Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (48 page)

It was another three hours before she departed via the guarded side entrance, achingly stiff despite the comfortable chair and repeated, subtle attempts at stretching during the questioning. Parliament staff had somehow arranged lunch, plates of sandwiches, falafels and samosas for herself, Rafasan and the twenty-six elected reps, while the gallery had sat on in silence, and those who hadn't brought a packed lunch no doubt wished they had. Someone had even brought herself and Rafasan tea, which the congressors did not get, doubtless there was a staff shortage of such things, but the harried young intern had left them a teapot with milk and sugar lumps ... assuming, of course, that she did drink tea, common enough assumption in Tanusha, addictive Indian habit that it was.

"Well, I think that went quite excellently," Rafasan was saying as they walked side by side down the hallway, kept largely empty of pedestrians for security purposes, Sandy guessed. Agent Odano walked two steps behind, and a pair of Parliament security behind him, in addition to the two who walked before them, leading the way. "All things considered, that is. You are a very good public speaker, I did tell the President that I thought it would be a good idea to get you to talk to the Party, I did believe you would make an impression, and now I honestly think you have."

"I'm glad you think so." Not prepared right now to argue the point that only recently, most had not thought it a good idea at all. But things had changed, evidently. Many things were changing very, very fast ... for all she knew, the next suggestion would have her running for public office. She sincerely hoped not.

It had been enough just to sit before that double row of elected representatives and recount to them in broad terms, and occasionally specific ones, the general course of her life. The reasons she'd left the League. The things she still liked about League-side, and the things she'd grown to dislike. Her combat operations. Her combat history, from ever-changing locations across the broad, ever-shifting "front" of the League-Federation conflict. The battles she'd engaged in that they might have heard of. The majority of small engagements that they never would have. Her escape to the Federation, her impressions of the Federation, her first job, her first pay cheque, her first decadently "civilian" experience (dancing to African rhythms in a street party, she'd remembered ... only she'd left out the bit about flirting with a very handsome young dancer for the better part of an hour's exertion, and ending up in his hotel bed for the night for some equally energetic exertions). Her perspective on Callayan, and especially Tanushan, politics. Her feelings about the CSA, the SIB, the recent events, and the direction of Article 42.

She felt tired, and more than a little drained. As if she'd poured out something of herself in that hearing room, leaving the space it'd come from somehow empty.

"Where to now?" she asked Rafasan.

"Upstairs," said Rafasan brightly, her stride light, heels clacking upon the smooth floor. "We promised some of the congressors that we'd let them meet you in person. Of course the Progress Party reps wanted to meet you, but a lot of our Left do too ... especially now, after that performance."

"How many people?" With that familiar sinking feeling she got when being manoeuvred around by political people for political reasons into things she hadn't agreed to in advance because she hadn't been told about them. It was becoming a depressingly accustomed feeling.

"Oh, don't worry," Rafasan said dismissively, waving a be-ringed and bangled hand, "it's not so many, everyone's busy, so they'll just come in when they're available-you just need to shake their hand, say hello and be generally agreeable. I'm quite sure you can manage that for another hour or two."

She wanted to complain that she was beginning to feel like a zoo exhibit ... but she didn't see any point in complaining to Rafasan, there was nothing she could do about it. In fact, there was nothing anyone could. Neiland needed her here, and she owed Neiland ... well, everything. She only hoped the persuasion her presence worked upon the wavering middle-ground of Parliament actually came to something positive. For everyone.

The upper corridor was broad and more well travelled, with large, stylish wooden doors to either side, and many people going by who looked curiously as they passed.

"The chambers are just up here a ways," Rafasan said, and they walked to an exquisitely decorated intersection with carved wooden panels to match the seamless patterned tiles on the floor ... turned left, and found the big double doorway upon the right wall almost entirely blocked by a chaotic gathering of people engaged in animated argument with officials in suits. Several more whiteshirted Parliament security hovered warily on the perimeter. "What in the name of ... ?"

The agitators, Sandy observed as she held determinedly to her stride despite Rafasan's surprised pause, did not appear your typical Tanushan political power group. They wore robes of wildly varying colours, though saffron and cotton-white predominated. Some had long, wild hair and, among the men, tangled beards. Most, it appeared, were barefoot, or clad in no more than simple leather sandals. She counted twelve in all, at least half of whom were currently engaged in a heated, hand-waving argument with suited or uniformed officialdom, which appeared to be trying to remove them from their place before the big double doors.

