HQ trusted him. They trusted him so much that all responsibility for decisions made were his, not theirs. He took the brunt of Duong's tempers. He would take the blame if Duong went too far. And he would be the most visible member of any opposition to the Supreme Admiral and his hardline cronies. The sheer cowardice took his breath away.

  "Admiral," Reichardt said, "are you aware of the case regarding a fourteen-year-old boy named Rahul Bharti?"

  "The matter is being looked at. Is that the only reason you're here?"

  "This behaviour from Fifth Fleet personnel on station will not help your cause, Admiral ..."

  "Are you accusing me of direct responsibility?" Duong said angrily, his dark eyes flashing.

  "What is an officer," Reichardt said coolly, "if not the defining example of `direct responsibility'?"

  Duong glared. "Captain, maybe you should take a look around. The current climate of Callay verges on sedition! This is not a world of strength and conviction, this is a world of decadence and privilege. While Earth was losing millions in the struggle, they danced and partied and got high on mind-bending stimulants ... and now they want to control the Fleet? Where did they earn this right? And what on Earth could they have done to have earned the support of any Fleet officer? Particularly an Earth native like yourself, with a war record as esteemed as your own?"

  "Democracy is democracy, Admiral," said Reichardt. "The Federation has voted ... and wouldn't you know it, there's three times more Feddie citizens now who don't live on Earth than those who do. I'm a soldier of the Federation, I serve all Federation citizens, and quite frankly, Admiral, I don't see what my place of birth has to do with anything."

  "You have no authority to obstruct me," Duong retorted sharply.

  "You have no authority to even be here," Reichardt replied.

  "My authority comes directly from Supreme Admiral Bertali, Captain Reichardt."

  "And his comes from the Grand Council, who haven't said a word because they're deadlocked and pathetic, as usual. Yours is the authority of default, Admiral. It doesn't qualify."

  Fifth Fleet Admiral and Third Fleet Captain locked stares for ten straight seconds. Duong then took a deep breath, and turned to his workdesk. There were photographs clipped into magnetic holders upon the wall above the desk. Faces of Fleet officers, some smiling but mostly not.

  "I was in the war from the beginning," Duong said in a quiet, contemplative tone that did not quite disguise the steel beneath his words. "Thirty years and countless friends, it cost me. I remember what it was all for, Captain, even if others might have forgotten. The war was to save humanity from being warped by runaway technology into something unrecognisable. Now, people think that we have won, and that's that. They forget that the price of peace is constant vigilance, even in peacetime."

  He swung back around to face Reichardt. "There is a GI, Captain, effectively running the Callayan Defence Force. An ex-League GI, from Dark Star itself. And would you believe it, she's becoming popular." He nearly spat out the word, as if it caused him pain. "As if it were a contest of celebrities. As if suddenly it does not matter what she is, and what she represents for the future of all humanity. This is the vector that the new Federation would take. As if the old ideals for which so many of us fought and died were all for nothing. Do you think they're all for nothing, Captain? Or does the concept not bother your moderate, liberal soul?"

  "I've met the GI in question, Admiral," Reichardt replied calmly. "I find her to be a very decent person. The Federation I believe in is one where decent people are well done by. Whatever other baggage you choose to attach to it is your concern."

  "Decency is no test," Duong said sombrely. "Most people are decent, whichever side they fight for. In our duties, Captain, we have caused the deaths of a great many decent League soldiers. It does not change the fact that the regime and ideologies that they served would have taken the human species in abominable directions. If the war taught me one lesson, it is that values must be fought for or surrendered. The defeat of the League does not make that adage any less true today."

  "And if we cease to be soldiers, Admiral?" said Reichardt. "If we cease to serve the oath that we swore to? What shall become of our precious Federation then?"

  Duong looked him straight in the eye, with utter conviction. "A Federation that works actively against the interests of the motherworld," he said firmly, "is not something that I would any longer wish to be a part of."

  "Maybe I should move out," said Rhian, gazing inscrutably at her hand of cards. Anita sat opposite her at the living room coffee table, her own cards grasped between fingers adorned with rainbow-coloured nails, toying with the similarly colourful beads that sprouted from tufts of hair on an otherwise shorn scalp.

