Eventually the tightness began to fade, first from the hip and lower back, then from the extremities. Her right knee began to bend, and she pulled it up. It came reluctantly, like a stuck door hinge. Grabbed her shin with both hands and pulled, drawing the knee up against her chest, armoured thigh-guard heavy against her bare singlet, bare arms straining to keep the knee from springing back out again. The resistance slowly faded, as did the worst of the pain.

"Okay now?" Vanessa asked. Sandy looked up at her. A crowd had gathered, half of SWAT Four, some half-armoured, others like Vanessa sweaty and crumpled in their undershirts and tangled bio-sensors.

"Yeah." Released her leg and got her elbows under her as Vanessa came scampering around to her side. "Jesus, if you see that happen again, don't come rushing in. I could get a convulsion or a sudden unlock, it'd take your head off."

"Can you move?" Zago was at her other side, the two of them working on her armour buckles, clacking open the connections.

"What brought that on?" Vanessa, she thought, looked quite shocked. She didn't like that. She sometimes suspected that Vanessa hadn't necessarily accepted what she really was, but had rather chosen to overlook it a "I'm okay," she said with some irritation, choosing not to a.s.sist them with her armour for now. "I'm just overworked, I haven't been stretching properly a"

"s.h.i.t, you mean this is going to happen a lot?" Vanessa retorted with alarm.

"No, just after I get shot and keep working like nothing's happened a"

"You got shot!" Incredulously. "When! Where?"

"LT," Zago said calmly, working to get Sandy's boot ties unhooked, it couldn't have been in our furball, none of them fired a shot."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Accusingly. "Jesus, you can't just keep running around after you get shot, Sandy, what the f.u.c.k were you thinking! I'd never have let you take point if I'd known a"

"Exactly why I didn't tell you," Sandy retorted, "you're not qualified to know what difference it makes, Ricey, I am."

"Qualified? I'm your d.a.m.n CO, that's all the qualification I need "Vanessa, just a" Sandy winced, holding up a forestalling right hand, "a just stay a little calm, huh? I'm a GI, you seem to keep forgetting a "Forgetting! Christ, how can I forget? You get shot and you're off running around like an action hero a where'd you get shot? How?"

"As soon as you've calmed down a little, I'll tell you everything."

"She's right, LT," said Singh, squatting nearby with observant interest. "You're getting hysterical." Vanessa glared at him.

"You shut the f.u.c.k up."

lie Doghouse was as chaotic as she'd seen it. Med ward was filled with minor cases, exhausted SWAT grunts treating various sprains, strains and armour stresses. All found time to watch with interest as she was found a table and duly set upon by several enthusiastic medics, who were joined in short time by the resident augment-surgeon, then two a.s.sistants, then a biotech specialist who appeared out of breath, having evidently run down from Intel to "a.s.sist" a while she lay almost naked on the exam bench and tried not to feel ridiculous amid the crush.

Treatments and technical possibilities were offered, and questions asked a when directed at her, she mostly just shrugged helplessly and reminded them tiredly that she was a grunt, not a doctor. Previous midriff bandaging was cut away, wounds inspected, recleaned-provoking argument over correct disinfectant, with added earnestness due to the enhanced GI vulnerability to microorgan isms-and then basic electro-stim applied. Someone found a sonicscanner and wheeled it over, and then began mapping with the handset to compile a three-dimensional picture. After a search someone found the benex supply they'd ordered from labs especially for her-a myomer relaxant, they called it benex for short. Sandy knew little beyond that, except that it'd always been used for short term relief from extreme stresses. More discussion over dosage and location of hypo-shots, about which she was more useful, having had plenty back League-side.

Basic stress relief achieved, then came the full physical a blood pressure, pulse rate, nervous feedback, blood chemistry-the basics were very human-ish, and provoked further intrigue from surrounding meds, and no few of the present, aching SWATs. Yes, she replied to one curious question, her chin rested on folded hands upon the bench, GIs did get sick, especially if they didn't exercise, eat well, or suffered vitamin deficiencies. Yes, she'd several times had flu, or something close to it. GI immune systems were heavily engineered and required frequent boosts, artificial micros simply didn't handle virus and organic micros as well as straight human systems. Yes, she'd once known a GI to drop dead from a particularly nasty measles strain. Yes, straights serving with GIs for long periods required extra boosters for the GIs' safety more than their own. No, that wasn't likely to be a problem with her, she was one of the lucky fifty per cent of GIs with few quirks in their immune systems. But the odd extra shot for those she most frequently came into contact with in the CSA definitely would not hurt her feelings.

