Salvation

  “All yours.” Callum dismounted, trying not to make old-man grunts as his legs protested. “Watch out for the tarmac at McLeans and Redgate. There’s a patch starting on Craner, too.”

  “Thanks.” She swung her leg over the saddle and started the engine.

  “Should you be racing on broken tarmac?” Emillie asked in a light French accent.

  Callum shifted his gaze from a fabulous scarlet-and-black Yamaha YZF-10R on the other side of the paddock lane. “Huh? Oh, the track owners do their best. There’s only so much they can charge to hire Donnington for a day. We’re just enthusiasts, that’s all. It took three clubs combined to fund today.”

  “Owners have a legal responsibility. They can get into all kinds of trouble with negligence; all the way up to corporate manslaughter.”

  “Drivers sign a waiver before we go out.”

  “I’m not sure that’s good enough.”

  “Excuse my friend,” Dokal said. “You can take the girl out of the risk assessment department…”

  “Just saying,” Emillie replied with a pout.

  “Test of skill,” Callum told her. “I’m going to get these leathers off. Henry, how are we doing?”

  “Fifteen minutes, and we’re eating.”

  “Roger that. Where’s Katya?”

  “Too tired,” Henry said. “But she sent her salmon quiche.” He pointed at the foil-wrapped flan on the camping table.

  “Now you’re talking.” Callum went into the dark Sprinter and struggled out of his leathers, trying not to jab elbows into the racks of tools along one side.

  “Not like you,” Dokal said. “Ninth place?”

  He glanced over at her as she stood in the van’s open doorway. “I wasn’t concentrating,” he admitted.

  “I can see that. Have you and Savi broken up?”

  “No.” Callum shook his head. “Quite the opposite.” He started to explain.

  Dokal’s hand covered her wide-open mouth. “Married?” she squeaked when he’d finished. “Seriously?”

  “Deadly so.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She came over and gave him a hug, smiling widely. “You old romantic. How long have you been going out? Two months?”

  “When you know, you know.”

  “Callum Hepburn, a married man. Who’d have thought it?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you going to have a proper reception? Oh, please say yes. I love weddings! Her parents are quite old-style, aren’t they? What did they say?”

  “There’s a few…formal issues we have to settle first. I wanted to talk them over with you.”

  “Of course.”

  “Human Resources, for a start.”

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, dropping right back into her corporate lawyer mode. “They’ll grumble, but don’t worry about them. They only have that notification procedure in case an injured party goes all hypersensitive and fires off a workplace sexual harassment suit. You two didn’t, quite the opposite: happy ever after ending.”

  “Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, pulling an awkward face. “But she’s in Security. They take it all a lot more seriously.”

  Dokal grinned evilly. “My, oh my. You should have been vetted. What will they find?”

  “I’m not bothered about being vetted. It’s the not telling them earlier when we should have bit that’s the problem. I don’t want a black mark on her file.”

  “That’s easy. Companies aren’t allowed to do that anymore.”

  “What?”

  “It’s discriminatory. As an employee, you have the right to see your full file, including disciplinary entries—which you can challenge in tribunal if you think said remarks are having an undue negative impact on your career prospects. If the tribunal agrees they’re disproportionate, they can be wiped. And they can’t be handed on to a subsequent employer, either.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. That’s why HR chiefs are always networking so hard with recruitment agency account managers. And why corporate treads but softly on their entertainment expenses. A lot of shit lists get passed over in bars.”

  “Bloody hell! I didn’t know that.”

  “You have a long way to go before you’re ready to sit behind a desk, don’t you?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I know some people in HR who deal with Security personnel issues. I can have a quiet word. Best to get this kind of bollocks smoothed out before it even happens.”

  “Would you?”

  She smiled. “You have to pick up my bar tab.”

  “Deal. And thanks.”

  “I’m just looking after number one. Ainsley thinks the sun shines out of your arse, remember?” She winked. “Leave it with me.”

  * * *

  —

  Savi walked through the international hub and straight into Rome’s Municipio III metro network. Five hubs later and she was out on Via Monte Massico, a sloping road in the Tufell area, lined by high trees that partially obscured the five-story apartment blocks on both sides. Sunlight was only just beginning to filter through the boughs that interlaced above the pavement, forming a verdant tunnel.

  She loved Rome, but at this time of year and this early in the morning, it was almost as damp and cold as Edinburgh. The only difference was that the trees here were all evergreens, though even those in the sheltered yard at the front of her apartment block seemed lackluster right now, waiting for the warmer spring air to pep them up.

  Her apartment was on the second floor, so she ignored the creaky old lift and climbed the stairs, her bugez lumbering along after her. She’d chosen the one-bedroom place for its compact size. Nice for one person to live in by herself, especially after twenty-three years crammed into a comfortable Mumbai house with a large family. Here there was quiet and solitude. Family was welcome to visit, but wouldn’t be able to stay.

  The house G4Turing had used its flock of drudgez to vacuum the carpets and clean the surfaces while she was away on her Caribbean break, even polishing the centerpiece rosewood table properly. When she got to the galley kitchen, the fridge was properly stocked. She took out the pot of organic yogurt and fresh milk, then measured out a cafetière with natural ground beans from the delicatessen two streets away.

