The Albino Knife

by Steve Perry

  "Shall we go where it is cooler to talk?" Moon said.

  "By all means," Khadaji said.

  "We've cleaned up the damage," Spiral said, "but I've asked Diamond to give you a little presentation about the explosion."

  They were in the office of the Elder Brother, a job that Moon, Spiral and Pen had all held at one time or another. It seemed larger than the last time Khadaji had seen it. Probably it was.

  "Diamond?"Khadaji said.

  The edges of the three siblings' eyes allcrinkled, an action that Khadaji knew to be smiles. He also knew the significance of the name. In the order, each student gave up his or her old identity when enrolled. A traditional nom de ordre was sometimes passed along, but only one person had any given tag. There was only one "Pen," one "Moon," and so on. Once they died, the names could go back into the communal pot to be reassigned. The original Pen had been one of the founders of the order, as had Diamond. For the siblings to give someone either of these designations was considered a vote of confidence.

  "Yes," Pen said. "He's got great potential."

  After a few more minutes, a half-shrouded student arrived. The system of clothing used by the siblings was such that past a basic starting point, each student had to earn his or her way to a complete outfit, much like a martial artist had to earn rank pins.

  Diamond carried a small case, which he opened, after being introduced to Khadaji and Veate. He was a young man, Khadaji saw, and he had to pull his attention away from Veate, much as a man might shake himself out of a drug trance. Khadaji grinned slightly. Oddly enough, he had not felt anything hormonal when he and Veate had met. The pull of an Albino Exotic was usually very powerful.Maybe because she was his daughter?

  Diamond said, "The bomb got past our security because when it came in, it wasn't a bomb."

  Khadaji glanced at Pen, who remained silent. Listen to the boy tell it, Emile, the older man seemed to say.

  "When we received the materials for the planned construction, they were, of course, scanned at the port.

  A second scan took place when we brought them into the compound."

  Diamond removed a projector and a controller from the case. He clicked an inducer and the air over the desk lit with a three-dimensional representation of the exhibit that had blown up inside the compound's museum.

  Khadaji sucked in a quick breath. It was the office of Marcus Jefferson Wall. The late and unlamented Factor Wall, who had in fact been the real power behind the Confed's puppet president during the final days before the end. Khadaji had never been inside, but he knew the place. He had sent the young-old woman who had killed the Factor with a poison spew to which there had been no antidote.

  Diamond clicked the control and got a macro image of one of the exhibit's three chairs, a custom orthopedia. He pushed the viewpoint in closer.

  "These are computer records of before the explosion, of course," Diamond said. "The plastic of this one was the culprit.An oxidation explosive. The color is a giveaway, see there?"

  Khadaji nodded.Very clever.

  Veate said, "Oxidation explosive?"

  Diamond turned to her, obviously happy to have a chance to explain something—anything—to this beautiful woman. "Yes. You see, the plastic as it is created is inert. It won't show up on a sniffer or scanner because it is harmless. But a number of substances oxidize, that is to say, they combine with oxygen in the air in a chemical process, like rust on unprotected iron or steel.Actually a process similar to fire, but much slower."

  Veate was not a chemist but neither was she inept. She could feel him struggling to control the attraction he felt for her, and as she had done so many times before, she altered her position slightly, roughened her voice a hair, and deliberately became more provocative.Testing his control against her attraction. As it had always done before, she felt it start to overcome another's resolve. He was partially covered, but Veate could feel his sexual heat rising. But her voice was cool again, the attraction toned down when she spoke.

  "And you are saying that the oxygen in combination with whatever was in the chair became an active explosive."

  "Exactly.With proper mixing of the basic elements anda knowledge of how fast such a chemical process usually takes, one could time the explosion fairly accurately, plus or minus an hour or two. When enough oxygen had combined with the chair, it simply went off."

  "That's a rather iffy way to assassinate somebody," Khadaji put in.

  "Indeed," Pen said. "We have concluded that there was intent to cause mayhem, but no particular target among us—there was no way the would-be assassin could know exactly when the explosion would happen. It would be like shooting a gun and hoping your target would happen to run by in time to be hit by the pellet."

