Deathstalker Return (36 page)

“
The Quality
works fine as it is,” said a slender woman in a domino mask. “I see no reason to change anything.”

“And I say we’ve lost track of what
The Quality
was meant to be,” snapped another woman, in a black mask liberally spotted with sequins. She fanned herself angrily with a paper fan decorated with erotic images. “
The Quality
was designed from the beginning to be propaganda; a way of spreading our message to the masses. It was always intended to be a means to an end, never an end in itself.”

“But it’s become the most successful soap in vid history,” purred an unfeasibly fat man in an antigrav chair. “And you propose to spoil everything by forcing more politics into the scripts, making them much more overt, and risk losing our target audience. For the first time in generations, we are all as rich as our Families used to be. I won’t have you rocking the boat in the name of ideological purity.”

“
The Quality
spreads our message well enough as it is,” said a man in a full face mask. “Because of it, the Families are more fashionable than ever. What’s wrong with that?”

“Fashionable?” snapped the woman with the fan. “Fashions change, fads come and go; we’re supposed to be in this for the long run! Who cares whether the Families are popular—we’re supposed to be feared and respected!”

“The rich are feared and respected. That’s good enough for me.”

“You’ve become corrupted by wealth,” said a woman with a mask shaped like a bird of prey. “The vid show is a cult thing, nothing more, and the masses will drop it fast enough, once they find something else to obsess over. We have to push our message as strongly as we can now, while we still have an audience watching!”

“Easy for you to give up the money,” growled a man in a black gold mask. “Not all of us were born rich. We earned this money. It’s ours.”

And so the argument went on, while Tel Markham, member for Madraguda, watched wearily from behind his black leather mask. He could see both sides of the question, but in the end he’d always known that power was more important than money. If you had enough power, people would give you money. It didn’t always work the other way round. Power was why he’d joined the Shadow Court, along with several other secret organizations. Angry voices rose around him, but he couldn’t seem to summon up the passion or the interest to get involved in the argument himself. Truth be told, he was getting bored with the Shadow Court. They did less and less, and squabbled more and more. They were all talk, and he got enough of that at Parliament.

And then the door, which was supposed to be locked and bolted, crashed suddenly open, and what seemed like a small army of armed men rushed into the room, shouting to the shocked and startled Shadow Court to stay where they were, and not move, and keep both their hands in sight at all times. The soldiers quickly surrounded the nine men and women, covering them with energy weapons as they stared frantically around, eyes wide behind their masks. And that was when Finn Durandal strolled casually into the room.

“Hi!” he said cheerfully. “Good to be here, in this . . . actually rather squalid little room. Please, don’t anyone get up. Or I’ll have you shot. Now, some of you aren’t as surprised as the others, because you invited me here. Oh, yes, a few of you decided they were more interested in being rich than anything else, and contacted me, telling me where this little meeting would take place. The idea being that I would arrest those of you who cared more about politics, and leave the rest of you to get on with being very rich. Well, bad luck, people. I’ve come for all of you. There are far too many factions in the Empire these days, and frankly, I don’t need the distraction. So I’m shutting down the Shadow Court. Show trials, character assassination, followed by very public executions. You know, the sort of thing your aristocratic forebears were always so very fond of in Lionstone’s time. And with the head gone, what’s left of the body will soon wither and die. Feel free to speak up and object, and I’ll feel free to have you shot as an example to the others.”

“How typical,” said the woman with the fan. “The Families betrayed by their own kind. It seems we have learned nothing from history after all. But I trust we can at least show solidarity one last time. We can’t afford to be arrested and identified. Our Families would be made to suffer. Better to go out with dignity, in one last act of defiance. We can still serve the cause as martyrs. Agreed?”

And around the table eyes met and heads nodded, and hands went to transmutation bombs under their cloaks. There was a series of sharp, limited explosions, and soon there was pink protoplasmic slime splashed across the table, and dripping thickly from the chairs. Finn sighed and shook his head.

“Fanatics. At least it saves the expense of trials. What matters is that they’re all dead. Except . . . for you, sir.”

