"No. Just lean closer."
BB Chojiro smiled and brought her face in close to his. He could smell her familiar perfume. She pursed her mouth for a kiss. And Julian called up all the strength he had left and head-butted her in the face. He couldn't get much force behind it, but the impact was enough to knock her right back on her ass. Shock and surprise filled her face, and then pain as she brought her hands up to her nose. Blood streamed trom her nostrils. Julian chuckled harshly, even though it hurt his throat. BB blinked at him uncertainly over her hands, and then rose jerkily to her feet. She wiped at her nose with a silken scarlet arm, but just succeeded in smearing more blood across her face. She gave up on it and drew herself up, perfectly composed, ignoring the blood. She smiled at him in a brittle, satisfied way.
"Thank you, Julian. I was beginning to feel a little sorry for you. For what you're about to undergo. You've helped remind me why I turned you in. You're scum, the lowest of the low, so far beneath the Families we can't even see you from where we are. And to think I nearly made you one of us. Talk about the Blue Block all you like. Only the interrogator will hear you, and he will see it doesn't go any further, even if he has to edit the security tapes. Think of me while he's working on you. I'll be thinking of you."
She rapped imperiously on the door, and it swung open. BB Chojiro blew Julian a kiss and strode out of the cell, every inch the perfect little aristocrat. Julian seethed inwardly against the restraining straps, but they held him securely. Still, she'd made a mistake in not reactivating the spinal block. He could find some way to kill himself now and escape his interrogators. But he was too angry to think about that. He had to live now, so he could escape and kill BB Chojiro. He would survive everything they could throw at him, waiting for the slightest slip, the smallest mistake that would let him break free. And then he'd kill the interrogators and anyone else who got between him and BB Chojiro. He'd loved her so much, but all he could think of now was his hands around her perfect throat, her mocking smile replaced by a scream of terror. He laughed suddenly, a harsh brutal sound of the darkest humor, and the interrogator paused in the doorway of the cell, as though suddenly aware he was about to enter a small enclosed space with a dangerous animal. But the moment passed, and the interrogator strode in, smiling avuncularly at his prospective victim. He shut the door firmly behind him, so that Julian's screams wouldn't bother anyone walking down the corridor outside.
Finlay Campbell returned from his mission on a limping flyer, bloody and battered and just a little out of breath. The flyers dogging his trail had proved determined, if not particularly skillful, and it had taken every trick he knew to shake them off. He landed the flyer with a defiant thud, and slumped over the controls a moment. Members of the underground came running up to drag the flyer out of sight before it could be spotted, and Finlay straightened up with a jerk. It wouldn't do for word to get around that he was getting soft. He stepped down from the flyer, enjoying the expressions on their faces as they saw what he'd left in the flyer for them. He'd brought St. John's body with him, partly as proof that he'd done his job, partly to upset the Lords over the missing body, and partly as a trophy. He'd had a vague idea about having St. John stuffed and mounted, and stood somewhere prominent so that everyone could enjoy it. But for the moment he couldn't be bothered.
He left the body in the stolen flyer for someone else to take care of, and trudged unwillingly toward the waiting elevators. Blood squelched noisily in one of his boots, from a wound he'd taken in his leg. He'd taken hurts in other places, too, but he kept his back straight. He had a reputation to maintain. He waited impatiently in front of the elevator doors, his hand on the pommel of his sword, drawing strength from it. The doors finally opened, and he strode in. They closed behind him, and he immediately slumped in a corner, held up only by the steel wall. He'd felt better. Getting old, and past it. Be playing checkers next. All he really wanted right now was a bed and several days' uninterrupted sleep, but the underground leaders were waiting for him to make his report. He couldn't make it in writing, of course; that would be far too easy. No, he had to stand there before them and tell them every detail, like a schoolboy in a classroom. He thought fondly of his quarters and a large glass of the good brandy. During the last stages of his trip back, it had only been thoughts of the brandy that had kept him going. That, and memories of Evangeline. She was never that far from his thoughts, whatever he was doing.
