Authors: Steve Perry
Pen nodded, eyes alive within the shadow of his hood. "His credentials were impeccable. A deep background check by one of my best agents came up clean. Massey was born of poor-but-honest terran stock, worked his way through school while helping to support his brother and two sisters, after their bio-parents were killed in a park panic. A political Independent, a Universal Eclectic, a hardworking man who tolerates the Confed because he has to."
Massey tried the next step, and fell. He returned to the beginning of the pattern. A fall anywhere always meant a return to the beginning, even if it were on the last step.
"Sounds perfect," Dirisha said.
Pen nodded, but said nothing.
Whatever Pen had been getting at still hung between them, the fugue of his words clear and unrevealing.
"What's wrong with him?"
Pen smiled, face hidden as always, but the expression obvious to one who had known him as long as Dirisha had. "He's a spy."
Massey quickly walked the first ten steps, pausing slightly at the next. The other students on their own patterns were no farther along than six or eight moves.
"A spy? For whom?"
"The Confed, of course. I'm not positive which agency, but I suspect he's one of the Soldatutmarkt, sent by The Wall."
Dirisha turned away from the students to look directly at Pen. "Marcus Jefferson Wall?" She felt a touch of fear along her spine, extending a cold finger into her bowels.
"The same."
"The Wall," Dirisha recited, "kingmaker and puppet-master, in control of the Confederation President; likely the most dangerous and powerful man alive."
"I'm glad to see you remember your lessons."
"You think Massey is a spy for him, and yet you let him into the school?"
Pen glanced at Dirisha, then back at Massey, who was essaying his fourteenth move once again. He said, "Yes."
"But-why?"
"Have you ever heard the expression, 'Better the devil you know than the devil you don't know'?"
"No."
"We have graduated fifty-three matadors in the years since the school opened, not counting those who have stayed here to continue teaching.
Those fifty-odd men, women and mues now work for the richest, most powerful men, women and mues in the galaxy, all of whom tend to be anti-Confed in their leanings. So far, our matadors have thwarted a total of thirty-nine assassination attempts successfully. Not a single client has been lost."
Massey managed the fourteenth move. Amazing. Dirisha turned back toward Pen.
"It is the business of such men as Marcus Wall to know everything of importance. Assassinations, or the attempt of such against men who can buy and sell planets, come to his attention. He was bound to learn about us, sooner or later."
Dinsha nodded. "Granted. But why a spy?"
"It is not for those who hold power by the most twisted of means to do things in a straightforward manner. Besides, we piqued his interest in a more-ah-personal manner."
"How so?"
"We turned down his application for a matador."
"You turned down The Wall? Chang, Pen, that would have been a coup! To be able to put a bug in his ear-!"
"No. We do not want Wall under our protection. Ever."
Dinsha turned back to watch Massey. He was outstanding, but he was not going to get the next step on the pattern, not this day. He fell.
"We do not take applicants for matadors," Pen said. "The Wall suborned one of my agents to present Massey as a candidate, and made him attractive under the standards I am wont to use for final selections."
"How did you find out?"
Pen did not speak, only smiled.
Dirisha blinked, her green eyes going momentarily blank as she recalled a bit of doggerel about smaller fleas upon the backs of larger fleas, and so on, ad infinitum.
Was there anything Pen left to chance?
"So you allowed him to come here."
"As long as he is in place," Pen said, "it is unlikely The Wall will send another spy. At worst, he must figure, he will have a man with our training. At best, he may uncover some kind of threatening conspiracy. Who knows for sure what he thinks?"
Dirisha stared at Massey, who was doggedly returning to the beginning of the pattern again. She had the feeling that Pen knew exactly what Marcus Wall thought. He might well be the most powerful and dangerous man in the galaxy, but she would not wish to be in his position with Pen as his enemy.
Sleel was back from San Yubi; Dirisha stood next to him at the range, watching him shoot. Sleel would toss an empty stinger magazine into the air, then plink at it. He hit the target eight times of ten, which made him slightly better than an average marksman. That irritated him no end, for Sleel did not like to be less than anybody at anything. That he was gave him something to strive for; Sleel would never be satisfied until he was the best at everything.
"How was the trip?" Dirisha asked.
Sleel shrugged noncommittally. "Fine."
