by Steve Perry
Massey looked uncomfortable.
"Something?"
"My lord—Marcus, even if we do find Zuri and Echt and the others with them, that won't stop the rest of the matadors. I know them, I trained with them. Once they decide on a course of action, they'll go with it. There were almost a hundred graduates, and maybe thirty students not too far from leaving. We don't have any of them in custody."
"Do you have a better suggestion?"
Massey shook his head. "No. I just wonder how much good catching a few of them will do."
"Suppose you let me worry about the overall picture, Massey. You just do as you are told."
"Yes, Marcus."
Massey departed, and Wall walked back and forth, feeling the exquisite carpet under his bare feet. He could still win; still keep the perfect womb he had built for himself; still maintain the prestige he had earned. He controlled thousands of agents on the planets and wheel worlds, he could set them all to searching for these matadors. A rebel leader had to have followers; sooner or later they would expose themselves. Yes. It wouldn't be easy, naturally, but this was a high-stakes game, the highest. He could lose everything.
Wall smiled and rubbed his feet on the indigo and scarlet tutch wool. Well he would not lose everything. A man in his position had to be prepared for many possible futures. If it all fell apart tomorrow—it wouldn't, but if it somehow did—he would not wait around to be impaled on some barbarian's spear. He had his lines of retreat carefully laid. Money, places to hide, medics to change everything from his face to his brainwave patterns—he had all those things and more. The Confed could fall, but he did not have to fall with it. When the cosmic debris found gravity wells and settled, he would still command power. His hidden millions might be worthless or not, in the wake of galactic disaster, but there would always be value in certain items: weapons, precious stones, rare earths, and most of all, knowledge. Certain technologies would be worth kings' ransoms. He had all those things, waiting for him to command. When the new order rose, he would figure prominently in it. He was a survivor, he always had been. He always would be. It would only be a matter of time before he was back at apogee, where he belonged.
Only a matter of time....
Ah, but that was only a worst-case scenario. Certainly it was nothing to overly concern himself with at this point. The game was young, there were still major moves to be made. One did not resign when one's opponent pushed his first pawn. Not when one was the best. Never.
* * *
Khadaji wore a skinmask and an implanted confounder that altered his brainwave patterns. He carried identification that showed him to be a minor official from Jicha Mungo, the giant wheelworld orbiting Mtu, in the Bibi Arusi System. Such a man existed; his face was much like the face Khadaji now wore; he, too, had left for a vacation a T.S. week past. Anyone attempting to check on Khadaji's background would find it very much in order. Boring, but in order. It was unlikely anyone would bother to check.
The last place anyone would look for the Man Who Never Missed was on a Bender ship docking in high orbit over Earth.
Khadaji did not have the resources that Marcus Jefferson Wall had available; still, he was not without useful contacts. Wall was careful of those people who surrounded him, very careful, but Khadaji had started thinking about his moves years ago. He had two dependable spies only three or four people removed from the Factor who controlled the Confederation President.
These moles had gone about their business without arousing suspicion for years, doing nothing to reveal their second employer. In fact, they did not know for whom they worked. A paramedical assistant in Wall's personal medic's office thought she fed her small tidbits to an ambitious New Zealand minister; a sanitation worker in Wall's building believed his information went to a major newsfax service. There was nothing obviously damaging or dangerous to Wall in the reports Khadaji had read, especially when taken singly. Taken together, however, a different picture emerged. Synergistic flows sometimes happened, and those were what brought Khadaji to Earth.
Khadaji arrived at the room he had booked, a small covered lanai buried among thousands just like it on the Big Island of Hawaii. He arrived in time for the morning eruption of the local volcano, Mauna Loa. From his lanai on the Kona Coast, he took a tourist hopper across the island. As they flew over the volcano, Khadaji watched the lava shoot high into the air. With his cheap holocamera, he took pictures. He was tourist among tourists, dressed in colorful local clothing, as invisible as it was possible to be. He looked like a man with absolutely nothing on his mind, save to enjoy his short but expensive vacation. The hopper turned back for Kona City, and the overcast on the east side of the island gave way to the tropical sun once again.