He straightened up slowly, pushing himself away from the supporting wall, and sniffed disparagingly at the various aches and pains that bothered him. He didn't really know why he was bothering with this report. All the esper leaders had to do was go take a look at the body in his flyer to know his mission had been a success. But they'd want details. They always did. It gave them the illusion that they were in charge. And since he was dependent on the underground for his few remaining comforts, not to mention further missions, he played along. Grudgingly.
The elevator doors finally opened on a floor that didn't exist on any official plans, and Finlay lurched out into the gloomy corridor. There never seemed to be enough lights in the underground. They probably did it deliberately, just to make the place look mysterious. Either that, or they were saving energy again. Finlay realized his thoughts were drifting again, and made himself concentrate on where he was going. Down here in the subsystems, far below the surface of Golgotha, one abandoned steel corridor looked much like any other. There were a few people about, and he found the energy to grunt a greeting to them as they passed. They all nodded politely to him, and quite right, too. He was Finlay Campbell, damn it.
He finally stomped into the main meeting area, an abandoned workstation that the cyberats had wiped from official memory. It was a large open space bounded with sharp-edged steel plates, and cables dangled everywhere, giving the place an unfinished, transient look. Quite suitably, really, for an underground that might have to pick up its belongings and run at any moment. After the debacle of the attempted storming of Silo Nine and the purges that followed, what remained of the underground lived from moment to moment, and tended to be even more paranoid than it used to. Finlay strode up to the esper leaders waiting for him in the center of the open space, and nodded to them briskly. There were three of them today, powerful espers hidden behind telepathically projected images to protect their identities. At least that was their story. Finlay liked to think they did it to hide really bad skin conditions or unsuccessful hair transplants. Finlay Campbell didn't believe in being in awe of anyone.
The leader, usually referred to as Mr. Perfect, was a tall naked Adonis, his impossibly defined musculature gleaming with sweat, though he never actually did anything but stand there. He had harsh, forbidding features that were just a little too classically handsome. He even had a dimple in his chin, the bastard. Finlay carefully refrained from looking at Mr. Perfect's genitals. It would only depress him. Next to Mr. Perfect, a mandala of ever-shifting shapes and colors hung unsupported in midair, a spinning wheel of interlocking patterns. Finlay didn't like to look at that too much, either. The sudden changes in color and brightness, and the way they swirled away into nothingness, made his head ache. The third leader presented his or her self as a twenty-foot dragon wrapped around the branches of a tall tree. It didn't speak much, as a rule, but its great golden eyes rarely blinked, and it gave the impression of listening very carefully. Finlay also had a lurking suspicion that just maybe the tree might be more than it seemed, too.
To put off making his report, Finlay looked around at the medium-size crowd attending the meeting. Finlay's reports always drew a crowd. He smiled at them pleasantly, and they smiled back and bowed their heads in respect. A few even applauded. There was the usual mixture of elves in their leathers and chains, clones with the same face, and assorted hangers-on, like him, tolerated by the powers that be because they were useful. Apart from the expectant crowd, people were also darting in and out—carrying messages, making their own reports to lesser officials, or just earwigging in the
hope of picking up something useful. The underground thrived on gossip.
And then Finlay's roving gaze juddered to a halt, and his jaw dropped as he recognized two faces at the front of the crowd. Two faces he'd never expected to see together, let alone in the underground. Adrienne Campbell and Evangeline Shreck. His wife and his lover, chatting happily together and apparently getting on like a house on fire. His first thought was that it had to be some kind of esper illusion, some extremely nasty joke or trick to throw him off balance, but no one apart from him knew about the two women in his life. So it had to be them. Here. Together. Finlay looked quickly around for the nearest exit. Stuff his report, he had to get out of here. There were some things no man could face. Maybe if he just turned and ran very quickly…
"Finlay Campbell, attend us," said the mandala in a loud and piercing voice that echoed painfully inside his head, and that was that. Apparently, the voice hadn't just been aimed at him, as everyone else was now looking in his direction. Finlay sighed resignedly and strode forward to nod briefly to the esper leaders. He didn't get too close. There was something about the projected illusions that put his mental teeth on edge. He gave them a brisk salute, as much for the crowd as anything, but didn't bother with standing to attention. If they wanted a soldier, they could get one. He was just a troublemaker on a grand scale, with a reputation to live down to.
