Simon Green - From Hell with love

"The Immortals own us now. Generations of kobolds have been born in this cold stone tomb, never to know the comforts of the dark, and the earth, the mines and the gold. Once there were thousands of us, then hundreds, now less than one hundred. We do not belong in this world. And we were never meant to be slaves."

"I can rip that yoke right off you," I said. "If you want."

"No you can't. The yoke will kill me, rather than let me go. The Immortals never let go of anything they own."

"Then I will bring down the Immortals," I said. "And make them free you. All of you."

"Why should you?" said the kobold. "Why should you give a damn about the underfolk? You're human."

"Because I'm a Drood," I said. "And that's what Droods do."

The kobold leaned forward, fixing me with its cold, bright eyes. "Kill them all, Drood. They've earned it."

I walked the whole length of the hall, looking vaguely around for a map of some kind, or a floor plan of the Castle. Preferably something set out neatly on a wall, with YOU ARE HERE, and all the important areas clearly marked. But of course, there was nothing like that. The people who lived here didn't need a map, and they actively discouraged tourists. I had no idea of what I was looking for, and where I should be going; that's what happens when you plan a mission in a hurry. All my thoughts had centred around how I was going to get in, and not enough about what I'd do afterwards. We should have got more specific information out of Rafe, but I was too impatient. Now I was here, I wanted information, which meant records, which meant computers. While I was standing at the foot of a long sweeping set of stairs, at the end of the hall, looking vaguely around in search of inspiration, a side door opened, and out came a teenager with long floppy hair, in sweatshirt, jeans and trainers. He stopped abruptly, and looked at me.

I smiled and nodded easily, secure behind my Rafe face. The teenager glared at me, and opened his mouth to shout a warning. I sprinted forward, crossing the space between us in a few moments, and hit the teenager a savage straight finger jab under his sternum. All the air shot out of his lungs before he could shout a single word, and the force of the blow sent him staggering backwards. All the colour dropped out of his face as he struggled to get his breath. I hustled him quickly backwards into the room he'd just left, checked it was empty and then closed the door behind us. The teenager reached out to me with a shaking hand, perhaps to grab me, maybe just to ask for help. I hit him once, expertly, and he slumped forward into my arms, unconscious. The whole scuffle was over in a few moments, hardly long enough to qualify as a fight. I dropped him into the nearest chair, and considered him thoughtfully.

Why hadn't my disguise worked? Why hadn't he accepted me as an Immortal? Maybe… they didn't keep track of all the people they replaced. He was young, maybe he didn't have access to information like that. I arranged him in his chair so he looked like he was just dozing, and then paused as another thought struck me. Rafe's face might not be familiar here, but this teenager's had to be… So I used the Chameleon Codex again, and suffered the shudders that ran through my flesh, as I became him.

I did consider changing clothes with the teenager-but there are limits.

With all the changes I was putting myself through, I was in danger of suffering a real identity crisis, but that's business as usual for an agent in the field. I considered the unconscious teenager in his chair. He looked so young, to be part of such a family of monsters. Given how hard I'd hit him, he shouldn't wake up for ages, but who knew what his shape-changing flesh was capable of? He could wake up any time, and sound the alarm. The sensible and prudent thing to do was kill him, and put an end to the problem. Part of me wanted to kill him. For what his people had done to me, to Molly, and Rafe, and all the Droods who'd fallen to the Accelerated Men. But I couldn't bring myself to kill him in cold blood. I'd executed Rafe without a second thought, but this was different.

I am an agent, not an assassin.

So I left him, apparently sleeping in his comfortable chair, and went back out into the hall, shutting the door carefully behind me.

I trotted up the long sweeping staircase, which gave out onto the next floor, and strolled down the wide passage. And almost immediately I started bumping into people, Immortals coming and going, and every single one of them was a teenager. They were dressed in a curious mixture of fashions and styles, from the past to the present: everything from Elizabethan ruffs and tights to Edwardian dandies to seventies punk. A little thought suggested that this was because they were all most comfortable in the periods they grew up in. They all had the same arrogant poise, the same aristocratic ease, an almost palpable sense of entitlement. And they were all teenagers because… that was when the Immortal genetic inheritance kicked in, and they stopped aging. No wonder the one downstairs hadn't accepted me. Rafe was too old.

I nodded and smiled perfectly casually to the people I passed, and they just smiled and nodded back to me. Because I was acting like I had a perfect right to be where I was, they all just assumed I had. I must be one of them or I wouldn't be there. Attitude can get you a long way, as a field agent. I studied them all carefully, behind my borrowed teenage face. They didn't look like monsters. But they didn't exactly seem like teenagers, either. There was something wrong, in the way they moved, and talked, and acted. They had none of the usual teenagers' awkwardness or high energy; instead, they all moved with a certain cold confidence, presumably the result of living lifetimes. And in their eyes I caught a glimpse of more experience than anything human should ever have.

I got to the end of the corridor without anyone shouting out or pointing at me, and then I looked about me, wondering where to try next. Or whether I should pick one Immortal out from the pack, drag him into an empty room, and beat the information out of him. I was getting impatient again. And then I saw another kobold, peering round a far corner. It gestured to me urgently, and I set off towards it as though I'd meant to go that way all along. The kobold was indistinguishable from the one I'd met downstairs, wearing the same blue overalls.

"Drood," it said, in the familiar low growling voice. "You have come to free us."

"Well, I'd like to," I said. "But I have to complete my mission first. I need information. Records, computers… you know computers?"

"Of course I know computers," it growled. "I'm a slave, not stupid. We keep informed, up to date. How else could we serve our hated masters efficiently? You want the computer rooms, down in what used to be the dungeons. Better for the machines, down there. Temperature controlled. I know all about computers. I read Wired magazine. Every month."

"Sorry," I said.

"Follow these back stairs, all the way down. Watch out for the guard on duty. And the alarms. Did you really break in here, without first doing some reconnaissance?"

"I was in a hurry," I said, with as much dignity as I could muster.

It gave me a long hard look. "And you're our great hope for liberation. I think I'll go and have a little lie down."

It sniffed loudly, pointed out the back stairs with quite unnecessary thoroughness, and shuffled off. Almost immediately, a door to my right swung open, and a whole crowd of teenagers rushed out, talking loudly. I stood back to let them pass, and although they all did so, several of them looked at me oddly, as though I hadn't said or done something they expected. One of them actually paused and looked back at me, the look on his face clearly suggesting that he thought something was wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. I couldn't get past them to the back stairs, so I just turned casually away and made a point of going into the room they'd just come out of.