Part 22 (1/2)

”You sure you'll be able to sleep without your bed of nails?” someone nearby teased him in a low voice. Hiraki fancied himself as something of a modern day samurai, and led a very disciplined, frugal lifestyle by any standards, let alone Ta.n.u.shan standards.

”Sleep, vile sc.u.m,” was Hiraki's reply. Everyone liked Hiraki. But they were glad Vanessa was squad CO.

Vanessa pulled off her tracksuit and stretched, a sinuous rippling of slim, wiry, muscular limbs. Someone wolf-whistled while she was bent to touch her toes, clad only in underpants and small, cut-off unders.h.i.+rt that left her flat stomach bare.

”Children,” came Zago's deep, murmured reprimand from across the room. ”I'm surrounded by immature children, one sleep-out and everyone thinks they're back in school camp.” Zago was in his fifties, married with five children, and enjoyed his role as squad ”senior.” Someone farted. All those still awake collapsed with laughter. An enhanced visions.h.i.+ft through the dark showed Sandy that even Hiraki was smiling. Vanessa just sat on the floor, head in hand, shaking uncontrollably. It was a release of tension. Sandy had seen it even among supposedly tension-resistant GIs. Straights required far more, she'd discovered.

”Do GIs fart?” someone thought to ask.

”I refuse to answer,” Sandy replied, ”on the grounds that any statement may be self-incriminating.”

”Children,” repeated Zago. Vanessa resumed stretching upon her bedroll.

”Do that bending-over stretch again, LT,” came Singh's voice. ”I was enjoying that.”

”You won't enjoy me breaking your kneecaps,” retorted Rupa Sharma, SWAT Four's only other woman besides Sandy and their beloved CO.

”You could do it instead, Rupa, I don't mind either way.” Some laughter and poking went on across where Sharma was lying. A smacking sound of Sharma swatting someone away.

”I knew it had to be a mistake trying to sleep in a room full of this many men,” she muttered.

”Where's your sense of adventure, Rupa? This is your chance to be a s.e.xual legend! A shot at the record books!”

”I'd rather sleep in a farm yard.”

”Whatever gets you going, I guess.”

”Well,” said Vanessa, finis.h.i.+ng her stretching and climbing tiredly into her sleeping bag, ”you guys can do what you want over there, but I warn you, any attempt to penetrate the CO will be met with stern disapproval and extra duty.”

”Arvid,” Sandy added over the m.u.f.fled giggles from around the room, ”I'll have you know I own those record books.”

”I'll believe that,” Singh said agreeably. ”Good night everybody, sleep well, and try not to think of the LT's tight little a.r.s.e and shapely thighs a”

”There's nothing further from my mind, I a.s.sure you,” said Kuntoro, who was gay.

”Seriously,” Sharma complained, ”someone take him out in the cor- ridor and shoot him.”

”Can't,” said the usually laconic Tsing, ”Requisition Order 32b, non-operations-related ammunition requested for the purposes of disposing of irritating squadmates must first be signed for against the authorisation of a”

And was cut off by exhausted, uncontrolled laughter-even Sandy found herself grinning. And reflected that most of her old Dark Star team would probably have been asleep by now a except maybe Tran and Mahud, who alone of her team might have stayed awake talking while the others followed procedure and went to sleep. Again, civilians did things differently. Perhaps, she thought, whatever the situation's difficulties, a few minutes' extra sleep were not as important as the emotional comfort of knowing one was not alone. In Dark Star, they had fought because fighting was the act that defined their existence. In SWAT Four, they fought for their homeworld against those who wished to harm it. It was a cause they all shared, even the macho types like Johnson, whose primary reason for joining was ”tough-guy” self image. Even through their casual banter, they reminded each other of the togetherness, and sense of community, that drove them in their task. The togetherness was what they were fighting for. A place, a people and a cause.