Then several saw the new arrivals, and there was more commotion, and much loud, rapid talking in a language that sounded distinctly Indian but was not immediately recognisable as one of the five or six she could usually identify by sound alone. A young, sari-clad, barefoot woman was tugging hastily upon the shoulder of an old man, who was shuffling away from the confronting officialdom to observe, through the gathered crowd, what new arrivals came upon him down the hallway.

"Oh no," said Rafasan, hurrying to keep up and sounding much aggrieved, "it's Swami Ananda Ghosh ... how on Earth he got over here from the Senate building I've no idea ... Sandy, I don't know if you should go over there, I'll get someone to remove them ..."

"Nonsense," Sandy said calmly, observing the group with interest as they stopped. The two lead security guards walked to their compatriots guarding the doors, and asked them, no doubt in polite, low voices, what the hell was going on. "What language are they speaking?"

"Them?" Fidgeting with familiar nervousness at her side. "Oh, that's Sanskrit, it's the Swami's organisation, Sandy, I forget the San skrit name, but it means "guiding light," he has everyone in the group talking in Sanskrit so they can better understand the ancient texts."

"Sounds nice. I've only seen it written before, not heard it spoken." As the discussions continued, she eyed the distance between herself, her group, and the group of traditionally, but shaggily, attired people blocking her way. All arguments had ceased, and all those before her were still, waiting patiently for the security discussions to end. Not all of them were Indian, Sandy noted. Only half, in fact. Two were European, one African, and the other three looked East Asian ... though it was not a huge leap, she'd gathered, from Buddhism to Hinduism, the Buddha himself having been a Hindu once. "Sounds a bit Arabic, only smoother."

"It's actually, um, closer to Farsi, Urdu and Pashtun, it's one of that family from Egyptian and Arabic carrying on across to northern India-that was all a civilisation once, or a series of civilisations. The birthplace of civilisation itself, actually. Most of the old Hindu texts and stories are written in Sanskrit, you could say it's the equivalent of what Latin is for the Europeans."

Sandy spared Rafasan an intrigued glance. "You speak any?"

"Oh yes, I was rather fluent back in my student days ... it's been far too long now, of course, I can't remember half of it." Sounding almost wistful. "I'll get back to it one day. There are poems in Sanskrit that are like ... like nothing else I'll ever ..."

She broke off as the Swami began to walk forward. He was an old man, and it seemed he had disdained the youthful effects of bio-treat- ments, for his gait was slow and he walked with a large, stout cane in one gnarled hand. The young sari-clad woman walked at his other hand, holding his arm. The Swami's face was mostly hidden behind a long, flowing white beard, and an equally long torrent of wispy white hair. Security stood to the side and said nothing, and the Swami stopped before her, clad only in an old white dhoti that wrapped up between his old, bare legs and over one shoulder, leaving the other bare. He looked at her, equal to her in height, and his eyes were dark and beady amid a maze of wrinkles in weathered brown skin. Sandy realised he was smiling, although she could barely see his mouth through the beard. But the eyes wrinkled up in joyful good humour.

"Hello, Mr. Ghosh," she said pleasantly. "I'm very pleased to meet you finally." The Swami laughed, a breathless, triumphant little laugh, and half shuffled about to look back at his gathering and point to her in knowing humour. As if amazed that she spoke. Sandy raised a quizzical eyebrow. Rafasan sighed and fidgeted. As if slightly embarrassed, Sandy thought. Embarrassed, it occurred to her, like Vanessa had once been embarrassed at the prospect of her meeting a particularly eccentric aunt of hers. And she realised in a flash that Rafasan was actually quite fond of the old man, as were most of his detractors, even some of those commentators who referred to him as one of the Senate's "lunatic fringe." But people had voted for this man-in the Senate, at least. And however cynical those commentators were about the Tanushan population's appetite for lunatics, Sandy determined that the recipient of those votes had at least earned the right for her audience, at least for the moment. The Swami shuffled back around to face her, the young woman at his elbow aiding him with practised skill.

