The Machiavelli Interface (5 page)

"I understand that the upcoming election is likely to result in a victory for the minority party," he said. "As many as, say, fifty seats might be changed.

Which would make you majority whip, would it not?"
If you change your
attitude, you may have the carrot. I can arrange this easily enough.

Madame Hinglow's knees relaxed again. She smiled. "Naturally I would like to see my party ascend. But political life has been somewhat wearisome of late. I have even entertained the idea of retiring."
What if I don't go along?

Wall's smile grew. Ah, some spirit, after all. Good.

"Do you know the game of poisonball?"
You have heard the carrot, now hear
the stick.

"I don't follow sports, I'm afraid."
I'm listening
.

"It's a fascinating game. Two players stand a few meters apart, separated by an airwall. The airwall will allow a solid object to pass through, if it moves sufficiently fast. The players are naked, save for a power racquet each. The object is to use the racquet to propel a ball through the wall to strike the other player." There was no fugue woven into his statement.

"Interesting."
And...?

"Ah, but there is more, you see. The ball is of a most special construction. It has two main functions. The first involves a contact poison contained within.

Upon touching human tissue, the poison is released. It is not fatal, or rarely so, but it causes great pain for several days, pain which even the most potent medications cannot blunt. Some kind of replicating virus, I understand. To be struck by the ball is to lose the game in a particularly nasty manner."
Playing
this game is dangerous, if you fail to move properly.

"Ah. But what if one of the players simply lets the ball lie on his side of the airwall? Or are there rules against such?"
What if I won't play?

"That's where the second function of the wonderful ball comes in. There is also within the device a timer. The game lasts no more than fifteen minutes, and the timer is set to trigger randomly during that period. Whichever side of the airwall the ball happens to be on when this occurs is showered with the aforementioned contact poison. You can see then that it would pay to try and return the ball to one's opponent as soon as possible, so that the chances of the ball triggering on one's own side would be minimized, don't you agree?"

To fight is to lose; to do nothing is to lose, as well.

"Ah. It does sound an interesting game; my Lord Factor. Not my kind of thing, but... interesting."
I understand. I will not oppose you.

"Well. Enough talk of sports. Come, we will have some tea, and perhaps a radiant, to put sparkle into our smiles."

"You are too kind, my Lord Factor."

"You must call me Marcus, Madame. We are going to be great friends, and will have no need of ceremony, I am sure."

They smiled at each other.

* * *

Massey leaned against one end of Khadaji's silicon block, regarding the seated man. Khadaji waited for the ex-spy to speak. Finally, he did.

"Venture hates you even more than we knew. I didn't realize just how precarious your position was, our negotiations with him notwithstanding."

Khadaji allowed his eyebrows to raise slightly. "I would have bet no small amount that Venture wasn't recording our interview."

"He wasn't."

Khadaji gave Massey a short nod of acknowledgment. "Congratulations.

The Wall should be proud of you." Venture hadn't been recording the conversation, but Massey had managed it, somehow. No one was safe from Confed spying.

"There was some difficulty," Massey said. "But your own teaching allowed that knowledge is power. Factor Wall is a... strong believer in knowledge."

"So it would seem."

Massey pushed away from the block, strolled a couple of steps away, then turned back to face Khadaji. "Well. It isn't important. Our negotiations are nearly complete. We shall be leaving the company of Venture's troopers shortly. In another two days, I would expect. And within a few hours, we'll be back on Earth."

"You'll excuse me if I don't applaud?"

Massey ignored the comment. "We could have you totally immobilized, but I think simple induced ataraxia should be enough to keep you from trying to escape. Not that there is anywhere to go on a Bender ship in transit. Besides, it might be our last chance to talk, and I don't want to miss it."

Khadaji said nothing. Massey was right: once the ship was bent, there was no way to escape. On Earth the security would be so tight it would be impossible to move. And, once the ataractic drug was in his system, Khadaji wouldn't want to escape, even if an opportunity somehow magically presented itself. It certainly narrowed his options.

* * *

There was a knock on the door.

