The Machiavelli Interface (8 page)

Khadaji, as Pen, had given her that most powerful and wonderful gift—the ability to see love and act upon it—and she owed him for that more than anything.

The boxcar performed its usual bouncy landing. Dirisha exited the vehicle and was struck by the stench of Flat Town. It was an odor of oil and sweat and heat and rottenness, and once again, Dirisha marveled that the residents had grown so used to it that they no longer smelled it.

No one was there to meet her, which was good. She wanted the two bodyguards. Port and Starboard, watching Rajeem and his family, and she surely didn't want the Antag leader out in public any more than he had to be.

But they knew she was coming.

The summer sun beat at her as she found a transport into the city proper.

What a nice place to be from, she thought. Far from. Starting one's life as a trull, daughter of a trull and sister to another, was not the best way to grow up enjoying that life. The fighting arts had been her way out, at the cost of caring for anybody else. A high price, but she'd never known enough to regret it, until Matador Villa. Now, she had a new family, and she loved them more than she ever had her biological relatives.

When Starboard opened the door, Dirisha felt a surge of joy. Rajeem stood there, and Beel, and with them was Geneva! Beel held Geneva's hand, and all three were smiling.

"Dirisha!" Rajeem said.

There followed a communal hug—Beel, Rajeem, Dirisha, and Geneva.

Rajeem's arm half circled her waist; Beel's lips touched Dirisha's cheek, Geneva's fingers stroked her neck. Gods, it was good to be back with these people!

* * *

Rajeem was all business once the greetings were done. Dirisha explained about Khadaji, how they had just missed him. He had apparently cinched his escape: no trace of him had been located by the Confederation.

Rajeem asked the question Dirisha had been asking herself since Bork had flown them away from the prison: "Now what?"

She had an idea, but she wasn't sure of it. She took a deep breath to speak.

There was a knock at the door.

Port and Starboard were good—they drew slim hand wands and aimed for the door—but compared to Dirisha and Geneva, the two men were slow.

Dirisha urged Rajeem and his wife into the sleeping room while Geneva flattened herself against the wall, her right spetsdöd raised. When she was sure her clients were safe, Dirisha turned to face the door. She nodded at Geneva, who tapped the door's control. The panel slid aside.

A boy of maybe ten T.S. stood there.

Starboard pointed an H.O. scanner at the boy. The device was silent, and Starboard shook his head. "Clean," he said.

"Yes?" Dirisha said to the boy. He was an alley rodent, one of the permanent homeless who got by any way they could. Bright teeth flashed against the dark and dirty skin.

"Luggin' comfax straightshit tellit fern Zuri," the boy said. It had been years since Dirisha had spoken rat slang, and it had changed some—it changed constantly—but she got the gist. She said, "Lookin' Zuri."

"Callit cheap, showit hard."

Geneva was still against the wall, unseen by the boy, who had made no move to enter the room. He was too streetwise to go into a place he hadn't checked out before.

Geneva looked at Dirisha and raised one eyebrow.

"He wants proof of who I am," Dirisha said. "He's carrying a message for me." To the boy, she said, "What do you need, boy? What hard showit?"

"Catfang, callit."

Catfang? What the hell was that?

The boy gathered himself to run; Dirisna could see him tensing. If she didn't have the answer, he was supposed to take off. Catfang... catfang, cat—wait, she had it.

"Callit slicer," she said.

The boy's grin returned. "Gray shroudwrap say tellit turdtalk—'It's time.' "

Dirisha shook her head in disbelief. "Anybody got any loose stads?"

Port fished a plastic coin from his pocket. "I got a fiver."

"Give it to the boy."

Port scaled the five standard coin to the boy, who snatched it from the air easily. He rubbed his thumb over the disk rapidly, to test for the heat-threads that showed it was genuine, then nodded. "Needit moutheyes askit Resh."

The boy took off.

Dirisha nodded at Geneva, who shut the door.

The blonde relaxed and shook her head. "What was that all about?"

"It's a message, from Khadaji. 'It's time,' he says."

"What?" That was from Rajeem, who had come back into the room.

"I think it means it's time we helped the Confed along on its fall," Dirisha answered. "I think we've just been asked to start a war."

"What?" Geneva added her voice to those of Rajeem and Beel.

