Deathstalker d-1

by Simon R. Green

  She was a bright shining star, a silver-armored figure twice his size with blazing eyes and steel strands wrapped around her like thorned ivy. Vicious spikes jutted from her fists and back; augmentations in the real world. Lionstone's self-image had always been very positive. Not to mention aggressive. He coughed politely to get her attention, and the cough bobbed on the air before her gleaming metal face like a soap bubble before popping. She looked down at him, head cocked slightly to one side like a bird's.

  "What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?" he asked.

  "Damned if I know." Her voice rang like a brass bell. "Something out of the ordinary."

  Dram felt like making a sharp answer to that, but rose above it. He shrugged uncomfortably. "Everything seems… much as usual. Just another day in the Matrix."

  And then the palely glowing structure gliding unobtrusively toward them burst suddenly apart, and something huge and foul and deadly leapt out at them. Dram's sword was immediately in his hand, but the creature swept him aside without even slowing. Lionstone stood her ground, spikes thrusting out of her arms like swords. The creature loomed over her, tall though she was, and Lionstone tilted back her head. Blazing energy roared from her eyes and mouth, incinerating the creature's face in a moment. It screamed and reared back, but flashing steel cables leapt out from Lionstone's armor and whipped around the creature, holding it securely. Her augmentations were powerful in both the real world and in this, and they held the howling beast while Lionstone tore it apart with her bare hands.

  Dram watched from a respectful distance, on his feet again. Someone had invested a lot of thought and power in the attack, but as usual they'd underestimated the Empress. She tore the creature's ravaged head from its body and held it up before her blazing eyes. It whimpered and tried to fall apart, but Lionstone's will held it together.

  "Who sent you? Who made you? What's your master's name?"

  But her words activated a hidden program within the creature, scrambling its information irretrievably. The Empress swore and released it, and it fell apart into a billion bytes, sparking and sputtering as they died. Dram moved cautiously back to stand beside the Empress.

  "Who do you think sent it: Snub?"

  "More likely one of their agents. No human could stand up to anything from Shub. We're not going to find any answers here. Dram. I was a fool to think I would. The Matrix is too big and my mind too limited. Anything could be hidden here, and we wouldn't know till it jumped out of the shadows to bite us. I need someone who understands this place; a cyberat, perhaps. Do you think you could find me a cyberat, Dram?"

  "No problem. Finding a cooperative one might be hard, though."

  "Bring him to me," said Lionstone. "I can be very persuasive when I put my mind to it." She looked out over the Matrix, and Dram wondered how far her augmented eyes saw. She was silent for a long time, and when she finally spoke her voice was quiet and thoughtful. "Look at it, Dram. It's bigger than Golgotha. We made it, but we don't understand it. The computers and the AIs shaped it for their own needs and convenience, and all we can ever be is observers. It's not under our control anymore, if it ever was. But I will find a way, Dram. No machine will ever rule my Empire."

  Dram nodded respectfully, and if he had any thoughts of his own, he kept them to himself. Thoughts could go a long way in the Matrix.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hostile Takeover

  Finlay Campbell was late for the weekly Clan Campbell board meeting. He believed in being late; it made other people appreciate his presence that much more. And it had to be said that he wasn't looking forward to this particular meeting at all. Just lately everything seemed to be going wrong, and for the first time in his life he hadn't a clue as to what to do for the best. It had all got so damned complicated. The demands on him as the Masked Gladiator were growing all the time as his popularity increased, and the pressure on his secret identity was becoming intolerable. He was only able to lead his two lives because the Arena crowds and officials connived with him, but their curiosity was becoming more intense than their hero worship, and it was only a matter of time now before someone turned on him. The crowd always turns on its heroes eventually, for money or a moment's fame, or just to see the high brought low. If he had any sense he'd retire now, while he was still young and intact and it was still safe to do so, but being the Masked Gladiator was important to him. Certainly more than being that most renowned fop and dandy Finlay Campbell. He'd originally created the persona as a joke to draw attention away from the real him, but the joke wasn't funny anymore. If only because he wasn't entirely sure who the real him was now.

