She didn't need all the gear, she had enough direct interface crammed into her unadorned skull to make a far cleaner shot than the armscomp link could possibly calculate. But it was weapons check, and so she was checking weapons, gear included, the basic SWAT rule being that everyone checked everyone else's gear too, not just their own. Sighting down the open, eighty metre, low-ceilinged s.p.a.ce, the targets showed bright and clear on comp-vision, a range of holographic spheres and highlighted trajectories across the range's virtual imagination. Lowered the short, snub-nosed rifle, a mental deactivation of comp-viz, and the long, empty underground range turned blank and dull once more, lit only by the reinforced inset glow-lights for depth perception down the length.

Warning call down the row of booths, and then someone fired, four short, staccato bursts that a.s.saulted the eardrums with a familiar rhythm. Cl.u.s.ters of vicious dark holes erupted in quick succession across four solid target outlines on the far wall, like swarming black insects. Echoes racketed, then silence. The riddled targets replaced themselves.

"Not bad," called Hiraki's voice, a softer echo after the gunfire. "Uneven rhythm, third out at point two, fourth scattered, adjust recoil, target acquisition down and left point four. Sandy?"

"Trigger tension down five," she yelled down the line of booths, "RPS up one. Comp it and watch the recoil on your transition, that Panchi-3 kicks like a horse. Use a bigger mag if you like, keeps the nose down."

"Gotcha, Sandy." Zago's voice, deep and strong. No one ever questioned her fire a.n.a.lysis, she was quite literally the walking armscomp on such things. She had no idea how straights saw it, though even augmented straights seemed to struggle. How were these things difficult? Trajectories in a three-dimensional s.p.a.ce a it was only data. Data was easy. Visual, graphical data in particular. And of course if there was a firearm in League or Federation s.p.a.ce she hadn't seen, tested, stripped and written field reports on a she would have been surprised.

CSA SWAT weren't as good as her old Dark Star team at such basic things as shooting, and of course no GI ever had to worry about recoil all that much, but they made up for it in other areas. Like lateral thinking, forward planning, and the ability to avoid walking into traps because of things called "hunches" a all very alien to the vast majority of the League GI soldiery. And so she adjusted, and tried to accept their weaknesses while playing to their strengths.

"So aside from the fashion sense," Vanessa continued, "what's the problem?"

"I don't like being used. Besides which, my resources aren't sufficient yet to do a proper threat a.n.a.lysis. Never walk into a firezone without one."

"You know," said Johnson, still reading from his screen, "for such a bigshot spec ops commander, you can be a real p.u.s.s.y sometimes."

"You seem to know all the cliches, Steve. Don't make me repeat the one about old soldiers and bold soldiers."

"How did that go again?" Vanessa asked.

"There ain't no old bold soldiers," Johnson announced.

"Ah, that's right, I could never remember how that one went."

"So you're an old soldier, are you, Sandy?"

"Fifteen," Sandy told him, allowing the armscomp to adjust itself on auto as she fed it corrections. "In GI years, that's ancient."

"I'm thirty-two," Johnson told her. "You're a baby."

"Compared to the c.r.a.p I've seen in my life, Steve, you're a fetus."

"My, how compet.i.tive," said Vanessa. "I suffered the traumatic dismemberment of my pet bunbun at the age of ten when my cousin Pierre shoved a live wedding firecracker up its a.r.s.e. Do I get points for that?"

"Cool!" said Singh from Vanessa's far side.

"What's your mental age?" Johnson challenged Sandy, taking his eyes from the screen for the first time. "There's gotta be a psyche profile for GIs, there's one for d.a.m.n everything else."

"h.e.l.l, they gave you one," Vanessa agreed, "that's sure the thin edge of the wedge."

"Vanessa," Sandy stated with commendable pleasantness, "you're not being very helpful."

"I'm the unit CO, that's my job."

"Tell me about it," said Singh.

"You can't measure mental age on GIs," Sandy told Johnson, only too aware that Vanessa habitually ridiculed those conversations she thought were headed in unhelpful or even dangerous directions. "Mental age is a rough approximation of mental development, which is hugely accelerated with League advances in developmental and foundational tape-teach. GIs never really go through "infancy" as you'd understand it, anyway. The childlike emotional state is specific to straight humans, GIs skip it entirely. There's just developed and less developed, though GIs internalise information in their early years at a similar pace to a straight human child. It's a very rapid learning phase. Mine just continued six or seven years, most GIs only need about three a and regs only about one and a half."

