"You'd fight for someone else." Ibrahim frowned at her, not accustomed to interruption. "You'd fight for Rice. d.a.m.n right you'd fight for Vanessa, if the SIB were hounding her over something. You'd kick their b.u.t.ts."

"That's different."

"I know." With evident sarcasm. "It's so very different."

"Ca.s.sandra," Ibrahim said, with measured patience, "this is a huge political brawl. I've never seen its like. I hope to never see its like again. It's my job to keep the planet safe. That's a very big, very important task. If I start taking sides in this, politically, it will only make my task more difficult. I have 120 million lives under my responsibility. And I'm sorry, you're not Vanessa Rice, Vanessa Rice is not a GI-you are. And as such, you are very much in the middle of this, whether you like it or not. That is how it stands. I cannot change that fact. You cannot. We can only deal with it as best we can."

"You want my codes?" Arms still folded, staring at him.

Ibrahim blinked. Off guard, for the moment. Kresnov could do that to him, where few others succeeded.

"The SIB Director wants your codes. Several chairing senators want your codes. I don't."

"But you'll give them to them anyway." The hard, blue stare locked with his own sombre brown one.

"I've yet to decide that." Quietly. "My instincts are against it. But the political pressure that can be applied, where your case is concerned, Ca.s.sandra a is quite considerable. It is a matter of gain and loss. I must balance the scales. It's my job."

There was a quiet silence. Outside Ibrahim's broad office windows, the sky had turned a dark shade of grey. Distant lightning flickered, lighting the overcast in faint, staccato bursts. Soon it would be raining. Hard.

"It's such a load of bulls.h.i.t," Kresnov said quietly. Gazing out of the window, past Ibrahim's head. Her eyes were suddenly distant. Deflated. "Populist politics running the CSA. Who'd have thought."

Ibrahim was uncertain if it was intended as an insult a but it was accurate, insult or not. He understood her frustrations. He shared them. But it was an old, long debated topic for him, and he was accustomed to its predictable lunacy. Kresnov, evidently, had yet to adjust.

"Would you be upset" he asked, just as sombrely, "if your attack codes were to be removed?"

"It would significantly reduce my usefulness to you or anyone else," she replied.

"That's not what I'm asking." There was another silence. Then she shrugged.

"I'd feel violated," she admitted. "But what the h.e.l.l, it's hardly the first time."

Ibrahim sighed. "I'm sorry," he said, with quiet sincerity. "It may not happen. We'll see what eventuates. But in the meantime, please refrain from similar responses, however provoked. There's only so much that I can do for you under the present circ.u.mstances, Ca.s.sandra. Nothing would please me better than to help you more. Callay and its citizens owe you a debt far greater than most of them or their representatives appear to realise. But you understand what's at stake here. And I know you understand my limitations."

She got out late in the afternoon, after Ops briefing, and waited in the Doghouse personnel landing bays for a ride as the rain hammered down beyond the open outer-bay doors, and thunder rumbled across a rapidly soaking city outside. There was a queue, as always, and she dropped her gearbags to the ferrocrete behind a group of people in a.s.sorted admin suits and techie overalls, and another two who'd already changed into civvies. Those closest to her looked at her.

"Hi," she said, with the pleasant smile she'd been practising of late. The admins looked uncomfortable. Wind gusted as a cruiser pa.s.sed in a low, throbbing hover that echoed within the enclosed ferrocrete hangar, drowning the roar of falling rain. Techs were clambering over a broad-shouldered flyer against the opposite wall, automatic tools clanking and yammering periodically, punctuating the everpresent whine of engines. Another cruiser came in more slowly, approaching on autopilot, a sleekly angular, broad rectangle, its nose and hindquarters a ma.s.s of repulsor-lift generation, the seats empty behind aerodynamically angled windows. Doors slid upward as it came to rest, engines a deep, pulsing throb, and the first five people in line got in. And departed, leaving her with two very nervous, silent admin personnel. Desperately short of airborne transport, all CSA personnel, save the highest officials, had been reduced to air-pooling or public transport. It could take a long time to get home with pa.s.sengers being dropped off in all different parts of the city. But with all the other transport reserved for security ops, lower-priority concerns had to make do with whatever they could scrounge.

