by Steve Perry
Sleel was silent, as though searching for something else to say. A surge of emotion ran through Dirisha as she thought about the school being shut down, about the Confed destroying the only safe home she had ever known.
She felt rage, sadness, helplessness, all wrapped in concern for her friends.
Sleel cleared his throat. "Uh, look, Dirisha, I might not- that is, you and I, we might not be able to-to..."
"It's all right, Sleel. I understand. You take care of yourself, you hear? You're a good man, Sleel."
"C-c-copy, Dirisha. Luck on your blindside. Discom."
Dirisha turned, to see Rajeem standing behind her. She wanted to jump and run to him, she felt like crying, but she sat without moving. "You heard?"
"Yes. It looks as if the dinosaur is going to thrash around some before it rolls over and dies."
Dirisha stared at nothing. The school was dead, her friends scattered. Pen had to have known it was coming, he always seemed to know everything, how could he have missed it? More, if he did know-and he must have-why did he allow it to happen that way? What was he up to?
"Dirisha?" Beel looked concerned.
Dirisha started to speak, but the com lit with an incoming call. Absently, she flicked the unit back into life. What now?
It was Sleel again. "Sleel? What-?"
"It's Pen, Dirisha! They got Pen!"
"What?! How? Where? Is he all right_?"
"He just walked into the military commander's office and turned himself in!"
Dirisha shook her head violently. "I can't believe that! Why would he do it? Why?"
"It's on a livecast, Dirisha! Somebody must have known, it's on the net, I'm looking at it! I'm going to try and patch the signal into the corn's transmitter-hold it-"
Dirisha's screen blanked, then cleared. The holoproj was fuzzy but the enshrouded figure of Pen was centered in the picture. Dirisha sucked in a deep breath. Pen was surrounded by a dozen armed guards, and an officer moved to stand in front of him.
Gods, if Pen wanted to resist, he could take out most of the room, maybe all of them! He was still wearing his spetsdods! Were they blind, as well as stupid?
The officer reached up toward Pen's hood. Pen stood impassively, his arms by his sides. Dirisha leaned forward.
The officer grabbed at the covering over Pen's face.
Whoever was operating the camera zoomed in, to a tight shot of Pen's face.
The officer's hand closed, as he bunched the fabric of Pen's robe in his fist and tugged. The covering came off, and for the first time, Dirisha saw the face of the man who had been her friend and teacher for more than six years.
She let her breath go with a yell as she recognized the face under the robe-The face of Emile Antoon Khadaji!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
"IT CAN'T BE," Rajeem said. "Khadaji's dead, he was killed by Confederation troopers on Greaves."
Dirisha's mind churned. "It's him. I worked for him, I know what he looks like. Damn, why didn't I recognize him before? His voice-he must have used a throat muter-"
"Khadaji. Alive." Rajeem stared at the now-blank communicator. "There are people who worship him as a kind of messiah. He could probably raise an army of five million by waving his hand."
Port came into the room. "I dunno if this is the time," he said, "but a package came for you." He held out a plastic-wrapped bundle to Dirisha.
Dirisha took the bundle. It was the size of a shoe. Mechanically, she began to tear open the covering. Her thoughts ran unfettered through complicated mazes in her mind. Why?
What was Pen-Khadaji-up to? What did it all mean? What was she going to do now?
The cover came free, to reveal a flat box. Dirisha opened it.
Inside, was the curved knife she had seen Pen playing with in his office, just before she'd decided to leave. She picked up the thing of steel and brass and wood. Light glittered from the mirror blade. That it was a message, Dirisha doubted not at all. What was it Pen-no, not Pen, Khadaji-had said?
The knife had taught him a basic lesson? What was he trying to teach her now? That she should remember the ultimate purpose of the matadors? Of Khadaji's intent? She stared at the knife. What else? The knife was a form of fugue, not nearly as subtle or complex as many of the fugues Khadaji/Pen had spun. Your turn, Dirisha, the knife seemed to say.
"Dirisha?" Beel had come into the room, to stand next to the seated woman.
Dirisha looked up, and it came to her, all in a rush, what she had to do. "I need to get in touch with Geneva, and the others."
"Of course, you're concerned-" Rajeem began.
"More than concerned," Dirisha said. "You said Khadaji could raise an army if he wanted. The first people in line would be the matadors. Khadaji was more than just a holo hero at the school, he was revered. It was such a basic part of our training that Khadaji was the acme of what a dedicated human should be, the matadors will fall all over themselves trying to figure out a way to help him. It could be suicide."
