Cassandra Kresnov: Breakaway Part 19

"Commander," she said calmly, "if you'd bothered to read CSA priority reports to all police personnel of your rank and security clearance, you'd know exactly who April Ca.s.sidy is, particularly the April Ca.s.sidy connected to SWAT Four under Lieutenant Rice. That you haven't read such reports is alarming. It suggests to me there's something fundamentally unsound with the present relations.h.i.+p between the CSA and Ta.n.u.shan police. Worse, it's put us at this unfortunate impa.s.se. What do you think we can do to rectify this unseemly situation?"

The Commander stared, eyes wide beneath his blue baseball cap. Too collected to react further, when any reaction would be fear or shock. A man lunged at her from back along the aisle. She kicked him in the stomach. He hit the floor behind the row of seats and curled into a gasping, wheezing ball.

"Sir," the lieutenant managed, in a small voice past the pressure on his chest, "I think she's the GI." The Commander stared at him. The lieutenant nodded, knowingly.

"I am so pleased," said the Commander, "to be surrounded by such genius intellects." The lieutenant winced. The Commander turned to Sandy. "Agent Ca.s.sidy, perhaps you'd like to speak to Lieutenant Rice?"

"I'd be delighted." Released the lieutenant as the Commander reached around for a headset. The lieutenant stood where she'd pinned him, unwilling to move. A full head taller than her and much broader, frozen as if confronted by a poisonous snake ready to strike. She smiled and patted him on the cheek. He winced at that, too. The Commander gave her the headset and she fixed it on, fixed the mobile source to where her belt would be if she'd worn one, squeezed past an end chair and swung herself up to seat her backside on a vacant console panel by the command chair. It gave her a good view of the van interior. A row of faces, all staring at her in the dim, artificial working light.

"Get back to work," she admonished them, "we're just discussing duty protocols." Some nervous glances back and forth at that. "What's the matter, haven't you seen a pretty girl before?" That got a response, a few nervous t.i.tters from the largely male cps crew.

"Come on, people," announced the Commander, clapping his hands, "back at it. She's just our friendly neighbourhood GI, we mistook her for someone else, our fault. Come on, there's three of those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds still alive in there. There's lives at stake, let's pay some attention!"

It got them going again, with a few remaining nervous sideways glances. Someone was helping the man she'd kicked back to his feet, helping him get his breath back.

"Leaping on a GI barehanded, Senior Constable," Sandy called, you itching for a promotion or just looking to get your name in the paper?" Dialling up her connection, waiting for the security net to confirm it.

"How *bout a raise?" someone quipped.

"He okay?" Sandy pressed.

An acknowledging hand raised from the man himself, bent over and recovering, a hand to his middle.

"I'm okay."

"Next time try using a cannon," she advised. He spared her a wary sideways look. She returned a crooked smile. And was nearly surprised at the return smile, slight as it was. But not greatly surprised. She'd commanded forces most of her life. GIs were different from straights, but some things remained in common. Like compliments only carrying as much weight as the person who delivered them. From her to these guys a she'd just made the Senior Constable a hero. All power, she recalled, came from the barrel of a gun-or something like thatsurely it applied to violence generally a Now who'd said that? Someone she'd read, she couldn't remember. Violent species. But that wasn't her fault, she was what she was. The trick was applying it prop erly. Irrational macho impulses sure didn't help.

Her call connected. It would flash as an insignificant suggestion light somewhere on Vanessa's visor display, nothing distracting. Vanessa would get to it when she felt ready. Sandy was somewhat surprised when the link clicked active almost immediately.

"Hey, babe." Vanessa's voice, hard-edged but cool. "Was wondering how long you'd take. "

"Ricey, what's happened?"

"Three point insertion, points four and five to cover the lower bridgeway. Got five of the original eight almost immediately but couldn't find the last three, they were inside somewhere a " Pause for a hard breath, talking at a calm, steady volume, "a b.l.o.o.d.y architecture, there's no human way to cover all the routes. They're in a lower crossover between Ceta five-nine-A and nine-nineC a" Flash of three-dimensional graphic on the OSA, a red-light spot near the base of the second central atrium. "a and they've got a kid for a hostage. "

"You're Joking."

"I wish. It happened in the morning, I think someone'd brought him to work first before school. Six years old. You want active?"

"Yes, please." An a.s.sociated link opened up. She accessed and data rushed in, full realtime schematic, comp-sim of all available data from all active units inside the building and out, shot back to HQ then out again. You couldn't trust all of it, some was guesswork, but once you knew the software parameters, you could figure which guesses were more accurate than others.