The rest was just physical recovery, several benex shots into major muscle groups, and a lot of electro-stim and ma.s.sage. With little more to be done, excess medical personnel drifted reluctantly away to more pressing concerns. Freed of the crowd, she lay mostly on her stomach, a polite towel across her b.u.t.tocks, and took the time to chat with the other SWATs. All were from other teams, and all had been busy-per sonnel were alternating between rapid reaction, fixed security and mobile patrols, and sometimes, particularly in the evenings-when the delegations were all most actively engaged-patrols in pairs or fours, just to make sure there were trained shooters on scene quickly if something went wrong. The police were doing an okay job, but a well-eyes were rolled-you wouldn't want them leading the charge when the shots started flying. And they'd been flying all too frequently of late. Qualified, combat-capable personnel were suddenly in very short supply across Ta.n.u.sha with its 57 million inhabitants. All the grunts looked tired, and some of the men didn't look like they'd shaved in days. Several were troubled by various augments acting up under the strain of too much time in armour-supplemented arm and leg ligaments, tendon sheaths, muscle attachments, all the key points. And she found room to be glad that whatever her problems, at least she didn't have to put up with that-mutually opposing systems, organic and artificial. She was all one system. And that, of course, was the GI performance advantage.

Some thoughtful tech actually brought her clothes up, having somehow finagled access to her locker, and she got dressed to the protests of several grunts that no one ever did that for them a the embarra.s.sed tech (male, of course) retreated before things got ugly. Then out into the unseasonal traffic in the med halls, walking loose limbed and flexing within her casual duty pants and jacket, readjusting her stride for the unpredictable looseness of muscles brought on by the benex shots. Several pa.s.sing whitecoats recognised her and offered greetings, which she returned-she'd gotten to know these halls well enough in past weeks, recovering from previous, more serious injuries.

The adjoining wing took her back to Doghouse proper, bypa.s.sing the chaotic duty rooms that Medical had been so thoughtfully situated next to. Corridor windows gave her an overview as she left Med, the broad landing pad crowded with armoured flyers in a blaze of flood lights a maintenance and flight crews were making standby walka-rounds, with no time for more intensive checks. The open flight-bay beyond was lit yellow by the worklights, awash with the scuttling activity of three times the usual operational load of flyers and other vehicles. She could see small groups consulting out on the pads, arms waving over the whine of thrusters, fingers being pointed in many different directions. Even as she watched a new team were disembarking, a line of armoured figures doing a quick jog toward a waiting flyer, running lights blinking in readiness. SWAT Nine, she saw with a quick zoom a and they were twelve-strong, four short of full strength. Injuries and maintenance breakdowns a the schedule was starting to take its toll.

Nine SWAT teams to cover 57 million people and several tens of thousands of senior foreign delegates a not enough. Not even close. But the cops weren't trained for lethal force on the required scale, and the SIBs were discovering that legal edicts and SCIPS had their limits against determined political subversion of whatever ilk or motivation. Who the h.e.l.l else was there? In this usually peaceful city? Investigations was huge, a great sprawl of compound across the whole West Block, and had many personnel in various departments capable of basic weapons, but they'd been overstretched from even before the whole const.i.tutional crisis, let alone now that the floodgates had opened and all the crazies were pouring out of the woodwork a She puzzled over it all the way to debrief, over on the west side of the Doghouse, facing Central. Too far a walk, was the other thought that came to mind. Too much admin in SWAT a it wasn't a large operation, really, just nine SWAT teams a in Dark Star they'd managed three times the strikepower with half the admin, at least. She'd yet to figure what half the SWAT admin people did. Worse, she didn't think admin itself was entirely sure.

