Deathstalker Rebellion (24 page)

“You don’t think I can do it, do you?” said Finlay. “Well, you’re wrong, Addie. I can jump in there, grab the bastard, and be gone before the guards know what’s hit them. I’m a fighter, Adrienne. The best damn fighter you’ll ever meet.”

“You’re not listening to me!” said Adrienne. “But, then, you never did. You talk to him, Evie.”

“But I want him to go,” said Evangeline. “Please, Finlay. Do it for me. I don’t want to end up in whatever they build to replace Silo Nine.”

“It won’t come to that,” said Finlay. “I’d never let them take you.”

“Even you couldn’t protect me from the kind of forces Julian Skye would set in motion. And I think I’d rather die than be taken.”

“I’d kill every guard and soldier in the Empire before I let them hurt you,” said Finlay. “All right. I’ll go. But if by
some miracle I get out of this alive and reasonably intact, I want something for myself.” He glared across at the esper leaders. “You hear that, you bastards?”

“We are not surprised,” said the mandala, pulsing calmly. “What do you want?”

“I want Valentine,” said Finlay. He smiled widely, and there was no humor in it at all, just a death’s-head grin. “I want his head on a stick.”

Valentine Wolfe was once an enthusiastic supporter of the underground. He provided financial backing, and whatever support and influence he could bring to bear without compromising himself. But then he waged a sudden and highly successful vendetta against the Campbells, and became the head of his own Family when his father died leading the assault on Tower Campbell. As the new Wolfe, Valentine had access to immense wealth and power and apparently lost all interest in the underground and the rebellion. He no longer came to meetings and ignored all attempts at contact. So the underground left him strictly alone. He could do them a lot of damage if he chose to. He knew names and faces, plans and places. A few hard-liners in the elves wanted him dead, as a precautionary measure. So far the underground leaders had said no. Valentine had remained silent, and they didn’t want to upset or alarm other Clan members working with the underground. At the very least, it would set a bad precedent. And as the Wolfe, Valentine was very well protected. An unsuccessful attack by the underground might very well prompt the very disclosure of information they were so desperate to avoid.

But, if they let Finlay kill him, working on his own, they could pass if off as a personal feud. Just a Campbell and a Wolfe fighting again. It was a tempting thought. As long as Valentine was alive, the information in his head was a threat hanging over them. While not as great a threat as Julian Skye, he could do a lot of damage, if he chose. There was also the question of exactly how much influence the Lord High Dram had over Valentine. Dram had also been a major player in the underground, in his alias as Hood, only to betray them during the attack on Silo Nine. He was directly responsible for the scattering that had put Julian Skye on the spot in the first place. So far, he’d made no attempt to contact or control Valentine, but the potential threat of blackmail was always there.

Finlay knew all this was going through the leaders’ minds. He didn’t need to be a telepath for that. They and he had already argued both sides of this problem many times before. They’d always said no. But things were different now.

“Very well,” said the dragon, curled around his tree. He fixed his glowing golden eyes on Finlay. “In the unlikely event that you return from this mission successful and alive, you may pursue your vendetta against the Wolfe. The underground will neither hinder nor support you. All consequences will be upon your own head. We will of course, if necessary, discard and renounce you.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Finlay. “I’ve always known where I stood with you.”

“Be clear as to the purpose of your mission,” said the mandala, its colors rippling agitatedly. “You must either rescue or silence Julian Skye, according to the situation you encounter. He must not be allowed to talk. Once we have teleported you in, you’re on your own. We can’t help you. We can, however, offer a little support in advance.”

One of the elves stepped forward and presented Finlay with a small flat box. It was polished steel, with a single button on it, colored a dramatic red. Finlay hefted it thoughtfully. He’d never seen one before, but he knew what the box was, what it had to be. A mindbomb. A terror weapon despised and outlawed throughout the Empire. Once activated, it attacked the minds of all non-espers, disorienting and scrambling their thoughts. Its victims hallucinated, then became insane, and finally catatonic. It was a vicious, take-no-prisoners weapon, a last resort for the truly desperate. It was very rare; like the esp-blockers, the mindbomb was based around living esper brain tissue. It was almost unthinkable for the esper leaders to admit to possessing such a thing, let alone handing one over to him. They really must think he wouldn’t be coming back to talk about it. Finlay couldn’t help wondering whether the brain tissue had come from a volunteer, and if it was still somehow aware and thinking. He repressed a shudder and slipped the metal box into his pocket. He nodded respectfully to the elves and threw the leaders another brisk salute, indicating the audience was over, as far as he was concerned. He took Evangeline by the arm and led her off to one side. Adrienne followed. The images of the esper leaders disappeared like popping soap bub
bles. The crowd began to break up, chattering animatedly. Finlay had given them enough material to keep them gossiping for weeks.

