The Albino Knife (6 page)

The woman made her decision. She rattled off a message number, said, "Hardcopy," and pointed at the line of printers next to the far wall. "Over there," she said, pulling the ID cube from her machine and all but throwing it at Bork. "And get this cube replaced before you come in here again!"

Bork smiled and nodded. "Yes, fem," he said."Sure thing. Thank you very much."

Bork moved toward the printers.

The Siblings' compound had changed little that Khadaji could tell from from the air. They had sent their own lighter to transport him and Veate from the starship; that was new. As the transport, empty save for the two of them and the crew, fell from space towardManusIsland , the air was clear enough of the usual tropical clouds so that he could see the place fairly well. From high orbit, it looked like a hooknosed fish with tiny turds dribbling from its tail. As they got closer, the details of the buildings and fenced compound came into view. They had built their own landing pad inside the fence. Three robed figures stood next to it, watching the lighter come down.

When the door slid open, Khadaji and Veate walked down the ramp to where the three siblings stood waiting. It was summer here, hot and humid, and the smells of flowers and molds and organic decay filled the air. No two planets ever seemed to smell exactly the same, Khadaji thought; even if the climates and gravity were virtually identical, each world had its own distinctive scent. The cloudless sky allowed the sun to lay its hot fingers on the open landing pad, and more heat reflected up from the stressed concrete.

It was like opening an oven door. Despite the shrouds, which covered everything but the wearers' hands and a strip that exposed the eyes, he knew which one was Pen before they reached the trio. Pen had taught him the Ninety-seven Steps, had been his friend as well as teacher, and had put him on the road to his destiny with the Confed. And like as not, the siblings were cooler under their clothing than he was under his. He had worn the shroud for a time, a special dispensation, even though he had not technically earned the right to do so. The cloth was almost alive. It had been a long time ago.

Khadaji chuckled as he thought about it. He had thought he was in control, dealing in complicated and twisted criminal and political tactics, running the show, when in fact he had been more like a fly in Pen's web. Circuits within circuits and he still wasn't sure exactly who had been responsible for what.

"Welcome, Emile," Pen said. He waved at the other two siblings. "This is Moon, and Spiral."

Khadaji nodded. "This is Veate.My daughter."Still had a strange ring to it, to say that.

"We've met," Pen said. "Welcome, Veate."

"Shall we go where it is cooler to talk?" Moon said.

"By all means," Khadaji said.

"We've cleaned up the damage," Spiral said, "but I've asked Diamond to give you a little presentation about the explosion."

They were in the office of the Elder Brother, a job that Moon, Spiral and Pen had all held at one time or another. It seemed larger than the last time Khadaji had seen it. Probably it was.

"Diamond?"Khadaji said.

The edges of the three siblings' eyes allcrinkled, an action that Khadaji knew to be smiles. He also knew the significance of the name. In the order, each student gave up his or her old identity when enrolled. A traditional nom de ordre was sometimes passed along, but only one person had any given tag. There was only one "Pen," one "Moon," and so on. Once they died, the names could go back into the communal pot to be reassigned. The original Pen had been one of the founders of the order, as had Diamond. For the siblings to give someone either of these designations was considered a vote of confidence.

"Yes," Pen said. "He's got great potential."

After a few more minutes, a half-shrouded student arrived. The system of clothing used by the siblings was such that past a basic starting point, each student had to earn his or her way to a complete outfit, much like a martial artist had to earn rank pins.

Diamond carried a small case, which he opened, after being introduced to Khadaji and Veate. He was a young man, Khadaji saw, and he had to pull his attention away from Veate, much as a man might shake himself out of a drug trance. Khadaji grinned slightly. Oddly enough, he had not felt anything hormonal when he and Veate had met. The pull of an Albino Exotic was usually very powerful.Maybe because she was his daughter?

Diamond said, "The bomb got past our security because when it came in, it wasn't a bomb."

Khadaji glanced at Pen, who remained silent. Listen to the boy tell it, Emile, the older man seemed to say.

