Deathstalker Rebellion

by Simon R. Green

  He tried to hurry himself a little faster, but he was already out of breath. Too much weight. Too many good lunches at PR events and launches. As a result, he was built for comfort rather than speed. All right, he was fat. For once, it didn't matter. No one would be looking at him in this interview. He forced himself on, puffing hard. Trust Flynn to have his quarters halfway across the complex. Actually, that wasn't really fair. Toby had quarters in the better area because he was, after all, an aristocrat, and Flynn very definitely wasn't. Toby sniffed. He didn't feel like being fair. He finally stumbled to a halt before the right door, leaned on it a moment while he got his breath back, and then hammered on the door with his fist.

  "Go away," said Flynn's calm voice. "I am resting. If you're factory personnel, go to hell. If you're Toby the Troubador, go to hell by the express route. If you're a Wolfe, this is a recording. If you're a potential lover, leave your name and location on my computer file. Full image, please. Clothes optional."

  "Open up, damn it," said Toby. "You wouldn't believe who's agreed to talk to us."

  "Tell them to take two aspirin, and I'll see them in the morning. I am off duty, and I don't have to talk to anyone I don't want to. If you don't like it, take it up with my Union."

  "Flynn! It's Mother Superior Beatrice of the Sisters of Mercy!"

  There was a pause, and then the door lock snapped off. "Very well. Come in. But on your own head be it."

  Toby growled something uncomplimentary and very basic, kicked the door open, and stormed in. He managed about six steps before he came to a dead stop. The door closed behind him and the lock clicked shut again, but he didn't notice. Someone could have slipped a live grenade into his underwear and he wouldn't have noticed. The cameraman's quarters weren't much, being basically cramped and functional, but a few feminine touches had helped to brighten the place up. And the most feminine thing in the room was Flynn, reclining on his bed in a long flowing cocktail dress, with a margarita in a frosted glass in one hand and a book of decadent French verse in the other. He was also wearing a long curly wig of purest gold, and wore subtle but artfully applied makeup. His work boots and sloppy trousers had been replaced by fishnet stockings and stiletto heels, and his fingernails had been painted a shocking pink. All in all, Flynn looked very pretty and completely at ease. Toby closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.

  "Flynn, you promised me you wouldn't do this. We are not in civilized company now. They would not understand. And the representatives of the Church of Christ the Warrior definitely wouldn't understand. They'd execute you on the spot for deviancy and degeneracy, and shoot me as well just for knowing you. Now, get out of that gear and into something that won't get us both hanged. Mother Beatrice won't wait forever."

  "Rush, rush, rush," said Flynn. He drained the last of his margarita, slipped a bookmark into his poetry collection, and put glass and book carefully to one side before rising gracefully to his feet. "Very well, you wait outside while I change into something less comfortable. And bear in mind I wouldn't do this for anyone less than Mother Beatrice. That woman is a saint."

  Toby stepped outside and closed the door without actually shutting it, so he could continue the conversation or hiss if he saw anyone coming. He shook his head again. He could feel one of his headaches coming on. "Of all the cameramen, on all the worlds, I had to end up with you. Why me?"

  "Because you were desperate for a good cameraman, and no one else would work with you," said Flynn from inside. "After all, you only got your journalist's license because you were on the run from your Uncle Gregor. As it happens, I also felt the need to leave in a hurry. My last gentleman admirer was a high-ranking member of the Clans who also liked to dress up pretty in the privacy of his own quarters.

  "Wonderful man. Very interested in yodeling. Only lover I ever knew who could give you head, and sing you a song at the same time. My, how those low notes vibrated. And what that man could do with a vowel… Anyway, we had words and broke up, and he became rather concerned that I might tell all for the right price. And he couldn't have that. If word of his private proclivities were to get out, no one in the Families would ever take him seriously again. It's all right to be a degenerate if you're an aristocrat, but not if it's something silly.