"Where do you guys live?" she asked the two admins.

"Mananakorn," one said quickly.

"Denpasar," the other.

"Mananakorn's right near me, I'm in Santiello," she said. "Easiest to do us two first, don't you think? Sorry, Denpasar's a bit far for a twoperson detour."

The Denpasar resident shrugged. "Fine."

"I gotta get prepped for duty tonight," she continued determinedly. "Patrolling till about three am, there's not enough security to go around for all these parties and talkfests right now. How about you guys?"

The whine of another approaching cruiser interrupted any reply, the engine note throbbing downwards as the cruiser slowed a A lower note than previously. It was a larger cruiser, larger field gens and noisier, indicating an extra weight that might have been armourplating, to judge from the rugged, bulkier appearance. It came to a halt at the curbside barrier that marked the front of the queue, windows entirely blanked out, reflecting like mirrors. Sandy uplinked and found its ID tag before it had consciously occurred to her that it might be a good idea-government ID, Alpha Team. The Presidential bodyguard.

The sinking feeling began almost immediately. Alpha Team was occasionally used to run personal errands for the President-it wasn't strictly their job, but excess personnel were rare in the crisis, and people improvised. She guessed what they were after before the doors had even opened, and the lean, armed, neat clipped and shaven men inside had gotten out.

"Agent," one said, looking at her, "please come with us." Their stance made her uneasy, one to each side, ready as if prepared for trouble. She looked at them sourly for a long moment. If they thought they could handle any "trouble" she might cause, they were even more stupid than certain unkind CSA jokes reputed them to be.

"Does the President want to see me?" she asked them.

The two admins stood very still and quiet, eyes wide, no doubt wishing very strongly they were elsewhere.

"We're not at liberty to discuss it," said the shorter of the two Alphas. "Please accompany us now, Agent."

"If the President wishes to see me," Sandy continued dryly, "she need only ask. I am obliged by her rank to consider that a direct and immediate command, and would make my way directly to see her at whatever location she requires. I don't need a guard or an escort."

"Nevertheless," said the shorter Alpha stubbornly.

She didn't like it. But it wasn't a good idea to argue with Alpha Team. These Alphas were all new, all volunteers, all ruggedly, unwaveringly dedicated to the point of obsessiveness. Their predecessors had all been killed a month ago. It hadn't deterred the newbies. On the contrary, the defiant self sacrifice of the original Alphas was now folklore, the veracity of which Sandy could testify to personally, having witnessed the events first-hand. Compet.i.tion for a coveted position in Alpha Team had increased even more among potential recruits. The look in this pair's eyes suggested that it wasn't a good idea to do other than they suggested. Being young, idealistic and utterly determined to live up to the legacy of their predecessors, she reckoned they might be p.r.o.ne to rashness if pushed. And the President, with her newly discovered soft spot for all her personal security, would be sorely upset with her if she had to rough them up.

"Fine." She picked up her gearbags. They rattled with weapons and ammo, to the admins' further discomfort. "I'll register my complaint in person."

One of the Alphas made to take the bags from her, blocking her way. "No unsecured weapons in the hold." The young man before her was of Chinese ethnicity. His face was impa.s.sive, jaw smoothly shaven, and he smelt of aftershave. Her vision caught the faint refractory shift of light in one eye-telltale militarygrade enhancement, Vanessa had it too.

"Kid," Sandy told him, "I'll wait here all day if I have to." Meeting his gaze calmly, head tilted, nose barely twenty centimetres from his. Most straights, knowing what she was, melted before such a gaze.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said firmly, and grabbed the bag handle. Sandy held fast, her eyes not leaving his. "Ma'am, I have my instructions."

"I am a SWAT agent. These are my weapons. Read your rulebook, kid. You try and remove these from me, I have to stop you."

"Presidential security takes precedence."

