The Machiavelli Interface (2 page)

But after six years at the school, it had become home, and these people had become her family: Red, the spetsdöd instructor; Mayli, the teacher of love's philosophy and technique; Bork, the big man whose muscles seemed carved from harder flesh than other men wore; and Geneva, the blonde who was the best of them with the tools of a matador or matadora, and who loved Dirisha as she had finally learned to love in return: these were her friends and chosen family. Only two of them were missing: Sleel and Khadaji.

Dirisha cleared the emotional thoughts and brought her attention back to bear on the problem at hand. "How did Sleel get these?"

Bork said, "They were in a computer, and Sleel says anything that is in can be gotten out, if it's important enough. He says you ought to know."

Dirisha grinned. Yes. She had a quick surge of memory, of the night she had broken into Pen's personal files, using a complicated subterfuge. The story had gotten around.

"Okay," Dirisha said, "let's do a link-scan on this, just like in training. I want us all to be able to draw this layout from memory by tomorrow. Three dimensions and color-codes. I'll put it into the cube's comp so you can do rotation and angles on it."

Everybody nodded.

"When's Sleel coming back?"

Seated across from Dirisha, Red said, "Eighteen-thirty. He's thickening our cover."

Dirisha nodded at that. Good. The cube Geneva had leased was sometimes used for religious retreats, which was the ostensible purpose this time, but somebody somewhere would run a scan on that eventually. Until they were ready to move, they didn't want any cools knocking on the portal, locals or Confederation.

"All right. I'll dump this into the system and let's get to it."

The chairs slid back and the group rose, to go to their terminals. It was just like a training session at the Villa, only now, Dirisha thought, she was running it instead of Pen. Khadaji. Damn, she still had trouble condensing the two men into one. Khadaji had only worn the disguise of Pen, the cowl and robe of the Siblings of the Shroud, changing his voice and manner so none would know. Khadaji the Legend was different from Khadaji the Man she had worked for as a bouncer in a pub almost a decade past. Both were different from the shrouded figure who called himself Pen, a mysterious and inscrutable teacher who had taught the defensive martial way. And yet, all three were the same. Dirisha thought she understood why Khadaji had taken the disguise and what his intent was, but there were times when it was hard to remember that Pen was only a role—

"You want me to feed that to the comp?"

Dirisha looked up at Geneva, who lightly massaged the tight neck muscles Dirisha only just now realized she had. Dirisha smiled at the younger woman and patted her hand. "No, hon, I'll do it. Thanks."

Geneva looked worried. "Can we do it, Dirisha? Get him out?"

Dirisha wasn't at all sure, but she said, "Yeah. We can. Using what he taught us, we're the best there is at what we do. If we move fast enough, we can do it."

Geneva seemed reassured, for she smiled. She used the barrel of her left spetsdöd to scratch a spot behind Dirisha's left ear, a small gesture she had begun after the two women had become lovers at the school. "Okay. I'll get to my terminal and start working it. You're as bad as Pen, giving us one day to do a full-memorization."

As Geneva turned away, Dirisha's smile faded. There hadn't been any question in her mind that she would contact the others and arrange for the rescue of Khadaji; more, none of them had questioned her leadership, either.

Even Sleel, who never accepted anything at face value, had smiled and nodded when Dirisha began to outline what she wanted. It was a little frightening, somehow, that they would defer so readily.

Dirisha took the holograph to the computer terminal in her room and began to prepare the unit to scan the image. Normally, Geneva would be here with her, just as Bork and Mayli usually shared room and bed. But for this, individual attention was needed. The plans for the prison in which Khadaji was being held needed to be as familiar to the matadors and matadoras as their own bodies. There could be no mistakes allowed, were they to survive.

As the computer's molecular/viral brain digested the image placed before its scanner, Dirisha allowed the thought she'd suppressed earlier to surface.

Yes, they could do it, if Khadaji stayed where he was. If they moved quickly enough, they might free him. But it would have to be very fast indeed; otherwise, what would be left might not be much. The brain that lit Khadaji and Pen might be broken on the wheel of the Confed's mental machineries, leaving only a husk without the ability to generate any thoughts. They would need a puppet for their show trial, and if that was to be avoided, there was no time to lose.