  Only an hour earlier he'd stood beside his bed, quite naked, staring down at two outfits spread out before him. If he put on one set of clothes he was Finlay, and if he put on the other he was the Gladiator, but who was he right then, standing naked and alone without an outfit to define his identity? Who was he when he stared into a mirror and didn't recognize the face he saw there? He'd played his two roles so long and with such conviction that they almost seemed to exist apart from him, as people in their own right. The masks had fastened themselves to his face and wouldn't let go. He used to know who the real him was, and that was the man who loved Evangeline Shreck. But their time together was becoming increasingly limited, as their respective Families made more and more demands on them, and both Finlay and the Gladiator were needed elsewhere. He loved her and he needed her, but who did she love, really? And were any of the people she loved really him?

  In the end he'd put on Finlay's clothes, because that was who the Family was expecting to see. It was another of his outrageous ensembles, designed to be as extreme and blindingly colorful as the naked eye could stand. He painted his face with a fluorescent stick, metallicized his hair with several quick sweeps, and set off for the board meeting with his thoughts roiling in his head like great waves tossed by a storm. He picked up his bodyguards at the front door and strode down the corridor at a quick pace so he wouldn't have to talk to anyone. He still smiled and nodded to people he passed, as Finlay would, and they smiled and nodded back, apparently sensing no difference in him at all. Which didn't improve Finlay's opinion of them or him. Who's more foolish: the man who lives a lie, or those who believe it?

  Finally he came to Tower Campbell and stood at its base, looking up. It was a long, tall stretch of glistening marble, towering above and over him like an emissary of doom, full of vague threat and menace. It stood unmatched among the pastel towers, rising up into the perfect sky, surrounded by the lesser buildings of lesser Clans and lesser people, a monument to money and power and arrogance. All Campbell business was conducted there, safe from the eyes and ears of outsiders, including some business that was never discussed outside the Family and would have shocked even the hardened Company of Lords. There were armed guards at the perimeter and at the door, and even more inside, and as Finlay crossed the wide and elegant lobby to the elevators, he wondered what had happened. Something must have. This level of security was unusual, even for a Family as paranoid as the Campbells. Finlay didn't approve. If nothing else, it was a sign to other Families that the Campbells had something worth guarding. Why give them ideas?

  He saw the motionless figure standing by the elevator doors, and his unease grew. He'd never approved of the Clan having their own Investigator as a status symbol, never mind a cold-eyed killer like Razor. It was like walking around with a pet shark on a leash. Investigator Razor worked for Clan Campbell after the Service let him go, partly because they paid him extremely handsomely, but mostly because they offered him the best chance to legally kill people. It was rumored that he'd been thrown out of the Investigators because he was a complete bloody psychopath, which when he first heard it amused the hell out of Finlay, because he'd always thought that was how you got in. Having been around Razor for a while had taken most of the humor out of the joke.

  He was an impressive sight with his hulking frame and bulging muscles, the best the body shop could provide, bu
t his age showed in the shock of white hair that stood out defiantly against his dark skin. Age slowed a man, even an Investigator. An aged Investigator was a rare sight, if only because most of them didn't live long enough to retire. Of course he was still faster, stronger and deadlier than any other ten men put together, which was why the Campbells had been so happy to acquire him when the opportunity arose. And if they chose not to ask questions about that availability, that was their business. He looked great at court and was making a hell of a reputation for himself in the Arena. Personally, Finlay felt safer when the Investigator wasn't around. At the moment, he couldn't help wondering what threat had been so worrying that the Family had brought Razor out of the shadows to stand guard. Finlay nodded courteously to the Investigator as he waited for the elevator to arrive. Razor didn't nod back.

  "Everything all right?" Finlay said breezily. "Everybody behaving themselves? It's not often we see you in bright daylight, Investigator."

