Matadora (21 page)

"Rajeem-" Beel began.

"No! I won't slither off to hide!"

"You're being stupid!" Dirisha said, angry.

He looked surprised at her outburst.

"What you want here is not the important thing, is it? I thought you were dedicated to the fall of the Confed."

"Of course I am-"

"That's not how I see it, Rajeem. You ought to be thinking of the day after tomorrow, not right now. If you're dead, a lot of hopes go with you. When the Confed falls, you need to be around to help pick up the pieces. You can be one of the movers, one of the people who point us in the right direction, afterward."

"I intend to be-"

"No, you don't, not if you won't run when you need to run! I can't protect you against the full weight of the Confederation dinosaur if it falls on you. I'm good, but I'm not a god. Even Khadaji knew when to shoot and when to footprint."

"Dirisha, I-"

"You like the center stage, Rajeem, I can see that. No dishonor there. But what you want isn't as important as what you represent right now. If somebody shoots, you duck, anything else is stupid! And selfish."

He turned away from Dirisha, looking at Beel.

"She's right, Rajeem. You like the game, but you have to look a few moves ahead. If you get taken out before the final round, it'll all be a waste."

Rajeem turned to stare at the wall. He took a deep breath, blew it out harshly, and shivered. He turned back to look at the two women. "I guess you're right. I'm sorry. I was thinking of myself, my ego, how it would look.

"What do you want me to do?"

Dirisha nodded. "I know a place where nobody will ask or care who you are, as long as you pay your expenses."

Leaving one world for another was supposed to be a strict procedure, insofar as identification was concerned. In theory, it was impossible for a person to travel by Bender under a false identity. As in many things, the theory was a far hop from actual practice. Dirisha, Beel, Rajeem and the children left the planet Wu, the system Haradali and travelled nearly eighty light years distant, to the Ndama System, to the world for which Dirisha had been named. And they did so in disguise and with new names, by a route which would be difficult, if not impossible to trace.-To a place Dirisha hoped she'd never see again: home.

She was prepared to see change in Sawa Mji, after fifteen T.S. years, but she was surprised in that.

The place looked almost exactly the same. Oh, there were a few new buildings; some of the old ones had been color rebonded or altered slightly, but for the most part, Flat Town seemed little different than when she'd left it.

As the boxcar glided down, Dirisha felt a tightness in her gut. She hated this place, had always hated it, and she could remember almost no good times to stack against the bad. But it was the perfect setting for a man like Rajeem Carlos to hide. Spacers passed through, but only losers came to stay.

The dregs settled in Flat Town, and turned even more sour as they aged. The Confed was inclined to let the place rot and die on its own-the military outpost was a token, no more, and only incompetent soldiers wound up there. Even if Rajeem stood up and announced who he was, the local drugged Lojtnant-in-Charge would have trouble understanding, or know what to do about it. It was a dank pit, her birthplace, and perfect for this one thing.

Although she felt little for her relatives, were they still living, Dirisha knew she had to see if they still lived there. They might recognize her, and they might be curious; therefore, it would be good tactics to survey them.

Even as the boxcar bounced to a rubbery landing, Dirisha had enough self-knowledge to know her rationalization was just that. She was curious, and despite herself, she cared. Her mother and sister and brother were products of the society into which they had been born; Dirisha knew just how hard it was to escape their fate. She was well-off now; maybe she could help, somehow. If it wasn't too late.

Port and Starboard had arrived before them, also incognito, and they were waiting when the boxcar unloaded. Dirisha felt the wave of heat wash over her as she stepped into the afternoon, and the stink that she'd grown too used to to notice as a child hit her nostrils almost like a physical blow. Chang, how could people stand it?

Port and Starboard had arranged quarters, ostensibly for a wealthy mining engineer, his sister and her children. Dirisha and the other two guards would pretend to be nothing else, looking out for their patron because he was forced to wait in this scumpit to close a lucrative business deal. The background story was well-fleshed, and local spies would find confirmation, if any bothered to check.

After they were settled, Dirisha went looking for her family.

It was as if they had never been.

