Deathstalker Coda

by Simon R. Green

  "You mean… something like the Darkvoid Device?" said Joseph, when he could trust his voice again.

  "Not really on that scale, unfortunately. Basically, the idea is we use the device on one of Usher Two's binary suns, turn it into a supernova, and then direct all the energy produced into one single blast aimed at the Terror's herald, as soon as it comes in range. My people aren't entirely sure the energies can be controlled, or even aimed properly, but… nothing ventured, nothing gained. I'm sure it'll be very pretty to look at. As long as you're not actually on Usher Two, of course."

  "A poor man's Darkvoid Device, that we're not even sure we can aim properly?" said Joseph. "Finn…"

  "As long as we can turn it on and off, that's all that matters. Don't flap, Joseph."

  "But even if the weapon works, we still won't be able to save Usher Two. There's no way it could survive having one of its suns go boom."

  "As long as it stops the Terror, I really couldn't give a damn," Finn said cheerfully. "Still, in the event the weapon does work as planned, but still doesn't stop the Terror, we're going to need a backup plan. And that's where you come in, Joseph. Have you moved the transmutation engines into position, as I ordered?"

  "They'll be in orbit around Usher Two by the end of today. All hidden behind sensor shields, of course. They've been preprogrammed to transmute the entire planet and everything on it into the most appalling mess our scientists could conceive. The planet will be poisonous on every level, highly radioactive, and possibly even unstable on the quantum level. Theoretically, the Terror shouldn't be able to consume Usher Two without being poisoned itself. However, I feel I should point out that if the Terror decides to simply avoid the planet, and keep on going, that entire quadrant will be a no-go area for thousands of years afterwards. Maybe even hundreds of thousands."

  Finn sighed. "Do I really need to explain the concept expendable to you again?"

  Joseph nodded stiffly. "Since use of the transmutation engines will inevitably mean the death of Usher Two's population, the plan is being kept strictly need-to-know. It's a pity we can't salvage some of the factory tech first, but that would rather give the game away."

  "You worry far too much about things that don't matter, Joseph," said Finn. "Perhaps… if we were to destroy Usher Two before the Terror got to it, and then kept on destroying every other planet in its path, the Terror might die of starvation. Or at the very least take the hint and go somewhere else."

  "I think we'd probably run out of planets before it ran out of hunger," Joseph said carefully. "Besides, think of the billions of lives that would be lost. There's a limit to what the people of the Empire will accept."

  "Is there?" said Finn. Joseph couldn't meet the Emperor's gaze. He started to change the subject, but Finn pressed on. "Let us understand each other, First Minister. I protect the Empire because it's mine. Mine to play with, mine to enjoy, mine to destroy when I'm tired of it. Not the Terror's. I'll find a way to destroy the Terror, and then… Oh, the things I'll do. The people will wish the Terror had taken them."

  "Perhaps you need… a distraction," said Joseph, just a little desperately. "Something to take you out of yourself. I've been talking with some of your other advisers, and it occurred to us that since you are the Emperor now, you really have a duty to wed, and produce an heir to carry on your line. If you would allow us to…"

  "No," said Finn. "That won't be necessary. After me, there will be nothing."

  The Rookery had become the last safe haven for rebels on Logres. As a result, that rogues' paradise and city within a city had become impossibly overcrowded, and was actually threatening to burst at its seams. The Rookery had become the last place you could run to where Finn's agents wouldn't pursue. For the moment, at least. The hidden rotten heart of the Empire's most famous city was now an incredibly dangerous, violent place. The original occupants of the Rookery were finding it increasingly difficult to prey on outsiders, as of old, due to the Emperor's murderously strict martial law, and so they had taken to preying on each other. And most especially on the newcomers, who quickly learned that the only safety lay in numbers. The Rookery had become a bad place to be a man alone. And yet still the people came, because as bad as the Rookery was, everywhere else was worse.

