Deathstalker (45 page)

The three women looked to be in their early twenties, wearing the same leather and chains their dead sister had worn, not to mention the same T-shirt, bearing the legend “Born To Burn.” They were short and stocky, with muscular bare arms, and one of them was casually hefting a solid steel dumbbell as though it weighed nothing. Long dark hair fell to their shoulders, full of knotted ribbons. Their faces were sharp, high-cheekboned, and daubed with fierce colors. They each wore swords on their hips in leather scabbards that looked like they’d seen a lot of use. The three women looked cold and calm and very dangerous.

“Welcome, Stevie Blues,” said Mr. Perfect. “You honor us with your presence. As espers and clones, you are uniquely suited to bring the two undergrounds together.”

“Even though neither of us can be sure where your loyalties
really lie,” said the dragon, a long, thin tongue flickering out of his mouth.

“Save the flattery and the paranoia,” said one of the Stevie Blues. “We’re here to talk; let’s get on with it. Some of us have a life outside the underground.”

“Freaks and perverts,” growled the flowing mandala. “Group marriages such as yours are forbidden among clones.”

“We’re elves, first and foremost,” said the middle Stevie Blue calmly. “We fight for freedom. All kinds of freedom. Want to make something of it?”

Roaring flames suddenly licked up around the three elves, and the heat drove everybody back a step. It didn’t affect the Stevie Blues. They were pyros and immune to their own fire. The clone representatives frowned severely, making it clear this was nothing to do with them. The waterfall began to steam slightly, and the dragon shifted uncomfortably. Mr. Perfect’s face was turning red. Maybe he was present, after all. Valentine grinned, enjoying the show.

“Well?” said the third Stevie Blue, glaring at the mandala. “You have anything further to say?”

“Not at this time,” said the mandala stiffly. The elves’ fire snapped off, and everyone breathed a little more easily.

“Can’t we leave you people alone together for ten minutes?” said a new voice, and everyone turned to look. All around the walls, viewscreens were flashing on as the cyberats made their appearance. Computer hackers, technofreaks, teenage rebels with any number of causes. Like the esper representatives, they hid their true faces behind computer-generated images. Cyberats faced death or reconditioning if caught, but for them the lure and possibilities of the computer system was just too much to resist. Most of them had no interest in politics or rebellion, outside of wanting to be left alone, but the shared danger provided a common ground with the clone and esper undergrounds.

Cyberats were unpeople, hiding behind fake IDs and a multitude of names, organizations and corporate identities. They lived like rats in the walls of the state, foraging for what they needed when no one was looking. Ghosts haunting the machine just for the hell of it. They helped fund the underground through various scams and computer frauds and used the opportunity to vent their spleen on the authorities who persecuted them. There were a great number of ways to
make someone’s life miserable through computers, and the cyberats knew all of them. After all, they’d invented most of them.

The esper and clone representatives looked severely about them at the grinning faces covering the walls and maintained a dignified silence. Long experience had taught them they couldn’t win with the cyberats, who spent most of their time engaged in wars of words with each other. A few voices jeered at the representatives, and then were distracted by the last of the arrivals. The aristocratic backers had finally turned up, fashionably late of course, stepping out of the entrances as though just entering the chamber was enough to soil their clothing. Valentine smiled at them, and they bowed briefly in return. There were only three of them. Most of the aristocrats who for one reason or another backed the underground, preferred to do so discreetly, and at long distance.

On the whole, they funded the underground as a means to political power. Mostly younger sons, who weren’t going to inherit, or at least not fast enough to suit them, and therefore had to look for advancement where they could. They wore no disguises; the underground didn’t trust them any further than they could spit into the wind with their mouths closed and were determined to know exactly who they were dealing with. If only so they could get them later, if things went wrong. The aristocrats went along, with much bad grace. It wasn’t as if they had a choice. You only came to the underground when there was nowhere else to go. Personally, Valentine didn’t give a damn.