The six matadors dropped or raised into combat positions fast, aided by their bacterial augmentation. Almost as quickly, Dirisha relaxed her aim at the door and straightened. Confederation troopers would have come through the door blasting, if they'd known who was inside. Even local cools would have been more direct than to announce their presence with a knock. It must be somebody else.

"Who's there?" Dirisha said.

"A friend of the matadors," came a male voice.

Everyone glanced quickly at Sleel. Red said, "I thought you said we were covered better than a singularity explorer."

Sleel shrugged.

Dirisha moved toward the door; the others spread out, taking positions so their field of fire wouldn't cross on each other. Bork and Mayli took the left, Sleel and Geneva the right, while Red watched the windows.

Dirisha, her right spetsdöd held ready, thumbed the door control with her left hand. The door slid back to reveal—

Pen!

For a moment nobody spoke or moved. Then the shrouded figure nodded once and stepped into the room.

Dirisha regarded the man in the costume of the Siblings of the Shroud. It wasn't Khadaji of course. This man was shorter, older, to judge from his hands, and his eyes were green, not blue. He didn't seem the least worried that twelve spetsdöds were pointed at him.

"Who are you, Deuce?"

Beneath the cover of the robe, Dirisha thought she detected the motions of a smile. "I am called... Pen," he said matter-of-factly.

Dirisha felt the tension in the room relax, as the others came out of their combat poses. A Pavlovian response to the name? No, it was something else; there was a kind of peace about this man. He was, Dirisha felt, not a threat; more, he was what he had said through the door—a friend.

"Pen," Dirisha said. "Any relation to the Pen we all knew?"

"I was Pen before; for a time, I was known by another name. When Emile no longer needed the identity, I resumed it."

"Jesus," Sleel said, "you're that Pen? His teacher?"

The robed man bowed. "The same."

Dirisha felt a sense of awe, and with it, a spate of questions. Was this really Pen? What was he doing here? How had he found them? Chang,
Pen
, the real Pen! How? Why?

Pen saved them the trouble of asking. "I'm here because of what you plan to do," he said. "Emile is due to be transferred from Renault to Earth in two days."

"We figured it'd be quick," Dirisha said. "But Renault is only a few hours away by direct Bender. We have time—"

"You mistake me," Pen said. "I am here to tell you that you should not attempt to free him on Renault."

"What!" Geneva stepped forward. "We won't have a chance once he gets here! Even a hundred matadors couldn't get through the net they'll have over him!"

"I understand that."

"Then you're telling us we shouldn't try to break him out at all?" That from Bork.

"Yes."

"Why?" That from Dirisha, Red, and Sleel together.

Pen stood silently for a moment. "I cannot tell you. Not yet. Emile knows you will try, and it is his wish that you do not."

"You've communicated with him?"

"Not for some years."

"Then how can you know what he wants?" Dirisha said. "You were his teacher a long time ago, but he was our teacher only a few months past. We owe him."

Pen shrugged. "I can only convey what I know to be true. You should not risk yourselves. Yet."

Dirisha turned to look at the others. She saw skepticism on their faces, and it mirrored her own. Even if this was Pen, they didn't buy his message. She certainly didn't.

"Listen, Pen, or whoever you are, I'm sorry. We're set to leave. If you are on our side, you can come along. Or stay here—as long as we can be sure you won't screw up our plans."

Pen laughed.

"Something funny here I'm missing?" Sleel said. His voice was soft, what Dirisha knew as his dangerous tone.

"Only my amazement at how farsighted Emile has always been. I searched for years for the Cosmic Flash, and because I wanted it so much, I never found it. I learned a lot, but never that great truth. He knew what you would say." Pen paused, and looked around the room. "I won't betray you. Do what you must, but remember what I have said. We'll meet again, perhaps."

Bork edged forward a hair, just enough so Dirisha caught the movement.

His movement was an unspoken question: Do we wrap this guy up, Dirisha?

Before she could react. Pen danced toward Bork, three or four moves melded smoothly into a flow, like liquid. Dirisha recognized a section of the Ninety-seven Steps of Sumito. She had never seen it performed that smoothly before, and not in all her years of practice had she ever done it that well.