  Everyone in the Rookery had lost someone to Finn's people, or knew someone who had. There was a lot of sullen anger in the crowded streets, and in the smoky overpriced taverns, but as yet it had little focus. The Emperor was just too strong, too big a target for their beaten-down spirits. Its only expression so far had been the Rookery's turning against all those who had helped Finn in his rise to power. The agents provocateur had been burned out of their clubs and sent running through the streets, to be hunted down like dogs. Everyone else who'd worked with or for Finn Durandal was now being very quiet about it, for fear of being denounced as a spy or informer. Just the rumor was enough to raise up a mob baying for blood, and broken bodies soon blocked the gutters. Everyone expected the Emperor to order an invasion of the Rookery at some point, but no one was doing anything about it. There were no meetings, no plans, no defenses. No one trusted anyone.

  Douglas Campbell, who had once been a King, and Stuart Lennox, who had once been a Paragon, now worked as masked bravos for hire, protecting the flea-trap hotel they were staying in from all the many predators of the streets. Masked bravos were a common sight in the Rookery these days. Lots of people had good reason to conceal their identities. Douglas and Stuart wore simple leather masks, and cheap but serviceable clothing. They'd sold the better clothes they arrived in to raise the money to acquire the single hotel room Douglas and Stuart and Nina Malapert now lived in.

  The Lantern Lodge was one of the oldest surviving hotels in the Rookery, and looked it. The squat ugly building was dark, damp, and extremely rundown, and no one had spent money on it in generations. The outer stone walls were blackened with layers of soot and grime, the windows did little more than let the light in, and there hadn't been any lead on the roof in living memory. It was sweltering hot in the summer and bitter cold in the winter, and every room came with hot and cold running rats. Not to mention bedbugs. (At first, Douglas had thought the single bed came with a built-in vibrating mechanism, and was seriously and loudly upset when the truth was made clear to him.) But it was a room, and rooms were hard to come by, so no one complained.

  Douglas and Stuart worked as the hotel's bravos for free bed and board. It wasn't much, but it was better than a lot of people had. There were those who had to fight every night to protect their place in a doorway, or a cardboard box. Nina was doing marginally better. She was working with a few other rogue media people to put together a rebel news site, tapping briefly into the main media feeds to try to get a little truth on the air now and again. There wasn't any money in it yet, but Nina had great hopes for the future. There were quite a few ex-media people in the Rookery, since Finn's people had taken complete control of all the official media. There were no shows anymore, just constant propaganda. There were riots in the streets on the day The Quality was taken off the air, but Finn had just had his people use the rioters for target practice, until they got the message and slunk off home. But a lot of newspeople had brought their technical knowledge to the Rookery, and the rebel news site was already up and running. Unfortunately, it took expensive and hard-to-get tech to keep it on the air, and keep fighting its way through the official censor's firewalls, so there was always a problem with funding. It wasn't as though they could sell advertising space.

  Douglas and Stuart had been on duty outside the Lantern Lodge entrance since first light, and now it was nearly midday. It had been drizzling for hours, a cold, numbing persistent fall that soaked everything and everyone. The sewers were overrunning again, and the stench in the street was almost unbearable. The heavy gloomy day settled over everyone like a bad mood. People slouched back and forth along the narrow streets, heads down to avoid eye contact, in pursuit of work or a room or anything that might bring in a few credits. T
imes were hard. There was damn all left to steal, and rats were becoming a delicacy. But crowded as the street was, everyone gave the two masked bravos outside the Lantern Lodge plenty of room. Douglas and Stuart had demonstrated their willingness to protect the hotel on many occasions, in a professionally violent and disturbingly thorough way that had impressed even the hardened denizens of the Rookery. Which was why the two men were just a little surprised to observe a small crowd of heavily armed men heading in their direction. The dozen or so men moved like professional fighters, and while they hadn't drawn any weapons yet, there was something about them that suggested their appearance was only a matter of time.

  "You know them?" Douglas said quietly to Stuart.

  "Some of them. Brion de Rack's men. Protection racketeer. Pretty much everyone around here pays off de Rack, just to be left alone. But he usually targets the bigger businesses, not dumps like this."

