The Machiavelli Interface Read Online Free PDF Page B

around them. The wall of the prison faded, and Renault's night sky lost its moons and stars, turning into a symmetrical net of cast plastic girders.
    It seemed as if Khadaji lasted a little longer before he, too, faded away into nothingness, but that was only wishful thinking, Dirisha knew. The simulacrum generator played no favorites with its creations. After a moment, the six matadors found themselves standing in the bare warehouse once again. This was the last rehearsal, and they had done it, they had gotten the ersatz Khadaji out without losing anyone.
    Dirisha looked at the others. It might not go that way during the real thing, and she didn't want to think about any of these people not making it. But the reality was upon them. Tomorrow night they would be on Renault and the troopers would be using real ammo, not the tinglers the simulacrum had used. Then again, they would be going for the real Khadaji, and not a machine-made ghost. She had a moment of doubt. "Listen, if anybody wants to walk away—"
    "Shut up, Dirisha," Sleel said. Everybody else grinned.
    Dirisha felt the tears gather, but she smiled back at them. "Okay, fools. Opening night tomorrow. I love you all."

Five
    POWER WAS a wonderful thing: it could be wielded with the delicate touch of a psychoneurosurgeon's laser or with the brutal overhead smash of a poisonball player. Marcus Jefferson Wall lived for the exercise of power in all its myriad forms. As a Factor, he had limited abilities; despite this, he was the most powerful man in the galaxy. He was an uncrowned king, an unelected president. He was, ultimately, the man in charge of anything he wished to control. It had not been an easy climb, but it had been worth it.
    Wall's attention was held by a holoproj that danced in the space provided for it in his sanctum. A political debate in the Confederation Parliament was heating up. The whip of the majority party—the Soclibs—was ranting about the failure of the minority party—the Conserves—to unanimously support quick military action during the recent uprising on Ago's Moon. The whip, a muscular man of fifty with stranded-and-dyed hair, punctuated his argument with choppy waves of his arms.
    "...very close to treason, in my view! Confederation fortunes are bound up in a strong and instant retaliation toward terrorist action! We cannot allow the slightest resistance!"
    The minority whip, a big woman who wore half a kilo of body jewelery—earrings, noserings, and pectoral clips—jumped to her feet and pointed her inducer at the speaker as if the electronic device were a weapon. The amplified voice of the chamber's computer rumbled into life.
    "Point of order, minority whip's privilege," the computer said. "Will the speaker yield?"
    The majority whip looked as if he would explode, but he nodded tersely.
    Failure to yield to privilege was legal, but practically unheard of. It was impolite, and considered a major faux pas for any politician. The majority whip sat in his form-chair.
    The minority whip paused only long enough to take a deep breath. "So, rational hesitation is now treason, is it? I think the majority whip overreaches himself! It is bad enough that he endorses moronic displays of expensive military power every time somebody sneezes on some tree-shrouded agroworld; now anyone who disagrees with his one-orbit view of criminal intent is accused of treason! So what if some shrink-dink moon fields a riot?
    Are we supposed to tell the taxpayers to dig deeper into their pockets to fund more million-a-minute sorties by troopers looking for live targets for their exercises? The majority whip is using piss for reaction fuel if he thinks we can afford to police every commune in the galaxy! Let the Ago's Mooners insurrect, let them have their rock! A simple—and cheap— embargo would bring them around quick enough, without a shot!"
    The majority whip jumped up and angrily clicked his own transponder, to respond, but Wall had seen enough. The