Finlay knew the underground expected him to kill Skye. They thought him incapable of subtlety. They also thought he’d kill Skye to make it easier for him to escape the interrogation center. They were wrong both times. Finlay was determined to bring Skye back alive. Partly, because he’d failed to rescue so many others from Silo Nine and had sworn never to fail again, and partly to prove to the espers that they were wrong about him. He wasn’t just a killing machine, a weapon they could just aim and unleash on their enemies. Despite everything that had happened to him, he was still more than that. He had to be, for Evangeline’s sake. He smiled at her and nodded briskly to Adrienne.

“Never thought to see you two together without weapons in your hands. How the hell did you get together?”

“Circumstances can make for strange bedfellows,” said Adrienne. “I’ve always known that.”

“I’ll bet you have,” said Finlay.

“You don’t have to take this mission,” said Evangeline. “Despite everything I’ve said, I don’t want you to die.”

“I do have to take this mission,” said Finlay. “And not just for the obvious reasons. You never did understand why I needed to fight in the Arena. I need the action, the thrill of the blood, the balancing on a blade’s edge between life and death. Now that my other life in the Empire is gone, I need the thrill a little more. It’s all I have to keep me occupied.”

“You still have me,” said Evangeline.

“I hardly see you these days,” said Finlay. “It used to be, when I was with you, I could forget the Arena, the blood, and the killing. But now you have your responsibilities in the world above, and so little time to be with me. You have to understand what drives me, Evie. It isn’t very pretty or honorable, but it’s me. I need to kill, like a predator in a world of prey. Nothing’s happened to change that. It’s just that the life I’m living now has brought it closer to the surface.”

“The world above doesn’t matter,” said Evangeline. “And my responsibilities can go to hell. There are too many of them these days. They clog up my head and keep me from seeing what’s really important. I’ll move down here permanently if that’s what you need, and to hell with what the un
derground wants. In the end, there’s just you and me and what we mean to each other. Everything else is just clutter.”

Finlay took her in his arms and kissed her, and their passion beat on the air like the wings of a giant bird. Adrienne watched thoughtfully. It had been a day of surprises. This new Finlay was a man she’d only seen in glimpses before, puzzling flashes of a hidden nature that had disturbed and frightened her. She didn’t like to think she could have been so wrong about someone so close to her. Pretty Finlay in his gorgeous outfits, a mad dog killer from the Arena … and Evangeline, a quiet mousy little thing at Court, with hidden horrors and a kind of courage Adrienne could only marvel at. They were both a little ragged around the edges just now, but Adrienne liked them a lot more. She’d always had a weakness for the mentally challenged. Finlay and Evangeline had been in different worlds for too long, becoming different people who had nothing in common except their love, but in the end it was enough. It was strong and real enough to hold even them together. Adrienne could recognize that. She’d have had to be blind not to.

But for once, she didn’t know what to do for the best. Finlay would have to be really crazy to go on this mission, but all the signs were he was a long way down that road already. Nothing she could say or do would change his mind. She wasn’t used to that. She’d never been in a situation before where her arrogance and mastery of words couldn’t get her what she wanted. She’d relied on her acid tongue to get her own way for so long, that she was frankly lost for an alternative. She didn’t want to lose this new, interesting Finlay, now she’d found him. She was surprised to find how much that mattered to hen Finlay and Evangeline finally came up for air, and she coughed meaningfully. It was a good cough. On a good day, she could silence a room with it. The two lovers turned to look at her without letting go of each other

“Before you say anything,” Evangeline said firmly to Finlay, “Adrienne and I have become friends. She gave me the strength to do something very unpleasant but utterly necessary that I’d been putting off for far too long. And no, I’m not going to tell you what. Suffice it to say it’s because of her support that I’ll be able to spend more time down here in the future.”

