Deathstalker Legacy

by Simon R. Green

  Rose and Brett finally came to a halt before the two seated figures, and for the first time the indistinct figures moved slightly, making dry rustling sounds like crackling paper. Perhaps their eyes moved. Perhaps their slit mouths widened slightly in a smile. Perhaps they merely stirred in anticipation… One naked arm from each was reaching out across the gap between the chairs, so that they could hold hands. They'd been holding hands for so long now that the flesh had grown together, fused into a single shape beyond hope of separation. Brett felt seriously sick. How long had these two been sitting here, gray and pink matters sprouting from their exposed brains, feeding on whatever poor fools came to visit them?

  We are the Spider Harps, said one of the figures, or perhaps both of them, the words ringing and echoing inside Brett's and Rose's heads like the voices of dead men speaking. The words were soft and foul, like rotten fruit, like every foul intention rolled into one, and proud of it. We speak for the ELFs. Talk to us, little humans. Be bold and eloquent, and maybe afterwards… we'll invite you to stay for dinner.

  Brett would have turned and bolted right then, and to hell with Finn, if Rose hadn't been there with him. He knew she wouldn't run, and he couldn't leave her there in that awful place. So he made himself concentrate on the shrunken, shriveled pair before him, so he wouldn't have to look at the brain web, or the half-devoured bodies hanging above and around him. Both the figures were so old, so wrinkled, so fallen in upon themselves, that it was impossible to even guess whether they were male or female. If they had ever worn clothes, they had long ago rotted and fallen away. And yet, though their faces were dead, their eyes were very much alive and aware. Brett took a deep breath, immediately wished he hadn't as the smell hit him all over again, and made a start.

  "Hello. I'm Brett Random, and this is Rose Constantine. We speak for Finn Durandal. Please don't kill us until you've heard us out. Fascinating place you have here. Love what you've done with it. How… long have you been down here?"

  Long and long, little Random. Ever since the Mater Mundi made us, fashioning us from the humble clay of ordinary espers. It hurt us so much, so very much, hut who were we to argue with the Mother of All Souls? She put us here, hidden behind the bedlam of so many alien minds, to think and calculate and solve problems for her. When problems grew too large for us, we grew larger to accommodate them. We were her brains, her creatures, made to serve her purposes. Of course, this was back in the days of The Lion, in the grand old days of Empire, when things were only just starting to go bad. But the Mater Mundi knew, even then. She saw what was coming, so she made weapons, living weapons, infernal devices to he unleashed upon those who would oppose her. But something went wrong. The Mater Mundi never fully awakened, until it was far too late. Now she is gone, but we remain. We serve the ELFs now. Because our nature compels us to serve someone, and we have spent so very long waiting for revenge…

  "The Lion…" Brett said quietly to Rose. "Lionstone's grandfather! Jesus, they've been down here for centuries… growing, spreading…"

  "Why the corpses?" Rose said to the Spider Harps, with her customary bluntness.

  We cannot leave this place. And we're always hungry. Growth must be sustained. Tissues must be replenished. Don't shy away, little Random, We are what we were made to be, by one far greater than any of us. We have worked wonders, in our time. Our thoughts have traveled on paths unguessable to mere humans. The ELFs understand. We don't want to be found by the oversoul They would want to save us. Make us sane again. Separate us. We would rather die. We are great and marvelous, and we will not be denied our revenge, our long-delayed triumph.

  "This just gets better all the time," said Brett. "All right; why Spider Harps'!"

  The two figures slowly raised their outer arms, with loud creaking noises, until their long bony fingers could reach the delicate strands fruiting from their opened heads. And then they plucked at the taut strands of the webbing, and note after perfect note rang in the underground cavern, forming an awful, entirely inhuman music, played on the outgrowths of centuries-old minds. Brett slapped both his hands to his ears to keep the terrible music out, but the sound invaded his mind, harsh and strident and full of terrible significances. Brett dropped to his knees, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He tried to shout something, but his voice wouldn't work. It was too small, too human, too sane. Rose moved in beside him, put a comforting hand on his shoulder, lifted her disrupter and pointed it directly at the head of the figure on the left.