  "Maybe he's branching out. How do you want to play this?"

  "Oh, the usual," said Stuart, resting one hand on the pommel of his sword. "Reason first, escalating quickly to extreme violence."

  "Sounds like a plan to me," said Douglas.

  The dozen or so thugs and bullyboys came to a halt a respectful distance away from the two masked bravos. The street rapidly cleared as everyone else suddenly remembered they had urgent business elsewhere. Window shutters slammed together up and down the street like a round of applause. Even the drizzle seemed to hold back, as though anxious to see what would happen next. One of the men stepped forward to face Douglas and Stuart. He was taller than most, and bigger, with a layer of fat over his muscles to show he was one of the few people in the Rookery still eating well and often. He wore a long, heavy leather coat, decorated all over with steel piercings. A row of human scalps had been stitched to one sleeve as trophies. He wore splashes of bright color on his face, under a flat, dark, wide-brimmed hat. He smiled easily at Douglas and Stuart, but it didn't touch his eyes.

  "Step aside, boys. My business is with the owner."

  "We don't step aside," Douglas said calmly. "It's bad for our reputation. You want to talk to the owner, you talk to us first."

  "Now, that's a very unfriendly attitude. You don't want to hurt my feelings, do you?"

  "We're not paid to be friendly," said Stuart.

  "All right. I will go that extra mile, to avoid unnecessary trouble. The name is Sewell. I work for Brion de Rack. This is his territory. You live in his territory, you pay him tribute. That's just the way it is. In return, we make sure nothing horribly destructive happens to your property. Or, indeed, you. Nasty things pretty much nearly always happen, if you're not de Rack's friend."

  "We're a bit small fry for de Rack, aren't we?" said Douglas.

  "Times are hard. Now, you've made a good showing, honor is satisfied, so stand aside."

  "The old protection racket," said Stuart, and there was something in his calm, quiet voice that made Sewell look at him sharply. "A loathsome little scam, when all is said and done. Based on terror and intimidation, and a facade of invulnerability. Unfortunately for de Rack, and you, my partner and I don't intimidate that easily. We've faced much worse than you, in our time."

  "We're here to protect the hotel from scumbags like you, Sewell," said Douglas. "And we take a real pride in our work. So walk on. Or we'll step on you."

  Sewell looked at them for a long moment, apparently unable to believe what he was hearing. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Listen, leather faces—this is de Rack's territory. He owns it, and everyone in it. You only live here because he allows you to, and if you annoy him, you don't get to live here anymore. And an insult to me is an insult to him."

  "What a marvelously time-saving scheme," said Stuart.

  "That's it," said Sewell. "You just can't help some people. Drop your weapons on the ground, kneel down and say you're sorry, and we'll let you off with a beating. Make us work for this, and we'll cut you open and see what color your guts really are."

  "We don't do kneeling either," said Douglas. "Bad for the reputation, and the trousers. Makes the knees go all baggy. Now push off, fart face."

  Sewell's face darkened, and he turned to his men. "Kill them. And make it messy."

  He was about to say something more when Douglas drew his concealed disrupter and shot Sewell in the chest. The energy beam punched right through the man, throwing his dead body back into his men. They scattered with cries of alarm, like startled birds, and Sewell measured his length in the gutter. The front of his leather coat was on fire. The thugs finally thought to draw their own weapons, but by then Douglas and Stuart were among them, swords in hands. The bullyboys tried to make a fight of it, but it had been a long time since they'd had to deal with anything but frightened and dispirited people. They didn't stand a chance against two ex-Paragons. Douglas and Stuart cut their way through the pack with vicious skill, moving fluidly and easily and protecting each other's backs at all times. They worked well together. Their swords flashed brightly in the gloom, like rays of hope, and blood pooled on the ground, hardly dispersed at all by the slow drizzle. Bodies fell with cut throats and gaping wounds, and did not rise again. And quicker than anyone had thought possible, it was all over. Douglas and Stuart stood together, blood dripping thickly from their blades, hardly even breathing hard. The sole surviving thug stood with his back to a wall, looking at the two bravos with wide, horrified eyes. Douglas and Stuart turned to look at him, and he quickly dropped his sword on the ground and raised his shaking hands in the air.

