Deathstalker

Rising to the experience

The city had another name once, but no one remembers it now. For the past three hundred years it has been known throughout the Empire as the Parade of the Endless, home of the Arena and the Games. It's not a large city, by Golgotha standards, but it grows a little every year as new citizens are drawn to it like flies to rotting meat. There are gambling houses and pleasure domes, reality shunts and psi jaunts, wonders and marvels and spectacles beyond counting, but no one comes to the Parade of the Endless for those. They are the appetizers, the side dishes, something to clear the palate and sharpen the senses before moving on to something stronger.

In the center of the city, deep in its dark and bloody heart, lies the Arena: a wide open space of carefully raked sands surrounded by tiers of banked seating. It is kept safe and separate from the rest of the city by a series of force screens, only ever lowered in sequence. It's hard to get into the Arena. It's even harder to get out. Those that live there never leave. They have their own places in the cells and chambers and twisting passageways deep beneath the Arena. The gladiators live in relative luxury, honing their fighting skills and dreaming of fame and glory. Trainers and service staff live in the plainer chambers, their lives dedicated to the smooth running of the Games. Prisoners await their fate in the darkness of their cells on the lowest level, knowing they will never see light again till they are pushed stumbling out onto the bloody sands of the Arena. There are always prisoners: men, clones, espers and aliens. Fodder for the never-ending hunger of the crowds.

People come from all over the Empire to see blood and suffering in the Arena, to see life and death played out by the ancient rules. Billions more watch it all on their holoscreens every night, but for the true fans, the connoisseurs, seeing is not enough. They need to be there, in person, to see with their own eyes, drink in the atmosphere, and smell the bloodlust on the air as the crowd cheers their favorites, boos the incompetent, and bays for another death. The crowd always has its favorites, but as a rule they don't last long. That's why it's called the Parade of the Endless; heroes come and go, but the Games go on forever.

The city is also unique in being the only city on Golgotha now owned or dominated by a single Clan. The Empress sees to that, through subtle pressure and not so subtle purges, to ensure that the Games remain fair and unbiased. Everyone has an equal chance to die on the bloody sands. Otherwise there'd be no fun to it. The Parade of the Endless has thus become a safe neutral ground, a meeting place for Families who could not otherwise, with honor, communicate. Instead, the Clans settle their differences through their champions in the Arena. Face is upheld and honor is satisfied. And if it tends to be rather hard on the champions, well, no one really gives a damn, or at least no one who matters.

In return for this outlet, the Families provide generous contributions to the upkeep of the Arena and its staff. Even more of their money flows into the Arena's coffers through the Families' never-ending appetite for gambling. Fortunes are won and lost daily as the Clans plunge heavily in support of their champions and their honor. The champions are always paid men. Members of the Families would never dream of fighting in person. To risk one's life in a formal duel was one thing; to lower oneself to perform for the pleasure of the crowd was quite another. Besides, it wouldn't do for the lower orders to see the aristocracy dying. It might give them ideas.

Around the Arena, in ever-expanding circles, live the citizens of the Parade of the Endless: the traders, the service industries, and those who have fought, or plan to fight, on the bloody sands. The Games are open to all, the crowd's appetite is boundless, and there is always a need for fresh meat. And so they come, from all over the Empire, seeking fame and riches, action and excitement, or just a place to die in the sun. No one is ever turned away. Death is very democratic.

The streets around the Arena were packed with people, as always, coming or going or trying to sell something to those who were. The cries of the street traders rose above the general babble like birds marking their territory, determined to be noticed by those who passed. But even their ebulliency became somewhat muted in the presence of a Family member, so that you could usually track an aristocrat's path through the crowds by the relative quiet that surrounded them.

Valentine Wolfe moved casually through the crush, and no more noticed the respectful quiet than he would have noticed the air he breathed. Tall and darkly delicate, he was not an immediately impressive figure, but still no one jostled him or got in his way. Everyone recognized the mascaraed eyes and scarlet smile, as they knew all the Clan faces that mattered, and none of them had any wish to do anything that might be taken as an insult to Clan Wolfe. So Valentine walked on, his thoughts hidden behind the painted mask of his face, his eyes dark and far away. He never bothered with bodyguards. Some said through pride, some said through arrogance, but if truth be told. Valentine simply preferred the company of his own thoughts whenever possible and found guards a distraction.

He finally came to a halt outside a modest little patisserie, just a little off the beaten trail, and gazed thoughtfully at the wondrous confectionery creations in the window. He wasn't averse to the occasional indulgence of his sweet tooth, but that wasn't what had brought him there. The shop's owner, the one and only Georgios, supplied Valentine with tastes more tempting and far sweeter than anything to be found in his window. Georgios was one outlet of a complex drugs pipeline that Valentine had spent years putting together. Someone of his status could have practically anything he wanted just by asking, but Valentine preferred to keep his needs and appetites strictly private. Knowledge was power. And besides, some of the things he wanted were banned even to those of his rank. Which was at least partly why he wanted them.

A single black rose stood in a slender glass vase in the left-hand corner of the window, and Valentine studied it thoughtfully. The rose was Georgios' way of saying that he had Valentine's order ready to hand. That it was in the left rather than the right-hand side of the window was his way of saying that something was wrong. Valentine smiled slightly and considered his options. He could just walk away and avoid whatever trouble it was. Most likely it was some kind of trap. Like all those who played at the great game of intrigue, Valentine had his fair share of enemies, and then some. But if he did just walk away, he'd never know whose trap it was, and how they'd found out about Georgios. He hadn't thought anyone knew about him and Georgios. Besides, it would mean leaving the dear fellow in the hands of his enemy, and that would never do. He couldn't let people get away with threatening his friends and business partners, or he'd end up without any of either.

And a good business partner was hard to replace.

He pushed open the door and walked in quite casually, as though he didn't have a care in the world. It was dark inside the shop. Someone had polarized the windows to keep out the sun. Valentine let the door drift shut behind him and stood very still. He concentrated in a certain series of ways, and drug caches deep in his system opened obediently to the mental triggers and dumped their contents into his bloodstream. Fresh oxygenated blood rushed to his muscles, which swelled subtly, readying themselves for action. His senses became supernaturally acute, and the shadows before him began to give up their secrets. There were twelve of them, standing very still at the rear of the shop. Two of them were holding Georgios securely with a hand over his mourn. He could smell Georgios' fear and the anticipation of the others. He could hear the slight movements they made unknowingly, thinking themselves safe in the gloom. Valentine's smile widened slightly. There was no safety anywhere for his enemies. They were all dead. They just didn't know it yet. He cleared his throat politely.

"Turn up the light, someone; there's a good fellow. We can't negotiate in the dark."

"What makes you think we want to negotiate?" said a voice that tried to sound cultured, but couldn't quite bring it off.

"If you were assassins," said Valentine calmly, "you'd have killed me the moment I walked in. Therefore, I assume you have something to say to me. Do get on with it. I'm running late for an appointment.

The light flared up suddenly as one of the shadowy figures cleared the window glass, the bright sunlight revealing a dozen gang members grinning arrogantly at him from the rear of the shop. They were all naked, the better to show off the bulging muscles and other enhancements they'd bought from cheap knock-off body shops in the darker back alleyways. They'd all had their skin dyed the same overpowering shade of electric blue to declare which gang they belonged to, and a blazing silver skull had been tattooed on every chest. There were a dozen less painful ways the skulls could have been imprinted on their flesh, but the pain was the point. It was an initiation, a declaration of courage and dedication. Tattoos were for life. So was gang membership.

Valentine recognized them immediately, as he was supposed to. The Demons: one of the larger bands of street toughs who ran wild in the grubbier areas of the city. There were thousands of them in hundreds of gangs; too young, too scared or too smart to be seduced by the call of the Arena, they scraped a kind of living by hiring out to anyone who needed a little muscle. They did other things, too, if you had the money. They fought many battles among themselves over territory or women or what passed for honor among them. As above, so below; the lower orders aping their betters. They also ran simple protection rackets and badger games when things were quiet, but even then they usually had enough sense not to get involved with the Families, suggesting that someone must have laid out a small fortune to set this up. Which, if nothing else, helped to narrow the field.

