The Machiavelli Interface (9 page)

"As I recall, you didn't free him."

"We would have, he'd have stuck around. We were prepared."

"I still think it's too great a risk."

Dirisha nodded. He loved her, he was afraid for her, she could understand that. She felt that way about him, and about Geneva. Maybe even a little that way about Khadaji. But Rajeem was an intellectual before he'd become an activist; he didn't know what she knew. Dirisha had tested herself against death at least a hundred times. If she had allowed fear to paralyze her, she would have died during those early years of playing the Musashi Flex. She hadn't been afraid then; she wasn't afraid now. It was a risk, but not one resting on pure chance. She had certain skills which put the odds in her favor.

Sleel slapped Rajeem lightly on the back. "If we're still around after the Confed turns belly up, probably we'll be taking orders from you," Sleel said.

"But until then, we go with what Dirisha says. She knows what she's doing.

We trust her."

Around the table, the other matadors nodded or smiled in agreement.

Rajeem sighed, and turned to his wife. "What are we going to do? They're all crazy."

* * *

The spiral Sb called the Milky Way was by no means completely explored, but even the human and mue inhabited portion of it was too large for slower-than-light communications. White Radio—a misnomer, for it was neither invented by Desmond White nor was it radio—was the most efficient means yet devised by men. White got the credit because he supplied the research lab and funding; the device itself was the creation of several teams of physicists, electronicists, and biologists, as well as assorted engineers, military types, and even psychics.

To understand exactly what White Radio did required several advanced degrees, an IQ nearing high genius, and intuitive abilities rivaling those of mystical seers. Mathematics aside, the relatively simple explanation was that the machineries somehow detected hitherto undetected subatomic particles called impious chronons—of which there were three types: eclectic, reverse entropic, and pan-neurotic—focused, transmitted, received and managed to somehow attach meaning to these invisible particles. The scientists had called the prototype the A-17 Chronometric/E-RE-PN Impiotic Particle Acceleration/Reception Augmenter, which was why it quickly came to be known as White Radio.

That Dirisha knew all this was due to research she and the other five matadors had done, in preparation for their planned undertaking to contact the other matadors. She also knew that while White Radio had a theoretically unlimited range, in practical terms anything over a hundred light-years was yet to be accomplished. For reasons no one had yet determined, communication at longer distances took less time than shorter spaces. At five LY, there was a nine second lag; at thirty LY, the lag was only two seconds.

Mostly, the system worked, but there were problems. Visual transmissions were possible, but only in shades of gray. Color augmentation was added at the receiving end, but it left something to be desired—people sometimes looked like ancient, tinted, flat-photographs. In its own way, White Radio was much like the early days of terran radio and television: useful and interesting, but less than perfect.

White Radio was expensive, but widespread. There were system nets, for commercial and industrial communications, and there was even a galactic net.

It didn't cover the galaxy, of course, but it did reach most of the human worlds and wheelworlds. It was Confed controlled, used for entertainment, propaganda, commercial advertising, and education.

If she couldn't locate each of the hiding matadors individually, Dirisha reasoned, she would just have to send them all a message at the same time.

The plan, like all good plans, was simple: she and the other five matadors would take over the galactic net broadcast station.

Ten

REVENGE, IT WAS SAID, was a supper best served and eaten cold, in order to savor it fully. Wall knew this, for he had taken such dishes many times during his career. But there were times when a meal still warm had more appeal; this was one of those times, while Wall's ire raged impotently within the hot cage of his anger. Drawing it out over months or years would leave it with him too long. He would lance it like a festering sore, and be done with it. His solutions, in any event, were not final. With his initial irritation spent, he could reflect more upon further additions in time to come.

"Minister Miyamoto and Nichole have arrived," Cteel's disembodied voice said quietly, almost as if the computer could somehow sense Wall's simmering purpose and feared to arouse it.

"Scan them for weapons and admit them."

A moment later, the minister and Nichole entered Wall's sanctum. Wall smiled benignly at the pair and gestured for them to be seated.

