Deathstalker Rebellion (60 page)

“The Cardinal knows nothing about this,” said Brendan, “or we’d all be dead by now. As to why I’ve chosen to work with Clan Chojiro, it’s really very simple. Before I joined the Church, I was originally Clan Silvestri.”

“What the hell do Chojiro and Silvestri have in common?”

The Jesuit smiled. “Blue Block.”

Michel realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap. Blue Block. The extremely secret, half-mythical school where younger members of the Families were trained and conditioned almost from birth to be utterly loyal to the Clans, to death and beyond. The Families’ secret weapon.

“But…” Michel struggled for words. “Why is Blue Block being used against the Wolfes, one of their own?”

Brendan smiled. “The Wolfes in general—and Valentine in particular—are becoming too powerful. He’s tipping the balance. We feel it would be best for all if Valentine could be made to stand down, and others more willing to share the profits of stardrive production took over.”

“Which is where we come in,” said Lily. “Daniel and Stephanie will fall easily without Valentine to protect and support them, Constance will be quietly sidelined, and we will take over the Family. Clan Chojiro will support us now in return for future generosity on our part.”

“Quite,” said Brendan. “You don’t have to do anything much to begin with. We’ll supply explosives and provide exact locations where they’ll do the most damage. All you have to do is place them in those areas of the complex that only you have access to. It won’t be a particularly big explosion. Just enough to throw production into chaos and make Clan Wolfe look incompetent.”

“So no one has to get killed?” Michel said quickly.

“Only as a last resort,” said Brendan. “We prefer to avoid actual bloodshed. It’s so … obvious. Trust me, Michel, we’ll try everything else first.”

Michel nodded reluctantly. “All right. When does the balloon go up?”

“At the ceremony,” said the Jesuit. “Live, on holoscreens all over the Empire. It’ll be a ratings smash,”

“You see, lover,” said Lily to Michel, slipping an arm through his. “Even that little toad of a reporter will end up helping us. Everything is planned, down to the last detail. Nothing can go wrong.”

Toby Shreck hurried down the narrow corridor, glanced at the watch face set into his wrist, and swore quietly. This was officially sleep time in the factory complex’s living quarters, and after the day he’d been through he felt he could sleep for a week. In the hours since his unsuccessful little chat with Lily and Michel Wolfe, he’d been running himself ragged trying to set up all the interviews and factory footage he could.

No one was cooperating except under the direst of threats, and trying to make this factory look good was a task that even an experienced PR flack like himself would have
blanched at. Personally speaking, Toby felt he’d seen sexier-looking abattoirs. But none of that mattered now. He had a chance at a once-in-a-lifetime interview, and he was damned if he was going to lose it now, just because it was an hour when all civilized men had their heads down and were dreaming furiously. Everyone else could give him cold shoulders till their joints froze up; this one interview would make his reputation.

He tried to hurry himself a little faster, but he was already out of breath. Too much weight. Too many good lunches at PR events and launches. As a result, he was built for comfort rather than speed. All right, he was fat. For once, it didn’t matter. No one would be looking at him in this interview. He forced himself on, puffing hard. Trust Flynn to have his quarters halfway across the complex. Actually, that wasn’t really fair. Toby had quarters in the better area because he was, after all, an aristocrat, and Flynn very definitely wasn’t. Toby sniffed. He didn’t feel like being fair. He finally stumbled to a halt before the right door, leaned on it a moment while he got his breath back, and then hammered on the door with his fist.

“Go away,” said Flynn’s calm voice. “I am resting. If you’re factory personnel, go to hell. If you’re Toby the Troubador, go to hell by the express route. If you’re a Wolfe, this is a recording. If you’re a potential lover, leave your name and location on my computer file. Full image, please. Clothes optional.”

“Open up, damn it,” said Toby. “You wouldn’t believe who’s agreed to talk to us.”

“Tell them to take two aspirin, and I’ll see them in the morning. I am off duty, and I don’t have to talk to anyone I don’t want to. If you don’t like it, take it up with my Union.”

“Flynn! It’s Mother Superior Beatrice of the Sisters of Mercy!”

There was a pause, and then the door lock snapped off. “Very well. Come in. But on your own head be it.”