Valentine took his time studying the Demons. It wouldn't do to give the impression that he was at all nervous or insecure. Some of the gang members looked to be genewarped, or at least genechanged, from hiring out their bodies to unscrupulous body doctors, who always had a need for guinea pigs for their new experiments and processes. Misshapen faces and bodies were the marks of the lucky ones. They'd survived. Some had clawed hands and pointed teeth, others had the twitchy sudden movements that suggested hyped-up adrenal glands. They'd all have their hidden little secrets, but Valentine was reasonably sure they had no tech augmentations. They couldn't afford to buy or replace the energy crystals that powered them. They were all armed, most with swords, some with knives or machetes or lengths of spiked chain.

Valentine smiled at them dazzlingly, just to keep them off balance while his thoughts raged furiously. The Demons were well out of gang territory this close to the Arena. By rights, they shouldn't have been here at all. The local guards should have seen them on their way the moment they showed their blue faces. Someone must have spread a lot of money around to buy a blind eye to their presence, even for a short while. Someone wanted this meeting very badly, but didn't want to be identified as the instigator. Using street toughs was about as anonymous as you could get. They'd do practically anything for money and didn't give a damn where it came from. Now that his eyes had completely adjusted to the change in light, Valentine could tell from the Demons' flushed faces and over-bright eyes that they'd been primed with something extra. Cheap knock-off battle drugs, probably.

He chuckled appreciatively. At least his enemy was taking him seriously. Real battle drugs were hard to come by outside the military, but Valentine had a supplier, as he had for most things. However, the number of people who knew that were very small. The identity of his enemy was becoming clearer by the minute. He concentrated in a certain way and breathed deeply as a catalyst set off the battle drug lying quiescent in his system. Blood surged through his veins like boiling water. The world seemed to slow down a little as his reflexes speeded up. He chuckled softly and nodded to the Demons.

"Time to get this show on the road, gentlemen. Why don't you release poor Georgios and let him leave so that we can be about our business?"

The gang members elbowed each other and sniggered. From the chocolate and cream around their mouths, they'd obviously been gorging themselves on Georgios' creations, and Valentine winced. The confections had undoubtedly been wasted on them. The gang members were quite incapable of appreciating the subtleties.

"Poor Georgios isn't going anywhere," said the tough with the scarlet headband that marked him as gang leader. "Our orders are no witnesses."

"And who gave you your orders?" said Valentine politely.

The leader smiled mockingly. "You don't need to know that. What matters is the message I have for you. Well, not so much a message; more a warning. Word is, you've made a nuisance of yourself once too often, and our employers hired us to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Oh dear," said Valentine easily. "Another death threat. How terribly dull."

"We're not going to kill you," said the leader, still grinning. "We're not dumb enough to take a job like that. Kill an aristo, and every guard in the city would be after us. No, we're just going to break both your legs, both your arms, do a bit of a dance on your ribs, and then walk away and leave you. Our employers want you hurt and humiliated, and we're only too happy to oblige. Especially for the money they're paying."

"Whatever they're paying you, I'll double it," said Valentine.

The gang members laughed and sniggered again, but the gang leader's smile disappeared. "It isn't just the money. It's a chance to get back at an aristo. You've got everything we ever wanted, and you're still not satisfied. You come slumming down here where we have to live, and laugh at our quaint and picturesque lives. You smash up our bars, trash our women, and make us scramble for the crumbs you drop. We're being paid a hell of a lot to crush you, Wolfie, but we'd have done it for nothing. We hate you, aristo. You and all your kind."

"We don't hate you," said Valentine. "We don't notice you, any more than we notice any of the other rubbish that floats past in the gutters."

The Demons stopped laughing, and the tension in the air was suddenly sharp and imminent. Light glinted on steel as they hefted swords and machetes. A length of steel chain made soft clinking sounds as it was wrapped around a fist. The gang leader nodded to the two toughs holding Georgios, and they pushed him to his knees. The shop's proprietor was a small, round little man with a shaven head. He looked like a child among boogeymen. The gang leader drew a long slender knife and stood beside Georgios.

"Hold him still. I don't think our little aristo here is taking us seriously. Maybe this will change his mind."

He cut Georgios' throat with a single economic sweep of his knife. Blood spurted out across the spotlessly clean floor. Georgios bucked and heaved in his captors' hands, but couldn't break free. He couldn't even get his hands to the gaping second mouth in his throat. The strength went quickly out of him along with his blood, and he slumped forward. His captors let him go, and he fell forward onto the floor to lie still in his own blood. He died so suddenly it was hard to tell the exact moment when the life went out of him. Only Valentine was watching. The Demons were watching him. Valentine slowly raised his dark eyes and looked at the Demons, and suddenly there was something new in the air. His crimson slash of a smile had no humor in it, and his mascaraed eyes were very cold. He looked different, and it took the Demons a moment to realize how. He didn't look helpless anymore.

"Now that was a pity," Valentine said softly. "Nobody made a pastry like dear Georgios. I'm going to have to punish you for that. Georgios wasn't much, but he was mine. No one takes anything from me and lives to boast of it. I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you all. I'll try not to enjoy it too much."

For a long moment, no one said anything. The Demons stood very still, and tension crackled on the air. And then the gang leader laughed softly, and everyone's attention switched to him.

"Nice try, aristo. You nearly brought it off. But you can't intimidate us anymore. There are twelve of us and only the one of you, and odds like that don't care how important you are. Take him, boys. We're going to have some fun."

The gang members moved forward as one, spreading out in a circle around Valentine, who made no move either to attack or escape. He kept his dark eyes fixed on the gang leader, while his hyped-up senses kept track of the others. He could hear every step, every rustle of clothing, and their scents came thickly to him on the close air. He didn't need to see them to know where they were. His smile never wavered. From the orchestrated nature of their movements, it was obvious to Valentine that the Demons' enhancements included some kind of cheap sympatico drug. They moved in a synchronized, coordinated way, as though each member knew exactly where every other member was, and they all lifted their weapons at the same time, in the same way. Follow the leader. Of course, if you took out the leader…

Valentine stepped forward impossibly quickly, his movements driven by the battle drugs raging within him, and pivoted sharply on one foot so that the other shot up and slammed into the side of the gang leader's head. The force of the blow whipped the Demon's head around, breaking his neck, and he crumpled to the floor, his eyes rolling up in their sockets. By the time he hit the floor, Valentine had already turned on the next Demon.

The various battle drugs were howling in him now, filling his mind and his body with possibilities. The Demons were thrown by the sudden loss of their leader, but it wouldn't take mem long to find a new focus. The Demon before him was a young thing, slender beyond the point of gender, with skin stretched parchment tight over its skull. Valentine hit it in the throat and it sank choking to its knees. Valentine swung on his next victim with dazzling speed, but a new light had entered the Demons' eyes. The gang had found a new focus, and their gang mind was fixed on Valentine again. Only this time they wouldn't stop at a beating. Demon blood had been spilled. Only a death would satisfy them now. In his own way, Valentine approved. It showed the gang understood something of honor.

A knife flashed through the air toward Valentine, thrown with more than usual strength. Valentine snatched it out of midair, reversed it and threw it back at its thrower with a single smooth motion. It sank hilt-deep into the Demon's eye, and blood washed down his face as he fell backward. Another tough lashed out with her length of spiked steel chain. The barbed links whistled on the still air as they flashed toward Valentine's face. He stepped forward and stopped the chain with an upraised arm. It wrapped itself tightly around his wrist, but the cruel barbs didn't penetrate his skin. His flesh was different now, stronger and more malleable. It swept up over the links, holding them firm as the demon tugged at the chain. Valentine yanked on the chain, pulling the Demon within reach, and his free hand slammed into her face. The skin of his fingers formed a broad flesh mask, covering her mouth and nose. She dropped the chain and tugged desperately at his arm, but couldn't move it an inch. Valentine was rather pleased with the effect. He hadn't tried that particular drug in battle before. It had been originally intended as a sex drug to free the form of the flesh for more intimate caresses, but it hadn't taken Valentine long to see it might have other uses.