Sandy smiled to herself in the dark, feet up on the table and reading from her screen as the conversation continued in hushed, laughing tones a feeling that something very significant had slipped profoundly into place. This was what it felt like to belong to something. To be willing to fight, and even to die for it. And for the first time in her life, she knew what she was fighting for-it was messy, it was complicated, it was often exasperating and downright infuriating. But it was something worth protecting, and something that was in evident need of her protection. And after so many years of uncertainty, regret and doubt, this sudden, delightful onset of clarity felt like a liberation.

he Grand Congressional Hearings Chamber was as impressive to sit in as the name suggested it ought. Located on the fifth floor of the ma.s.sive nine-storey Parliament complex, the ceiling extended all the way up to the roof in a grand, arching dome, patterned with tiles and inlays of Islamic inspiration. The lighting setup reminded Sandy of mosques she had ventured into, a circular arrangement of long, suspended lamps that formed a clear circle above the middle of the huge room between ceiling and floor. The lamps themselves were more in the style of European chandeliers, though, as were the wall panelling, and the enormous, wooden altar-like benches at the front of the room.

Sandy sat at the centre of the long table before the elevated, arching semi-circle of benches with their carved panelling and plush chairs, her laptop set before her as she waited for the huge, noisy crowd in the chamber seats behind to arrange itself into some kind of orderliness. She estimated seating for perhaps six hundred. Some, she'd been informed by Rani Bannerjee, the President's new senior advisor, were being filled by congressors or senators not presently occupied with other matters. Most were taken by yet more lemmings, members of one or another off-world delegation, along with the many interested Callayan onlookers. Visitors' pa.s.ses to the Parliament were rare these days, and most journalists had been banned from the room for this occasion, but still, milling behind her this jostling, unsettled crowd a she caught s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation, some of it technical, but much of it, as she'd feared, specifically about her.

”a wish she'd turn around a” was the gist of many conversations, as eager, curious, wary civilians strained for a look at this most significant of curiosities to descend upon their world of late. She had no intention of turning around. She'd gotten here early, straight from the small VIP flyer pad at the side of the complex, and sat in her required seat specifically in order to get here ahead of the gallery crowd and sit like this with her back to them as they entered. Not that she cared if they saw her face or not-the closed-circuit TV would, and would transmit these proceedings all through the corridors of power. Closed-circuit transmissions ran on fancy embedded encryption that erased themselves at any attempt to copy and disseminate, and did so in ways that could also melt the utilised equipment. She'd studied the software herself, briefly, and had been satisfied. This broadcast would only be seen once, and that only in select offices of power.

”Nervous?” asked Mahudmita Rafasan from alongside. The President's senior legal advisor was dressed rather conservatively today, in a dark outfit that looked almost as much dress as sari, with silvery tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs and only a patterned orange shoulder-sash for the obligatory flash of colour. Earrings, bangles and other jewellery were untypically spa.r.s.e and modest, and her gleaming black hair was bound conveniently short at the back.

”Wis.h.i.+ng I'd sat in on the security checks,” was Sandy's only com ment, uplinked to the room's security systems, for what little she could access past the impenetrable barriers that enclosed all the Parliament complex's systems.

”The, um, detectors and searches in the corridors are quite thorough,” Rafasan rea.s.sured her, with a familiar nervous fidget at the bangles upon her left wrist. There was a ring there too, on the fourth finger, where a wedding ring might be upon a European. This ring, Rafasan had told her some time before, was a mark of graduation from her law school, some fifty years before a Rafasan was seventyfive years old, though it was impossible to tell to look at her. She could have been a young thirty, and a very attractive one at that. Not all biotech advances, Sandy reflected, were disdained in Ta.n.u.sha. It was the kind of hypocrisy in the Federation's antibiotech stance that the League never failed to point out at every opportunity.

”Even so,” Sandy replied, running her eyes across the lower front bench before her, ”I'm never comfortable with so many people at my back.” The congressors were all in place and seated, some examining notes, some taking in the scene before them. The second, upper bench held fifteen, the lower one eleven. Elected representatives, seated here in numbers reflecting the numbers of the lower house-seventeen for Union Party, and nine for Progress Party. A two-party system in the lower house, with their preference system and elimination ballots. Only in the proportional representation of the Senate, housed in the second point of the Callayan governmental triangle but a kilometre from here, did the minor parties run amok.