  "Why?" asked Sandy with a frown, pausing midchew, her dinner plate on her lap. She sat upon one of the lounge chairs around the coffee table, in the centre of the main room of the house she called home. The floors were wood, the walls a stylish, rough-hewn red brick with mottled dark patches. To the front of the living room were broad windows opening onto a balcony, profuse foliage of the garden beyond, and all contained behind the high stone walls that typified the high-security suburb of Canas. Vanessa moved in the adjoining kitchen, mixing herself and Sandy drinks to go with their meal, which Anita had made for them the old-fashioned way-by hand, on the bare flame of the gas stove.

  "I am a League GI," Rhian said matter-of-factly. "Unlike you, I am still in the service of the League. I am living in your house."

  "It's your house too," Sandy objected.

  "It's the government's house," Rhian corrected her. "You and Vanessa are here because you are important government officers. I am here because you are here. An afterthought."

  "Chu, you're not a damn afterthought! I mean Rhian." Correcting herself with frustration-Chu hadn't gone by her old surname for two years now, preferring her given name in her new, civilian surroundings. She sat comfortably now on the living room rug by the coffee table, dressed in stylish black pants and a black silk shirt. A lean arm hooked over one upraised knee, holding her cards. Her beautiful, Chinese features were well suited to the fashionably short cut of her black hair, her expression as cool and untroubled as ever, eyes fixed upon her cards.

  GIs had that look about them, even without the benefit of superenhanced vision displaying the lower body temperature, and the lack of a jugular pulse. Just the way they sat, and moved, shifted their gaze from one object of consideration to the next. Sandy knew she looked like that herself, to another person's eyes. Anita shifted from time to time, moving her weight to prevent bad circulation, or muscle tiredness, or other aches and pains from developing. Rhian sat relatively motionless. Not like a statue. More like an effortlessly poised, presently dormant bundle of energy. Just waiting for a chance to explode.

  Rhian's arrival on Callay had been the single most wonderful development of the last two years. Sandy had thought she'd lost everything from those years in the service of the League, all her old friends and comrades from Dark Star. She'd not come to know or like them all, not by any means. But with Rhian Chu, she'd had nearly
three years of connection and slowly developing friendship ... and three years in Dark Star had felt like twenty in most other places. While the rest of her team had been murdered by their own commanders, during those final, desperate days of the losing war, a small group, unbeknownst to her, had survived.

  When the smoke cleared, Rhian had wound up under the ISO's wing. Once the ISO discovered her old commander had resurfaced, somewhat spectacularly, in the Callayan capital of Tanusha, they'd been only too quick to assign Rhian to the command of Major Ramoja, and reunite the old friends once more. Perhaps, Sandy reflected, they'd expected gratitude. Perhaps an opportunity to influence her opinions and actions, within her new role of authority on Callay. For her part, Sandy saw no reason to thank the murdering bastards who ruled over all matters of artificial humanity in the League for anything. They'd established a link between their own operative, in Rhian, and herself. It got them regular reports, and calmed the nerves of security operatives on all sides, who became very nervous in an information vacuum. That ought to be enough for them. She had her old friend Rhian back. That was certainly enough for her.

  "Well, thank you for saying so," Rhian said, with a faint smile. Selected two cards from her hand, and placed them face down upon the table. "But the fact remains that if you were not my friend, then I would not be here. And if the politicians who are so scared about League influence on Callay learned that I was sharing your house, there could be further trouble. Couldn't there?"

  As she resettled two new cards into her hand, and Anita unloaded two of her own, Anita met Sandy's gaze with a brief, intrigued smile. Far less concerned with politics, Sandy knew, than fascinated with Rhian's increasing self-confidence in her own powers of analysis where civilians were concerned. Her development, Sandy had to admit, had been remarkable. From a total novice in all civilian matters, in the space of two years Rhian had progressed to the point where local events no longer disturbed or puzzled her with the same regularity as before. Anita now teased Sandy, from time to time, that Rhian had now overtaken her ex-captain in some civilian matters-such as fashion sense. Looking at her friend's stylish black outfit, Sandy could only agree. But then, in some regards, that was Rhian-utterly meticulous and precise with the small details, yet often missing the broader picture.