Deathstalker Legacy (9 page)

“The Paragon Finn Durandal seems to have started without you,” said St. Nick.

The esper representative nodded slowly. “Yes. We would have preferred to take our vengeance personally. And it was a . . . disturbing sight, a human executing espers. But the ELFs are dead, and burning in Hell, and we must take comfort from that.”

St. Nick nodded thoughtfully and continued on his rounds, and if he had any different thoughts on the matter, he kept them to himself.

The next group in his path were the Ecstatics; but St. Nick decided that there were limits, even for Santa Claus. The Ecstatics were a relatively new sect, religious extremists on the very edge of the organized Church. They’d all had their brains surgically altered so that they now existed in a continuous, never-ending state of orgasm. Heaven on earth. Pure pleasure in every waking moment, and God knew what they dreamed about. They shook and shuddered constantly, their gaze tended to wander, their smiles were downright disturbing, and they tended to burn out fast. But while they lasted they were supposed to be capable of accessing all kinds of altered states of consciousness, without the need for drugs or esp. There was no denying they saw the world very differently from everyone else. They had been known to achieve depths of insight and inspiration that were startling, and sometimes they could prophesy with uncanny accuracy, though in such obscure terms that it might take years to discover what the hell they’d been talking about. And sometimes they just talked complete crap.

The Ecstatics, who lived short happy lives and cared for no one but themselves.

One of them reached out suddenly and grabbed St. Nick by his red sleeve as he passed, fixing him with a happy, unwavering stare. “I know . . . who you are . . .”

“Of course you do,” St. Nick said gently. “Everyone knows Father Christmas.”

“No,” said the Ecstatic, his wide smile never faltering as he spoke. “I know who you are. Who you used to be. The circle is turning. He’s coming back. The lost one. Thrones will fall, worlds will burn, and just possibly the universe will come to an end, very soon now.”

“Well,” said St. Nick, considering the matter judiciously. “That’s all very interesting, but I can smell your neurons frying from here. So, I think I’ll go and talk to someone else who’s currently on the same planet as I am.”

“Lot of people say that,” said the Ecstatic.

St. Nick watched the Ecstatic wander away, shook his head a few times, and then braced himself. Next in line on his rounds, the aliens. And unlike the Ecstatics, where everyone sympathized, he couldn’t avoid the aliens without risking a diplomatic incident.

Aliens were, in theory, an equal part of the Empire these days. In practice, both humans and aliens tended to be wary of each other. Of the dozen or so alien species who’d made a showing for the Ceremony, most had turned up as holo images. Partly for the very practical reason that they couldn’t exist under human conditions without a hell of a lot of tech support, and partly because everyone felt a lot safer that way. The holo images wandered through the Court, doing their best not to walk through people, and everyone was scrupulously polite at all times. On the whole, the aliens seemed to find the reasons for the Ceremony fascinating, but baffling. Translator tech could only go so far.

A few aliens had appeared in person, and most people wished they hadn’t. This especially applied in the case of the Swart Alfair, from the planet Mog Mor. Huge, brooding, batlike creatures, just humanoid enough to be really upsetting, with dark crimson skin and vast ribbed wings they folded around themselves like cloaks, they had a truly disturbing ambience and altogether too many teeth and claws. They’d taken their name from human mythology, on the grounds that humans couldn’t pronounce their actual names without growing a new voicebox. They did amazing things with computers and had to eat in private, because they ate their meals raw and preferably still kicking. At ten feet tall and more, the three Swart Alfair towered over St. Nick as he did his best to make them feel welcome, but he didn’t allow himself to be intimidated. He’d seen scarier in his time. Or so he kept telling himself.

Most distressing of all, ectoplasm boiled continuously off the aliens. Thick blue mists of (probably) psionic origin that had an almost overbearing physical presence. If you looked into the mists long enough, you would see images of what you were thinking, and sights of peoples and places long past. The weirder images that came and went were supposedly what the Swart Alfair were thinking.

The espers wouldn’t go anywhere near them. Said just thinking about the Swart Alfair gave them a collective headache.