"In matters of emergency, yes. Not here." She caught the faint trace of transmission from his partner. The Alpha glanced, once. Then stood aside without further word. Sandy got into the broad rear seats, knowing better than to expect an apology. Doors hummed closed as the Alphas got into the front seats, and she locked her belt harness into place. Less insulted than she might have been-if she were being truly "escorted," one would be sitting in the rear with her. Perhaps they were smart enough to know that if she didn't wish to accompany them, there was d.a.m.n little they could do to force her. But this was Alpha Team. Appearances had to be maintained.

They cruised to the broad exit, lifting above the open flightyard tarmac beyond and into the pelting rain. SWAT flyers and a.s.sorted vehicles sat in parked rows, overlooked by admin offices, grey shadows looming through dimming sheets of water. Bank and climb, gaining alt.i.tude, the broad, angular CSA compound dimly visible below in an orderly, regular arrangement of low buildings and humble greenery. It looked a h.e.l.l of a lot nicer in sunlight than some of the security compounds she'd seen League-side, with their square-edged architecture of ferrocrete blocks and barely a tree to be seen. But it was still a functioning high security zone, scandalously unconcerned about aesthetic trivialities by Ta.n.u.shan standards, and the several kilometres of trigger-rigged wall that ringed the perimeter was not for show.

"Any excitement lately?" she asked the two Alphas in the front seats, as the course bent again, taking them northwards toward Canas, a small, exclusive suburb not five minutes' flight time from Parliament. The ground faded from sight as they gained alt.i.tude, only the dim shadows of towers visible through the downpour, even to Sandy's super-enhanced vision.

"Alpha Team is not at liberty to discuss operational occurrences," was the predictable answer.

"Did you implement Tactical Adjustment B58?"

"Sorry, ma'am, can't talk about it."

"I wrote Tactical Adjustment B58," she said dryly. "I saw your predecessors buy the farm in person, I was subsequently asked to critique your operational procedures and where they went wrong at the Parliament Ma.s.sacre. For all your sakes I hope you implemented it, because I'm not the only one keeping tabs on your operational performance."

Silence from the front. They knew all right. She wasn't yet sure how any of them felt about it. She'd saved the President's life, for sure. Perhaps they felt she'd belittled Alpha Team in the process, achieving single-handed what all of Alpha Team could not. And she certainly hadn't managed to save any of them. It was possible she could have. But it would have forced her to strike early, thus lessening her chances with the President by conceding surprise. Strategic objectives just didn't work like that. She'd rarely in all her operational career managed to have her cake, and eat it too. She'd chosen the President. Alpha Team, given their entire reason for existence, surely could not have found fault with her choice. But the fact remained that they were all dead, she could have done more to prevent it, and hadn't.

Welcome to war, boys. Now you know why I wanted to become a civilian.

Canas was exceptionally pretty. The cruiser landed in a yellow-striped security transit zone beside a residential park on the neighbourhood outer perimeter, underside wheels unfolding. Once through the heavy scanner outer checkpoint with its five guards, they were allowed to drive in through the roadway gap in the tall stonework. The outer security wall quickly gave way to ancient-styled brick and stonework buildings, wooden shutters and hand-carved signwork in Spanish, all wet and gleaming in the sunlight now that the black stormclouds were moving on toward the west. Wheels vibrated over road cobbles, the cruiser steering down narrow streets that were little more than lanes, winding mazelike with no regard for orderly geometry. Wood-railed balconies overlooked the street in places, and once a small church, its steeple rising beneath a beautiful spread of native raan-tree canopy, and colourful orange blossomed creepers spreading over stonework walls.

Canas, of course, was a museum piece, crafted in memory of a particular Earth culture that city planners had thought worth remembering. It was also impenetrably high security, shut off from the rest of Ta.n.u.sha, lived in only by those Ta.n.u.shans whose security rating war ranted the protection. That meant the President, a majority of ranking politicians, and their closest family. Only public servants, though a private sector heads in need of security (meaning biotech CEOs, these days) could presumably afford their own. Politicians, whatever the public cynicism about their salaries, did not make that much money.