Dirisha grinned and reached for a handful of empty magazines. The small stressplast units rattled as she grabbed them, and tossed them offhandedly downrange. Almost as an afterthought, Dirisha whipped her spetsdods up and began firing. The magazines jumped as the darts pinged into them. Five magazines, five hits.
Sleel glared at Dirisha. He said nothing, only clenched his teeth together.
Poor Sleel. He was so predictable. Dirisha knew the way to get to him was to one-up him. He couldn't stand it. He had to get ahead, somehow.
"Yeah, well, I spent some time with Rajeem Carlos's personal rep while I was on San Yubi. At the Three Fingers Inn, the most exclusive resort in this system."
Dirisha made an impressed noise.
"Carlos is head of the Antag Union, you know. Number one target for Confed sympathizers."
"Really?" Dirisha knew that, but when humoring Sleel, it was best to pretend ignorance, so he could shine.
"Yeah. And it looks as if Carlos wants a matador. And I will be handling the negotiations for him to come here personally, to see our operation."
That one stopped Dirisha cold. Pen was allowing a potential client to see the Villa? What was going on? First a spy, now a client? That didn't make any sense, not if he wanted any semblance of security.
Sleel smiled, feeling smug about himself again, no doubt.
Dirisha said, "Okay, thanks. If you want to sharpen your shooting, watch that jab. You need to move continuously on multiple or moving targets, more like a wave." Dirisha tossed another magazine over the range and shot it casually with her left spetsdod.
Sleel watched her carefully. He nodded, as much thanks as he was apt to give.
Dirisha walked away from the range, toward her room. Every time she thought she had this place figured out, Pen did something new, to surprise her. Maybe that was what kept the Villa from growing dull around her. On the other hand, like Sleel, there were some things Dirisha wanted answers to, for her own peace of mind. This was, after all, her home, and she didn't want it changed that much.
Geneva walked from the fresher, naked. She stretched toward the ceiling, and bent to touch her toes. Dirisha smiled at her lover.
Geneva straightened. "Did you hear about the uplevel bigwheel coming to the school? R.M. Carlos?" Dirisha frowned. "How did you hear that?" "Bork told me. Mayli told him, she got it from Sleel." "Damned comvine around here is faster than White Radio."
"You didn't know?"
"I knew," Dirisha said. "What I don't know is: why?" Geneva dived at the bed, tucked into a roll, and bounced off her back up onto her feet again. She turned to face Dirisha. "Massage my back and I'll tell you."
"I'll massage your butt!" Dirisha lunged at Geneva in mock anger.
"Eeek! I was only kidding! The scat is that Carlos wants a matador, but he wants to pick one himself. Pen told him, via Sleel, that we've got twenty-three almost ready to graduate. The Antag Union wants Carlos to get the best, since there have already been two assassination attempts, the second of which barely missed."
"Okay, come lie down, I'll rub your back."
Geneva did another dive at the bed, this time landing on her belly.
"Really?"
"Yes, really, brat. What else have you heard?" Dirisha began to knead at the hard muscles of Geneva's upper back.
"Umm. Ohh. That feels so good. What else? Nothing much."
"Come on, I can tell by your voice that you aren't telling all."
Dirisha felt the woman under her hands tighten slightly. "Pen thinks all the matadors here should be willing to consider going with Carlos. He says the best ones are instructors, and it's important that we keep Carlos alive. Very important."
Dirisha dug deeper with her fingertips, but the slight tenseness persisted.
"Pen hasn't said anything to you yet, has he?"
Geneva had her face pressed against the bedding, and her voice when it came was very small. "Sort of."
"Sort of?"
Geneva raised herself on one elbow, to stare at Dirisha. "He asked if I was ready to go into the field yet."
"And you said... ?"
"No,"
Not as long as I stay here, Dirisha thought. That was the unspoken reason, she knew. It wasn't her responsibility, Dirisha also knew, but then again, it was. Geneva was no puppy, following her around; she was a bright, attractive woman, the best matador the training had produced. She could outshoot any one at the school with a spetsdod, including Pen himself, Dirisha suspected. Geneva had the best record for assassination defenses in practice, could walk the pattern faster than anybody save Dirisha and Pen, and was liked by everybody who met her. And Geneva's love for her bound them both, even without Dirisha's reciprocation. "Lie back down, I'll finish your back, brat." Geneva smiled, and flopped back onto her face. It took so little to make someone in love happy.
