The Machiavelli Interface Read online

  Three

  THE WALL regarded himself with a critical eye. He smiled, and his wraith returned the expression exactly. The dop-pelganger produced by the holographic mirror was a perfect twin; from a third viewpoint, it would be nearly impossible to tell which was the man and which was the image of the man. Had he been inclined to existentialism, Wall could have made some interesting observations.

  Ho, brother. We have changed, over the years, haven't we?

  The image nodded almost sadly. Facing Wall stood a tall and physically perfect man who looked forty, though he was half again that age; the shade was dark-skinned, blue-eyed, and black-haired; it wore a face Wall's mother would not have recognized. Like the caster, the reflection was a careful sham, a construct built to hide the true form. Even the name was a disguise, full of historical psychology and no more real than the holoprojic image that regarded Marcus Jefferson Wall thoughtfully.

  "Off," Wall said. His twin disappeared like a light switched off. Wall grinned. He had come a long way from the Darkworld. He had been born an albino, one of the experimental sports that still bred true on the far world of Rim, a hundred years after such genetic tamperings had been forbidden.

  Chemicals and dyes and lenses had hidden the external signs; surgery and implants had changed his face. He no longer looked the part of an exotic, though he still had one advantage common to his pale brothers and sisters: he was pheromonically potent. Like all the albinos from the Darkworld, Wall held an almost magical attraction for normal humans. Such a thing wasn't totally responsible for what he had become, of course, but it had helped. Ah, yes, it had helped....

  Enough of this stroll through the memory vaults, he decided. Nichole would be arriving shortly; he must be ready. At the thought of the girl, Wall felt himself flush. Nichole Miyamoto was a trembling twelve, a rare and precious flower just beginning to bud. He was looking forward to opening her petals. That her father was one of Kokl'u's ministers made it easier, of course. The man was ambitious, and who better than Wall the Kingmaker as a friend? Wall trusted no man or woman past a near point, but he was generous with those he considered his friends. Minister Miyamoto could become a friend, through his daughter....

  "A visitor," the security comp said. The voice of the machine was soft, feminine, even childlike.

  Ah, Nichole!

  "Show me."

  The holoproj lit to his left, filling the space left vacant for it. The image coalesced from formless color, to show the elfin form of Nichole standing at the entrance to his sanctum. As he watched, the security computer scanned the image, giving for a brief moment a flash of bare skin under the thin silk robe. The skin faded to muscle and the shadows of internal organs, then the underlying bone.

  "Clean," the computer said.

  Oh, yes, she was clean. Fresh, alive, not yet nubile, and clean, in all the senses of that word he loved.

  Abruptly, Wall found that his armpits were damp, that his hands felt sweaty. His heart raced, his mouth went dry. How silly. To feel like a young boy meeting his very first girl, it truly was silly.

  Some cynical part of Wall's mind sneered and shook a metaphorical head.

  Silly? it seemed to say. No, it's merely perversion, and you do treasure the illusion that makes you tremble, don't you?

  Wall's grin never faltered. He had learned to tune that part of himself out when he wished. What use were the best meditative techniques and drugs if one couldn't avoid a part of one's self when one so desired?

  "Admit her."

  The door slid open noiselessly. The girl, who barely reached Wall's chest in height, started at the movement.

  Oh, how delightful! She was nervous, like a fawn from a nature holoproj!

  "Nichole, how delightful to see you. Please come in."

  "H-hello, My—my Lord Factor."

  Wall took the sweetness of her fear and respect and allowed it to fill him for a moment before he shook his head. "Ah, my lovely child, you must call me Marcus. We are going to be great friends, and I want you to think of me not as a Factor, but as a... man."

  He could not read the look, for the girl quickly lowered her gaze and bowed her head. "Yes, My Lor—I mean, yes, Marcus."

  Oh, the thrill was so sublime! He put his hand on her shoulder—such a wonderful shoulder!—and massaged the muscle gently through the thin blue silk. She was a vision for all his senses, the sight and smell and feel of her! He felt himself begin to tremble, and he took a deep breath, but slowly, so she would not hear it.

