The Machiavelli Interface (6 page)

"I am sorry."

The boy shrugged. It was not her fault. She couldn't stand up to Artemis; none of them could. He was big and mean and he knew fighting.

"It's all right, mem. Really."

She smiled, and wiped her tears away. "I'll tell him you're ready."

"Fine."

She left the room, and Tavee looked around. It was a good room, as rooms went. Much better than the coloredskin rooms he'd seen. Artemis gave them lots of stuff, good stuff. But he was one of
them
, his skin had that fleshy brown tint, and he wanted to do the same things the others did. He protected them, but he used them, he made money from them, just like the other
agents
did. Right now, he'd be smiling his straight-toothed grin, rubbing at his hard-on, wanting to stick it into Tavee, just like the others.

The boy's jaw muscles danced again, and he took a deep breath. He was scared, but he knew what he was going to do.

* * *

In his aircoach, light and realtime years away, the man traveled through memory. This was the part he liked best.

* * *

Artemis came in, and when he saw Tavee, he grinned. The boy was naked, sitting on the bed.

Artemis sat on the bed next to the boy and put one dark and muscular arm around him. "Ah, Tavee, you're somethin' real special. I won't hurt you, you'll like it."

"Stand up," Tavee said.

"What?"

Tavee stuck his finger into his mouth and sucked on it.

Artemis's grin grew, and he quickly stood. "You're gonna do real good at this, Tavee, real good." Artemis untabbed his pants and let them drop.

A minute later, when Artemis closed his eyes and leaned back, Tavee pulled the slender knife from under the mattress. He had a good grip on Artemis with his left hand, and the knife was very, very sharp.

When Artemis looked down in stunned surprise, still seconds away from real pain, Tavee stood and drove the blade into the man's belly, slicing upward until the edge was stopped by the breastbone. Artemis fountained blood and organs, but Tavee was already halfway to the door. He didn't look back, then. Only much later...

* * *

The aircoach settled the half meter to the road with a slight bump that roused Wall from his memory. He looked through the densecris as if unable to make any sense of what he saw. He smiled. Ah, yes, the ground breaking.

They would be waiting for him, since he was the last to arrive. Waiting with reverence for his power. He had come a long way since gutting the cuntmaster on Rim. A long way, indeed....

* * *

Three armed troopers held hand wands aimed at Khadaji as Massey and the Lojtnant approached him. The Lojt held a biomed popper in one hand.

Massey waved one hand; in a gesture meant to convey reassurance, Khadaji figured.

Massey said, "A medium-level ataractic, that's all."

"Appath?"

"You would know the names, wouldn't you? No, it's Antipuje. You'll be able to talk and move, just a bit slower than usual. And no epinephrinic surges, of course."

"I'm familiar with the drug," Khadaji said.

"It would be foolish to resist," Massey said. He gestured at the troopers.

"Wand stun is much more unpleasant."

"So it is." Khadaji extended his left arm, turning it so that he presented his supinated wrist to the Lojt.

The officer caught Khadaji's hand, jammed the unit against his wrist, and triggered the device. There was a small
pop
, and Khadaji felt a cold sting, nothing more.

He looked at Massey, who seemed somewhat edgy. "Disappointed, Massey?

You look as if you expected me to perform some magic just then, to knock the Lojt down and dance past the guards unharmed."

Massey smiled, but said nothing.

Khadaji's own smile faded, and his face took on a flat aspect, as if the world of men held no interest for him. He stood as if carved from plastic flesh, a man with nothing on his mind.

Massey shook his head. "So, this is how it ends. Not in a martial dance, but like a mindless animal led to slaughter. I am disappointed, old teacher-mine. I had hoped you would acquit yourself better. So much for mythology." He turned to the Lojt. "Okay. Let's get out of here. We leave at six hundred. The drug should last until we arrive back on Earth."

Massey turned back to Khadaji. "Go lie down."

Obediently, Khadaji went to his block and lay upon it. His expression did not change.

Massey sighed. "Just like any other man. A shame, really. You'd think a legend would have something to fall back on, wouldn't you? Where are your miracles now, Khadaji?"

There was no answer, and Massey turned to leave the cell, followed by the Lojt and the now-relaxed troopers.