Vanessa and all SWAT Four had them surrounded, spread on several levels in typical crossfire pattern. Unable to fire because of the kid. Stand-off. Someone was trying to bring in a negotiator but there didn't seem much to negotiate. Negotiations, from what she'd seen of case files, were fraught with difficulties a fine for distraught, suicidal civvies and isolated lunatics whose lives had taken a turn for the worse-if they weren't susceptible to persuasion, they usually wouldn't have gone nuts in the first place. These guys didn't seem particularly persuadable. And having just seen five of their comrades killed, they weren't likely to buy any line about how "we don't want anyone to get hurt."

And they'd killed a hostage, she noted. Point-blank shot to the head, and dumped the body, when they figured they were being stalled. That'd been the trigger for Secretary Grey to order the a.s.sault. Even so, motivation remained an elusive variable a "Sandy, hold on a second, I've got to check on something a" And the connection blanked out, temporary hold. Crouched in her armour somewhere in that building, Vanessa no doubt had many other things to think about. Sandy pulled the headset speaker from her mouth, and gestured to the lieutenant a the Commander was busy again, talking on another connection, possibly about her, she didn't care. The lieutenant approached, a little gingerly. Probably he reckoned she was picking on him.

"What's Human Salvation Jihad and what have they asked for?" He took a deep, nervous breath a not a bad-looking guy, she considered vaguely. European, square-jawed and hunky. Seated up on her console, she could just about look him in the eye.

"Um, well they're Islamic extremists a"

"Yeah, I got that." Dryly.

He swallowed again. "The Muslim League's denounced them, of course. Says they're an affront to all Muslims and pretty much urged us to kill *em all a"

"That's pretty much how I'm thinking." She'd read reports suggesting that martyrdom needed a critical ma.s.s of popular support in order to flourish in Islamic society. It didn't get that in Ta.n.u.sha, where the concept of religious war was very pa.s.se. What they had here was another nostalgic lunatic fringe cult harking back to days long gone. She reckoned most Ta.n.u.shans, and Muslims in particular to judge from those she'd met, would want to keep it that way-in the past. The first step to doing so was to make this kind of murderous lunacy non-survivable. She got the impression most Ta.n.u.shans were still somewhat ignorant of just how good their top law enforcement was (meaning SWAT) at the application of lethal force a prior to recent times the SIB had gotten all the press, all legalistic and "civilised," doubtless some fools in the present mess thought they'd get a prison cell and a media platform from which to continue their "grand movement." The fact that crazy civvies with rifles were just target practice for Ta.n.u.shan SWAT was not yet widely appreciated. The sooner they got the message, the better. Martyrdom as a possible outcome could be romantic. As a one hundred per cent guaranteed death sentence, it became less so. Ta.n.u.shans enjoyed life too much to volunteer for an execution, whatever their political beliefs. And ninety-nine-point-nine per cent of Ta.n.u.shans, and Ta.n.u.shan Muslims in particular, would have precisely zero sympathy for people who murdered innocents and threatened small children in the name of their enlightened, merciful religion. "What do they want?"

"So far they've demanded that Callay stay within the Federation, that President Neiland renounce all possible moves toward liberalising the biotech regime, that you yourself be put on trial for crimes against humanity, the standard ultra-Federation stance."

Her uplink showed her a fast scrawl of personal detail a several confirmed names, a couple of university degrees, some odd jobs, a few faces a nothing remarkable, just ordinary Ta.n.u.shans. Four men and four women, which she wouldn't have expected from extreme Islamic conservatives-maybe they hadn't read up on the full program in their history books. Running conversation on the audio a Bird Two has no visual on Ceta five-nine a Hector Three, can you get a laser track on Ceta-five-nine windows? a Hector One has field of fire across Ceta, good visual, no obstructions a SWAT Four, further confirm, frequency secure, access AZ three nineteen a This is SWAT Four, confirm frequency clearance a That last was Hiraki, Vanessa's second. He listened to more of the chatter than Vanessa did, filtered for her a click, and the headphones came back to life.

"Hey, Sandy, I just changed position here, I got a nice view across the atrium from level three a Let's see, I can't gas *cause they've got masks, can't neuralise *cause the walls are resistant, can't charge *cause of the kid a I reckon a basic sneak-and-shoot would solve it, but I'm figuring a thirty per cent chance the kid will get hit in the process. He deserves better odds if we can get *em for him. I'll take any advice you've got right now. "

"They said anything lately?"

