The Machiavelli Interface (21 page)

The withering fire of the troopers increased. Explosions filled Dirisha's ears. Red stood in the open, both his spetsdöds blasting, waving his hands back and forth rapidly, but using single fire for accuracy. Bork bent over Mayli and snatched her up. Dirisha saw a bloody crater in Mayli's chest. Oh, shit—!

Red stumbled backward, his arms going wide. He hit on his back and slid another meter.

Sleel screamed, "Motherfuckers!" and started to run toward the troopers, firing his single spetsdöd.

"Sleel!" Dirisha ran after him. In the craziness of it all, she saw Bork pause to grab Red from the ground. He had both Red and Mayli and he ran for the van: There was a vouch there—

Just ahead of her, a round hit Sleel. His cybernetic arm blew up, showering Dirisha with hot plastic and wire, spinning Sleel half around. He managed to turn back toward the troopers and stagger forward.

There were five, no six troopers still up and shooting. As though it were a holoprojic exercise, Dirisha picked her targets and triggered her spetsdöds.

She aimed instinctively, one dart per trooper. A man went down, darted on the shoulder; another took a dart in the eye; she hit a woman on the chest—

Sleel was hit on the left foot. The force of it knocked his leg back and he did a half-flip and landed on his back. Goddammit, Sleel! Dirisha fanned both spetsdöds at the last two soldiers. One of them fell, but her weapons clicked dry as the final trooper swung her carbine toward Dirisha—

The woman spasmed and her shots went wild.

Sleel lay on his back, his arm extended toward the trooper, his spetsdöd still firing on full auto.

The van jammed past them. The back door slid open and Bork leaped out.

He grabbed Sleel with one arm and Dirisha with the other and jumped back into the vehicle. The sudden acceleration threw them all to the floor. The van picked up speed and headed for the gate. Carbine fire rattled and shook the van, but it lurched forward faster. The metal of the gate screeched and let go.

Fire followed them, but not far.

Dirisha crawled to where Mayli lay. Mayli had a hole in her chest deep enough to reveal backbone. Dirisha felt sick. She turned away and threw up.

Mayli Wu, the woman who knew that love was the answer to almost every question, was dead. What about Red...?

The man who had taught Khadaji how to use a spetsdöd, the old soldier of fortune, smuggler, and teacher, was also dead.

Bork had connected Sleel to the vouch. The servomedic had begun pumping blood, coagulants, and antishock; plastic flesh patched the stump of Sleel's ankle, stopping the bleeding. There was nothing more to be done for him now.

Bork leaned back against the side of the van, crying.

"Bork...?"

He waved Dirisha off. "Not now. Please."

Geneva drove, not looking back. Dirisha made her way forward and touched the blonde's shoulder. "Hon."

"Is he dead? My father?" Her voice rode the edge of tears.

"Yes. And Mayli. Sleel is hurt, but I think he'll make it. I'll drive, so you can—"

"No. No, it's all right. I'd rather drive." For a moment she didn't say anything. "I didn't know him very well for a long time," she said. "He was just a holograph and money every so often. It wasn't until I went to the school that I really got to know him. He—he was a good man."

Dirisha put her arms around Geneva. "He was the best. We all loved him."

Geneva's tears began to flow, and Dirisha's eyes blurred.

"He thought it was all worth it," Geneva said.

"I know. We all did."

"It was, Dirisha. It is. There's always a price for what you want."

Dirisha nodded, but didn't speak. Geneva was right, there was always a price. They had paid it.

Twenty-Three

MARCUS JEFFERSON WALL, kingmaker, albino exotic and formerly the most powerful man in the galaxy, lay dead on his indigo and scarlet
tutch
wool carpet. He looked a lot smaller than Dirisha had thought he would.

Dirisha stood next to the Provisional President of the new Galactic Republic, Rajeem Carlos. They both looked down at the two bodies.

"It took us a while to get in here," Rajeem said. "He had programmed his computer to keep this meeting private. He had quite an array of defenses built in. The computer fought to the last millimeter."

"How did they die?"

