by Steve Perry
The main studio was on Mason, the first extra-system world settled by men.
It had been called Alpha Point when the initial settlers had arrived, an almost Earth-type world orbited by three moons, one of which was dome-habitable.
Mason was an old planet, in terms of inhabitants, and boasted a population of over four billion, spread over three large continents and a series of tropical islands. While large civilization had its discontents, blending into the diverse population was not one of them. The matadors had been on the world for two weeks and had encountered no trouble whatsoever. On a bright, summery morning, they moved.
* * *
Bork went in first, with Mayli. They passed through the weapons detector easily, since both were unarmed. Mayli carried a tiny confounder which had been custom-designed to disable the detector. She had no trouble placing the confounder within range, because nobody noticed her. She wore trendy, but dull clothes, currently the prevailing middle-class fashion in the capital city of Gaines. Bork, on the other hand, wore thinskins which looked as if they had been anodized onto his body. As big and as muscular as he was, Bork was noticed even if he wore clothes designed to hide his size; when he chose to emphasize it, everybody noticed Bork's massive frame. People would stop what they were doing and stare. Mayli would have had to work to draw attention.
Red followed, with six spetsdöds hidden under his dress jacket. The detector ignored him.
Sleel went after Red, his pair of hand weapons hidden in a tape canister.
Geneva carried six sets of gray orthoskins with red holographic patches on the shoulders in plain sight past the security guards, smiling happily at them.
Her spetsdöds were under the clothing. No one asked her what the costumes were for; such things were common.
Dirisha went last, her swirling skirt hiding her smuggled weapons. She stopped to ask the guard for directions to the fresher, and while occupying the man's attention, allowed Sleel to retrieve the hidden confounder. It wouldn't do to have anybody else smuggling arms into the studio.
There was a program for teaching esoteric languages being transmitted to a holding line on the net, from a small studio on the third level of the giant GBS building. They had chosen the studio because it only used three technicians for the cast: an announcer, a camerawoman, and a technical director. The last man sat in a control booth, mostly to monitor automatic equipment, occasionally reaching to touch a control, tuning this or that. Bork had learned the job from an expensive, but fast, teaching-virus. Geneva learned the operation of a photomutable gel camera the same way. Dirisha would take the announcer's place, while Red kept watch at the studio door.
Dirisha glanced at her chronometer. All six of the matadors had set their timetellers to the same second. That was very important during an operation like this. Sleel and Mayli would be changing the main transmission program complex in nine minutes, thirty-three. Everybody had to be ready by then.
The third floor, assigned to the dullest of programs, was quiet. Dirisha met Bork at the corner, and Red and Geneva at the door to the studio. The normal transmission from the studio was to begin in six minutes. Dirisha nodded.
Bork opened the outer door; the others scooted inside. Bork then shoved at the latched inner door to the control room. The thin plastic lock had never been designed to withstand the strength of a man who could bench press three hundred kilos.
The director didn't even have time to look startled before Bork shot him.
The spetsdöd's cough was loud in the small room.
The announcer and camerawoman joined the director in sleep seconds later.
Quickly, the four matadors dressed in their orthoskins. Dirisha looked at her chronometer.
"Five minutes, three," she said.
* * *
"Five minutes, three," Mayli said.
Sleel nodded. They stood outside the emergency exit to the station's transmission program room. Sleel bent to place the popper against the door's lock. He thumbed the timer for a five-second delay. Mayli backstepped quickly, and Sleel followed her. After the popper blew, they would have maybe three or four seconds before the techs recovered from their shock and started to move. When the matadors stepped into the room, they would both draw an imaginary line down the middle; Mayli would take the right, Sleel the left side of that line.
The popper went off. The sound of the blast rolled past Sleel and Mayli, who were already moving by the time the door swung open.
Mayli went first, Sleel right after her.
