by Steve Perry
Wall returned his gaze to the painting. The Fremaux usually cheered him. It was something vaguely Oriental in design, brightly colored in primary reds and blues, full of happy people wandering in a happy land. Today, it gave him no solace. None at all. Fantasy could not be trusted. Not today. Maybe not for a long time. Ah, damn! It was a cruel life, none the less so for all his power.
Damn!
* * *
The Man Who Never Missed sat quietly in a zendo more than a dozen light-years away from where he'd been imprisoned on Renault. Koji was the only habitable world in the Heiwa System, sparsely populated, but the planet was a good place to hide: Koji was the galactic center for religious freedom. A pilgrim to the Holy World might be many things elsewhere, but on Koji, his or her privacy was respected. On a busy street, one might see Buddhists walking with Trimenagists, Siblings debating Jesuits, Tillbedjare arm-in-arm with Libhobers; all manner of Brothers, Sisters, Fathers, Mothers traveled to Koji to learn, to teach, to preach. Much was allowed between consenting adults, but if one did not wish to be bothered, one was not.
More than a few criminals had found their way to the Holy World; some hid, some listened to the various Ways and changed. There was an uneasy and unwritten treaty between the Confed and Koji. Confederation spies searched for particularly wanted fugitives, but no action was taken against such criminals without long and careful consideration. The galactic followers of the various religions on Koji numbered in the tens of billions; for the Confed to tread too heavily upon Koji's toes might spark a religious rebellion, a thing the Confed surely did not need.
Khadaji remembered only too vividly his experience on Maro, when the fanatical followers of one particular holy man had died by the hundreds of thousands to please their leader. They had marched smiling and unarmed into the guns of the Military, cut down like human grain.
No. The Confed didn't want a holy war.
Khadaji sat zazen, eyes closed, chin locked, hands folded. A zen master, should one happen to pass, would use the bamboo, for Khadaji was not meditating. He might have the external appearance, but his mind was not peaceful. His thoughts were of war.
Once again, he had managed to stay alive. The plan was still working. He had escaped from the military prison, adding to the legend he had set out to create so many years ago. He was a pivotal figure, just as he had intended.
The Man Who Never Missed. The man who took on the Confed, alone, and died only after crippling an entire planet's military machine. Only he hadn't died! He had allowed himself to be captured, and then he had escaped.
Anybody who opposed the Confed, whether in spirit or action, could take heart—a single dedicated man could do miracles: What could a hundred such men and women do? A thousand? Ten thousand?
Even with galactic damping of the news, word-of-mouth would spread the rumor. The basic truth would be inflated, as it had been all along. Khadaji had once talked to a trooper who had told him that the Shamba scum had taken out soldiers in class-three body armor with a spetsdöd, a thing Khadaji knew to be impossible. The man had believed it.
The rumors could not be stopped, Khadaji knew. More, with millions of standards behind a covert publicity push—Did you hear about Khadaji? The rebel? He escaped from a maximum security cell on Renault—vanished into thin air!—the myth would continue to grow, a snowball rolling down a high-gee mountain.
And the rebels all through the galaxy would hear the stories and nod. Look what he did—can we do any less?
Khadaji had taken his lesson from history. Remember the Alamo.
Remember Pearl Harbor. Remember Ho Chi Minh. Remember Jatra. Rallying cries echoing along the martial corridors of mankind. He was now one of them: Remember the Man Who Never Missed.
In his zazen, Khadaji sighed. He hadn't wanted to use their methods against them. Fire against fire. Deadly violence was wrong, it was what made the Confed so evil, their quick willingness to use the gun or bomb. But there was no other way, in the end. He had taken as his weapon the spetsdöd, so he wouldn't be lethal, but it was only a small concession.
Well. The time for regrets over methods was long past. He had chosen his path, had walked it, and now was nearing the end. The matadors were trained, the legend was in place, and there were only a few more things he had to do. It could all be undone; he could have spent his life only to fail in the end. There was no way he could know. He might die and never know.