"Uh a 'Death to fascist unbelievers,' I think was the last one."

"So you can't see any happy reconciliation happening here?"

"Sandy, if they were scared of dying, they'd be screaming for mercy about now, it got real graphic on the top floor. It's not like they don't realise the consequences. Wu from Intel tells me he thinks they're drugged up, judging from the voice patterns. " She remembered Wu, another bookish type, specialist in psycho-interface and mind-altering effects. She'd been impressed by him. "Why you asking, you think you wanner talk to them personally?"

"No. Can't let them know it's hopeless, they might just kill themselves and the kid too." Down the van's length, faces were turned her way. The Commander among them, watching intently. Listening on Vanessa's channel. "I've got a solution. I can't guarantee it. If you want to wait and look for something softer, that's fine, you're in charge, it's your call. But if they want to be martyrs and they've been tapepsyching themselves, they might not value that hostage very much at all. What's your call?"

The power was down in the building, but it didn't trouble her vision any. Up several flights of the near stairwell, then along the level three corridor, newly acquired boots squeaking on the s.h.i.+ny floor. The boots weren't all that she'd newly acquired. Light armour encased her torso, basic arm and leg guards, power-neutral, for protection only. A bare helmet, no faceguard. She needed neither the breather nor the visor, just the armscomp interface and the single external sight before her left eye. A gloved hand gripped a Sanda 40 light a.s.sault weapon-an electromag shooter, on full V it could put holes in armourplate. She'd used bigger. For now, against unarmoured civilians, it felt like overkill. The whole situation was overkill. All the commotion, the hovering aircraft and crowds of official onlookers. For a handful of brain-tranqued civvies with selfinflicted delusions of G.o.dly virtue.

She wasn't sure at all about this whole G.o.d business. But she reckoned she knew enough to make a few basic judgments. G.o.d was no politician. G.o.d took no sides, and played no favourites. G.o.d stopped no bullets. If G.o.d worried over his flock, it was because his flock's behaviour gave him good reason to. She wondered how he'd explain it all to these three fools, when they met him in several minutes' time.

b.l.o.o.d.y waste. She didn't feel good at all. Her stomach was tense, and hurt to the point of cramping. The tension gripped all over. But it was more than the injury. She was scared. And revolted. Imagining such lives, in happy Ta.n.u.sha, and all the other things one could have chosen to do with them. Family, friends, arts, travel, adventure. Instead of religiously inspired murder and a violent death. And if Allah was up there, waiting for them a man, was he going to be p.i.s.sed. She remembered, with the fleeting dance of a stress-filled mind, a recent case in Ta.n.u.shan courts where a major theological movement had sued a bunch of radical extremists for tarnis.h.i.+ng G.o.d's reputation a But G.o.d, for better or worse, was no lawyer either. She couldn't remember who'd won.

She followed the tac-grid layout of the building, accurate to the nearest millimetre, past open doors and planned office s.p.a.ce. Cups of tea and personal gear left lying on desktops where they had been left when the chaos broke out and emergency evacuation had sent everyone racing for the exits. She met Vanessa at the corridor end that looked out over the atrium. She knew it was Vanessa because she recognised the armour suit, supple-flexed ceramic over corded myomer. Crouched by the corner with a rifle to her shoulder that looked big enough to bring down small aircraft. The smaller anti-personnel gun fixed to the back of her shoulder a she'd thought ahead to the heavy stuff. Probably she'd seen this coming.

She peered over Vanessa's shoulder. Open atrium, a hole that descended through all floors from the skylight high above. An aircar pa.s.sed over, running lights out, a dark shadow against the invisible stars. A static crackle on her inner ear, not the headset a she accessed, private frequency, away from prying ears.

"What's the plan, hotshot?" Her and Vanessa's secret encryption, her own League issue. In all her memory, she couldn't recall having shared it with anyone outside Dark Star before. "Something cunning and subtle, no doubt?"

"No," she sighed. Leaned her back against the wall and squatted. Rested there for a moment, gazing sightlessly at the opposite wall. "Not even particularly clever. Definitely not subtle. "

"Then why haven't I thought of it?"

"If you possessed my capabilities, you would have. Good commanders only think within their capabilities. "

Silence from Vanessa. To Sandy's side, the armoured firing posture never altered. The faceless armoured visor glared emotionlessly down the extended muzzle of the rifle.

"What's the problem then?" Vanessa missed little. Even on active ops.

