by Steve Perry
"So it is." Khadaji extended his left arm, turning it so that he presented his supinated wrist to the Lojt.
The officer caught Khadaji's hand, jammed the unit against his wrist, and triggered the device. There was a small pop, and Khadaji felt a cold sting, nothing more.
He looked at Massey, who seemed somewhat edgy. "Disappointed, Massey?
You look as if you expected me to perform some magic just then, to knock the Lojt down and dance past the guards unharmed."
Massey smiled, but said nothing.
Khadaji's own smile faded, and his face took on a flat aspect, as if the world of men held no interest for him. He stood as if carved from plastic flesh, a man with nothing on his mind.
Massey shook his head. "So, this is how it ends. Not in a martial dance, but like a mindless animal led to slaughter. I am disappointed, old teacher-mine. I had hoped you would acquit yourself better. So much for mythology." He turned to the Lojt. "Okay. Let's get out of here. We leave at six hundred. The drug should last until we arrive back on Earth."
Massey turned back to Khadaji. "Go lie down."
Obediently, Khadaji went to his block and lay upon it. His expression did not change.
Massey sighed. "Just like any other man. A shame, really. You'd think a legend would have something to fall back on, wouldn't you? Where are your miracles now, Khadaji?"
There was no answer, and Massey turned to leave the cell, followed by the Lojt and the now-relaxed troopers.
* * *
Though it suited her purposes, Dirisha thought it odd that any ship would go directly from Earth to Renault. Then again, the Confed was not known for the brilliance of its transportation schedules. One could bend space and arrive on Renault in a few hours; yet a trip to any planet in the Delta System took at least six days. Delta was much more important in the grand scheme of interstellar commerce than was the Shin System, in which Renault occupied its tiny niche, of that there was no doubt. Trust the Confed to dork it up.
Dirisha sat in a lounge seat, toying with a curved knife. The weapon was the length and arc of a banana, a thing of mirror steel, brass, and exotic hardwood. The design was based upon that of a sabercat's tusk. Khadaji, as Pen, had given her the knife just before she had graduated from the matador school, along with some cryptic advice. Apparently Pen—the real Pen—had given the same knife to Khadaji years earlier, along with the same kind of input. It had to do with simplification, and if Dirisha had been one to anthropomorphize, she might have named the knife Occam's Razor.
She twirled the fat-handled knife idly, watching the gleam of light from its blade. She didn't really think of it as a weapon; it was more a talisman. Close enough to use a knife would also be close enough to use her hands and feet, and they were as deadly as sharp metal and less likely to be lost when needed. But you never knew....
Dirisha sheathed the knife when she realized what she was doing. She didn't want to think about what was coming, that was the thing. In a few hours they'd be on Renault, and they'd move to free Khadaji. The others were on the ship, they were ready, but Dirisha had doubts. Some of them might not make it through. All of them might not. For herself, she felt no fear—she had to do what she had to do—but for the others...
She didn't want to lose any of them. Especially she didn't want to lose Geneva. The blonde had been her lover at the school, but it was only later, when Dirisha learned to love Rajeem, that she knew she also loved Geneva.
Rajeem. She smiled. She wondered how he was doing, back on her home world, itself named Dirisha. Port and Starboard could certainly handle the local raf, and the Confed wouldn't think to look for Rajeem Carlos there. No, he and his wife Beel were safe enough. Even if she didn't get through this, Rajeem would be all right. Eventually, he would resume his contacts with the Antag Union; eventually, he would go back to resisting the Confed, maybe in a more active way this time.
"Still got that sticker, huh?"
Dirisha looked up. Sleel dropped into the chair across from her. They had not been so foolish as to seem to be traveling together, still, neither did the matadors see spies behind every disposal. They assumed there might be some kind of security check on Renault, but that was being taken care of—if Sleel's contact on the planet could be trusted.
"I still have it, yeah."
"Not to worry, Dirisha. We'll pull it off."
"Who's worried?"
Sleel leaned forward. "Yeah, well, look. Just in case I might not make it, what say we spend some time in the privacy cube before we land? Take our minds off things."