* * *

Though it suited her purposes, Dirisha thought it odd that any ship would go directly from Earth to Renault. Then again, the Confed was not known for the brilliance of its transportation schedules. One could bend space and arrive on Renault in a few hours; yet a trip to any planet in the Delta System took at least six days. Delta was much more important in the grand scheme of interstellar commerce than was the Shin System, in which Renault occupied its tiny niche, of that there was no doubt. Trust the Confed to dork it up.

Dirisha sat in a lounge seat, toying with a curved knife. The weapon was the length and arc of a banana, a thing of mirror steel, brass, and exotic hardwood. The design was based upon that of a sabercat's tusk. Khadaji, as Pen, had given her the knife just before she had graduated from the matador school, along with some cryptic advice. Apparently Pen—the real Pen—had given the same knife to Khadaji years earlier, along with the same kind of input. It had to do with simplification, and if Dirisha had been one to anthropomorphize, she might have named the knife Occam's Razor.

She twirled the fat-handled knife idly, watching the gleam of light from its blade. She didn't really think of it as a weapon; it was more a talisman. Close enough to use a knife would also be close enough to use her hands and feet, and they were as deadly as sharp metal and less likely to be lost when needed. But you never knew....

Dirisha sheathed the knife when she realized what she was doing. She didn't want to think about what was coming, that was the thing. In a few hours they'd be on Renault, and they'd move to free Khadaji. The others were on the ship, they were ready, but Dirisha had doubts. Some of them might not make it through.
All
of them might not. For herself, she felt no fear—she had to do what she had to do—but for the others...

She didn't want to lose any of them. Especially she didn't want to lose Geneva. The blonde had been her lover at the school, but it was only later, when Dirisha learned to love Rajeem, that she knew she also loved Geneva.

Rajeem. She smiled. She wondered how he was doing, back on her home world, itself named Dirisha. Port and Starboard could certainly handle the local raf, and the Confed wouldn't think to look for Rajeem Carlos there. No, he and his wife Beel were safe enough. Even if she didn't get through this, Rajeem would be all right. Eventually, he would resume his contacts with the Antag Union; eventually, he would go back to resisting the Confed, maybe in a more active way this time.

"Still got that sticker, huh?"

Dirisha looked up. Sleel dropped into the chair across from her. They had not been so foolish as to seem to be traveling together, still, neither did the matadors see spies behind every disposal. They assumed there might be some kind of security check on Renault, but that was being taken care of—if Sleel's contact on the planet could be trusted.

"I still have it, yeah."

"Not to worry, Dirisha. We'll pull it off."

"Who's worried?"

Sleel leaned forward. "Yeah, well, look. Just in case I might not make it, what say we spend some time in the privacy cube before we land? Take our minds off things."

For a second, Dirisha was tempted. Then she laughed. Sleel had been trying to bed her ever since she had known him. It had been the first thing he'd said after his name, years ago in Khadaji's pub on Greaves.
Hi, I'm Sleel. Want to
screw?

"Nice try, Sleel. The old, 'I-might-not-live-long' gambit must work pretty well for you."

He grinned. "Almost as good as 'Help-me-I-don't-know-much-about-this-kind-of-thing.'"

Dirisha felt better. Good old Sleel. As singleminded as a hungry dog. "Ah, Sleel. What would I do if I didn't have you around to keep me on my toes?"

"Hey, Dirisha, you don't know what you're missing."

"I'll ask Mayli if it ever really bothers me."

Sleel shook his head, and stood. "You going to be nasty, I'm leaving. Later."

Dirisha grinned at his back. When Mayli had been a practicing trull, Sleel had challenged her. He'd wound up with phlebitis of the penis for his trouble.

She felt better. No matter what happened, she'd learned a lot from these people in the last few years. They had become family, and she loved them.

Even Sleel.

* * *

Steel's contact passed the matadors through without incident; the fake Military aircar was where it was supposed to be; as the skies turned to night, the plan was working perfectly. Money could buy miracles, at times.

They got all the way to the Military prison before it fell apart. The place was lit like a landing field, sirens blasted the night, and troopers shuffled back and forth like mad decks of cards, waving weapons at anything that moved.

