Killswitch (9 page)

Sandy peered about the corner of the last crate in that row. The GeVo was idling crookedly against the bay's end wall, smoke pouring from turret seams. A small, circular hole had been drilled just above the rotation ring of its turret armour, from which more smoke was pouring. Sandy turned around and looked at the hole in the entrance door. She was little surprised to see a small, female figure stepping through, hefting a massive electro-mag anti-armour launcher over one shoulder, eyes shielded behind a heavy, dark visor to guard against muzzle flash. Ge-Vo armour was damn tough, but as was always the way with military technology, the only technological field to have outpaced the tremendous advances in armour and protection was the physics of electromagnetic projection weaponry. If you fired a projectile at a high enough velocity, even the best military-grade armour was as useless as tissue paper.

Vanessa saw Sandy, and made a face.

"Well, what d'you know," she drawled, with a gesture of the heavy launcher, "the damn thing works. That's the lot?" Evidently knowing it was, for the lack of noise elsewhere in the bay.

"Seems to be," Sandy replied. "We'll do a sweep."

"I'll get it organised," said a wide-eyed lieutenant entering behind Vanessa. Beyond the hole in the entry door, Sandy sensed a mass of ready confusion, many soldiers poised with whatever weapons they could acquire. Shouts echoed behind as orders were given, scanning equipment organised ... better to scan from range than sweep by hand, there was no need to risk lives unnecessarily.

"Oh," Sandy thought to add, "and while you're at it, could you get someone to look for my thumb?"

The med-bay was more spacious, clean and white than any Sandy could remember from her service League-side. It made her wonder if the CDF were truly a real army, and not the self-deluded, soft, undisciplined civilians most of the Fleet seemed to think they were. She sat by the side of an operating table, her left arm extended beneath an obscuring green curtain. On opposite sides of the table, two surgeons in full masks and gowns gathered over her arm. There were various implements in their hands, and various more on a side table-some that they used on normal human patients, and others utterly different. A multimode scanner suspended from the ceiling hovered above her hand.

On a screen to the surgeons' side, if she cared to look, was an intricate high definition image of her hand and forearm. A bio-alloy sheath now encased the bone of her lower thumb where it had been severed at midlength. That was the easy bit-GI bones regenerated just like regular human bones, with some encouragement from introduced nano- tech solutions within the bio-sheath. More difficult was the hole through her wrist, which had severed the tendons to her index and middle fingers, as well as removing a piece of wrist bone and causing other structural misalignments. Full mobility could be limited for a while, the surgeons told her, and she wasn't going to be her usual ambidextrous self for at least a month. She'd also been clipped along the front of her shin, but that had done nothing but remove a centimetre of skin.

And she was alone, save the surgeons, who were utterly absorbed in this rare opportunity to study the inner workings of technology's most advanced synthetic human, and weren't much on idle chit-chat. Her solitude made her feel ... well, glum, she supposed. Abandoned was too strong a word. But her troops were busy sweeping for further security breaches, the admin were busy cleaning up and counting the cost, and any spare friends she had in CSA Intel had now just found themselves with one more large issue dumped on their plate. The sudden storm of activity included Vanessa, of course, who on top of it all was now giving her the silent treatment, now that she'd gotten over the initial relief that her synthetic friend was still alive. Sandy couldn't see how she'd deserved that. Best friend or not, Vanessa's emotional swings remained a source of occasional confusion, and worse.

Movement down the corridor beyond the broad wall windows ... Sandy recognised both Director Ibrahim and Ari easily, despite the sanitised gowns, hair nets and face masks. They took turns at moving through the airlock door, each subjected to a rush of further decontaminating fumes, then the red light above the doors turned green, and first Ari was admitted, then Ibrahim. That much concession Ibrahim granted for their "relationship," Sandy pondered with a raised eyebrow, as Ari came cautiously across the shiny white floor, a relieved smile evident beneath the mask.

"Hi," he said, a more subdued greeting than usual, and put a hand on her shoulder. And she was mildly surprised that he paid the surgeons so little attention. All of his attention was instead focused upon her. "Are you okay?" Behind the concern, tension. Frustration, even. That wasn't good.