For a second, Dirisha was tempted. Then she laughed. Sleel had been trying to bed her ever since she had known him. It had been the first thing he'd said after his name, years ago in Khadaji's pub on Greaves. Hi, I'm Sleel. Want to screw?
"Nice try, Sleel. The old, 'I-might-not-live-long' gambit must work pretty well for you."
He grinned. "Almost as good as 'Help-me-I-don't-know-much-about-this-kind-of-thing.'"
Dirisha felt better. Good old Sleel. As singleminded as a hungry dog. "Ah, Sleel. What would I do if I didn't have you around to keep me on my toes?"
"Hey, Dirisha, you don't know what you're missing."
"I'll ask Mayli if it ever really bothers me."
Sleel shook his head, and stood. "You going to be nasty, I'm leaving. Later."
Dirisha grinned at his back. When Mayli had been a practicing trull, Sleel had challenged her. He'd wound up with phlebitis of the penis for his trouble.
She felt better. No matter what happened, she'd learned a lot from these people in the last few years. They had become family, and she loved them.
Even Sleel.
* * *
Steel's contact passed the matadors through without incident; the fake Military aircar was where it was supposed to be; as the skies turned to night, the plan was working perfectly. Money could buy miracles, at times.
They got all the way to the Military prison before it fell apart. The place was lit like a landing field, sirens blasted the night, and troopers shuffled back and forth like mad decks of cards, waving weapons at anything that moved.
"Looks like something is wrong here," Bork said.
"You are a fucking master of understatement," Sleel said.
Geneva squeezed Dirisha's arm. "Dirisha?"
"I don't know, hon. Maybe we better grab somebody and find out."
"You and Bork ought to go into entertainment," Sleel said. "Shit. Shit."
Seven
NICHOLE SAT CROSS-LEGGED upon his bed, intent upon the colorful holoproj show Wall had made for her. The girl laughed at the clowns in their costumes, as they tried a complicated acrobatic construction and fell, instead.
The recording was of the Galactic Circus, currently playing the Faust System.
Normally, the circus would be on Earth in a few months; unfortunately, it had chosen to play Ago's Moon and was now embroiled in that world's rebellion against the Confederation. The circus might never see terran skies again, which would be a pity; certainly, it would be delayed somewhat. By the time it arrived Nichole might well have... passed her peak. Some new love would see it with him. But of that, he didn't want to think just now. Nichole was here, dressed in her thinsilks, rapt over his present. No doubt she would wish to repay his kindness shortly.
The thought made Wall feel weak. She was so much more than he had hoped for, perfect in every way. Despite her youth, she was very... adept, once he had shown her how.
He'd have to see what kind of favor he could bestow on her father, the minister. Something appropriate for a man who could produce such a lovely daughter. Her father already had a certain amount of power, of course, but there could never be enough of that, Wall knew. Another notch in Miyamoto's political weaponry would please him.
For a moment, as he watched the bright-faced child intent on the recording of the circus, Wall felt a fleeting thought bouncing across his mind: he had become what he had once detested—a user of children. With the control he had mastered he hurried t
he thought along and refused to readmit it to his sanctum when it howled outside his mental door. This was different. Truly it was.
* * *
The six men leaving Khadaji's cell had turned their attention away, no longer considering him a threat. They had poisoned his circulating bacteria-aug when he'd been captured, but they'd missed the culture he'd hidden—embedded in viral wart tissue on his left thumb. He had trigged the bacteria yesterday; they were now fully active. That wouldn't have mattered, if the chemical they had just given him had been working properly. It wasn't.
Khadaji moved. He shoved himself away from the silicon block and immediately jumped into the beginning of the third section of the sumito dance. He had practiced the moves a dozen times, moving from the block to the cell door; that there were six men in the way complicated his motions some, but not as much as an untrained observer might expect. One against six, but he had fought more, in practice. Four was the hardest number; more than that in close quarters and they only got in each others' way; fewer could be avoided.