Even Khadaji wasn't that good.

Pen's move was not an attack, everybody saw that. Nobody fired, or even reacted visibly. It was merely a demonstration. He was one of them; more, he was the best of them. He finished the sequence, and stopped.

"Okay," Dirisha said. "If you wanted to cause trouble, we'd already be having it. We appreciate your interest, but we've got to do what we think is right."

"Of course." Pen bowed, turned, and left.

After he'd gone, nobody spoke for a long time. Then Sleel said, "Why do I get the impression everybody knows what's going on but us?"

Six

THERE WERE TIMES when Marcus Wall allowed himself to reflect upon his past, to glory in the distance he had come. He had been born on Rim, the fifth planet of the Beta System, a planet also called Darkworld; he had been poor; he had been handicapped. Now, he was... much more....

Wall seldom went out. Today was one of the rare days. He was to attend the ground breaking for Kokl'u's new toy. Though it had only been a few days, with the President the thought was as the deed, and he wasted no time in those things he personally desired.

While he was about, Wall would also find time to tend to other small chores that required his presence. A media shower here, a favor granted there; such was his power that to appear in public with someone automatically granted that person great face and clout. Today, he would dine with Minister Miyamoto, father to the exquisite Nichole.

The restaurant was secured, there was no danger, and the event would be dutifully recorded: Factor Wall dined this day with Minister Miyamoto. The pair were observed smiling and laughing as they consumed
élat du sung
in the Valsevian Quarter, and a highly placed source tells us that Minister Miyamoto currently enjoys Factor Wall's largesse and favor....

Wall grinned at the thought of the faxcast. He leaned back against the silk cushions and stared at the fittings of his aircoach. The motif was frogs-and-cranes, cast in platinum and brightly polished. The reflections in the polarized densecris windows gleamed more dully, but even so, the richness would not be denied. Yes, he had come a long way from the Darkworld.

So that he might find greater joy in his fortune, Wall allowed himself to slip into a memory trance. The soft purr of the aircoach lulled him, as he returned in time to Rim, to the boy he had been at thirteen....

* * *

...mother looked very grave as she sat in front of the boy. She reached out to cup his face with both hands, her colorless skin matching his own. Tears gleamed and ran from her pink eyes.

"What is it, mem?"

The woman shook her head slowly, the white hair floating cloudlike around her temples. "Artemis wants to... talk to you, Tavee."

The boy's jaw muscles danced as he bit down on his anger. Artemis was Luete's agent—it was he who sent her to service those with money, he who kept Tavee alone so much.

"I don't want to talk to him," the boy said.

Luete stroked Tavee's hair, hair as soft and white as her own. "I—I wish you didn't have to, my son. But he is our... protector. We must not make him angry."

"I don't care if he puffs up and blows an artery," Tavee said. "Piss on him—!"

Her fingers dug into his shoulders, hurting him.

"Ow, mem, stop!"

The pressure eased, but her face was angry. "You are not to say things like that! Without Artemis we would be in great danger. You remember what happened to Glenna. And Surrat."

Dumbly, he nodded. He remembered. The same thing that had happened to Bleez and Tarn and Amarah. Dead. All killed by colorskins. Knifed or shot or beaten. Surrat had been doused with chem and set aflame. His killer had laughed while Surrat died. Many of his friends and relatives had been murdered. Tavee had never known of an albino who had died of natural causes. It was because of the Curse. They all had it, just as he did. Where he went, he saw the colorskins looking at him, wanting him, wanting to own him, wanting to touch him. Part of it was pheromones, he had been taught.

Part of it was his beauty, itself a genetic design. There were no ugly, no ungraceful, no undesired albinos. They had been bred that way, and even after the laws forbid such manipulations, the breeding ran true. He had seen them lusting for him, the women, the men, even the bothlings.

So, now it was his turn, just as it had been his mother's turn. He had been expecting it. Tavee was no virgin—no albino past the age of ten was, many did not manage it that long—but he was not yet a member of a working stable. Until now.