The Demon's struggles weakened quickly as her air ran out, and then the other Demons jumped Valentine and there was nothing but the press of bodies and thrusting steel. But quick as they were. Valentine was quicker. He danced among them like a ghost, everywhere at once, his hands lashing out to kill and cripple. He was boosted now, fast and furious, neurons firing at impossible speed, decisions and evasions planned and executed in the spark of a moment. His blows were devastating and unblockable, and the few times a Demon's steel found a fleeting target, the pliable flesh healed itself in seconds. The Demons cut and thrust with increasing desperation, but hit each other more often than not. They fell one by one as Valentine danced among them, pirouetting with deadly grace in the midst of death. His hands and feet moved too fast to be seen, and the last thing the Demons saw before they fell was his terrible crimson smile.

In the end, eleven dead gang members lay scattered across the patisserie floor, like so many broken flowers, lying still in awkward poses in pools of their own blood. Only one Demon remained alive, sitting shaking with his back to a wall, nursing a broken arm and trying to keep as far from Valentine as he could. His breathing was harsh and his eyes were wide, and shock and pain had driven most of the drugs from his system. For all his clawed hands and pointed teeth and bulked-up muscle, he'd never stood a chance against Valentine, and both of them knew it. He licked his dry lips, stared in fascinated horror at Valentine, and tried desperately to think of anything he knew that he might be able to trade for his life. And trying even more desperately to keep from his face the thought of the one thing that might still save him.

Valentine Wolfe brushed himself off and made a quiet moue of distaste at the blood that soaked his garments. Little of it was his, and his wounds had already healed. He'd dumped a universal cutoff and flush into his bloodstream, and the various battle drugs had dissipated quickly, leaving his mind sharp and clear and his body whole and relaxed. Nothing like a good workout to focus the mind. He looked about him at the dead Demons and felt no pity for them. They should have chosen a different target for their class anger. Of course, they had no idea what kind of fighter they were taking on. No one knew about his martial skills, or at least, nobody living. He'd gone to great pains to keep his abilities secret, including killing his trainers. It suited Valentine that his enemies should always underestimate him. He loomed over the sole surviving Demon and smiled down at him. The Demon winced away from the smile and pressed back against the wall behind him, but there was nowhere left to go.

"Eleven men dead in under three minutes," said Valentine conversationally. "There are only three men outside the Arena who could match that, and I'm two of them. I know, I'm not at all what you expected, but then, that's life isn't it? I'm really rather annoyed with you. Poor Georgios is dead, my morning has been ruined, and my clothes are a mess. The only reason you're not dead and frying in whatever afterlife you believe in is because you have information I want. Someone set you on my trail, and you're going to tell me who. Because if you don't, I'm going to take the morning's frustrations out on you, and you'd be surprised how inventive I can be when I'm annoyed. Talk. Now."

The Demon spat a thick wad of blood onto the floor between his outstretched legs and tested a loose tooth with the tip of his tongue. He wouldn't meet Valentine's eyes. They upset him too much.

"I don't know their names. They didn't offer them, and for the kind of credits they were putting up, we didn't ask. Never saw their faces, either. Had them hidden behind holo masks. Man and a woman. Young, rich, arrogant; aristos like you, by their accents. But they did leave something behind; something that might interest you. It's in my pouch, over there."

He nodded gingerly in the direction of a hip pouch lying abandoned on one side of the fight. It was still sealed. Valentine walked over and picked it up with one thumb and forefinger. He brought it back and dropped it in the Demon's lap. He winced at the impact, and Valentine smiled down at him.

"Open it. And be very careful. After all, there might be a booby trap of some kind, mightn't there?"

The Demon smiled mirthlessly and fumbled at the pouch's straps with shaking fingers. His face was pale and blotchy and the comedown from the drugs was obviously getting to him. Valentine watched him dispassionately. Amateurs had no business meddling with drugs. He looked back at the front door. One of the Demons had activated the "Closed" sign embedded in the glass of the door. That, together with the swiftness of the actual fight, had kept anyone from breezing into the shop in search of Georgios, but it wouldn't do to hang about too long. Some people, such as those of Valentine's rank, would only see the "Closed" sign as a challenge. They might even kick the door in, if they were sufficiently annoyed. Valentine would have. And the last thing he needed was to be found surrounded by dead bodies and soaked in their blood. It would be difficult to explain and harder still to cover up. The authorities would take a great deal of expensive soothing, and his father would be furious. Valentine winced. No, that wouldn't do at all.

It occurred to him that the Demon was taking an uncommonly long time to get the pouch open. He stepped forward impatiently and then stopped dead in his tracks as the Demon opened the pouch, reached in and pulled out a disrupter. Valentine froze where he was, his mind racing. The energy weapon changed everything. There was no way a small-time street tough could have got his hands on a disrupter through normal channels. It was death for such as him to even possess such a weapon.

But the gun in the Demon's hand was real enough, which suggested the Demons' mysterious patrons really had been aristocrats after all. Valentine ran quickly through the drugs still available in his system. He'd used up most of the useful ones, and he was pretty sure the Demon would shoot him if he made any move for his silver pill box. He could still jump the tough and trust his reflexes were in better shape than the Demon's. He could also get himself killed. He decided he was going to stand very still and wait for an inspiration to strike him.

The Demon covered him with the energy gun, though it was all he could do to keep it steady. There was a wildness in his eyes that Valentine didn't like at all. And yet it occurred to him that the Demon had had plenty of time to shoot him, if that was what he intended. And if he'd had an energy gun all along, why hadn't he used it during the fight? And then, as Valentine watched, the Demon slowly turned the energy gun on himself, his face full of surprise and horror, pressed the barrel against his forehead and depressed the stud. His head exploded in a splatter of blood and brains that rained down all over the shop. Valentine cursed mildly. The Demon had obviously been programmed by his patrons not to reveal any secrets. And that was interesting. It suggested that not only did the patrons have access to a mind tech, but that the Demons knew things that their patrons couldn't afford to have revealed. Valentine smiled slowly as he wiped the fresh blood from his face with a scented handkerchief. He'd already worked out who the patrons were. Who they had to be.

He made his way to the living quarters at the back of the shop in search of a cloak he could use to cover his bloodstained clothes. He'd have to replace them before he rejoined his Family. Wouldn't do to have them asking question, and besides, he hated to be seen not looking his best. He had an image to maintain. He glance back at the dead bodies littering the floor. Poor Georgios.

Ah, dear brother, dear sister… what am I going to do with you?

Daniel and Stephanie Wolfe, brother and sister to Valentine, waited impatiently for news in the Family's private box at the edge of the Arena. It was a fair-sized box, as boxes went, complete with every luxury that money and position could command. The sands lay a mere ten feet below, so that the occupants of the box could enjoy the various life-and-death struggles at close range, and it came equipped with its own private force screen, just in case things looked like they were getting a little too close.

Stephanie stalked back and forth in the narrow confines of the box, her arms folded tightly across her chest, while Daniel stood at parade rest, scowling out across the empty Arena. People had begun to arrive and were filing slowly into the ranks of tiered seating, but it was early yet. No one who was anyone would dream of arriving this much in advance. Under normal circumstances, the two Wolfes wouldn't have been there, either, but they needed to be alone when the information they were waiting for Finally came. In particular, they wanted to be sure they got the news before their father did.

Daniel was the youngest Wolfe, only just out of his teens. He had the hulking frame of his father, but as yet neither the muscle nor the presence to carry it off. He was clumsy as a child, until his father beat it out of him, with the result that even now he kept his movements to a minimum and saw those through with exaggerated grace and care. The stutter took longer to disappear. His hair was a long mane of shining bronze strands with silver highlights, the latest fashion, but he wore the formal robes his father had insisted on for a public Family appearance. They were dark, dull and severely cut, and didn't suit him at all. Daniel often wished he had the nerve to defy his father as Valentine did, but then Daniel often wished for things he didn't have, which was what kept getting him into trouble.

That, and his sister.