As Dirisha massaged the other woman, she shook her head. It was a complex subject, love. She could see the effect it had on somebody like Geneva, the care and dedication it engendered.
Almost everybody seemed to know about it, even Penn, with his computer file on "Love." And his cryptic mutterings about how powerful it was, even more so than fanaticism. She could see it, but she couldn't see it. Love: Dirisha thought. A thing she was never apt to know.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DIRISHA SAT IN the study, in front of the computer console. Carlos was coming to the school, an unprecedented event, a client being allowed at Matador Villa. She wanted to know about this man. She stroked the computer into life, and called up Pen's files.
Name:
Rajeem Marson Carlos
Height: 190 cm
Weight: 96 kilos, TS
Hair: Red
Eyes: Blue
Tap: Human-Terra/Eng-Irish/Span
DOB:
1 Jan. 2323, TS
Father: Flannery Manuel Carlos,
International Pharmaceutical
Mother: Jean Amis James Carlos,
Principal Violin, Baton Negro Symphony, Baton Negro, Zillia, SA Siblings: Sister, Celise, DOB, 29 Nov. 2334, TS; Brother, Haldor, DOB 2320, TS; Half Sister,
Jerace, (paternal sperm donation), DOB 2323, TS
Education: New London Cast-3-6 Oxford Prep-6-16 Oxford-16-19, B.A. Pre-Theo Dublin
Theological-19-23 D.D., Catholic Humanistic
Unitarianism, Ordained 23 June 2349,
Full Prebendary.
Work:
Prebendary - a) Souva, Fiji, Republic of Oceanica
b) Needles, CA United World State America
c) Barley, Titan
d) Sparks, Small Continent, Koji, Heiwa System
Resigned Priesthood, 36
Joined Jeffersonian Conclave, 38
Joined Antag Union, 42
Elected President Antag Union, 44
Dirisha stared at the stats. Not much there, only the bare bones of what Carlos might be. One could interpret the facts, of course, but the accuracy of such would be suspect. Carlos had been a cleric, he'd quit, and joined a couple of organizations which offered token-and carefully legal- resistance to the Confederation dinosaur. Likely he was another one of the countless do-gooders who wanted things to be better but had few ideas or means to accomplish it.
A wisher, rather than a doer. Dirisha had met such men in her travels, well-meaning souls busy paving the roads to their particular hells. Well. It didn't really matter-she wasn't leaving the school to be his keeper.
There was an assembly, to meet the great man. Dirisha stood near the back of the auditorium, watching Massey, the spy. If ever a man should be safe from attack, it ought to be here, but Massey was a question mark. He might be willing to take out Carlos, if it could be blamed on the school.
The leader of the Antag Union arrived, smiling and talking with Pen as he walked. He was a big man, with flaming red hair set in a conservative cut, wearing an uninteresting gray business tunic and trousers, his feet shod in custom-spun dotic boots to match his clothes.
He and Pen were surrounded by a retinue, all Carlos's people, since Dirisha recognized none of them. Four of the party looked to be accountants or advisors; the final pair were obviously bodyguards. Dirisha focused her attention on the last two men, both of whom were large, easy-moving, and constantly watching the sixty or so students in the auditorium, eyes shifting alertly.
Weapons, if they carried them, were well-hidden. They weren't bad, but not in the same class as a matador. The taller of the bodyguards was an attractive man who looked oddly pale, his blue eyes and skin tone not matching his black hair. Well.
Dirisha could hardly fault his genetics, with her own green eyes and black skin.
As the group passed Dirisha, she glanced away, to check Massey's position, and so almost missed the second clue. She looked back at Carlos, who leaned over to say something to Pen, and his gaze met hers for a second.
He smiled, showing nice crinkle lines at the edges of his green eyes. He and Pen could go into business and make a fortune, they could sell the secret to those smile lines-Dirisha's own smile stopped. The group reached the sunken stage, and Pen began to speak. The focused micro-caster amplified his voice so that it filled the auditorium. Dirisha listened with half her attention: she was busy watching the black-haired, blue-eyed bodyguard.