Free The Machiavelli Interface by Steve Perry Page A

my lord."
    "You are a most loyal fellow, Massey. What is your current rank?"
    "SG-1, my lord."
    "You are promoted. What is the grade for Sub-chief of Imperial Security?"
    "M-my lord?"
    "Never mind. I will have it arranged. You are now Sub-chief of Imperial Security, detached to my personal service."
    Massey stood silent, too stunned to reply. Wall gave him a practiced, false smile. "I reward loyalty, Massey. You would do well to remember that."
    Massey found his voice. "I-I never doubted it, my lord."
    "Good. Run along now and attend to that matter I requested, if you would be so kind."
    "At once, my lord."
    "And stop calling me my lord. You must call me Marcus. My friends are allowed that."
    "Yes, my—yes, Marcus."
    When Massey had gone, Wall sat into his orthopedia and thumbed the portable computer into active mode. The flat-screen cast a small holographic display above its surface, a list of files. Wall adjusted the control that enlarged the print, picked a file, and called it up. He began to read.
    Three hours later, when he blinked away the vestiges of the reading trance, the tears streamed freely down Wall's face. Oh, to be tricked so! To be made the fool, to be laughed at! His grief nearly consumed him, but it was tempered, abated by another emotion nearly as powerful: rage. Payment would be made for this; it would be made in dear coin, an expense the tricksters could not begin to imagine. They were going to be sorry. Beyond measure.
    * * *
    Seated in a small office in the Holy City Business Complex, Emile Khadaji began his campaign.
    Before he had been Pen the teacher, he had been Khadaji the resistance—and Khadaji the pub owner. Fourteen years before that he had deserted from the Ground Forces, leaving his job as a combat trooper. Between the days of being a soldier and starting his one-man war, he had been a student, a smuggler, a dealer in illegal goods, and finally, a rich and mostly-honest businessman. He had developed a medium-sized fortune during those years after Maro and before Greaves. He had used a small part of his money for the school; he still had better than ten million standards free money left, with perhaps twice that much in business assets scattered through twenty planets and five wheel worlds. Now it was time to use the power that money represented.
    On a coded White Radio line, set up with the best industrial scrambler available, Khadaji began to make his calls.
    * * *
    "Yes, Hemet, it's Roj Antoch. I have a galaxy-wide campaign for our agency.
    Yes, I have the Confed authorization, I'll have a copy of it stat-flexed to you.
    We're pushing a biography, pop-read, with holoproj vid tie-in. Due out in six months, but they want a big push. The title? Emile Antoon Khadaji: The Man Who Never Missed . That's right, him. Yes, I know it's not particularly bright of the Confed, but I have the authorization. Right. Get our best people on it, right away. I'll have the start-up copy sent with the stat-flex of the Confed okay. Yes. We're talking three million initially, supersaturation, stat. Our clients want everybody in the galaxy to know about this book within a few days. Good, Hemet. I knew I could depend on you."
    * * *
    There was no legitimate Confederation authorization, of course, only a very good forgery, courtesy of another Khadaji contact. Nor was there to be a book or vid. That didn't matter. By the time the Confed pinned the agency, it would be too late. The myth would be too tall to shoot down. Hemet would be covered, Khadaji would see to that as best he could.
    * * *
    "Mease? Yar, it's Cyclone Milla. No, not dead yet. Busy the last seven or eight years. You still in the biz? Good. I've got an order for you. For Ago's Moon. What? Yar, I know there's a war going on there, what do you think, I want a load of foodstuffs? Listen up, I need five thousand spetsdöds and a thousand rounds of Spasm each. Yar, that's what I said. And I need five thousand canisters of emetic gas. Standard Oxyemetine