by Steve Perry
There could be a shooter with a wire or radio-opped cruiser two klicks away, waiting for a chance to take out this room or the whole building, for that!"
If she thought to scare him or make him angry, Dirisha was wrong. His smile, if anything, grew. "Yes, m'lady," he said, moving obediently away from the window. "How nice to see you again."
For a moment, Dirisha felt disarmed in her argument. How could she be angry with him? He was a religious man, not a matador; more, that smile was infectious. She fought her own grin, barely holding it back.
"Surely things are not as bad as all that?" he said.
There was an underlying, unspoken laughter that seemed to mock her. Not maliciously, but it was as if Carlos held some terribly funny secret. As if she were being tested again.
Suspicion dawned on Dirisha.
She walked to the window and tapped it lightly with the barrel of her left spetsdod. The clink! told her what she thought was true. The window wasn't glass or plastic, it was stressed densecris, and a good two centimeters thick.
That it was so clear and did not distort the light testified to the expense of the armor. Forget the cruise attack, then. No small firepower was coming through that window.
It had to be more than that, though. Somebody with enough sense to install densecris and to hire a matador wouldn't leave much else to chance.
Dirisha turned back toward Carlos, feeling the beginnings of chagrin.
"The gate," she said.
"Electrified and rigged with explosive bolts," Carlos said. "Capable of stopping any ground vehicle short of a class two megatruck. The guard's shack contains enough scanning gear to pick up bone nails."
"The old woman?"
"The pistol isn't what it seems. A wide-beam hand wand. And she's backed by three young women masquerading as secretaries. And the tube's controls are mislabeled-this is the third floor, not the second."
"Port and Starboard are not, I take it, as slow-witted or easy to anger as they appear."
"They are fair actors; I'm sure you'll like their real personalities."
"But there's more," Dirisha said.
Carlos nodded. "Pen said you were the best. I'm a fair hand at kung-fu, first degree sifu in rank."
Dirisha chewed on what Carlos had just told her. "All of this is very sophisticated. Who set it up?"
Carlos's smile returned.
"That's what I thought," Dirisha said. "Why did he send me, if he gave you all this?"
"If you had known about my security set-up, could you have figured a way to get to me anyway?"
"Eventually," Dirisha said without hesitation. "Any system can be bypassed."
"That's why Pen wanted you to help me. He told me you'd start to figure it out before I told you."
Dirisha shook her head again. Damn, Pen seemed to know everything about everything. Light years away, and he was still standing just behind her, laughing silently under his gray robes.
Carlos extended a hand. Automatically, Dirisha took it. She felt a rush as his fingers touched her, as a flock of butterflies took flight in her stomach.
What was it about him that affected her this way? There was no denying the attraction, just as Dirisha was certain Pen knew of it. What was Pen up to?
Just why had he set her up with Rajeem Carlos? Well. It didn't matter. She wasn't a broadcast toy, her will was her own, that much was certain. She didn't have to play Pen's game, she didn't want to. The problem, as always with Pen, lay in figuring out what his game was.
"Come on," Carlos said. "I'll show you around."
Dirisha nodded.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SETTING UP HER first-stage security arrangements for Carlos was easier than she'd first anticipated. Pen's system was first class, and both Port and Starboard were adept at their jobs. While the Confed would have loved to see Rajeem Carlos messily dead, it had apparently made no overt moves in that direction. Carlos explained that to her, as they ate breakfast in his home.
"The Confed is so busy swatting larger flies it can't afford the time and energy to swat one so apparently harmless as I. Too many hindbrains, I suspect." He bit into a soft roll, chewed and swallowed. "And the Antag Union is not without allies in high places. So, for now, no direct action. If they should ever clean up enough of the brush wars scattered throughout the galaxy-some of which are no doubt inspired by the matadorial icon, Khadaji-then they might begin to attend to nits. Until then, all I have to worry about are freelancers trying to score points, or pro-Confed fanatics."
"There seems to be no shortage of them," Dirisha said. She sipped at her cup of hot herb tea.