  "Come, have some refreshment," he said, urging her toward the table in the center of the room. Slowly, he told himself, there is no hurry. No hurry whatsoever.

  * * *

  There were times when Khadaji had doubts about it all. The crystal realization he'd had more than twenty T.S. years past became clouded at times, hiding the surety of purpose. During the battle that came to be called The Slaughter at Maro, it had shattered him: Relampago, the Cosmic Lightning, the Finger of God, the Universal Touch. As he had fired his weapon into the mindless mass of humanity, it had come to him, how wrong it was. They had been harvested like human wheat, falling into a sea of their own blood, and all for the continuation of the Confed and its policies. Then, he had known it must be stopped, that the Confed was dying and must be replaced with something finer—with a system that held human life as worth more than continued power. He had thrown down his weapon and deserted, and the following fourteen years had been filled with study, of how to effect the change.

  At times, he had lost his certainty. At times, he had feared he was wrong.

  At times, he had been confused.

  Khadaji laughed. Then he laughed again, amused at what the hidden monitors must be thinking of him lying on his rubbery block and laughing at nothing. The purpose was firm here, firmer than the room surrounding him.

  Locked in a cell, slated for public trial and execution, he should feel more fear, more worry, and yet, he felt only triumph. Even if all his plans for his personal salvation failed, there were still the matadors. And they were next to the people who wielded real power in today's galaxy, those with money or influence who had been made criminals by a frightened Confed. His disciples were out there, and no matter what happened to him, they were spreading ripples on the cosmic pond....

  The air pressure in the room changed slightly. Khadaji looked at the door, to see it moving. A visitor. Khadaji sat up.

  There was a moment when the doorway stood empty, then a single man stepped into the frame and stood there, holding a solid pose for a few seconds of melodrama. Massey.

  Khadaji grinned.

  Massey strode into the chamber, alone. The door shut behind him. The man moved to stand two meters away from Khadaji.

  "Ah, the spy returns in triumph," Khadaji said.

  Massey nodded, matter-of-factly. He said, "I'm wearing a flatpack confounder. Our conversation will be private."

  "I have nothing to hide," Khadaji said, "so I must assume you have. But a question before we get to why you're here. What is your agency?"

  Massey shrugged. "I was Soldatutmarkt when I infiltrated the school. Now, I am in the personal service of The Wall."

  Khadaji nodded. "I thought as much."

  "And you knew before the raid. I have wondered why you allowed me to remain, knowing I was a spy. But I suppose we will find that out, in due time."

  "One would suppose that, yes."

  Massey turned away and looked around the cell.

  "You are braver than the local troopers," Khadaji said, "to risk turning your back on me."

  Massey turned back toward Khadaji. "Really? I think we both know better than that. I have come all the way from Earth for you. Left here, Venture will break your mind and destroy your body by millimeters, laughing all the while. I am your pass out of here."

  "For a show trial and execution on Earth."

  "Of course. You have to die, that's a given. It is the manner that is important. At least our way will be humane."

  "T
he end result will be the same, why should I care?"

  Massey laughed. "Because I was your student, I know you, Penn. Or Khadaji. You taught me that a matador should never give up. Alive, there is a chance to fight or flee. Dead, there is nothing. Alive and on the way to Earth, you can scheme. Left here under the gentle ministrations of Over-Befalhavare Venture, who rightly hates you, you have little chance. He would flay you personally, you know, were it allowed."

  "I suspected as much."

  "It doesn't matter what he wants. Factor Wall wishes you on Earth, and I have been sent to arrange it. Venture will fume, but in the end, a bargain will be struck."

  "Why tell me all this?" Khadaji shifted upon the cube suddenly, but Massey did not flinch as the troopers always did. Good that he had learned that much: don't defend unless there is a real attack.

  "To obtain your cooperation. You can always be killed while trying to escape, and proper media attention will paint a picture nearly as pleasing as your trial and execution, if it comes to that. But Factor Wall would rather you do it his way. After all, you might be found... innocent."

