Deathstalker Honor (17 page)

“Know what you mean,” said Ruby, nodding sagely. “Know what you mean. Success ruined us. I mean, look at me. Finally I’m as rich as I always dreamed of being. Maybe even more so—hell, I can’t even keep track of it all these days. Got accountants for that. They send me statements, but I can’t make heads or tails of them. I never knew there were numbers that big. I track down rich criminals, find where they’ve hidden their loot, confiscate it, and then hand it over to Parliament, minus my hefty commission. Not that I do much of the actual work myself, of course—got a whole bunch of cyberats working for me. They locate the funds and the bastard’s location, and then I just bash my way in there and arrest the bad guy. They rarely put up much of a fight once I’m past their defenses. Hell, most of them burst into tears when they see me walk in.”

“Hold everything,” said Jack. “Arrest them? Since when did you ever bother with arresting people?”

“Oh, all right, then. I break in and kill the bad guys, if you insist on being exact. They’d only be hanged by the war trials anyway, and I can’t be bothered with the paperwork. Point is, I am now rolling in money. More than even I can spend in a lifetime. Got a big house, servants, all the latest comforts and luxuries. All the things I always thought I wanted. But you can get tired of things real quickly. They’re just toys, when you get right down to it. Even shouting at the servants has lost its charm. There’s no fun in intimidating someone when you know you’re paying them to be intimidated. And on top of all that, I have this sneaking suspicion that I’m getting soft and losing my edge. There’s always someone waiting in the wings to take it all away from you.”

“Yeah,” said Jack heavily. “The trouble with fulfilling all your dreams is that eventually you wake up to reality.”

“Oh, very profound,” said Ruby. “Very deep. What the hell does that mean?”

Jack shrugged. “Damned if I know. But it sounded good there for a moment.” He looked across the crowded Chamber at Owen. “What’s he doing, talking to that Wolfe woman?”

“Maybe she’s got some lead on where we can find Valentine,” said Hazel.

“Maybe,” said Jack. “But I wouldn’t trust anything that came from that direction. Last I heard, Constance Wolfe was in bed with the Chojiros. Bad Family. Bad people.”

Hazel looked at him thoughtfully. “There was something in your voice just then, when you said
Chojiro
. Something cold . . . and angry. What connection do you have with the Chojiros?”

“Yeah,” said Ruby. “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard you put them down. What makes the Chojiros so much worse than all the other aristocratic scumbags?”

Jack stared at the bottle before him so he wouldn’t have to look at Ruby or Hazel. “My mother was a Chojiro,” he said quietly. “They threw her out and cut her off without a penny, just because she married the man she loved rather than the man they chose for her. They were all bastards then, and they’re bastards now. Never trust a Chojiro.”

“You made a deal with them fast enough,” said Ruby. “You sold out every principle you ever had when you saved the aristos’ asses.”

“It was necessary,” said Jack. “It took the Families and their private armies out of the war. With them out of the loop, millions lived who might otherwise have died. Not a bad bargain. What are a few principles compared to people’s lives?”

“Even if it means most of the guilty go unpunished for generations of crimes against Humanity?”

Jack turned and glared at her. “That’s pretty sophisticated talk from a killer for hire! When did you ever care about Humanity? When did you ever have any principles?”

“Never,” said Ruby. “And I never pretended otherwise. But I might have felt differently in time. I believed in you, Jack. And then you turned out to be just like everyone else.”

It was an old argument, with no end in sight. Hazel turned away and let them get on with it. She looked out across the Chamber, and the crowd seemed to part before her just in time for her to see Owen take Constance Wolfe into his arms and kiss her.

 

Finlay Campbell, once again the height of fashion, moved smoothly through the packed crowd, like a shark floating on the currents, basking in a sea of prey. His crushed velvet cutaway frock coat was superbly tailored, snug as a second skin, an electric blue so bright it was almost painful on the eyes. He wore thigh-length bruised-leather boots over canary yellow leggings, and wore a rose red cravat at his throat, tied just untidily enough to show he’d done it himself. Such details were important. He wore a pair of pince-nez he didn’t need, and his long hair was tied back in a single complex plait. Once such mastery of fashion, the epitomie of the fop and dandy, would have won him admiring glances from one and all, and perhaps even a smattering of applause as he passed. But that was long ago, in another lifetime.