  "Who are you? What are you? No one fights like that!"

  "We are Douglas and Stuart, bravos for hire, and that's all anyone needs to know," said Douglas. (He and Stuart had tried using false names when they first arrived in the Rookery, but they kept forgetting them, or confusing who was supposed to be which, so they gave them up. Douglas and Stuart were common enough names.) "In case you're wondering, we let you live because you're going to carry a message to de Rack, and the message is: Leave us alone. Leave the Lantern Lodge alone. Pretend this unpleasantness never happened. That way we can all hope to live long and profitable lives. Be persuasive, because de Rack wouldn't like the alternative. Really he wouldn't. Now go away, and don't come back."

  The thug was off and running the moment he was sure he'd got all of the message. A muffled chorus of boos and jeers followed him from behind the shuttered windows. Stuart gave a cheerful bow, and then he and Douglas went through the pockets of all the men they'd killed. Hard times bred hard ways, and credit had no provenance in the Rookery. When they were sure they'd got everything worth the having, Douglas and Stuart returned to their post at the front door and counted it up. There wasn't much. People slowly emerged onto the street again, to steal the dead bodies' clothing. Douglas sighed heavily.

  "I hate this place. People shouldn't have to live like this."

  "It's the Rookery," said Stuart. "They do things differently here. They always have."

  "Not like this. It's never been as bad as this."

  They watched as the growing crowd squabbled over the dead bodies' few remaining possessions. By nightfall the bodies would be gone too, and it was wise not to ask where.

  "Like rats in a graveyard," said Douglas.

  "Even rats have to eat," said Stuart.

  Douglas sniffed loudly. Stuart looked at him. He'd been trying to help the disturbed, brooding Douglas ever since they'd come to the Rookery, but the man who had once been King, and lost everyone and everything he ever believed in, didn't want to be helped. This was the most Stuart had heard Douglas speak in days—probably because he seemed to come alive only when he was fighting. And even then, the Campbell fought with precision rather than passion. Stuart kept trying to draw him out, but Douglas seemed unwilling or incapable of thinking about the future. As though just getting through each day was hard enough. The man who had once been King now seemed tired all the time, physically and spiritually. He was drawing further and further inside himself, despite everything Stuart or Nin
a could do to help.

  "Things shouldn't have to be this way," Douglas said again, and Stuart was surprised and pleased to hear some honest emotion in the Campbell's voice. "We ought to be doing… something, to help these people. We took an oath as Paragons, to protect the people. Remember?"

  "Yes," said Stuart. "I remember. I wasn't sure you did."

  Some hours later their relief arrived to take over, and Douglas and Stuart went inside for their only meal of the day. Their replacements were just ordinary muscle for hire from the local hiring house. No one special; the house just sent over whoever was available. The two bruisers nodded respectfully to Douglas and Stuart as they disappeared inside the hotel. The lobby wasn't up to much—paint-peeling walls, sawdust on the floor, and no chairs. Nothing to encourage anyone to linger. Just a battered old reception desk, where the staff were protected from the customers by a heavy metal grille. There was an elevator at the back, but its operation was a sometime thing, and did not inspire confidence. Douglas and Stuart climbed the five flights of stairs to their single shared room. They didn't disturb the handful of ragged forms who'd paid to be allowed to sleep in the stairwells.

  Nina Malapert was already there in their room, laying the food on the table, which was a bad sign. She was only ever back this early when her day's work had gone really badly. The way she bashed the battered crockery about was confirmation enough without the frustration evident in her scowling face. She nodded briefly at the two men as they sat wearily down at the table. It wasn't a big room, and with the table unfolded it took up most of the available space. Dinner was boiling on a hot plate set perilously close to the only bed. (Douglas and Stuart shared the bed. Nina had made a nest of blankets for herself in one corner.) There was only one window, smeared with the debris of years.