"Khadaji sent the message, he had to. The boy wanted to know what
catfang
was. It's the knife Khadaji gave me.
Slicer
, in the local patois. Nobody else knows about that except Khadaji. And
shroudwrap
ought to be clear enough."

Rajeem said, "Khadaji? Here?"

"I doubt it," Dirisha said. "But Pen—the real Pen—could be. Or it could be any member of the Siblings. They have to be tied into this, somehow. It doesn't matter. Nobody but Khadaji knew to look for me here, and even if anybody else
did
, they wouldn't know about the knife."

"But—war? With what army?"

Dirisha's mind was already working. She smiled at Rajeem. "The matadors."

"They're spread all over the galaxy by now," Geneva said. "Just
contacting
them would be a major undertaking."

"That's the thing, hon. First thing we have to do is figure out how to call 'em."

Rajeem shook his head. "You're
serious
about this!"

"Hey, don't worry about us, Rajeem. You're Khadaji's handpicked leader. After we win, you've got to run the show."

"You're crazy."

Dirisha smiled. "Well. It's something to do."

Nine

AFTER MASSEY HAD FINISHED his report, Wall stood mute for a time, staring at nothing. He had known; maybe he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it to himself, but he had known.

To Massey, Wall said, "You have documentation?"

Massey glanced down at the flatscreen in his hand. "Yes, sir."

"Logged into a computer?"

"Only my portable, my Lord Factor." He extended the device toward Wall.

It was a standard reader, as long as a man's hand from fingertips to wrist, slightly wider than a palm. That such a small thing could hold such infamy was unbelievable. The plastic should burst asunder, spewing the tainted viral/molecular brains like a rotten fruit full of gut flies.

Wall took the flatscreen and hefted it. "You have done well, Massey. I consider the matter of Khadaji balanced."

"You are too kind, my lord."

"Doubtless, to my friends. Not to my enemies." Wall stared at the small computer as he continued to speak. "No one is to know of this matter. All your electronic sources are to be wiped; all your... organic sources are to be put to brainscan and this portion of their memories... deleted. Call on Legal, ask for Referee Dim Sû Leh—she will arrange the necessary documents for the scans. Have the subjects taken to my personal simadam for the procedure."

"Yes, my lord."

"You are a most loyal fellow, Massey. What is your current rank?"

"SG-1, my lord."

"You are promoted. What is the grade for Sub-chief of Imperial Security?"

"M-my lord?"

"Never mind. I will have it arranged. You are now Sub-chief of Imperial Security, detached to my personal service."

Massey stood silent, too stunned to reply. Wall gave him a practiced, false smile. "I reward loyalty, Massey. You would do well to remember that."

Massey found his voice. "I-I never doubted it, my lord."

"Good. Run along now and attend to that matter I requested, if you would be so kind."

"At once, my lord."

"And stop calling me my lord. You must call me Marcus. My friends are allowed that."

"Yes, my—yes, Marcus."

When Massey had gone, Wall sat into his orthopedia and thumbed the portable computer into active mode. The flat-screen cast a small holographic display above its surface, a list of files. Wall adjusted the control that enlarged the print, picked a file, and called it up. He began to read.

Three hours later, when he blinked away the vestiges of the reading trance, the tears streamed freely down Wall's face. Oh, to be tricked so! To be made the fool, to be laughed at! His grief nearly consumed him, but it was tempered, abated by another emotion nearly as powerful: rage. Payment would be made for this; it would be made in dear coin, an expense the tricksters could not begin to imagine. They were going to be sorry. Beyond measure.

* * *

Seated in a small office in the Holy City Business Complex, Emile Khadaji began his campaign.

Before he had been Pen the teacher, he had been Khadaji the resistance—and Khadaji the pub owner. Fourteen years before that he had deserted from the Ground Forces, leaving his job as a combat trooper. Between the days of being a soldier and starting his one-man war, he had been a student, a smuggler, a dealer in illegal goods, and finally, a rich and mostly-honest businessman. He had developed a medium-sized fortune during those years after Maro and before Greaves. He had used a small part of his money for the school; he still had better than ten million standards free money left, with perhaps twice that much in business assets scattered through twenty planets and five wheel worlds. Now it was time to use the power that money represented.

On a coded White Radio line, set up with the best industrial scrambler available, Khadaji began to make his calls.