Stephanie Wolfe, the middle child, took after her late mother, being tall and gangling with long hair that always looked ratty, no matter what she did with it. Her long frame was full of suppressed energy, constantly in danger of bursting out at the most inopportune moments. She was twenty-four years old, good-looking in a bland sort of way, no matter what she did with cosmetics, and boyishly slim in an age when voluptuousness was always in fashion. Stephanie had been through a great many body shops in her time, searching for a more acceptable look, but in the end her natural stubbornness kicked in, and she settled for her true face and shape. The aristocracy set trends, not followed them. No one ever commented on her decision or her appearance. Firstly, she was a Wolfe, and secondly, Daniel was devoted to her and ever ready to fight a duel over some perceived insult to his sister's beauty.

Daniel and Stephanie Wolfe. Brother and sister, bound together by love and viewpoint and named ambition. Rich, young and aristocratic, they should have had the world at their feet, but the world wasn't that simple. As younger siblings, they stood to inherit little or nothing as long as Valentine lived. So, being pragmatic and determined and children of their time, not to mention Wolfes to the core, they schemed and plotted and occasionally arranged little accidents for Valentine. They would have liked to order his death, but they weren't that stupid. In the event of Valentine meeting a violent or suspicious death, the first thing the Imperial Court would do would be to order them both to be examined by an esper. Guilt would mean immediate execution, despite their rank and station. And if they tried and failed, and word got out, they'd be laughingstocks, humiliated before all the Families. So they settled for accidents, apparently random occurrences that would hopefully hurt and maim, and at the very least make him look incompetent. If Valentine could be proved unfit to inherit, he might be put aside in favor of Daniel or Stephanie. Of course, if any of these accidents were to be traced back to them, there'd be hell to pay, not least from their father, but if truth be told, the risk was half the fun. After all, there was no point in gambling if you could afford to lose. Daniel and Stephanie needed the thrill almost as much as they needed their brother's downfall.

Even if they didn't handle the pressure very well. Stephanie stopped herself pacing back and forth with an effort, and threw herself into one of the extremely comfortable chairs set out by the guards earlier before they retreated to a discreet distance. Apart from making sure they were out of earshot, Daniel and Stephanie ignored them. There were always guards, no matter where they went. It was part of being an aristocrat. Daniel looked back at his sister and smiled slightly.

"About time. You've practically worn a groove in that carpet, pacing up and down. We wouldn't want dear Papa to get the idea we've anything to feel nervous about, would we?"

Suzanne smiled at him sweetly. "Forget the sarcasm, Danny; you've never had the gift for it. It requires wit and a lightness of touch, among other things, all equally beyond your grasp. Father will be here soon, hopefully bearing news of our dear brother's unfortunate mishap. When he tells us, do try not to overreact. We're bound to be suspected, but there's no point in providing our enemies with ammunition. Forget trying to look surprised, just look dazed and leave all the talking to me."

"Of course, Steph. Don't I always? There's always the chance Valentine is dead. If things got out of hand…"

"I don't see how. We planned for every contingency. As long as those thugs followed their instructions. No, if he was dead, we'd have heard by now. Father would have burst in with the news, or the guards, or a servant, or somebody! You couldn't keep news like that quiet."

"Keep your voice down, Steph. Of course, you're right. Dear Valentine is currently lying in the film of a back alley, one big mess of broken bones."

"Yes. You're right." Stephanie took a deep breath and slowly let it out again. "You did fix the gun, didn't you?"

"Of course. All identifying marks were removed. There's no way it can be traced to us."

"The gun still worries me. It's a clear sign the street gang wasn't working on its own."

"We had to be sure none of the gang would survive to answer questions. The gun and the subliminal conditioning will take care of that."

Stephanie relaxed a little in her chair. "Valentine won't even know what hit him. The medics will fix him up fast enough, but the attack will cast severe doubts on his competence. A few more such incidents, and he'll be a laughingstock. And then, finally, we'll find a way to dispose of poor accident-prone Valentine, and nothing will stand between us and control of Clan Wolfe."

"Unless Constance has a child."

"Ah yes. Dear stepmother. If she was to have a child, dear Papa might well disinherit us in favor of the newcomer. So it's just as well I bribed our Family food-taster not to notice the contraceptives I've been lacing her food with. She could no more carry a child now than Father could."

Daniel glared at her.

"And what if he gets an attack of the scruples and betrays us?"

"He won't. He can't betray us now without incriminating himself. He should have gone to Father the moment he suspected anything was wrong. But the money I offered was just too tempting. Besides, we still have some insurance. The drug I've been slipping into his food is extremely addictive, and I'm his only source." She laughed softly. "He checked everyone's food but his own. Stop worrying, Danny. I've thought of everything."

Daniel looked at her affectionately. "You always did have a delightfully devious mind. We'll have such fun ruling the Family."

Stephanie smiled dazzlingly. "With my brain and your brawn, we can do anything, Danny. Anything at all."

And then they both fell silent as they heard approaching footsteps and the guards crashing to attention. Daniel and Stephanie just had time to get to their feet and look casual, and then Jacob Wolfe came crashing into the box, followed by their new stepmother. Jacob was clearly in a foul mood, his heavy brows furrowed in a scowl, and his two children had enough sense to bow politely and say nothing. The Wolfe was flaming mad about something, and they didn't want his anger aimed their way. Daniel bowed to his stepmother. Stephanie barely nodded. Constance Wolfe smiled at them both.

Constance was seventeen years old and already a breathtaking beauty on a world noted for its beautiful women. Tall and blond and perfectly proportioned, she seemed to glow with health and good cheer and raw sexuality. Just to look at her was enough to send a man's hormones into overdrive. Jacob had won her for his new wife by the simple expedient of intimidating most of her other suitors and killing the rest in duels. Jacob was a great believer in tradition. Constance seemed happy enough with the arrangement, which made her one of the most important women on Golgotha, and had settled in well to the running of Clan Wolfe and her husband. The Wolfe's three children had looked on with varying levels of concern as her word became law and her whim became increasingly wide-ranging. Jacob knew what was going on, but said nothing. It was up to his wife and his children to sort out their own pecking order. As long as they were polite in company and didn't squabble in his presence, he didn't give a damn.

He spun around suddenly, catching all three by surprise, and fixed them with his glare. "The Summerlsle died in court today. Cut down in a duel by Kid Death. His own damn grandson. There's no pride in Family anymore."

Daniel smiled tightly. "Youth must have its day, Father. The old must give way to the new. That's the way of things."

The Wolfe glared at him contemptuously. "You ever raise a hand to me, boy, and I'll cut it off at the wrist. Or perhaps you think you're ready to run this Family?"

"Of course not, Father. Not yet."

"Not ever, unless you buck your ideas up. But I'll make a man of you yet, boy, despite all your sister can do to prevent it."

"That's not fair," said Stephanie, moving protectively closer to Daniel. "Someone has to look out for him."

"He's a Wolfe; he's supposed to be able to look out for himself!" snapped Jacob. "That's what being a man is all about. I won't always be here to wipe his nose for him."

"Now stop that," said Constance, pouting prettily as she dropped a restraining hand on his arm. "You're good for another century at least, and I won't have you saying otherwise. Besides, it's far too nice a day to spoil it with a quarrel. We're supposed to be here for a Family meeting before the Games begin; can't we make a start?"

"Not without Valentine," said the Wolfe. "I seriously doubt he'll have anything serious to contribute, apart from the address of his latest chemist, but he is my eldest and has a right to be present. Even if he is late. Again."

"Yes," said Daniel. "I wonder what's keeping him?"

Stephanie tensed, but for once Daniel had enough sense not to share a confidential smirk with her. Instead, he was looking thoughtfully at their father, and Stephanie felt like joining him. Jacob Wolfe only retired to his private box at the Arena for Family meetings when he wanted to discuss something really delicate. The box's combination of indoors and outdoors made it difficult for anyone to bug, and the esp-blocker concealed in the structure of the box kept out any psionic eavesdroppers. Jacob believed in being thorough.

