Salvation

“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.”

She nodded at Tarli, trying to reign in her nerves. “Thank you.” It was always bad just before she hit the street, heart pumping away, anxiety making her jumpy. Once she was out there and the assignment was underway, she’d smooth out fine.

“Hey, I’m going to be in the active ops center myself when this one hits the fan,” Tarli said. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

“Good to know.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you through to Brisbane.”

They went through four hubs to a Connexion subsidiary building in Brisbane. Outside, the sun was starting to rise. The Brisbane Security office was a locked room that had a single portal inside.

“Good luck,” Tarli said. “You’re on truck eight-five-one. Pete’s driving it.”

“Got it.”

“Go get ’em.”