Security stood at various strategic points about the room, armed and alert. Most were facing the crowd a whites.h.i.+rted uniforms with gold badges upon their chests. All members of the gallery were VIPs of a sort, security cleared, sifted, and further checked in the outside hall before entry a standard procedure these days with or without the presence of controversial, ex-Dark Star GIs. In truth, Sandy reflected, she was less concerned at the possibility of rogue terrorists in the gallery than at the presence of several leading Ta.n.u.shan journalists of whose presence Rani Bannerjee had also informed her. There might be no legal means to broadcast her image or voice, but there was nothing to stop print or broadcast media from transmitting her words secondhand when she spoke in a public setting.

Do not, Bannerjee had further counselled her just minutes before, under any circ.u.mstances, say anything controversial. Be dull, boring and listless if necessary.

Exactly what const.i.tuted a controversy, Sandy remained unsure. She suspected it rather depended upon who was listening. And on a world like Callay, surely the only way to avoid offending anyone was to say nothing at all. It was all Neiland's problem now. She was surprised at exactly how cool she was about it. She only wished there'd been some way of keeping her gun a but, of course, she remained technically suspended due to the SIB's investigation, and it would not do to be seen wielding a weapon in direct defiance of that suspension in the Parliament complex itself. Her weapon remained with an Agent Odano, a junior recruit from Investigations who'd been a.s.signed to run this errand, and was presently seated in the gallery some short distance behind. He also had her badge. ”Don't throw them to me if there's trouble,” Sandy had told him on the flyer ride in. ”I'll get to you first, believe me.” He'd believed her.

A bell rang, a clear, rapid chiming. How anachronistic, Sandy thought, watching with interest as the sound emanated from a small, silver bell in front of the chairman. He was seated in the centre of the front row, a man of Arabic appearance, clad in the white robe permissible in Ta.n.u.shan politics for those politicians who liked to display their cultural heritage instead of settling for the universal blandness of suits and ties. He wore a thick, black beard, which gave Sandy some indication as to his political leanings. Although, she'd been learning in Ta.n.u.sha not to take anything for granted.

”The records shall note that the time is ten thirty-five on Central Time Monday the fifteenth of March, 2543.”

League time, it occurred to Sandy in idle thought, was tri-monthand-twelve when converted to the universal League calendar-decimals and averages-the general average of League-world years made convenient for the time-dilation of travelling stars.h.i.+ps and peoples a long, long way from Earth's rotational schedules. It made more sense than Callay's system of cramming a 325-day year into the same twelve Earth months, with months running to twenty-six or twenty-seven days to compensate. But none of the League's months were named after great Roman emperors who had lived more than two thousand years before, and were thus, in Sandy's estimation, rendered quite dull by comparison. Long live inefficiency and pointless complexity. She was certain that the reminder of past eras and histories was far more valuable than any gain in basic numerical efficiency.

”I,” the chairman continued, ”Khaled Ha.s.san, declare this special Congressional Hearing open, and the speaker today is one a Ms. April Ca.s.sidy.” With emphasis that Sandy thought might be wry sarcasm. A murmur echoed from the cl.u.s.tered gallery behind. Some muted laughter. t.i.ttering, nervous excitement. Rafasan spared her a nervous glance. Sandy sighed. ”Ms. Ca.s.sidy a just a procedural thing, could you please make sure you speak directly into the microphone so everyone can hear?”

”Yes, sir.”

Another t.i.ttering murmur from the gallery. She wondered if maybe she'd said the wrong thing, reminding people of her military past a well, she couldn't help that, calling people in positions of authority ”sir” was as unshakeable a habit as breathing. She determined to keep her tone polite and deferential, free from the drill instructor formality that would surely intimidate a crowd such as this, however formal the occasion. She'd never been keen on drill anyhow.

”Now, Ms. Ca.s.sidy a I understand you have a presentation for us, on behest of the President herself a in order to demonstrate to us all, I gather, the nature and a well, importance of your more recent work here on Callay a” in the slow, pausing, long-winded manner of a professional bureaucrat, ”a but first, if you would allow, of course, I would like to ask the freedom as chairman to ask you a few questions a on behalf of my colleagues here, who will of course have their turn, as per the standing orders of this hearing chamber, to ask of you their own questions upon your completion of this a presentation of yours. Is this sequence of events a acceptable to you?”