  "So, seeing the way his mind was working, I decided it might be in my best interests to leave town for a while, and hole up somewhere suitably distant until he calmed down again. Which is the only reason I agreed to work with you, Toby Shreck. You have to realize, the word on you was not good: an aging PR flack with dreams of reporting and delusions of adequacy. Nothing personal, you understand. For what it's worth, you're doing all right here. I've worked with worse."

  Toby scowled, but said nothing. Flynn had most of it right. He'd spent most of his life working as a PR man and spin doctor for Gregor Shreck, despised by his peers and unappreciated by his Family. No one realized how much hard work went into good PR. But he'd always dreamed of being a real journalist, digging out the truth and exposing villainy and corruption in high places, instead of covering it up. But somehow he never had the courage to leave the safe haven of his job and Family. It took being kicked out to wake his ambitions again, and now that he was here on Technos III, he was going to do the best damn job he could. It was his chance to be someone in his own right, not just another of Gregor Shreck's shadows. A chance to finally acquire some self-respect. Mother Beatrice was renowned for not giving interviews, and the press corps took it seriously after she kneecapped a reporter with a meat tenderizer when he tried blackmailing a friend into talking about her. But she was probably the only person on Technos III who could and would tell him the whole story, the whole truth, and to hell where the shrapnel fell. And she had agreed to talk to him… Toby kicked the door frame viciously.

  "Flynn! Are you ready yet?"

  The door swung open and Flynn strolled out, looking like just another cameraman. The camera perched on his shoulder like a sleepy owl. Flynn did a quick twirl for Toby, to show off his baggy trousers and camouflage jacket. "Well? Will I pass?"

  "You've still got lipstick on," said Toby with glacial calmness.

  Flynn took out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, and smiled at Toby. "Better?"

  "Fractionally. Now, let's go, before Mother Beatrice changes her mind. Or somebody changes it for her."

  They made their way quietly through the narrow corridors, stopping every time they thought they heard something. No one else was about. Most people were asleep, trusting to the electronic guards and surveillance to guarantee their rest wouldn't be disturbed. After all, the rebels had never got this close on the best day they ever had, and no one in the factory would dare run the risk of upsetting security. As a reporter in charge of making the factory complex look good, Toby had security passes for practically every area, and some discreet but heavy-duty bribes had ensured no one would tell about his little late-night jaunt. He hoped.

  He led Flynn to the nearest exit in the outer sector, and they stopped to climb into the heavy furs left hanging by the door. Even a short journey through Technos III's winter could be deadly without the right protection. Toby and Flynn bundled up in layers of fur and wool till they could barely move, and then stumbled over to the exit. Toby looked out the window beside the door and winced. The air was thick with swirling snow, blown this way and that by the gusting wind. He didn't look at the thermometer. He didn't want to know. He pulled his fur hat down low over his brow, wrapped his scarf securely over his mouth and nose, cursed quietly for a moment, and then jerked the heavy door open. It swung slowly inward, revealing a two-foot drift of snow that had piled up against the closed door. Toby and Flynn kicked their way through it and lurched out into the winter. The door slammed shut behind them, and they were alone in the night.

  The cold hit them like a hammer, and for a moment all Toby and Flynn could do was lean against each other for support. The bitter air seared their lungs, and the wind shocked tears from their exposed eyes. The snow on the ground was a
good foot deep. Tireless machines struggled over and over to dig out a clear perimeter around the factory complex, but the snow fell faster than the machines could dig. The wind was almost strong enough to throw Toby off his feet, and he had to lean into it to keep his balance. The freezing air made his teeth ache, even through several layers of thick woolen scarf. He scowled and hunched his shoulders as the wind changed direction yet again. Part of him wanted to turn and go back inside rather than face such nightmare conditions, but Toby wouldn't listen to it. He was a reporter now, on the trail of a hot story, and that was enough to keep him warm inside.