Perpetual summer in paradise, they said. Khadaji allowed himself a small smile. The expensive skinmask did not hinder the movement, but if anyone noticed, they did not speak of it.
* * *
"Sleel?"
Dirisha spoke to the injured matador. He lay naked within the hyperbolic chamber of a Healy medicator, his eyes closed, his left side hidden under the shell of a Zigg-Roth generator. The wound was staunched, and the viral-molecular electronics of the Zigg-Roth monitored and bathed the injury in complex proteins and enzymes under pressure. The arm was gone, but he was still alive.
Under the thick plastic dome, Steel's eyelids fluttered, and he opened them to look at Dirisha.
"Sleel?"
"Look, as long as I am dying, why don't you get in here with me? Might be your last chance. You wouldn't want to miss it."
Dirisha smiled and shook her head. "If I could open this thing without causing a problem, I would Sleel. Truly."
He grinned. "Shit. I ought to get my arm blown off more often."
Dirisha's face went grim. "It's not funny, Steel."
"It'll grow back, Dirisha." His tone matched hers. "And it's not your fault."
Geneva and Mayli came to stand next to Dirisha. Both the women touched her gently.
Sleel said, "Besides, while it's growing back, think of the reaction I'll get from women. I can be a war hero, for six months, at least."
Geneva grinned, but Dirisha's face remained solemn.
Bork strolled over and leaned against the machine. "You ruined a perfectly good uniform, you know," Bork said. "That much blood'll never come out."
"I'll buy you a new one. Uh, thanks, Bork."
"No problem. You're not supposed to litter in public places. I couldn't just leave you lying there."
The two men smiled at each other.
Dirisha turned away. "How can you two make jokes? A few centimeters to the right and Sleel's heart would have been punched out! It could have been any of you."
"Or you," Geneva said softly.
Dirisha turned back to look at her friends.
From the doorway, Red said, "You don't have a lock on living, Dirisha. That rocket could have found you just as well. That never dawned on you?"
Dirisha shook her head. "Sure, I know that—"
"Do you?" Mayli put in. "I don't think so. Or maybe it's just that you don't worry about yourself as much as you worry about us?"
"You aren't responsible for us," Geneva said. "We chose to be here."
"I know—"
Sleel rapped on the inside of the medicator. Dirisha moved closer.
"They're right, Dirisha." Sleel's amplified voice sounded sleepy. "We wanted to be someplace else, we'd be there. You lead, 'cause that's what you're good at. But you can't take any blame for what happens to us. We chose it."
Dirisha regarded Sleel. Yeah, he was right, they all were. Logically, rationally, she knew that. But emotionally it was different. She could admit that to herself, finally. They were her family. More than her own biological family had ever been. They were trusting her to do the right thing, to take care of them. At least that's the way she felt. Felt, rather than thought. Gut, not brain. What she wanted to do was take them to some far place, out of the Confed's deadly reach; there, they wou
ld all live happily ever after, like in the mytho stories she'd read as a child. That was impossible, of course. There wasn't any place the Confed couldn't reach, no truly safe haven. Sure, there were hidey-hotes, temporary sanctuaries. They could become monks and live in a religious complex. Change their names and faces and hope to stay out of trouble. But as they stood, they were doomed. Unless...
Unless the Confed was too busy worrying about its own safety to bother with them. Unless the Confed toppled like a clipped tree, shorn off and dead.
It might not be possible. And even if it were, there would be risks. Next time, it might not be something as simple to fix as an arm. One of them might die.
That was a thought Dirisha didn't want to have. There was no way around it, though. And the worst part of it was, she had to put them in jeopardy, she had to take that risk, if they were going to survive as what they had become.