"When we received the materials for the planned construction, they were, of course, scanned at the port.

A second scan took place when we brought them into the compound."

Diamond removed a projector and a controller from the case. He clicked an inducer and the air over the desk lit with a three-dimensional representation of the exhibit that had blown up inside the compound's museum.

Khadaji sucked in a quick breath. It was the office of Marcus Jefferson Wall. The late and unlamented Factor Wall, who had in fact been the real power behind the Confed's puppet president during the final days before the end. Khadaji had never been inside, but he knew the place. He had sent the young-old woman who had killed the Factor with a poison spew to which there had been no antidote.

Diamond clicked the control and got a macro image of one of the exhibit's three chairs, a custom orthopedia. He pushed the viewpoint in closer.

"These are computer records of before the explosion, of course," Diamond said. "The plastic of this one was the culprit.An oxidation explosive. The color is a giveaway, see there?"

Khadaji nodded.Very clever.

Veate said, "Oxidation explosive?"

Diamond turned to her, obviously happy to have a chance to explain something—anything—to this beautiful woman. "Yes. You see, the plastic as it is created is inert. It won't show up on a sniffer or scanner because it is harmless. But a number of substances oxidize, that is to say, they combine with oxygen in the air in a chemical process, like rust on unprotected iron or steel.Actually a process similar to fire, but much slower."

Veate was not a chemist but neither was she inept. She could feel him struggling to control the attraction he felt for her, and as she had done so many times before, she altered her position slightly, roughened her voice a hair, and deliberately became more provocative.Testing his control against her attraction. As it had always done before, she felt it start to overcome another's resolve. He was partially covered, but Veate could feel his sexual heat rising. But her voice was cool again, the attraction toned down when she spoke.

"And you are saying that the oxygen in combination with whatever was in the chair became an active explosive."

"Exactly.With proper mixing of the basic elements anda knowledge of how fast such a chemical process usually takes, one could time the explosion fairly accurately, plus or minus an hour or two. When enough oxygen had combined with the chair, it simply went off."

"That's a rather iffy way to assassinate somebody," Khadaji put in.

"Indeed," Pen said. "We have concluded that there was intent to cause mayhem, but no particular target among us—there was no way the would-be assassin could know exactly when the explosion would happen. It would be like shooting a gun and hoping your target would happen to run by in time to be hit by the pellet."

"Who?"Khadaji said, half to himself. "And why?"

"We don't know," Spiral said.

"And what has this to do with my mother's kidnapping?"

Moon said, "Ofitself , there would seem to be no connection. But there are other… events that lead us to believe they are intertwined."

Veate looked at Khadaji. "They have a computer program that predicts the future," he said."Among other things."

"That's not quite accurate," Moon said, "but integratic projections do deal in probability theory. Given enough input, some of the extrapolations can be rather remarkable."

Khadaji laughed. "I will attest to that."

Veate blinked at her father.

"I'll explain it to you later," he said.

"At any rate," Spiral went on, "there are certain things we have been able to surmise." He looked at the young sibling. "Thank you for your explanation, Diamond."

The half-shrouded youth nodded and understood that he was dismissed. He left.

"You worried about security?"

Pen said, "Not worried, but perhaps more cautious."

"Your integratics blew a circuit on this one?"

"Not really," Spiral said. "We had not yet pinpointed the event but we had been alerted to the likelihood generally."

Khadaji considered that. "There's more."

"Yes. Juete's kidnapping is part of it. And there have been other events about which we have learned."

Pen said, "There have been attacks on several of the matadors. As nearly as we can tell, all took place around the same time as the kidnapping."

Khadaji's heart quickened. Pen was not playing fugue here, and he meant just what he said: not the bodyguards' clients, but the bodyguards themselves had been targets.

"No fatalities," Pen said, "although some injuries have been reported. You taught them well, Emile."