"But they'll know that Khadaji taught them that, as Pen."
"It won't matter. I knew him, knew he was only a skilled and lucky man, and even so, I have this urge to hop the next Bender for Renault and break him out. With most of the students, Khadaji was set up to be father-mother-lover-best friend. And even if he hadn't been, all of us are loyal to Pen. We owe him. Ah, shit!"
Rajeem dragged one hand through his hair. "Something strange about all this."
Dirisha laughed. "Strange? Hon, you don't know the eighth of it! Pen has wheels within wheels within wheels going, all the time. Nobody has ever been able to figure out what he's up to, not until now."
"You understand it?" Beel asked.
Dirisha stood, still toying with the knife. "I think so, yeah. Khadaji made his run against the Confed on Greaves as part of a long distance plan. He made himself a legend. He built the matador school based on that myth. The Man Who Never Missed. A to-the-bone hero. He indoctrinated a corps of followers, the matadors, and sent us out to spread the word. Now, he's in trouble. What are we to do, but figure out a way to help him?" Dirisha looked at Rajeem and Beel. "You understand what it means? The Confed has been tottering for a long time. Khadaji wants us to give it a push. The matadors have the ears of scores of the richest, most influential beings in the galaxy; people who, in many cases, owe matadors their lives. People who are already leaning away from the Confed yoke. Think about it. It's perfect. No army or navy can be raised to match the Confed military machine with guns. The real power is wielded by those with influence and money, and the matadors influence them. It's fucking perfect."
"What do you intend to do? Tell the others they've been duped?"
Dirisha shook her head. "It wouldn't matter. Most of them owe what they are to Khadaji/Pen. He might have used us, but he also taught us a hell of a lot. And we were all selected because we had little use for the Confed in the first place. No. That's not why I want to see them."
"Why, then?"
Dirisha stared at the knife she held, watching her reflection in the cold steel blade. Why? That was the crux of it, wasn't it? Khadaji had taught her, had molded her. She had been a loner, and he had made it possible for her to be part of a team. She hadn't known what love for another was, and he'd given her that, too. There had been, for whatever his reasons, a home, a place to belong. But there was more, another lesson she was supposed to learn. She looked at the knife. It wasn't enough that she had these things, not in Khadaji's estimation. He wanted something more from her. What?
There was an answer for that, she knew. She had to care for more than herself, or a few cherished others. She had to stretch, to open herself to her fellow beings. It was what Khadaji had done. The long view. It was what he demanded of her.
"I've got to see the others and... lead them," Dirisha said quietly.
"Lead them?" Rajeem shook his head. 'To do what? The Confed has an army of billions!"
Dirisha grinned. "First, we free Khadaji. After that, we'll see. If we have t
o drop the Confed, we'll do it."
"That's crazy!" Beel said.
"Probably. But it's what we'll do. Or try, anyway."
Toowoomba Educational Complex, Australia, Southern Hemistates, Earth.
In the belly of the beast, or more appropriately, the liver: where the poisons were strained out: the headquarters of the Confederation Armed Forces.
What better place to hide?
Dirisha sat in the library alcove, waiting. Rajeem would be okay, Port and Starboard could handle anything Flat Town could throw at them. This was more important, at the moment.
She saw the woman enter the building, a dark-skinned, dark-haired housewife, wrapped in a heavy coat, against the evening chill outside, wearing thick mittens.
Dirisha stood, and the woman saw her.
The skin and hair color were different, but there was no mistaking the smile. Dirisha stretched out her arms, and Geneva came into them. They hugged each other tightly. Geneva started to cry, but Dirisha kissed away the tears. "Hey, Brat, no time for that. We've got work to do."
"Ah, Dirisha, I've missed you so!"
"Yeah, well, I noticed you weren't around, too."
"What are we going to do about Pen? I mean, Khadaji?"
"Don't worry, Hon, we'll work something out. Have the others arrived?"
"Yes. Sleel was the last, he's at the cubicle. Mayli and Bork are waiting outside in the flitter."
"Good. Let's go. We've got a lot to talk about."
Arm in arm, the two walked out into the night. Dirisha wasn't worried, not in the least. The matadors were going into battle.
The Confed didn't have a chance.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENYY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR