The Machiavelli Interface Read Free Page A

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