The Presidential Quarters were also sometimes called the Hacienda a Spanish for house, Sandy had gathered. Or mansion. Not much was visible from the road, by intention. The cruiser rounded a slow, tight corner behind a high stone wall, then up the narrow lane to a heavy metal gate. Pause, while various scanners did their work, and then the gate wound slowly open. A paved roundabout served as a driveway, circling a large fountain draped in lush greenery. Several vehicles were parked by the disembarking ap.r.o.n, all aircars, heavy armoured cruisers crouched low on compressed suspension, several drivers waiting with other armed security, all totally conspicuous in dark suits. They pulled up behind the last vehicle's bulky rear end, Sandy catching all the while the continual flash of encrypted security codings across local airwaves a Doubtless there was more she could not catch-direct laser corn-vehicles such as these were equipped for such things. Doors hummed upward, Sandy collected her bags and got out.

The Hacienda was big. Exactly how big was difficult to see from this vantage-tall trees and lush, four metre ferns and palms surrounding, all dripping from the recent downpour a The fragrance of sodden greenery in the moist air was powerful and delightful. They were parked by the end of a long, rectangular wing, stairs leading up to ornate doors, frame gla.s.s windows overlooking, late afternoon sunlight gleamed orange on colourful, sloping rooftiles amid mottled patches of shade. Another such wing showed faintly through gardens lush enough to pa.s.s for heritage botanic gardens, glimpses of lovely stonework and arches amid the profusion of gleaming leaves and branches. Not only pretty-it made outside surveillance difficult. Every millimetre would be trigger-tripped and monitored.

"Ma'am," said another Alpha, blocking her way from the cruiser, "please leave your gear in the vehicle."

"I'm not having this discussion again."

"Ma'am, only security-authorised weapons are allowed within proximity of the President. You can keep your pistol, but please leave your bags in the vehicle."

"Do you have a guard room in the premises?" The Alpha's silence said as much. "I'll leave them there. I'm not leaving my gear in a vehicle that could get called away with me not in it."

A moment's silent consultation, uplink frequencies flicking encrypted messages back and forth. Sandy was aware of others standing about. Of the guard station built into the heavy stone wall by the gate at her back. Of any number of possible lethal and non-lethal weapons systems built into the picturesque surroundings. Even she wasn't allowed knowledge of these systems, heavily upgraded as they'd been of late.

"Very well," said the Alpha. And put out a hand. Sandy gave him the bags. Reached inside her jacket, slowly pulled out her pistol in full view, rechecked the safety, de-chambered the loaded round, removed the magazine and placed it into her jacket pocket. Pointed the weapon at the ground, clicked the trigger five times to demonstrate it was empty, rechecked the safety and tucked it back inside her jacket. It was politeness. Alphas were employed to be nervous, and any exception made in security protocol was a dangerous precedent.

She followed the Alpha with her bag up the stairs a Someone opened the door for them from the inside, admitting them into a long hallway. The Alpha with her bag immediately turned into a near room, and she followed a new Alpha down the hall, another pair bringing up the rear. Her boots squeaked on floorboards a wonderful things, floorboards, of all the things she'd thought, prior to becoming a civilian, that one could do with wood, walking on it hadn't occurred to her. They stretched polished and gleaming down a hallway of smooth plastered walls, with paintings, decorative potted palm fronds and overhead chan deliers. She gazed about as she walked, security technicalities temporarily set aside, and felt somewhat better about the whole thing. Being in Ta.n.u.sha, moving among people of power, had its benefits-even when she got in trouble, it landed her in a lovely house like this one, with the smell of polished timber and lush gardens, and never mind the nervous armed escort. It wasn't like they could threaten her anyway.

The hallway ended and they entered into the body of the Hacienda proper, large rooms, ornately furnished, rugs on the floors, offices and people in suits working a the President's personal staff and key Administration figures. They worked here when not at Parliament, the President dividing her time between debates and sittings in chambers, and then paperwork, meetings and strategy discussions here at the Presidential Quarters. Another corridor then, entrance flanked by a pair of permanent Alpha guards, and into a waiting room, the President's personal secretary sitting behind a big desk on the side, locked into his information system with headset and multiple display screens before him. A pair of big double doors beyond.

"Hi, Sandy," said the secretary, Alexei Sarpov. A mild young man with pleasant manners and an unbreakable concentration span. "How are you today?" Like she was a regular visitor. Well, she'd been here twice before in the last month, more than most people could boast.