"Hi, Marcus," Nichole said, smiling happily.

"So very nice to see you again, Marcus," Miyamoto the elder said.

Wall had turned over a thousand variations of how to begin and finally had settled on one of the simpler ones. He didn't feel like playing fugue.

"I know," Wall said. "I know all about your game."

Nichole looked puzzled. "Game, Marcus?"

Wall pulled his gaze away from the girl to look at her "father." Miyamoto had the grace to sigh and acknowledge the comment with a resigned nod.

"What game, Marcus?" Nichole persisted. She looked a little nervous, now.

Wall's simmering rage boiled up. "What game, you little bitch? Why, the game of Fool the Factor! The game of illusion, slut!"

"Marcus," Miyamoto began, "I—I—"

"Shut up," Wall said, regaining control of himself. "You will address me as 'my lord' and you will not speak unless I direct it, do you understand?"

"Y-y-yes, my lord."

"The same goes for you, Nichole."

"But Marcus—"

"Another word and you will die. Painfully."

Nichole shut up.

"Why, Miyamoto? That's what I want to know. Why?"

The minister had begun to sweat. He wiped at his face with an unsteady hand. "P-power, my lord. You have more than any man; to be your friend is to bask in your reflected glow, moon to your sun. A public lunch with you is worth the influence to change the lives of millions."

"And so you would be my friend at the price of tricking me." It was not a question. Miyamoto had the sense to not answer.

Wall turned back toward Nichole. "And you?"

The girl shrugged, and that single gesture seemed to age her by a decade.

Or was that only because Wall knew her true age? She was long past twelve.

Fifteen years past. The "girl" he had taught so lovingly, lifting her from her innocence, was a woman nearer thirty than even twenty, much less twelve.

"Money," she said. "Enough to spend for the rest of my life, to live in luxury."

"Nichole Elesas Duvul," Wall said, reciting the name he had learned from Massey. "A common whore, treated with physiologic retardants to delay puberty, given biosurg hymens, what—weekly? daily? for each new customer?"

"Not a common whore," Nichole said. "I was saved for the perverts who love children."

"Shut up!" Wall took a moment to calm himself. He would not allow her to anger him visibly. He would
not
!

"So you and the President's minister developed this scheme to gain my friendship."

"It was his idea," Nichole said. "He made it attractive to me."

"How foolish you must have thought me," Wall said. "How you must have laughed at my ignorance."

The woman-not-woman shrugged again. "You think you're special, but you aren't. There are hundreds, thousands, maybe millions like you. Sick. I pandered to it, but I didn't create it."

"But you stayed twelve, a dewy virgin, gulling people who loved what they thought you were."

"I fill a need. I'm very good at it. Better somebody my age than a real child—"

"Your opinion is noted," Wall said, his voice cold. "It is wrong. When the fortunate children who have been my friends grow older and leave, they are better off. Richer, wiser... awakened. Awakened in a manner much better than most of them would be otherwise."

"You would see it that way," Nichole said.

"That's because it
is
that way. We serve each other's needs, my flowers and I."

Nichole shook her head slowly. That infuriated Wall. How dare she patronize him! But he had his anger in check now, and his was the final word.

To Miyamoto, Wall said, "You will resign as minister immediately. I have secured a position for you as a beast-keeper in my stables in the SA grasslands, near the Equator. It will be your job to clean the stalls of the elephants and cloned mastodons. Any objections to this?"

Miyamoto, who had never done any labor more strenuous man walking a few hundred meters, paled. "N-no, my lord."

"I thought not."

Wall turned back to stare at Nichole. "As for you, I care not for your opinion of my character, only that you engaged in trickery and deceived me. You pretended to be that which you are not; you took advantage of my affection, of my... love. I could say I knew it all along, but that would be a lie. I was hurt when I discovered it. So your punishment must be greater than his, even though it was his idea. He did not lay with me, you did.