  He glanced about him into the thickening snow. Outside the complex's exterior lights, there was only darkness and the storm. There were supposed to be stars out and two small moons, but they were hidden behind the fury of the snows. However, out in the darkness a single patch of light showed defiantly around a long low structure without windows. Toby slapped Flynn on the arm and pointed out the structure, and they lurched off through the thick snowdrifts toward the light. Flynn's camera hovered low behind his shoulder, sheltered from the wind.

  The low structure turned out to be a really long tent of metallic cloth, marked with the familiar red crescent of the Sisters of Mercy. As on so many battlefields across the Empire, the tent was a hospital for all who needed it. The Sisters took no sides. The factory complex had just enough space for a single hospital ward, officers only. The foot soldiers, security men, and mercenaries had to rely on the Sisters' mercy. The officers believed this gave their men an extra incentive not to get wounded. It was a big tent, looking bigger all the time as Toby slogged through the snow toward it. He hadn't traveled far, but already his thighs were aching from forcing a way through the thick drifts and fighting the constantly changing winds. Sweat ran down his brow and into his eyes, freezing in his exposed eyebrows. Toby had given up cursing some time back. He needed his breath.

  He finally lurched to a halt before the far end of the tent, and found himself facing a very secure-looking steel door with a signposted bell. He hit the bell with his fist because he couldn't feel his fingers anymore, and a viewscreen lit up in the door, showing a Sister's veiled head and shoulders. She didn't look at all pleased to see him. Toby reached inside his furs, pulled out his press pass, and held it up before the screen. The Sister sniffed, and the viewscreen went blank. Toby and Flynn looked at each other uncertainly. They were both shivering uncontrollably, no longer warmed by their exertions. And then the door swung suddenly inward, spilling light and heat out into the night. Toby and Flynn hurried forward into the comforting glow, and the door slammed shut behind them.

  Toby pulled the scarf away from his mouth and took off his fur hat, his eyes watering as they adjusted to the new light and warmth. He and Flynn took turns beating the snow off each other, and then Toby turned and smiled ingratiatingly at the Sister who'd let them in. It was always wise to be polite to a Sister of Mercy. They had long memories, and you never knew when you might end up needing their services. This particular Sister looked to be in her late twenties, but already had deep lines around her mouth and eyes. Dealing with death and suffering on a daily basis with no end in sight will do that to you. She wore the usual unadorned white robes and wimple of a Sister in the field, but her robes were spattered with new and old bloodstains. She was also big enough to stop an oncoming tank and had a glare that would have wilted anyone but a reporter. Flynn moved surreptitiously to stand behind Toby, just in case, and Toby tried his ingratiating smile again.

  "Hi there. We've come to see Mother Superior Beatrice. I'm Tobias Shreck, and this is my cameraman. We're expected."

  The Sister stepped forward, pulled open his furs, and frisked him with brisk efficiency. She did the same with Flynn, while Toby silently prayed his cameraman wouldn't giggle. Assured they weren't carrying any weapons, the Sister stepped back and studied them both, her face set and unforgiving. "She said you two were to be admitted, but you're not to tire her. This should be her rest period. She works all the hours God sends, and then makes time to deal with the likes of you. I don't want her tired. Is that understood?"

  "Of course, Sister," said Toby. "We'll be in and out before you know it."

  The Sister sniffed dubiously, and then turned and led them down the single narrow aisle in the middle of the long ward that made up most of the tent's interior. Toby and Flynn followed behind at a respectful distance. There were beds on either side of them, crammed together with no space for luxuries like visitors' chairs. They weren't the standard hospital beds of civilized worlds, either, with built-in sensors and diagnostic equipment. These were flat cots with rough blankets and sometimes a pillow. The smell of blood and other, more disturbing smells pushed their way past the thick, masking disinfectant. The patients were mostly quiet, drugged, Toby hoped, but some groaned or moaned or stirred restlessly on the narrow cots. One man with no legs was crying quietly, hopelessly. Flynn's camera covered everything. Many of the patients were missing limbs or half a face. Toby was sickened. You didn't expect to see injuries like these anymore, except on the more primitive worlds. He made himself look away. He was here to cover this. All of it.