"I'm fine, Alexei. How are you?" Simple civilian courtesies still sometimes eluded her. It took a conscious effort to remember what was appropriate and polite at what moments.

"I'm doing great, Sandy a the President would like to see you immediately, though I do believe she's in the middle of an important teleconference right now a"

"I'll stand in a corner and be very quiet."

Alexei smiled. "That would do perfectly."

The lead Alpha opened one of the double doors, and peered through. Opened the door fully, and gestured for Sandy to enter. She edged past, aware that two of them followed her in before closing the door behind her.

The French Office, as it was called, was of course superb. Large and grand without succ.u.mbing too much to self-conscious ostentation, it had a somewhat darker, more thoughtful mahogany feel than she'd expected when she'd first visited. The room got its name from the row of french doors that spanned the rear wall behind the main desk, a broad view leading onto a wide balcony that overlooked gardens and trees surrounding a wide, overgrown courtyard. The opposing face of the rear wing spanned beyond, more brickwork and balconies showing through the trees. The office was decorated with the paraphernalia of authority, bookshelves, cabinets, paintings of several famous figures. A comfortable sofa set ringed a coffee table in the centre of the office.

The President sat behind her main desk, her back to the windows, conversing to some person or persons on the display screen before her. She leaned back in her comfortable chair with informal disregard, hands clasped behind the back of her head, elbows out. The windows behind the President made Sandy slightly nervous, her mind on security. But vantage points were limited thanks to the greenery and opposing wing, and all opposing windows and balconies were continually occupied while the President was working. They also allowed her security to watch her at all times. Somehow Sandy doubted President Neiland appreciated that very much. Though no doubt last month's fatal carnage at Parliament had changed her perspective somewhat.

The President saw Sandy over the top of the screen, and waved at her to come forward. She did, with security close behind.

"a look," the President was saying, "a you have to make it conditional on the funding bill. I'm not handing that chairmanship to someone who won't even back us on funding for the very apparatus he's supposed to be advocating. Tell him he gives us the support on the bill or no chairmanship, and his faction can d.a.m.n well eat him alive, for all I care. None of them have any say on legislation without a seat on the committee and he knows it."

The reply was silent, no doubt uplinked to Neiland's inner ear. Sandy glanced about. There were paper files on the President's desk, a whole stack of them-some doc.u.ments still circulated in paper, low confidentiality ones. Another small box contained encrypted memory chips for high confidentiality doc.u.ments. Several thick books sat to one side-academic t.i.tles, Sandy noted, from local university presses. And read from the spine of the largest Interstellar Federation Law: Founding Principles and Practice. And Markets of Light: Interstellar Trade and the Physics of Economics. She nearly smiled. Light reading, Ms. President? The third book was in Hindi, in which all senior Ta.n.u.shan politicians were fluent by necessity a and often Arabic, too. Neiland, she knew, added Bahasa, Mandarin, Spanish and her own native Dutch to that tally. Seven languages was not exceptional in Ta.n.u.sha, language tape-teach worked better on some people than others, but irrespective of that, it generally reduced the amount of time taken to learn languages from between fifty to ninety per cent.

"a fine," Neiland was saying now, "a just get it to him before the next sitting. I don't want to waste time arguing with him myself. Get him briefed and make him fully aware of his position, because I'm not sure he's realised yet what trouble he can get himself into." The screen went off, and President Neiland got up.

"Hi, Sandy." Came around the desk and surprised her with an offered kiss on the cheek, Arabic-style a Sandy returned it, repeated on each side. It always surprised her, her instinct was to salute. Neiland pulled back to look at her, hands on her arms in a most friendly manner. There was a faint smile in her sharp green eyes, a lingeringly dangerous amus.e.m.e.nt. Sandy was surprised at how good she looked. She'd half expected to see a haggard, weary President with dark rings under the eyes, irritable and short tempered with all around her. Instead Neiland looked bright and alert, red hair neatly bound at the back with a comb and clasp. She had on a green suit jacket that was only moderately formal, a red bow-ribbon at the collar that bordered on flamboyant. Civilians, Sandy remembered the prejudice back in Dark Star, lacking military discipline, tended to get weak and flaky under great pressure. Between the Callayan President and the CSA Director, Sandy reckoned she'd seen enough evidence to cast great doubt upon that reckoning. "How are you?"

