The Machiavelli Interface (20 page)

A guard watched Dirisha as she approached the entrance to the complex.

She smiled at him. A hot wind blew through the compound, ruffling Dirisha's short hair. The guard must have noticed her spetsdöds, for he hooked a thumb under his carbine strap and started to slip it from his shoulder. "Hold up there a second, sister—" he began.

Dirisha shot him. The dart took him in the throat, and he snapped backward as the shocktox hit his system. His Parker carbine rattled against the plastcrete.

The matadora palmed the door wide, and stepped inside, pausing to drag the guard with her. The corridor was empty, a wide hallway of military-style hard foam.

Two technicians rounded a corner ten meters ahead of Dirisha. She shot them. The plan required directness, not finesse. Dirisha walked quickly toward her goal.

Another guard stood at the entrance to the computer room. He was good.

As soon as he saw Dirisha, he snapped his carbine up from port arms and swung it toward her. Dirisha's spetsdöds coughed on full auto. Two darts hit the man's right hand, two more of the drugged flechettes hit his left. His hands spasmed first, triggering the carbine. As he fell, the gun stitched a line of craters up the hardfoam wall across from him.

Dirisha pulled the guard's entrycard from his pocket and opened the locked door. Four technicians flicked startled gazes at her as she pointed her left handgun at them. "Everybody on the floor, facedown, hands across the small of your back. Now."

The four complied. Dirisha shot them. Then she went to work.

She was rigging the third charge when the door monitor chimed three times. That would be Bork and Sleel. She finished setting her charges and the timer, and went to the door.

Bork and Sleel stood outside in the hall, watching in both directions.

"Done," Dirisha said. She turned back to the door and jammed the guard's card into the reader slot, then twisted the plastic sharply. The card snapped in half and the door whirred, but remained closed. The Malfunction diode lit and flashed redly.

"Let's get to our stations."

The three moved up the hallway. "How about the back entrance?" Dirisha asked.

"Mined," Bork said.

"We've got three minutes before the 'cast."

Thirteen minutes. They had to keep anybody from getting to the control room for thirteen minutes. After that, it wouldn't matter.

Dirisha took the guard's place at the entrance, his Parker slung over her shoulder. Reluctantly, she removed her spetsdöds and put them in her bag.

Sleel and Bork stayed just inside.

It took them six minutes, only three minutes after the 'cast, to send the first quad to check out the complex. The Sub-Lojt in charge said, "Where's Haney? He's supposed to be on duty."

"Diarrhea," Dirisha said. "I'm covering for him."

One of the three troopers behind the quadleader laughed. "Shut up, Deak," the leader said, without turning to see who'd been amused. To Dirisha, he said, "I don't know you."

"I just got here," Dirisha said. "Command is pulling Haney for medical evaluation. They think he's picked up an offworld strain of some new bug. I'm replacing him."

The Sub-Lojt looked suspicious, but only said, "Yeah, well, something is up. We're supposed to eyeball the whole complex."

"Go ahead," Dirisha said, affecting boredom. She moved to open the door for them. The quad entered the complex. Dirisha barely heard the sound of the spetsdöds. None of the quad returned fire.

At thirteen minutes, the door opened and Sleel and Bork stepped outside.

In a few seconds the operations computer and manual backups were going to turn into slag. Not much damage in terms of the structure; the techs on the floor might get a little warm, but that would be all. And in those few seconds, nobody would be able to get there in time to stop it.

Dirisha leaned the carbine against the wall and pulled her spetsdöds from the bag. She reseated the weapons' plastic flesh against the backs of her hands as the three began to walk across the compound. They had pulled it off.

As they neared the warehouse where the van awaited, at least two quads came running from their quarters. The computer must be dead.

The lights of Brisbane had just gone out.

One of the troopers yelled at the trio of matadors. The troopers weren't buying the fake uniform bit anymore.

The staccato sounds of spetsdöds on full auto were joined by the roar of Parker carbines.

Twenty-Two

WALL FOUND HE WAS TREMBLING as Cteel made the announcement: Nichole had arrived. The man took a deep breath and released it. "Scan her.

And I want to see it, but only after the skin." Mustn't kill the surprise.

