Matadora (12 page)

We can make a difference, if we are properly trained, properly motivated and dedicated. That's what you are learning to do here. But before you can save anybody else, you must learn to save yourself."

Dirisha sat on the edge of her bed, telling the story to Geneva. The two women wore thinskin bodystockings and spetsdods, no more, and as Dirisha spoke, Geneva came to stand next to the dark-skinned woman.

"She knew I wouldn't shoot her," Dirisha said. "There was no doubt, none at all. I don't understand how she could be so sure."

Geneva reached out and began to knead at Dirisha's neck, working the tight and hard trapezius with deep pressure of her fingertips. Dirisha hadn't realized how tense she was until she felt the other woman's touch. Bad, that, losing simple muscle control unconsciously. Dirisha took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and relaxed into the massage.

After a moment, the hands stopped. Another moment, and there came the sound of Geneva's spetsdods thumping onto the bed.

Dirisha opened her eyes and looked up into Geneva's smiling face. The older woman shook her head. "Damn. I'm surrounded by 'em."

Geneva continued the massage, digging harder into the kiatsu points, relaxing the muscles even more. She said, "Is it so hard to believe somebody can trust you?"

"I don't understand the reason why. I could have shot her. I could do the same to you."

"You could. It would be all right if you did."

"You are hopeless."

Geneva's touch lightened, to a gentle stroking motion. "Why? Because I love you? And trust you?"

Dirisha said nothing. That sense of danger which rode her whenever the conversation or her thoughts turned into these channels rode heavily upon her. What was she afraid of?

Geneva slept in Dirisha's bed, exhausted from their love-making, out like a small child. Dirisha sat at her desk, glancing past the holoproj unit at the sleeping figure. She had been floating in this comfortable pond for a long time without really questioning it-one tended not to look at such a gift as this too closely-but now it was time. Along with the skill of sumito, the ability to knock dragonflies from the air with a spetsdod, Dirisha was getting more than she'd intended. She needed to know more about that. There was information stored in the viral molecular brain of Matador Villa's computer she wanted access to, and she had figured out a way to get it.

The black woman stood and went to her lockbox. Thumbing it open, she withdrew a small holoprojector. She'd bought it from one of the bandit merchants in town, no one at the school knew she had it. Neither did anyone know that Dirisha had spent considerable time in the archives, editing recording spheres which were available to open access. From the lockbox, Dirisha also took a plastic case which held half a dozen vacuum-formed steel marbles. The case was marked, "Galactic Economies in the Modern Age."

Five of the balls were, in fact, just that> dull recordings of interest only to a student of economics. The sixth sphere, however, was something else. It was a pass to information held under personal lock-if it worked. It would depend on how sophisticated the computer security system was.

For a moment, she was tempted to use the console here in the room.

Geneva was not likely to awaken for anything short of a bomb exploding, at least as long as she knew Dirisha was there. But if she did, Dirisha didn't want to have to explain what she was doing. No, better to do this in privacy.

The hour was late, and although the Villa never shut down completely, it was unlikely Dirisha would run into anybody in the sleeping quarters. She padded down the hall to the small study and entered it. Nobody else was about.

Inside the study, Dirisha locked the door and stroked the computer console into life. The air lit with the Three Rules, as it did every time a remote in-house was used. The words floated holoprojically over the small plastic desk, glowing as though composed of tiny neon tubes.

Quickly, Dirisha set up her projector. She snapped the sphere into the socket, and flicked the unit on. There was a small hum as the projector cycled up. Dirisha touched the "Play" control, and then the "Hold" tab.

The air in front of the computer console shimmered brightly, and the image of Pen appeared, looking somewhat ghostly. Dirisha adjusted a control, and Pen took on more solidity. He seemed almost real, frozen in the middle of a gesture, his mouth open. A holoprojection would not fool anyone with normal human senses this close, but it might fool a computer's remote camera.

