His eyes were cold and careful, and his smile had only a sad humor in it. He could have been an ex-soldier or a mercenary, hired muscle for sale to anyone with the right price. He had the look of that most dangerous of men: someone with nothing left to lose.
No, he thought firmly, and made himself look away. He still had his love for Evangeline, and the new cause he'd embraced. As a noble, he'd never thought about the lot of those beneath him, let alone the non-people, the clones and espers at the very bottom of the heap. Then he came face-to-face with the horrors of Silo Nine, also known as Wormboy Hell, where rogue espers were imprisoned, tortured, and eventually executed, and what he saw there changed him forever. Now he fought for justice for all, and if he couldn't have that, he'd settle for revenge.
Which was what had brought him to Tower Silvestri in the first place. He forced himself to his feet and began climbing again. His arms and legs trembled from the strain, but they'd get him where he had to go. The underground had offered him a choice of stimulants, chemical miracles to put a little pep in a tired man's muscles, but he'd turned them down. He'd never needed chemical courage in the Arena, and if he wasn't quite the man he used to be, he was still the best the underground had. He laughed breathlessly as he flung himself on, clambering over jutting gargoyles and howling stone faces like a swift-moving shadow, his chameleon suit blending him seamlessly into his surroundings.
Maybe after this the Silvestri Family would take the time to rethink their image. Gothic rococo was all very well and picturesque, but it made sneak missions like this a breeze. On a high-tech building like Tower Shreck, with its featureless walls of steel and glass, he would have been spotted in a minute. But like everyone else, both Clans put their faith in extensive high-tech security systems, which to be fair were all you really needed, most of the time. They were more than enough to see off your average thief, spy, or industrial saboteur. They were enough to keep out anyone, unless you happened to have the backing of those cunning cybernetic anarchists: the cyberats, bless their dark little hacking hearts, who were currently feeding Tower Silvestri's systems a bunch of comforting lies, with no mention at all of the silent figure darting up the defenseless exterior.
He reached the end of his line and stopped to lean companionably on the forbidding stone statue of some noted Silvestri ancestor. He pulled up the line and wound it securely around his waist. He'd come as far as he needed. Just as well, given the state of his aching arms and legs and the cold sheen of sweat on his face. He scowled, breathing deeply. He'd built his muscles as a gladiator in the Arena, and despite his recent enforced absence from the killing sands, he prided himself he was still in damned good shape. The climb alone would have killed a lesser man. He flexed the muscles in his arms and legs, blocking out the pain. He was almost there. Just a little farther. He swung carefully out and around the stone statue and made his way slowly across the face of the tower, finding hand and footholds where he could. Forget the pain building in his muscles and back. Forget the precarious holds, the gusting wind, and the long drop down. Just climb, foot by careful foot, and concentrate on his mission and the kill at the end.
For most of his adult life, the world had known Finlay Campbell only as a fop and a dandy, highly visible at Court, and a constant disappointment to his renowned warrior father. No one knew of his secret second life as the Masked Gladiator, undefeated champion of the Golgotha Arena, except for the man who trained him and the woman who loved him. When circumstances forced him to flee for his life, Finlay had been forced to reveal his prowess as a fighter to the underground. It was the only coin he had to buy their acceptance. There was no room among them for passengers; particularly, if you were neither clone nor esper but merely only human. They sent him on a mission, alone and unsupported, to prove himself or die, and when he came back trailing blood and victory, they shrugged and allowed him his place among them. But though they knew him as a fighter, he never told them about the Masked Gladiator. They didn't need to know that.
He also hadn't told them about his need, the constant burning need for action, violence, and sudden death that had driven him to the Arena in the first place. There were times when it seemed to him that he felt really alive only when he was killing someone. Evangeline Shreck had silenced or at least pacified the need when she was with him. Their love had been all he needed or desired, but their time together had only ever been one of snatched moments. Their Families had been at daggers drawn for generations, and both young lovers had always known that they could never hope for a future together. Somehow that foreknowledge fanned the flames of their love rather than diminished it, and the man who once lived only to kill lived instead for the moments of peace he found in her arms.
