The Machiavelli Interface (12 page)

It might not be possible. And even if it were, there would be risks. Next time, it might not be something as simple to fix as an arm. One of them might
die
.

That was a thought Dirisha didn't want to have. There was no way around it, though. And the worst part of it was, she had to put them in jeopardy, she had to take that risk, if they were going to survive as what they had become.

She hated Khadaji for that, just as she loved him for bringing her to the point where she could care so much. The man was ruthless, and yet, she was much better for having known him. And his goals were good. Ah, damn! Why had it come to this? Love wasn't all joy, she was discovering. There was pain attached to it, and risk. On balance she wouldn't have it any other way, but gods, sometimes it was so fucking
hard
! She took a deep breath and looked at the matadors.

"Okay. Okay. I get your point."

They nodded and grinned, her friends, all save Sleel, who had fallen asleep inside his plastic and steel medical robot.

Thirteen

THE WAR ON AGO'S MOON was going badly for the Confederation Ground Forces. They weren't losing, but neither could it be said that they were winning. The fanatics had a demigod on their side, in spirit, at least, and the name of Khadaji was like a mantra to them.

Wall sat in his orthopedia and brooded. The resistance to Confed policy was not confined to Ago's Moon.

The engineers on 313-C, unofficially known as Ohshit, in the Nu System, had shut down production of the extension biologicals.

Baszel, in the Ceti System, had gotten its first taste of war—hundreds of indents had stormed the five-quad outpost and sent the naked troopers into the broiling summer sun.

On Mwanamamke, in Bibi Arusi, the historically restless student population had shut down all university operations by the expedient of firebombing the main records and operations computer in the capital, Chokaa.

In the wheel world of Chiisai Tomadachi, dissidents had drugged the water supply with long-acting psychoerotics, which had thousands madly copulating for a week, effectively stopping nearly all scheduled work on-world.

Wall sighed. It was time to take a personal hand. President Kokl'u was running hither and yon, trying to look calm, urging for a return to order, but that was a wasted effort. Those who knew paid little attention to the man.

Everyone was waiting for some kind of sign from Marcus Jefferson Wall, the
real
power. He must, he knew, make a personal appearance in a place of prominence, and drop hints as to what he planned to
do
about all this turmoil. The people, bless their little micron brains, needed to be reassured.

There was a local festival, the Brisbane Revival, to be held soon. Very well, he would attend the thing, allow himself to be seen in the proper places, speaking to the proper people, and those who knew could feel less threatened. For a time, at least. Order needed to be maintained, for as long as possible.

Wall sighed again. Yes. That he would appear publicly would indicate the seriousness of the problem, and at the same time, ameliorate it. He would arrange it now.

* * *

A man wearing the face of a minor official from Jicho Mungo caught a shuttle from Hawaii to Brisbane. The man was outdoor-tanned, wore a brightly colored jumpsuit, and carried a camera, all of which marked him as a tourist. That he traveled on the night shuttle also marked him as someone without wealth or privilege, and therefore no one to spend any concern upon.

He was a lowrank among many lowranks, and no one gave him a second look.

In Brisbane, the Confederation capital and largest city upon the Australian continent, Khadaji continued to behave as a tourist. He visited the local places of historical import: he took holographs of Queens Park; rode the antique hovercraft to the North Stradbroke Island Ape Preserve, and returned to the mainline by way of the Moreton Island Powered Bridge; he spent an afternoon touring the University of Australia, at Toowoomba.

When he was certain he was not followed or monitored, Khadaji removed his skinmask and colorful clothing, and wearing the white orthoskins of a medical orderly, approached the complex that catered to Factor Marcus Jefferson Wall. He bore identification provided him by a woman who worked at the complex as a paramedical assistant, altered to show his face and EEG patterns.

He had no trouble gaining admittance. Unless someone of importance was being medically treated or observed, the security of the complex was only good, not superb. The fake identity existed in the proper computer, and the ID tag passed the scanner. Khadaji was not armed.

The woman who thought she provided information for a New Zealand minister was within, but she was not the reason Khadaji had come. No, there were more important matters on his mind. In this kind of conflict, a man was only as good as his information. There was something very important to be learned here. Learned, and perhaps, used.