* * *

"Yes, Hemet, it's Roj Antoch. I have a galaxy-wide campaign for our agency.

Yes, I have the Confed authorization, I'll have a copy of it stat-flexed to you.

We're pushing a biography, pop-read, with holoproj vid tie-in. Due out in six months, but they want a big push. The title?
Emile Antoon Khadaji: The Man
Who Never Missed
. That's right, him. Yes, I know it's not particularly bright of the Confed, but I have the authorization. Right. Get our best people on it, right away. I'll have the start-up copy sent with the stat-flex of the Confed okay. Yes. We're talking three million initially, supersaturation, stat. Our clients want everybody in the galaxy to know about this book within a few days. Good, Hemet. I knew I could depend on you."

* * *

There was no legitimate Confederation authorization, of course, only a very good forgery, courtesy of another Khadaji contact. Nor was there to be a book or vid. That didn't matter. By the time the Confed pinned the agency, it would be too late. The myth would be too tall to shoot down. Hemet would be covered, Khadaji would see to that as best he could.

* * *

"Mease? Yar, it's Cyclone Milla. No, not dead yet. Busy the last seven or eight years. You still in the biz? Good. I've got an order for you. For Ago's Moon. What? Yar, I know there's a war going on there, what do you think, I want a load of foodstuffs? Listen up, I need five thousand spetsdöds and a thousand rounds of Spasm each. Yar, that's what I said. And I need five thousand canisters of emetic gas. Standard Oxyemetine should be good enough. Yar, B.I. if you can't get Standard. And two thousand expulsive carthar-tensmus bombs. Yar, I know it'll stink. No, I wouldn't want the cleaning bill, either. No. No Parkers. Spetsdöds, puke-gas, and diarrhea bombs, that's all. And don't tell me what retail is, I know you ain't paying for any of it. I'll go six hundredths on a stad. Fifteen? Forget it. I'll get in touch with Spartang. I might go eight, just for old times' sake. No. Twelve is too much. Ten? Okay. You got it."

* * *

The leaders of the resistance on Ago's Moon were about to get a ship full of help against the Confed. They'd also get a communication about the time the non-lethal weapons arrived:
Compliments of Emile Antoon Khadaji—I'm with
you
.

* * *

Over the next three days, Khadaji made a dozen similar calls. He also started rumors, to be fueled by paid sub-rosa advertising: The Confed was going to break up any religion with over five million adherents.

The Confed was going to double the galactic income tax.

The Confed was brain wiping all major felons and using them for illegal genetic research.

Before he was done, Khadaji hoped to have half the galaxy believing that the Confed was going to rape everybody's mother and sister and then devour the resulting babies....

* * *

"Yes, this is Father Dank Nootna calling. Thank you, my family endures, Praise the Eternal. I have word of a Confederation plot, Holy Mistress. The Inspectors of Doctrine are planning to poison the Holy Mistresses, while pretending to observe during the upcoming Eternal Light Festival. Yes, Mistress, it is just as you have always suspected. No, I spoke to no one else of this. I am well aware that many of the Divine do not have your powers of observation, Holy Mistress. Certainly. I will speak of it to no one. Praise the Eternal that one so vigilant as you exists to protect those less on their guards than you, dear Holy Mother...."

* * *

Some of what he did and said grated on Khadaji, but those angers and rages he awoke had a deserving target. The Confed had ruled with fist and gun. It was about to be repaid in kind.

The dinosaur's time was past; it needed to know.

* * *

Once again the six matadors sat around a table, planning treason.

Insanity, Rajeem called it, but it was not quite that. Risky, yes, dangerous, but very logical, given the goal.

"Think about it, Rajeem," Dirisha said. "How else could we contact them all? We don't know where all the matadors are. Eventually, I figure most of them will try and contact each other, using the drops we learned about in school. But even then, they'll be careful—if somebody is captured by the Confed, those drops will be known pretty soon. So the only way is to go directly to them."

"You could all get killed trying it."

Dirisha held Rajeem's hand and smiled at him. "Hon, the Confed
wants
us, remember? We are all guilty of de facto treason, just by being who we are. We could get killed by walking into the local pub. Besides, we're good at what we do. When you get to be a member of the best bodyguard corps ever, you learn how to attack as well as defend. The place will be guarded, sure, but not nearly as well as the prison Khadaji was in."