"But you don't remember any of it?"

"Almost nothing a memory-wise, everything that happened to me before about nine years ago is very fuzzy."

"Weird life," Singh remarked.

"I was in combat much of that time a" She shrugged. "a they're not memories I miss. And I don't think I would have liked myself much, back then. Mentally I'm a different person now a which is why I don't remember much from then. My psychology's changed so much it's like a computer trying to access data stored in a different, out-of-date format. My brain today just doesn't recognise it. It surprised the h.e.l.l out of my minders, they'd never had a GI mature over such a long period before."

"So are you going to remember stuff from today in ten years' time?" Vanessa asked. Giving her a concerned look from her booth, weapon temporarily lowered to safe-hold against the rim of the booth.

"Definitely," Sandy a.s.sured her with a faint smile. "I plateaued about seven years ago, the rest was just normal learning, like anyone learns a my memories from about seven or eight years ago are crystal. It's just beyond that it gets progressively more fuzzy. But, I mean, age is a tenuous guide for anyone, it depends how you spend your time. Twenty formative years spent partying or on uplink VR won't create as much mental maturity as twenty years spent reading books and practising concertos."

"Or practising combat drill and killing things."

"No, that's character building."

"Sure, if you want the character of a chainsaw."

"Jesus, Steven," Vanessa exclaimed, exasperated. Sandy only smiled. Steve Johnson was what Vanessa called a typical SWAT male. Women, Vanessa opined, tended to join organisations like SWAT because they wanted to achieve something, be it personal, political or ideological. Men tended to join because they liked blowing stuff up. Sandy hadn't noticed any lack of enthusiasm during Vanessa's combat drills, but she had to concede the basic point, however much it puzzled her.

"And you're wondering why I'm so soft and cuddly instead?" Armscomp found the correct alignment and she locked it in. Deactivated the safety, selected to single shot, yelled, "Live fire!" to the range, and sprayed a split second burst across the row of sixteen targets with index finger depression alone. Range-comp read back sixteen bullseyes, straight through the centre.

"Hah!" Kuntoro shouted back. "Number thirteen is one point three centimetres from centre. You're slipping, Sandy."

"One point four," Sandy replied calmly, ejecting the magazine and stripping the weapon back down. "Round thirteen misfired, KT series tend to do that every twenty rounds or so. There's something erratic between the mag feed and the ignition charge. That's why I don't use them."

"They're not meant for single fire, though," someone objected. "You put *em to full-auto and there's nothing in the range bracket that's got the firepower."

"Like I said," Sandy replied, "that's why I don't use them." They all knew Sandy rarely used full-auto weapons, rapid-fire was a compensation for human inaccuracy. Sandy could place individual rounds in a thirty-round-per-second burst to within fractional millimetres over a hundred metres or more, provided the targets weren't too far apart and all in some kind of straight line, and her index fingers moved just as fast as most handweapon autofire mechanisms, militarygrade electromag excluded. Of course, in real combat, targets were rarely so obliging, but it was good practice nonetheless. Compared to what she could accomplish in single-fire, autofire was crude and imprecise. Sometimes necessary, it was true, but not in many situations she expected to encounter in a civilian city.

"f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l," Johnson said, grinning and shaking his head as the targets replaced themselves. "I've been seeing that for close on a month now, and it's still the most f.u.c.kin' incredible thing I've ever seen."

"Just data, Steve," Sandy said, hooking the weapon's exposed comp insert to the booth hardfeed for direct diagnostic. "Data's easy."

"How does anyone ever kill a GI, anyway? If they can shoot you, you can shoot them." With a meaningful nod at the sixteen bullseyed targets in a row.

"You could probably shoot the b.a.l.l.s off a gnat from a hundred metres blindfolded, just going by the sound," Singh remarked with a similar over-enthusiastic grin.

"GIs make stupid mistakes," Sandy told them. "Like I've already told you a hundred times." They just loved to talk about it regardless. When it came to blowing stuff up, she was the undisputed master. She supposed this was why famous holovid stars got sick of talking about their work-to them that was all it was, work, and nothing particularly remarkable. But casual acquaintances found it fascinating, and bombarded her with the same predictable questions, to the point of exasperation. "You gotta get creative."