"I'm okay," she said, forcing a faint smile as she looked up at him. Ari brushed hair back from her forehead, gazing at her. Ibrahim came over, and Ari stood to Sandy's side, a hand still on her shoulder. Sandy rested her head gently against his arm, and smiled at the sight of Ibrahim in a spotless green gown. The mask did not fit him well. His large nose seemed to be protesting its imprisonment, struggling to make a break for freedom.

"Not a word," said Ibrahim. Sandy's smile grew broader.

"No, sir. This is going to blow out our budget."

"The budget, Commander, is the least of our worries. We have an infiltration."

"Obviously," said Sandy.

"Ari thinks it's rather a bad one."

"Just last night Ari was warning me that someone would try to go after me through this ... damn killswitch thing. That didn't happen."

"It's not good, Sandy," Ari cut in. The frustration was plain in his voice now. His hand vanished from her shoulder to rub the front of the gown, seeking their usual deep pockets as he paced several steps, dark boots squeaking upon the shiny floor. "They got into the maintenance bays, for godsake. It had to be someone inside the CDF. But considering the security protocols we put in place, that shouldn't be possible."

"I wouldn't be rushing to conclusions," Ibrahim told Ari pointedly. Ari didn't look impressed. "Cassandra, I need you to be extra careful. We'll find who did this, but in the meantime, I want you to limit your movements and keep away from equipment bays, or any place where accidents or ambushes can be rigged in such a fashion."

"You want me to be a desk jockey?" Sandy asked, in mild disbelief.

"Sandy, your safety is important to the CDF. It's important to me. If you need to become a desk jockey to maintain your personal security, then that is what you'll do."

"What if I'm mortally wounded in a catastrophic chair-leg failure?"

"Sit on the floor."

Sandy sighed, and glanced up at Ari. Ari's expression was dark. And he was fidgeting absently, as if his attention were elsewhere. Which, given Ari's uplinks were nearly as advanced as hers, was definitely possible. That was definitely not good.

"Sandy," Ibrahim continued firmly, "we really can't begin to guess who might have done it. Certainly it looks like some pro-Earth conservative faction, but we should not assume anything ... there are radical proLeague elements, after all, who see your presence as contributing to antiLeague xenophobia and therefore an obstacle toward ultra-progressive politics on Callay. Or it could be a CDF soldier with a grudge from some history your checks did not detect ... we don't know."

"What does Krishnaswali think?" Sandy asked.

"He's keeping an open mind," Ibrahim replied cautiously.

The senior CDF commander had not been to visit her, nor made direct contact of any kind since the ambush. She hadn't thought their relations had been that bad, personally. Maybe she'd been wrong.

She took a deep breath. "Sir," she began, and paused, annoyed at the plaintive note she heard in her voice. "I am second-in-command of the CDF. I have a job to do, and I take that very seriously. We have operational concerns that need to be ironed out, Vanessa's supervising the training of a whole new combat squad even now and if I don't have functioning vehicles and weaponry ready for them to use, there's not much point to anything."

"You'll have to try supervising from a greater distance," Ibrahim said firmly.

"Sir, I don't know if that's going to ..."

"CSA Investigations will be assisting the inquiry," Ibrahim cut her off. "Krishnaswali wanted to keep it in-house, but the CDF simply does not have the manpower or skills for a major internal investigation at this point."

Sandy turned her gaze on Ari. Ari said nothing, standing dark and sombre at her side, fingernails drumming upon his chin as if he wanted to bite them, but was prevented by the surgical mask. Usually it was at this point in a discussion that he would jump in with some flippant, pointed observation or remark. Now, nothing.

"Surgeons," said Ibrahim, "what's your prognosis?"

"The hand will be fully functional in perhaps two weeks," came the reply. "The wrist won't have quite the same degree of articulation for months, though-we'll need to synthesise and graft some new bone, ferrous alloy of this kind doesn't regenerate fast or well enough to replace the piece of wrist bone that's missing. It might take a while to procure."

"I have a friend who might help," Sandy said. Ibrahim raised an eyebrow at her. Sandy saw the expression and shrugged.

"Quietly," Ibrahim warned her.

"Yes, sir."

