Deathstalker Legacy (23 page)

“Now then,” said the Chairman, concentrating on Finn. “What exactly is it I can do for the legendary Finn Durandal?”

“You can help me depose the King and overthrow the current political system,” Finn said easily. “Shouldn’t be too big a strain on your conscience, Mr. Wallace. You are Neuman, after all.”

Joseph Wallace was immediately back on his feet again, his face flushed. “I have never been so insulted in my life! My receptionist tried to warn me, but I couldn’t believe she was serious. This is an outrage! If you dare to repeat this calumny in public, I will have no hesitation in suing you . . .”

Brett barely caught Finn’s signal to Rose, but in a moment she was surging forward from the door, a long thin dagger in her hand. She grabbed Wallace by the front of his very expensive suit, hauled him forward over his own desk, and held the point of her dagger a fraction of an inch before his left eyeball. All the color went out of Wallace’s face, and he whimpered loudly. Finn was still sitting in his chair, smiling calmly.

“You’re Neuman,” he said, as though they’d never been interrupted. “Just like everyone else who matters on the Transmutation Board. Pure Humanity has spent years, and a great deal of money, infiltrating its entire structure. I’m a Paragon. It’s my job to know things like that. Don’t look so terrified, Wallace. I’m not here to arrest you. I could have done that long ago, if I’d wanted to. But . . . I had a feeling the information might come in handy someday. Let him go, Rose.”

Rose let go of Wallace, made her dagger disappear, and went back to leaning against the door again. Wallace stood where he was, sweat shining on his face, until Finn indicated it was all right for him to sit down again. Wallace all but collapsed into his chair.

“Now then,” Finn said easily. “Be a good man, and explain why you and your associates have gone to such lengths to take over the business of the Transmutation Board. Be brutally honest. Or I’ll let Rose have you.”

“It was necessary,” said Wallace, his voice strained but steady. “Necessary to protect the Empire. From the alien scum who’d destroy our human way of life, if they could. The Board chooses uninhabited worlds to be reduced by transmutation to necessary materials. It’s part of the Board’s charter to investigate these worlds thoroughly beforehand, and ensure they contain no life-forms of any worth or interest. Dead worlds. Empty worlds. Grist for the mill. We saw that as a . . . wasted opportunity. Neumen now decide Board policy. For years we have been secretly searching out new worlds with intelligent alien life, and giving them over to transmutation. Wiping out whole species before they become a threat to us. To Pure Humanity.”

“Genocide,” said Finn.

“Yes,” said Wallace.

“Jesus . . .” said Brett, but no one looked at him.

“I don’t care,” said Finn. “The King wouldn’t approve of what you’ve been doing, but I don’t approve of the King. So let us work together, you and I, against a common enemy.”

Wallace didn’t actually relax, but some of the tension went out of him. “I didn’t know you believed in the Neuman philosophy . . .”

“Oh I don’t,” said Finn. “I don’t believe in anything much anymore, apart from myself. We will be allies of convenience, nothing more.”

“Everything we do, we do in Humanity’s name,” said Wallace. “I did wonder, when you came here, whether you knew what we had arranged for this morning’s Session of Parliament. We never actually expected it to work, but . . it was a signal of our intent. Our serious intent.”

“What is he talking about?” said Brett.

“They tried to blow up the King,” said Finn. “It’s all over the Paragons’ emergency channel. They failed. The Deathstalker saved Douglas. He always was a conscientious sort. Humorless little prig. I’ll have to think of something especially amusing to do to him. Carry on, Mr. Wallace. You were justifying yourself.”

“It was always meant that this should be a human Empire,” said Wallace, his voice rising as he warmed to his cause. “Aliens compete with us for living space. They eat our food, breathe our air, live on worlds that should be ours. They undermine our way of thinking, corrupt our beliefs, threaten our Purity. They must be subjugated or destroyed, for our own protection. Before they do it to us.”

“Now that really is bullshit,” said Brett.

“I don’t care,” said Finn.

“Well I do!” Brett said hotly. “Some of my friends are aliens!”

Wallace sneered at him. “Yes. You look the type. Degenerate.”