Toby growled something uncomplimentary and very basic, kicked the door open, and stormed in. He managed about six steps before he came to a dead stop. The door closed behind him and the lock clicked shut again, but he didn’t notice. Someone could have slipped a live grenade into his underwear and he wouldn’t have noticed. The cam
eraman’s quarters weren’t much, being basically cramped and functional, but a few feminine touches had helped to brighten the place up. And the most feminine thing in the room was Flynn, reclining on his bed in a long flowing cocktail dress, with a margarita in a frosted glass in one hand and a book of decadent French verse in the other. He was also wearing a long curly wig of purest gold, and wore subtle but artfully applied makeup. His work boots and sloppy trousers had been replaced by fishnet stockings and stiletto heels, and his fingernails had been painted a shocking pink. All in all, Flynn looked very pretty and completely at ease. Toby closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.

“Flynn, you promised me you wouldn’t do this. We are not in civilized company now. They would not understand. And the representatives of the Church of Christ the Warrior definitely wouldn’t understand. They’d execute you on the spot for deviancy and degeneracy, and shoot me as well just for knowing you. Now, get out of that gear and into something that won’t get us both hanged. Mother Beatrice won’t wait forever.”

“Rush, rush, rush,” said Flynn. He drained the last of his margarita, slipped a bookmark into his poetry collection, and put glass and book carefully to one side before rising gracefully to his feet. “Very well, you wait outside while I change into something less comfortable. And bear in mind I wouldn’t do this for anyone less than Mother Beatrice. That woman is a saint.”

Toby stepped outside and closed the door without actually shutting it, so he could continue the conversation or hiss if he saw anyone coming. He shook his head again. He could feel one of his headaches coming on. “Of all the cameramen, on all the worlds, I had to end up with you. Why me?”

“Because you were desperate for a good cameraman, and no one else would work with you,” said Flynn from inside. “After all, you only got your journalist’s license because you were on the run from your Uncle Gregor. As it happens, I also felt the need to leave in a hurry. My last gentleman admirer was a high-ranking member of the Clans who also liked to dress up pretty in the privacy of his own quarters.

“Wonderful man. Very interested in yodeling. Only lover I ever knew who could give you head, and sing you a song at the same time. My, how those low notes vibrated. And what that man could do with a vowel … Anyway, we had
words and broke up, and he became rather concerned that I might tell all for the right price. And he couldn’t have that. If word of his private proclivities were to get out, no one in the Families would ever take him seriously again. It’s all right to be a degenerate if you’re an aristocrat, but not if it’s something silly.

“So, seeing the way his mind was working, I decided it might be in my best interests to leave town for a while, and hole up somewhere suitably distant until he calmed down again. Which is the only reason I agreed to work with you, Toby Shreck, You have to realize, the word on you was not good: an aging PR flack with dreams of reporting and delusions of adequacy. Nothing personal, you understand. For what it’s worth, you’re doing all right here. I’ve worked with worse.”

Toby scowled, but said nothing. Flynn had most of it right. He’d spent most of his life working as a PR man and spin doctor for Gregor Shreck, despised by his peers and unappreciated by his Family. No one realized how much hard work went into good PR. But he’d always dreamed of being a real journalist, digging out the truth and exposing villainy and corruption in high places, instead of covering it up. But somehow he never had the courage to leave the safe haven of his job and Family. It took being kicked out to wake his ambitions again, and now that he was here on Technos III, he was going to do the best damn job he could. It was his chance to be someone in his own right, not just another of Gregor Shreck’s shadows. A chance to finally acquire some self-respect. Mother Beatrice was renowned for not giving interviews, and the press corps took it seriously after she kneecapped a reporter with a meat tenderizer when he tried blackmailing a friend into talking about her. But she was probably the only person on Technos III who could and would tell him the whole story, the whole truth, and to hell where the shrapnel fell. And she had agreed to talk to him … Toby kicked the door frame viciously.

“Flynn! Are you ready yet?”

The door swung open and Flynn strolled out, looking like just another cameraman. The camera perched on his shoulder like a sleepy owl. Flynn did a quick twirl for Toby, to show off his baggy trousers and camouflage jacket. “Well? Will I pass?”