"Good." Volunteering more to the President didn't seem a good idea until she knew what she was here for. Neiland smiled, seeming genuinely pleased to see her. And looked at the two Alphas at her back.

"Thanks, guys, we need to be alone for a moment."

"Yes, Ms. President." And turned to go, offering no argument.

"You didn't give her a hard time, did you, boys?" Neiland called after them.

One turned, still backing to the door. "No, Ms. President."

"You sure?" Playfully. The Alpha kept walking backward while his partner went for the door, apparently well familiar with his boss's mood.

"Very sure, Ms. President. She was most cooperative."

"She could have had you all for breakfast, you know that, don't you?"

"Of course, Ms. President."

"He doesn't believe me." To Sandy. And to the Alpha, "Thank you, Mahesh. Wish your sister happy birthday for me."

"Thank you, Ms. President, I will." And retreated from the room, appearing both pleased and amused despite the stony-faced formality. Sandy couldn't help but feel approval. Neiland, she'd gathered, had never paid her personal security much attention before. Until they'd all been brutally killed, sacrificing their lives against futile odds to protect her. Now she knew all the new Alphas by name, had their important family occasions bookmarked for Presidential wellwishings, and bantered with them in spare moments like a proud aunt to her respectful nephews and nieces. Sandy wasn't sure what the previous bunch of Alphas had actually thought of their President. But it was clear that this bunch would die for her even more cheerfully than the last. Though hopefully it wouldn't come to that again.

"Come on, have a seat," said the President, putting a hand on Sandy's back and ushering her to the comfortable chairs in the centre of the room. As if on cue, another side door opened and a staff member entered, holding a tray with steaming tea and biscuits. "Were they a bit rough?"

"No, just confiscated my weapons a I know the procedure, it's not me they're worried about, it's any loose weaponry being scooped up by traitorous staff members or visitors. They have to account for every firearm. They do a good job."

"They do, don't they? Been surfing lately?"

"Yes, just today." Sat on the big sofa by the coffee table, Neiland in the single chair to her left. "I had my first half-day off in a week, hired a flyer and went out to Rajadesh for the morning."

"Oh, it's nice out there, isn't it?" Took an offered cup of tea from the staffwoman with a nod. "I used to go beedie foraging on the headlands just a few Ks up from there with my father and brothers when I was a girl a you know beedies?" Sandy shook her head, taking her own tea. "Black sh.e.l.lfish as big as your hand, you crack them open with a big knife. The meat's just bite-sized, fry it over an open fire camping by the beach, just heavenly. Tastes all smokey and sweet and juicy. Can't get them confused with banyas, though, those things will kill you. Well, me, anyway, probably not you."

The staffwoman left the tray on the table and departed. Sandy sipped the tea-Chinese green tea, fragrant and hot. She'd liked it last time she was here, she recalled. Neiland must have remembered, and had staff prepare a pot. She wasn't sure if such forethought ought to make her suspicious or not.

"The surf was good?" Neiland pressed.

"Very good. Nice waves at Rajadesh. Good breaks, plenty of tubes, you can ride for nearly thirty seconds on the best ones."

"How long did it take you to master it?"

Sandy repressed a smile, sipping at her tea. A subtle, mild, mellow taste. Amazing. The military food of most of her life's experience was not known for subtlety.

"I don't know if you could say I've mastered it. The best riders are expressive as much as technical."

"But you've mastered it technically?"

"Sure. Took about five decent waves. I was doing most of the moves within a few hours."

Neiland grinned. "You know, anyone else, I would think they were boasting. But not only do I know what you're capable of, I know you're not the boastful type, anyway."

Sandy shrugged offhandedly, and sipped her tea again. She enjoyed Neiland's compliments as much as she enjoyed anyone's, especially as she was very prepared to believe that Neiland genuinely liked her, on a level that went well beyond simple grat.i.tude. She didn't think it wise to be flattered by them, however. Neiland was too good at compliments when it suited her. It was a big part of her job.