Stephanie looked away from her father and searched for something to distract her. Out across the Arena, the giant holoscreen was showing close-ups and slow motion replays of the fighting in the Arena. The holoscreen was there for the benefit of the connoisseur, and those right at the back, so that no detail of the blood and butchery need be missed. Stephanie smiled broadly, enjoying the show. Nothing like a little life-and-death drama to get the blood moving. There were those, in and out of the Families, who campaigned regularly for the Arena to be shut down, or at least toned down, but they never got anywhere. The Games were incredibly popular throughout the Empire, drawing huge audiences wherever there was a holoscreen to be found. Try and stop the show, and the people might well rebel.

And then Stephanie stiffened as she heard footsteps approaching the box. Her heart jumped, and she breathed deeply to keep a betraying flush from her cheeks. The messenger was finally here with news of Valentine. She turned slowly, savoring the moment, and found herself face-to-face with Valentine, coolly entering the private box as though it was just another day and all was well with the world. For a moment she thought she might faint, but a quick glance at Daniel, all slack-jawed and bulging eyes, brought her back. She had to be cool, had to be ice-cold. She had to be strong for both of them until she could discover just how much trouble they were both in. She made herself bow casually to Valentine, and he nodded politely in return.

"Is something wrong, sister?" Valentine said courteously. "You look rather pale."

"No. Nothing's wrong," said Stephanie, fighting to keep her voice as calm as his. "You're a little late. We were concerned something might have happened to you. Did… anything unusual happen on your way here?"

"Unusual? No, not that I can think. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," said Stephanie. "No reason."

Valentine smiled his wide crimson smile, and his dark eyes gave away nothing at all. He shrugged off his cloak and dropped it over the back of the nearest chair. Stephanie frowned in spite of herself. Her brother was wearing the ugliest, coarsest and most unfashionable clothes she'd ever seen him in. In fact, to be bluntly honest, they looked like a tradesman's clothes, and not even the right size. She would have sworn he would rather have died than appear in such a state in public.

"I'm a little late because I had to stop off along the way," Valentine said casually. "Had to pick up my new outfit. Rather dashing, don't you think?"

"We can discuss your appalling taste in clothes later," growled the Wolfe. "We have Family business to discuss. We waited for you to put in an appearance because some of it specifically affects you."

Valentine sank elegantly into a chair and fixed his father with a condescending gaze. "You're not thinking about putting me through detox again, Father, surely? You must know by now that my system will never be normal again, after all the wonderful things I've done to it. You'd have better luck trying to change my height than my blood chemistry."

"No," said the Wolfe, smiling unpleasantly, "I've given up trying to change you, Valentine. I thought I'd let someone else have a try. I've decided it's time you got married. All of you." He beamed round at his three children, who looked back with varying degrees of shock. The Wolfe's smile deepened. "To that end, I have arranged marriages for you all to suitable young matches of good Family backgrounds."

There was a long pause while nobody said anything.

Jacob was enjoying himself, Valentine was looking thoughtful, and Stephanie and Daniel were looking desperately at each other for ideas and support. The Wolfe sat down in his usual chair, taking his time to make himself comfortable. Constance came and sat beside him, still smiling sweetly. Jacob patted her fondly on the arm.

"Your new mother and I have been discussing this. It's time I had a few grandchildren to bounce on my knee, young sprouts to carry on the bloodline. I waited till late in life to sire you three, and I won't have you making the same mistake. You're getting married. Whether you like it or not."

"Do I understand you have already picked our partners for us?" said Valentine slowly.

"Damn right I have. Leave you to sort it out and you'd make a right mess of it. I've chosen prime young fillies for you and Daniel, and a strapping young blade for you, Steph. Good bloodlines, excellent stock. You'll meet them at the Imperial Ball tonight and be married next month."

"Next month?" howled Daniel. Stephanie didn't think she'd ever seen his eyes bulge quite so much, but for once she was helpless to support him. She was too busy trying to get her own whirling thoughts under control.

"Yes. Next month." Jacob wasn't even trying to hide his satisfaction. "If I gave you three any more time, you'd undoubtedly find a way to wriggle out of it. So the marriages will go ahead just as soon as the proprieties have been observed."

"I'll see you damned in hell first, Daddy," said Stephanie. She wouldn't have believed her voice could hold such ice, such venom. Daniel nodded vigorously at her side.

"You can argue all you like," said the Wolfe. "It won't do you any good. You could, of course, refuse to go through with the ceremony, in which case I would have no option but to disinherit you and have you thrown out of the Clan. Think about that for a moment, dear children. Could you exist outside the protection of Family? No money, no station, no future? Having to work for a living? What jobs could you do? No, you've been cosseted and pampered too long to survive in the real world. Any last comments before we pass on to the next order of business?"

He looked from one face to another, one eyebrow raised politely. Daniel was trying to find his voice, while looking like someone had just kicked him in the gut. Stephanie was scowling furiously, thinking hard. Valentine smiled suddenly.

"If it's to be a Church wedding, can I wear a veil? I look good in white."

Jacob gave him a hard look, but decided not to rise to the bait. He looked out over the Arena, but nothing much was happening. The first few fighters had mostly killed each other, but there was hardly anyone in the stands or private boxes to see it. The early acts were just warmups, inexperienced fighters building a reputation while getting the feel of genuine life-and-death combat. Training and simulations could only do so much. There was no substitute for the real thing, for the smell of sweat and blood, or the sight of a man's guts spilling out onto the crimson sands. Which was, of course, what brought the audiences back again and again.

The last two survivors stamped back and forth across the bloodied sands, but few of the slowly growing audience took any notice. They were too busy finding their seats, getting comfortable and chatting with friends and neighbors. There was a flash of steel and a strangled cry, and one of the gladiators fell to the sand, clutching his side tightly as blood pulsed between his fingers. The winner raised his dripping sword and looked about him for applause. A few people clapped langorously, but that was all. The winner lowered his sword and put it away, then bent down and helped his fellow gladiator to his feet. No one had cared enough to turn a thumb down. The fighters moved slowly away, heading back to the main gates and the training areas under the Arena.

Jacob watched them go. He thought he knew how they felt. He was fighting for his life, and that of his Family, in the great game of intrigue, and no one seemed to give a damn about his struggle, either. He turned back to face his children and tried to keep the tiredness out of his face.

"The contract for mass production of the new stardrive is being readied. Whoever wins the rights to this new drive will end up with power and riches almost beyond imagination. It is therefore vitally important that Clan Wolfe wins the contract, or at the very least ensures that our principle enemies do not. Were Clan Campbell to beat us out, for example, it would ruin our shipping interests overnight and leave us vulnerable to all kinds of hostile takeovers. The very existence of the Family could be at risk."

"I hate to be picky," said Valentine, "but the Campbells do have much more experience in the stardrive field than we do. They would do a much better job."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Valentine shrugged. "I just thought it might not be in the Empire's best interests for us to steal the contract away from the Campbells."

"The sooner I get you married and raising children, the better," said the Wolfe. "The Family comes first Always. Besides, what's good for Clan Wolfe is good for the Empire. Now pay attention. Clan Campbell, bad cess to them all, have been proving unexpectedly successful of late in many fields. I'm pretty sure they've got a silent partner hiding in the background: someone high up, financially independent, and politically invisible. According to my sources, who for the amount of money I'm paying them had better be reliable, this silent partner has been providing the Campbells with all kinds of new high tech, practical and theory, that the Campbell labs couldn't have produced on their own. I thought at first it might be one of the minor Clans trying to buy their way into the big time while hiding their light under a larger Family's protective bushel. But I regret to report that none of my sources have been able to come up with anything incriminating. Whoever's backing the Campbells has gone to great pains to hide their trail very thoroughly."

"Could it be one of the undergrounds?" said Stephanie, frowning. "The cyberats, for instance?"

"That's more like it," said the Wolfe approvingly. "You see, you have got brains when you care to use them. My people are currently investigating the various extralegal organizations to see if any of them have been getting ideas above their station, but it's going to be some time before they'll be able to report back anything worth listening to."

"Maybe they've managed some kind of contact with the new aliens?" said Daniel, not wanting to be left out.

The Wolfe looked at him. "I suppose that's a thought. The Campbells wouldn't hesitate to blow away the rest of the Empire if they thought there was a good chance they'd come out on top. I'll put a few agents on it. Well, Valentine, have you nothing to contribute?"