One of the soldiers began to turn, alerted by some small sense. Khadaji spun, curved his fingers just so, and swept the man from his feet—
—two other men scratched for bolstered weapons. The troopers became part of Khadaji's dance, took wing and flew like parakeets suddenly escaped from a lifetime in cages, smashing artlessly into the nearest walls—
—Massey, better trained than the others, moved away from immediate danger, backing into the Lojt—
—the fourth trooper attacked, a hard snap kick for Khadaji's groin accompanied by a loud "kiai!" Khadaji twirled away, caught the soldier's foot, and upended him. The man hit the rubbery floor on his back and shoulders and grunted as his wind was knocked away—
—Massey pulled a tube from his sleeve, put the end in his mouth, and aimed the other end at Khadaji. A dart straw, poisoned—
—the Lojt smashed the edge of his hand against the back of Massey's neck, knocking the dart straw loose and felling the surprised man. The Lojt grinned at Khadaji.
Khadaji didn't pause to return the Lojt's smile. He reached into the downed Massey's trousers, removed the confounder the man carried, and trigged it.
"Let's move," Khadaji said.
The Lojtnant nodded.
The two men ran. The fight would have been on the cell's monitors; even with the confounder, the place was going to be filled with troopers in a moment, despite whatever bribes the Lojtnant had placed. Escape from the cell did not mean escape from the prison. The Lojt was his man, had been so since Greaves, where he had helped Khadaji escape by imploding the drug storeroom at the Jade Flower. Before there was sympathy for Khadaji's cause, he had had money to spend. The Lojt was half-rich; if they survived this, he'd be twice as wealthy. A wise man knew when to spend his standards—
"This way!" the Lojt ordered. He led Khadaji down a corridor, to a maintenance lock. The soldier thumbed the hatch open and ducked to enter.
Inside, the lock ballooned into a small room filled with robotic dins attached to power grids. The room was dark, save for the glow of the charge diodes on the dins, amber lamps that cast golden light. The air was filled with the rich smell of machine lube.
The Lojt ran through the room. Khadaji followed, the neurological bacteria playing amphetaminic songs upon his nerves as he moved. Go, they sang, go, go, go!
* * *
"I'll go," Geneva said.
Dirisha nodded. Any of them could do the job, but Geneva was still the best, as far as Dirisha was concerned. Despite what Khadaji had said about her own skill, Dirisha had yet to truly believe it. She could lead, and she was good, but Geneva was better on her feet.
Red looked as if he was going to say something, but he shook his head briefly and sat back in his seat. Fatherly concern, maybe, but he had trained her; he knew how good she was, too.
"Back in a minute," Geneva said. The door to the military hopper opened and she was gone, a gray shadow that quickly blended into the night.
Dirisha looked into the darkness. So far, nobody had challenged them, being in a military vehicle as they were, but whatever was going on out there, she didn't like it. All the plans they had made were a waste. What in Deep was going on—?
"Here she comes," Bork said.
Dirisha scanned the darkness. "Where—?"
"To the left," Mayli said. "With her arm around the shoulders of a trooper."
Dirisha saw Geneva approaching. She felt a tenseness leave her, accompanied by a small sigh. Sure, Geneva was the best, and Dirisha wouldn't have been worried if she had gone instead of the blonde, but there was no way around it, it had made Dirisha nervous. Mother hen effect? No, more like a rooster....
Sleel opened the rear bay, and Geneva hustled the trooper into the hopper.
The man was a good twenty kilos heavier than Geneva, but his face was pinched and he moved like a man in great pain. Dirisha touched Geneva lightly on the upper arm, and the younger woman smiled briefly. A small touch, but there was meaning attached to it.
"Wh-who are you?" the trooper managed.
"Not your business, Deuce," Dirisha said. "You only have to concentrate on one thing to make it out of here—what is going on at the prison?"
"Stuff it, cunt—ah!" The man tightened as Sleel dug his fingertips into the trap muscle alongside the man's neck.
"Sleel," Dirisha said. Sleel eased his grip.
"Look, Deuce, we can do this any way you want. I can uncork some chem and pop you. I can let Sleel here do his half of the good-cool-bad-cool routine. Or you can tell us what we want to know and take a little nap. Your choice."