  After a quick shower to wash away the last of Barbuda’s insidious sand, she put on a robe and went back into the tiny kitchen. The yogurt had lost its chill, the way she liked it, and the coffee had brewed properly. She sprinkled granola into a bowl and poured the yogurt on top.

  After four days of indulgent, large, and highly Westernized breakfasts delivered to the Diana Klub villa’s balcony, it was quite a relief to come home to this. The memory made her hold up her hand and admire the single gold ring she was now wearing.

  I’m married!

  While she ate breakfast, she told Nelson, her mInet, to run the Icefall news streams. Preparations were well underway for the first fall day. Connexion’s giant airships were buzzing along a kilometer above Australia’s Gibson Desert in a careful holding pattern. Meanwhile, farther south, in Antarctic waters, the harvester boats were circling Iceberg V-71, which had broken off the Ross Ice Shelf three months ago. It was a colossus, with a surface area of 2,850 kilometers, making it larger than Luxembourg. Nelson refined the filter for any mention of opposition groups, political or active. There were a few global and Australia-based ecological groups posting about the sacrilege on social media, but not much of that was relayed by the mainstream. The Walungurru People’s Review was more strident, but it wasn’t saying anything new.

  As always, the prospect of jobs and fresh money pouring into the outback now was winning the day. Deserts didn’t have many committed friends in 2092.

  Savi checked the time and went back into the bedroom. The bugez was standing obediently at the foot of t
he bed. She opened the luggage panniers and carefully placed all her dirty linen into the laundry basket ready for the concierge service to collect. Her lips twitched—not that I wore much.

  She gazed at the gold ring again and very reluctantly took it off. It went in her jewelry box in the bedside cabinet. Cal had promised an engagement ring as soon as her assignment finished. “I know we did it backward, but you still deserve the set.”

  I miss him already. It shouldn’t have happened, but I’m so glad it did. Maybe it is true: Opposites attract. Except we’re not really that different. He’s smart, and funny, which is more than most men. And considerate, and oversensitive in that way Western men can be. She sighed. And behaves like a sixteen-year-old half the time. Which is quite fun.

  Her gaze was drawn to the bed. Cal had stayed over several times, which left her with some memories—

  Stop it!

  She dressed in neutral clothes, blue denim jeans and a thick purple roll-top sweater; flat-soled pumps and a simple leather bag. Her long hair was plaited with practiced efficiency. To finish, she slipped into a pair of wire-rimmed screen glasses. She inspected herself in the mirror and nodded in satisfaction. Nothing special, nothing that would draw attention in a crowd. One of hundreds of thousands of identical young women thronging through Rome’s metrohubs, on their way to their corporate offices to fend off another day’s overfamiliarity from male managers.

  Outside, the sun was making progress up the sky. Sharp, bright beams were slicing through the canopy of leaves as she walked back to the hub on the junction with Via Monte Eporneo. Five hubs took her to the center, where she switched to the national network. The Naples hub had a portal door into Connexion’s internal network. Eight hubs later she emerged onto the ground floor of a skyscraper in Sydney’s central business district.

  The glass walls of the big lobby looked out onto a nighttime city, with pedestrian roads long since cleared of clubbers. Even with the air-conditioning thrumming away, she could feel the heat radiating in from the concrete pavement outside. A night watchman glanced up from his desk and gave her a quick wave.

  She got into the lift and sensors performed a deep scan. Only then did the lift take her up to the fifteenth floor: the Security offices.

  Here, Australia’s time zone didn’t apply. The fifteenth floor was wrapped in one-way glass that didn’t allow anyone to look in, day or night, so nobody could see a department that kept the same operational level twenty-four/seven. Its layout of corridors and offices was similar to any of the commercial departments in the building; but instead of the usual conference rooms, there were armories and special equipment centers. Right at the center, through another two sets of safe checks, was the active ops center.

  Australia’s head of station’s office was next to it. The door slid open to allow Savi in.

  Yuri Alster looked up from the semicircle of screens on his desk. “You’re late,” he said.

  “No, I’m not.” Savi didn’t much like Yuri. Thankfully, that wasn’t a requirement of the job, but she certainly respected his toughness. His infiltration operations brought impressive results. She’d been on two of them so far and seen firsthand how his field agents were deployed to maximum effect. It didn’t matter what a new operative’s file said, or how well they’d done in training and simulations. Yuri was only interested how they performed in the field. If anyone showed emotional weakness, they were out, and he made sure your first mission would slam you straight up against cutting moral dilemmas.

  For her first operation, he’d given Savi a case involving two brothers who were trying to sting a Connexion manager to pay for their mother’s medical treatment. The woman had a brain tumor that needed some very expensive drugs. Savi always suspected he’d known her own mother had been treated for cancer, even though it wasn’t in her file. She hadn’t wavered. The brothers had got seven years for attempted extortion. Their mother had died eight months later.

  “I hope you enjoyed yourself,” he said. “We have the plastic explosive ready for you. Technical support tweaked the formula, so it’s only ten percent as powerful as the real stuff. Even so, be careful around it.”