"I don't want to do this. " Helplessly. The Sanda braced effortlessly across her knees. Rested the helmet against the wall. It felt strange. She had more hair now, and it sat differently than she remembered.

"Why not? You seriously thought you could serve here with the CSA and SWAT without having to take lives again at some point?"

It was a less comforting response than she'd hoped for. But then, it was stupid to have wanted comforting. She never had before. What was wrong with her? She snorted distastefully and moved to regather herself. Vanessa grabbed her arm, a hard, cool, armoured grip. Dan gerous with any unarmoured person but her.

"Sorry. Didn't mean that. I just saw the guy they shot up there, I'm not feeling real remorseful right now. "

"Me neither. Not like that. It just feels like a murder."

"You'll feel worse if they kill the kid while we delay. You're that sure it's going to work?" Sandy sighed, and pulled herself painfully to her feet.

"It's me, Ricey. They're already dead."

The three targets were in the level two corridor opposite the atrium. The corridor ran tangentially away from the curved atrium wall-typical geometrically inspired design by a bunch of architects who worked in terror of straight lines and right angles. It was a silly place to get trapped, considering the ballistic possibilities it offered a one thin, curving wall between half the corridor's length and Vanessa's cannon. With just three people, they lacked the numbers to cover more than the one corridor, or break out with any covering fire. They were stuck, taking periodic potshots blind around the corners from either end.

Sandy stood directly above the corridor, on level three. She could see Vanessa opposite, across the cylindrical hole that pierced all floors from the ceiling down. The railing was a simple metal and gla.s.s circle around the perimeter. Several other SWAT troops covered from other floors, and other corridor corners.

Sandy uplinked, and locked into the building's receptor network. League-issue attack software got her fast into the main controls a augmented troops were stupid to conduct cps in a network-wired environment with civilian-issue uplinks, the naivety amazed her. If you could talk to the network, the network could talk to you. And they'd been talking a CSA procedure till now had been simply to block them, lacking further applications, but a.n.a.lysis of those outgoing calls had been enough to tell her the type, model and general capabilities of the terrorists' hardware.

She selected a specific program, made a few mental adjustments on internal visual, and applied it to the correct central controls a several moments of activation, then the building's receptor hardware sent out a basic contact code, with modulations. Searching for connections, as with any incoming call to a building occupant, but this time with more specific focus, according to the parameters she'd fed it. It found the three occupants of the corridor below her, and activated a response sub-freq. Standard call-and-reply. Civilian units did that. Within milliseconds, her software package in central control had read and triangulated the response, and transmitted those locations into her tac-grid picture. She pa.s.sed it on to Vanessa. The three transmitter locations, precise to the millimetre, in the corridor below. As good as jump up and yell "I'm here!" If you don't s.h.i.+eld your com or interface, someone will hack it and use the response for target practice. Amateurs.

"The middle guy will be holding the hostage," Vanessa said. All in a line. It was murder.

"Two rounds in the first interval on my hack," she said, holding up two fingers to Vanessa. Across the open atrium s.p.a.ce, Vanessa held up two fingers in reply, then braced the cannon more firmly. It looked about as tall as herself. Without the suit, she'd have barely been able to hold it steady. "Three, two, one, hack. "

Vanessa fired, twice. Explosions ripped the air beneath, and Sandy leapt the balcony, hand gripped on the railing as she fell, swinging her back in. Released and landed amid erupting smoke from Vanessa's concussion rounds, which had ripped through the side of the corridor and detonated in all kinds of smoke and fury. Zero visibility, but her rifle's therma-sensor penetrated easily enough a she fired three times in quick succession, walked into the blinding smoke, grabbed the limp bundle sprawled upon the floor, grasped him firmly under one arm and walked out backward, just in case. Feeling foolish, because they were dead, but procedures were procedures a or in her case, perhaps, habits.

Smoke cleared at the atrium opening, and a pair of Vanessa's guys were there to take the kid off her and rush him to the exit. Several others rushed into the corridor from both ends to make certain, and suddenly there was confusion on the network, green lights given and people rus.h.i.+ng for all the entrances a s.h.i.+t, she suddenly felt an urge to be elsewhere, before the whole place became a seething ma.s.s of notetaking officialdom, and stunned further because she'd just killed three people and she was totally, utterly horrified at how f.u.c.king easy it was, and how calmly she could do such things and immediately start worrying about the bureaucratic aftermath a "Sandy." m.u.f.fled voice to her side. "You okay?" Stared into the fearsome artificial visage of Hitoru Hiraki, eyes peering past the s.h.i.+elded lenses with evident concern. She realised she was standing dead still amid the drifting smoke from the corridor entrance, rifle limp in one hand a she checked the safety, and found she'd already applied it, although she couldn't remember doing so. Habits again.