The trooper was obviously no virgin. He looked around at the six gray-suited figures and their spetsdöds, thought about it for five seconds, and decided where his best interests were. "It's a break," he said. "Somebody got out."
"Who?" Even as she asked, Dirisha was certain she already knew the answer.
"The guy in the robe. The one who never misses."
"Are you sure?" Red asked.
"It's what my quad leader told me. The guy took out a dozen armed troopers after he'd been popped with down-chem. He ain't normal."
"Looks as if our partner stood us up for the dance," Sleel said. "Now what?"
Dirisha nodded at the trooper. There was a whump! as somebody—Mayli, maybe—shot him with a shock dart.
"Put him out and let's go find someplace quiet," Dirisha said.
"Got a problem there," Red said. "Company."
The matadors looked away from the drugged trooper, in time to see four quads heading in their direction.
"What say we—" Bork began.
"Lift," Dirisha finished.
Bork punched a control and the hopper bounded into the air. The com circuit lit with a direct call: "You in the T-l, land and park it! Stat!"
Bork swung the hopper into a tight turn. The com continued to blare commands. "Last warning! Land or we bring you down!"
"Not with Parker carbines you won't," Sleel said.
"One of the quads is probably a heavy," Bork said. "They'd be carrying ground-to-air."
"Enough to bring us down?" That from Geneva. "I thought this cart had belly armor."
"If they get lucky, they could hit a repellor. Wouldn't do us a lot of good."
Dirisha had a sudden vivid picture of the hopper slamming into the ground at a couple hundred kilometers per hour, splashing dirt and metal and blood like a rock dropped into a pond. Her own death didn't frighten her, and even the plan to break Khadaji out of the prison hadn't worried her—maybe it was because she had felt in control. But in the air, locked into the hopper, she was only a passenger; she couldn't protect her friends.
"Strap in," Bork ordered.
A moment later, the big man threw the hopper into a power dive. "Here it comes," he said.
There was a bright flash and an explosion that shook the aircar, rocking it hard. Other than the noise, there seemed no apparent effect.
"Took it on the armor," B
ork said. "We'll be out of range in a few seconds. They won't spot us with Doppler or radar, but they might put up some pursuit on visual or infrared. Where to, Dirisha?"
Where to, indeed? Khadaji was gone, and the whole plan suddenly seemed very foolish. In truth, Dirisha hadn't thought past the point of saving Khadaji. Once they got him out, then he could take over. As Pen, he had always known all the answers; as Khadaji, he had been a legend. It was all his show, it had been all along. Now what were they going to do?
"Find us a hole, Bork. We've got some thinking to do."
Eight
MASSEY HAD BEEN CONTRITE, but the escape of Khadaji did not weigh upon Wall as heavily as it might have another time. It would have to be dealt with, of course, but there was another snake in his garden, one closer and nastier, and at first, Wall didn't even want to contemplate it. At first. A destroyed fantasy was the worst of all things, worse than some distant reality concerning a man he didn't even know. Far worse.
In his chamber. Wall brooded, while Massey stood at attention, no doubt fearing he was the cause of his master's grief and anger.
"My Lord Factor, I know there is no excuse—"
"Never mind, Massey." Wall waved one hand, as if to dismiss the entire affair of Khadaji and his escape. "We will attend to the matter in due course. I have another service I would have you perform."
Massey's relief was palpable. Wall needed none of his truth-displaying machineries to know that. Good. A grateful servant was a better one.
"Anything, my lord."
"Cteel, give Massey the files we have just been discussing."
To Massey, Wall said, "Read these, memorize them, and find out everything you can about the people named in them. Everything, do you understand? Speak of this to no one, it is for my ears only. I want it yesterday."
"Sir."
"Go. I wish to be alone."
After Massey left, Wall stood staring into the depths of a painting for a time before he spoke. "Cteel, cancel my appointments today. All of them."
"Excluding Nichole?" Cteel said.
"No, in cluding Nichole." He sighed. "Especially Nichole."