Valentine Wolfe produced his small silver pillbox, opened it, and took out a large pinch of fluorescent blue powder. He placed it carefully in two small heaps on the back of his hand and then sniffed it up with great style and elan, one heap for each nostril. His eyes widened, showing bright and gleaming against his mascara, and for a moment his crimson smile seemed impossibly wide. He shuddered once, put away the pillbox, and smiled at his father.

"Since we cannot hope to beat the Campbells on the grounds of business experience or technical expertise, we will have to do battle with them on the social and political field. Set up a few schemes to disrupt, discredit and if need be destroy Clan Campbell, or any other Family that stands between us and the contracts we seek. I would like to offer my help but, of course, if I'm to be married at such short notice, I really don't think that I can afford to become personally involved. I'll have far too much on my mind."

"Right," said Daniel quickly. "Same here."

"Then I'll just have to soldier on without your no doubt valuable input," said Jacob. "You're getting married if I have to see you all dragged in chains to the altar. But that's enough business for the moment. We've covered everything urgent. Your new mother is a great fan of the Games, and I promised her an uninterrupted afternoon's pleasure of death and mayhem."

"But…" Daniel began, only to wither under his father's implacable gaze.

"Enjoy the Games, dammit. This box is costing me enough."

The Games proper started traditionally with rebel-baiting. Twenty convicted felons, habitual offenders who hadn't learned a thing from their previous stays in jail, were turned out onto the sands without armor or weapons, and twenty experienced gladiators pursued them with whips and swords. The rebels ran in every direction, screaming for help or a weapon or just another chance, and the crowd booed and hissed them. The gladiators pursued their prey, cool and calm and very professional. A few rebels tried to make a stand, back to back, and the gladiators allowed them the courtesy of a quick death. They respected courage. The other rebels were harried and tormented, driven this way and that with flashing steel and the crack of the whip, until they were a mass of blood and cuts. They staggered on as the blood pumped out of them, too exhausted to run but too scared to stop. And finally, one by one, they died for the pleasure of the crowd, and their bodies were dragged away. The growing crowd laughed and cheered and applauded the gladiators. They always enjoyed a good comedy turn.

In the Wolfe private box, Constance shrieked and laughed and clapped her tiny hands, and Jacob smiled fondly at her, happy to see her happy. Daniel sat sulking by himself. Stephanie was still thinking hard. And Valentine watched and applauded and kept his feelings to himself.

The stalls were filling up now, and most of the private boxes. The beginners and warm-ups had done their job, and the real Games were about to begin. The holocameras were in place, ready to catch all the action as it happened, and already the resident bookies were making money hand over fist.

The first real turn was a pulse-stirrer. Three clones from the underground were turned loose in the Arena, armed only with swords. They were all the same slim, dark-haired youth, with wide eyes and trembling mouths. Probably teachers or technicians or civil servants before they made the mistake of trying to find their freedom through the clone underground. They had never drawn a sword in anger in their life, and now it was all that stood between them and a particularly unpleasant death. They made their way uncertainly to the center of the Arena, back to back in a triangle, moving with the almost telepathically-linked precision that only clones can achieve. They all had the same instincts and mannerisms and held their sword in the same way. When they fought, they would fight as one. For all the good it would do them.

The crowd booed them lustily, and then cheered as trumpet sounded and their champion appeared from the main gate. All the Wolfes broke off from their various thoughts and stared hard at the newcomer. The Campbells had loaned out their private Investigator: the man called Razor. He was tall and blocky, with thick slabs of muscle and a patient, brooding face. His skin was dark, his close-cropped hair was white, and his eyes were a curious green. He moved with a slow steady power that suggested something implacable and unstoppable. He carried a curved sword in each hand, but wore no armor. He didn't need any. He was an Investigator.

Technically, he was supposed to give up the title once he'd retired from the Service, but no one was stupid enough to tell him that to his face. Clans often acquired their own Investigators, once they were free of the Service's demands.

They made invaluable bodyguards and champions, mainly on the grounds that very few people were dumb enough to upset an Investigator. Unfortunately, they rarely lasted long in private employ. Investigators were only allowed to leave the Service when they became old or tired or began making mistakes. But they lived for battle and the destruction of aliens, and once taken away from such delights, they soon withered away into pale copies of themselves. Mostly they took their own lives, or allowed someone else to do it.

But while they lasted, they were the ultimate status symbol for a Clan.

Razor moved unhurriedly toward the clones, and they scattered around him like fluttering birds. Their swords flashed brightly as they circled him in silent unison, every move a reflection of each other's. The audience stamped and roared and cried out for the clones' deaths like young carrion crows in the nest. Investigator Razor paid them no heed. He stood still, his head cocked slightly to one side as though listening, his green eyes faraway. The clones fell on him in unison, their blades reaching for his heart from three different directions. One moment Razor was still, and the next he was moving too fast to follow. His swords lashed out, burying themselves in flesh and leaping out again, and the three clones staggered away from him, clutching at their death wounds, to lie still and broken on the bloody sands.

Razor sheathed his swords and bowed formally to the Campbells' private box. He didn't wait to be acknowledged before turning and walking back to the main gates. The crowd was booing. It had been over too quickly; they hadn't had a chance to savor the suffering and deaths of the clones. A few connoisseurs and military men who understood what they'd just seen were applauding loudly, but no one paid them any attention, least of all Razor. He left the Arena as calmly and uncaring as he had entered it, like a blast of cold air on a warm night, come and gone in a moment, leaving only a quick shudder to mark its passing. He was still an Investigator in every way that mattered.

Jacob Wolfe watched Razor's exit thoughtfully. He'd often considered putting in a bid for an Investigator of his own, but he never did, if only because he didn't like the idea of having such a perfect killer in constant close proximity to him. They were supposed to be incorruptible, untempted by power or money or glory, but the Wolfe rather doubted that.

In his experience, everyone had their price, or breaking point.

The next act was a crowd-pleaser. Alien versus alien. The Arena had its own artificial gravity, temperature controls and force screens, enabling it to present any kind of environment while ensuring the audience's safety. The audience muttered happily in anticipation as the lights were quickly lowered, replaced by the crimson glare of a holographic sun. The sands disappeared, replaced by a thick jungle of towering trees, their huge flat leaves a sickly purple. Here and there things moved in the concealing gloom between the trees, and strange cries echoed on the quiet air. The illusion was perfect, as always.

In the center of the forest was a clearing some thirty feet in diameter. The audience waited breathlessly for something to appear in it. Behind the holograms, a gate slid open, and a creature was released from its cage. It was reluctant to leave its den and had to be persuaded with blows from hidden electric prods. It lurched forward through the holographic trees, bellowing its rage at the delighted crowds. It burst out into the clearing, and the first clear sight of it stunned the audience into silence. It was twenty-seven feet long from jaws to tail, a huge erect biped with a hell of a lot of lizard in it. It bulged with muscles under its glistening scales, standing rock-steady on two vast legs, with a long barbed tail lashing back and forth behind it. There were four gripping arms high up on its chest to hold prey steady while the great jaws tore at it. The huge wedge-shaped head was mostly mouth, stuffed with jagged teeth. The creature spun round in a circle, moving disturbingly quickly for so large a beast, searching for the audience it could sense but not see. It roared deafeningly and stamped its clawed feet on the disguised sands, and the crowd loved every minute of it. And then the creature froze as it sensed another presence close at hand in the holographic jungle.

It looked back and forth with its circle of eyes, muttering to itself, and the crowd waited with bated breath to see what kind of creature the Arena masters had chosen to stand against such a formidable foe. It took them a while to realize it was already there. The second alien was a great cluster of writhing vegetation some forty feet tall. It seemed to be mostly long creepers of twitching ivy surrounding a bulky central mass. If it had sense organs, it was keeping them to itself, but the central mass of the creature slowly orientated itself on the great lizard. Long strands of creepers shot out like tentacles and fastened on the lizard. It bellowed angrily and tore the creepers like paper, but there were always more, wrapping themselves around the huge lizard like so many enveloping arms. The two aliens struggled together while the crowd went wild with delight and the bookies made a killing. The smart money was on the vegetation, if only because it didn't seem to have any vital points the lizard could attack.