In the run-down brothel, the owner's cur was surly, at first. "Don' know nuthin', bend off, Sister, you're wastin' my-t" He shut up when Dirisha jabbed the barrel of her spetsdod into his muscular, but quivering belly.

Dirisha knew what language worked here. The madam's cur looked out for her second, himself first. "I'm not some lacy offworlder, Deuce. You can talk or you can squirm on the floor. And if you reach for the panic tab, you get kicked after you fall."

The cur recognized power. "No-nobody named Zuri working here. There used to be a girl, but she's gone. Had a kiddo, but she went, too."

"Where?"

"I dunno-"

"Guess."

He licked dry lips. "Might try Belvo's."

Dirisha turned and started for the door. She took two steps, then spun and fired both spetsdods, getting off six darts. None of her shots hit the cur, but his face went dough-white. He'd been reaching for a shotpistol, and Dirisha gave him enough time to clear the counter with it before she blasted the weapon out of his hand. He put his hands on his head, fingers interlaced, and she turned away again.

Belvo's was, if it were possible, worse than the crib she'd just left. And it was a waste of time. Her sister, if it had been her, was gone, along with her daughter. Or somebody else's daughter, maybe. Of her mother, there was no trace at all.

On her way back to her quarters, Dirisha felt a depression like none she'd had since leaving this world a decade and a half before. What had she expected? That she would sweep in and free her sister from her bondage?

Lay a thick wad of standards into her palm and tell her to go to a place where she could live like a human instead of a poorly-treated copulatory work beast? Yeah, that was part of her fairy story, to be the sister who escaped, and who finally came back. It was a delusion, she knew. She was bright enough to see the bitter humor of it, the last vestiges of the girl she had been wanting to show them! It wouldn't have been for Zawadi, it would have been for herself. Learning to love didn't cure everything that had haunted her. There were still ghosts which had to be laid to rest someday. But not today.

There was a surprise waiting for her when Dirisha got back to her room. A message from Sleel. Starboard said it sounded urgent.

Dirisha called. Sleel's image came to off-colored life over her communicator.

"The shit tube has blown," Sleel said. "The school is closed, and everybody is supposed to head for a hiding place. Matador training has been declared Treason Against the Confed, Dirisha. I'm calling from a sub rosa station Pen set up, halfway around the planet from Simplex-by-the-Sea. There are arrest files out for all of us, you included."

"Is everybody okay, Sleel?"

"Last I heard. We had six hours warning. Bork and Mayli stayed to close the Villa down with Pen, but they got clear before the Confed troopers rolled over the school."

Dirisha felt relieved. Thank all the gods!

"Everybody who hasn't already hit the road running is likely to be pulled into a Confed net. Most of the people with clients have taken off." He paused, and his face seemed to grow red. "It was Massey, Dirisha. He was a fucking spy! And you knew it, didn't you?" -

Dirisha sighed. "I knew it. But so did Pen."

That seemed to stun Sleel. "He did? Then why did he let it happen this way?"

"I don't know, Sleel. Pen has crooked eyes, he sees things I can't."

"Yeah. Shit. Look, Dirisha, I'm leaving, stat. But I've passed the word to everybody that they can use the quintdrop for messages. Pen says the Confed'll take years to run it down, even if they catch somebody who puts 'em on to it. Call if something happens."

Sleel was silent, as though searching for something else to say. A surge of emotion ran through Dirisha as she thought about the school being shut down, about the Confed destroying the only safe home she had ever known.

She felt rage, sadness, helplessness, all wrapped in concern for her friends.

Sleel cleared his throat. "Uh, look, Dirisha, I might not- that is, you and I, we might not be able to-to..."

"It's all right, Sleel. I understand. You take care of yourself, you hear? You're a good man, Sleel."

"C-c-copy, Dirisha. Luck on your blindside. Discom."

Dirisha turned, to see Rajeem standing behind her. She wanted to jump and run to him, she felt like crying, but she sat without moving. "You heard?"

"Yes. It looks as if the dinosaur is going to thrash around some before it rolls over and dies."

Dirisha stared at nothing. The school was dead, her friends scattered. Pen had to have known it was coming, he always seemed to know everything, how could he have missed it? More, if he did know-and he must have-why did he allow it to happen that way? What was he up to?

