Deathstalker Legacy (15 page)

The admired Paragon and the adored diva; what brighter, more golden couple could there be to lead the Empire through its Golden Age? Lewis helped Jesamine up onto the dais, and she and Douglas stood together before their Thrones, beaming widely and waving happily to the crowd, and no one applauded them more loudly than Lewis Deathstalker.

“One last announcement,” said Douglas, when the applause and cheering finally, reluctantly, died down. “Today I became King, and so today I name my King’s Champion. I have thought long and hard on this, on which of my many fine Paragons I should elevate to my Champion; to Protector of the Empire. But in the end the choice was obvious. My ladies and gentlemen and noble beings; I pray you acknowledge the greatest of the Paragons and my new Champion, Lewis Deathstalker!”

The crowd cheered and applauded again. Not nearly as loudly as for Jesamine Flowers, but Lewis was liked and respected, and after all, he had that legendary name. Just knowing the Champion would be a Deathstalker made everyone feel that much safer and protected. Lewis just stood there, at the front of the crowd, with his jaw hanging open, honestly shocked. It had genuinely never occurred to him that he might be chosen. He tried to look around, to see how Finn Durandal was taking it, but Douglas and Jesamine were leaning down from the dais towards him, their hands extended, and people were pushing him forward. He went up onto the dais, accepted a kiss on the cheek from Jesamine, and stood a little awkwardly on King Douglas’s left hand, bashfully acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. He’d never realized he was that popular.

They stood together on the raised dais, before the Three Thrones; King, Queen, and Champion, avatars of a new Golden Age.

Down in the crowd, standing very alone, Finn Durandal smiled broadly and applauded as loudly as anyone else, but his heart was cold as ice. It should have been him. It should have been him up there on the dais, at the King’s left hand. He even had a short speech of acceptance already written, tucked up his sleeve. He was the greatest Paragon. Everyone knew it. To give preference to that weakling Lewis, who’d already demonstrated he didn’t have the stomach for the job, just because of his bloody
name,
was a slap in the face to everything Finn had achieved as a Paragon. It made all the long hard struggle of his life meaningless.

Finn hadn’t realized how much being Champion meant to him until it was snatched away from him. The post should have been his. He’d earned it. It was his by right.

And right then, in that moment, Finn decided to make them all pay for this insult. He would be the worm in the perfect apple, the canker in the rose, the hidden flaw to fracture the perfect dream. He would do whatever was necessary, to bring the Empire down. To destroy its King, burn down the Golden Age, and piss on its ashes.

 

Afterwards, when the last of the Ceremony was finally over, and the Court was slowly emptying, hard-eyed security men began a sweep through the departing crowd. Their sensors had finally managed to identify an unusually well shielded energy signature. It seemed there was one too many cameras operating in the Court. So the security men fanned out across the Court, big men in body armor with weapons at the ready. The departing crowd gave them plenty of room. No one felt like objecting to being scanned so openly. Not after what the ELFs had done. The security men shut down the official cameras one by one, eliminating their signatures, closing in on their prey.

Brett Random saw them coming and headed immediately for the nearest exit. He always had an escape route planned. He might be descended from a legendary fighting man, but he hadn’t got where he was by being brave. Or stupid. When in doubt, Brett ran. He was very good at it.

He was just passing through the swing doors of the servants’ entrance when the shout went up. They’d spotted him. Brett threw aside his tray of drinks and bolted, plunging down the corridor he’d decided on earlier. He ran at full speed, looking straight ahead, arms pumping at his sides. Startled faces shot past him, but he paid them no heed, concentrating on the map he’d memorized. In any place this size, there were always side doors, backstage passages that no one really knew or used much, apart from servants and service techs. And none of them would try to stop him. It wasn’t their job. Brett plunged on, throwing himself around corners and through doors, not even glancing back over his shoulder to see how close the pursuit was. He was Brett Random, the greatest of Random’s Bastards, and no one ever caught him.