  "Stop that," she said loudly. "Stop that right now."

  The Spider Harps let their hands fall away from the neuron-studded strands, and the music stopped, though the echoes seemed to linger unnaturally long on the still air. Brett slowly took his hands away from his ears. There were smears of blood on his palms. Rose hauled him to his feet again with one hand, while still keeping her disrupter carefully trained on her target.

  "You all right, Brett?" she said, without looking around.

  "I don't know. My head hurts. Makes a change. Didn't that music do anything to you?"

  Rose shrugged. "I've never understood music.

  "Figures. Bless the Lord for his small mercies and pass the ammunition." Brett glared at the Spider Harps. "I ought to let her shoot you."

  You both have very interesting minds, said one of the Spider Harps, or perhaps both, unmoved either by Brett's threat or the gun in Rose's hand. You have strong shields, Brett Random. And we can't make sense of you at all, Rose Constantine. You're just too… different. We had planned to possess you both, make you ours, take the Durandal's location from your minds, and then ride you back to him, and have you kill him slowly. For our pleasure. But since that isn't possible, we will hear your proposal. What do you have to offer us?

  Brett told them. There was a long pause, and then there was a new sound in the chamber, a ragged sighing. The Spider Harps were laughing.

  We agree. Tell your master that the ELFs will work with the Durandal, on this occasion, to destroy the Paragons once and for all. You may leave now. But do come again. Your minds fascinate us. We can't wait to get our teeth into them.

  Brett finally broke. He turned and ran, plunging back through the tunnel in the webbing, past the great open door, and out into the corridor beyond. Rose backed slowly out, holding her disrupter on the Spider Harps all the way. But even after they'd both left that room, that chamber, that living Hell, even after the door had slammed shut again, the dry rustling laughter of the Spider Harps followed Brett and Rose all the way to the surface.

  Hellfire Club meetings always began with an orgy. Satisfy the body and its appetites, to clear the mind. Indulge your every need and whim, so that the mind is free to concentrate on other matters. So that the subtler joys of plotting and treason are not overshadowed by the more immediate pleasures of the flesh. The devils of the Hellfire Club made it a point of principle to deny themselves nothing.

  The huge hall's floor was covered from wall to wall with cushions and silks and all kinds of textures that might please. The air was thick with heady perfumes and generated pheromones, and raucous music issued from the blindfolded orchestra tucked away in one corner. There was all kind of drink and every kind of drug, and everywhere… bodies, moving together, clothed and unclothed as tastes and preferences decided, sinking themselves into each other and in the moment, because that was what the Hellfire Club was all about.

  Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. And to Hell with anyone who gets in the way.

  Afterwards, they all lay nakedly together, sitting or reclining as the sweat cooled and their breathing slowed, while the more subservient members moved among them with refreshing drinks and the more obscure and unpleasant forms of finger food; smiling happily as they were beaten and abused. The hundred or so members of the Hellfire Club who'd been able to make it to this meeting had gathered together to consider the troublesome matter of Finn Durandal. It promised to be a long meeting, but then, they always were. Everyone was determined to be heard. Tel Mar
kham lay stretched out with his head cradled on an accommodating belly, and looked thoughtfully about him.

  Tel Markham belonged to many organizations. Member of Parliament, and the Shadow Court, supporter of Pure Humanity, rector of the official Church, and long-standing devil in the Hellfire Club. He'd have joined the ELFs if they'd agreed to have him. Markham believed in obtaining every possible advantage, every possible form of support, on the unanswerable grounds that he never knew when he might need them. He belonged to so many secret and underground organizations that he'd almost lost count. His computers oversaw his extremely complicated diary, and made sure he knew where he was supposed to be, and why. Most of the organizations had no idea of his other connections. It was only polite: they all so loved to believe that they were the only underground that mattered.