Rajeem waved at the old woman sprawled on the floor a meter away from Wall. "A regurge spew, one his vouch didn't recognize. It wouldn't have done any good if his computer had called for help anyway—our analyzer didn't recognize it either." After a short pause, Rajeem said, "She hated him. She was only in her late twenties. He had her aged."

Dirisha took a step closer to the old woman and looked at her. "Why did he allow somebody who hated him that much to get close to him?"

Rajeem shrugged. "Who knows? He was a twisted man. Emile engineered it."

"Assassination? Emile?"

"He didn't order it. But he provided the poison. It was her choice."

Dirisha pulled her gaze away from the bodies. "What now?"

Rajeem rubbed at his chin. "New business. Three fourths of the galaxy is on our side, the rest, will mostly be soon. Soldiers tend to be loyal to whoever pays them, and we now control the money. The Supreme Commander of the Confed—ah, the
Republic's
army controls the Solar System Forces. He's professional Military all the way; most of the armies will follow him without problems. I'll have things to do to keep it all from falling apart."

"Is it going to be better, Rajeem?"

He turned toward her, caught her hands in his. "I hope so, Dirisha. I'll do my best to see that it is."

Dirisha nodded slowly.

"What about you?" Rajeem asked.

"I'm not sure. Geneva and I talked about it. We could just take off, catch the first ship out and see where it takes us. Or we could go back to Renault, to the school. That's where Bork is going."

"How is he?"

"Better."

Rajeem said, "Mayli is a heroine of the revolution. They'll be reading about her in the history texts."

"I don't think that's much comfort to him. We're matadors, remember. Life is more important than glory."

"How is Sleel doing?"

"He'll make it. They're growing him a new foot to match his new arm. He'll probably be getting laid every night with his hero-of-the-revolution story."

Dirisha smiled. "What about Emile? Where is he?"

"Gone. I saw him after the city fell. He wished me luck, then just disappeared. Nobody has seen him."

"You ask Pen?"

"Yes. No luck. I suspect he's all right."

"I'd bet on it," Dirisha said. "I'd like to see him, though." She dug at the plush carpet with one dotic boot. "Was it all worth it, Rajeem? All Khadaji's machinations, all the fighting, Red and Mayli and the others who died on dozens of worlds?"

Rajeem sighed. "I hope so." Then he grinned. "It had better be."

"Something funny?"

"When Emile left, he said if I fucked it up, he was going to come back and put me out of a job."

Dirisha laughed. "That wouldn't make me sleep any easier."

"What—that the Man Who Never Missed was keeping me honest? He could be running the whole show, if he wanted. But he didn't want any of it. I'll settle for him for a conscience."

Dirisha glanced down at the dead form of Wall. "Yeah, we could do a lot worse."

Twenty-Four

EMILE ANTOON KHADAJI stood in front of the window of the small pub that he had renamed the Red Sister, staring out at the driving storm. Business would be slow tonight; half a meter of new snow was predicted for the next few hours.

He turned away from the thincris window and looked around the interior of the pub. A few of the regulars sat at tables or the gleaming black plastic bar, drinkers mostly. A couple of them smoked flicksticks, exhaling the odor of burned cashews with the purple smoke. Daito was a quiet coastal town on Muta Kato's lone continent, and the Red Sister was a family pub, a quiet place where nobody caused any trouble. A place where a man could enjoy a drink and feel no pressure. No pressure at all.

Khadaji, who used a different name in the pub he now owned, nodded at the server as he walked toward his office. The man returned the nod, and continued to wipe the top of one of the small tables bolted to the floor.

There was a piece of wadded paper lying on the floor in front of Khadaji.

He picked it up and turned toward the nearest trash can. The container was all of three meters away. He tossed the paper, firing it almost as a skilled man might use a hand weapon, like, say, a spetsdöd. The ball of paper flew like a dart, hit the container's plastic lip... and bounced high into the air. The paper missile came down a meter past the container and rolled across the floor.

Khadaji started to laugh. He laughed until tears began to stream down his face.

The server walked a couple of steps toward his employer, then stopped.

"Something funny about missing that, boss?"

Khadaji shook his head. "Private joke," he managed to say. "Maybe I'll tell it to you someday."