Tel Markham, the last surviving member of the Shadow Court hierarchy, removed his black leather mask and bowed courteously to Finn. The Durandal raised a single eyebrow in surprise, and nodded back. Tel smiled easily. “I am no fanatic, Sir Champion. For me, it was always about me—what I was going to get out of it. I hope I can convince you that a show trial might not be the best thing in my case?”

“Go on,” said Finn. “Give it a try.”

Tel spoke smoothly, doing his best to appear calm and at ease despite his being covered with a whole bunch of energy guns. “I am a member of Parliament, Sir Durandal. And a member of Pure Humanity. And brother to Angelo Bellini, the Angel of Madraguda and current head of the Church Militant. That’s a whole lot of people I could persuade to be more supportive of you. Plus, I know things, and I know people, all of which could be very useful to you.”

“Not bad,” said Finn, after a moment. “I don’t actually need you, or any of the things you offer, but you speak well, and I’ve missed having someone around to boast to, since Brett and Rose ran out on me, the wimps. You look like you’re made of sterner stuff. So I think I’ll adopt you. Assuming . . .”

“Yes?” said Tel Markham.

“Assuming that you, as sole surviving creator and producer of
The Quality,
agree to sign over all your interest in the show to me. I can use it to push my own propaganda—to influence and inflame popular opinion, as and when I find it necessary or amusing—and I can always use the money. I have so many people on the payroll these days. Really. You have no idea. Do you have any problem with giving me the show?”

“Not in the least,” said Tel, who knew a foregone conclusion when it was staring down the barrel of a disrupter aimed at him. At least Finn didn’t know about his membership in the Hellfire Club. The tables might yet be turned someday, in all kinds of interesting ways.

In the great House of Parliament, business went on as usual. Most of the MPs were present, mostly because they had nowhere else to be. The alien section was practically deserted. The clone representative was doing his best to look interested in the slow-moving debate. Shub watched it all through a single robot. And Douglas, King and Speaker to Parliament, sat slumped on his throne, thinking of something else. Business as usual in the House, in these last dog days of civilization.

Meerah Puri, member for Malediction, took the floor. She held her head high and glared at Douglas, one hand gripping the throat of her sari so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She raised her voice, and had the satisfaction of seeing him wince slightly. Meerah Puri had no intention of being ignored by anyone. She had a speech to make on the people’s rights, and the need for tolerance in the Empire, and everyone working together. She launched into it with all her skill and verve, and after a while the best she could say was at least the other members weren’t jeering at her. It was a hot, close day, and perhaps they just didn’t have the energy. A few heckled half-heartedly from the back benches, probably Neuman stooges trying to score points with their superiors. Douglas did nothing to stop them. Meerah plowed on with her speech, because . . . because someone had to say it. The House might not be what it once was, but there was still the chance it could be turned around, awakened to its responsibilities, by the right words, the right ideals. The House still mattered. Meerah Puri believed that, with all her heart and soul. She had to believe that, or her whole life meant nothing.

(She remembered working doggedly with her limited staff, in their tiny official backstage office, rewriting and polishing her speech again and again, to make it as powerful as possible. She had to wake the sleeping conscience of the House . . . but she was tired, they were all tired, from struggling so hard against the current tides of public and private opinion. It was like all the world had gone mad. How could everything have gone so wrong, so quickly? It had been a Golden Age, and some would say it still was, but Meerah could see the tarnish.)

She finished her speech with a clarion call to arms, to action, and looked about her expectantly, but the MPs just looked back at her. No one applauded, no one jeered. They just sat there and looked at her in silence. Some of Meerah’s strength seemed to go out of her then, and she almost stumbled as she returned to her seat and sat down. It wasn’t that they hadn’t listened; they had, and didn’t care. None of them gave a damn for the old values anymore, except for Ruth Li, and she was a fanatic. Even the Paragons were corrupt these days, if gossip was to be believed. Except for Emma Steel, of course, but when all was said and done, she was just a barbarian from Mistworld, and couldn’t be expected to understand the importance of politics. Probably out there right now, arresting a mugger and thinking she was making a difference. And as for the King . . . it seemed that bitch Flowers had broken his spirit as well as his heart.

