Deathstalker Rebellion (39 page)

Lionstone’s face disappeared from the wall viewscreen, replaced by a series of scenes from the detention center. Finlay Campbell cut and hacked his way through a small army of security guards, who might as well have been unarmed for all the good they did in stopping him. An Investigator in a really bad mood might have equaled the body count, but it was still an extremely impressive performance. Sometimes the camera had to slow the image down to show all that was happening. Dram found he was sitting on the edge of his chair, fascinated by the speed and fury of Finlay’s swords
manship. The scenes disappeared, replaced by Lionstone’s scowling face, and Dram made himself lean back in his chair and look unconcerned.

“Good techniques,” he said calmly. “But a bit rusty in some of his defensive moves. Of course, he didn’t seem to need them much …”

Lionstone sniffed loudly. “If the underground can take a fashion-obsessed idiot like Finlay Campbell and turn him into a first-class swordsman and killer, we’d better start taking them more seriously. You know he killed Lord St. John earlier, too? Though he’s no great loss. Getting too politically ambitious, that one. He’ll be more use to us as a martyr than he ever was alive. However, until I find someone I can trust to take over his position, you’re going to have to take over more of his duties, as Warrior Prime. It’ll mean your having to mix with people more, but you should be ready for that by now. Don’t say anything you don’t have to and practice looking mean, and you’ll do fine. Now, I understand we’re having problems with the rebuilding of Silo Nine. You were supposed to have sorted that out. Talk to me, Dram.”

“With Wormboy gone, we only have the worms themselves to control the esper prisoners. The worms seem to have formed a crude gestalt that enables them to function as before, controlling the espers’ thoughts through pain conditioning, but the worms need to remain close together to maintain the gestalt. Which means if we scatter the prisoners to other holding facilities, the precarious control will break down. And we don’t have anywhere near enough esp-blockers yet to guard that many prisoners. So we’re having to rebuild Silo Nine around the existing cells, with all the espers crammed in together. The underground is doing everything it can to sabotage the rebuilding, which means we need to maintain extra security measures to guard against them. All in all, we’re lucky to have progressed as far as we have.”

“The worms,” Lionstone said thoughtfully. “Are they sentient? Individually, I mean?”

“Unknown,” said Dram. “Espers can’t tell us anything about them, and tech scanners are limited to the physical realm. So far the worms are following orders, and that’s the best we can hope for. They’re somewhat bigger than they used to be and have apparently forged more connections with the host brain, but what that means is anybody’s guess.
I’ve established special security measures, so that the worms and their hosts are under constant observation. Just in case.”

“Keep it up,” said Lionstone. “Can’t have the worms becoming too powerful, can we? Very well, it seems you’re on top of things for the moment. Get some rest. I’ll contact you when I want you again.”

Her face disappeared, the wall viewscreen went blank, and Dram was finally alone. He slumped in his chair and sighed heavily. It was hard enough to survive in Golgotha these days without having to pretend to be somebody else while you were doing it. Except that wasn’t strictly accurate. He was Dram in every way that mattered. He just didn’t have Dram’s memories. He did have access to his recorded history, including a few things even Lionstone didn’t know about.

“Argus,” he said quietly. “Talk to me.”

“At your command, sir,” said his personal AI. The warm and comforting voice seemed to come from every part of the room at once, something Dram still hadn’t got used to.

“Access my predecessor’s diary,” said Dram. “I have some more questions.”

The original Dram had suspected that someday he might lose the Empress’s confidence, or otherwise fall from favor. And given how much he knew about her private needs and plans, he had no doubt his fall would lead rapidly and inevitably to his execution. He also had no doubt she’d clone him. It was what he would have done. So that his work could go on, he confided all his plans and personal information to a special diary file hidden deep inside his personal computer, along with standing instructions for Argus to inform and instruct his clone replacement.