“Oh no,” Rose said unexpectedly. “That’s me.” She moved away from the door again, and punched Wallace in the face. His head rocked under the impact, and they all heard his nose break. Blood ran down his face. He put up an arm to protect himself, and Rose grabbed his wrist and twisted it so painfully he cried out. Rose smiled and leaned in close. He tried to flinch back in his chair, but the wristlock held him in place. Rose put her face right in front of his. “Brett is one of us. And you don’t talk to us that way. Know your place, little man.”

She licked some of the blood off his face, her tongue moving slowly over his cheek, and he shuddered. Rose let go of his wrist, and went back to leaning against the door again. Brett wondered if he should thank her, then decided it was probably wiser not to draw attention to himself, just then. He thought about what Wallace had said, about what the Board had been doing, for years . . . and felt sick. He was a thief and a con man and an unrepentant villain, but there were lines even he wouldn’t cross. Genocide . . . cold-blooded murder on a planetary scale . . . For the first time, Brett had to seriously wonder if he was on the right side . . .

“You have to make allowances for Rose,” said Finn. “On the grounds that if you don’t, she’ll kill you. Now pay attention, Wallace. And leave your nose alone. You can have your medic reset it after we’re gone. You and your Neuman associates will provide me with whatever support I deem necessary, and in return I will bring down the King and replace the exisiting system with one more amenable to your beliefs. Namely; myself. Until then, I and my associates will remain silent about what we know. You’re welcome to try and kill me, of course, but if you do and I find out about it, I’ll have Rose rip your guts out and make you eat them before you die. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rose?”

“Love it,” said Rose, and Wallace and Brett both shuddered at what they heard in her voice.

“And there are of course hidden records of what I know,” said Finn. “Extensive, very well hidden records. The Neumen have a new partner. Get used to it.”

“I like this place,” Rose said unexpectedly, and they all turned to look at her. Her rosebud mouth stretched into a slow scarlet smile. “So much death in the air . . . So much slaughter and suffering planned in little rooms like this . . . I find it all so
exciting
. . .”

“You really are
weird,
Rose,” said Brett.

“I try,” said Rose.

 

Finn’s final stop surprised Brett even more, even though he’d never trusted the man they’d come to see. Brett had never had any time for Saints, especially those created by the media. Angelo Bellini, also known as the Angel of Madraguda, lived very comfortably in a small Church in the most fashionable part of the Parade of the Endless. A Cardinal in the Church of Christ Transcendent, Angelo was rarely off the vidscreen, forever pontificating on some important matter of the day. His uncomplicated charm and bluff honesty appealed to a hell of a lot of viewers, all too many of whom loved him uncritically and hung on his every word, rushing to donate their money to whatever cause he was pushing that week. Brett knew another con man when he saw one, just as he had no trouble recognizing someone who loved the sound of their own voice just as much, if not more, than the message he was supposed to be putting across.

Angelo himself was a medium-sized, more than a little overweight man who saved his impressive Cardinal’s robes for public appearances only. In the comfort of his own private rooms, he dressed in flowing robes that he wore unbelted, to help disguise his waistline, and spoke softly, as though saving his voice for more important occasions. He had a thick mane of jet black hair brushed back from a widow’s peak, a bushy black beard, and a disconcertingly direct gaze. Brett thought he smiled far too much.

Angelo welcomed Finn and his companions warmly, ushered them into his quietly opulent living room, and made sure they were all comfortable before bustling about organizing coffee and cakes. Finn and Rose declined, but Brett said yes to everything, on principle. His eyes moved greedily over the expensive furnishings and fittings.

“You live well,” said Finn, shooting Brett a warning glare.

Angelo shrugged disarmingly. “It’s my job to raise funds for good causes. That means playing host to some very important people, sometimes, and I have to be able to put them at their ease. Make them comfortable. So there’s nothing to distract them from the message I need to put across.”

“Wouldn’t poverty and humble surroundings impress them even more?” said Brett, his mouth half full of toffee cake.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” said Angelo, not in the least put out. “But in reality, all that does is make them uncomfortable. Even guilty. That they have so much and others have so little. So they throw you a handful of credits to appease their conscience, and leave as quickly as possible, and do their best to never think about you or your causes again. I’d rather seduce them in, like a spider into its web, get them at their ease, and then hit them with facts and figures; make them see how badly their money is needed. How much good a . . . reasonably sized contribution could do. Appeal to the head and the heart. You get more out of them through persuasion than you ever could by beating them around the head. Do try the fudge brownies; I made them myself.”