Carlos flashed his smile at her. "Admittedly so. Still, now I have you to worry about them-"
A soft chime sounded, that of the communicator inset into the wall over the small table. "Yes?" Carlos said.
"We've arrived at the port," came a female voice. "Expect to see us in, oh, an hour or so." The voice was clear and strong, and Dirisha got a mental image of a woman who knew what she was about.
"Good," Carlos said. "I can hardly wait."
He sipped at his citrus juice before answering Dirisha's unspoken question.
"Beel," he said, "in charge of the Antag Union's money, such that we have. The brightest woman in the organization, if not this system. And my spouse."
Dirisha's stomach clutched. She gulped at her tea, swallowed too much, and burned her mouth for her trouble. She knew he was contracted, why should hearing that his spouse was arriving make her feel uneasy?
"Beel will have Stenelle and Akeem with her, back from their adventures in galactic geography. I don't get to see as much of them as I'd like." He seemed troubled, but then brightened. "I have holographs of them, would you like to see?"
"Sure," Dirisha said, a weak smile on her lips.
The pictures showed a striking woman with streaked black hair standing in the middle of a pair of teenagers. The boy had red hair, was about thirteen, and the image of Carlos. The girl was perhaps two years older, nearly as tall as her brother, and wore her hair cut in green frizzlocks.
"Very attractive," Dirisha said.
Carlos smiled broadly. "I know."
Dirisha could think of nothing else to say, but the new silence was discomforting, too much so to allow to stand. She said, "The new sensor system has been delivered, I'll get around to testing and installing it today. I wish you'd consider my idea to relocate to a more defensible location, though."
Carlos waved one hand in a half-shrug. "My work is the most important thing, and I can do that best here."
"If my observations are any indication, you work too hard. Sleeping and eating are considered necessary for optimum health." Dirisha's voice was dry.
Carlos laughed. "Funny." He finished his juice and stood. "Shall we get to it?"
Dirisha came to her feet. "Your show, Deuce."
It was some weeks later. Carlos had just entered the betydelse space when Dirisha got the call from the perimeter gate.
"Three for the Prebendary," the guard said. "His spouse and offspring. Shall I admit them?"
"Don't be droll," Dirisha said. "Of course."
Dirisha turned, and watched Carlos play the triple communications mode, both hands working quickly. The guard- she still thought of him as Spit-shine-had orders to report anybody seeking an audience with Carlos. He might not like it, but he did as he was told. She wondered what would have happened if she'd told him to turn Carlos's family back. She wondered what kind of a woman Beel Carlos was, that she could command so much obvious respect and affection from her husband. Not to mention mothering his children-Port entered the room. "Fem Carlos is here."
"Allow her to come in."
She was a fair-sized woman, not as large as Dirisha, but not small. She wore a plain white tunic and pants, and pearl silk slippers. The children were not with her.
Beel Carlos smiled and raised her hand in a palm-out greeting to Dirisha.
Dirisha returned the gesture.
"
Ah, Fem Zuri. I've heard so much about you! How delightful to meet you at last."
A forthright comment, without any sign of condescension. Dirisha inclined her head slightly. "Fem Carlos."
"Beel, please." She smiled.
"And I'm Dirisha."
Beel looked at her husband. "How is he doing? He looks tired."
"He works too hard," Dirisha said.
Beel turned toward her. "Yes. He thinks he can do it all himself, he doesn't delegate nearly enough. I'm glad you agree. Maybe between the two of us, we can slow him down."
Dirisha's smile came grudgingly, but it came. Beel was concerned about Carlos, it showed in her gestures and in her voice. Dirisha liked her, a gut reaction.
"I thought you had your children with you?"
Beel smiled. "They're in the rec room. They love their father, but they aren't particularly interested in watching him work." She turned back toward Carlos.
But you don't mind, do you? Dirisha watched Beel without seeming to, cataloguing what she saw: a handsome woman, with good muscle tone; she carried herself well; she was obviously bright; she was good-natured. Dirisha could find nothing obvious to dislike.
Damn, why'd I think that? Why should I dislike her? She's my client's mate, and he's nothing special.