  Both men grinned at this. Massey was a pragmatic professional, and he obviously gave Khadaji enough credit for being the same.

  "Your proposal makes sense."

  "I thought you might see it that way. Pen was always a realist. It will take a few days. Venture and I must do our ritual dance first. Incidentally, his men will be storming in here momentarily, when it finally dawns on them that I'm confounding their bioelectronic eyes and ears."

  "I'm curious," Khadaji said. "What am I worth to the Over-Befalhavare?"

  "Well, I don't want to inflate your ego, but you are worth command of all Confederation Ground Forces."

  "Ah, I see. Wall is nervous about Venture, so he wants him on Earth, where he can watch him."

  Massey looked around sharply at the door, which was once again beginning to open.

  Khadaji said, "I take it you'd rather not have me repeat that?"

  "It might be better if you didn't."

  The door opened and four troopers, led by a Lojt, burst into the cell, hand wands held ready to fire. Both Massey and Khadaji regarded the men impassively.

  The Lojt looked flustered. "Uh... is everything all right?"

  "Why wouldn't it be?" Massey looked faintly amused.

  "We... uh... that is, our... uh... monitoring gear must be... uh... faulty. We detected... uh... signs of a struggle."

  "Really? I would have thought that my confounder would have prevented that." Massey produced a thin rectangle of plastic the length of his middle finger from his tunic. He waved the device at the Lojt.

  "Confounders aren't allowed in holding cells, Envoy—"

  "And if snakes had legs, they'd be lizards," Massey said. "Let's not discuss things that don't apply to our situation, Lojtnant. In any event, my talk with your prisoner is finished, for now." Massey turned to look at Khadaji, and gave him a military bow.

  Khadaji returned the gesture with a short inclination of his head. Massey had chosen to shut out the troopers, and Khadaji acknowledged his gambit.

  "I'll see you later," Massey said. He turned and moved from the cell, still ignoring the troopers. The Lojt looked irritated, but followed the Envoy without another word.

  Khadaji smiled at the retreating troopers, and leaned back on his block.

  Things were getting interesting.

  Indeed.

  * * *

  Sleel leaned against the wall next to the door, managing to look insolent, confident, and snide, all at the same time. Dirisha shook her head. Good old Sleel: no matter what, it wouldn't take him long to get back to his pose of the galaxy's greatest everything.

  "Well?" Dirisha raised an eyebrow, giving Sleel the opportunity to brag.

  He took it. "I've lubed the proper parts," he said. "Spread a few stads among the needy and tapped into the right computers. We are covered thicker than a singularity explorer's hull."

  "Good," Dirisha said. "Everybody is nearly finished with the assault memorization, except you."

  Sleel grinned, cat-full-of-canary. "I already did it. Ask me anything."

  Dirisha grinned back, and shook her head again. She did that a lot around Sleel. "No need. You say you know it, I believe you."

  Sleel's grin grew larger.

  "I've rented the simulacrum generator," Dirisha said. "Geneva is programming it now, at the warehouse we leased. We'll do a walk-through this evening, a full-dress tomorrow, and a final run before we bend to Renault."

  "Cutting it a bit close," Sleel said.

  "No help for it. Red says he figures they won't keep Khadaji bottled for much longer. Our line into the place is getting edgy; she says something is definitely going to happen, but she doesn't know exactly what. He's still in one piece, so far, but we've got maybe three standard days to snap him out.

  After that..." Dirisha shrugged.

  "We'll do it," Sleel said.

  Dirisha said nothing. She wished she had Sleel's confidence.

  The warehouse was identical to a dozen others in the row in which it stood—a rectangular block of stressed plastic without any windows. The winter air was chilly, but the building gleamed a dull green under a sunny sky.

  Dirisha was the last to arrive. Like the others, she had done a perimeter scan and security sweep. As far as she could tell, nobody had any interest in this particular industrial section at all, much less this warehouse.

  The air was warm inside. Sleel and Bork stood talking to Red and Mayli, not far from where Geneva fiddled with the controls on the generator. The matadors wore spetsdöds on both hands, gray orthoskins, and spookeyes pushed back on their foreheads. Dirisha quickly shed her outer garments to reveal the same dress and gear. She walked to stand next to Geneva.

