Deathstalker 07 - Deathstalker Return

window. They were all talking about him.
    A breaking news story was running on all the major channels. The life and crimes of Tel Markham, traitor and fugitive from justice. Tel watched for a while, and had to admire the workmanship. It was a very detailed, very clever hatchet job. Finn must have had it put together some time back, and kept it in reserve for just such an occasion as this—when Finn no longer needed Tel. The news story listed all the bad things he'd done, and a great many he hadn't. Tel was impressed by the research, and thought he detected the skilled poison pen of Mr. Sylvester himself, the ruiner of reputations that Finn had brought out of the Rookery to be his character assassin. Tel had worked with Mr. Sylvester in the past, on just such pieces as this, using half truths and vicious lies to bring down those who threatened him. The irony of the situation did not escape him.
    The story went on to reveal every one of the secret organizations he'd belonged to, from theShadow Court to the Hellfire Club, and even a few really obscure ones that Tel had actually forgotten about. And so, at a stroke, Finn seperated Tel from all his old allies. None of the groups would support him now.
    They'd probably be furious enough to put a price on his head themselves. He had sworn allegiance to too many people, too many causes, and they would never forgive him for daring to serve so many conflicting masters.
    Even the few people he'd actually thought of as friends had disowned him. You don't have anything we want. You don't have anything we need. You're nobody.
    Tel looked casually around, and then activated the holo face he kept hidden for emergencies, stored in his high collar. It would last long enough to get him to where he was going. When you had nothing and no one, there was still one place that would always take you in. The last resort of the desperate man. The Rookery.
    Tel Markham entered the Rookery through one of the lesser known ways, and went straight to a safe
    house he'd maintained for many years under a pseudonym, the finances carefully concealed behind a series of cutouts. He'd always made a point of keeping up with the payments, even in his leanest times, all for a time he'd hoped would never come. He let himself in with a key he'd never used before, turned off his holo face, and looked around him. It wasn't much, but it had all the amenities, including a comm line.
    So the first thing Tel did was to sit down and contact all the major news channels—anonymously, of course—and spill all the secrets and dirt he'd spent a political lifetime accumulating. All the scandals, all the stupid choices and dirty washing of everyone he'd ever worked with. If he was going down, he was taking everyone else with him. Tel was a great believer in the satisfactions of revenge, and spreading the pain around.
    And yet interestingly enough, none of the news channels would accept anything about Finn Durandal.
    The comm line just shut itself down automatically every time Tel tried to use the name Finn. The Durandal had fixed it so no one could discuss anything that the Durandal didn't want discussed. Tel was impressed.
    That was real power.
    He tried every trick he knew to get around the problem, but in the end he had to give up. He shut down the comm link. It had been a long and unexpectedly hard day, and he was tired. Maybe he'd try again tomorrow. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do. He leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and wondered what he was going to do next. He had some money put away under a multitude of false identities, but it wouldn't last long. And the Rookery could be an expensive place, once people there realized you had nowhere else to go. And sooner rather than later, the bounty hunters would be on his trail. Finn would see to that. Tel shuddered suddenly, and wrapped his arms tightly around himself, as a cold wave of helplessness washed over him. He was alone, cut off from everyone and everything he knew. What was he going to do now? He looked at the mirror on the wall opposite him, and didn't recognize the face he saw there.
    The pale, frightened face in the mirror didn't look like him. That old, beaten down man couldn't be Tel Markham, mover and shaker, member for Madraguda. Though he supposed even that title would be taken away from him, now he'd been named a traitor. But if he wasn't an MP, what was he? Tel was used to defining himself by what he did; his title and his power and his