  "Who?"Khadaji said, half to himself. "And why?"

  "We don't know," Spiral said.

  "And what has this to do with my mother's kidnapping?"

  Moon said, "Ofitself , there would seem to be no connection. But there are other… events that lead us to believe they are intertwined."

  Veate looked at Khadaji. "They have a computer program that predicts the future," he said."Among other things."

  "That's not quite accurate," Moon said, "but integratic projections do deal in probability theory. Given enough input, some of the extrapolations can be rather remarkable."

  Khadaji laughed. "I will attest to that."

  Veate blinked at her father.

  "I'll explain it to you later," he said.

  "At any rate," Spiral went on, "there are certain things we have been able to surmise." He looked at the young sibling. "Thank you for your explanation, Diamond."

  The half-shrouded youth nodded and understood that he was dismissed. He left.

  "You worried about security?"

  Pen said, "Not worried, but perhaps more cautious."

  "Your integratics blew a circuit on this one?"

  "Not really," Spiral said. "We had not yet pinpointed the event but we had been alerted to the likelihood generally."

  Khadaji considered that. "There's more."

  "Yes. Juete's kidnapping is part of it. And there have been other events about which we have learned."

  Pen said, "There have been attacks on several of the matadors. As nearly as we can tell, all took place around the same time as the kidnapping."

  Khadaji's heart quickened. Pen was not playing fugue here, and he meant just what he said: not the bodyguards' clients, but the bodyguards themselves had been targets.

  "No fatalities," Pen said, "although some injuries have been reported. You taught them well, Emile."

  Khadaji digested this new bit of information. During the revolution which brought down the lumbering dinosaur that was the Confed, there had been a number of malignant fleas leaping from the corpse who would have gladly seen those responsible die a thousand times each. When wheels turned, those on top sometimes found themselves buried in the mud after things rolled to a stop. The matadors, the most elite bodyguards ever, had been the axle around which the galaxy's government had turned. They had enemies.

  But—why now?It had been five years. And who among the fallen, if the most likely possibility held, would it be?

  "What are you doing about it?" Khadaji asked.

  Pen said, "The siblings are asking questions. All of our sources are being checked."

  "And you have nothing so far." Not a question.

  "Correct."

  "Then I guess I'll have to poke around some on my own."

  None of the siblings said anything, but Khadaji was sure that they already knew he would say that. He had studied the great political thinkers and theorists of human history and the convoluted mindswho ran the Shroud made Machiavelli look like a simpleton. They not only knew,he was pretty sure it wastheir idea, on some level.

  "I'd better give Rajeem a call," Khadaji said.

  "Rajeem?"That from Veate.

  "Rajeem Carlos."

  She turned to look at him. "You know the President of the Repu
blic well enough to address him by his first name?"

  He couldn't help but grin. Apparently his daughter's studies hadn't told her everything about him. "Sure," he said. "I got him the job."

  Chapter Four

  DIRISHA THE WOMAN stood in the terminal of Dirisha the planet's main spaceport, waiting for Bork to arrive. The shuttle had already landed and the passengers were streaming into the terminal. There was a gap in the flow of people and then Bork moved into view, alone. A respectable distance was left vacant behind him, as well.

  Dirisha smiled. Good old Bork.

  He looked much the same as when she'd seen him last, more than four years ago. The black hair had maybe a little more gray in it—she had no idea how old he was; he could have been forty, fifty, sixty?—but he still looked as if he could pick himself up with one hand, with muscle left over. That last visit he had been wearing a plain coverall and no weapons. Now, he wore the orthoskins of a working matador and a pair of spetsdods. He had a single bag, hung from a strap over one shoulder, leaving both hands free, and his eyes were alert, scanning, weighing,measuring .