The image appeared, blood vessels and muscles, unrecognizable as anybody Wall knew. The shadows of organs came and went; bones glowed with searching radiation.

"Clean," Cteel said. "She is unarmed."

"You're sure?"

"Hard Object scan is negative; Active Poison scan is negative; Explosive Compound scan is negative; Radiation Counters are within normal limits; Disease Scan shows only normal enteric and external flora and fauna—"

"All right, that's enough. Admit her. And keep this private, Cteel. No calls, no visitors." He was cautious, that was all. He had a spring gun in his gi-ban pocket, just in case Nichole had somehow learned some deadly martial art.

Plus his zap fields and vouch. He was prepared.

The door slid aside. An old woman stood there, dressed in the clothes Nichole had worn when he'd seen her last. He would never have recognized her otherwise. The progeric process had made the child Nichole into a tottering and ancient crone. Her face was a mass of wrinkles, her eyes filmy, her features coarse. She shuffled in, atrophied muscles barely able to carry her. Her hair was dead white and stringy, so thin it barely covered her spotted scalp.

His moment of triumph felt flat. She deserved it, no mistake about that, but somehow the elation he thought he'd feel wasn't there. Still, she mustn't know that.

"Ah, Nichole. It has been so long, hasn't it?"

"Hello, Marcus." Oh, the voice was perfect. Scratchy, tremulous, almost a whisper. He felt a little better.

"Do come in and be seated. Can I offer you some refreshment?"

Nichole shuffled toward the nearer orthopedia, but only leaned against it instead of allowing the device to envelop her. She appeared to be breathing hard from the effort of that short walk.

Yes, Wall thought, this was what he wanted to see. To know that she was suffering, as he had suffered. He felt righteous joy suddenly, the triumph he deserved. She had schemed and lied and gotten more than she'd bargained for. It was justice, justice!

"Could I perhaps have some wine?

"Of course." Wall grinned. He went to fetch it himself. He could be gracious, now.

He returned with the wine, one of the best vintages he had. The deep red liquid filled his finest crystal. Might as well use it, since he was leaving in a few hours. He handed Nichole the goblet and noticed how much her hand shook as she took it.

Wall raised his own glass to her. "What shall we toast, my dear? How about justice?"

Nichole nodded slowly. "All right, Marcus. To justice."

She gulped at the wine, spilling some, but downing most of it in big swallows.

Wall sipped at his wine lightly, savoring it; it, and her.

Nichole smiled. Still had all her teeth, Wall saw. But her gums had receded more than a little. The smile shut down, and Nichole looked as if she were in pain. Was she going to have a fatal attack right here? That was more than he wanted—

"...memories..." Nichole said.

"What?"

She was having trouble talking, but she got it out. "The people have... long... memories."

Horror swept over Wall. Khadaji! He dug for his spring gun. But Cteel had scanned her! She was unarmed!

Nichole's belly bulged under the thin silk cloth. She opened her mouth and retched. A thick cloud of black gas boiled forth from her lips and nostrils and surrounded Wall. He backed away, yelling for his vouch, trying to hold his breath, still reaching for his gun.

Too late. Wall went cold, then numb. He couldn't feel his arms and legs, his body. He was like a man wrapped in thick meditation foam. He fell. He could still see and hear, but he couldn't move.

The vouch reached him. Wall saw Nichole fall against the orthopedia and slide to the floor. A needle probe from the medical mech stabbed into Wall's arm, but he didn't feel it. The vouch hummed, analyzing the poison, searching its electronic brain for an antidote.

Something that mixed with the wine, Wall realized. Khadaji had gotten to Nichole and given her some chemical that showed up as harmless on a scan.

But when it mixed with wine, it made a poison gas. Diabolical.

Next to him, the vouch continued to hum. The device's holoproj screen flashed a rapid scan of compounds. It was the most advanced personal medical vouch in the galaxy, it would find an antidote! It had to, it had to—

The vouch's scanner stopped. The screen lit the air in front of Wall.

POISON UNKNOWN, it said.

BASIC LIFE-SUPPORT TECHNIQUES

INEFFECTIVE. AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS.

No
! Call for help! But he could not speak.

Wall shifted his focus to the form of Nichole. She must be dying from the same gas; maybe she was already dead.