  "Don't the Wolfes supply you with better equipment than this?" he said finally, trying to keep the anger out of his voice so as not to upset the patients.

  The Sister sniffed, without looking back or slowing her pace. "We're on our own here. Officially, the Wolfes are winning this nasty little war, so they can't be seen supplying Technos III with major hospital facilities and supplies. Word might start getting out of the real scale of casualties and how badly the war is going. So they only supply us with the minimum necessary to cope with the low levels of wounded they're reporting. It's important to the Wolfes to give the impression that everything's fine here, and they're fully in charge of the situation. Bastards. I'd drown the lot of them if I had my way. And you can put that in your report, if you wish."

  "I'm interested in everyone's views," Toby said diplomatically. "I want to tell people the truth of what's happening here."

  "If you are, you're the first. Not that it'll make any difference. The Wolfes will censor anything embarrassing out of your reports before you're allowed to broadcast them."

  Toby remained even more diplomatically silent. He expected to be censored; that went with the job and the territory. The trick was in what you managed to sneak past them. Halfway down the long tent, a small area was separated off by tall standing screens. Toby thought at first it was a toilet and was somewhat surprised by the Sister's clear respect and reverence as she tapped on one of the screens.

  "It's the press people," said the Sister diffidently. "Do you still want to speak to them, or shall I kick them out?" There was a low murmured answer from within, and the Sister scowled as she turned back to Toby and Flynn. "Thirty minutes, and not a second more. And if you tire her, I'll have your balls."

  She pulled back one screen to make a doorway, and Toby and Flynn nodded respectfully to her and eased past her much as one might a growling watchdog. They filed through the doorway, and the Sister pulled the screen back into place behind them. The screened-off area turned out to be just big enough to hold a cot, a washbasin on a stand, and a small writing desk. Sitting before the desk was Mother Superior Beatrice, wrapped in a long silk housecoat with frayed hems and elbows worn dull. She looked pale and drawn, and her bright red hair had been cropped brutally short, but her eyes were warm and her welcoming smile seemed genuine enough. Behind her, her black robes and starched wimple hung from a hat stand, looking almost like there was another person in the small space with them. Beatrice didn't get up, but offered Toby her hand. Her handshake was firm but brief. She turned to Flynn, who leaned over her hand and kissed it. Beatrice's smile widened.

  "If you knew what I'd been doing with that hand just half an hour ago, you'd rush out of here to gargle with sulfuric acid." She turned her smile back to Toby. "I'm glad to see you both. I wasn't sure you'd come. Everyone else I've asked didn't want to risk rocking
the boat."

  "I'm not sure I do, either," said Toby. "It depends on what you have to tell me. Is it okay if my cameraman records this conversation?"

  "Of course. That's why I insisted on you both coming here. Sit on the bed. We don't have any more chairs to spare, and you fill too much space standing up."

  She settled back in her chair by the desk, and Toby lowered himself cautiously into the cot. He wasn't sure it would bear his weight. It felt hard and unforgiving. Flynn stayed on his feet, moving quietly back and forth to sort out good angles for his camera. Toby ignored him. Flynn would take care of the technicalities; his province as reporter was the interview and what truth he could squeeze out of it. Mother Beatrice had a reputation for being outspoken, but that had always been in the pampered and protected Court, far away from the blood and dying of the frontline. She was supposed to have changed greatly after her experiences in a field hospital, but most of those stories were at least secondhand.

  And Toby wasn't sure he believed in saints anyway. He decided to start with something simple and clear-cut.

  "You seem very crowded here, Mother Beatrice. Surely, this structure wasn't meant to accommodate so many people at one time?"

  "Hell no. It was meant to serve a third as many patients, but that was worked out by civilized people in civilized places. And call me Bea, since I'm officially off duty. We're packed to the walls here because things have been going particularly badly for the Wolfes in the last few campaigns. The lines move back and forth on the map, but they're drawn in other people's blood. Some of our patients are rebels, of course. The Sisters of Mercy serve all sides impartially. Whatever the pressures."