Matadora (22 page)

Dirisha stood, still toying with the knife. "I think so, yeah. Khadaji made his run against the Confed on Greaves as part of a long distance plan. He made himself a legend. He built the matador school based on that myth. The Man Who Never Missed. A to-the-bone hero. He indoctrinated a corps of followers, the matadors, and sent us out to spread the word. Now, he's in trouble. What are we to do, but figure out a way to help him?" Dirisha looked at Rajeem and Beel. "You understand what it means? The Confed has been tottering for a long time. Khadaji wants us to give it a push. The matadors have the ears of scores of the richest, most influential beings in the galaxy; people who, in many cases, owe matadors their lives. People who are already leaning away from the Confed yoke. Think about it. It's perfect. No army or navy can be raised to match the Confed military machine with guns. The real power is wielded by those with influence and money, and the matadors influence them. It's fucking perfect."

"What do you intend to do? Tell the others they've been duped?"

Dirisha shook her head. "It wouldn't matter. Most of them owe what they are to Khadaji/Pen. He might have used us, but he also taught us a hell of a lot. And we were all selected because we had little use for the Confed in the first place. No. That's not why I want to see them."

"Why, then?"

Dirisha stared at the knife she held, watching her reflection in the cold steel blade. Why? That was the crux of it, wasn't it? Khadaji had taught her, had molded her. She had been a loner, and he had made it possible for her to be part of a team. She hadn't known what love for another was, and he'd given her that, too. There had been, for whatever his reasons, a home, a place to belong. But there was more, another lesson she was supposed to learn. She looked at the knife. It wasn't enough that she had these things, not in Khadaji's estimation. He wanted something more from her. What?

There was an answer for that, she knew. She had to care for more than herself, or a few cherished others. She had to stretch, to open herself to her fellow beings. It was what Khadaji had done. The long view. It was what he demanded of her.

"I've got to see the others and... lead them," Dirisha said quietly.

"Lead them?" Rajeem shook his head. 'To do what? The Confed has an army of billions!"

Dirisha grinned. "First, we free Khadaji. After that, we'll see. If we have to drop the Confed, we'll do it."

"That's crazy!" Beel said.

"Probably. But it's what we'll do. Or try, anyway."

Toowoomba Educational Complex, Australia, Southern Hemistates, Earth.

In the belly of the beast, or more appropriately, the liver: where the poisons were strained out: the headquarters of the Confederation Armed Forces.

What better place to hide?

Dirisha sat in the library alcove, waiting. Rajeem would be okay, Port and Starboard could handle anything Flat Town could throw at them. This was more important, at the moment.

She saw the woman enter the building, a dark-skinned, dark-haired housewife, wrapped in a heavy coat, against the evening chill outside, wearing thick mittens.

Dirisha stood, and the woman saw her.

The skin and hair color were different, but there was no mistaking the smile. Dirisha stretched out her arms, and Geneva came into them. They hugged each other tightly. Geneva started to cry, but Dirisha kissed away the tears. "Hey, Brat, no time for that. We've got work to do."

"Ah, Dirisha, I've missed you so!"

"Yeah, well, I noticed you weren't around, too."

"What are we going to do about Pen? I mean, Khadaji?"

"Don't worry, Hon, we'll work something out. Have the others arrived?"

"Yes. Sleel was the last, he's at the cubicle. Mayli and Bork are waiting outside in the flitter."

"Good. Let's go. We've got a lot to talk about."

Arm in arm, the two walked out into the night. Dirisha wasn't worried, not in the least. The matadors were going into battle.

The Confed didn't have a chance.