Finlay had changed during his years as a rebel. His once youthful face was now thin and drawn, with heavy lines at the mouth and eyes. The color had faded from his hair, till it was almost white. He was only in his late twenties, but looked more than ten years older. Although he tried hard, he walked more like a soldier than a man of leisure, and his eyes were frighteningly cold. He looked what he was, hard-worn and dangerous, and all his pretty clothes looked only like a clown’s costume on a killer. People moved quickly to get out of his way, even when he indicated he might like to talk to them. Although he was no longer the Campbell, and leader of his Clan, in many ways he had become his late father, that feared and dangerous man—a thought that never failed to disturb Finlay.

His failure to fit in worried him. He’d thought he could just adopt his old dandy persona again, and everyone would accept him as they always had. But he had changed too much, lost his youth and innocence on too many assassination runs for the underground, and he couldn’t go back. Besides, he found the persona so much of an effort these days; the petty politics of Parliament and its hangers-on were nothing compared to the life-and-death struggles of the rebellion. Then everything he did mattered, had made a difference. Now he was just another minor hero, home from the wars, no more important than a thousand others.

Just another killer pensioned off too soon.

In the past he’d always been able to slake his need for blood and excitement in the Arenas, as the undefeated champion, the Masked Gladiator. But he’d had to give up that persona when he’d been forced to flee Society and join his love, Evangeline, in the clone and esper underground. His mentor, the original Masked Gladiator, had taken up the role again in Finlay’s absence, so no one would make a connection between the missing Campbell and the missing Gladiator. But the original Masked Gladiator had died during the rebellion, his bloody end caught live by Flynn’s camera as the esper Julian Skye took a vicious revenge for his brother Auric’s death in the Arena. And so that role was lost to Finlay forever. Even worse, Auric Skye had actually died at Finlay’s hand, during his time under the Mask. He could never tell Julian that. It would have destroyed their friendship forever.

And so the Arenas were banned to Finlay. He couldn’t even fight as himself without the Mask. His style would soon be recognized by the aficionados, and his secret would be out. Julian would hear, and know he’d killed an innocent man. So Finlay put on the fine clothes again and walked in Society, trying to be the diplomat and ambassador for the clone and esper undergrounds that he had reluctantly agreed to be. Because they needed him. Or at least, because Evangeline had convinced him they needed him. Sometimes he found himself wondering whether she might have got him his position through her own influence in the undergrounds, just to keep him busy, and make him feel . . . useful. He couldn’t ask her. She was always busy with her own work, struggling to help the clone underground to take its place above ground as part of the new political scene. It was important work. Sometimes he didn’t see her for days. The one time in his life when he really needed her comfort, and she wasn’t even there.

It was a petty thought, and he did his best to disown it.

He didn’t know that Evangeline had seen the growing desperation in his eyes, and arranged as much work for him as she could, because she was afraid he might kill himself if he didn’t have a direction, a purpose in his life. She didn’t know he still dreamed of the bulging veins in his wrists, and the sharp edge of a knife, or of a rope noose hanging in the moonlight, and how easy it would be to put it all behind him and find peace at last.

Finlay saw Owen Deathstalker standing alone for the moment, and an old anger stirred in him. It wasn’t just love that kept him going; there was also an unconsummated hatred that still burned in his heart. He strode over to the Deathstalker, who turned and bowed formally. Finlay made himself bow in return. The forms had to be observed. Owen and Finlay might have fought on the same side in the rebellion, but they’d never had that much in common as people. Owen thought Finlay was a mad dog killer who might slip his leash at any time, and turn on friend as well as foe, and Finlay thought Owen was a dangerous amateur who thought too much. In public they were very polite with each other. Usually.

“I have a bone to pick with you, Deathstalker.”

“Join the queue,” Owen said calmly. “What’s your problem, Campbell?”

“Valentine Wolfe. I’ve only just found out you knew where he was and didn’t tell me. He destroyed my Family, damn it.”

“Valentine destroyed a lot of people’s families. That’s why Parliament sent me after him. If you were as well connected as you’re supposed to be, you’d have heard it too. I can’t help it if you’ve been a little . . . preoccupied lately.”

“Don’t patronize me, Deathstalker!”

“And don’t you get haughty with me, Campbell. If anything, I have a better claim on Valentine than you do. He destroyed my whole planet.”