  Luckily, these days Markham was such an established Member of Parliament that he only needed to make the occasional personal appearance, for the most important of debates. The rest of the time a low-level AI ran his holo for him, and took notes for his staff to study later. They took care of the day-to-day business. That was what staff was for. Attending Hellfire Club meetings messed him about more than most, though, because the Club's inner circle insisted on deciding a new location for every get-together, announced only hours in advance, thus protecting themselves from gatecrashers and infiltrators.

  Markham always made it to as many as he could.

  The Club was currently occupying a deserted church in an area of the city marked for redevelopment. Is the Church deconsecrated? Markham had asked on arriving. It soon will be, he'd been told, and Markham had forced a chuckle.

  Frankie started the discussion. She was a tall, almost unbearably voluptuous woman of a certain age, with sharp vicious features and a great mane of pure white hair that reached all the way down her supple back to her waist. Markham loved to see her breathe, but had enough sense to keep out of her clutches. Unlike many of the Hellfire Club, she wasn't playing her role. She'd assassinated twenty-seven people that Markham knew of. Two had been ex-lovers. Markham was pretty sure she was about as inner circle as you could get. Frankie was hardcore all the way.

  The Hellfire Club consisted of circles within circles, from dilettantes and wannabes at the edges, to the deadly philosophers at the very center. You could go in as deep as you wanted, or as deep as you could stand, but somehow there were always more circles inside those you'd thought were the innermost. This was partly to limit the number of people any member could betray if captured, but mostly because not everyone had the stomach for everything the Hellfire Club did. Or planned to do. Markham was in pretty deep, and hoped to go even deeper, but though he was pretty sure he lacked anything even remotely like a conscience, there were still some things he wouldn't do. He was ambitious, not crazy.

  At the core, it was whispered, the founding members' extreme philosophies still survived: complete anarchy for the Empire and Humanity. A new Empire, without conscience or mercy or restraint. Divine chaos, a time of awful pleasures and splendid suffering: where the lesser orders, those outside the Club, would be slaves, objects, mere property, there to do all the necessary useful things, to be subject to their masters' every whim, to live and die at their command; while the Hellfire Club made a glorious Hell on earth for everyone.

  Markham didn't believe in any of that, not least because he didn't plan on sharing his power with anyone, but he had enough sense to keep his opinions on that matter to himself. To him, the Hellfire Club was just another useful tool, another means to get him what he wanted. He had a strong feeling a lot of members felt that way, in private.

  "So," said Frankie, in her deep sensual voice that was like being assaulted by a leather glove, "what are we to do about the Durandal? Such a dear boy. We all know his plans. And he's come so far in such a short time. But I can't help feeling that he threatens to steal our thunder. The Hellfire Club are the official villains and demons of the Golden Age, by choice and popular acclaim. If anyone's going to bring the Throne down, it should be us."

  "He means well," said a pretty young thing of indeterminate gender. "And I do so like to encourage new talent."

  "Kill him, for his presumption!" snapped a grossly fat man with so many body piercings he rattled when he breathed. "He should have come to us first. How dare he plan atrocities, and not include us?"

  "But," said Markham, his trained politician's voice cutting easily across the other's, "don't you just love the idea of the greatest Paragon of all time becoming the Empire's greatest villain? That a man who dedicated all his life to preserving the Empire and all it stood for, should be the one to bring it all crashing down in ruins? Irony is so good for the soul… Let him have his fun. Let him do all the hard work, gathering his followers and planning his plans, and when the Throne is finally in danger, we will step out from the shadows and take it all over. Make the Durandal one of us, whether he likes it or not. That's the Hellfire Club way, after all."

  "Of course," said Frankie, stretching her magnificent body with languorous ease. "Everyone can be seduced."

  "You should know," Markham said generously. "Now, if you'll all excuse me, I'll leave you to sort out the details. I have another meeting to attend. The House will be in Session soon, and my attendance is required."