She hated Khadaji for that, just as she loved him for bringing her to the point where she could care so much. The man was ruthless, and yet, she was much better for having known him. And his goals were good. Ah, damn! Why had it come to this? Love wasn't all joy, she was discovering. There was pain attached to it, and risk. On balance she wouldn't have it any other way, but gods, sometimes it was so fucking hard! She took a deep breath and looked at the matadors.
"Okay. Okay. I get your point."
They nodded and grinned, her friends, all save Sleel, who had fallen asleep inside his plastic and steel medical robot.
Thirteen
THE WAR ON AGO'S MOON was going badly for the Confederation Ground Forces. They weren't losing, but neither could it be said that they were winning. The fanatics had a demigod on their side, in spirit, at least, and the name of Khadaji was like a mantra to them.
Wall sat in his orthopedia and brooded. The resistance to Confed policy was not confined to Ago's Moon.
The engineers on 313-C, unofficially known as Ohshit, in the Nu System, had shut down production of the extension biologicals.
Baszel, in the Ceti System, had gotten its first taste of war—hundreds of indents had stormed the five-quad outpost and sent the naked troopers into the broiling summer sun.
On Mwanamamke, in Bibi Arusi, the historically restless student population had shut down all university operations by the expedient of firebombing the main records and operations computer in the capital, Chokaa.
In the wheel world of Chiisai Tomadachi, dissidents had drugged the water supply with long-acting psychoerotics, which had thousands madly copulating for a week, effectively stopping nearly all scheduled work on-world.
Wall sighed. It was time to take a personal hand. President Kokl'u was running hither and yon, trying to look calm, urging for a return to order, but that was a wasted effort. Those who knew paid little attention to the man.
Everyone was waiting for some kind of sign from Marcus Jefferson Wall, the real power. He must, he knew, make a personal appearance in a place of prominence, and drop hints as to what he planned to do about all this turmoil. The people, bless their little micron brains, needed to be reassured.
There was a local festival, the Brisbane Revival, to be held soon. Very well, he would attend the thing, allow himself to be seen in the proper places, speaking to the proper people, and those who knew could feel less threatened. For a time, at least. Order needed to be maintained, for as long as possible.
Wall sighed again. Yes. That he would appear publicly would indicate the seriousness of the problem, and at the same time, ameliorate it. He would arrange it now.
* * *
A man wearing the face of a minor official from Jicho Mungo caught a shuttle from Hawaii to Brisbane. The man was outdoor-tanned, wore a brightly colored jumpsuit, and carried a camera, all of which marked him as a tourist. That he traveled on the night shuttle also marked him as someone without wealth or privilege, and therefore no one to spend any concern upon.
He was a lowrank among many lowranks, and no one gave him a second look.
In Brisbane, the Confederation capital and largest city upon the Australian continent, Khadaji continued to behave as a tourist. He visited the local places of historical import: he took holographs of Queens Park; rode the antique hovercraft to the North Stradbroke Island Ape Preserve, and returned to the mainline by way of the Moreton Island Powered Bridge; he spent an afternoon touring the University of Australia, at Toowoomba.
When he was certain he was not followed or monitored, Khadaji removed his skinmask and colorful clothing, and wearing the white orthoskins of a medical orderly, approached the complex that catered to Factor Marcus Jefferson Wall. He bore identification provided him by a woman who worked at the complex as a paramedical assistant, altered to show his face and EEG patterns.
He had no trouble gaining admittance. Unless someone of importance was being medically treated or observed, the security of the complex was only good, not superb. The fake identity existed in the proper computer, and the ID tag passed the scanner. Khadaji was not armed.
The woman who thought she provided information for a New Zealand minister was within, but she was not the reason Khadaji had come. No, there were more important matters on his mind. In this kind of conflict, a man was only as good as his information. There was something very important to be learned here. Learned, and perhaps, used.
* * *
"Somebody has stepped on one of our secondary caltrops," Geneva said.
Dirisha stood on the room's narrow balcony, staring out through the dirt-streaked plastic bubble at the disarray of Flat Town. She turned to look at Geneva. "What?"
The blonde nodded. "Red is backwalking it."