“I will kill him,” said Finlay. “And anyone else who gets in my way. Even the almighty Owen Deathstalker.”

Owen smiled. “You could try,” he said politely, and then turned and walked unhurriedly away. Finlay watched him go, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. And then someone put a hand on his arm, and he spun furiously around, only to find Evangeline Shreck standing there beside him, smiling. The rage left him in a moment as he smiled back at her.

“I got back early,” said Evangeline, taking his hands in hers. “Thought I’d surprise you. And from the look of you, I’d say I got here not a moment too soon. Who’s upset you this time?”

“Oh, just the Deathstalker,” said Finlay, calm again, all the darkness swept away by the sunshine of her smile and the glory of her eyes. He took her in his arms, as though they could force out all the things that separated them by the depth of their love. And maybe they could at that. After a long while they released each other, and stepped back to get a good look at each other.

“God, you look lovely,” said Finlay, and she did. Evangeline was wearing a long dress of sparkling silver, cut away at one shoulder to show off her delicate, waif-like bone structure, and her dark hair was cut short in defiance of the current fashion. Her face was high-boned, wide-eyed, vulnerable but determined, and just looking at her again made Finlay all the more determined to defend her from all the dangers and cruelties in the world. She was his reason for living, the blood that flowed in his veins, the heart that beat in his breast only for her. Sometimes when she was away, he forgot that, but now she was back and he was alive and awake again. He wanted to rush out and slay a couple of dragons just so he could lay them at her feet.

“You look . . . fashionable,” said Evangeline. “If you were any more colorful, everyone else would appear to be in black and white.”

“Just dressing the part,” said Finlay. “Subtlety is out this season. Mind you, you should have seen some of the stuff I wore when I was pretending to be one of the secret masters of style, and had to be constantly on the cutting edge of fashion.”

“I’ve seen holos. The images are irreversibly seared into my retinas. Now, what were you so mad about? Not that Robert is continuing as head of Clan Campbell instead of you, surely?”

“Oh, hell, no. Let him be the Campbell if he wants. He’ll do a much better job than I ever could. No, it’s a new world for the Families now, and he’s far better suited to guide the Clan through it. Good man, Robert. It helps that he’s one of the few people who fought for the Empire to still be considered a hero. Last man to leave his ship, defending her to the last against overwhelming odds . . . Maybe he can use that image to rebuild the Family, make it what it was before Valentine destroyed it.”

Evangeline nodded slowly as she heard the sudden venom in Finlay’s voice when he named his enemy. “So that’s why you were so mad at Owen. Save your anger for your real enemies, dear. You’ll get your chance at Valentine.”

Finlay forced a smile. “Let’s talk of happier things. What brings you back so unexpectedly?”

“My mission turned out to be a bust. It was all over before I got there—agreements signed, everybody happy. It happens that way sometimes. So here I am. Glad to see me?”

“Let me get you out of this madhouse and home again, and I’ll show you how glad I am,” growled Finlay, pulling her close again.

Their shared laughter was a moment of real warmth in the artificial chill of polite company.

 

Not far away, Robert Campbell stood watching them. He wore his new Captain’s uniform with a certain stiffness. The high mortality rate in the Imperial Navy had meant sudden and rapid promotions for the few worthy survivors, and Robert wasn’t used to his new position yet. He felt somewhat like a pretender, and kept expecting someone to burst in and say it was all a ghastly mistake, and would he please return the uniform
at once,
because the real captain was waiting for it.

He smiled slightly at the familiar thought, a tall, handsome man with steady eyes and close-cropped hair. Both hair and face had been burned away in the fires that swept the bridge of the beseiged
Endurance
. He’d got away in an escape pod, but it had taken long sessions in a regeneration tank to undo the damage to his face, and his hair was only now starting to grow out again. He thought the new look made him appear older, more responsible, and he’d take every bit of help he could get. His new command was the
Elemental,
one of the few E-class starcruisers to survive the rebellion, and he was eager to officially take charge of her and see what she could do. But . . . as the Campbell and head of his Clan, he was obliged to spend a certain ammount of time on Golgotha, looking out for his Family’s interests first. And that meant hobnobbing with the right people at Parliament, making the necessary connections and deals to ensure his people wouldn’t be bothered or harassed while he was away on duty aboard his ship. One day he’d have to make the choice between his Family’s needs and his military career, but that was . . . one day.