"I saw you talking." The accent was very pronounced, and very melodic. The beady dark eyes gleamed at her through the profusion of facial hair-lively with humour and energy-and he waggled his head for emphasis as he spoke. "You talk very well, for an inorganic construction." Again the short bark of laughter.

Rafasan covered her mouth with a hand. Sandy just gazed at him for a long moment, eyebrow still raised. Took a deep breath.

"Thank you very much. I think."

Another bark of laughter. "Don't be offended. I am merely poking fun. I did not live this long by taking life so seriously, you know." Smiling broadly beneath the beard. And Sandy found that, somehow, it was impossible to be offended.

"Can I ask how old you are?" she asked. "And why you haven't allowed any life-extension treatments?"

"Oh, but I have, but I have. I am one hundred and sixty-two standard Earth years, Ms. GI, and I have had many life-extension treatments. Many many. And you know what? They work! Haha!"

Rafasan's hand went back to her mouth, very fast. Sandy smiled, the raised eyebrow now turned somewhat incredulous. One hundred and sixty-two? She knew it happened, but the odds were very low, most people didn't get past a hundred and thirty. For a man to take life extensions and live long enough to look like a very old man ... he must be very old indeed.

"I'm fifteen," Sandy replied. "You have me at a disadvantage."

"Indeed, indeed." Nodding agreeably. "But how can you measure what you cannot define, yes? And what is a number to you? A GI, with your tape-teach and preconstructed knowledge? Life should be measured in experiences, not in flawed human time. Time is another thing we should not measure, for it, too, we cannot define, yes?" Nodding again, eyes seeking her comprehension. "Only God knows. And he's not telling."

"And you have come all the way over here to see me?"

"Oh, it is not so far. Not when I have such a helpful and devoted personal staff to attend to me. And to meet you, I thought it well worth the effort for even this old man and his creaking bones."

"Why?"

"Why?" In great surprise. And he laughed again, and the laugh turned into a loud coughing. "Why?" As he recovered, and met her eyes again. "You have come waltzing into this city and caused such trouble, young lady. Such mayhem accompanies you, life here has been turned upside down and the ground has fallen away beneath so many people's feet, and you ask me why?"

"I'm sorry if I caused trouble." Calmly. "The cause of the trouble was already here, however. I did perhaps trigger the trap, but the trap was set well before I arrived. But I'm sorry all the same for the upset, it was never my intention."

"Upset? Oh no no, I am not upset. It has been my great pleasure to see this calamity befall this city, young lady." Sandy blinked in astonishment. The Swami beamed happily. "This city has been in the greatest need of a great calamity for a very long time now, people have grown lazy in their minds and lazy in their hearts. They worship but they do not comprehend why, they talk but they have nothing to say, they listen but they know not what they are hearing. All this ... this progress ..." He rapped his stick hard upon the smooth floor. "... hah, so shameful that it should be called "progress" at all. No, we were not progressing, we were walking backward, moving further and further away. Not progress. RE-gress. And do you know what from?"

Sandy found herself held strangely still, a slow, prickling sensation creeping up her spine. The usually noisy hallway was held as if paralysed by some foreign aura. The Swami's cheerful dark eyes bore into her, and in that abrupt, single instant she truly thought she did know what he was talking about.

"Truth," she said quietly. The Swami laughed again, his head bobbing with great, evident pleasure. Reached his free arm from the young woman's supporting grasp to pat Sandy briefly on the arm, then returned it to the supporting grip once more.

"Truth, truth, truth," he said, still bobbing, as if in momentary prayer. "A most precious thing, truth. Never to be found, only to be sought, and then found in the seeking but never to be held in one's hand. Do you understand this meaning?"

She gazed at him for a long moment. "No. I'm not sure I do."

"And do you not understand, then, why it is that I came to see you?" She shook her head. "Ms. GI, you have brought us much truth to this city. Some of it has been most painful, but that is often the nature of truth, particularly that truth which is most unlocked for. And I also do believe, young lady, that I have found much truth in you." Gazing with a great, joyful intrigue into her eyes. She didn't know who was more fascinated. His hand trembled upon his stick, and she doubted it was a result of age. He seemed positively brimming with emotional enthusiasm.