Dirisha looked at her chronometer. She had timed the recording, and had practiced the sequence several times. She touched the "Hold" control again, counted off three seconds, then stroked the computer console into "Access" mode. She took a deep breath. The computer was designed to hold private files under several command sequences. Material could be locked under simple codes, voice patterns, visual identification, palmprints, or any combination of the four. Most students and instructors just used vocal or visual. If the computer recognized you,

it gave you what you wanted, assuming you were cleared for it. It would not give Geneva those files tagged to Dirisha's face, or vice versa. Simple, and usually pretty effective. But recordings could be made, vocally or visually, so there were back-ups.

OPERATING. The word flashed in the air.

The image of Pen spoke. "Personal Files," it said. Those two words had taken Dirisha almost nine hours to find and assemble so they sounded natural. Dirisha started counting. One, two three-INITIAL IDENTIFICATION SEQUENCE ACCEPTED. VOCAL AND VISUAL. CONFIRMATION REQUIRED.

Dirisha let her breath escape slowly. Here's where it could get tricky. She had made an assumption that Pen would secure his own files as much as possible. So far, so good- The image of Pen leaned toward the holoproj. There was a sensor at the base. As Pen stretched out his right hand, Dirisha leaned in from the side and pressed her own palm against the sensor. It was Pen's palmprint, taken from a cast she had made of it, a thin layer of plastic skin over her own.

SECONDARY IDENTIFICATION ACKNOWLEDGED, the computer flashed. AWAITING OPERATIVE CODE SEQUENCE.

The image of Pen stood unspeaking. Dirisha realized her timing was a little slow. Would the computer see that as a problem? Was there a limit on how long it would wait?

"Khadaji," The image said.

Dirisha held her breath again. She reached for the "Hold" control on the projector. It was pure guesswork, using Khadaji's name. The recording had three more words it could try, in case that one didn't work. If the computer queried a wrong command, the image of Pen would say, "A mistake. Cancel that, the code is 'Matador.'"

If that didn't work, there was "Sumito" and "spetsdod" in reserve. After that, the game was over, and likely Dirisha would be in deep shit. The security program might have orders to inform Pen of unsuccessful attempts to peek at his files.

But, nothing risked, nothing gained-

ACKNOWLEDGED, the computer said.

Dirisha let her indrawn breath escape in a rush. Ha! So the inscrutable Pen wasn't omnipotent! She stabbed at the control of the projector, and sat in front of the terminal. She typed in the word "Index", and waited to see what secrets were hers for the taking.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PEN'S PERSONAL FILES were extensive-there were hundreds of entries, detailing all kinds of fascinating things: biographies of students, names of local officials who had been bribed, a lengthy section on pubtending, even one entitled, "Love." It was interesting reading, but it did not reveal the reason behind it all. Aside from what Dirisha had been told, she could find no other, secret purpose.

Seated in front of the holoproj, working the terminal, Dirisha scanned a dozen files quickly. She read her own biograph. Some of it was written by Pen's agents, a multi-viewed accounting of her movements from the time she'd left Khadaji's employ on Greaves until she'd arrived on Renault. Other parts were evaluations by instructors at the Villa, including Pen's comments.

She was, she noted, well-thought of.

Geneva's file carried comments similar to hers. There were files on Bork, Sleel, Sister and even Khadaji. Dirisha didn't bother to read these. There was no file listed for Pen. Damn. All the effort she'd expended to break into Pen's persona] files, and there was nothing here. It was possible he had hidden something within an innocuously-named document, much as Dirisha had hidden her doctored storage sphere, in plain sight. But there was no way she could find that kind of information unless she scanned all the material, not unless she was amazingly lucky. Dirisha did not trust luck.

Dirisha looked at the chronographic read built into the holoproj image.

She'd been reading for almost two hours, and she'd only touched the surface.

Well. She could come back, now that she knew she could get in. Given enough time, she could scan all the files. Yet, even as she thought it, she felt as if that would be a waste of time. She wouldn't find anything. Pen had no reason to suspect anybody could bypass his security checks to get to his files; if he held some dark secret, it did not seem to be stored within the computer's vast memory.