An unusual civilization, new to the Empire, and very keen to be a part of things, the Swart Alfair. Strange and enigmatic, casually cruel and unexpectedly kind. St. Nick smiled and nodded and said all the usual things, and got the hell out of there as fast as he decently could.

He didn’t even try to explain Christmas to them. He still remembered the case of the N’Jarr, some twenty years back. Slow-moving, mushroom people, with far too many eyes. Anxious to make their human ambassadors feel at home, they’d embraced the idea of Father Christmas. They’d studied up on the seasonal celebration and then invited the human ambassadors to a great Christmas party in their honor. The ambassadors turned up in their party best, bearing gifts, and there in the aliens’ gathering place to greet them, was the biggest effigy of Father Christmas any of them had ever seen.

Nailed to a cross.

 

Also present at the Court for the great Ceremony, though no one knew it, was Brett Random. Confidence trickster, thief, cheat, and complete and utter bastard. Though not just any bastard, as he was fond of pointing out to his acquaintances when he’d had a drink or two. Brett was a member in bad standing of Random’s Bastards, one of the many men and women down the years to claim descent from the legendary freedom fighter, Jack Random. Given Jack’s eight wives and innumerable conquests, there were a hell of a lot of people claiming to be descended from the Professional Rebel these days. So many they held an annual Conference in the Parade of the Endless and signed autographs. They also ran any number of websites, mostly fixated on undermining each other’s claims.

Brett Random claimed to be a very special case, descended from Jack Random and Ruby Journey. It should be pointed out that the only person known to believe this was Brett Random.

He was tall and handsome, with long bright red hair, warm green eyes, a flashing smile, and a ready charm. He was also currently wearing a formal waiter’s outfit, complete with spotless white apron, that he’d had specially made. All so that he could replace the real waiter, who was currently sleeping off the drug Brett had slipped into his drink the night before. Brett had stalked his prey for several days before closing in. Good preparation is a vital part of every con. He’d chosen a redhead as his target because people tended to remember the hair, rather than the face beneath it. The face on the ID he’d taken off the sleeping waiter had been close enough, and easily duplicated in an underground body shop he’d had occasion to work with before, but it was the way people wore their faces that made them recognizable, and he couldn’t afford a slip. So; bright red hair to attract the eye and distract the attention. It helped that no one paid much attention to waiters anyway.

Personally, Brett was appalled at how easy it had been for him to get in. Security hadn’t demanded a genetest or anything. They all just assumed that if he had official ID, someone else must have run the necessary tests, and they didn’t have to bother. Just waved him on through. Brett had half decided to write a very stern note to the Head of Court Security, afterwards.

So; there he was, right in the middle of the greatest social gathering of the century, calmly circulating with his tray of drinks, directing people to the rest rooms and getting his bottom pinched rather more than was usual. Must be the uniform. He radiated calm and certainty and confidence, and was ready to run like hell at a moment’s notice. First and most important rule of the successful con artist: never be afraid to drop it all and leg it for the horizon if you even suspect something’s gone wrong. The ones who hung around in the hope of squeezing just a bit more out of the rubes, or who couldn’t bear to abandon their clever plans, were the ones who ended up on work farms on the hellworlds. Brett had seen the inside of a prison once, and hadn’t liked it. You met a very rough class of person there. He had decided very firmly never to go back.

He accessed the camera currently impersonating his left eye, and ran a quick diagnostic. Everything was working fine. The camera was recording everything he pointed it at, and he was getting some really nice candid shots of the Great and the Good relaxing their guard and letting their hair down, secure in the knowledge that the official media cameras were under strict instructions as to what they could and couldn’t broadcast. Even when they went live for the actual Coronation, the King had insisted on a five-second delay, so that the Court censor could remove anything that might detract from the dignity of the Ceremony. Which was, of course, why Brett had gone to such trouble to sneak himself and his camera in. His unauthorized, and sometimes very candid, recording was going to make him some serious money from the gossip shows.

Losing an eye and replacing it with a camera had been painful as well as expensive, but Brett was a professional.