There were nine techs—five in Mayli's sector, four in Sleel's. Mayli darted three of hers before they had moved from their form-chairs. One was already standing, and Mayli's fourth shot caught the woman in midstep. The last one was reaching for an alarm on his board when the spetsdöd's dart bit his wrist and stole his consciousness.
All of Sleel's targets were also down. Sleel grinned at Mayli.
"Let's get set up," Mayli said.
They moved.
Eleven
THE BALL HAD EXPLODED on his side of the airwall, so it seemed. Wall stared at the holographic image of his spy, a picture carried across the light-years by a special channel of the galactic net. For once, the color was almost right; his agent looked nearly the same as Wall remembered her.
"And your conclusion?"
The woman shrugged. "The revolution on Ago's Moon was history until the rebels suddenly came up with new armaments and a rallying cry: 'Khadaji is with us!' Now things are in full flame again. The Confederation forces will win, of course, but currently there are five thousand or so troopers either locked in spasm, engaging in projectile vomiting, or crapping all over themselves. We aren't talking about a few malcons any more, my Lord Factor, we are talking about a full-scale war. Every time a Confed unit shoots it out with a rebel group, the rebels gain a hundred new converts for each man they lose."
Wall stared at the holoproj, unspeaking. He was a student of history, he knew how empires fell. The Confed had grown fat upon the sumptuous banquet of a tightly-controlled populace. Now, the lean and hungry had invited themselves to dinner.
The spy, after waiting politely for lag and hearing nothing from Wall, said, "So, my conclusions are simple. We either tie up half the Confederation Ground Forces in this system for a long and nasty guerrilla campaign, or we sit down and negotiate with the leaders of the rebel alliance. I'd recommend the latter."
"Your recommendation is noted," Wall said. "Someone will contact you through official channels soon. It's a dis-com."
Wall turned away from the fading image. This was how it began. Today, it was Ago's Moon, tomorrow, some other back-spiral world would chaff at the Confed's yoke; a rock would be pitched at a nervous trooper, he would let loose with his carbine, and another underground would be born with the death of its first martyr. Some other world would follow, then more would see that as their cue. Ago's Moon might be contained with fire and steel, but there weren't enough soldiers to contain them all. Negotiations would slow the revolts, for a time, but eventually, those standing in harm's way would realize that the Confed was a toothed, but aging tiger. It couldn't eat all of them. Enough people could kill even a tiger.
That was how it went. Leaves falling from a tree in autumn, first one planet, then another, until all were eventually gone....
Damn! It was not unexpected, but it was too soon. He had figured another fifteen, maybe twenty years before it began in earnest. But something had happened to speed it up. Or, rather, some one.
Khadaji.
Wall considered his options. There might still be enough time. Khadaji was dangerous, but if he could be caught before he did too much more damage, if he could be made to recant publicly and in great detail, maybe it could still be delayed. Ago's Moon would have to feel the Confed's wrath, maybe even to the point of major destruction, an expensive undertaking; still, the cost would have to be balanced against the future. Yes. That was the way to go—"
"Marcus?" Cteel's electronic voice cut into W
all's thoughts.
"Yes?"
"Your show is about to be broadcast."
"Ah. Thank you, Cteel. Put it on."
His show. How amusing that was. A short program on the training of Confederation Factors, a teaching piece, actually, but one he took great delight in producing. He was never on camera, of course, but Wall was instrumental in all phases of the operation, from choosing the handsome actor who represented him, to deciding which products were allowed to associate themselves with the program. There was, by its nature, a limited audience for "Facts for Factors," but it was sent galaxywide because it amused Wall to have it done.
Stopping the imminent destruction of the Galactic Confederation could wait for an hour. Wall moved to his orthopedia and made himself comfortable as the opening for his program swirled into holoprojic life. He smiled.
His smile faded as the beginning of the program was abruptly interrupted.
A strong-faced black woman wearing gray orthoskins stood where Wall's actor should stand. She sported a pair of spetsdöds. What was this? Some technical glitch? An entertainment vid?