"Aren't they marvelous?" Constance sighed happily. "Don't you just adore aliens? Do you suppose they're intelligent?"

The Wolfe shrugged. "Who cares?"

The lizard had practically disappeared under a crawling blanket of creepers and was being dragged slowly but inexorably toward the central mass of the vegetation. The lizard was still struggling, but its arms were trapped against its chest, its legs were weighed down with ivied chains, and only its lashing tail still had room to move. More creepers lashed out at the wedge-shaped head like flails, and blood flew on the air. The crowd oohed and ahhed.

And then the lizard stopped struggling and lunged forward, its vast muscular legs forcing it deep into the heart of the vegetation. Its head burrowed down past the lashing creepers, and its great jaws fastened like a steel trap on the hard central mass of the plant creature. The vicious teeth sank deep into the leathery carapace, and the lizard settled its weight, raised its head and lifted the whole plant off the ground. The creepers lashed hysterically in every direction, but the lizard ignored them. It shook the plant like a dog shakes a rat, and strands of greenery flew clear to lie twitching on the ground. The lizard's teeth closed remorselessly as the great jaw muscles bulged, and the central carapace of the plant shattered under the pressure. The lizard tore at the exposed heart of the plant creature, and the whirling strands suddenly went limp. The lizard raised its wedge-shaped head and roared its triumph at the holographic sun, and then pulled itself free from the creepers and set about methodically tearing the plant apart, chewing great mouthfuls of the quiescent vegetation.

The crowd cheered and roared in return, even those who'd bet against the lizard. It had been a good fight, and they did so love a winner. The lizard ignored them, intent on its meal. The crowd slowly settled as they realized the handlers hadn't appeared to guide the lizard back to its pen to await its next fight. The Game wasn't over yet. The audience stirred in anticipation as a gate opened and a lone figure walked out into the holographic jungle. It was a man with a sword, walking unhurriedly through the great trees toward the central clearing, and the crowd went quiet for a moment as they recognized Investigator Razor. A slow murmur began on the stands as the crowd weighed up the chances. The lizard was huge and ferocious, a natural born monster of a killing machine, but Razor was an Investigator, after all…

"They can't be serious," said Stephanie. "He's already had his fight for the day. And even if he was fresh and rested, he still wouldn't stand a chance against that monster. It'll tear him apart!"

Jacob smiled at her fondly and patted her arm comfortingly. He hadn't missed the rising excitement in her voice. "If you're going to place a wager, my dear, I strongly suggest you put your money on Razor. Killing aliens used to be his job. The Campbells must have spread around a hell of a lot of money to set this up. Normally the Arena would expect to get twenty or more fights out of a creature like that. It has potential. I wonder who asked for the match originally… the Campbells, for the prestige, and a chance to make a killing with the bookmakers? Or did Razor ask for it to prove he's still the best?"

"I don't care if he is an Investigator," said Daniel. "That lizard's going to chew him up and spit out the pieces. Nothing human could stand against anything that size armed only with a sword."

"Whoever said Razor was human?" said Valentine. "And besides, that isn't just a sword he's carrying."

The crowd quieted down as Razor emerged from the trees and stepped out into the clearing. He stared calmly at the huge lizard, which suddenly lifted its great head from the carcass of the plant creature and sniffed the air loudly. It spat out a half-chewed mass of greenery and spun round quickly, its long barbed tail swinging wide to balance its weight. Its scales gleamed brightly under the crimson sun, and shining teeth showed clearly as the lizard put back its great head and roared out a challenge. Razor lifted his sword as though in acknowledgment, and for the first time the audience clearly saw that it wasn't just a sword. A faint but distinct blue glow surrounded the blade, showing it had a monofilament edge, only a molecule wide. Which meant that particular blade could cut through anything it had a mind to as long as the sword's energy crystal maintained the field that supported the edge. Such swords weren't common. They were extremely expensive, the energy crystal ran out extremely quickly, and most people disdained a monofilament edge as being not really honorable. It was doubtful Razor gave a damn about such niceties. Investigators were a practical breed.

The lizard lowered its head and charged right for Razor. He rose lightly on his toes and ran to meet it. They came together, the great jaws whipping down to snap together where the Investigator had been only a moment before. But at the last moment he'd changed direction and speed with almost impossible grace, and he darted to one side, moving in beside the lizard's left leg. The glowing sword spun round in a flat arc and punched through the lizard's thigh and out again. Blood fountained, and the lizard roared in pain and rage. It spun on Razor, but he was no longer there, and the alien stumbled for a moment as its crippled leg almost collapsed under it. The monofilament edge had cut through skin and muscle in a moment and scored a deep groove in the bone. The lizard's leg still supported it for the moment, but only just.

While the creature was sorting that out, Razor darted in again, and his sword slammed into the lizard's heaving side and out again in a welter of gore. He neatly sidestepped the jetting blood and moved smoothly to stay on the creature's blind side. It stamped awkwardly back and forth, favoring its wounded leg, the head swinging this way and that as it tried to find its tormentor, its great jaws snapping shut again and again like a malevolent steel trap. And then Razor was suddenly right there in front of it, and the huge head swung down, jaws gaping. Razor ran forward, jumped lithely up onto the lizard's good leg and thrust his sword deep into the creature's throat. Blood sprayed his face and chest, and more gushed from the gaping mouth. The Investigator ignored it and hacked left and right with two quick, economical sweeps, and the alien's head fell away. The neck had been cut clean through by the monofilament edge.

Razor jumped down from the shuddering leg and backed away to give the lizard room to die. The head lay on its side on the bloody sands. The holographic jungle disappeared, now that the fight was over. The jaws opened and closed a few times slowly, but life had already faded from the puzzled scarlet eyes. The headless body stamped around the sands, blood fountaining from its open neck. Razor avoided it easily. The gripping hands clustered high up on the chest opened and closed spasmodically, as though trying to grasp the enemy that had hurt it. But finally the body realized it was dead, and it collapsed in an ungainly twitching heap. The crowd went mad, but the Investigator was already walking back to the side exit, ignoring their cheers. He hadn't killed the alien for them.

In the Wolfe's private box, there were mixed feelings. Constance squealed with delight, bouncing around on her chair. Jacob laughed and called for more wine. Daniel was sulking. He'd bet heavily on the lizard. Stephanie looked at her father and then at the huge creature lying dead on the sands. And if she made a connection between the two in her mind, she kept it to herself. Valentine took another sniff of his blue powder, and his thoughts were his own, as always.

Handlers appeared in the Arena, slipped antigrav units under the dead lizard, and towed it quickly away. It disappeared head and all through the main gates, and the crowd gave it a mocking farewell. They had no time for losers. The head would be kept as a trophy; the rest would be butchered and rendered down to provide protein for the other aliens waiting in their pens.

Microorganisms in the sand ate up the fallen blood and dispersed it evenly as the handlers raked the sands till they were tidy again. They finished their work and got off the sands as quickly as they could. The crowd tended to throw things, and some of them had a nasty sense of humor. The audience reluctantly settled down, conversations still buzzing here and there, and looked to see what was coming next. It took a lot to satisfy the Golgotha crowds, and they were always greedy for more.

The recorded trumpets sounded again, a man strode out onto the sands, and the cheer that greeted him eclipsed everything that had gone before. The crowd went insane, jumping to their feet to cheer and wave and hug each other in anticipation. There was no announcement; everyone knew who he was. He was the Masked Gladiator, undefeated champion of the Games, the darling of the Golgotha crowds. Everything else had been warm-ups. He was what they had all come to see.

No one knew who he really was. He could have been any age, from any background. He was tall and lithely muscular, wore a simple anonymous steel mesh tunic and carried a sword that was almost as famous as he was. It was long and slender and entirely unaugmented. It was called Morgana. No one knew why. A featureless black steel helm covered his head completely, and he had never been seen without it. In his three-year career as a gladiator, he had never even come close to being beaten or unmasked. He specialized in winning against impossible odds, and the crowd loved him for it. His identity, and his reasons for concealing it, remained a mystery, though there were any number of rumors. Some said he'd been dishonorably discharged from the Army and sought to regain his honor through combat. Others said he was an Investigator who had somehow lost his nerve and sought to reforge it in the Arena. There were those who spoke of a lost or dead love and said he sought the comfort of forgetfulness or death in battle. And some at least suggested he was a noble, seeking thrills and excitement he couldn't find anywhere else.