"But that's why they made you smart, right? That never worked on you?"

Sandy sighed. "Nothing works on me, Arvid. I'm fifteen years old, eleven of which were operational. Most GIs in the war didn't make it past three."

Ibrahim was not impressed at being called away from Ops Control to attend to his office, and the desk that resided there. It was his enemy, that desk. A broad, powerful mahogany, made of tiak wood, from regional plantations. Built into its firm frame was the latest communications gear, full interface and multi-dimensional. It enticed him to sit behind it, and bureaucratise.

Ibrahim did not like to bureaucratise. He liked to work. Bureaucracy was N'Darie's job, and she did it well. Ibrahim preferred to work from Ops, where he could talk to his people, and benefit from their observations. Or from Intel offices, where he could judge first-hand the latest data, rather than briefly view what his a.s.sistants would sift for him, secondhand. He liked to feel the gears working, and watch the progress made. He did not want to read about it on his terminal. He did not want to be "informed." He wanted to know, personally and immediately.

But now, he sat behind his mostly bare, infrequently used desk, and waited for his office door to open. The two agents in suits who waited to the side of the room offered no conversation, nor would he have partic.i.p.ated had they done so. He merely examined his terminal, and read the latest piece of bureaucratic irrelevance that N'Darie had sent him, and waited. He was not impatient. He merely wanted the door to open. Soon.

Click, and it did so. Kresnov entered. Blue eyes, cool and effortlessly penetrating, immediately flicked to the suited pair. Her stride did not waver as she walked to a particular spot before the desk, and halted there. It was the same spot, Ibrahim had noted, upon which she always stopped. Everyone had one. Familiar co-workers and acquaintances came close. The inexperienced and nervous behind that. The fearful further to the left, so the door was not at their back. Kresnov's spot was unlike all others-a shade back from middle distance, but precisely to the centre, and unconcerned of the door. Her eyes never left the two agents.

Until she looked toward him. Ibrahim pushed back in his chair, studying her. In her dull SWAT-issue cargo pants and jacket, and standing perhaps middle height for a woman, she cut a less than immediately intimidating figure. She looked, in fact, incongruously young, with her wide, attractive features free from make-up, and her penetrating blue eyes framed by increasingly erratic blonde hair that fell loose about her brow. She could have been someone's kid daughter, Ibrahim thought, going through a rebellious streak against the more typical feminine glamour frequently found in Ta.n.u.sha. Only the military calm in her posture, and the almost inhuman, unwavering steadiness in her gaze, put the lie to that.

It challenged the mind of even the most perceptive person to comprehend precisely what she was. This middle-sized, broad-shouldered, attractive young woman with the mild demeanour was the most dangerous thing on two legs in all human s.p.a.ce. If she wanted any single individual within Ta.n.u.sha dead, with the possible exception of the President, Ibrahim doubted very greatly that it would be beyond her. And even the President could not be guaranteed. No wonder the SIBs were so frightened.

"You wanted to see me." A flat, inexpressive tone. Her stance was more than pa.s.singly military, feet apart, hands clasped behind. Ibrahim sighed. Disliking this unasked-for bureaucrat's role even more, at that moment.

"Ca.s.sandra." His eyes flicked briefly to the pair of waiting agents, and back again. "These are Agents Bhaskaran and Muller, Special Investigatory Bureau." Kresnov looked at him for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly. And looked at the SIBs.

"Ms. Kresnov," said Bhaskaran, "we've been sent here by our superiors because today-merely a matter of hours ago-you caused severe damage to a Special Investigatory Bureau data network, and in fact used a restricted, militarygrade attack barrier to a.s.sault an SIB cruiser. As a result you directly caused an in-flight emergency to be registered with Traffic Central, endangered the civilian skylanes and potentially placed lives in jeopardy. Do you agree that you did in fact do these things?"

"No," said Kresnov, unblinking.

Bhaskaran frowned. "You deny this?" Her brown features thoughtfully incredulous. It was a superior frown. Ibrahim disliked it.

"I deny that lives were placed at risk," said Kresnov. "I deny that civilian skylanes were endangered. I would correct you in saying that the SIB-since you say that it was the SIB, I had not known that until now-were the cause of any endangerment or damage, and have only themselves to blame. That's all."

"You just said that there was no endangerment," the agent named Muller said mildly. Thinking himself very clever, Ibrahim reckoned, with his semantic games. He disliked that too.