He circulated with his tray of drinks, making sure everyone had a fresh glass. People said such interesting things when they were drunk. He was quiet and smiling and unobtrusive, and listened in on all sorts of fascinating conversations as people looked right through him. Servants were invisible, no more noticed than service robots. Brett took advantage of this to help himself to the excellent finger food at the buffet, and even pocketed a few small valuable items that caught his real eye. He decided reluctantly that picking a few pockets would be a step too far. It only took a moment’s bad luck, a voice raised in outrage, and he’d have to run for his life before the Coronation even began, and lose out on all the best footage. So he controlled himself, just, and hovered hopefully beside a group of MPs, hoping to pick up something juicy that he could use later for blackmail purposes. Every little bit helps.

Behind the Thrones on their raised dais, a projected holoscreen was showing old news footage of Douglas Campbell’s exploits as a Paragon. Brett stopped to watch for a moment. There he was, the King to be, always in the thick of battle, being the hero, and beating the hell out of people who were probably only trying to make a living. Lewis Deathstalker was nearly always at the Campbell’s side, fighting the good fight and punishing evil. Douglas and Lewis, the King and the Deathstalker; champions of justice.

Brett had never cared much for Douglas. Far too prim and proper. Never had an illegal or impure thought in his life, that one. Born to greatness, and didn’t he know it. Brett had always had much more time for the Deathstalker. All he inherited was the burden of a legendary name, but he went on to make a real hero of himself, through his own efforts. Brett admired Lewis; perhaps because the Deathstalker was everything the Random was not, and never would be.

Their ancestors had been friends. Brett thought about that, sometimes.

On the vast screen, they were replaying Douglas and Lewis’s most recent battle against agents of the Shadow Court. Brett’s ears pricked up. He’d always wanted to make contact with the Shadow Court, the last remnants of the old Families. Officially, the old Clan system was dead and gone. Most of the old Families gave up their ancient names because of the bad connotations, and conspicuously moved out of the political process, and into business. The pastel Towers of the Clans were gone, hauled down long ago. But in the shadows and secret places, some still clung to the old glories, and plotted to be powerful again. They met privately, in cellars and the backs of bars, using the old names, drawing on the old blood loyalties, and plotted to influence politics through bribes and intimidation, blackmail and terrorism. Whatever it took.

No one knew how much influence they really had. Those who took bribes didn’t talk about it, and those who wouldn’t . . . tended to end up dead before they could name any names. Shadow Court assassins struck in public, wearing stylized black masks, and self-immolated rather than be captured or questioned. Fanatics, to a man and a woman, convinced their greatness has been stolen from them, determined to be great again.

No one knew how many of them there were; who might actually be a part of the Shadow Court. Similarities to the old hidden horror, Blue Block, had not gone unnoticed.

Brett Random thought they were a bunch of tossers and sad bastards, unable to realize their time in the sun was over. He just knew if he could only make contact with them, he could take them for everything they had, including their underwear.

The image on the holoscreen changed, and there were Douglas and Lewis acting as stewards on a Neuman public demonstration. The Neumen were a fairly recent phenomenon; a political group that had sprung up apparently out of nowhere, with as yet unidentified backers, who had declared themselves Pure Humanity. They wanted all aliens expelled from the Empire, and all clones and espers destroyed, or at the very least, sternly domesticated. For the protection of Pure Humanity, of course. The Neumen only ever appeared in public in large numbers; in public demonstrations that somehow always involved marching through areas where there lived large concentrations of the very kinds they hated so much.

Their right to march and demonstrate in public were protected by the Free Speech laws, but every time they appeared, there was sure to be trouble. Even if minority interest groups didn’t organize counterdemonstrations, the Neumen had never been popular with the general public, who still venerated the superhuman Owen Deathstalker and his companions, and saw Neumen propaganda as an attack on their heroes. Basically, whenever the Neumen appeared, you could guarantee crowds would appear out of nowhere just to throw things at them. And that was when the Paragons would be called in, to organize security around the Neumen marches, and try to prevent, or at least contain, trouble. Paragons enforced the law, no matter where their sympathies might lie.