Debrief had already started when she got there a it was a lot to get through, most of which had happened at 214 Park Street well before she had gotten there. The crowd of Intel attending was nearly as large as the a.s.sembled SWAT Four, seated or standing about the front and sides of the cla.s.s-sized room, watching the main display, full tac-graphic unfolding across the front display. The team lounged in more comfortable deep cushions, some sprawled with feet up, others seated against the back wall with legs out and jackets unzipped, hair wet and dishevelled from recent showers, cold packs and strapping held to troublesome augments or plain muscle strains. All paused to look when she entered.

"Hey, babe, you okay?" Vanessa was seated up front in a thick reclining chair-commander's seat, boots up on the rim of the long, central table. A long, concerned look from weary dark eyes under untidy, curling dark hair.

"No worse than the rest of you lot," Sandy replied.

"That bad, huh?" Vanessa held out a hand. Sandy went over and took it, a brief, public handclasp, and a pat at her backside as she went to the back of the room. More hands extended from reclining, exhausted grunts, and more pats as she pa.s.sed a and with some, even a brief, approving contact of eyes. It felt good. She messed Singh's hair as she pa.s.sed, knocked knuckles with Kuntoro, and headed straight for Bjornssen and Hiraki, seated against the rear wall by the corner against the windows. There was no room, but Bjornssen got the idea and spread his long legs. Sandy dumped herself unceremoniously between and leaned back against him-Bjornssen was a big man, a head taller and far broader than her, and it seemed a waste of chest s.p.a.ce when the wall was all taken. He surprised her by wrapping arms around her tightly, and giving her a brief, affectionate shake a not always the most lighthearted man, Bjornssen-dour and matter-of-fact at most times. Viking heritage, he liked to call it. Ethnic heritage was the most chic of fashion accessories in Ta.n.u.sha, Sandy reckoned. Something real. Something you couldn't buy. There weren't many of those left, these days.

"These guys have a clue?" she asked Hiraki in a low voice as the debrief continued and multi-graphical displays swung and glowed across the huge forward screen. Hiraki scanned the row of watching, note-consulting Intels across the front of the room with narrowed, thoughtful eyes. And gave a faint shrug.

"They function." Sandy rolled her head against Bjornssen's broad shoulder and gave him a flat look.

"All Intel functions," she retorted softly. The scene at Park Street had been a mess, and she wasn't at all sure there'd been a need for it. Someone should have exercised a command prerogative. It was a CSA operation, it should have been a CSA call.

Hiraki shrugged again. "We are still alive."

"Thank Vanessa for that."

"True. But nonetheless." The a.s.sistance hadn't gotten them killed, he meant. Bad a.s.sistance could do that. Hiraki seemed aware of it.

"You smell nice," Bjornssen remarked in her ear.

"GI pheromones." She rolled her head back, rested against the big Scandinavian's Jaw. "Potent and highly addictive."

"Soap."

She smiled. "That too." And she took a moment to enjoy the close male proximity, as up the front the debrief continued, and grunts pretended to pay attention. It was for Intel's benefit, not theirs-they'd been there, they didn't need someone else to tell them what had happened. Vanessa, to her credit, fielded most of the questions, and let her team rest. With Bjornssen's warmth against her back, his breath in her ear and arms loosely about her, Sandy realised something with great abruptness.

"Oh G.o.d, I desperately need a f.u.c.k." Bjornssen managed to keep his laughter below audible volume. "Oh, what?" Still quietly, but with some indignation. "It's easy for you, I can't find anyone who's not terrified of me or isn't some totally obsessive Intel geek."

"I think Rupa wins the pool," Hiraki murmured with amus.e.m.e.nt.

Sandy rolled her head back and frowned at him. "What?"

"Some people made bets on how long you'd take to ask someone. There is much amazement you've lasted so long."

Sandy snorted. "Vanessa's rumours, I bet, no respect for my self control."

"Pity you're not gay," Bjornssen said in her ear.

"G.o.d, I've heard that sooo many times lately." Pause. And she realised why he'd said it. And, in a further flash of insight, what else they must have talked about, behind her back. "Look, it's just as well I'm not, it wouldn't be real smart for Vanessa to fall in love with me. Don't worry about her, she'll be fine. She's hot for that techie girl down in Ops-mech, anyway. Lopez."