But far down a little-used corridor in her mind, something laughed. Yeah? it seemed to say. Who's fooling whom, child? He's special enough.
Dirisha clamped down on the thought, her attention focused on Carlos again. She had her job, her skills, her self.That was all she needed, all she had ever needed. But is it what you want, child? came the voice.
On the carefully manicured grounds of the Antag Union's complex, the three of them walked.
Carlos and Beel laughed and talked, strolling arm in arm, while Dirisha scanned the grounds and sky, alert for any possible attacks. She didn't like being in the open like this, but she couldn't force Carlos to stay indoors.
They passed three-hundred-year-old twisted trees, none more than two meters tall, bent into strange shapes, each unique in its design. The grass was a thick mat under their feet, a strain so dark the green seemed almost purple in the midday sunlight. Beel and Carlos laughed, at some private joke, and Dirisha wished she were elsewhere. She had been taught that a good matador became a piece of the furniture; that a client should be able to do or say anything, without worry that his bodyguard would care or condemn; that nothing said or done in the presence of a matador by her client would ever go a step further. Dirisha knew all this, and she was trying to be what she had been trained to be. But she was interested.
"Dirisha?" Beel.
"Yes?"
"Since we are both agreed that Rajeem works entirely too hard, don't you think it would be a good idea if he took a short leave? Got away to some place where he could rest?"
"Hold on a minute here-" Carlos began.
"Hush," Beel cut in. "Dirisha?"
Dirisha couldn't help the smile. "You're right. I think a vacation would be good idea."
"If you two are through deciding my future-"
"We aren't," Beel cut in again. "We'll let you know when we are." To Dirisha, she said, "There is an old estate the Union owns in the Southern Reaches, the perfect place. Off the cast lanes, remote enough so few people even know it exists. A couple of weeks there would do him a world of good."
Dirisha considered it. There might be some security problems, but she could manage those. Part of protecting a client was external, but part of it was in keeping the client from damaging his or her self, if possible. The man was drawn, he needed a break. "Sounds okay," Dirisha said.
"Fems, I don't want to butt in-"
"Then don't," Beel said. "I'll be here for three days before my meeting on Tatsu with the Mitsunashi Group, we'll relax and get you ready; then, you and Dirisha can go to the Perkins' estate. Oh, don't look so petulant, you can take your transceiver and keep in touch with things- as long as Dirisha promises to make you hold it to a minimum."
Carlos grinned, and held his palms out. "What can I say? Two against one, I give up."
Beel laughed, and put an arm around Carlos, hugging him to her. She smiled at Dirisha, and something in her look made Dirisha feel like a co-conspirator, in a plot she didn't quite understand, but was quite happy to go along with.
Despite Beel's comment about resting, Carlos drove himself like a work beast. He arose at dawn, did an hour of kung fu forms, showered, ate breakfast and went to work. He seldom stopped for a midday meal, and worked twelve or fifteen hours at a stretch. He wrote, called, saw visitors, made deals, spoke to groups, gave interviews. He did spend some time with Beel and his children, but only a few moments here and there, an hour at most. He seemed tireless.
Carlos leaped and chopped downward with both hands, snapping his right leg out in a kick, his bare foot extended, toes curled back. He touched down lightly on the grass, and jumped into the air again, repeating the snap kick, but thrusting his stiffened fingers into the solar plexus of his imaginary opponent this time, the backs of his hands together. As he came down, he pulled his hands apart in a tearing motion. He landed, lifted his right leg and went into a crane stance, blocking in a half circle to his right hip with his right hand, his left held ready to claw....
Dirisha watched the martial dance with a professional eye, grading Carlos mentally as he moved. He was good. Not great, but not bad. His motions were clean, mostly, and his flow even, save for a few small bobbles. The dance was called "Bear", after a terran carnivore. Many of the fighting kata were named for animals, real and mythical. Dirisha didn't know much about bears, but Carlos's motions seemed shaggy, somehow, and powerful.
