Deathstalker 08 - Deathstalker Coda

beaten so many others. There was always a way. One idea arose almost immediately, but it took a lot more pacing up and down and heavy scowling before he was ready to embrace it. If he was going to beat these esper freaks, he would have to make an alliance with his most hated enemy, his old friend and comrade in arms, Douglas Campbell. It left a nasty taste in the mouth, but Finn had always been able to do the tough, necessary thing. With the forces of the Rookery joined to his clone army, he could go head-to-head with the thralls, and not have to worry about fighting on two fronts at once. Douglas would hate the idea, but he’d agree. Because he still believed in things like duty and honor and responsibility. Finn just believed in survival.
    Finn’s armed forces were much reduced, especially after the second disastrous invasion of the Rookery. All he had was his clone army, some scattered troopers and peacekeepers, and his own personal following of hard-core fanatics—the ones that worshiped him as a god. They were always saying they were ready to die for him—now they’d get a chance to prove it. The vast majority of the Church Militant and Pure Humanity on Logres had fallen away from the faith in recent times—the quitters—especially after the execution of their nominal leader, Joseph Wallace. Finn had no doubt he could persuade and cajole most of them to crawl out of their holes and fight on his behalf; he’d always been a great public speaker. But given current conditions, he’d probably have to promise them all kinds of things. Still, promises were all very well, but wait until the thralls were defeated and the city was his again, and then let the poor fools come crying for what they’d been promised. A bargain that cannot be enforced is no bargain at all.
    Finn had to stamp out the threat of the uber-espers before Lewis Deathstalker appeared with his damned fleet. Finn had to be seen to be in charge of his city, if not his world, so that he could negotiate from a position of strength. And once Lewis was down on Logres, and within reach, all kinds of things might happen . . . Finn scowled. He was short on time. The fleet could turn up anywhen. No. Concentrate on the matter at hand. Make his deal with Douglas, combine their forces against the uber-espers and their thralls. At least that way he could be reasonably sure that a whole lot of his enemies in the Rookery would die in the fighting, instead of comfortably sitting it out behind their precious shields. Finn smiled suddenly. Douglas was really going to hate this, but he wouldn’t let his pride and personal feelings get in the way of defending his beloved city. And just maybe, in the press of the fighting . . . a knife in the back of an old friend, when no one was looking . . . Ah yes. Every cloud has a silver lining.

    And so the Emperor Finn Durandal sent an emissary to the Rookery, to discuss terms. Agreeing in principle was one thing; both sides insisted on strict conditions for their own protection. After a certain amount of verbal fencing over very secure comm links, it was agreed that Douglas would meet with one man from Finn’s inner circle, at his hotel in the Rookery. (Finn hadn’t suggested a meeting at the palace; he didn’t feel like being laughed at.) The Emperor sent Mr. Sylvester, who was well known to the Rookery. Finn had found him there, a long time ago. Mr. Sylvester was a forger, computer hacker, confidence trickster, agent provocateur, and first-class ruiner of reputations. Finn had found a use for all his dubious talents at one time or another.
    Mr. Sylvester was searched extremely thoroughly at the border to the Rookery, including a full body scan for weapons, comm bugs, or implanted suicide bombs. Because you never knew with Finn—and, just because the Rookery guards felt like giving Mr. Sylvester a hard time. People who had worked willingly for Finn in the past were no longer popular in the Rookery. The guards also searched the silk-masked figure who accompanied Mr. Sylvester, but he was clean too. One brave soul took a peek at what the man was carrying in his glass jar, under a cloth, and then had to go away and vomit up everything he’d ever eaten.
    Mr. Sylvester and his associate were marched through the Rookery by a full company of soldiers, at least partly to keep onlookers from throwing heavy pointed things at their prodigal son. Mr. Sylvester stared straight ahead, smiling professionally, ignoring the threats