  Dirisha understood. She, too, wore the dark gray orthoskins, spun dotic boots and bilateral spetsdods that identified the members of their trade. Even in the freer atmosphere of the Republic, it was not common to see people wearing visible weaponry, save for uniformed cools or guards or military. But the matadors were licensed to carry their nonlethal spetsdods anywhere in the galaxy by a special commission from the President of the Republic himself.

  Dirisha's smile continued as she thought about Rajeem. She hadn't seen him in nearly five years. They had been lovers, back when she'd been assigned to guard him, but he'd been fairly busy since he'd become President. She'd planned to look up him and Beel after he retired. The three of them had been good together and she wanted to introduce them to Geneva .

  "Hey, Dirisha!"

  "Hey, Bork."

  He moved forward and they embraced. Even with his restraint, she could feel the power radiate from him as he lifted her from the floor as if she were weightless.

  Bork put her down.

  Yes. Everybody who'd survived had come a long way. She and Bork, while never intimate, had been friends a long time.All the way back to when they'd been bouncers together in the Jade Flower on Greaves.Working for Emile. She and Bork and—

  "You hear from Sleel?" Bork said.

  Sleel.The other bouncer and later a matador and subversive as she and Bork had been.

  "No. He was living in EvetsCity , on Thompson's Gazelle, last I heard. I called but got no answer. I sent a find-him message and that came up dry, too. You remember Pawli, from school?"

  "Sure. Guy who took six weeks to get the last three steps on the pattern."

  "Yeah, well, he's working for a big-time jeweler on Thompson's Gazelle and he's going to try to run Sleel down for us."

  They turned and started for where Dirisha had parked her rental flitter.

  "You think he's okay?"

  "You know Sleel. It'd be hard to surprise him."

  Despite what she'd said, Dirisha was worried. Sleel was always trying to prove he was the toughest man in the galaxy, and he would walk barefoot through a nest of firebugs if he thought that would make the point to somebody.

  "How about Geneva? She almost well?"

  "Getting there.A few more days and she'll be up and about."

  "That's good."

  They reached the flitter, parked in a no-park zone, and Dirisha pulled an electronic sniffer from her belt pouch and pointed it at the vehicle. The sniffer was a combination wide-band transceiver and olfactory sensor. It would scan and pick up most transmissions running from VLF to SHF, so if the flitter had been bugged since she'd gone in to get Bork, it would probably squeal. Too, the sniffer put out a pulsed series of common electromagnetic wavelengths running from about 25 kHz up to 30 GHz and had a feedback circuit so that if something on the flitter was receiving, such as, oh, say, an RC bomb, the sniffer would see that, too. Finally, the little gadget's microbrain could recognize a couple dozen explosives by using no more than a few stray molecules.

  The sniffer pronounced the flitter free of tampering. Dirisha and Bork moved to verify that visually. After another minute, they were satisfied that the aircar was clean. This was all standard operating procedure when protecting a client, only now neither of them had clients, save themselves.

  The drive to the medical center was uneventful.

  Nobody attacked them on the way into the building.

  Dirisha nodded at Starboard where he sat outside Geneva's door. She and Bork went inside.

  "Hey, blondie," the big man said. "You having fun inside that box?"

  Geneva smiled from within the Healy."Hi, Saval. Good to see you."

  Geneva wore a purple silk robe that contrasted nicely with her pale skin and hair. Dirisha said, "At least she dressed for your visit, Bork. She's been rolling around naked in there for most of the past week."

  Bork managed a small grin.

  Dirisha said, "Okay, I held off asking until brat here could listen in. What's the scat on your end?"

  Bork looked away from the Healy at her. "Not much. The message I got was nothing more than a bank code. Supposedly if I was made dead, the account would trigger and pay the killers."

  "How much?"Dirisha asked.

  "And how would the bank know you were dead?" Geneva added.

  "Ten thousand standards, and I don't know how. Maybe the bank's comp is tied into the mortuaries or something. I had the hitter's ID but the bank's comp never even got around to asking why it was damaged; it kicked it right out with a no-pay signal."

  "So whoever set up the account must know you're alive."

  "I figure.Must know you and Geneva made it, too."

