by Steve Perry
"What now?" Mayli said. "Can they trace us from the secondary drop-block?"
"Assuming the darts didn't ruin the electronics, eventually. We had the signal bounced from five different re-casters to get here, he'll have to run them all down. It'll take a month."
"What I want to know," Sleel said, "is how come he didn't have his people in armor? Even class-two would have kept most of them safe."
"He'd know we were monitoring the drop," Red said. He looked at Dirisha.
"Yeah," Dirisha said, "he'd know. And he wanted to show us something."
Sleel played student for her. "Show us what?"
"How much he wants us. Enough to sacrifice five people without blinking.
They weren't important; we're supposed to see that."
"Shit, you mean he let us kick them into a six-month lock ward stay just to make a point?"
"Yeah."
Sleel shook his head.
"What now, Dirisha?" From Geneva.
Dirisha stared at the image of Massey, then looked away, at the city of Sawa Mji, laboring under its own stink. A Confederation-created scum pit, where life was cheap and dignity cheaper. One of thousands of places like it.
"Way I see it, we can split up, run, and start little fires along the way, like the other matadors are doing, or..."
"Or what?" at least three voices said together.
"We can go to the rat's nest and burn that sucker into ash."
Sleel laughed.
"Something funny?" Dirisha said.
"Well, I'd applaud, but it's kinda hard at the moment."
"Go get your arm," Bork said. "We'll wait."
Fourteen
WALL DECIDED to make a major production of his public appearance: he had a new Factor's robe spun, of the best silks; he had new castings of his personal motif—frogs and cranes—done in platinum and diamonds for the cloak's closure and dangles. There were more opulent and expensive alloys and jewels, but the pure metal and clear stones had always been his favorites: no one but he knew the significance of the color: white, for a former albino.
The cape, with its stiff, high collar and perfect flowing lines, was the hand-created product of a demented genius of a tailor who suffered from total androphobia. The man never saw his clients personally; he never saw any body personally, but stayed totally isolated from men and mues, on some small island off the coast of Greenland. That was strange enough in itself; that the man was the best tailor on Earth, working completely from generated simulacra, was nothing short of amazing. Wall had Cteel send the tailor a substantial bonus. The maroon silk garment was unique, and its creator deserved recognition.
The fittings were no less perfect, and when he was dressed, Factor Marcus Jefferson Wall was a sight to draw admiring stares. His custom-spun dotic boots matched the hue of his cloak; his underbreeks and tunic were a paler shade of the warm spectrum, matching the darker gear perfectly. The platinum cranes and frogs glowed richly, with eyes, beaks, and nails of perfect diamond. The wearer of these clothes was not merely rich, he was a man of taste.
Wall smiled at his holoproj self. Dashing, aren't we, brother?
The image nodded slowly. Indeed. Indeed.
The aircoach stood on its cushion of generated repulsion at the end of the guarded corridor. Outside of the matadors, for which he had learned a grudging admiration, Wall's own bodyguards stood second to none. A hundred of them protected him each time he appeared in public, not that there was really any need for them. Factor Wall was generally loved, particularly by those who did not know him. His enemies, especially those who might be dangerous, were accounted for at all times. Those with too much power to be completely neutralized were not allowed to approach him closely. Those without power were usually not allowed to survive at all. A dead enemy was no threat.
The last item in his dress for this occasion was the traditional Factor's hat, a boxy thing with a high peak, flat in the back to keep from being dislodged by the cape's collar. When he had donned the hat, Wall turned for a final view of himself in the holomirror. Regal, he truly was.
He took a deep breath. Time to go calm the waters.
* * *
Wall's aircoach floated gently to the roof of the Presidential Theater, in Queen's Park. The building was old, built just after the beginning of the Galactic Confederation. It had been updated, of course, so that now a bank of particle-beam tacticals next to the landing pad guarded against air attacks, and mild repel fields kept out precipitation and insects. Wall's honor guard stood at statuelike attention as the vehicle alighted. The day was cloudy, and a light rain was scheduled later in the afternoon. A thick patch of news-fax techs stood in their assigned areas, with cameras already locked into focus on the aircoach.