  "Your father thought it necessary," said Razor. He still wasn't looking at Finlay, his green eyes sweeping the lobby, and his voice was as flat and even as his gaze. "Security has been raised another level and placed under my direct control. There are men at every level of the tower, guarding the stairs and elevators. I am to escort you personally to the board meeting. Follow me."

  The elevator doors opened as though they'd been waiting for Razor's permission, and he stepped into the elevator without looking to see if Finlay was following. Finlay pursed his lips and entered the elevator. He wouldn't have taken such behavior from anyone else, but Razor was an Investigator and therefore beyond such trifles as politeness and courtesy. It wasn't as if the man meant it personally; Razor despised anyone who wasn't an Investigator. The Campbells put up with him because he served a purpose. The moment that stopped. Razor would be booted out with such speed and venom it would make his head spin. No one slighted a Campbell and got away with it. Ever.

  Finlay smiled at the thought and ostentatiously ignored the Investigator as the elevator rose smoothly toward the penthouse. The trip was calm and uneventful, for all Razor's intent vigilance, but he still made Finlay wait in the elevator while he checked with his people that the floor was secure. He escorted Finlay to the boardroom and stood outside the door on guard as Finlay opened it and went in. Good dog, thought Finlay.

  Variously annoyed faces glared at him as he bowed briefly to the members of his Family who sat around the centuries-old table. The table was a great slab of ironwood, supposed to be older than the Clan itself, which was saying something. The Campbells were supposed to be one of the original founding Families of the Empire, and never let anyone forget it. The room they were currently using was far too large for them; the table stood alone in the middle of a vast space.

  Crawford Campbell sat at the head of the table, short and squat and powerful. Head of the Family, by dint of seniority and strength of personality. And because he'd killed or intimidated anyone with a better claim than him, though of course this was never referred to. It was just how things were done in most Families. Sitting at his left hand was his son William, the accountant. He ran the Family's affairs, in as much as anyone did. At Crawford's right hand sat his youngest son, Gerald, the walking disaster area. It was said in Clan Campbell that there were a dozen ways of wasting your breath, and talking to Gerald were six of them. Beside him sat Finlay's wife, the redoubtable Adrienne. She wasn't really entitled to be there, being only a Campbell by marriage, but as usual no one had the nerve to throw her oat. Fin lay had a sneaking suspicion that even Razor might have found it difficult. He sat down opposite her, so that they could glare at each other more easily. Finlay looked around him, and then rather wished he hadn't. Given the high level of security, the open space surrounding the table seemed distinctly uncomfortable, even threatening. They could just as easily have held the board meeting in any of their private quarters, but the Campbell had insisted on this room. For Crawford, appearances were important, even when there was no one around to see them except other members of the Family.

  Another new outfit?" said Adrienne sweetly to Finlay. "I swear you've got more clothes in your wardrobe than I have."

  "And prettier," said Finlay. "Perhaps I should give you the name of my tailor. And my hairdresser; you must have really upset yours, considering what he's done to your hair."

  "Just for once," said William heavily, "could we please put aside our differences and get on with the business at hand? We do have something important to discuss."

  You always say that," said Adrienne. "And it always turns out to be something to do with taxes or investments."

  "Right," said Gerald. As always, he'd been dragged away from drinking with his friends to attend this meeting, and he was sulking. "You don't need us here. You and Father will make all the decisions, and the rest of us will go along with you for the sake of peace and quiet. And even if we do vote against you, you just ignore us."

  "Shut up, Gerald," said the Campbell, and Gerald sank a little deeper in his chair, his lower lip pouting angrily.

  "It's really not very complicated," said William.

  Finlay groaned. "Please, William, don't try and explain it. I can't bear it when you explain things. My head aches all day."

  "Oh, yes," said Adrienne suddenly. "Robert sends his apologies. The poor lamb doesn't feel up to attending Family business just yet."

  "I don't blame him," said Finlay. "But he's going to have to get back into the swim of things sooner or later. How's the search for a new Shreck bride going?"