* * *

"Somebody has stepped on one of our secondary caltrops," Geneva said.

Dirisha stood on the room's narrow balcony, staring out through the dirt-streaked plastic bubble at the disarray of Flat Town. She turned to look at Geneva. "What?"

The blonde nodded. "Red is backwalking it."

Red sat at the computer terminal, talking in a low voice to the instrument.

"Red?"

"Hold on a second," he replied. "No, not you, computer. Let's have it. Out loud."

The wash of color over the terminal was joined by a soft electronic voice.

"Reporting," the computer said. "Inquiry was made at drop-block prime by identity/verified Confederation agents seeking the bearer of Galactic Traveltik 69-644-5009-Beta."

"Hold," Red said. He looked at Dirisha.

"That's mine," she said. "Under an old pseudonym. They shouldn't know it."

Red nodded. "Looks like they do. Continue, computer."

"Upon denial of knowledge of said bearer's whereabouts, the block computer was physically assailed and rendered inert."

"No surprise," Dirisha said. "Was a visual record of the assailants transmitted, computer?"

"Negative."

"Continue your narrative."

"Nine-point-six-three-nine hours after the assault on drop-block prime, drop-block secondary was approached by identity-verified Confederation agents seeking the bearer of Galactic Traveltik 69-644-5009-Beta."

Sleel picked that moment to wander into the room. He was pale, and the left sleeve of his orthoskin was empty; he wasn't wearing his temporary prosthetic arm, but he looked healthy enough for a man who had lost a limb to an explosive rocket only a few weeks before. "What's up?" Sleel asked.

Dirisha waved him to silence.

"How'd they find the secondary?" That came from Mayli, who was listening from the bed nearby. Bork lay asleep next to her.

"From the tight-beam transmission of the primary to the secondary,"

Dirisha said. "They must have had somebody good with tracers with them."

"Tells us something, doesn't it?" Geneva put in.

Dirisha nodded. "Continue, computer."

"Upon denial of knowledge of said bearer's whereabouts, the secondary computer was physically assailed, triggering the self-destruction circuit and rendering the unit inert."

"Yeah, inert all over the walls," Sleel said. "And with a grenade of Spasm darts for anybody stupid enough to be within range."

"Computer, were visuals obtained and transmitted before destruction of the secondary block?"

"Affirmative."

"Show them to us."

The air swirled above the terminal. Representations of six people coalesced from the floating colors. The images were half a meter tall, in shades of gray, until the computer enhanced them with coded colors. Three men, two of them possibly mues, two women. The sixth figure was in class-three body armor, his or her sex not apparent. The one in armor had the visor raised, but the face was in shadow. One of the women bristled with electronic gear; all the figures were armed with hand wands or shot pistols.

"Five of them won't be following us," Sleel said. "The sixth, I'm not sure.

Maybe a dart got under the visor."

Red said, "Why was only one of them wearing armor?"

"The Confed's too cheap to suit them all," Sleel said.

"Don't bet on it," Dirisha said. "Something's wrong with this scene."

"What do you think?" Red said.

Dirisha shook her head. "Computer, give us a close-up on the face of the person wearing armor."

The image shifted, then the vp trucked in on the face.

"Stop. Eliminate as much of the shadow as you can. Use the lighted part of the cheek for a match."

The face began to lighten, like an onion being peeled.

Dirisha moved to one side, to view the holoprojic image from a different angle. Something about the face—a man, definitely—was familiar....

Boik sat up on the bed then, the slimsteel frame protesting the motion.

"Massey," Bork said.

"What?"

"Guy in the armor. That's Massey."

Red nodded, and Dirisha saw it at the same instant. Yes. The image was poor, but it was Massey. The spy who'd infiltrated the school. Khadaji had known, he'd told Dirisha; she'd wondered then why he'd allowed it. His motives were always twisted past her understanding.

"Shit," Sleel said. "He was good. I wouldn't bet a stad to a toenail clipping that the Spasm got him."

Geneva nodded. "Looks as if the Confed must want us pretty bad."

"Wall," Dirisha said. "Khadaji told me that Wall had sent Massey to the school. No reason to think he's working for anybody else."

"Looks as if we got their attention," Bork said quietly.