Of course, dancing through forms was not altogether an indication of fighting skill; still, the Ninety-Seven Steps of sumito didn't seem all that effective as a fighting art, at first glance. Anyway, Carlos didn't have to worry about that, now.
He leaped, hands whirring in tight, clawing motions. He twisted in a half-circle, ducked, and drove one fist into an invisible groin....
"-results of the intersystem poll show Confed popularity waning in four sectors-"
"-contributions have risen by sixteen percent-"
"-insurrection has broken out on Ago's Moon-''
"-cannot transship contraindicated materials-''
The voices and holograms filled the air over the net feed in the information room next to Carlos's office. Dirisha listened with half her attention, watching Carlos eagerly absorb the input. He thrived on it, she could see that. His energy was high, his ki focused, and he moved as precisely in this as he did in his kung fu dances. He loved all this, she saw. Here was a man who got things done, something Dirisha had always admired. He was powerful and self-assured, and his competence drew her, as a Seeker was drawn to a charismatic Sermoner. Taken in pieces, there was no one thing about Carlos that was particularly outstanding; taken as a whole, the man became synergistically attractive.
It had taken some time to arrange the trip, but finally they were on their way. On the hopper to the Southern Reaches, Carlos sat across from Dirisha, staring through the densecris portal at the vast forests over which they passed. Dirisha was working, even as they flew, but there was little she could do directly at the moment. The hopper was as sound as the electromechanics could make it; there was an escort fighter, armed to the wingtips, flying shotgun; the hopper pilot was the best the An tags could find, a woman who could put the craft close enough to a ditch to net minnows without getting the hull damp, according to her stats. Port and Starboard were already at the estate, with a sweep-team.
"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Carlos said, interrupting Dirisha's mental catalogue of precautions.
"Yes. Beel is looking out for you. You're an important man to a lot of people, Rajeem. It isn't just the work you can do personally, you're part of something larger. A symbol. Like Khadaji."
"I doubt if I'm in that class, thank you."
Dirisha shifted in her seat. "Maybe, maybe not. I
don't have Pen's long view, I'm more a here-and-now person. But if you don't take care of yourself, you won't be either a symbol or able to do the work. Simple."
He nodded. "Sensible." He turned his gaze back to the forest eight kilometers below.
Dirisha looked away, feeling pleased. The man was not stupid. He accepted the need to take care of himself without false modesty. More, he had asked her opinion as if he really cared what she thought. Pen had taught her that clients would come to trust matadors, to lean on them. That was part of his grand plan too, whatever it was. Still, Dirisha liked hearing Carlos ask, liked having him pay attention to what she said, as if she were one of his important connections, with something valid to give him. It made her feel needed. And warm.
And, yet, it bothered her. She was a professional, doing a job she had been trained to do for years. She should be able to do it objectively.... A memory flowed then, of Pen talking about objectivity versus subjectivity. What had he said? That a person couldn't be truly objective about important things? She hadn't understood it then, and she wasn't sure she understood it now, but something about it danced at the hidden corners of her mind, capering like some demented sufi. She only caught a glimpse of it, and what she saw, she didn't like. The thing pranced and pointed a finger at her. Puppet, it said gleefully.
Puppet.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DIRISHA WATCHED CARLOS work the betydelse space, amazed again at two things: him, and her perceptions of him. After all the years of working the Flex, of training to become a matador, with all the drilling, she still underestimated people. She'd expected Carlos to be a stuffed-tunic politico, a religious fanatic, a man concerned with things somehow unworldly; a man with a mission, but without means to achieve it on his own. Sister, had she been wrong.
In the betydelse space, Carlos waved his right hand in a series of quick, short gestures. Programming mode signals, she knew, though she couldn't read them. Until recently, she hadn't known that much. At the same time, Carlos fluttered his left hand back and forth, wiggling his fingers in a precise pattern. Mathematical code. And, while both hands spoke separate languages to the transmitter, he sub-vocalized yet a third set of instructions to the machine. It was like watching a master musician playing some esoteric instrument, made all the more impressive by knowing how complex the tune must be, even though she was unable to hear or understand it.