"I'm fine," she said. Her own voice sounded strange to her ears. Tired. Hiraki unhooked his visor with a hiss of disconnecting seals. Sandy undid her helmet strap and stowed the whole thing from the rear collar connection. Then Vanessa was approaching a it could only be her-the smallest size of suit armour available-lugging the ma.s.sive weapon over her shoulder which stuck up and threatened to catch on low doorways. That and the "Have a nice day" emblazoned above a smiley face upon her helmet's forehead.

She undid her visor as she walked closer, then unhooked the connections and did the whole helmet, pulled loose and dangling in one hand. Stopped before her. Eyeing her with a reluctant half-twist to her lips, as if in apology. And raised an eyebrow, questioningly. Amazing, Sandy couldn't help thinking, in that dazed, helpless instant, to have someone who knew exactly how she felt. She'd never had that before. Vanessa just knew.

"Too easy," she murmured tiredly. Took a deep breath, and ran a gloved hand through her tousled hair. In the corridors beyond, back toward the main entrance, she could hear people running, the first of the outside commotion headed inward. "Just a too easy." Her voice nearly broke, although whether from tiredness or something else, she couldn't tell.

"I know," Vanessa said. "But no one else could have done it."

She knew that. Three targets at different ranges-tracked only through the weapons armscomp-and zero visibility a a standard human nervous system, even severely augmented, did not possess the degree of interface required to have acquired absolute target certainty in the split-second available, with a hostage in the middle. They'd been such simple targets. She couldn't possibly have missed. But a straight human would have seen only confused shadows, and would have been unable to translate what armscomp was telling them into reliable targeting information a she just saw. She was designed for it. It was no effort at all.

"How's the kid?" she asked, abruptly realising. "I didn't have time to look a"

"Bruised," said Hiraki. "Sharma thinks they might have drugged him, he should be okay." Put a firm, armoured hand on the back of Sandy's neck, and gave her an affirmative shake. "Good job, Sandy. Good job. You saved a life today." And strode off with thudding, armoured steps to see to the clean up.

"For once, he means," Sandy muttered.

"He meant what he said," Vanessa said firmly. Behind her, armed police were running in, taking up positions. Investigators followed, and paramedics rus.h.i.+ng stretchers, just in case. If they'd known it was her doing the shooting, they might not have bothered.

"Should have shot to wound," Sandy muttered, watching the circus come swarming in, lugging forensics and sim-scans. "Didn't need to kill them."

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Jesus, Sandy, cut out the bulls.h.i.+t a if you'd shot to wound, I'd have to kick you out of the force."

And she was right. Sandy knew that, everyone knew that. It was illegal to shoot to wound in a hostage situation. The lives of hostages were paramount, any actions lessening the hostages' chances of survival were impermissible, including leaving the hostage-takers alive. The other letters Vanessa had emblazoned across an armoured shoulder spelt out the word KISS-Keep It Simple, Stupid. Unnecessary complications increased the chances of failure. That meant killing. But Sandy was feeling sorry for herself.

Dropped her head with a sigh, slumped back against the side wall as the first suits and paras came rus.h.i.+ng past, loaded with equipment. Still exasperated, Vanessa took her head with both hands, and planted a firm kiss on her forehead.

"Quit moping, if you hadn't done it I'd have had to." Dropped her hands onto both armoured shoulders, staring her hard in the face. "I already got two myself upstairs. D'you see me crying about it? No. And d'you know why?"

"You're an obsessive, hyperactive morality freak," Sandy murmured, but her heart wasn't in it. Vanessa ignored her.

"Because I'm not such a naive little girl that I've managed to convince myself that these things won't be necessary any longer. I know you got out of the League expecting that everything would be better elsewhere a I've got news for you, Sandy, it's not. There's bad s.h.i.+t that happens in all corners of the universe, and if you happen to have skills particularly suited to dealing with bad s.h.i.+t, and are employed to use those skills, you can expect to continue seeing your share."

"I'm not a naive little girl." Quietly, as a group trundled a pair of stretchers between them and the atrium railing. "I'm a highly decorated special ops combat veteran."