But now he lived down below, in the underground, and she had returned to the world above, to Tower Shreck and her awful father. Her position and connections among the occupants of the pastel towers made her too valuable for her to be excused for long. So they held each other one last time and tried not to cry, and said good-bye in choked voices. He went with her as far as he could, and then stopped and watched her walk away until she disappeared into the distance. They'd promised each other they'd be together again, but neither of them really believed it. Happy endings were for other people. Finlay Campbell walked back to the underground alone, and if a part of him died that day, he kept it to himself. It didn't interfere with his being the killer the underground needed for their ongoing struggle.
He'd never thought of himself as a rebel. Never thought about the society he moved in, any more than a fish considers the water it swims in. He took its delights and perquisites for granted, and never knew or cared whose work and suffering provided them. He had been an aristocrat other aristocrats bowed to, heir to one of the most powerful Families in the Empire, possessed of power and wealth beyond counting.
Then the Wolfes slaughtered and scattered the Campbells, and he was suddenly just another face on the run, with any number of Wolfes and their hired swords snapping at his heels, ready to kill him on sight. His only safety now lay with the underground, whose rationale he distrusted and whose ideologies mostly left him cold. He understood their hatred for the way things were. What had been done to the espers and clones in Wormboy Hell was indefensible, for any reason. The torture and suffering he'd seen had turned even his hardened stomach. It took him a little longer to realize that espers and clones faced similar, smaller horrors every day of their lives, in or out of Silo Nine. They were non-people. Property. Their owners could do anything with them they wanted. Finlay always had.
He'd never been much interested in politics, and never would, but he had developed a grudging respect for the rebels, and a willingness to fight on their behalf. Apart from that he didn't have anything much in common with them. He had nothing to say to them and didn't understand or care about what interested them. They thought he was naive, and he thought they were boring. He also spent a lot of time sulking because he no longer had access to the pretty clothes and sparkling parties that had so distracted him when he wasn't in the Arena. The underground didn't have time for nonessentials like fashion or parties. When he wasn't sulking, Finlay tended to brood about the destruction of his Clan, the triumph of his enemies the Wolfes, and what Evangeline was doing without him. All in all, he was a pain in the ass most of the time, knew it, and didn't give a damn. So the underground did their best to keep him busy with missions, for both their sakes. It wasn't difficult. The underground had a lot of enemies, and Finlay had an endless need for a little action.
So he volunteered for all the high-risk missions. The underground accepted, and they were both happy. It was hard to tell which of them was the more surprised that he kept coming back alive.
This mission was pretty typical. The underground had marked a powerful and particularly vocal opponent for death, and Finlay was to be their instrument. Only this time the target and intended victim was the notorious Lord William St. John, Second in Command to the Lord High Dram himself, and therefore constantly surrounded by a small army of well-armed guards and high-tech security. Never moved in public without his people covering the ground for miles around in advance. A portable force Screen for emergencies and his own personal flyer to carry him everywhere. Completely untouchable. Unless you were mad, desperate, or supremely skilled. Like Finlay, who was all three at various times, according to his needs. Which was why he was currently crawling up the side of Tower Silvestri like a tiny gray spider, hopefully overlooked by all.
He finally reached the relatively deep recess he'd noted earlier on the architectural plans the cyberats had dug up for him, and he pulled himself into it. There was just room for him to curl up into a ball and still keep a weather eye on the scene below. He was about a hundred and twenty feet up, and snug as a bug in a rug. Waiting. Lord William St. John would be here soon, according to the underground. Billy boy the bully boy, whose word was death for clones and espers and anyone else who got in his way. Billy the Butcher, hated and reviled by practically everyone, but entirely untouchable because of his position. The Empress was said to be quite fond of him.
And he was coming here to Tower Silvestri, stopping off with his armored entourage to pay his compliments to his friend and ally Lord Silvestri, on his way to officially open a new orphanage nearby. Appropriate really, given