Ari disappeared for a while, but returned just as she was exiting the sterile airlock and into the med-bay corridor. Striding briskly toward her, dark and handsome, hands thrust deeply into the pockets of a long-tailed black coat that swirled at his calves, having thrown the unfashionable lime green medical gear away as quickly as possible. His hand came out as he stopped before her, and placed it upon her chest, keeping her there. His voice, when he spoke, was low, his eyes sharp and earnest.

"Sandy, I've done some checks ... Intel have nothing. No barriers violated, no traces left, nothing. Not even on the AMAPS' CPUs, nor the Ge-Vo. Whoever reprogrammed them wasn't just an insider with all the right codes, he had enough foresight to stall an investigation and cover his tracks. No outsider knows that software that well."

His dark eyes bore into hers, seeking her comprehension. Sandy thought about it for a moment. Then, "Ari. Why are you whispering? If you have something to tell me that you don't want anyone to hear, there are these things called uplinks ..."

Ari rolled his eyes, but refocused quickly with tense frustration. "Because I want you to hear the tone of my voice, for one thing, because I damn well knew you wouldn't take this seriously."

"You've always had a very sexy tone of voice, Ari, but ...'

"And also because I don't trust the networks here."

Sandy frowned at him. "This is the CDF, Ari ... the Callayan Defence Force, not just anyone can hack into the networks and eavesdrop."

"And the Callayan Defence Force was established by the Neiland Administration to serve the Neiland Administration's own political goals ..."

"Oh Jesus, not this again?" Staring up at him with genuine incredulity. "For the last time, Ari, Katia Neiland is ..."

She broke off as the airlock hissed behind her, one of the surgeons exiting, pulling the surgical mask away from his face.

"I realise I may be talking to a bulkhead," the surgeon told her cheerfully, indicating the large, synthetic cast that moulded about her wrist, hand and thumb, "but please try not to move it very much." It felt warm. Sandy knew it maintained an ideal environment for the nano-solutions they'd injected into the wrist and bone-sheath to breed and repair, involving low doses of radiation that they fed off. Or so the doctors said. "Aside from that, if it gives you any trouble, please don't hesitate to call me personally. You have my details?"

"Cybernetic memory, Mr. Pan, I have everyone's details."

Mr. Pan smiled. "Of course. Well, take care and keep up the good work, Commander." He strolled off, looking very pleased indeed. All the medicos in med-bay seemed to enjoy themselves when she got injured a lot more than she did. Sandy turned her attention back to Ari.

"Katia Neiland is not trying to get me killed!" she said in a firm whisper.

Ari took a deep breath. And fixed her with a flat, wise gaze. "Sandy, do you trust me?"

"Trust you?" She gazed at him. Trying desperately to think how to answer.

"I mean ..." and Ari took a deep breath. "I know I'm not always entirely ... there, with the truth." Sandy refrained from comment with difficulty. "But you know I have my reasons. Don't you?"

"I trust who you are, An," she told him. "I trust that I know you ... well, at least well enough. I trust that you'd never purposely do anything to hurt me. Is that enough?"

Ari shrugged, and glanced at the floor. Looking suddenly a little awkward. "I'd like it to be something more." And lifted his gaze, earnestly.

Sandy sighed. "Ari, why ask me now?"

"Because things are different now. Dangerous." With a glance at the cast on her left hand. "Because I think I sort of fell into the trap of thinking you were invincible, and ... and that was pretty scary, just now. For me at least, I can't speak for supergirl ..."

"I was scared," she told him. Not entirely certain that it was true, even as she said it. Not in the way he meant it. The implications scared her, after the fact. While it was happening ... well, very few superfluous emotions survived past the combat-reflex.

"Not scared enough, I think," said Ari, pointedly. And he took a deep breath. "Sandy, this is just ... so dangerous, this situation. The politics. Look, at least ..."

"Ari, I'll be careful." Firmly. "But I don't believe in conspiracy theories. You know that."

"Something caused it, Sandy. Whatever you think just happened here, something caused it. Don't go about ignoring that because you're suddenly too scared to contemplate what happens if it turns out your nice, comfortable little life is suddenly ..

Sandy put her good hand hard against his chest, and shoved him backwards into a wall. Pinned him there, with a firm pressure to his chest, and a hard look in the eye. "Ari, I'm really tired of your constant psychoanalysing. You're not a shrink, in fact you could make a damn sight better use of one than I ever could."