Three

THE WALL regarded himself with a critical eye. He smiled, and his wraith returned the expression exactly. The dop-pelganger produced by the holographic mirror was a perfect twin; from a third viewpoint, it would be nearly impossible to tell which was the man and which was the image of the man. Had he been inclined to existentialism, Wall could have made some interesting observations.

Ho, brother. We have changed, over the years, haven't we
?

The image nodded almost sadly. Facing Wall stood a tall and physically perfect man who looked forty, though he was half again that age; the shade was dark-skinned, blue-eyed, and black-haired; it wore a face Wall's mother would not have recognized. Like the caster, the reflection was a careful sham, a construct built to hide the true form. Even the name was a disguise, full of historical psychology and no more real than the holoprojic image that regarded Marcus Jefferson Wall thoughtfully.

"Off," Wall said. His twin disappeared like a light switched off. Wall grinned. He had come a long way from the Darkworld. He had been born an albino, one of the experimental sports that still bred true on the far world of Rim, a hundred years after such genetic tamperings had been forbidden.

Chemicals and dyes and lenses had hidden the external signs; surgery and implants had changed his face. He no longer looked the part of an exotic, though he still had one advantage common to his pale brothers and sisters: he was pheromonically potent. Like all the albinos from the Darkworld, Wall held an almost magical attraction for normal humans. Such a thing wasn't totally responsible for what he had become, of course, but it had helped. Ah, yes, it had helped....

Enough of this stroll through the memory vaults, he decided. Nichole would be arriving shortly; he must be ready. At the thought of the girl, Wall felt himself flush. Nichole Miyamoto was a trembling twelve, a rare and precious flower just beginning to bud. He was looking forward to opening her petals. That her father was one of Kokl'u's ministers made it easier, of course. The man was ambitious, and who better than Wall the Kingmaker as a friend? Wall trusted no man or woman past a near point, but he was generous with those he considered his friends. Minister Miyamoto could become a friend, through his daughter....

"A visitor," the security comp said. The voice of the machine was soft, feminine, even childlike.

Ah, Nichole!

"Show me."

The holoproj lit to his left, filling the space left vacant for it. The image coalesced from formless color, to show the elfin form of Nichole standing at the entrance to his sanctum. As he watched, the security computer scanned the image, giving for a brief moment a flash of bare skin under the thin silk robe. The skin faded to muscle and the shadows of internal organs, then the underlying bone.

"Clean," the computer said.

Oh, yes, she was clean. Fresh, alive, not yet nubile, and clean, in all the senses of that word he loved.

Abruptly, Wall found that his armpits were damp, that his hands felt sweaty. His heart raced, his mouth went dry. How silly. To feel like a young boy meeting his very first girl, it truly was silly.

Some cynical part of Wall's mind sneered and shook a metaphorical head.

Silly? it seemed to say. No, it's merely perversion, and you do treasure the illusion
that makes you tremble, don't you
?

Wall's grin never faltered. He had learned to tune that part of himself out when he wished. What use were the best meditative techniques and drugs if one couldn't avoid a part of one's self when one so desired?

"Admit her."

The door slid open noiselessly. The girl, who barely reached Wall's chest in height, started at the movement.

Oh, how delightful! She was nervous, like a fawn from a nature holoproj!

"Nichole, how delightful to see you. Please come in."

"H-hello, My—my Lord Factor."

Wall took the sweetness of her fear and respect and allowed it to fill him for a moment before he shook his head. "Ah, my lovely child, you must call me Marcus. We are going to be great friends, and I want you to think of me not as a Factor, but as a... man."

He could not read the look, for the girl quickly lowered her gaze and bowed her head. "Yes, My Lor—I mean, yes, Marcus."

Oh, the thrill was so sublime! He put his hand on her shoulder—such a wonderful shoulder!—and massaged the muscle gently through the thin blue silk. She was a vision for all his senses, the sight and smell and feel of her! He felt himself begin to tremble, and he took a deep breath, but slowly, so she would not hear it.

