Carnifex

4 July, 2206, Cygnus House, Chelsea, London, European Governing Region, Earth

"The Marquis is dead; long live the Marchioness," Lucretia whispered to herself as the last of the lower class investigating officers departed the mansion. The sun was down and an ambulance had long since carted off her late father's cooling corpse.

As she closed the door behind the police, Class Fours and thus very deferential to the new Marchioness, Lucretia sighed, "Oh, Daddy, and you were such a good lay, too." She sighed, and then burst out laughing, dancing on light feet across the black and white tiled floor of the vestibule.

The police had carted off the bulk of the domestic kitchen staff, of course. They would be incarcerated in Amnesty's own dungeons and rigorously questioned by its own interrogators. But . . . who cares? Lowers can be bought for a song. Which is a damned good thing because now, with daddy out of the way, I intend to go through a lot of them.

"Then, too," she said aloud, "perhaps I should buy a commission in the Peace Forces. I've always fancied how I'd look in uniform."

Lucretia walked to her father's desk and pressed a button on the intercom. A face appeared, that of one of the maids, Emily.

"Yes, mum?"

"I feel like celebrating. Whiskey. Ice."

"Yes, mum."

When the maid arrived, not more than five minutes later, Lucretia waited for her to pour and then struck her across the face with her riding crop. "You were too slow."

Weeping, the maid sank to her knees, crying and covering her bruised face with her hands.

"That's better, Emily. I much prefer you in that position. But . . . I think you would look even better with your face to the floor." Arbeit used her dainty foot to press the maid's head downward.

Lucretia left the girl there, trembling and cowering, and with blood welling from the slash across her face. The new Marchioness liked that, the image, the reality, the trembling fear. She picked up the glass of whiskey and drank deeply.

Lucretia then laughed and started to sing, softly:

"Arise you prisoners of starvation . . . "