  "Almost got it," Geneva said, touching a series of control tabs. She turned and kissed Dirisha. "It's a little tricky, getting the balance for a spookeye run.

  Thing likes it fully lit or completely dark, but has trouble in between. It should work now."

  "Okay. Where is the front?"

  "There, I've marked the floor with a spot of pulse-paint."

  Dirisha turned to look along the line of Geneva's pointing finger. She saw the faint glow of a thumbprint-sized splotch of white, throbbing like a small heart. She took a deep breath. "Let's do it."

  The two women walked toward the marked spot, gesturing to the others to join them. Once all six were there, Dirisha said, "Okay, this is a walk-through. You have a question while we're in it, stop and let's figure it out. Anything at all—I don't want any doubts later. Everybody ready? Good. Geneva?"

  The younger woman gave Dirisha a brief smile, then turned around to face the emptiness of the warehouse. "Go," she said loudly.

  The warehouse began to alter, filling with walls and ceilings and doors and even human figures as the simulacrum generator did its work. After a few seconds, the five stood at the entrance to the military prison on Renault.

  Dirisha reached out and touched a wall as solid as the hard-foam it appeared to be. Hang on, Emile, she thought. Hang on.

  Four

  PRESIDENT KOKL'U wore a smile so bright it had to be sincere. Wall returned the expression with his own smile, and it, too, was sincere, but hardly for the same reasons. Kokl'u's problem had never been intent, only the ability to do anything with it. The man was dazzling to look at, he had all the right moves for presidential timbre, but he was a shell, all style and no substance. A perfect puppet.

  "Ah, Marcus, so good of you to come." Kokl'u extended a strong, brown hand. His grip was just firm enough to show strength, without initiating challenge.

  "Limba. Nice to see you again."

  "Come, have some tea." Kokl'u raised one hand and his personal servant—a human instead of a servomech—scurried to arrange the tea setting. So gaudy, Wall thought, as ostentatious as was the room. Synsilk sheets in shades of hot pink draped all the walls; the floor was living carpet, one of the low-chlorophyll
grasses imported from Baszel, in the Ceti System. It smelled much too... earthy for Wall's taste, but then, Kokl'u had no taste. The furniture was period, something from the early post-Bender era, and was no doubt considered "futuristic" when it was produced. Now the cast plastic looked something less than quaint, with its sweeping lines, odd angles, and rainbow colors. Well. He would finish his business and leave as soon as he could.

  "Some color in your tea, Marcus?"

  "Yes, a bit of blue, please."

  Kokl'u nodded at the servant, who hastened to add the chemical to Wall's tea. The man counted slowly to four—Wall watched his lips move—then extended the thincris cup to Wall, who took it. Trust Kokl'u to waste his time training a menial in the precision of tea-and-color.

  The two men sipped at their tea. Wall made appreciative noises at Kokl'u, who seemed pleased by such praise. Wall did not press the President; he was a puppet, but it sometimes took care to keep from tangling his strings.

  Instead, Wall merely waited. He hoped the man would hurry; Nichole would be coming to his chambers later in the afternoon. That thought was enough to cause a rush inside Wall. Ah, he had reveled in her, taking her to the edge of her first passion, then tumbling them both into the depths of his own. She had cried out from the bliss of it—

  "—think that I might justifiably do it, Marcus?"

  Wall pulled himself away from his precious memory and back to what this spineless actor-president was saying. He backtracked over Kokl'u's words.

  Something about a new pavilion, some sort of kiosk or other.

  Smoothly Wall said, "Why, of course, Limba, I see no reason why you shouldn't have this thing. After all, a man of your great responsibilities should have some small comforts. Surely no one can begrudge you this."

  Inwardly Wall felt derision. Another toy for Kokl'u's vanity, he thought.

  Probably stocked with women or men who had caught his fancy, to be dressed in some outlandish costumes, ready to hop when the President yelled "wallaby."

  "You don't think the media would castigate me for it?"