The woman started to speak, and Wall shortly realized it was neither glitch nor fictional play.
* * *
A shipment of weaponry was on its way to Nazo, in the Nazo System; a second ship would follow shortly, to land on Maro, Nazo's sister world. And instructions for making bombs from common chemicals were on their way to Kon-trau'lega, the prison planet in the same system.
The inhabitants of all three worlds had more than their share of grievances to resolve with the Confederation; they were being aided by the Man Who Never Missed.
Khadaji spent a final hour in the zendo, taking in the sights and smells of the temple, enjoying himself. He had put into action most of the plans he had for stirring the volatile soup he had spent years creating. There were several places he needed to visit personally; he had done what he could long distance.
As he started to leave, Khadaji saw a pair of monks standing in front of a holoproj near the entrance to the temple. Funny, even here one could not escape such things—
He stopped, to stare at the projection. The unit was small and the figure was only a quarter life-size, but he had no trouble recognizing Dirisha. He listened to her words, and smiled. His best student had not failed him.
There was one less place he would have to visit.
Bork nodded, and said, "Go."
Working the camera, Geneva switched on the light that showed Dirisha the unit was now working.
Dirisha took a deep breath.
"Fellow matadors, I've got a couple things to tell you.
"First, Pen—Khadaji—has escaped from Confed custody. Actually, there are two of them, Pen and Khadaji, and as far as we know, they are both free and working. What they're working at is taking the Confed dinosaur out for a one-way walk. The Confed wants them dead, just like it does us. 'It's time,'
Emile says, and I figure he's right, just like he always was. Unless we help make the beast extinct, it's only a matter of time until it catches us."
Dirisha paused, and smiled, then continued.
"I have to keep this short, so I'll get right to the point. It's them or us, gang. Pen set us up, and some of you might not like how he did it, but it's done. You can try and hide and pretend it didn't happen, or you can do what needs to be done. Remember what Emile did on Greaves. He was alone then, we aren't now. There are billions of people who are looking for leaders. So go and lead."
'It's time,' Emile says. He gave us the means, he taught us the why and how of it. The rest is up to us. Red and Bork and Sleel and Mayli and Geneva are with me, and we're not planning on hiding for the rest of our lives. The Man Who Never Missed is alive and with us. The Confed doesn't have a chance."
Dirisha grinned again. "Either way, take care of yourselves, gang. See you someday."
The light went out and Dirisha allowed herself to relax a little. "Okay?"
Bork said, "A little fast, but okay. Sleel and Mayli say it went out. Better we should take off." He looked at his chronometer.
"Tell them two minutes from now," Dirisha said.
Geneva moved from behind the camera and hugged the bigger woman.
"You did good," Geneva said.
"Yeah, it felt pretty good. Let's get out of here."
* * *
Sleel, laughing, came running down the hall, followed by Mayli.
"Fantastic," he called. "You should have gone into entertainment, like I said."
Dirisha looked at her chronometer. "We can discuss careers later," she said.
"Guards will be coming."
"Mayli and I took out three at the control room," Sleel said.
"No problems with the charges?"
"Planted and set for"— he glanced at his chrono—"just about—"
There came a muffled boom from behind them.
"... now," Sleel finished.
"Red?"
"I must be a couple of seconds slow—" he began. Then the lights in the hall blinked off. "Ah, there we go."
The emergency lights flicked on, allowing enough visibility to see, but not well. Just what the matadors wanted.
"Let's hit the door," Dirisha said.
They ran.
* * *
There were two hundred people milling around in the lobby— those who had sense enough to use the stairs when the power failed. Panic hovered over the crowd; fear was thick in the air, though most of the people could not know what it was they were afraid of.
The six matadors charged into the crowd suddenly and gave the frightened mob a focus. There was no need to clear a path—lanes appeared as if by design. Nobody wanted to stand in front of the mysterious gray figures.