Khadaji arose from the formal pose, stretched, and left the zendo. The tatami under his bare feet was polished smooth by the many thousands of other feet that had walked upon it. The incense burning in the brass brazier filled the air with fragrant sandalwood smoke. The silence within the temple was almost tangible. He turned and bowed as he left the zendo, a gesture of respect for the place and the philosophy behind it. Then he slipped on his dotic boots and walked into the cool fall afternoon. There was a time for contemplation and meditation, and a time for action.
It was time to move.
* * *
The six matadors grounded the aircar with the unconscious trooper in it and stood talking in the dwindling night. They had no reason to return to Earth. Dirisha had told them they could go their own ways, if they wished.
She was going back to the world of her birth. Rajeem Carlos was there, and Khadaji knew how to contact her there, as well. Dirisha was sure he would, eventually.
"Don't be stupid," Sleel said. "We're all going."
"When did you take up mind reading, Sleel?"
"He speaks for me," Red said.
Bork and Mayli looked at each other. "Us, too," Mayli said.
Geneva put one hand on Dirisha's shoulder. "Wither thou goest, love..."
Dirisha grinned. "Okay, fools. You had your chance."
* * *
The boxcar swung from orbit into the bottom of the gravity well that was Dirisha's homeworld. Sawa Mji: Flat Town, a pustulent boil on the backside of a do-nothing planet. The major ambition for anybody born here was to leave, as soon as possible. Flat Town was a spacer port, catering to the men and women who traveled the star lanes to and from better places. Pubs were big in Sawa Mji; whores had a guild larger than most other guilds; violence and death were a part of everyday life. Dirisha had hated the town when she lived in it; she saw no reason to like it now.
Except that Prebendary Rajeem Carlos was there, along with his wife and two children. Rajeem had opened Dirisha to love, after all the martial years without it. Beel, his wife, had added to that love. What Geneva had felt for her at Matador Villa, Dirisha could now return. Love wasn't exclusive.
Khadaji, as Pen, had given her that most powerful and wonderful gift—the ability to see love and act upon it—and she owed him for that more than anything.
The boxcar performed its usual bouncy landing. Dirisha exited the vehicle and was struck by the stench of Flat Town. It was an odor of oil and sweat and heat and rottenness, and once again, Dirisha marveled that the residents had grown so used to it that they no longer smelled it.
No one was there to meet her, which was good. She wanted the two bodyguards. Port and Starboard, watching Rajeem and his family, and she surely didn't want the Antag leader out in public any more than he had to be.
But they knew she was coming.
The summer sun beat at her as she found a transport into the city proper.
What a nice place to be from, she thought. Far from. Starting one's life as a trull, daughter of a trull and sister to another, was not the best way to grow up enjoying that life. The fighting arts had been her way out, at the cost of caring for anybody else. A high price, but she'd never known enough to regret it, until Matador Villa. Now, she had a new family, and she loved them more than she ever had her biological relatives.
When Starboard opened the door, Dirisha felt a surge of joy. Rajeem stood there, and Beel, and with them was Geneva! Beel held Geneva's hand, and all three were smiling.
"Dirisha!" Rajeem said.
There followed a communal hug—Beel, Rajee
m, Dirisha, and Geneva.
Rajeem's arm half circled her waist; Beel's lips touched Dirisha's cheek, Geneva's fingers stroked her neck. Gods, it was good to be back with these people!
* * *
Rajeem was all business once the greetings were done. Dirisha explained about Khadaji, how they had just missed him. He had apparently cinched his escape: no trace of him had been located by the Confederation.
Rajeem asked the question Dirisha had been asking herself since Bork had flown them away from the prison: "Now what?"
She had an idea, but she wasn't sure of it. She took a deep breath to speak.
There was a knock at the door.
Port and Starboard were good—they drew slim hand wands and aimed for the door—but compared to Dirisha and Geneva, the two men were slow.
Dirisha urged Rajeem and his wife into the sleeping room while Geneva flattened herself against the wall, her right spetsdöd raised. When she was sure her clients were safe, Dirisha turned to face the door. She nodded at Geneva, who tapped the door's control. The panel slid aside.
A boy of maybe ten T.S. stood there.
Starboard pointed an H.O. scanner at the boy. The device was silent, and Starboard shook his head. "Clean," he said.