He would give them something to see when he swept out onto the roof. He grinned.
The coach stopped, the hum of the engines muting to silence. Wall stood and walked across the interior of the main salon of the vehicle to the exit. He smiled again. Oh, mem, could you but see me now. Carried to and fro, alone in a flying machine bigger than the rooms we used to occupy; dozens of technicians, that many guards, hundreds inside and billions more waiting for an electronic look at me. No man in the galaxy has ever come so far, mem.
Ah, could you but have lived to see it!
"Open," Wall commanded.
The spun-fiber door pretending to be fine wood obediently raised, and Factor Wall stood outlined in the doorway for a moment, to give the photomutable gel eyes of the net cameras a moment to focus on him. Then he strode out onto the roof. They were going to love this.
* * *
Getting to Marcus Wall was considered impossible by most. The security around him was as tight as any Khadaji had ever seen. Even in the scenarios he had used at Matador Villa, not a few of which had been designed as unbeatable, Wall's would have been one of the hardest. His personal guard was formidable, well-armed, and trained; his quarters, vehicles, destinations, and transits were all protected by state-of-the-art bioelectronics. Any plan to get close enough to Wall to do him damage would have to be incredibly complex to stand the slightest chance of working. Anyone who was apt to be within a hundred meters of Wall was triple-checked. Guards all knew each other intimately; newsfax techs were almost as well known, and new ones spent a good portion of their time being examined, physically and electronically; no strangers were allowed within combat range of the kingmaker, much less to touch the hem of the man. Khadaji could, he supposed, work his way into a position of some sort of familiarity or semi-trust after months or years, but he had neither the time nor the desire.
He might possibly devise something so off-the-bulkhead and twisty that he could circumvent even Wall's precautions. He had, after all, spent years building assassination and protection games for his students.
Or, Khadaji thought, he could come up with a plan so simple nobody had ever considered it. A reversal of ordinary thinking could sometimes result in a successful ploy. He had tried to teach that to his students, to not always work in a linear, beginning-to-end fashion. With some, such as Dirisha and Geneva, he had succeeded.
Now, it was time to see if he could follow his own advice. If Muhammad could not go to the mountain, perhaps the mountain would come to Muhammad....
Simple did not mean easy, Khadaji knew. He had several days, once Wall's speech was announced, to set his plan in motion, and even with heavy outlays of stads, it was still an iffy proposition. Khadaji had updated old criminal connections, paved roads with promises and money, and managed to get the hardware he needed. The software was up to him, and it depended on the Wall's psychology and that of his protectors. If they were sharp enough, it was possible. His attack would have to be oblique, but it might work....
* * *
Factor Wall stood on an indoor balcony overlooking his privileged audience. The balcony was shielded by clear sheets of densecris and wrapped in a zap field, but Wall was visible to the seven or eight hundred people fortunate enough to be allowed to se
e the Factor in the flesh.
Standing below, next to a fat man in an intricately folded origami robe, Khadaji looked the part of a well-paid medic. He wore an expensive sharkskin suit, boots made from real animal hide, and his professional medic pin prominently displayed on his left breast. While Wall worked the crowd up with his patriotic and well-written speech, Khadaji managed to look sophisticated enough to be slightly bored. The face Khadaji wore was altered only slightly, mostly coloring and cheek pads; he could not risk a skinmask, even the best, for the kind of scrutiny he would have to undergo, if his plan got that far. In his belt pouch, Khadaji bore a tag that identified him as Marsh Himit, Medic First, recently added to the staff of Wall's own medical complex. The name was real, as was the medic, but the computer at the complex had been rascaled to show Khadaji's slightly altered face instead of Himit's, when asked for identity scan. The medic himself had been ... detained for the day.
"...cannot despair, my fellow men, because the galaxy is not a place of chaos, but of order. We must maintain that order. We will maintain that order."