Khadaji digested this new bit of information. During the revolution which brought down the lumbering dinosaur that was the Confed, there had been a number of malignant fleas leaping from the corpse who would have gladly seen those responsible die a thousand times each. When wheels turned, those on top sometimes found themselves buried in the mud after things rolled to a stop. The matadors, the most elite bodyguards ever, had been the axle around which the galaxy's government had turned. They had enemies.

But—why now?It had been five years. And who among the fallen, if the most likely possibility held, would it be?

"What are you doing about it?" Khadaji asked.

Pen said, "The siblings are asking questions. All of our sources are being checked."

"And you have nothing so far." Not a question.

"Correct."

"Then I guess I'll have to poke around some on my own."

None of the siblings said anything, but Khadaji was sure that they already knew he would say that. He had studied the great political thinkers and theorists of human history and the convoluted mindswho ran the Shroud made Machiavelli look like a simpleton. They not only knew,he was pretty sure it wastheir idea, on some level.

"I'd better give Rajeem a call," Khadaji said.

"Rajeem?"That from Veate.

"Rajeem Carlos."

She turned to look at him. "You know the President of the Republic well enough to address him by his first name?"

He couldn't help but grin. Apparently his daughter's studies hadn't told her everything about him. "Sure," he said. "I got him the job."

Chapter Four

DIRISHA THE WOMAN stood in the terminal of Dirisha the planet's main spaceport, waiting for Bork to arrive. The shuttle had already landed and the passengers were streaming into the terminal. There was a gap in the flow of people and then Bork moved into view, alone. A respectable distance was left vacant behind him, as well.

Dirisha smiled. Good old Bork.

He looked much the same as when she'd seen him last, more than four years ago. The black hair had maybe a little more gray in it—she had no idea how old he was; he could have been forty, fifty, sixty?—but he still looked as if he could pick himself up with one hand, with muscle left over. That last visit he had been wearing a plain coverall and no weapons. Now, he wore the orthoskins of a working matador and a pair of spetsdods. He had a single bag, hung from a strap over one shoulder, leaving both hands free, and his eyes were alert, scanning, weighing,measuring .

Dirisha understood. She, too, wore the dark gray orthoskins, spun dotic boots and bilateral spetsdods that identified the members of their trade. Even in the freer atmosphere of the Republic, it was not common to see people wearing visible weaponry, save for uniformed cools or guards or military. But the matadors were licensed to carry their nonlethal spetsdods anywhere in the galaxy by a special commission from the President of the Republic himself.

Dirisha's smile continued as she thought about Rajeem. She hadn't seen him in nearly five years. They had been lovers, back when she'd been assigned to guard him, but he'd been fairly busy since he'd become President. She'd planned to look up him and Beel after he retired. The three of them had been good together and she wanted to introduce them to Geneva .

"Hey, Dirisha!"

"Hey, Bork."

He moved forward and they embraced. Even with his restraint, she could feel the power radiate from him as he lifted her from the floor as if she were weightless.

Bork put her down.

Yes. Everybody who'd survived had come a long way. She and Bork, while never intimate, had been friends a long time.All the way back to when they'd been bouncers together in the Jade Flower on Greaves.Working for Emile. She and Bork and—

"You hear from Sleel?" Bork said.

Sleel.The other bouncer and later a matador and subversive as she and Bork had been.

"No. He was living in EvetsCity , on Thompson's Gazelle, last I heard. I called but got no answer. I sent a find-him message and that came up dry, too. You remember Pawli, from school?"

"Sure. Guy who took six weeks to get the last three steps on the pattern."

"Yeah, well, he's working for a big-time jeweler on Thompson's Gazelle and he's going to try to run Sleel down for us."

They turned and started for where Dirisha had parked her rental flitter.

"You think he's okay?"

"You know Sleel. It'd be hard to surprise him."

Despite what she'd said, Dirisha was worried. Sleel was always trying to prove he was the toughest man in the galaxy, and he would walk barefoot through a nest of firebugs if he thought that would make the point to somebody.

"How about Geneva? She almost well?"

"Getting there.A few more days and she'll be up and about."