"Yes?" Dirisha said to the boy. He was an alley rodent, one of the permanent homeless who got by any way they could. Bright teeth flashed against the dark and dirty skin.
"Luggin' comfax straightshit tellit fern Zuri," the boy said. It had been years since Dirisha had spoken rat slang, and it had changed some—it changed constantly—but she got the gist. She said, "Lookin' Zuri."
"Callit cheap, showit hard."
Geneva was still against the wall, unseen by the boy, who had made no move to enter the room. He was too streetwise to go into a place he hadn't checked out before.
Geneva looked at Dirisha and raised one eyebrow.
"He wants proof of who I am," Dirisha said. "He's carrying a message for me." To the boy, she said, "What do you need, boy? What hard showit?"
"Catfang, callit."
Catfang? What the hell was that?
The boy gathered himself to run; Dirisna could see him tensing. If she didn't have the answer, he was supposed to take off. Catfang... catfang, cat—wait, she had it.
"Callit slicer," she said.
The boy's grin returned. "Gray shroudwrap say tellit turdtalk—'It's time.' "
Dirisha shook her head in disbelief. "Anybody got any loose stads?"
Port fished a plastic coin from his pocket. "I got a fiver."
"Give it to the boy."
Port scaled the five standard coin to the boy, who snatched it from the air easily. He rubbed his thumb over the disk rapidly, to test for the heat-threads that showed it was genuine, then nodded. "Needit moutheyes askit Resh."
The boy took off.
Dirisha nodded at Geneva, who shut the door.
The blonde relaxed and shook her head. "What was that all about?"
"It's a message, from Khadaji. 'It's time,' he says."
"What?" That was from Rajeem, who had come back into the room.
"I think it means it's time we helped the Confed along on its fall," Dirisha answered. "I think we've just been asked to start a war."
"What?" Geneva added her voice to those of Rajeem and Beel.
"Khadaji sent the message, he had to. The boy wanted to know what catfang was. It's the knife Khadaji gave me. Slicer, in the local patois. Nobody else knows about that except Khadaji. And shroudwrap ought to be clear enough."
Rajeem said, "Khadaji? Here?"
"I doubt it," Dirisha said. "But Pen—the real Pen—could be. Or it could be any member of the Siblings. They have to be tied into this, somehow. It doesn't matter. Nobody but Khadaji knew to look for me here, and even if anybody else did, they wouldn't know about the knife."
"But—war? With what army?"
Dirisha's mind was already working. She smiled at Rajeem. "The matadors."
"They're spread all over the galaxy by now," Geneva said. "Just contacting them would be a major undertaking."
"That's the thing, hon. First thing we have to do is figure out how to call 'em."
Rajeem shook his head. "You're serious about this!"
"Hey, don't worry about us, Rajeem. You're Khadaji's handpicked leader. After we win, you've got to run the show."
"You're crazy."
Dirisha smiled. "Well. It's something to do."
Nine
AFTER MASSEY HAD FINISHED his report, Wall stood mute for a time, staring at nothing. He had known; maybe he hadn't wanted to acknowledge it to himself, but he had known.
To Massey, Wall said, "You have documentation?"
Massey glanced down at the flatscreen in his hand. "Yes, sir."
"Logged into a computer?"
"Only my portable, my Lord Factor." He extended the device toward Wall.
It was a standard reader, as long as a man's hand from fingertips to wrist, slightly wider than a palm. That such a small thing could hold such infamy was unbelievable. The plastic should burst asunder, spewing the tainted viral/molecular brains like a rotten fruit full of gut flies.
Wall took the flatscreen and hefted it. "You have done well, Massey. I consider the matter of Khadaji balanced."
"You are too kind, my lord."
"Doubtless, to my friends. Not to my enemies." Wall stared at the small computer as he continued to speak. "No one is to know of this matter. All your electronic sources are to be wiped; all your... organic sources are to be put to brainscan and this portion of their memories... deleted. Call on Legal, ask for Referee Dim Sû Leh—she will arrange the necessary documents for the scans. Have the subjects taken to my personal simadam for the procedure."