"No no no," Bjornssen said with quiet amus.e.m.e.nt. "She just wants a woman again after so long. She was very good for a very long time. We were all amazed. But she likes girls. It was very hard for her. Lopez is the first target, that's all."

Sandy thought about that for a moment. Gazed out the windows to the right, at the multi-storey, blazing lights of the Central compound, the major offices of admin and Intel. All awake with endless activity, despite the increasingly late hour.

"And," added Bjornssen, "it has been extra frustrating for her having you around."

"Frustrating?" She didn't like the sound of that. "Why?"

"Because you are exactly her type, Sandy." Brushed some loose, damp hair back from her ear. "Exactly. But she knows she cannot have you, and so she goes hunting for others."

"Why am I her type?" Suspiciously. SWAT grunts who played psycho-a.n.a.lyst. She didn't trust it, this newly discovered side to Bjornssen. Some over-confident types reckoned they knew everything. Bjornssen was certainly confident.

"Pretty. Strong. Dangerous."

"Unattainable," Hiraki added with nodding certainty from along- side.

Sandy gave him a long look. "I think you're underestimating her."

Hiraki shrugged again a a controlled, precise gesture on him. Relaxed.

"We have known her much longer. You are new here."

Sandy shook her head. "You're forgetting I'm a GI. You saw her just now when I cramped, she nearly panicked. And she never panics. No way has she come to terms with what I am yet. No way. She's intrigued, sure, but she's not attracted."

"Now it is you underestimating her," Bjornssen replied, "our LT is not so easily put off, believe me a"

"Would you f.u.c.k me?" A moment's consternation from Bjornssen. "Oh, come on, you're Scandinavian, you like blondes with nice a.r.s.es, I heard you say so-that's me."

Hiraki was looking at him now, mildly curious. Bjornssen gave an exasperated sigh.

"Well a I mean, Sandy, you're very pretty a" Mildly patronising, Sandy thought dryly, tolerating another light shake, "a and you smell very nice a but no. No, I do not think I could." A light shrug against her back. "I'm very sorry. I don't mean any offence, but I'm a I'm just not attracted to GIs."

"Now there's a wild generalisation," Sandy retorted quietly. "If no one had told you, you wouldn't even realise a"

"But I am not the LT," he continued, ignoring her. "She is extremely stubborn and she is not scared of anything a"

"Bulls.h.i.t, everyone's scared of something."

"You," Hiraki said. Looking at her, calm intent in dark, slanted eyes. "What are you scared of?" Sandy met his gaze, firmly. And decided she would not be drawn into such personal revelations at this time.

"Of going more than a month without s.e.x. It's bad for me. I'll wear out my fingers." There was a pause in the room, other conversation halted. Bjornssen put a hand on her face and turned her head toward the front of the room. Senior Intels were looking at her. Several of the team turned to look, too. Someone had asked her a question. Ooops. "What?"

She managed to say it with incredulous innocence, and several grunts sneezed laughter.

"Agent," said the head Intel a Richter, Sandy recalled her name was a "I appreciate that you've had a long and hard day, but we're on rather a tight schedule and we'd like to be done here as soon as possible, so could you please pay attention?"

It was all Sandy could do to keep from smiling. She had never, in all her memory, been caught not paying attention in a briefing. Probably because she always had been paying attention. There had been an undercurrent of contempt, back in Dark Star, for civilian ill-discipline. Strange now to find herself becoming one of those unruly, undisciplined few. Strange, but not unwelcome.

"But, Marlie," someone protested, "you're so d.a.m.n boring." Tired, repressed laughter around the room. A few of the Intels hid smiles with difficulty. Richter waited impatiently for it to finish.

"I'm sorry," Sandy said, with a diplomatic smile. "What was the question?"

She was directed into Ibrahim's office by a weary staffer, who murmured something about her being expected a further down the waiting foyer, the main Ops hall was buzzing, screens alive and displaying to all surrounding alcoves and offices. A warren of early morning activity at three in the morning. Like a Chinese ghost story, someone had said to her recently-things only get really nasty when the sun goes down. She pushed through the main doors, the inner corridor all deserted, as were the meeting rooms and adjoining offices behind gla.s.s walls. Ibrahim's office was the one you couldn't see into, a plain door with "Director" on it. Real flashy. It suited the man entirely.

She knocked, and thought to do up her old duty jacket properly, at least, and close the zippers on the shoulder pockets-her old military reflexes remained very much intact, she thought wryly, reaching further to zip her thigh pockets too. The realisation failed to bother her. She was what she was. No reply, and she knocked again. Uplinked to the local security grid-an old reflex-and found everything very much in order, and totally impenetrable. Glanced about the corridor again a everyone was either out consulting, working or resting. She grasped the door handle and found it unlocked.

The office was dark. Her vision switched accordingly, and she walked in, unneeding of the light. A dark bundle lay on the floor along the right-hand wall a a person, wrapped in a blanket, on cushions borrowed from the room's one sofa. She closed the door behind her, blocking out the light from the corridor, but with vision tuned to IR that made it easier to see. Only the compound lights gleamed brightly through the windows, casting faint, multi-directional shadows across the floor.

"Sir." No response. His breathing was deep and steady beneath the blankets. "Sir." She padded softly over, not wanting to startle him. Knelt on the floor beside the improvised bed of cushions, and shook gently at his shoulder. "Mr. Ibrahim." He caught a breath. "Sir, it's Ca.s.sandra Kresnov. You wished to see me."

"Hmmm." A low, waking groan. "Ca.s.sandra." Another deep breath. "Just a moment."

"Can I get you a gla.s.s of water? Or there was a drinks dispenser in the corridor, I think?"

"No a no, I shouldn't want to wake more than necessary." He pulled himself half upright, wincing and rubbing at his eyes. His dark hair was shaven too short for disarray a shorter than she'd remembered. She decided he must have had it done recently, to avoid precisely that appearance in days when he had so little time for grooming. Practical solutions from perhaps the most practical person she'd ever met. And one of the most complex.

She remained kneeling, to avoid him having to stand. Ibrahim leaned himself back against the wall, collar open and shirt rumpled. Looking, to Sandy's curious interest, suddenly a man. Flesh and bone, dishevelled, tired and newly woken from sleep, instead of the formal, implacable figure of authority to which she'd become accustomed. He leaned his head back and fixed her with a heavy-lidded gaze, an arm hooked about an upraised knee for support.

"What compelled you to join the mission in Junshi?" he asked, direct and to the point, as always.

Sitting on her heels was uncomfortable, and pulled at recently sore muscles she did not want pulled. She shifted to sit on her backside, arms about drawn up knees, mirroring her boss.

"I don't know." Ibrahim evidently didn't believe that. She sighed, lightly. "Vanessa. The whole team. I was nearby, I wanted to see that they were okay, or if I could help. As it turned out, I could."

She half expected a reprimand. A warning against breaking procedure, or upsetting the local cops.

"It was well done," he said instead. Not elaborate praise. But coming from Ibrahim, it was better than a medal. And she was surprised at how pleased she was to hear it. "What did you think of the operation in total?"

"Fortuitously successful," she replied, a.n.a.lysis reflexes kicking in, knowing well what Ibrahim expected from her. "Highly chaotic, far too disorganised, far too little chain of command. It worked this time because the opposition were poorly trained and equipped, all they had on their side was motivation. Against more formidable opposition I feel the operation would more likely have failed than succeeded, with losses suffered and the objective not completed."

"Hmmm." Ibrahim nodded, lips pursed. Appearing hardly surprised at the a.s.sessment. Thoughtful. "Suggestions?"

"Streamline," she said automatically. "Individual Ta.n.u.shan departments appear generally competent. The CSA is mostly so, and SWAT in particular. SWAT Four is as good a strike team as I've seen, among straights-that's my unbiased military opinion. The police function well enough, and all the in-betweens do their jobs effectively. There's just too many of those in-betweens. Cut the numbers by a half to twothirds and you'll have a force that functions with the absolute minimum of wasted energy, and the maximum possible focus upon the mission at hand. Right now, everyone's just getting in each other's way."

Ibrahim said nothing for a moment. It was a moment longer before she realised he was smiling. To her astonishment, the smile grew broader. He restrained it with difficulty, and put hand-to-mouth, like a man with a troublesome cough. Sighed, heavily, and fixed her with a look of as pure and genuine amus.e.m.e.nt as she'd ever seen from him, head back against the wall.

"If only you could help me run this agency," he explained. "I have this argument constantly with my political superiors. I am frequently informed a" with heavier sarcasm than she'd ever heard him use, "a that my views on the operational brief of the CSA, and thus its structural requirements, are out of step with the current political trends." Sandy blinked. His eyes fixed on her with tired bemus.e.m.e.nt. "Less muscle, more a.n.a.lysis. In this information age, I am told, the emphasis should be upon prevention. I attempt to convince them that human beings cannot be prevented from anything. That, most of all, is a legacy of their information age-people will do what people will do, in all their varied, wonderful and not-so-wonderful extremes, and no amount of prevention, short of dictatorship, can stop them. But this is what happens in a society run by technocrats and utopian idealists. They fear the chaos, but the chaos is life." A shrug. "A city must be allowed to live. A people must. And I fear most of all that the present alarmist climate may precipitate far more prevention than is war ranted. As a student of history yourself, Ca.s.sandra, you would know the dangers of too much prevention."

Sandy repressed a smile. "I've only read a little, sir. I haven't been alive long enough to read more. But I've seen the beginnings of a League autocracy at work in a system that always lauded democracy even more strongly than the Federation. I know what you're saying."

"Indeed." Ibrahim nodded, amus.e.m.e.nt lingering in his lidded gaze. "All bureaucracies intend to create order, Ca.s.sandra. That is their nature. Too little order is to be feared. Too much order, even more so. Alternative possibilities are necessary, but too many of the wrong kind can be dangerous. The balance is delicate. And so I distrust my own professional nature. It haunts my sleep."

Such confessions to her from Ibrahim were not unknown. She sometimes wondered if he were testing her moral judgment. Searching for her agreement or otherwise. Or merely seeking her comprehension. Comprehension of what, she was not sure. Of moral dimensions, perhaps. Of complexities. Perhaps he worried, as did many members of the Senate and Congress, that she did not fully appreciate the human delicacies of the Callayan democratic system. Or maybe he felt that he understood better than most the pressures that she was under from the workings of that system, and sought only her understanding. And, perhaps, her forgiveness.

"Good that I woke you then," she said lightly, "if your sleep was so troubled."

Ibrahim smiled, and ran a hand over tired, angular features, rubbing his eyes and stifling a yawn. Afghani features, from the hawk nose and prominent cheekbones to the cut of his trimmed beard.

"Did you meet Amba.s.sador Yao?" he asked.

"I did." And in the expectant silence that followed, "He seems civil enough. Pleasant, actually. He appeared very pleased to see me."

"What did you discuss?"

"Very little, actually. He was busy with meetings-financiers and bankers, he said." She paused. "Most of my time was spent in discussion with a high-designation League GI. The same GI whom I tracked from the Zaiko Warren to the Cloud Nine establishment, the one who shot me." A moment's sombre consideration from Ibrahim. No great surprise. Doubtless Ari had already briefed him on the salient points. And probably a great deal more besides. More, certainly, than An had chosen to share with her.

"How high a designation?" Little to her surprise-the man rarely missed a thing.

She took a deep breath. "GI-5182-IT. He said." More sombre consideration. "Attached to the Internal Security Organisation, League version of the FIA. That's why I never knew he existed, I never had full access to ISO files. It never occurred to me that the military was not the only department drawing resources from Recruitment."

"Do you think there may be more GIs in the League intelligence circles? High designation or otherwise?"

Sandy let out a small sigh. "I suppose it's possible. Ramoja wasn't forthcoming on that. Or rather I didn't have time to ask him, the Junshi situation cut our time short." And to Ibrahim's querying look, "That's his name, Mustafa Ramoja. Rank of Major. He said."