"Because you have spent so much time as a child, you have missed your adulthood; therefore, it is only fitting that you catch up on lost time quickly. You will be given drugs to counteract your false youth. My biologists in Brisbane have discovered some fascinating things about aging. As certain medicines will delay, so will certain medicines accelerate the process. You will be taken there for... treatment. For every month that passes, you will age three dozen years. In a few days, you will look your true age. It is somewhat hard on bone structure, I am told. In two months, you will be middle-aged. In three months, you will be old. In four or maybe five months..."

Wall trailed off, not speaking of death. With care, a person might live to a century and a half, perhaps three-quarters. Nichole would hardly have access to that kind of care, unless he allowed it. He was considering his choice as to that.

Induced progeria would hardly be a worthwhile punishment if Nichole decided to suicide, or had a fatal accident too soon....

Cteel said, "The guards are here."

"Good," Wall said. Massey's men. "Scan and admit them."

To Miyamoto and Nichole, he said, "Your documentation was good, but not good enough. It was, I must admit, a clever idea. But I check things. Everything. As closely as needed."

The two guards entered the room. Wall looked at the false beauty of the girl-woman before him for a final time before he spoke.

"Good-bye, Nichole. The next time I see you, why, I expect I'll hardly recognize, you will have grown so."

* * *

Khadaji walked the streets of Shtotsanto, the Holy City. This part of the world of Koji lay sheathed in winter, with a dozen centimeters of new snow down over the two meters of old. His breath made fog in the crisp air. He recalled walks in the snow of a far world, where Pen had taught him the intricacy of pubtending. Those days seemed a thousand years past—slogging across the countryside on webbed footgear, listening to Pen. He had come a long way; physically, mentally, emotionally.

Now, Khadaji walked alone, wondering how active his role should be, now that his plan had gotten as far as it had. His disciples, the matadors, no longer needed him to direct them. Oh, they might think it so, but he knew better. He had manipulated them, changed them, and ultimately, forced them into a position of opposition against the Galactic Confederation. The only way the matadors could ever hope to be free again was to rebel and overthrow the Confed. To be passive meant eventual capture and death for most of them.

There were times when he lay awake in the darkness and thought about what he had done, about the lives he had touched and shaped. Dirisha had called him on it. What was it she had said? That the only thing he cared about was the game? The twisted manipulations he performed? She was wrong, of course. He had the longer vision, he could see the larger picture, and while what he did had regrettable aspects, it was necessary.

But sometimes, late at night, when he was tired and his vision was not so clear, he wondered. Could she be just the smallest bit right? Was that aspect of it sometimes more important than the end? In any venture, the means versus the end had to be considered. His means had been drastic, harsh at times, and had caused pain to many. He had stolen six months each from over two thousand Confed troopers—a thousand man-years—by darting them into spasmic comas. He had made a hundred matadors into traitors. He had lied, smuggled, and stolen—all in the name of a mystical vision he'd had on a battlefield. In the end, if it went the way he had worked so long and hard for it to go, it
would
be worth it. The end, in this case, would justify the means. It did that, sometimes.

But somewhere along the way he had lost his godlike surety; he had had to think instead of feel, and the monkey brain was never as quiet as the zen mind.

He was only vaguely aware of the direction in which he had been walking.

The streets, despite their load of snow and sharp tang of winter air, also had more than a few pedestrians. Perhaps others wrestled with ethical or moral problems, as did he. He smiled mechanically at passersby.

Rounding a corner, Khadaji found himself staring at the small military outpost the Confed had in the Holy City. No place was totally immune from such outposts. Unconsciously, he must have directed his walk to this place, he felt. He looked at the structure.

The military compound was similar to dozens of others he had seen. A high, thick wall surrounded several large structures. The construction was of local stone, rather than prefab foam; armed guards stood behind a metal mesh gate and suicide-attack barriers designed to stop a large vehicle. A place designed to keep the barbarians out, Khadaji thought. A fortress. He remembered a line from one of his early texts about such places, and how useless they were against the will of the populace. Convincing people that these places should not be was all that was needed. There weren't enough soldiers to resist any kind of popular uprising, there never had been. And walls, historically, had never kept oppressors safe from those they considered barbarians.