Evangeline Shreck he knew from before, and her appearance here was no surprise. A fervent supporter of the clone underground in recent times, for reasons which remained obscure. David Deathstalker was a new face. He’d inherited the title after Owen was outlawed and didn’t look any too pleased about it. Only seventeen years old, a minor cousin, unused to the hot house intrigues of the Imperial Court. Tall, immaculately dressed, and possibly not as nervous as he appeared. Handsome enough to set a few hearts fluttering at court, but young enough not to know that yet. Or maybe not. He was a Deathstalker, after all.

He’d acquired the title by default. Owen had no brothers or sisters; the supposedly genetic quirk that gave Deathstalkers the boost also killed most children before they reached maturity. The Family considered it an acceptable
risk. No one ever asked the children what they thought about it. So far, David’s motivations seemed clear enough. He wanted to avoid being outlawed like Owen, or executed like Owen’s father, and was smart enough to know he had absolutely no allies at court. The Deathstalker name had become synonymous with treason and bad luck, and most people were keeping well clear in case it rubbed off.

The third face held Valentine’s interest the longest. Kit SummerIsle, called by some Kid Death, who murdered his own Family in the name of ambition only to find himself alone, trusted neither by the court nor any Family. A mad dog who’d slipped his leash. Presumably Kit was there as a backer of the underground because no one else would touch him. The Empress had played with him for a while, but Kit had to be wise enough to know that wouldn’t last. He was too dangerous: a sword that might just as easily turn on anyone who tried to wield it. Kid Death, the smiling killer, resplendent as always in his armor of black and silver. He looked very young, with his pale face and flyaway blond hair, but the icy blue eyes were very old. They’d seen enough death for a dozen lifetimes and loved every minute of it.

Valentine stepped forward and bowed courteously to Evangeline Shreck. “Dear Evangeline, so good to see you again. Pity about the wedding, but that’s life. Or rather, death. Your father always did have a propensity to overreact.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” said Evangeline. “You look quite different without your face on, Valentine. Almost human.”

“A mere illusion,” Valentine said smoothly. He turned to the young Deathstalker and bowed again, not quite as low. “I’ve not had the pleasure, I believe, sir. David, isn’t it? I’m …”

“I know who you are. And it’s pronounced Dah-veed, actually.” The Deathstalker’s voice was cool and sharp, trying hard for the gravitas he felt his title required.

“As you wish,” said Valentine. “But I fear you too must learn to come when the underground calls, however they pronounce your name. There’s no room down here for the airs and graces we allow ourselves in society. That is, after all, part of the charm of treason. There are no rules here, no required behavior, no one to make us kneel or bow the head.
We are equal here. And all they ask of us is a willingness to fight and if need be die for the cause.”

“Then why are you here, Valentine?” said Kid Death. “You never cared for any cause save your own continuing self-destruction.”

Valentine took his time turning, and smiled at the SummerIsle. “Where better to seek death or transformation than in the midst of rebellion? There’s only one place on Golgotha more dangerous than the underground, and that’s the Arena. And that’s always seemed too much like hard work for me. I’m really rather delicate, you know.”

“You have the constitution of an ox,” said Evangeline. “Your system has to be in top form to put up with all the things you do to it.”

“I know why he’s here,” said Kid Death. “He wants the drug. The esper drug. Trust me, Valentine, if you did get it, you wouldn’t like it. You’d find out what everyone really thinks of you.”

Valentine smiled dazzlingly. “You already know what everyone thinks of you, dear Kit, and it hasn’t slowed you down any.”

“I want to know why Hood is allowed to hide his face,” said David. “We weren’t allowed to, even though it meant having to expose our faces in front of brain damage cases like Valentine and Kid Death.”

“How unkind,” murmured Valentine. “No one appreciates a true artist.”

Kid Death looked steadily at David. “You really must learn to choose your words more carefully, Deathstalker. You never know when they might be your last.”

David looked at him defiantly. His hand was very near his sword. “You don’t frighten me, SummerIsle.”

“Then he should,” said Evangeline. “I’ve seen you both fight, and he’d win. Now if you two have both finished shaking your genitalia at each other, perhaps we could hear Hood answer the question about his anonymity. Personally, I’m all ears.”