More applause. Khadaji glanced at his chronometer. Almost time.
To Wall's left on the balcony, a highrank man coughed, a little louder than was polite. A moment later, a tall and pale woman also coughed.
One of Wall's sub rasa guards working the crowd passed in front of Khadaji. Khadaji brushed at invisible lint over his medic's pin, just enough for the guard to see the emblem and take notice of it. The guard was the floor commander; Khadaji had paid ten thousand standards for that small information.
"—situation might seem worse than it is—" Wall coughed, then continued.
"—but I can personally assure you, it is merely a storm in a bottle." He coughed again, and his Chief of Security looked alarmed.
Others began to cough, louder and harder now, and Khadaji could see the security man begin to understand. The man's throat began working, as he subvocalized into his com implant. Khadaji could imagine what he was saying.
Three large men hustled the Factor away from the densecris and out of sight. Others on the balcony began to panic, trying to run, but the guards, coughing and retching themselves by now, held them back.
"What the hell... ?" the fat man next to Khadaji said.
The crowd under the balcony caught the fear, and somebody said the words aloud: poison gas!
By now, Wall would be seeking his personal medic, who would be nearby.
Only his medic would be in worse shape than Factor Wall. The time-released drug administered in his breakfast would be coursing throughout the medic's system, and he would pass out when his blood pressure raised under the stress of treating his patient.
Wall no doubt had a vouch in his aircoach, but the coach was on the roof, moments away, and the vouch might not be sufficient to treat some esoteric poison. At least that's what Khadaji hoped Wall and his advisors might think.
It was a risk, but—
"You!" The floor commander grabbed Khadaji's arm. "Your identification, quickly!"
"What—?"
"Now!"
A second security man approached, and the commander shoved Khadaji's tag at him. "Verify it, stat!"
The second man produced a small reader and inserted Khadaji's bogus tag.
Meanwhile, the commander was already half-dragging Khadaji through the panicky crowd.
"Verified, Commander. He's on-staff at the Med-plex—"
"Scan him!"
As they moved, the security man pointed an HO scanner at Khadaji.
"Clean."
"All right! Clear us a path to the emergex route."
The second man did so, by pulling a hand wand and flashing the people in their path. The three stepped over unconscious forms on their way to the powerlift.
The Factor leaned against a plush wall in the hallway, looking sick. Khadaji was ordered to attend to Wall. Somebody shoved a medical bag at him, and Khadaji opened it and slapped a blood diagnoster onto Wall's brachial plexus as if he had been doing it for years. He found a light and flashed it into Wall's eyes, tapped on Wall's chest, and asked Wall to tell him if he hurt anywhere. Wall tried but was unable to string words without wracking coughs.
"Easy," Khadaji said. "You'll be fine."
Guards pointed guns in all directions, including one at Khadaji.
It was time for the medic to take control, Khadaji decided.
"We need to get to the Medplex. Is there a vouch or Healy in the Factor's aircar?"
Before anybody could reply, Khadaji snapped, "Come on, I want some answers!"
"Yessir," the Chief of Security said. "There's a vouch—"
"Let's move," Khadaji said, "I want that car in the air in two minutes!"
Six guards snatched Wall up. They ran down the hall, Khadaji right behind them.
In the aircoach, Khadaji said, "You, untether the vouch and get it in here. You"—he pointed to the Chief of Security—"get everybody else out of here. Tell the driver to lift. Call the Plex and tell them to scramble the trauma team. Come on, now!"
"I need my men," the security chief began.
"And I don't! You can stay, and the one collecting the vouch. Everybody else will just get in my way."
"Listen—"
"No," Khadaji said, "you listen. You and your man can protect the Factor from the doctor trying to save his life if you want, the rest can follow or lead."
The security man gave it two seconds. "Outside. Box formation, four threes. Go."
The salon emptied, save for Khadaji, Wall, and the two security men. The aircoach lurched into the air quickly.