Red sat at the computer terminal, talking in a low voice to the instrument.
"Red?"
"Hold on a second," he replied. "No, not you, computer. Let's have it. Out loud."
The wash of color over the terminal was joined by a soft electronic voice.
"Reporting," the computer said. "Inquiry was made at drop-block prime by identity/verified Confederation agents seeking the bearer of Galactic Traveltik 69-644-5009-Beta."
"Hold," Red said. He looked at Dirisha.
"That's mine," she said. "Under an old pseudonym. They shouldn't know it."
Red nodded. "Looks like they do. Continue, computer."
"Upon denial of knowledge of said bearer's whereabouts, the block computer was physically assailed and rendered inert."
"No surprise," Dirisha said. "Was a visual record of the assailants transmitted, computer?"
"Negative."
"Continue your narrative."
"Nine-point-six-three-nine hours after the assault on drop-block prime, drop-block secondary was approached by identity-verified Confederation agents seeking the bearer of Galactic Traveltik 69-644-5009-Beta."
Sleel picked that moment to wander into the room. He was pale, and the left sleeve of his orthoskin was empty; he wasn't wearing his temporary prosthetic arm, but he looked healthy enough for a man who had lost a limb to an explosive rocket only a few weeks before. "What's up?" Sleel asked.
Dirisha waved him to silence.
"How'd they find the secondary?" That came from Mayli, who was listening from the bed nearby. Bork lay asleep next to her.
"From the tight-beam transmission of the primary to the secondary,"
Dirisha said. "They must have had somebody good with tracers with them."
"Tells us something, doesn't it?" Geneva put in.
Dirisha nodded. "Continue, computer."
"Upon denial of knowledge of said bearer's whereabouts, the secondary computer was physically assailed, triggering the self-destruction circuit and rendering the unit inert."
"Yeah, inert all over the walls," Sleel said. "And with a grenade of Spasm darts for anybody stupid enough to be within range."
"Computer, were visuals obtained and transmitted before destruction of the secondary block?"
"Affirmative."
"Show them to us."
The air swirled above the t
erminal. Representations of six people coalesced from the floating colors. The images were half a meter tall, in shades of gray, until the computer enhanced them with coded colors. Three men, two of them possibly mues, two women. The sixth figure was in class-three body armor, his or her sex not apparent. The one in armor had the visor raised, but the face was in shadow. One of the women bristled with electronic gear; all the figures were armed with hand wands or shot pistols.
"Five of them won't be following us," Sleel said. "The sixth, I'm not sure.
Maybe a dart got under the visor."
Red said, "Why was only one of them wearing armor?"
"The Confed's too cheap to suit them all," Sleel said.
"Don't bet on it," Dirisha said. "Something's wrong with this scene."
"What do you think?" Red said.
Dirisha shook her head. "Computer, give us a close-up on the face of the person wearing armor."
The image shifted, then the vp trucked in on the face.
"Stop. Eliminate as much of the shadow as you can. Use the lighted part of the cheek for a match."
The face began to lighten, like an onion being peeled.
Dirisha moved to one side, to view the holoprojic image from a different angle. Something about the face—a man, definitely—was familiar....
Boik sat up on the bed then, the slimsteel frame protesting the motion.
"Massey," Bork said.
"What?"
"Guy in the armor. That's Massey."
Red nodded, and Dirisha saw it at the same instant. Yes. The image was poor, but it was Massey. The spy who'd infiltrated the school. Khadaji had known, he'd told Dirisha; she'd wondered then why he'd allowed it. His motives were always twisted past her understanding.
"Shit," Sleel said. "He was good. I wouldn't bet a stad to a toenail clipping that the Spasm got him."
Geneva nodded. "Looks as if the Confed must want us pretty bad."
"Wall," Dirisha said. "Khadaji told me that Wall had sent Massey to the school. No reason to think he's working for anybody else."
"Looks as if we got their attention," Bork said quietly.
"Yeah," Sleel said. "Whoopee."