"Come, have some refreshment," he said, urging her toward the table in the center of the room. Slowly, he told himself, there is no hurry. No hurry whatsoever.

* * *

There were times when Khadaji had doubts about it all. The crystal realization he'd had more than twenty T.S. years past became clouded at times, hiding the surety of purpose. During the battle that came to be called The Slaughter at Maro, it had shattered him:
Relampago
, the Cosmic Lightning, the Finger of God, the Universal Touch. As he had fired his weapon into the mindless mass of humanity, it had come to him, how wrong it was. They had been harvested like human wheat, falling into a sea of their own blood, and all for the continuation of the Confed and its policies. Then, he had known it must be stopped, that the Confed was dying and must be replaced with something finer—with a system that held human life as worth more than continued power. He had thrown down his weapon and deserted, and the following fourteen years had been filled with study, of how to effect the change.

At times, he had lost his certainty. At times, he had feared he was wrong.

At times, he had been confused.

Khadaji laughed. Then he laughed again, amused at what the hidden monitors must be thinking of him lying on his rubbery block and laughing at nothing. The purpose was firm here, firmer than the room surrounding him.

Locked in a cell, slated for public trial and execution, he should feel more fear, more worry, and yet, he felt only triumph. Even if all his plans for his personal salvation failed, there were still the matadors. And they were next to the people who wielded real power in today's galaxy, those with money or influence who had been made criminals by a frightened Confed. His disciples were out there, and no matter what happened to him, they were spreading ripples on the cosmic pond....

The air pressure in the room changed slightly. Khadaji looked at the door, to see it moving. A visitor. Khadaji sat up.

There was a moment when the doorway stood empty, then a single man stepped into the frame and stood there, holding a solid pose for a few seconds of melodrama. Massey.

Khadaji grinned.

Massey strode into the chamber, alone. The door shut behind him. The man moved to stand two meters away from Khadaji.

"Ah, the spy returns in triumph," Khadaji said.

Massey nodded, matter-of-factly. He said, "I'm wearing a flatpack confounder. Our conversation will be private."

"I have nothing to hide," Khadaji said, "so I must assume you have. But a question before we get to why you're here. What is your agency?"

Massey shrugged. "I was
Soldatutmarkt
when I infiltrated the school. Now, I am in the personal service of The Wall."

Khadaji nodded. "I thought as much."

"And you
knew
before the raid. I have wondered why you allowed me to remain, knowing I was a spy. But I suppose we will find that out, in due time."

"One would suppose that, yes."

Massey turned away and looked around the cell.

"You are braver than the local troopers," Khadaji said, "to risk turning your back on me."

Massey turned back toward Khadaji. "Really? I think we both know better than that. I have come all the way from Earth for you. Left here, Venture will break your mind and destroy your body by millimeters, laughing all the while. I am your pass out of here."

"For a show trial and execution on Earth."

"Of course. You have to die, that's a given. It is the manner that is important. At least our way will be humane."

"The end result will be the same, why should I care?"

Massey laughed. "Because I was your student, I know you, Penn. Or Khadaji. You taught me that a matador should never give up. Alive, there is a chance to fight or flee. Dead, there is nothing. Alive and on the way to Earth, you can scheme. Left here under the gentle ministrations of Over-Befalhavare Venture, who rightly hates you, you have little chance. He would flay you personally, you know, were it allowed."

"I suspected as much."

"It doesn't matter what he wants. Factor Wall wishes you on Earth, and I have been sent to arrange it. Venture will fume, but in the end, a bargain will be struck."

"Why tell me all this?" Khadaji shifted upon the cube suddenly, but Massey did not flinch as the troopers always did. Good that he had learned that much: don't defend unless there is a real attack.

"To obtain your cooperation. You can always be killed while trying to escape, and proper media attention will paint a picture nearly as pleasing as your trial and execution, if it comes to that. But Factor Wall would rather you do it his way. After all, you might be found... innocent."