The man with the vouch returned, dragging the instrument faster than its wheels wanted to go. The bioelectric medical cart whined in protest.
Wall's eyes had closed; he was unconscious.
"I'll need you both to give me a hand here," Khadaji said.
The two guards moved closer.
Within range.
* * *
Rajeem Carlos was not happy. Dirisha felt his pain, and yet couldn't help him, for she was the cause. The two of them were alone in the smallest of the sleeping rooms. Beel had quietly taken the two children and closed the door behind them, so that Dirisha and Rajeem could say their good-byes. Beel loved her, too, but Rajeem had been first; he had awakened that part of Dirisha.
"Look, hon," Dirisha said, "you know this has gotten a lot bigger than just us."
Rajeem nodded. "I know."
"And you also know I'm good at what I do."
"Yes, but—"
"But nothing, hon. I love you. Going to do what I have to do doesn't change that. Khadaji kicked a snowball down a high-gee hill a long time ago, and now the thing is too big and too heavy to stop. You ought to know that better than I."
Rajeem sighed. "I do know it. I am aware of my duty, you've pointed it out to me often enough. I don't know if I can be what Khadaji thinks I can—"
"You can. You're good at what you do, too."
"Don't interrupt, woman." He smiled. "I don't know if I can, but I'll give it my best. The Confed is falling faster now, and I want to give it, or some part of it, a new direction. I have my connections, waiting. All that is a matter of course. Maybe we win, maybe we go down in smoking glory." He shrugged.
"It's not that. What bothers me, I think, is knowing how much it's all going to change. Your leaving is a big part of that. Even if we pull this off, we—you and I—aren't likely to be able to go back to the simple days. No more walks in the country, no more easy manages in some rustic hideaway."
Dirisha nodded. "Yeah. I'll miss that."
"I'm a realist, Dirisha. I'll want it, but if I survive and we triumph, there won't be time. It'll take everything I have to keep things together."
"I expect we can keep in touch, Rajeem."
"Of course we will, idiot woman! But you know what I'm trying to say."
Dirisha slid across the half a meter separating them and hugged him.
"Yeah."
"And I know
you're good, but I will worry."
"That's okay, hon. I'll worry about you, too."
They sat hugging silently for a time. The price of this game was high, Dirisha realized with a new clarity. It was going to cost a big piece of her, win or lose.
Rajeem's shoulders shook a little, and she realized he was crying. It didn't take long for her tears to add to his. Rajeem Carlos was the head of the Antag Union, a dedicated, educated, and loving man, and he was crying for her. She had only known three people in her life who loved her enough to do that, and she was about to walk away from one of them, maybe forever. Unfair didn't begin to touch it. There was no other choice, though.
No other choice at all.
Fifteen
MARCUS WALL regained consciousness all in a rush: his eyes snapped open and he was alert, as if he had inhaled a particularly fine and potent kik-dust. He was momentarily disoriented, but then he recognized the interior of his personal aircoach. He recalled coughing, having trouble breathing at the speech, and being hustled out by his men. An assassination attempt, it must have been, only it had failed.
Wall sat up, and saw several things at once: his vouch was in attendance; a man sat on a cushioned stool across from him, holding a medic's bag; his Chief of Security—in Massey's absence—and another guard lay sprawled on the salon floor. Had his men been overcome during the attack?
The medic smiled, and Wall felt a chill. Where was his regular doctor? This man looked familiar, but Wall didn't know him. All right, it was time for some answers—
"Feeling better, Marcus?"
The man dared call him by his first name? He might have saved his life, but he had no right to presume—
"Forgive me if I don't observe proper protocol, Marcus. We only have a few minutes for our conversation."
"Who do you think you are?" Wall demanded. "What in the Nine Hells is going on?"
"My name is Emile Antoon Khadaji," he said. "And I've gone to a lot of trouble to get here."
Khadaji! It couldn't be! Even as he thought it, Wall recognized the man from his file holos. How had he gotten here? More importantly, what was he going to do? Wall glanced around in fresh-blossomed fear.