"Dirisha?" Beel looked concerned.

Dirisha started to speak, but the com lit with an incoming call. Absently, she flicked the unit back into life. What now?

It was Sleel again. "Sleel? What-?"

"It's Pen, Dirisha! They got Pen!"

"What?! How? Where? Is he all right_?"

"He just walked into the military commander's office and turned himself in!"

Dirisha shook her head violently. "I can't believe that! Why would he do it? Why?"

"It's on a livecast, Dirisha! Somebody must have known, it's on the net, I'm looking at it! I'm going to try and patch the signal into the corn's transmitter-hold it-"

Dirisha's screen blanked, then cleared. The holoproj was fuzzy but the enshrouded figure of Pen was centered in the picture. Dirisha sucked in a deep breath. Pen was surrounded by a dozen armed guards, and an officer moved to stand in front of him.

Gods, if Pen wanted to resist, he could take out most of the room, maybe all of them! He was still wearing his spetsdods! Were they blind, as well as stupid?

The officer reached up toward Pen's hood. Pen stood impassively, his arms by his sides. Dirisha leaned forward.

The officer grabbed at the covering over Pen's face.

Whoever was operating the camera zoomed in, to a tight shot of Pen's face.

The officer's hand closed, as he bunched the fabric of Pen's robe in his fist and tugged. The covering came off, and for the first time, Dirisha saw the face of the man who had been her friend and teacher for more than six years.

She let her breath go with a yell as she recognized the face under the robe-The face of Emile Antoon Khadaji!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"IT CAN'T BE," Rajeem said. "Khadaji's dead, he was killed by Confederation troopers on Greaves."

Dirisha's mind churned. "It's him. I worked for him, I know what he looks like. Damn, why didn't I recognize him before? His voice-he must have used a throat muter-"

"Khadaji. Alive." Rajeem stared at the now-blank communicator. "There are people who worship him as a kind of messiah. He could probably raise an army of five million by waving his hand."

Port came into the room. "I dunno if this is the time," he said, "but a package came for you." He held out a plastic-wrapped bundle to Dirisha.

Dirisha took the bundle. It was the size of a shoe. Mechanically, she began to tear open the covering. Her thoughts ran unfettered through complicated mazes in her mind. Why?

What was Pen-Khadaji-up to? What did it all mean? What was she going to do now?

The cover came free, to reveal a flat box. Dirisha opened it.

Inside, was the curved knife she had seen Pen playing with in his office, just before she'd decided to leave. She picked up the thing of steel and brass and wood. Light glittered from the mirror blade. That it was a message, Dirisha doubted not at all. What was it Pen-no, not Pen, Khadaji-had said?

The knife had taught him a basic lesson? What was he trying to teach her now? That she should remember the ultimate purpose of the matadors? Of Khadaji's intent? She stared at the knife. What else? The knife was a form of fugue, not nearly as subtle or complex as many of the fugues Khadaji/Pen had spun. Your turn, Dirisha, the knife seemed to say.

"Dirisha?" Beel had come into the room, to stand next to the seated woman.

Dirisha looked up, and it came to her, all in a rush, what she had to do. "I need to get in touch with Geneva, and the others."

"Of course, you're concerned-" Rajeem began.

"More than concerned," Dirisha said. "You said Khadaji could raise an army if he wanted. The first people in line would be the matadors. Khadaji was more than just a holo hero at the school, he was revered. It was such a basic part of our training that Khadaji was the acme of what a dedicated human should be, the matadors will fall all over themselves trying to figure out a way to help him. It could be suicide."

"But they'll know that Khadaji taught them that, as Pen."

"It won't matter. I knew him, knew he was only a skilled and lucky man, and even so, I have this urge to hop the next Bender for Renault and break him out. With most of the students, Khadaji was set up to be father-mother-lover-best friend. And even if he hadn't been, all of us are loyal to Pen. We owe him. Ah, shit!"

Rajeem dragged one hand through his hair. "Something strange about all this."

Dirisha laughed. "Strange? Hon, you don't know the eighth of it! Pen has wheels within wheels within wheels going, all the time. Nobody has ever been able to figure out what he's up to, not until now."

"You understand it?" Beel asked.