  “That’s good. Should prevent too much damage. Thank tech support for me.”

  “You got a cover story?”

  “Yes, sir.” She half expected him to ask for it. But this wasn’t high school, and she wasn’t sitting an exam. A cover story was required, so a cover story for her short absence had been fabricated to tie in with her fake identity. It hadn’t taken her long.

  “All right.” He tilted back in his chair. Savi just knew she was being judged. He treated everyone like that—with suspicion. Rumor around the department said he was ex–Russian Federal Security. He’d been in the border security department of the Russian National Portal Transport Company when it merged with Connexion; plenty of his colleagues had been made redundant, but he’d made it through the reorganization and come out in a strong position. Connexion Security approved of his methodology and the efficient way he ran his intelligence gathering agents, infiltrating them into anti-Connexion groups. “When are you going back in?” he asked her.

  “Right away. Akkar wanted the charges by tomorrow, so I’m guessing their attack will be timed for first fall. Maximize the publicity.”

  “Okay. So you know, Ainsley himself will be at Kintore, too, for the starting ceremony.”

  “Shit.”

  “Which means Poi Li will be there.” His finger pointed at the wall between him and the active ops center. “Making very sure no one gets near Ainsley, especially anyone hauling plastic explosives around. So this needs to go right, or we’ll both be hunting new jobs.”

  “Got it.”

  “If the charges are for a suicide vest, we need to know right away.”

  “I don’t think that’s what Akkar is planning. But I’ll update you via micropulse. Tech support seeded Kintore with relays, so I can shout from anywhere in the town. Akkar’s group don’t have the tech to spot that.”

  “Let’s hope.”

  “I know them. They’re dedicated politicals and greens, several hotheads busting for a fight, even some good technos and hacktivists, but they’re not at this level.”

  “Yes, I read your report.”

  Of course you did, she thought. In a way, it was reassuring. She was almost tempted to blurt out that she was married—just get it over with. But she couldn’t risk him pulling her off the case until Cal was vetted. Procedure was Yuri’s bible.

  “Sir.” She got up to leave.

  “What did you do?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your long weekend off. What did you do?”

  “I went to the Caribbean. With a girlfriend; she thinks I’m a company economics analyst. We stayed at a spa; had a lot of treatments and drank cocktails in the beach bar. It was relaxing. Just what I needed.”

  “Uh huh.” He returned to the semicircle of screens. “Well, make sure you don’t smell nice when you get back to Kintore. Poverty-line cause-committed politics students don’t go on middle-class spa breaks. Remember, it’s the simplest things that can derail an op.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Savi couldn’t even summon up a mental sneer. He was quite right.

  She went down to the prep facility. In the changing room she deactivated Nelson and put her gold smartCuff (a present from her father when she got the Connexion job) on her locker’s top shelf, along with her screen glasses. Poor Cal would go slowly crazy when she didn’t call, but she’d make it up to him. Next she stripped down to nothing, hanging up her jeans and sweater; pumps went on the bottom of the locker. She shut the door, keying it to her fingerprint, and leaving Savi Chaudhri hanging in limbo alongside her clothes.

  Time for Osha Kulkarni, disaffected politics student, to return to the cause and fight capitalist imperialism with the only tools the corporate fat cats ever
took seriously. Osha’s clothes were in the next locker exactly where she’d left them, unwashed. Heavily used olive-green jeans, a sleeveless brown t-shirt. Trainers with soles almost worn through. Kangaroo-skin outback hat—though no corks dangling around the rim; she drew the line at that cliché. Cheap screen sunglasses with audio facility. A decades-old watch that seemed to be running a three-year-old mInet program tagged Misra, which bloated the strap’s ancient processor. Finally, a backpack that’d been bleached several shades lighter by the sunlight of three continents.

  Sometimes she worried Osha fit the angry young woman profile a little too well.

  Tech support after the changing room, and there was Tarli waiting for her, yawning heavily. He held up a pair of resealable plastic food boxes.

  “Your explosives. Please be careful with this stuff.”

  Smiling, she took the boxes from him and started putting them in her backpack, under her spare clothes. “I thought it was only TNT that blows up when you drop it.”

  “I’m sure it is. But just don’t make any sudden moves while you’re next to me.”

  “You take such good care of me, Tarli.”

  “I do, don’t I? Okay, let’s run your super spy kit.”

  She held her arm out. Tarli swept a scanner over her hand, his eyes dream-staring as he watched the data thrown up in his contact screen lenses.

  “All right, your tracker grain is good. We can trigger a ping anytime if we need to. We’ll always be able to find you, Savi. So you’re safe.”

  “Fine. And Osha’s mInet?”

  “Old, crappy, and slow if anyone takes a keen interest. But level two is running in parallel underneath. You can use it to compose a message and squirt it out in a micropulse. Your antique watch is the primary. But if they’re properly paranoid, you’ll be told not to wear it on the mission, so the tracker grain will take over. Give active ops a test call, please.”

  “Misra?” she asked, subvocalizing for her audio grain. “Give ops a location ping.”

  “Confirmed,” Misra replied.

  “Got you, Savi,” the level voice of active ops replied. “Full reception.”