"Yeah," Sleel said. "Whoopee."

"What now?" Mayli said. "Can they trace us from the secondary drop-block?"

"Assuming the darts didn't ruin the electronics, eventually. We had the signal bounced from five different re-casters to get here, he'll have to run them all down. It'll take a month."

"What I want to know," Sleel said, "is how come he didn't have his people in armor? Even class-two would have kept most of them safe."

"He'd know we were monitoring the drop," Red said. He looked at Dirisha.

"Yeah," Dirisha said, "he'd know. And he wanted to show us something."

Sleel played student for her. "Show us what?"

"How much he wants us. Enough to sacrifice five people without blinking.

They weren't important; we're supposed to see that."

"Shit, you mean he let us kick them into a six-month lock ward stay just to make a point?"

"Yeah."

Sleel shook his head.

"What now, Dirisha?" From Geneva.

Dirisha stared at the image of Massey, then looked away, at the city of Sawa Mji, laboring under its own stink. A Confederation-created scum pit, where life was cheap and dignity cheaper. One of thousands of places like it.

"Way I see it, we can split up, run, and start little fires along the way, like the other matadors are doing, or..."

"Or what?" at least three voices said together.

"We can go to the rat's nest and burn that sucker into ash."

Sleel laughed.

"Something funny?" Dirisha said.

"Well, I'd applaud, but it's kinda hard at the moment."

"Go get your arm," Bork said. "We'll wait."

Fourteen

WALL DECIDED to make a major production of his public appearance: he had a new Factor's robe spun, of the best silks; he had new castings of his personal motif—frogs and cranes—done in platinum and diamonds for the cloak's closure and dangles. There were more opulent and expensive alloys and jewels, but the pure metal and clear stones had always been his favorites: no one but he knew the significance of the color: white, for a former albino.

The cape, with its stiff, high collar and perfect flowing lines, was the hand-created product of a demented genius of a tailor who suffered from total androphobia. The man never saw his clients personally; he never saw
any
body personally, but stayed totally isolated from men and mues, on some small island off the coast of Greenland. That was strange enough in itself; that the man was the best tailor on Earth, working completely from generated simulacra, was nothing short of amazing. Wall had Cteel send the tailor a substantial bonus. The maroon silk garment was unique, and its creator deserved recognition.

The fittings were no less perfect, and when he was dressed, Factor Marcus Jefferson Wall was a sight to draw admiring stares. His custom-spun dotic boots matched the hue of his cloak; his underbreeks and tunic were a paler shade of the warm spectrum, matching the darker gear perfectly. The platinum cranes and frogs glowed richly, with eyes, beaks, and nails of perfect diamond. The wearer of these clothes was not merely rich, he was a man of
taste
.

Wall smiled at his holoproj self.
Dashing, aren't we, brother
?

The image nodded slowly. Indeed. Indeed.

The aircoach stood on its cushion of generated repulsion at the end of the guarded corridor. Outside of the matadors, for which he had learned a grudging admiration, Wall's own bodyguards stood second to none. A hundred of them protected him each time he appeared in public, not that there was really any need for them. Factor Wall was generally loved, particularly by those who did not know him. His enemies, especially those who might be dangerous, were accounted for at all times. Those with too much power to be completely neutralized were not allowed to approach him closely. Those without power were usually not allowed to survive at all. A dead enemy was no threat.

The last item in his dress for this occasion was the traditional Factor's hat, a boxy thing with a high peak, flat in the back to keep from being dislodged by the cape's collar. When he had donned the hat, Wall turned for a final view of himself in the holomirror. Regal, he truly was.

He took a deep breath. Time to go calm the waters.

* * *

Wall's aircoach floated gently to the roof of the Presidential Theater, in Queen's Park. The building was old, built just after the beginning of the Galactic Confederation. It had been updated, of course, so that now a bank of particle-beam tacticals next to the landing pad guarded against air attacks, and mild repel fields kept out precipitation and insects. Wall's honor guard stood at statuelike attention as the vehicle alighted. The day was cloudy, and a light rain was scheduled later in the afternoon. A thick patch of news-fax techs stood in their assigned areas, with cameras already locked into focus on the aircoach.