"Looks like something is wrong here," Bork said.

"You are a fucking master of understatement," Sleel said.

Geneva squeezed Dirisha's arm. "Dirisha?"

"I don't know, hon. Maybe we better grab somebody and find out."

"You and Bork ought to go into entertainment," Sleel said. "Shit. Shit."

Seven

NICHOLE SAT CROSS-LEGGED upon his bed, intent upon the colorful holoproj show Wall had made for her. The girl laughed at the clowns in their costumes, as they tried a complicated acrobatic construction and fell, instead.

The recording was of the Galactic Circus, currently playing the Faust System.

Normally, the circus would be on Earth in a few months; unfortunately, it had chosen to play Ago's Moon and was now embroiled in that world's rebellion against the Confederation. The circus might never see terran skies again, which would be a pity; certainly, it would be delayed somewhat. By the time it arrived Nichole might well have... passed her peak. Some new love would see it with him. But of that, he didn't want to think just now. Nichole was here, dressed in her thinsilks, rapt over his present. No doubt she would wish to repay his kindness shortly.

The thought made Wall feel weak. She was so much more than he had hoped for, perfect in every way. Despite her youth, she was very... adept, once he had shown her how.

He'd have to see what kind of favor he could bestow on her father, the minister. Something appropriate for a man who could produce such a lovely daughter. Her father already had a certain amount of power, of course, but there could never be enough of that, Wall knew. Another notch in Miyamoto's political weaponry would please him.

For a moment, as he watched the bright-faced child intent on the recording of the circus, Wall felt a fleeting thought bouncing across his mind: he had become what he had once detested—a user of children. With the control he had mastered he hurried the thought along and refused to readmit it to his sanctum when it howled outside his mental door. This was different. Truly it was.

* * *

The six men leaving Khadaji's cell had turned their attention away, no longer considering him a threat. They had poisoned his circulating bacteria-aug when he'd been captured, but they'd missed the culture he'd hidden—embedded in viral wart tissue on his left thumb. He had trigged the bacteria yesterday; they were now fully active. That wouldn't have mattered, if the chemical they had just given him had been working properly. It wasn't.

Khadaji moved. He shoved himself away from the silicon block and immediately jumped into the beginning of the third section of the sumito dance. He had practiced the moves a dozen times, moving from the block to the cell door; that there were six men in the way complicated his motions some, but not as much as an untrained observer might expect. One against six, but he had fought more, in practice. Four was the hardest number; more than that in close quarters and they only got in each others' way; fewer could be avoided.

One of the soldiers began to turn, alerted by some small sense. Khadaji spun, curved his fingers just so, and swept the man from his feet—

—two other men scratched for bolstered weapons. The troopers became part of Khadaji's dance, took wing and flew like parakeets suddenly escaped from a lifetime in cages, smashing artlessly into the nearest walls—

—Massey, better trained than the others, moved away from immediate danger, backing into the Lojt—

—the fourth trooper attacked, a hard snap kick for Khadaji's groin accompanied by a loud "kiai!" Khadaji twirled away, caught the soldier's foot, and upended him. The man hit the rubbery floor on his back and shoulders and grunted as his wind was knocked away—

—Massey pulled a tube from his sleeve, put the end in his mouth, and aimed the other end at Khadaji. A dart straw, poisoned—

—the Lojt smashed the edge of his hand against the back of Massey's neck, knocking the dart straw loose and felling the surprised man. The Lojt grinned at Khadaji.

Khadaji didn't pause to return the Lojt's smile. He reached into the downed Massey's trousers, removed the confounder the man carried, and trigged it.

"Let's move," Khadaji said.

The Lojtnant nodded.

The two men ran. The fight would have been on the cell's monitors; even with the confounder, the place was going to be filled with troopers in a moment, despite whatever bribes the Lojtnant had placed. Escape from the cell did not mean escape from the prison. The Lojt was his man, had been so since Greaves, where he had helped Khadaji escape by imploding the drug storeroom at the Jade Flower. Before there was sympathy for Khadaji's cause, he had had money to spend. The Lojt was half-rich; if they survived this, he'd be twice as wealthy. A wise man knew when to spend his standards—