Could it be mat Pen's-and Khadaji's-reasons for starting the school were as Pen had said? Nothing more? That seemed too simple-The air pressure in the room altered. Dirisha still stared at the holoprojic image, but she was aware that the door to the study had opened. The locked door. She spun away from the image, her right spetsdod leading-

"Find anything interesting?" Pen said, from his stance in the doorway.

She was caught!

Despite her sudden rush of guilt, she managed to smile. "Nothing worth mentioning," she was finally able to say.

Pen walked to the console. As Dirisha watched, he bent

and tapped in a code. "Program in ID stats on Dirisha Zuri," Pen said.

ACKNOWLEDGED. PROGRAMED.

"Good. Dirisha Zuri is to have open access to any files stored under my security mode."

ACKNOWLEDGED.

Pen cleared the computer again.

"Why did you do that?"

"There are two ways I could go," Pen said. "I could add in more security, eye scans, complex code words, things like that, and keep you from sneaking into my files again. That might lead you to think I had something to hide. Or, I could let you see anything you wanted. A matter of trust."

Dirisha shook her head. "I wonder why it is everybody is so damned trusting of me! I don't deserve it."

"Perhaps."

"I mean, look, I just broke into your private files. If I were you, I'd be more than a little upset."

Pen crinkled. "I'm not. It shows initiative."

"Shit. How did you know what I was doing?"

"A security rider on my index. It informs me whenever anybody breaks in."

"I should have known."

"You aren't the first to try it. Or, even to succeed."

That surprised Dirisha.

"A few have managed, including you."

Dirisha wanted to ask who had tried, but she didn't. If he'd wanted her to know, Pen would have mentioned names.

"I expect it," Pen continued. "We're not training robots here. People who don't want to know more than they're shown probably won't make very good galactic movers."

Dirisha stood and faced Pen. She was almost as tall as he was. "So that's it?

You don't have any secrets, no un-recycled corpses stashed under your bed?"

"Perhaps," Pen said. "Everyone has secrets. But what I told you about what we want to do here is straight. And you're happy here, aren't you?"

Dirisha thought about that, but only for a moment. She realized he was right: she was happy here. Pen might be twisty and devious, but he was teaching her things. She didn't know exactly what it was she had been drawn into, but she was happier here than any place she had ever been. As long as that was the case, what did the rest of it matter?

"Yeah," she said. "I'm happy here."

Pen's eyes crinkled at the edges, and he said, "Good. It gets better."

PART TWO

"By knowing things that exist, you can know that which does not exist"

—Miyamoto Musashi

''There ore three kinds of brains: the one understands

things unassisted, the other understands things when

shown by others, the third understands neither alone

nor with the explanations of others."

 —Machiavelli

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

TWO OF THE three new students were pretty good; the third, Massey, was superb. Dirisha watched him walk the pattern, nodding to herself. Only here for a week, already Massey could do eleven steps. Dirisha had seen him stripped in the weight room, and his musculature was outstanding, even compared to students who had been at the school for many months. The other two were good, but Massey had real potential. If his brain were as sharp as his body, he was going to make a hell of a matador.

Dirisha watched one of the other students stumble on the eighth step, and she smiled. After four years, she could walk the pattern blindfolded. Four years of daily practice had given her mastery of many things, including the Ninety-Seven Steps. Were she to return to her old paths, to the Musashi Flex, she would be ranked in the top dozen players within a matter of days. But she would never go back.

Pen appeared, and moved to stand by Dirisha, as she watched one of her top students lead the class.

Massey made it to the twelfth step. Dirisha could almost see his thoughts as he struggled to twist his body for the thirteenth move. There has to be a way, he'd be thinking. I've seen others do it, it is possible.

"What do you think of him?" Pen asked.

"He's very good. Excellent, in fact. Where did you find him?"

"Earth. He was supposedly a freelance industrial courier with anti-Confed leanings."

Dirisha had known Pen too long to let the single most important word in his sentence pass unchallenged. "Supposedly?"

With a twist that almost, but not quite unbalanced him, Massey made the thirteenth step. An interesting rendition; clumsy, but acceptable. The man grinned.