Kid Death and David Deathstalker looked at each other, and David looked away first. Valentine studied him thoughtfully. Perhaps the young Deathstalker wasn’t as naive as he seemed. The SummerIsle was a psychopath, and everyone knew it. If he were to turn those cold eyes in Valentine’s direction, Valentine had every intention of bowing low and
backing down. And then possibly dropping a little something special in the SummerIsle’s drink at some future time. He looked across at Hood as he realized the silence had lengthened and Hood still hadn’t answered the question. The man without a face stood very still, the empty interior of his hood as enigmatic as ever.

“I am valuable to the underground and the cyberats,” he said finally. “They indulge me rather than risk losing what I provide.”

“And what might that be?” said Kit

“You don’t need to know,” said Hood.

“But we insist,” said David.

The two of them moved unhurriedly toward Hood, taking up positions on either side of him so that he couldn’t face them both at once. Their hands were very near their swords.

“That’s enough!” snapped Mr. Perfect, and everyone turned to look. The esper representative glared at them all impartially. “We did not summon you here to squabble like children in a playground. We have business to discuss, and the longer we stay here, gathered together in one place, the more danger we put ourselves in.”

“Damn right,” said one of the Stevie Blues. She strode forward to take up a position in the center of the chamber, hands on hips. “Security would just love to get the drop on us because we were too busy arguing among ourselves to hear them coming. Everyone stops messing about right now, or my sisters and I will start banging heads together. You can call me Stevie One. My sisters are Two and Three. Don’t get us mixed up or we’ll hit you. We pride ourselves on our individuality.”

There was a general relaxing and moving away by all those present. Stevie One nodded to Mr. Perfect to take over. David sniffed at the three clones.

“Bunch of perverts,” he said quietly to Valentine. “And they dare call what they have a marriage.”

“Be fair,” said Valentine, “At least they can be sure what they see in each other. Anyway, at least now we get to know why the elves summoned us here.”

Mr. Perfect glared at him. “The esper council summoned you, not the elves. They are only a part of the underground. The Stevie Blues do not speak for everyone here.”

Stevie Two sniffed. “You still come to us when you want something dirty done. Especially if it’s risky. And who has
a better right to speak than my sisters and I? We’re both espers and clones; we understand the pressures of both sides. No one knows more of suffering than we do.”

“Right,” said Stevie Three.

“We will be heard,” said Stevie One. “Our sister is dead, murdered by the Iron Bitch. We demand a vengeance.”

“I didn’t know there were any esper clones left alive,” said David quietly to Evangeline while the espers argued. “I thought they were all wiped out and further experimentation forbidden.”

“Lots of things are forbidden,” murmured Evangeline. “But they still happen, if there’s profit to be made. As I understand it, the Stevie Blues were a secret military experiment in cloning battle espers. Didn’t work out. Most of the subjects died, and the survivors were too powerful. Too uncontrollable, unpredictable. Word about the experiments got out, and the Empress was furious that she hadn’t been consulted. Gave the order to close everything down. The Stevie Blues were marked for execution, but they escaped. The elves took them in, gave them a purpose in life and a shape for their revenge. As both espers and clones, they were supposed to be a link between the two undergrounds, but no one seems too sure where their true loyalties lie. Perhaps even they’re not sure.”

“Fair enough,” said David. He realized the espers had stopped talking and settled for glaring at each other, so he raised his voice again. “I still want to know why Hood hides his face.”

“Oh, tell him,” said the dragon. “Or we’ll be here all night.”

“I am highly placed in the Empress’ retinue,” said Hood. “I have her trust, in as much as she trusts anyone. I am not ready to endanger myself by revealing my identity to those who don’t need to know. The underground indulges me because I discovered the esper drug. None of us can afford for the Empress to learn about that. They’d get the secret out of me eventually; they always do. My identity remains a secret because it is in all our best interests. Now, as the Stevie Blues have pointed out, we have business to discuss.”

“I said that,” said Mr. Perfect.

“Then get on with it,” said Valentine. “What exactly is so important that we had to be dragged here at such short notice and at such an ungodly hour?”