  "Yeah, I checked things out here.Dead end."

  "How do we get into the bank's comp?" Geneva asked. "That's the next step, right?"

  "Makes sense," Bork said.

  Dirisha's com chimed on her belt. She pulled the light pen-sized unit from its case. "Yes?"

  The voice from the com was clear, if somewhat futzed by the small speaker. "Dirisha,it's Pawli. I found Sleel."

  Here was Pawli, via White Radio, tied into the local comnet, and taking almost no time lag to speak across light years.Amazing.

  "Is he okay?"

  "If you can call being put in prison for a fifteen-year sentence okay, then, yeah, I'd say so."

  Dirisha looked at Bork.

  "At least we know where to find him," Bork said.

  "What's the story, Pawli?"

  "Sleel claimed he was set up, that he was innocent of the original charge."

  "Original charge?"

  "Yeah, well, you know Sleel. He didn't go along willingly. And it happened pretty fast. He was arrested, charged, tried and shipped off a lot quicker than the ordinary run-of-the-rocket felon."

  "Washe innocent?"

  "My guess is yes. The evidence looks real shaky. Sleel is a lot of things, but not a liar. I'd trust him with my money."

  And I have trusted him with my life, Dirisha thought. She said, "How long has he been in jail?"

  "Not long.A week or so."

  Dirisha and Bork and Geneva exchanged glances. He would have been getting into trouble about the same time whoever it was had started shooting.

  "Get whatever else you can and download it into a message for me, would you, Pawli? I appreciate it."

  "No sweat."

  "And Pawli, watch yourself."

  "Something upI should know about? I got a buzz from the Villa about the action."

  "We don't know for sure what it is yet," she said, "but sleep with one eye open for a while, deuce."

  "You know it. Thanks, Dirisha."

  She holstered the com. "I've got three sets of dentcoms coming," she said. "That okay with you two?"

  Bork and Geneva both nodded.

  "What is the latest count from the Villa?" Geneva asked.

  "Nine attacks altogether.N
one on the school, yet.Got two walking wounded, new matadors, after our time. Plus, Rimo is camped inside one of these"—Dirisha tapped the lid of the Healy—"and Becca L'evel is nursing a broken arm and a couple of cracked ribs. Nobody killed yet."

  "Not to downgrade how good we all are," Bork said, "but that seems kinda odd, doesn't it?"

  Dirisha nodded. Yes, it did. The matadors and matadoras were as sharp as they came, with trained reflexes and years of practice. Ordinarily for one to get wounded would be a fairly big deal. But if somebody knew who they were and had enough stads and organization to have nine attacks all pulled off at once, then it seemed strange that they hadn't done a better job of it. Nobody was invincible, and nine attacks had been thwarted with relatively minor damage, all things considered. Bork was right. It was true that less skilled men and women would probably have been killed outright, and if the bodyguards who'd been attacked hadn't fought back, surely they would have been dead, too, only—

  Why did she get the feeling that the attackers hadn't been warned about how dangerous their targets were?

  Something, Dirisha decided, didn't add up.

  Here was one more piece of the puzzle to drop onto the table, and there was already more than enough clutter there.

  "What now, Dirisha?"

  She pulled herself away from her thoughts to regard Bork. Geneva also looked up from within her tiny room at Dirisha. There they went again, automatically putting her in charge. Geneva was faster and a better shot; Bork was probably three times as strong, and yet, both deferred to her, as they had in the past. Face it,Dirisha, you're elected team leader again. Damn.

  "I guess we'd better find out who wants to give us grief," she said, "and make sure they get it from us first."

  "How?"

  "We need to get into the bank's computer. And maybe do something about Sleel."

  "You have a magic wand?" Bork said.

  "No, but I have a powerful friend. Maybe we should give him a call."

  It wasn't only that Truck was big, strong and violent that had made him the man in charge inside the east wing, it was that he was too stupid to know when to quit. He was out of his league now and didn't realize it. Yeah, he was hard and Sleel respected that, but he lost big points when it came down to brainpower.