“Thank you for that at least, Addie,” said Finlay.

“You’re so welcome,” said Adrienne. They looked at each other for a long moment, but had the sense to leave it at that.

“So,” said Finlay. “What are your plans, Ad? Going to join the rebellion?”

“Maybe,” said Adrienne. “Things have been getting pretty tough for me upstairs. I could use a new direction and a measure of security. Tell me, Finlay, were you really a fighter in the Arena?”

“He was the Masked Gladiator,” said Evangeline, and she and Finlay both laughed aloud at the expression on Adrienne’s face. She quickly pulled herself together and managed to laugh with them.

“Who knows,” she said, “if I put my mind to it, maybe I can nag Lionstone into making reforms.”

“If anyone could, you could,” said Finlay generously.

Finlay teleported into the interrogation center with a sword in his hand and grim determination in his heart. He snapped into being halfway down a dimly lit corridor, facing half a dozen rather surprised-looking guards. They had swords in their hands, too, but it didn’t help them. Finlay plowed straight into them, his sword flashing in short, brutal arcs, and blood-choked screams filled the corridor. He killed them all in under a minute, and then stood poised and ready, listening for reinforcements. The seconds passed, and no one came to investigate. The few brief sounds from the one-sided slaughter obviously hadn’t traveled far. Finlay sniffed dismissively, flicking drops of blood from his blade. Not much fun. Strictly amateur hour. No challenge at all. If this was the Empire’s idea of a trap, this mission was going to be a walkover. Then he noted the cameras set into the ceiling, watching him with glowing unblinking eyes, and decided it might be a good idea if he got a move on after all. Given what the cameras had just observed, reinforcements were probably already on their way, in great numbers, with guns and guard dogs. He’d never liked dogs.

He looked up and down the corridor, and wished he’d thought to ask for a map. The corridor was sparsely lit by dull-glowing lamps set into the ceiling. The walls were bare featureless steel, with no markings or signs. Narrow doors led off into interrogation cells at regular intervals—solid steel doors, sealed with electronic locks. Deep shadows lay undisturbed to every side, and there was a strong smell of
disinfectant in the air, almost but not quite masking other, more unpleasant smells. Julian Skye was here somewhere, but exactly where was anyone’s guess. The underground had taken pains not to send him to the exact location of Skye’s beacon. Materializing inside a locked cell, where everyone would be expecting him, had not struck anyone as a good idea, least of all Finlay. So they picked the nearest open space and dropped him there. Finlay looked around him vaguely, hefted his sword, and for want of anything better to do, moved over to the nearest door. There was a small viewscreen set into the solid steel. Finlay activated it, and the screen showed him what was inside the cell.

The man spread-eagled on the metal table had been expertly flayed. Not a square inch of skin remained on him, but he was still very much alive. He moved feebly, struggling against unseen restrains. Raw red muscle glistened wetly. Naked eyes bulged from lidless sockets. Blood seeped constantly onto the table, carried away by grooves and runnels cut into the metal. New blood flowed into a pulsing vein from an IV drip. Finlay turned off the screen and leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the cell door.

There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t rescue everyone. He didn’t have the time. The underground had been quite specific about that. He had to get to Skye before he could spill anything important. Finlay took a deep breath and let it out. To hell with them, and to hell with the Empire. He was damned if he’d let obscenities like this continue. He used the lock-scrambling mechanism the underground had provided, and the cell door swung silently open.

Finlay slipped inside, and the man on the table whimpered in anticipation of fresh pain. Finlay leaned over him, making soothing shushing noises, and the prisoner quietened. It was only then that Finlay realized the man had been riveted to the table by firing metal spikes through his limbs and body. There were dozens of them. Finlay had no way of removing them, short of levering them out one at a time, and the shock alone would almost certainly finish the poor bastard off anyway. But he couldn’t leave him to suffer like this. Finlay stood a moment, mind racing as he tried to come up with some other alternative, but in the end there was only one thing he could do. He smiled reassuringly down into the prisoner’s naked, hopeful eyes, and slipped the point of his sword into the exposed, beating heart. There was a brief
splash of blood, the flayed man jerked once, and then he stopped breathing. Finlay kicked at the table once in frustration and then left the cell.