minds, the hard unyielding beat of six major minds: conferring, directing and deciding. Valentine's mind swayed with the rhythm, but held itself apart and intact. The impact would have been too much for the normal human mind to cope with, but Valentine's mind wasn't normal anymore. Not after all the things he'd done to it. He hung on the fringes, savoring what he could, fascinated.
And then Hood moved away, and the link was broken.
Valentine rocked on his feet, shrunk once again to the narrow margins of his own mind. Faint traces of the experience remained with him, leaving him hungry for more. Valentine smiled wryly. Presumably that had been Hood's intention, to get him off balance and at the same time concentrate his attention on ways of getting the esper drug for himself. Except Valentine knew all about drugs, and bowed to none of them. He had other business here besides the esper drug. The underground was a route to power, and that came first. Always.
He looked round sharply as four men with the same face entered the chamber from another entrance. They wore carefully distinct clothing, but they moved in the same way and their faces held the same thoughts. Clones. Presumably representatives for the clone underground. They were tall and slender, almost impossibly graceful, and had a natural gravitas that went beyond dignity. Valentine knew a natural leader when he saw one. Whatever they were all here to discuss, it must be pretty damned important. The clone leaders rarely appeared in person.
They were followed in by three women with the same face, and Valentine's interest was piqued. He'd seen that face before. Seen it on an esper called Stevie Blue, who died at the Empress' feet after humiliating her in front of the whole court with a pie in the face. She'd been an elf: Esper Liberation Front. The more extreme edge of the esper underground. And now it seemed she was a clone as well. That was unusual. Not many espers survived the cloning process.
The three women looked to be in their early twenties, wearing the same leather and chains their dead sister had worn, not to mention the same T-shirt, bearing the legend 'Born To Burn.' They were short and stocky, with muscular bare arms, and one of them was casually hefting a solid steel dumbbell as though it weighed nothing. Long dark hair fell to their shoulders, full of knotted ribbons. Their faces were sharp, high-cheekboned, and daubed with fierce colors. They each wore swords on their hips in leather scabbards that looked like they'd seen a lot of use. The three women looked cold and calm and very dangerous.
'Welcome, Stevie Blues,' said Mr. Perfect. 'You honor us with your presence. As espers and clones, you are uniquely suited to bring the two undergrounds together.'
'Even though neither of us can be sure where your loyalties really lie,' said the dragon, a long, thin tongue flickering out of his mouth.
'Save the flattery and the paranoia,' said one of the Stevie Blues. 'We're here to talk; let's get on with it. Some of us have a life outside the underground.'
'Freaks and perverts,' growled the flowing mandala. 'Group marriages such as yours are forbidden among clones.'
'We're elves, first and foremost,' said the middle Stevie Blue calmly. 'We fight for freedom. All kinds of freedom. Want to make something of it?'
Roaring flames suddenly licked up around the three elves, and the heat drove everybody back a step. It didn't affect the Stevie Blues. They were pyros and immune to their own fire. The clone representatives frowned severely, making it clear this was nothing to do with them. The waterfall began to steam slightly, and the dragon shifted uncomfortably. Mr. Perfect's face was turning red. Maybe he was present, after all. Valentine grinned, enjoying the show.
'Well?' said the third Stevie Blue, glaring at the mandala. 'You have anything further to say?'
'Not at this time,' said the mandala stiffly. The elves' fire snapped off, and everyone breathed a little more easily.
'Can't we leave you people alone together for ten minutes?' said a new voice, and everyone turned to look. All around the walls, viewscreens were flashing on as the cyberats made their appearance. Computer hackers, techno-freaks, teenage rebels with any number of causes. Like the esper representatives, they hid their true faces behind computer-generated images. Cyberats faced death or reconditioning if caught, but for them the lure and possibilities of the computer system was just too much to resist. Most of them had no interest in politics or rebellion, outside of wanting to be left alone, but the shared danger provided a common ground with the clone and esper undergrounds.
Cyberats were unpeople, hiding behind fake IDs and a multitude of names, organizations and corporate identities. They lived like rats in the walls of the state, foraging for what they needed when no one was looking. Ghosts haunting the machine just for the hell of it. They helped fund the underground through various scams and computer frauds and used the opportunity to vent their spleen on the authorities who persecuted them. There were a great number of ways to make someone's life miserable through computers, and the cyberats knew all of them. After all, they'd invented most of them.
The esper and clone representatives looked severely about them at the grinning faces covering the walls and maintained a dignified silence. Long experience had taught them they couldn't win with the cyberats, who spent most of their time engaged in wars of words with each other. A few voices jeered at the representatives, and then were distracted by the last of the arrivals. The aristocratic backers had finally turned up, fashionably late of course, stepping out of the entrances as though just entering the chamber was enough to soil their clothing. Valentine smiled at them, and they bowed briefly in return. There were only three of them. Most of the aristocrats who for one reason or another backed the underground, preferred to do so discreetly, and at long distance.
On the whole, they funded the underground as a means to political power. Mostly younger sons, who weren't going to inherit, or at least not fast enough to suit them, and therefore had to look for advancement where they could. They wore no disguises; the underground didn't trust them any further than they could spit into the wind with their mouths closed and were determined to know exactly who they were dealing with. If only so they could get them later, if things went wrong. The aristocrats went along, with much bad grace. It wasn't as if they had a choice. You only came to the underground when there was nowhere else to go. Personally, Valentine didn't give a damn.
Evangeline Shreck he knew from before, and her appearance here was no surprise. A fervent supporter of the clone underground in recent times, for reasons which remained obscure. David Deathstalker was a new face. He'd inherited the title after Owen was outlawed and didn't look any too pleased about it. Only seventeen years old, a minor cousin, unused to the hot house intrigues of the Imperial Court. Tall, immaculately dressed, and possibly not as nervous as he appeared. Handsome enough to set a few hearts fluttering at court, but young enough not to know that yet. Or maybe not. He was a Deathstalker, after all.
He'd acquired the title by default. Owen had no brothers or sisters; the supposedly genetic quirk that gave Deathstalkers the boost also killed most children before they reached maturity. The Family considered it an acceptable risk. No one ever asked the children what they thought about it. So far, David's motivations seemed clear enough. He wanted to avoid being outlawed like Owen, or executed like Owen's father, and was smart enough to know he had absolutely no allies at court. The Deathstalker name had become synonymous with treason and bad luck, and most people were keeping well clear in case it rubbed off.
The third face held Valentine's interest the longest. Kit Summerlsle, called by some Kid Death, who murdered his own Family in the name of ambition only to find himself alone, trusted neither by the court nor any Family. A mad dug who'd slipped his leash. Presumably Kit was there as a backer of the underground because no one else would touch him. The Empress had played with him for a while, but Kit had to be wise enough to know that wouldn't last. He was too dangerous: a sword that might just as easily turn on anyone who tried to wield it. Kid Death, the smiling killer, resplendent as always in his armor of black and silver. He looked very young, with his pale face and flyaway blond hair, but the icy blue eyes were very old. They'd seen enough death for a dozen lifetimes and loved every minute of it.
Valentine stepped forward and bowed courteously to Evangeline Shreck. 'Dear Evangeline, so good to see you again. Pity about the wedding, but that's life. Or rather, death. Your father always did have a propensity to overreact.'
'That's one way of putting it,' said Evangeline. 'You look quite different without your face on, Valentine. Almost human.'
'A mere illusion,' Valentine said smoothly. He turned to the young Deathstalker and bowed again, not quite as low. 'I've not had the pleasure, I believe, sir. David, isn't it? I'm…'