Wall saw that the old woman who had once been his favorite flower was smiling.

His chest muscles stopped working then, along with his diaphragm.

AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS, the vouch continued to pulse at him.

It was the last thing Marcus Jefferson Wall ever saw.

* * *

Supreme Commander of Confederation Ground Forces Venture sat across a rickety table from Emile Khadaji, looking resigned. Khadaji was aware that the SC didn't like him; that at one time, he would have skinned the Man Who Never Missed with a dull shovel, had he gotten the chance. But Venture was a realist, and he didn't need ClimateSat to know which way the wind blew. So he said.

The café was a relic from pre-Bender days, in a slum on the bad side of Ipswich. There were no servers, organic or servomech; all the food and beverages were dispensed from old-style automatics along one wall. The place was fairly crowded despite the seediness of its decor, but nobody took notice of the two men sipping coffee in the corner.

"...plans are complete," Venture was saying. "We will begin when the power is disrupted."

Khadaji nodded, listening.

"The New Somerset Dam is controlled by my men, as is the Manchester and Mount Crosby aquafloj. The garrison at the Presidential Palace is solidly in Kokl'u's camp, of course, but I may be able to make its commander see the light, after a few tactical strikes. Nothing is certain, but the odds are in our favor." The old man seemed as if he were going to say something else, but stopped.

"And...?" Khadaji prompted.

Venture shook his head. "Pardon me if you've heard this before, but life is so strange. Even six months ago, had each man in my command come to me and told me I'd be doing this, I would have never believed it. I still don't know why I'm here talking to you. A good soldier would shoot you where you sit and get back to his duty."

Khadaji allowed himself a smile. "I was taught that a good soldier knew when to retreat, Commander. And a career soldier's loyalty is usually to the army, isn't it?"

Venture sighed. "It is. I cannot say I have always been happy with my orders, but I followed them. Duty."

"Duty can be stretched in all directions," Khadaji said. "Is it better you and your officers find yourself heroes of a popular revolution or champions of the oppressor?"

"I wouldn't be here if there was any doubt about my answer to that,"

Venture said. Then, "Was this your intention as far back as your activities on Greaves? To tip the Confed over?"

"Since before that, Commander," Khadaji said softly. "Almost fifteen years before that I knew what had to happen. Just not how to do it."

"Buddha." Venture stared through the dirty plastic window at the street.

"There was another reason," he said, without looking at Khadaji. "I've been a military man all my life, I was never afraid to die. But I didn't want to be the man standing between you and what you wanted. Not after Greaves. You scared the hell out of me, Khadaji. You still do."

* * *

When the power broadcast to Brisbane failed, Khadaji was standing on the summit of Edenglassie Hill, a grass-covered mound which had once been a garbage landfill. He had a good view of the city, and he watched as public transporters ground to a halt, as buildings went dim. There were backup systems, of course, and some of them would even work. The trolley up this hill was dead, so only those willing to use the trail would be leaving today. It was likely that nobody would be coming up; the people down there were going to be very busy.

Khadaji turned slowly, to view the Pearl of the Confederation. It all came to this moment. Half the worlds in the Confed were in active revolution; a coup to take over the reins was in progress. So many years, and now he could rest.

He sat on a patch of thick grass, feeling very tired all of a moment. He felt something on his face and reached up to brush it away. To his surprise, he realized that it was a tear.

Even a dinosaur deserved something at its passing, and the Man Who Never Missed cried for the death of the Confederation he had hated for so long.

* * *

Dirisha skidded into the cover of the warehouse, with Bork and Sleel right behind her. Mayli sent a hail of flechettes at the pursuing troopers. Explosive rounds shattered great chunks from the corrugated plastic wall. The supply van roared and cleared the ground, and dusty air blew toward the running matadors. Red ran toward Dirisha, which meant Geneva must be flying the van—

"Into the van!" Dirisha ordered. "Move!"

"Mayli!" Bork screamed.

Dirisha twisted, nearly losing her balance. Mayli was down. Bork lumbered toward her. Red was two steps ahead of the bigger man, Sleel three meters behind. Dirisha waved at Geneva. "Come on, get it moving!" Then she sprinted toward the others.