"Can you slow your colors down a bit?" he said sharply to the mandala. "I'm starting to get seasick. I don't know why you three are bothering with the illusions anyway. I've given up being impressed for Lent. Don't you trust me, after all I've done for you?"
"It's not a matter of trust," said Mr. Perfect in his pleasant, charismatic voice. "What you don't know, someone else can't make you tell them. Security is vital, now more than ever."
Finlay sniffed loudly, carefully not looking in Adrienne and Evangeline's direction. He could feel cold beads of sweat forming on his forehead. "I take it you want a report. All right. I killed Lord William St. John and a lot of his people, stole his personal flyer and got clean away. End of report. Can I go now please? Back in my quarters, a large brandy is calling for me with growing impatience."
He ignored the disappointed murmurs from the crowd, his gaze fixed on Mr. Perfect as the least disturbing of the three leaders. The mandala's colors flowed suddenly in a direction his eyes tried to follow in spite of himself, but couldn't, and then its voice echoed loudly in the wide chamber.
"Normally, we would press you for a more detailed report, but there is no time. We need you to go out on another mission. Immediately."
Finlay stared at the leaders, for a moment almost lost for words. "You want what? I've only just got back, damn it! I've been cut at, shot at, chased halfway to hell and back while dodging in and out the pastel towers on a glorified gravity sled, and only just got away in one piece, and you want me to go out again? Does the phrase Stick it where the sun don't shine sound at all familiar? Have you all gone crazy, or are you just harboring a death wish? On the ground that if you don't change your minds about this new mission in one hell of a hurry, I am going to find what's behind these over-rehearsed mirages of yours and slice and dice all three of you into pie fillings! I am tired, hurt, and completely lacking in the sense of humor department. And no I don't have any sense of loyalty or honor. I'm an aristocrat, remember? I'm not going anywhere till I've had a good long soak in a hot tub, three or four good meals on the same plate, and an extremely long and uninterrupted nap. I am like a disrupter. I need to recharge my batteries between jobs. Right now my batteries are sitting in a corner crying their eyes out, and my get-up-and-go has got up and gone without leaving a forwarding address. In other words, no I'm not bloody going!"
The crowd applauded. This was what they liked to hear. Finlay looked hopefully at the esper leaders, but they'd heard it all from him before, and it hadn't impressed them then. Mr. Perfect rippled his muscles impressively and looked sternly at Finlay.
"This mission is vital. The security of the whole underground is at stake. During your absence, a previously unheard of band of rebels attacked the city. They invaded the Income Tax and Tithes Headquarters, disrupted the computer systems with great efficiency and thoroughness, and made their escape in a Hadenman starship. Our previous contacts with this group had been somewhat tentative, but their actions have established our new allies as a force of great power, if not subtlety. They also brought us news of great importance. Jack Random has returned to lead them."
The crowd burst into applause and scattered cheering. Finlay didn't join in. He'd heard of the professional rebel, everyone had, but the man had to be getting on in years now. And he didn't trust legends anymore. Not since he found he'd become one himself.
"What's all this got to do with the new mission I'm not going on?" he said loudly, and the applause died away as everyone looked interestedly at the esper leaders and waited for their reply. This was why they enjoyed Finlay's reports. He always gave a great performance. Mr. Perfect looked steadily at Finlay.
"Thanks to our new friends' attack, Golgotha's defenses and security systems are currently in tatters. Things are now possible that were not before. You will remember Julian Skye. It was only thanks to him that the underground was able to reform itself after Silo Nine. Skye has been captured. They haven't had him long, but it is imperative that he doesn't talk. He alone knows all the locations, names, and passwords that made our reforming possible. There are blocks and defenses in his mind, but they won't last long once the Empire mind techs really get to work on him. Any other time, we would have been helpless to retrieve the situation, but in the current chaos, who knows what might be achieved by one determined man?"