”Yes, sir, perfectly acceptable.”

More murmuring. And it occurred to her in a flash a it was her voice. A good voice, to be sure, firm and strong. But high, clear, and unmistakably female. Wow. It amazed her that they were amazed. Just her luck to end up on one of the few worlds left in all human s.p.a.ce where the idea of women as fighters still raised some eyebrows. They d.a.m.n well knew the rest of human s.p.a.ce had largely moved on, they simply didn't care, and women themselves were among the loudest objectors. And now this a not only a GI, but a female one. And blonde. In Ta.n.u.sha, when a teenage Indian, Arabic or Chinese girl wanted to upset her father, she dyed her hair blonde and wore European-style skirts several sizes too short. Blonde women were the s.e.xually exotic, or, as Vanessa would say with a snort, the archetypal decadent, cultureless European morality vacuum. Not that anyone had noticed any shortage of libidinous activity among the Ta.n.u.shan population in general of late, but some ethnic stereotypes died harder than others. It didn't seem something that most European Ta.n.u.shans were trying very hard to fling off. Sandy empathised.

”Very well, then, Ms. Ca.s.sidy a” Ha.s.san paused for a moment, reading from the screen before him, stroking absently at his ample beard. ”a first of all, could I perhaps inquire if ”April Ca.s.sidy” is in fact your real name? There was some conjecture earlier, among my colleagues a some said it was only a CSA-given pseudonym.”

Sandy smiled. ”April Ca.s.sidy is a pseudonym, Mr. Ha.s.san.” Her voice echoed clearly through the chamber, projected from invisible speakers with great clarity. ”My real name remains protected for now, as do my other personal details.”

”I see.” Another beard stroke, watching her with curiosity. He seemed, Sandy reckoned, a rather mild sort of man. Union Party Leftist, Bannerjee had briefed her. Muslim, of course, but in the measured, secular way of most mainstream Callayan politicians where religious affiliations were concerned. ”And how did you come about this a rather curious pseudonym, if I may ask?”

”Of course.” Repressing a broader smile. ”I chose it myself. From a couple of public figures back League-side. Something I didn't think anyone would automatically a.s.sociate with me.”

”Which pair of public figures?”

”If you must know, Mr. Ha.s.san, from a pair of holovid p.o.r.nstars.”

Utter, disbelieving silence for a moment. Then a surge of laughter, building to general commotion. Fading just as quickly as people remembered they weren't supposed to make any noise. To her left, Sandy saw that Rafasan was staring at her with a somewhat stricken expression a poor woman, she'd been hoping her administration's tame GI would make this session easy on her, what with her usual chaotic schedule now including the injunction proceedings against Governor Dali's extradition as well. Sandy managed with difficulty to stop her smile turning into a grin.

”I remembered one male soldier under my command in Dark Star,” she continued with unfazed amus.e.m.e.nt, ”once made the observation to me that this one particular p.o.r.nstar looked rather like myself a it was a long, boring period with nothing much to do, you understand, and they were looking for various entertainments to pa.s.s the time.” More amus.e.m.e.nt from the gallery. ”Anyhow, this lady's name, I believe, was something-or-other Ca.s.sidy. Her partner's name was April.” Outright guffaws from directly behind her. Rafasan was just staring, in utter disbelief. ”I put the two together. I thought it catchy.”

And she sat for a long moment, and surveyed the carnage she had wrought upon the sombre, orderly proceedings in just a few short moments, with laughter and hubbub from the gallery, and numerous congressors exchanging disbelieving looks, and sometimes laughter, in their utter surprise.

”Well,” said a woman on the Progress Party side of the benches, this hearing has started absolutely nothing like I'd expected.” Which provoked even more laughter, a continuing release of built-up tension. On the Union side of the benches, the mirth was considerably more subdued. Although suspicious of Progress Party motives in general, she was certainly happy to have them there. They were the ones, generally speaking, who were not scared of her. Some were using her to attack Neiland and Union in general, but attacks on herself were comparatively rare from Progress.