No one said that last one too loudly, of course. If it were true, it would be a major scandal. The aristocracy settled their disputes only through champions or the code duello. Anything less would have been beneath them. The elite were above and beyond the lesser drives and emotions of the lower classes. They were special, untouchable, unattainable. It was vitally important that the gap be maintained.

But whatever the secret of his face, the crowds loved him, and they conspired with the Arena staff to keep his secret and preserve his identity, even from the Empress' security people. Which was probably unique in the Empire. So far the Empress had declined to press the point, which had given rise to a whole new batch of rumors.

He fought always with the sword Morgana, disdaining monofilament edges or other energy weapons. He was a superb swordsman, with speed and skill and trained reflexes beyond anything outside the augmented men. There were still those who claimed he had to be a cyborg of some kind, or at the very least a product of the body shops, but the Arena staff said not, and they were best placed to know.

The Masked Gladiator took up his position in the center of the Arena and waited patiently for his opponent to come to him. The giant holoscreen showed a closeup of his featureless helm and ran columns of statistics from his previous fights on either side of it. The figures were impressive: never beaten in a hundred and thirty-seven combats. Only wounded seriously twice, in his early days. Present odds against his current challenger: one thousand to one, in his favor. The odds kept small fry from wasting his time, but there were always challengers.

The latest in a long line stepped out of a side gate and strode confidently toward the waiting champion. The crowd gave him a good-natured cheer. They admired courage, and fresh blood was always welcome. His name was Auric Skye, and he wanted to become a bodyguard for the Lord of Clan Chojiro. But since that was one of the top jobs in the bodyguard market, the only way to jump to the top of the queue was by committing some great act of courage and skill. Auric had chosen to challenge the Masked Gladiator. He didn't necessarily expect to win, but if he put up a good enough fight, the crowd would very likely turn their thumbs up for him, and he would become one of the very few people who'd fought the Masked Gladiator and survived. Clan Chojiro would come looking for him, then.

And besides, he might win. He had an ace up his sleeve, and everywhere else, too.

Skye was young, extremely muscular, and almost offensively blond and handsome. Like the champion, he was armed only with a sword. Clan Chojiro were somewhat old-fashioned in that they didn't approve of clones or espers or any other deviants from the human norm, but they had no objections to the gifts of technology. In this case, Skye was known to have had steel plates inserted under his skin to cover all his vulnerable areas and steel webbing everywhere else. A kind of internal armor, with no weak spots. The weight slowed him down, but he had ways of dealing with that. The Masked Gladiator had never fought such an opponent before. Even so, hardly anyone was betting against him.

Skye advanced on the champion, who bowed courteously to him. Skye broke into a lumbering run, his sword stretched out before him. His weight left deep footprints in the sand, but still his movements were eerily fluid, and he covered the intervening distance surprisingly quickly. The champion smiled inside his helm. Whatever body shop had provided Skye with his exceptional muscles had done an excellent job. The Masked Gladiator stepped forward suddenly, catching Skye by surprise, and swung Morgana round in a whistling arc. Skye couldn't get his sword up in time, and the double-handed blow slammed into the side of his neck. The blow would have decapitated anyone else, but Skye just stood there and took it.

He grunted softly at the impact and lurched one step to one side, but he had his balance back in a moment, and his free hand shot up to grab Morgana's blade. His bare hand closed on the steel like a vice, and the Gladiator had to use all his strength to pull the blade free. It emerged jerkily from Skye's fist, the sharp edges slicing through the skin only to grate against the steel webbing beneath it. Skye grinned quickly, ignoring the pain and the blood from his hand and neck, and brought his own sword up in a dazzlingly swift thrust at the Gladiator's gut. The champion blocked the blow as though he'd known it was coming, but had to fall back a step to do so. Skye pressed forward, and the Gladiator backed away. The crowd couldn't believe it.

The champion quickly turned the retreat into a circular motion, and the two men circled each other, looking for an opening. Skye charged forward, and the two swords rang loudly as they slammed together again and again. Skye had the advantage in weight and strength, but the champion had the edge in skill. Again and again he turned aside blows that seemed unstoppable, but try as he might, he was unable to mount a counterattack. Skye wouldn't allow him the time or the space, pressing home his attacks with unflagging energy. The champion doubted Skye could maintain the attack for long, but then, he probably wouldn't have to. The Gladiator only had to make one mistake, and the match would be over.

Unfortunately for Skye, the Gladiator didn't believe in making mistakes. Choosing his moment carefully, he stepped inside Skye's blows and launched a blistering attack. Morgana seemed to fly at Skye from every direction at once. He blocked most of the blows, but some got through. Morgana cut him again and again, but to the crowd's loud astonishment, he didn't go down. Wherever Morgana pierced flesh, it found only steel plates or webbing. Hardly any blood flowed, and Skye's face never flinched once. He and pain had become old friends in the process that had given him his internal armor. And then the Gladiator was just a little too slow in pulling back from a lunge, and Skye's spare hand shot out inhumanly quickly and closed on the champion's arm. Muscles bulged, and Skye threw the Masked Gladiator thirty feet across the Arena.

He landed hard and rolled quite a way, but was back on his feet in a moment. Behind the featureless steel helm he could have been panting or scowling or grimacing with pain, but his stance was firm and his sword arm was steady. Skye lurched into a run again, building momentum like a runaway truck. The Gladiator shook himself once, as though to settle himself, and then lifted Morgana and waited for his opponent to come to him. The crowd were going wild at the prospect of finally seeing their champion beaten, humbled, perhaps even killed. They screamed warnings and advice and encouragement to both fighters, standing on their seats for a better view, and there was a flurry of last-minute betting as people changed their minds.

The Gladiator stood his ground. He could run, but that wasn't his style. He could surrender and beg for mercy, but he didn't do that, either. He hefted Morgana angrily: a good sword, the best he'd ever known, but helpless against implanted steel armor. And then a thought came to him, and he smiled inside his featureless steel helm. Skye was almost upon him, sword pulling back for the killing thrust. The Masked Gladiator stepped forward in a perfect lunge, and the tip of his sword leapt out and plunged through Skye's left eyeball and on into his brain: the only part of him that hadn't been protected.

For a long moment Auric Skye just stood there, transfixed on the champion's sword, and then the Masked Gladiator pulled Morgana free, and Skye collapsed as though that was all that had been holding him up. He fell heavily and lay still, and the Gladiator saluted him once with Morgana before turning away. The crowd was beside itself, cheering till their throats were raw, pounding their hands together till they ached, even those who'd been foolish enough to bet on Skye. The Masked Gladiator walked back to the main gates, one hand raised to acknowledge the crowd. And Auric Skye, who'd given up part of his humanity in his quest to become a bodyguard for Clan Chojiro, lay broken and forgotten on the bloody sands.

In the Wolfe private box, Jacob turned triumphantly to his Family. "Now that is a real fighter. Strong, smart, committed. Find a weakness and exploit it. You could all learn a lesson from a man like that."

His Family murmured politely in reply, but kept their thoughts to themselves. Everyone in Clan Wolfe knew all about finding and taking advantage of other people's weaknesses while guarding their own. It was what kept them alive from day to day. Daniel pictured himself in the featureless steel helm, standing haughtily over a number of dying bodies, not least Valentine and his father. Stephanie considered a rumor that was never more than a whisper: that underneath the steel helm lay the face of a woman, not a man. She smiled at the thought, and many were the faces of those who lay broken at her feet. Jacob tried for the hundredth time to come up with some plan, legal or illegal, that would win the Masked Gladiator's allegiance. Constance hugged the Wolfe's arm tightly and plotted marriages for her stepchildren, so that they would leave and allow her uninterrupted access to the Wolfe. And Valentine considered the many deaths he'd caused that day, and smiled and smiled and smiled.