So it came as something of a shock when he rounded a corner at speed, not even breathing hard yet, and found the Paragon Finn Durandal waiting for him, blocking the narrow corridor with his gun already in his hand. Brett skidded to a halt, looking wildly about him, but there were no other exits. He stared at the Paragon, weighing and discarding a dozen plausible arguments, threats and deals; knowing none of them would work with Finn Durandal. He wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of this. Not this time.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to try and fight Finn Durandal. Even if he’d been the fighting kind. Which he wasn’t.

“You’re going away for a long time,” said Finn. “To a really bad place, full of really bad people. Unless . . . you come with me, now. Serve me. Be my man. Follow me, and I’ll make you rich. Betray me, and I’ll kill you. Your choice.”

Brett couldn’t believe it. A Paragon, and this one of all Paragons, offering to make a deal? Offering to bend, even break the law? It had to be some kind of trap. But, given the position he was in . . .

“I’m your man,” said Brett, smiling and bowing graciously. “How may I serve you?”

“By doing exactly what I tell you,” said Finn Durandal. “Obey me in all things, and you will live to see me destroy all those who have spurned me. You will help me tear down the Empire, and rebuild it in my image.”

Okay
, thought Brett.
He’s crazy. That explains a lot. No problem; I can work with crazy. Until he turns his back, and then I am gone. I know places to hide that a Paragon doesn’t even know exists.

“I’m your man, Finn Durandal,” he said again, radiating sincerity.

They were both long gone by the time the security men arrived. Who knew more about the Court’s secret ways than the Paragon charged with its defense?

 

Later still, when the Court was utterly empty, the man who’d been playing St. Nicholas stood alone on the raised dais, looking out over the deserted hall. The Santa Claus suit lay discarded on the floor, and out of the coat and padding, the man inside looked very different. Tall, lean, and surprisingly average-looking. He’d gone to great pains, down the years, to cultivate his anonymity. Samuel Chevron, merchant trader, might be a famous force in the marketplace, but hardly anyone knew what he looked like, and he liked it that way. Because Samuel Chevron wasn’t the name he’d been born with.

He looked out over the empty Court and remembered another, much older Court. Remembered the awful place the Empress Lionstone XIV had made of her Court, in its steel bunker sunk deep in the earth. Remembered blood and suffering, revolution and triumph, and Lionstone’s death. Because the man who wasn’t Samuel Chevron was much older than he looked.

He’d never thought to live so long, to see the ruins of a devastated Empire slowly blossom into a Golden Age. He wished his old friends and comrades in arms could have lived to see it too. Douglas looked like he’d make a good King. The man who was so much more than Samuel Chevron sighed, deeply, and wondered if perhaps he could finally retire from his self-proclaimed role as watcher over Humanity. Perhaps, just perhaps, they didn’t need him anymore. He’d been a hero once, but that was a long time ago, when things were very different. There were new heroes now. Even a new Deathstalker . . .

And he . . . was just a ghost at the feast.

P
arliament was the bedrock of Human politics, the solid center of law and justice around which the great wheel of Empire turned. All important decisions flowed from the great debates on the floor of Parliament, establishing a legal and moral framework for all Humankind to live by, no matter how scattered they might be across the wide breadth of the modern Empire. The people knew this to be true, because Parliament told them it was so. In fact, there was an entire department, with a very large budget funded entirely by Parliament, whose job it was to tell the people of the Empire what a great job their Members were doing for them. After all, how would the people know they were living in a Golden Age, if the media didn’t keep reminding them?

Nothing was actually hidden from the people. The facts were all there, good and bad, in open record. But unless you knew where to look, and the right questions to ask, and the right people to ask, and the context to put their answers in, the information you got wouldn’t actually mean much to you. So most people didn’t bother. The professionals in Parliament knew what they were doing. They must; it was a Golden Age, wasn’t it?