The glass wall at the building's front allowed sunlight inside. The guards were easy to see. The air filled with the sounds of spetsdöds, no louder than handclaps among the yells of the mob.
The hovering panic descended like a net cast over a school of fish. People began screaming and shoving.
Guards dropped. There were six—no, eight—down. Two or three dodged into the crowd. Bork got one. Geneva shot another. Then the six matadors were at the door, hustling through.
Blam! An explosion behind them, swallowed by screams. A hole the size of Dirisha's fist appeared in the thick glass door, half a meter from her head.
Dirisha spun, searching for the source of the explosive rocket. She couldn't see the shooter—
Wait! A flare and second blast, there—! Not a uniformed guard, it was a business-type!
Mayli and Geneva and Red were outside; only Bork and Sleel were still behind Dirisha. As she swung her right spetsdöd around and shot the civilian, Sleel leaped into the air, twisting in a half circle.
"Sleel!"
Where Sleel's left arm had joined his shoulder there was now only bloody flesh and raw bone: his arm had been blown off by the rocket.
"Bork!"
"I got him, I got him!" Bork bent and scooped Sleel from the floor as might a man lifting a small child. He held Sleel's wound pressed against his own massive chest, to check the bleeding. Sleel's face was dead-white. Shock.
Dirisha opened up on the crowd, both spetsdöds on full auto. People fell like puppets with severed strings.
Bork ran past and outside, clutching Sleel.
Methodically, Dirisha reloaded her weapons. She opened up again, fanning twenty people into unconsciousness.
"Dirisha!" Red was pulling on her arm. "Come on!"
"Sleel's arm—"
"We haven't got time to look for it! Come on!"
Dirisha stared at the remains of the cowering crowd. She wished in that moment that she had loaded something other than shock-tox darts. She wished her darts were poison. Fatal poison.
"We've got to get Sleel to the medicator!"
That got through. Dirisha turned away from the lobby. Bork was already at the hopper with the others and Sleel. Dirisha ran. Don't you die, Sleel.
Don't you fuc
king die!
PART TWO
Become the general and the enemy becomes your troops.
—MIYAMOTO MUSASHI
The injury that we do to a man must be such that we need not fear his vengeance.
—MACHIAVELLI
Twelve
MASSEY STOOD STILL, outwardly impassive, but Wall could feel the man's nervousness. Just as well; he should be nervous. Everybody connected to Confederation power should feel skittish. Everybody with half a functional brain! Damn Khadaji and his home-grown rebels! That broadcast had gone out to tens of thousands of local stations all over the human and mue inhabited galaxy. Billions would have seen it live, more billions would have seen recordings of it. It was more than just a call to arms to the handful of bodyguards Khadaji had trained, it was an incitement to general war. Any half-baked dissident anywhere would take that short-but-deadly message to heart: Khadaji lives! There are more like him ready to lead you!
Most people wouldn't know, of course, just how much of a thorn Khadaji had been. A hundred such thorns might well poison the Confed beyond repair. Empires had fallen under less prodding; even if the Confed won, the cost would be tremendous. A pyrrhic victory, at best.
What could be done? At this stage, Wall wasn't sure. The only thing he could hope to do was cut off the head, and hope the body would wither.
Catch Khadaji. Capture or kill these others, the one called Zuri, who had made the broadcast. He had her file; Massey knew her. He had said, "She's one of the best, Marcus. Maybe her girlfriend Geneva could outshoot her, but I wouldn't want to bet my life on the outcome, if it came to that. She was a Flex player, one of the best, even before Khadaji taught her."
"Could you defeat her?" Wall had asked.
Massey, like many men in his service, had great confidence in his ability to rise to any challenge. Wall had seen the doubt in his face, the knowledge before he had spoken. "I don't know. Maybe."
Wall turned away from his memory and faced Massey. "Go and find them for me, Massey. Take as many men as you need, spend as much as it takes, but find them. Destroy them."