He also intended for his death to be avenged. Lionstone was the most likely suspect, but he had many other enemies. The diary file therefore contained extensive notes on all his enemies’ weaknesses, along with suggestions as to how they might most successfully be exploited. Unfortunately, his clone had no idea how and why the original Dram died. Only Silence and his crew knew the true facts, and Lionstone had kept them in strict quarantine. So far she’d refused to answer any of his questions, but Dram had no doubt he’d get it out of her eventually. The Lionstone he’d had dealings with hadn’t seemed anywhere as intelligent or
subtle as the file had suggested. Unless he was missing something, of course.

With no firsthand memories of his earlier life, Dram’s performance in public was necessarily based on what the Empress chose to tell him, and he already knew she wasn’t telling him everything. Argus’s files helped, but he had to keep most of what he found there secret. Still, he felt he was doing a good job, all in all. As the official Consort, he’d stayed mainly in the Empress’s shadow and rarely had to deal with anyone in person when she wasn’t present, but even so, he had to be constantly on his toes; he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Anti-clone feeling was stronger now than ever, and he was the Court’s worst nightmare: a clone replacing a person in power so closely that the Court couldn’t recognize it. After all, if it happened once it could happen to anyone. And what better way for Lionstone to control her Court then to replace them one by one with her own creatures? As it was, anyone who changed his mind suddenly, on any matter, big or small, could expect to be thoroughly questioned by his peers. Just in case.

He’d got through his first appearance at Court all right, but now St. John was dead, his new duties as Warrior Prime would mean much more mixing with people, away from the safety of the Empress’s side. Perhaps it would be better to appoint another substitute to take St. John’s place. Dram didn’t particularly want to be Warrior Prime. He didn’t much like the man he used to be. The picture of Dram that had emerged from Lionstone’s teachings and the diary files was of a man consumed by hatred and driven by ambition and bloodlust. Dram the clone considered himself to be rather more civilized than that. Whatever forces had driven the original Dram to such extremes had not survived the cloning process.

He’d learned about his predecessor’s other life as Hood from the files, and from them Hood’s connections with the underground. Luckily, Hood had only interacted with a few people who mattered: Valentine Wolfe, Evangeline Shreck, David Deathstalker, and Kit SummerIsle. They knew a side of Dram the Empress knew nothing about, but he didn’t see that as posing much of a problem. The last two would be safely offplanet in a few days, and Evangeline had apparently disappeared into the underground completely. That just
left the Wolfe; and Dram had already decided to keep a safe distance from him.

Dram had every intention of being his own person and not a weak copy of a man he sometimes detested, but circumstances dictated that he had to play the role as convincingly as he could, for the time being at least. His personality had to be consistent to avoid fanning the flames of suspicion. And though he hated to admit it, the role did feel … comfortable. He might find his work with the dead and living espers distasteful, but he had no intention of avoiding it. Or the executions, now that Lionstone had insisted. If nothing else, he did seem to have inherited the original Dram’s ruthlessness.

To help sort out his confusion, he dug deeper and deeper into Argus’s files. The first big surprise he’d stumbled across was that the original Dram had had to play a role, too. It seemed he’d spent centuries in stasis and took the name Dram only when the Empress woke him. Dram the clone liked to think she awoke him with a kiss, but had to admit it was very unlikely. A kick, maybe. No information survived as to who the man might have been before he went into stasis, many centuries ago. Argus didn’t know. Perhaps the Empress didn’t know, either. It wasn’t something he could ask Lionstone about, because he wasn’t supposed to know, either. Certainly, it had been conspicuously absent from the briefings she’d given him.

Dram was also dismayed to discover he had some of the old Dram’s tastes and impulses. Lionstone had instructed him on how to kill someone at Court, should the occasion arise, and when his cue came up he followed the script she’d given him. Killing the MP had been an execution, not a duel, and he’d enjoyed every minute of it. So much so he’d almost been unable to stop and turn away, even after the man was obviously dead. He’d tried to feel bad about that, but it felt false.