"Given the degree of SIB's incompetence I've witnessed so far," Kresnov replied, "anything's possible. But I can hardly take responsibility for other people's stupidity, can I?"

"What type of attack barrier was it that you used?" Bhaskaran continued, unperturbed.

"It was a Cross-X variant, a five-link series A."

Bhaskaran blinked. "I'm not a technician, Ms. Kresnov," she said, "but our own experts said they could not recognise it. They suspected it was in fact a League construction."

"It was," Sandy replied calmly.

"In which case, Ms. Kresnov, I am instructed to remind you that Section Five, Subsection A of official Security Act 91-that's the act by which you are now legally a citizen of Callay, you may rememberstates that your continued inclusion into the ranks of the Callayan citizenry is conditional upon you continuing to behave appropriately. And upon you continuing to refrain from using any of your so-called "special skills" in any manner that may adversely affect Callay or its inst.i.tutions. This matter clearly qualifies. Given that the SIB and the CSA are indeed working together on this matter, I am here to lodge a formal procedure with Director Ibrahim directing you to hand over all controller functions for your active cerebral interface mechanisms. This incident clearly demonstrates that your continued possession of such potentially lethal League military-designed codes and code modulators is a danger to the security and wellbeing of everyone in Callay. Here is the request, we trust that it will be given your utmost attention."

Bhaskaran produced an official plastic folder from her jacket pocket, and laid it open on the table. It contained a single paper sheet printed in official format, along with a storage chip in a separate pocket. Ibrahim looked at the paper, lips pursing with mild consideration. Looked back at Kresnov. Kresnov was gazing at some point beyond his head, out of the window. He doubted she was admiring the view.

"Ms. Kresnov," Agent Muller said in Ibrahim's continuing silence, "do you have any statement you'd like to make about this?"

Kresnov looked at him. It was not the kind of look that most straight humans enjoyed receiving from lethally capable combat GIs of any designation. Muller, to his credit, did not flinch.

"You want my codes?" she said mildly. "Come and get them."

For a long moment, Muller made no reply. He glanced at Ibrahim. Ibrahim leaned back in his big leather chair, steepled his fingers, and looked at Muller. He gave no sign of speaking. Muller looked back at Kresnov, hiding his disconcertedness with practised skill.

"Would you be making a threat, Ms. Kresnov?" he pressed.

"Not at all." Her voice was calm and measured beyond her usual tones. The Kresnov cold temper. Ibrahim marvelled at it. Kresnov did not get angry. She got dangerous. "You want my codes, you come and get them. You'll have to use a serious breaker, since my barrier elements are so tough. And you'll have to use a direct point of access, which means keeping me still while you jack me in. So you'll have to use drugs, and restraints. Which won't be pleasant for me, but don't let that stop you. Where are the troops? Waiting in the corridor?"

"There are no troops, Ms. Kresnov. Under the written act by which you are legally a member of the Callayan citizenry, you will be required to a "I'm trying to protect the Callayan citizenry, you pointless w.a.n.ker," she said coldly. "I'm the main key in the ongoing investigations to break down the remnants of the League's undercover biotech ring in Ta.n.u.sha. You'll remember that-it was the biggest security breach this city's ever seen. It killed a hundred and thirty-two Ta.n.u.shans that we know of, and so long as the same systemic flaws remain, this entire planet remains vulnerable to further League infiltration.

"That's my job now. It's what I'm paid for. If anyone manages to knock me off, it'll be a big loss to Callayan security, because I can tell you, this place needs a lot of work yet. As such, I'm obliged to defend myself against possible personal security breaches. So imagine my reaction to finding an unidentified cruiser tailing me, hooked up to a sucker bug on the traffic network. If I'd left it alone, I would have been derelict in my duty to Callay, and then some other idiot from some other department would be over here screaming at me for failing to comply with the other bits of that security act."

"You knew very well it was a government vehicle before you attacked it, didn't you?" countered Bhaskaran.

"Would you like me to list the number of ways government codes and facilities can be infiltrated?" Kresnov retorted. "Did you guys learn anything from what happened a month ago? No government operative can afford to get into the habit of being tailed by people of unconfirmed ident.i.ty. It's a very bad precedent and it clearly interferes with my ability to do my duty to this planet, this city and its people. If you'd like to tail me, give me your ident.i.ties and location codes first, and I'll track you so I don't confuse you with the bad guys. But I a.s.sure you, if I get attacked, I am required by my obligation to the CSA to eliminate all direct threats. If you're tailing me with no ID, that'll include you."