The Members of Parliament met in a single great House, a familiar and much beloved sight in the Parade of the Endless. Designed two centuries ago by the most prominent and respected designer of King Robert’s time, the House was an immense gleaming edifice of steel and glass, its long cool organic curves rising and falling in gentle waves that were striking, but still restful, to the eye. It won every design award of its day, including a few they made up especially for it. Only the truly ungrateful pointed out that if you let your eyes wander over the rising and falling curves long enough, you could get seriously seasick.

And everyone in the Empire with a viewscreen was familiar with the grand open floor of Parliament, where all important business was discussed. The great semicircle of Seats faced the single golden Throne of the King as Speaker, each Seat representing a world in the Empire. At present, seven hundred and fifty planets had their own Seat in Parliament, with another five hundred or so of the more recently colonized worlds waiting impatiently for their population to rise to the point where they would be entitled to a Seat, and a Vote, in Parliament. Not everyone got to Speak all the time, of course. There were strict rules of order and precedence, and all questions had to be submitted well in advance, and only the truly cynical would point out how easy it would be for certain vested interests to decide who got to be heard, and who wouldn’t.

To the left and right of the Seats were the open areas for the lesser Seats (though of course no one ever called them that in public). To the left, the clone and esper representatives; to the right, the AIs and the aliens, who got to have their Say on a regular basis. Just . . . not very often. Pressure of business, you see.

The only time everyone got a (theoretically) equal chance to speak was during the great Debates, on matters of general policy. And it just so happened that King Douglas’s first day as Speaker coincided with the first such Debate in months, on the particularly thorny issue of aliens’ rights and representation in the House and in the Empire. Except of course it wasn’t a coincidence. Parliament was throwing Douglas in the deep end, to see what he was made of. All the media would be there. Not just the twenty-four-hour news channels so beloved of news and politics junkies, but the gossip and celebrity shows as well. If the new King was going to put his mark on the political process, or fall flat on his face and make a complete prat of himself, everyone wanted to see it. Live. It would be the biggest audience the House had had for months, and the honorable Members were spending even more time in makeup than usual, to be sure they looked their best for their supporters back home.

This was the public face of modern politics, and most people were content with that. They never got to see the warren of small rooms and narrow corridors that made up the majority of the House, where all the people who did the real work of governing the Empire got together in small groups to wave papers at each other, argue furiously, drink lots and lots of bad coffee, and wheel and deal over the real decisions of everyday politics. Members might decide overall policy, but it was the small army of career civil servants who decided what got done, and when, and Heaven protect any Member fool enough to forget that. Real power is never where you think it is, and just as in show business, what goes on behind the scenes is just as important as what the audience sees out front.

In one of these small back rooms, tucked well away from the main ebb and flow, the new King and his people were busily preparing for his first day as Speaker. To be exact, Douglas Campbell was sitting slumped in a chair in the corner, while everyone else bustled around preparing themselves for the day’s Session. Douglas was wearing his Kingly robes, but already they looked crumpled and untidy, as though he’d slept in them. The Crown was set to one side, on top of a filing cabinet, because the weight of it gave Douglas a headache and rubbed a raw spot on his forehead. His scowl slowly deepened as he worked his way doggedly through the thick sheaf of papers Anne Barclay had stuffed into his hand the moment he walked in. This was on top of all the paperwork she’d insisted he study the night before. Information was ammunition, and he couldn’t afford to be caught out if an MP asked him a pointed question on the floor of the House. Members could specialize, but the King had to know everything; or at least be able to fake it convincingly.

Lewis Deathstalker, the new Champion, looked over the security systems one last time and moved over to stand uncomfortably at Douglas’s side. Uncomfortable mostly because of the new Champion’s outfit that Anne had insisted he wear. She’d had it designed specially for him, and Lewis really wished she hadn’t. Black leather armor, very formfitting, with a stylized gold crown in bas-relief on his chest, right over his heart. Lewis thought it made a great target to aim at. The leather also pinched in all the wrong places, and made loud creaking noises every time he moved. At least he still had his own familiar sword and gun, comforting weights on his hips, ready to hand. Anne had tried to make him wear some flashy ceremonial sword, but there were limits. Jewel-encrusted hilts did not make for a good grip.