  "Slowly," said William. "Given the unfortunate circumstances of the last match, we're all being very careful this time. We can't afford another scandal. It must be said that Robert isn't helping by shutting himself away. He's refused to even look at the few names we have come up with. At least he's started eating again."

  "Never liked the Shrecks," said Gerald. "Gregor's a pig, and the rest are worse."

  "Shut up, Gerald," said Crawford.

  "They're not all bad," said Finlay, and there was something in his voice that made the others look at him. He swore inwardly. He used to be better at keeping his identities separate than this. He smiled vaguely and carried on smoothly. "I mean, every Family has a few bad eggs. Even ours."

  "He's looking at me," said Gerald. "Father, make him stop looking at me."

  "Shut up, Gerald," said the Campbell.

  "You like the Shrecks so much, you come up with a suitable match," said William. "I'm running out of choices."

  "There's always Evangeline," said Adrienne.

  "No," said Finlay. "She's the heir, remember?"

  "Of course," said Adrienne. Finlay looked at her thoughtfully, but it seemed she had nothing more to say.

  "This can all wait," Crawford said heavily. "We have more immediate problems. Tell them, William."

  William cleared his throat unhappily. "Despite extensive investigations, we're no nearer identifying which Clan has discovered our links with the rogue AIs on Shub. If they weren't so positive someone has, I'd be tempted to put it down to paranoia. Assuming Artificial Intelligences can be paranoid. Anyway, even if someone has found out, they've made no move to take advantage of it. So far."

  "I have to say I'm still not happy that we are collaborating with Shub," said Finlay. "I mean, they are the Enemies of Humanity, after all. I don't trust them."

  "We need them," said Crawford Campbell flatly. "As long as we have business in common, it's in their interest to play fair. The trick will be for us to bail out before they lower the boom on us. It's not going to be easy, but I didn't build this House up by taking the easy options. Keep putting the pressure on, William. Someone will talk eventually. Someone always talks."

  "I want to talk more about this," said Finlay.

  "The subject is closed," snapped the Campbell, and glared round the table to prove it.

  "Then what are we doing here?" said Finlay. "If you're not interested in our opinions, and we're not allowed to discuss anything, we might as well
not be here."

  "I said that," said Gerald.

  "Shut up, Gerald," said William.

  "You're here so I can keep you informed on what's happening," said Crawford. "So shut up and pay attention. I don't know what's got into you lately, Finlay."

  "Yes," said Adrienne. "This isn't like you, Finlay. It's an improvement, but it isn't like you."

  Finlay forced himself to relax, sank back in his chair, and made a vague elegant gesture with his hand. "Do carry on, Father. Far be it for me to rock the boat. Only do try and hurry it up. I've got a fitting for a new coat in an hour. It's very daring. You'll hate it."

  "The next order of business," said William, doggedly, "concerns the difficulties we're experiencing in our bid for the mass-production contracts on the new stardrive. The Wolfes are increasing their pressure, despite the advantage Shub technology gives us."

  "To hell with the Wolfes," growled the Campbell. "We can handle them."

  "It's the coincidence I don't like," said William. "Someone finds out about Shub, and suddenly the Wolfes are putting the pressure on."

  The Campbell grunted, and leaned over the table. "Horus, talk to me."

  Monitor screens set into the wood of the table lit up before each member of the Family. The Campbells' AI was in charge of all the Clan records, including those that officially didn't exist. Horus' face was a computer simulation: perfect in form but lacking in personality. Crawford didn't believe in machines that imitated human emotions. Or that talked back. Finlay studied the AI's face thoughtfully. He'd noticed before that the AI showed a slightly different face according to who it was talking to; an individually tailored image. Finlay couldn't help wondering if it also tailored its information according to who was asking the questions. It was no secret that the Campbell kept information from other members of the Family, but then so did all the Family. Standard survival policy. Never knew when you might need an ace or three up your sleeve. Finlay also found himself wondering what the AI was showing poor bored Gerald. Maybe it just showed him pretty pictures to keep him quiet.