“You’ve still got lipstick on,” said Toby with glacial calmness.

Flynn took out a handkerchief, wiped his mouth, and smiled at Toby. “Better?”

“Fractionally. Now, let’s go, before Mother Beatrice changes her mind. Or somebody changes it for her.”

They made their way quietly through the narrow corridors, stopping every time they thought they heard something. No one else was about. Most people were asleep, trusting to the electronic guards and surveillance to guarantee their rest wouldn’t be disturbed. After all, the rebels had never got this close on the best day they ever had, and no one in the factory would dare run the risk of upsetting security. As a reporter in charge of making the factory complex look good, Toby had security passes for practically every area, and some discreet but heavy-duty bribes had ensured no one would tell about his little late-night jaunt. He hoped.

He led Flynn to the nearest exit in the outer sector, and they stopped to climb into the heavy furs left hanging by the door. Even a short journey through Technos III’s winter could be deadly without the right protection. Toby and Flynn bundled up in layers of fur and wool till they could barely move, and then stumbled over to the exit. Toby looked out the window beside the door and winced. The air was thick with swirling snow, blown this way and that by the gusting wind. He didn’t look at the thermometer. He didn’t want to know. He pulled his fur hat down low over his brow, wrapped his scarf securely over his mouth and nose, cursed quietly for a moment, and then jerked the heavy door open. It swung slowly inward, revealing a two-foot drift of snow that had piled up against the closed door. Toby and Flynn kicked their way through it and lurched out into the winter. The door slammed shut behind them, and they were alone in the night.

The cold hit them like a hammer, and for a moment all Toby and Flynn could do was lean against each other for support. The bitter air seared their lungs, and the wind shocked tears from their exposed eyes. The snow on the ground was a good foot deep. Tireless machines struggled over and over to dig out a clear perimeter around the factory complex, but the snow fell faster than the machines could dig. The wind was almost strong enough to throw Toby off
his feet, and he had to lean into it to keep his balance. The freezing air made his teeth ache, even through several layers of thick woolen scarf. He scowled and hunched his shoulders as the wind changed direction yet again. Part of him wanted to turn and go back inside rather than face such nightmare conditions, but Toby wouldn’t listen to it. He was a reporter now, on the trail of a hot story, and that was enough to keep him warm inside.

He glanced about him into the thickening snow. Outside the complex’s exterior lights, there was only darkness and the storm. There were supposed to be stars out and two small moons, but they were hidden behind the fury of the snows. However, out in the darkness a single patch of light showed defiantly around a long low structure without windows. Toby slapped Flynn on the arm and pointed out the structure, and they lurched off through the thick snowdrifts toward the light. Flynn’s camera hovered low behind his shoulder, sheltered from the wind.

The low structure turned out to be a really long tent of metallic cloth, marked with the familiar red crescent of the Sisters of Mercy. As on so many battlefields across the Empire, the tent was a hospital for all who needed it. The Sisters took no sides. The factory complex had just enough space for a single hospital ward, officers only. The foot soldiers, security men, and mercenaries had to rely on the Sisters’ mercy. The officers believed this gave their men an extra incentive not to get wounded. It was a big tent, looking bigger all the time as Toby slogged through the snow toward it. He hadn’t traveled far, but already his thighs were aching from forcing a way through the thick drifts and fighting the constantly changing winds. Sweat ran down his brow and into his eyes, freezing in his exposed eyebrows. Toby had given up cursing some time back. He needed his breath.

He finally lurched to a halt before the far end of the tent, and found himself facing a very secure-looking steel door with a signposted bell. He hit the bell with his fist because he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, and a viewscreen lit up in the door, showing a Sister’s veiled head and shoulders. She didn’t look at all pleased to see him. Toby reached inside his furs, pulled out his press pass, and held it up before the screen. The Sister sniffed, and the viewscreen went blank. Toby and Flynn looked at each other uncertainly. They were both shivering uncontrollably, no longer warmed
by their exertions. And then the door swung suddenly inward, spilling light and heat out into the night. Toby and Flynn hurried forward into the comforting glow, and the door slammed shut behind them.