"Mr. Ibrahim," said Bhaskaran, who had been attempting to ignore her for the last several sentences, "can we expect your reply shortly?" Ibrahim looked at her. Fingers remained steepled. His lean, angular face conveyed a great authority. Bhaskaran waited, that being her only option.

"You might not like my reply," Ibrahim said finally. "My agents have standards to maintain. They must be allowed to maintain full security at all times."

"Mr. Director," Bhaskaran began. Took a deep breath. "Ms. Kresnov has detection capabilities far exceeding the security norms of your other agents. We are not requesting that her security be degraded below the standard of others. Merely that it be equalised."

Ibrahim looked at Kresnov. She stood fixed to her spot. Her rigid posture, and the set of her jaw, suggested contempt.

"Without my codes," she said, with a dark, forced calm, "I am vulnerable. I am entirely synthetic. My brain function allows a far greater bandwidth of interaction with any corn network than does organic brain function. I integrate at approximately a factor of seventeen beyond what an organic mind can achieve. I am more effective, but as such I am more vulnerable to infiltration. My enhanced capabilities are necessary to protect me from my enhanced vulnerabilities. If you remove them, my safety becomes severely jeopardised."

"We are only talking about your attack barrier function, Ms. Kresnov," Bhaskaran told her. "Your defensive codes will remain entirely intact."

Kresnov looked at Ibrahim. Jaw set and eyes hard, Ibrahim detected that she wished to speak to him. Alone.

"Thank you very much," he said to the two SIB agents. "I'll give due regard to your report and a.s.sessments. Good day."

"Thank you, sir." Bhaskaran turned and walked out, her junior partner in tow. Kresnov waited until the door had shut.

"This is nuts," she said after the click. "You're not going to take this seriously."

Ibrahim blinked, very calmly. Kresnov was not p.r.o.ne to rash outbursts. This was as close as he'd seen her come. She was, he judged, severely agitated. By Kresnov's standards, anyhow.

"Ca.s.sandra," he said after a moment, "you knew the SIB had you under surveillance. I myself informed you, just twenty days ago, when you returned from vacation." Her eyes darkened, imperceptibly. Perhaps it was the mention of her "vacation," and the memories it stirred. Ibrahim filed it away for later study.

"They're incompetent," Kresnov said shortly. "If they'd done it properly, I might not have noticed."

"Ah," said Ibrahim. Tapped his jaw with a forefinger, short bearded chin in his hand. "So that's it. You fried them because they were incompetent, and a top flight professional like yourself could not tolerate the dent to your ego."

"I fried them because they were violating my security perimeter," she retorted. "Not to have fried them would have been a"

"a a dereliction of duty on your part, I know." Ibrahim held up a hand, waving the argument away. Scratched at an irritating beard itch. Looked back at her. "You don't think you overdid it?"

"Blasting them from the sky would have been overdoing it. I felt I was being generous."

Ibrahim sighed. "Ca.s.sandra a I know you find it bothersome, this tailing business. But you should by now have learned enough to know the political necessity." The jaw tightened again. So that was the soft spot.

"I'd had something more discreet in mind," she said coldly. "Some network checks, the occasional tracker a But anything that interferes with what I judge as my mission effectiveness, I'll eliminate, within good reason. If you were in my position, you'd do the same."

"Ca.s.sandra, the SIB belong to a totally different command structure than the CSA. I have no authority over them, nor even ranking superiority. In some ways, they exist to investigate us, if necessary. They've always had priority in special Senate interests, and right now, whether you like it or not, that means you. The Senate is full of the President's enemies, and it's full of people who would be your natural enemies as well. And you cannot fight them, not with the weapons presently at your disposal.

"Instead, what you've just done is to start a brawl. Certain antibiotech senators will read this report and conclude some very negative things about yourself, and your place in this society. Right now they want your network codes. Tomorrow, and some new incident, and perhaps they'll demand limiting your freedoms. And although you don't like it, you're going to have to learn that within this system, aggres sive confrontation can frequently only exacerbate the problem. You have to be patient. I'm asking you to be."

"You won't fight for me." A flat statement. Her arms were folded, her eyes hard and unblinking.

"I did not say a"