Tel Markham, member for Madraguda, arrived late as always, murmuring apologies to everyone as he edged along the crowded benches to his seat. He settled himself comfortably, and put on his best listening face while he privately concentrated on his own business. He had a lot to think about. The rest of the House was watching him surreptitiously—because he’d not only arrived late, he’d arrived with Finn Durandal. And the Imperial Champion had smiled on Tel, and patted him on the shoulder. In public. So everyone else was now thinking furiously about what that
meant
. . . because to be in with Finn was the ambition of practically everyone in the House. The Durandal was where the power was these days, and everyone knew it. No one was really all that surprised at Tel’s new friendship; he’d always been famous for landing on his feet, and he had, after all, intrigued with every member and every faction in the House, at one time or another—and often simultaneously.

But Tel was thinking of Finn’s last words to him as they walked through the corridors of the House together. Out of nowhere, it seemed, Finn had offered to make Tel the new head of the Church Militant, replacing his brother, Angelo Bellini. It seemed Finn saw the increasingly messianic Angel of Madraguda as both a burden and a distraction. All Tel had to do was say the word, and the Angel would have a regrettable but very fatal accident, and ascend to Heaven on wings of prayer. Tel had smiled and nodded, and said he’d have to think about it. Now here he was, thinking, and torn between ambition, self-preservation, and family ties. Finn’s offer was both a reward and a test of his loyalty, he knew that. And Finn knew he knew.

Poor Angelo,
Tel thought calmly.
You never could hold on to anything I decided I wanted, could you, little brother? The question is, do I want it? Politics is one thing, religion quite another.
Tel wasn’t particularly religious, any more than he was particularly political, but he could see how the Church Militant, properly handled, could be turned into a real power base, quite separate from the Durandal. He could become a mover and a shaker in the new order of things. And all he had to do was agree to the murder of a brother he’d never liked much anyway. It should have been a simple decision, and Tel was honestly surprised to discover that it wasn’t. He’d always thought of himself as a practical man, but this would require a cold-bloodedness that was new, even to him. And besides, what would he tell Mother?

Michel du Bois, member for Virimonde, watched Tel Markham thinking, and thought cold, dark, brutal thoughts of his own. He’d never given a damn for any cause or faction, though he’d supported enough of them in his time. He sided with whoever seemed most powerful, and intrigued secretly with those who promised to become powerful, but working always and only to the advantage of his homeworld. Virimonde was the only love he’d ever had, and the only one he’d ever wanted. He would defend Virimonde to the last—with his life, and with the lives of as many poor damned fools as necessary.

Du Bois remembered sitting in his poky little office before the Session began, watching astonished and outraged as his viewscreen brought him news that transmutation engines had been silently, secretly, and utterly illegally moved into orbit around Virimonde. Finn Durandal was using the Transmutation Board to make his feelings plain. Either Virimonde agreed to his demands to disown the outlawed Lewis and the whole Deathstalker Clan, and agreed to follow the Durandal’s wishes in all things, or . . . for the first time since their conception, the engines would be used on a populated world, as weapons of war. Just like the Darkvoid Device of old. Virimonde had planetary defenses, of course, some of them very old and very secret, and quite extraordinarily powerful, but nothing that could hope to withstand the mighty transmutation engines. So it fell, once again, to Michel du Bois to protect his homeworld. And he could do that only by finding allies here on Logres—in or out of Parliament. And Finn was a fool if he thought he was the only game in town.

Du Bois was especially disappointed in Stuart Lennox, Virimonde’s latest Paragon. Du Bois had brought him here to Logres to be his right hand, but instead the young fool spent all his time following Finn Durandal around like a lovesick puppy, and was no use at all. Du Bois supposed he could discredit Lennox easily enough, and bring in another Paragon . . . but the blunt truth was, there was no one ready. No one suitable. No one he could trust to put Virimonde’s needs first. So, as always, it all came down to him to do the necessary, distasteful, practical things to protect his world. Du Bois smiled slightly. He was quite looking forward to it.