He was still trying to decide whether he should take the esper drug, as his predecessor had. He’d found a few doses of the drug carefully hidden in his quarters, stashed against the possibility that some future Dram might need them. The drug would give him the same limited esper abilities the original Dram enjoyed, but there was also a small but definite chance the dose would kill him. And yet if he didn’t acquire those powers, all it would take was one mind probe by
the Empress’s espers and all his carefully acquired secrets would be revealed. Including how he really felt about her.

On the other hand, the esper drug was addictive. Once he started taking it, he’d have to keep on taking it. And if someone were to gain control over the supplying of the drug, they would then have control over him. The original Dram had power over those who supplied him. He had something on them, some knowledge they couldn’t afford to have made public. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, this knowledge had not been included in Argus’s files.

Of course, they didn’t know that. Yet.

So many decisions to make. Including whether he should continue to support the Empress. She was where real power lay. But of late she’d been alienating a lot of people over her insistence on ever more emergency powers. So far no one had dared say no, but among all the Families, the army and the Church, Dram was hard-pressed to name anyone Lionstone could still count on as a friend. They were beginning to be afraid of her for the wrong reasons. Push too hard, too far, and they might see her as more of a threat to them than the aliens were. If Lionstone was to fall, he’d be brought down with her. Unless he made some secret cautionary alliance of his own. Assuming he could find anyone to trust him. Dram, the Widowmaker, had many enemies, more rivals, and no friends. Not a good place to start from.

If he was honest, his own sympathies lay with the underground. He was a clone, after all. But he didn’t see how he could link up with them, after the original Dram had betrayed them so thoroughly in his Hood persona. Perhaps he could adopt another persona, too; but to bring that off he’d need the esper powers that only the esper drug could provide. He sighed again and stretched out in his chair. So many questions, so many decisions, so many possibilities, and all he really wanted was a little rest.

“Sir,” said Argus, “I am still awaiting your questions. Sir?”

But Dram was asleep. The AI considered the matter, checked that all the security measures were in place, lowered the lights, and shut itself down till it might be needed again.

Owen Deathstalker, that most notable hero and reluctant rebel, stood at the edge of the Hadenman city, deep within the bowels of the Wolfling World, and tapped his foot impatiently. He’d been waiting for Hazel d’Ark for some time and was prepared to wait a good deal longer, if need be. He seemed to spend a lot of time waiting for Hazel to deign to put in an appearance these days. For someone who was always in a hurry, Hazel had surprisingly little idea of time or punctuality, especially where other people were concerned. She’d probably be late for her own funeral, if only so she could be sure of getting in the last word. She was supposed to be joining him to teleport up to the Last Standing, still in orbit around the Wolfling World, but for the moment she was still somewhere deep in the Hadenman city, doing something she didn’t want him to know about, so all he could do was stand around like a spare posy at a wedding and wait for her. He knew she was there; he could feel her presence through the mental link they shared. But of late that link had grown blurred and uncertain, as though something had come between them, and Owen was convinced it had something to do with her occasional trips into the Hadenman city. Maybe this time he’d find out what it was.

He sighed, and glared once again at the watch face embedded in his wrist. Up in the great Hall of the Last Standing, that ancient stone castle that also happened to be an extremely powerful starship, representatives of rebels and freedom fighters from all across the Empire were gathering in a great council to determine the shape and future of the forthcoming rebellion. And he was stuck down here in the gloom, waiting for Hazel. He could have gone up without her, in fact Hazel had insisted he should, but he was damned if he would. She was up to something, and he wanted to know what. He might love her, but that didn’t mean he
trusted her any farther than he could spit into a hurricane. She’d been a pirate and a clonelegger long before she took on the dubious respectability of a rebel. And besides, something was wrong with Hazel. She’d been distracted lately, up one minute and down the next, and absentminded and vague when she wasn’t snappy and bad-tempered. This wasn’t actually untypical of Hazel, but it had grown much worse of late, enough for Owen to become concerned. Perhaps it was the strain of being a rebel and always on the run. Or a side effect of the many changes the Madness Maze had worked in her. Either way, if he was going to help her, he had to know what the problem was. Which was why he was prepared to wait right there till hell froze over, if that was what it took to find out what she was up to in the Hadenman city.