  "Ah yes," said Frankie. "Have fun, my favorite Member…"

  In his sumptuous office, surrounded by all the spoils of victory, Angelo Bellini, Patriarch of the one true Church, was entertaining his second important visitor of the day. The previous Patriarch's remains had been carefully scraped up and removed, and very thoroughly disposed of, and everything in the office was now back to normal. Though the extractor fans were still working overtime. Angelo stood up behind his impressive desk, and nodded shortly to welcome the nearest thing the Ecstatics had to a leader or spokesperson. The Ecstatic was of average height, and a little thinner than most, probably because he kept forgetting to eat. Living in a constant state of orgasm will do that to you. He wore a simple gray shift, smelled strongly, and seemed to drift as much as walk across the deep pile carpeting towards Angelo and his desk.

  Seen up close, the Ecstatic wasn't very impressive. The constant unwavering smile was definitely disturbing, though, and there was something about the eyes… Angelo waved to the chair on the other side of his desk. He was damned if he was going to shake hands. The Ecstatic sank almost bonelessly into the hard-backed visitors chair, while Angelo made himself extremely comfortable in his rather more luxurious seat of power.

  "Call me Joy," the Ecstatic said suddenly, his happy voice full of real if unfocused enthusiasm. "It's a use name, of course. I don't have the patience for formal names anymore. And who I might have been in the past is of no interest to you or to me. It's good to be here. It's good to be anywhere. We met briefly at Douglas's Coronation, you and I. Exchanged a few words. Or perhaps we didn't. It's so hard to be sure about things that don't really matter. I love chocolate."

  "Well done," said Angelo. "You were almost coherent there, for a while. If not particularly valuable. Are you comfortable?"

  "Oh, I'm always comfortable. Really. You have no idea."

  "Could you please stop smiling like that? It's not natural."

  "Not for you, perhaps. For me, the world is good. So large and wondrous and full of pleasure. Call me Joy. You called, and here I am. You've done a lot with this place. I don't like it. Someone died here recently."

  Angelo looked sharply at the Ecstatic. He'd never had much time for the extravagant claims made for the Ecstatics' supposed powers of insight, but that last remark, so casually made, was certainly unsettling. Angelo made himself relax. The Ecstatic could say any damned thing he liked. It didn't matter.

  "The Church's previous Patriarch, the very venerable Roland Wentworth, has resigned," Angelo said flatly. "Reasons of ill health. He is gone, and he won't be coming back. I have therefore replaced him as Patriarch. I lead the Church of Christ Transcendent, the glorious Church Militant; and there is no room in
the new Church for such as you. For such… ostentatious self-indulgence. The new Church is all about service and loyalty and rigid self-discipline. You do nothing to advance the Cause, you are incapable of serving in the holy war to come; and your very nature brings the Church into disrepute. You disgust me. I have therefore taken the decision to excommunicate all Ecstatics, and ban the surgeries that produce you. You will all be expelled, denied the comforts and protections of mother Church. You don't fit in with our new image."

  Angelo realized he was saying more than he'd meant to, more than he needed, but there was something about the calm unwavering smile and gaze of the Ecstatic before him that goaded him, trying to find something that would crack that serene self-control. He wanted to hurt the Ecstatic, frighten him, make him squeal and cry and beg for mercy. Not that it would make any difference, of course.

  "You don't want us around because you can't afford to tolerate the existence of any other power base in the Church that might oppose your will," said Joy, in a surprisingly rational voice. "I knew this was coming. We all did. It's why I'm here."

  "You knew?" said Angelo, honestly shocked. "How could you know? Who talked? None of my people would have talked…"

  "No one had to tell us," said Joy. "You never understood who and what we are, Angelo Bellini. What we see and what we know. With our bodies freed from the demands of the now, our minds are freed to roam through past, present, and future. Our thoughts are unlocked, unshackled from the rigid restraints of rationality. I see through and beyond you, Angelo, as clearly as I see the functions of your desk. Behind you is the Durandal, and ahead of you is terror. We see so much, all of us. It's just that mostly we can't be bothered to tell anyone. There are Light People who walk among you, unnoticed and unobserved, intent on their own unknown missions. There are angels in the skies and demons in the earth. We hear voices that aren't there, and see things that may never happen. I have seen the future plummeting back into the past, and the dead rising to walk again. I see your aura, and it's really very ugly."