"You're an ignorant, idealistic, wide-eyed army-b.u.mpkin, Sandy." With ferocious affection, dark eyes intense and narrow. "It's what makes you so irresistibly gorgeous. Now, as your effective CO, I'm ordering you to get your cute little blonde head together and snap to some kind of orderly, soldierly att.i.tude of common sense and efficiency or I'll kick your b.u.t.t so hard you'll hit the ceiling. You hearing me?"

Sandy raised her gaze to meet her eyes directly. It hurt, being knocked down several pegs by the best friend she'd ever had. But Vanessa, she knew from experience, was usually right about these things. It wasn't a skill she'd seen very much of, in the League military. Personal skills. But Vanessa had them in as ample a quant.i.ty as she had martial skills, and SWAT Four was all the more effective for it. So why had Vanessa's marriage ended up in such a mess?

Civilians. G.o.d a she stretched hard, and ran both hands through her hair. Her stomach hurt, as did a dozen other places, jolted for the worse by her rapid descent and landing. It was all too confusing. But that, she supposed reluctantly, was Vanessa's point. Sandy the b.u.mpkin. Always confused, always staring about at the civilian world with wide-eyed fascination or bewilderment. Of course Vanessa was right. She felt lost.

"Help," she said in a small voice. Vanessa reached a hand, brushed it through Sandy's hair and rested it there, just gazing, with a wry, affectionate, exasperated smile a "Lieutenant Rice." A recently familiar voice, coming closer. They glanced and saw Commander Azim striding toward them, eyeing the smoke-strewn corridor behind with sharp consideration. Glanced at Sandy, then at Vanessa, stopping before them, his lieutenant in tow. Vanessa reluctantly dropped her hand from Sandy's hair.

"Commander. Can you handle it from here? We're getting out, we've got a flyer down on the roof in five minutes."

"I'll want an a um a" Another glance at the paramedics moving amid the dissipating smoke. "a the full report for admin, if you'll arrange the protocol a how long d'you think that will take?"

"f.u.c.ked if I know," Vanessa told him flatly. He repressed a grimace, evidently reckoning the obvious truth in that, amidst this chaos. Glanced again at Sandy.

"Your idea, Agent Ca.s.sidy?" With another glance at the apparent carnage within the corridor.

"My orders," Vanessa replied. The Commander nodded, regarding them warily. And, realising he wasn't going to get any further response, nodded his respect and edged past, headed to inspect the damage. The broad lieutenant paused, as did the two men with him.

"b.l.o.o.d.y good job," he told Sandy, and pa.s.sed with a whack at her shoulder armour. The other two voiced similar praise.

"I'm becoming an underground success in this city," Sandy muttered as they departed in the other direction. "Funny, considering this is exactly the kind of thing that terrifies so many people about me."

"Bah." Vanessa made a disgusted face, ushering Sandy along with a hand to her armoured back. "They're all hypocrites, they don't mind you being dangerous, Sandy, just so long as you kill the right people."

They were halfway through armour lockdown back at the Doghouse when her right hip totally seized, taking the thigh and most of her lower back with it. Half-armoured only from the waist down, Sandy hit the ground between stowage lockers with a hard thud and rolled for s.p.a.ce, contorted with pain and desperately fighting the cramp that wrenched up her back and snapped her leg out as straight as a metal beam amid alarmed shouts from those around.

"Back!" she shouted, half seated and straining past gritted teeth to grab her elusive toes as her calf began to go, pulling the heel back and pointing her foot away from her. Vanessa burst around a couple of startled SWAT troops and gave a startled yelp, moved to dash forward a "Get the f.u.c.k back!" Sandy yelled at her, and Vanessa stumbled to an uncertain halt before her. "I'll put a f.u.c.king hole in you, keep back!" Someone grabbed Vanessa's shoulders and roughly jerked her back several metres.

The tension gripped Sandy's right shoulder blade with ferocious power, pulling hard along her spine. She thumped back against the floor, grabbing her right wrist and pulling the arm up hard above her, trying to counter the pressure.

"Sandy!" Vanessa's voice, with incredulous alarm. "What's wrong, Sandy?"

"Looks like cramp," Devakul observed more calmly.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," someone exclaimed, incredulously.

"Yeah, no s.h.i.+t," Sandy snarled past the tension, stretched tight and rigid on the floor between armour lockers. "b.l.o.o.d.y stupid, I should have known this would happen." It hurt a G.o.d, she'd forgotten how much it hurt. It had only happened a few times before to her memory, all after injuries, all when her schedule had prevented her from using as much caution as she'd ought to.

"What can we do?"

"Wait."