"Yes, my lord."
"You are a most loyal fellow, Massey. What is your current rank?"
"SG-1, my lord."
"You are promoted. What is the grade for Sub-chief of Imperial Security?"
"M-my lord?"
"Never mind. I will have it arranged. You are now Sub-chief of Imperial Security, detached to my personal service."
Massey stood silent, too stunned to reply. Wall gave him a practiced, false smile. "I reward loyalty, Massey. You would do well to remember that."
Massey found his voice. "I-I never doubted it, my lord."
"Good. Run along now and attend to that matter I requested, if you would be so kind."
"At once, my lord."
"And stop calling me my lord. You must call me Marcus. My friends are allowed that."
"Yes, my—yes, Marcus."
When Massey had gone, Wall sat into his orthopedia and thumbed the portable computer into active mode. The flat-screen cast a small holographic display above its surface, a list of files. Wall adjusted the control that enlarged the print, picked a file, and called it up. He began to read.
Three hours later, when he blinked away the vestiges of the reading trance, the tears streamed freely down Wall's face. Oh, to be tricked so! To be made the fool, to be laughed at! His grief nearly consumed him, but it was tempered, abated by another emotion nearly as powerful: rage. Payment would be made for this; it would be made in dear coin, an expense the tricksters could not begin to imagine. They were going to be sorry. Beyond measure.
* * *
Seated in a small office in the Holy City Business Complex, Emile Khadaji began his campaign.
Before he had been Pen the teacher, he had been Khadaji the resistance—and Khadaji the pub owner. Fourteen years before that he had deserted from the Ground Forces, leaving his job as a combat trooper. Between the days of being a soldier and starting his one-man war, he had been a student, a smuggler, a dealer in illegal goods, and finally, a rich and mostly-honest businessman. He had developed a medium-sized fortune during those years after Maro and before Greaves. He had used a small part of his money for the school; he still had better than ten million standards free money left, with perhaps twice that much in business assets scattered through twenty
planets and five wheel worlds. Now it was time to use the power that money represented.
On a coded White Radio line, set up with the best industrial scrambler available, Khadaji began to make his calls.
* * *
"Yes, Hemet, it's Roj Antoch. I have a galaxy-wide campaign for our agency.
Yes, I have the Confed authorization, I'll have a copy of it stat-flexed to you.
We're pushing a biography, pop-read, with holoproj vid tie-in. Due out in six months, but they want a big push. The title? Emile Antoon Khadaji: The Man Who Never Missed. That's right, him. Yes, I know it's not particularly bright of the Confed, but I have the authorization. Right. Get our best people on it, right away. I'll have the start-up copy sent with the stat-flex of the Confed okay. Yes. We're talking three million initially, supersaturation, stat. Our clients want everybody in the galaxy to know about this book within a few days. Good, Hemet. I knew I could depend on you."
* * *
There was no legitimate Confederation authorization, of course, only a very good forgery, courtesy of another Khadaji contact. Nor was there to be a book or vid. That didn't matter. By the time the Confed pinned the agency, it would be too late. The myth would be too tall to shoot down. Hemet would be covered, Khadaji would see to that as best he could.
* * *
"Mease? Yar, it's Cyclone Milla. No, not dead yet. Busy the last seven or eight years. You still in the biz? Good. I've got an order for you. For Ago's Moon. What? Yar, I know there's a war going on there, what do you think, I want a load of foodstuffs? Listen up, I need five thousand spetsdöds and a thousand rounds of Spasm each. Yar, that's what I said. And I need five thousand canisters of emetic gas. Standard Oxyemetine should be good enough. Yar, B.I. if you can't get Standard. And two thousand expulsive carthar-tensmus bombs. Yar, I know it'll stink. No, I wouldn't want the cleaning bill, either. No. No Parkers. Spetsdöds, puke-gas, and diarrhea bombs, that's all. And don't tell me what retail is, I know you ain't paying for any of it. I'll go six hundredths on a stad. Fifteen? Forget it. I'll get in touch with Spartang. I might go eight, just for old times' sake. No. Twelve is too much. Ten? Okay. You got it."