"Who knows what might be achieved by a small army with lots of weapons?" said Finlay doggedly. "Think of all the other prisoners you could rescue."
"We can't risk losing any more of our people," said the mandala. "Skye is being held in the maximum security area. Even with the present disruption, he will undoubtably be very well guarded, by both human and inhuman guards. One man might sneak in and out, where an army could not hope to You will be that one man."
"Because I'm brave, talented, and entirely expendable?"
"Exactly. It helps that you are also the most likely to succeed in such a desperate mission, despite the odds. What's the matter, Finlay? I thought you liked a challenge?"
"This isn't a challenge, it's a death sentence. And contrary to popular impressions, I don't do suicide missions. Find another sucker."
"You will this time. Skye must be rescued or silenced before he talks. You will decide which option is the most practical, under the cirumstances."
"Hello? Are you listening to me? I'm not going!"
"We have a trace on Skye. All espers in the underground have a telepathic beacon, buried deep in their minds. The Empire hasn't silenced it yet, so we have his exact location. Which means we can teleport you right to him."
"All right," said Finlay. "I'll bite. What's the snag?"
"The Empire must know about the beacon. They've captured enough espers before and silenced their beacons quite efficiently. If Skye hasn't been blocked, it can only be because he is being set up as bait in a trap. They know how badly we need his silence. They're expecting a small army. They won't expect you. However, we feel it only fair to warn you that while we can teleport you in, we will almost certainly not be able to teleport you out again. The Empire will no doubt have taken measures to prevent that."
"Let me get this straight," said Finlay. "You're going to drop me right in the middle of the Golgotha interrogation center, surrounded by legions of armed guards, both human and inhuman, and it's up to me to free Skye and fight my way out?"
"That's right," said Mr. Perfect. "A walk in the park. We have every confidence in you. After all, since it's so obviously a trap, there's always the chance they won't be expecting anyone to actually walk into it. Let alone one man on his own. You should take them entirely by surprise."
"I can't help thi
nking should is the operative word there," said Finlay. "I told you, I don't do suicide missions. And I haven't heard one thing so far that's going to change my mind."
"That's why they wanted me to be here," said Evangeline. She walked slowly forward to join him, their eyes holding contact all the way. She put out her arms to hold him, but he stopped her with an upraised hand.
"Don't. I'm covered in muck and blood. I'll get your dress dirty."
Evangeline looked him over, trying not to wince at the sight of his wounds, and shook her head sadly. "More blood. More pain and suffering, on my behalf. I've always known you only do this for me. You've never given a damn for the rebellion or the underground, have you?"
"I needed something to do down here," said Finlay uncomfortably. "Something to keep me busy. And I do care, in my way. I still remember what I saw in Silo Nine, down in Wormboy Hell. I will not allow that kind of suffering and horror to continue. I have sworn a death oath, upon my blood and my honor, to fight to put an end to Silo Nine and the system that produced it. The underground's the best way for me to do that. But I'm still not going on this mission, Evie. Not even for you. I know my limitations."
"So do I. You're quite right. It probably will get you killed. But we need you to do this mission. I could come with you, if you like. Fight at your side, die beside you."
"No! I don't want that. I nearly lost you in Silo Nine. I won't risk that again. I need to know you're safe. I wouldn't want to live without you. Is this Skye bastard really so important?"
"If he talks, the underground will have to scatter again. Thousands of clones and espers and their supporters would risk capture or death all over again. It could take anything from ten to twenty years before we could pull ourselves back together again, and that's being optimistic. The underground might not survive at all. Certainly the rebellion would be set back indefinitely. It's the timing that's so ironic. Things are finally going our way, Finlay. These new rebels, with Jack Random to lead them, could be the final spark we need to blow the whole corrupt Empire apart."
Deathstalker Rebellion Page 17