“Persuasion,” said Finn, not even looking at the fudge brownies. “That’s always been your stock in trade, hasn’t it; ever since your days as a hostage negotiator, back on Madraguda. But do you find your current vocation satsifying, Angelo? Does it fulfill all your needs? What do you want, Angelo?”

“I want what my Church wants,” Angelo said smoothly. “Access to the Madness Maze. It is our principle act of faith. Is that what you’re here to discuss, Finn? I confess I can’t think of any other reason why such an important figure as yourself should ask to see me so urgently.”

“I can get you access,” said Finn. “I can put the Madness Maze in the Church’s hands, now and forever.”

Angelo sat forward in his chair, pulling thoughtfully at his beard, and looked sharply at Finn. “Parliament’s will remains unchanged; so that just leaves the King. Your fellow Paragon. Are you saying you can change the King’s mind?”

“Even better; I can change the King. And the new King will change Parliament’s mind. With the Church’s help, I will overthrow Douglas, remake Parliament, and make the Church the power in the Empire it always should have been.”

“This is treason,” Angelo said slowly. “The Church . . . does not interfere in political matters. Never has, never will.”

“Not even for guaranteed access to the Madness Maze? Not even for the greatest prize of all; transendence for all Humanity?”

Angelo glared at him. “Get thee behind me, Satan! I will not be tempted!”

“Why not?” said Finn indulgently. “There’s no sin in being truthful about what you really want. The Church wants the Maze, and you want to rise in the Church. You want to be in a position to command people, not have to beg from them. You want to be able to make them do the right thing, for once. And when you get right down to it, there’s only one devil you need to overcome, and that’s Parliament. All those powerful people, so wrapped up in their own small thoughts they can’t step back and see what Humanity needs . . . Can’t see the overwhelming importance of transcendence. Support me, and together we’ll make them see.”

“Just like that,” said Angelo, leaning back in his chair and studying Finn thoughtfully.

“No, not just like that,” Finn said patiently. “It will take time, and an awful lot of planning. One by one, we’ll bring down the people who oppose us and replace them with new people more amenable to our needs. Together, you and I will create and control a new political force, the Church Militant. A Church within a Church, to seize the public’s imagination, and grow into a force so powerful that even the high and mighty Members of Parliament will have to bow down to it. And the Madness Maze will be only one of the rewards . . . I ask you again, Angelo Bellini; are you satisfied with your lot? Your Church? Your life? Or do you have the courage to change not just your life, but all Humanity’s?”

“You’re wasted as a Paragon, Finn Durandal,” said Angelo. “You should be in politics.”

“I am,” said Finn. “They just don’t know it yet.”

“Let me tell you my story,” said Angelo, and Brett sighed inwardly. Everyone knew the story of the Angel of Madraguda. It had been dramatized several times, and God knows Angelo had told it often enough on the chat show circuit. (Always modestly, of course.) Bellini had been a hostage negotiator. Devils from the Hellfire Club had taken over a Church. Bellini talked them out of killing their hostages. He was so impressed by the courage of the priests involved that he joined the Church, and rose to Cardinal. The media made him a Saint. Everyone knew the story. Angelo could see it in their faces. He smiled briefly. “No, my friends; you only think you know what happened on Madraguda, all those years ago. Let me tell you what really happened.”

 

It was four in the morning and raining hard when Angelo arrived outside the Church. He climbed out of his car, hunched his shoulders against the pouring rain, and accepted a cup of steaming coffee from the uniformed peacekeeper. It was going to be a bad one. They wouldn’t have hauled him out of bed at this ungodly hour, and dragged him all the way out here, for anything less than a major-league screwup. Angelo gulped at the scalding coffee and glanced through the driving rain at the Cathedral of the Blessed Saint Beatrice. Madraguda’s only Cathedral wasn’t that big or that impressive, but it was the spiritual heart of the city, and a lot of people were going to be mad as hell if the Hellfire Club carried out their threat to desanctify it with the spilled blood of innocents. These people might well be mad enough to vote out of office the city Council that allowed it to happen. So the Council leaned on the peacekeepers, and they leaned on Angelo Bellini; to come to the Cathedral and work a miracle. One more time . . .