Deathstalker

Fashion, Paranoia and Elves

The Imperial Palace lay deep in the rotten heart of Golgotha, homeworld of the Empire: the concentration of power, and of destiny. It lay hidden away, far below the surface, drawing its power from a geothermal tap; sunk so deep even a scorching by the entire Fleet couldn't touch it. Up above, the delicate towers and pastel cities of the elite, the noble and the moneyed. Down below, like a cancer in a rose, a massive steel bunker a mile and a half wide, the home and fortress of Her Imperial Majesty, Lionstone XIV. And within that bunker, behind the many layers of cutting-edge technology, a court of gleaming steel and brass where the whole Empire came to pay homage to its ruler. The personification of honor and duty, law and justice, whose whisper was louder than thunder, and more far reaching.

Lionstone XIV, the perfect and divine, the worshipped and adored. Also known as the Iron Bitch.

Her private chambers comprised the heart of the bunker, surrounded by layers of guards and protection, some of which never slept. The Empress had many enemies, and she liked it that way. Love passed and honor changed, but fear remained constant. Lionstone was the latest in a long line of rulers, and she had no intention of being the last. Her private chambers, where she only had to be herself, were bedecked with silks and flowers of a hundred vivid hues from a hundred different worlds. The air was perfumed with subtle and gorgeous scents that were also quite deadly, unless you'd been immunized to them.

In the midst of it all, Lionstone sat at her toilet before a full-length mirror, attended by her surgically-altered maids in waiting. They moved about her with silent grace, like so many butterflies, dressing her in the armor and furs necessary for a formal appearance at court. Lionstone scowled at her reflection in the mirror. She had power over many things, but tradition wasn't one of them. So she suffered her maids to wrap her in the colors and robes of office, hitting and slapping the young women when they got in the way or as the mood took her, and studied her perfect face in the mirror.

Lionstone XFV was tall and slender, towering over her maids by a good head and more. Her face was fashionably pale, but with none of the usual splashes of color that fashion dictated. She had little taste, and less discrimination, and didn't give a damn. She had no time for the wild colors and wilder trappings that engaged the attention of so many of her court, or anything else that might distract from the impact of who she was. She had long, sharp-edged features, with a wide slash of a mouth and brilliant blue eyes, topped by masses of pale blond hair piled up on top of her head. Her back was straight, her head erect, and her gaze could chill at a hundred yards. She was beautiful. Everyone said so.

Her maids fluttered around her, adjusting a fold here and a hem there. Their hands were always moving, their touch gentle but sure. Lionstone trusted them completely; she oversaw the conditioning of each new subject before they were allowed to join the other maids. She never spoke with them, either in conversation or to enquire their opinion. They had nothing to say. Lionstone had had their tongues cut out, so they couldn't talk about her. She'd also had them blinded and deafened, and now they knew the world only through cybernetic senses. It wasn't fit or safe that anyone should have direct knowledge of Her Majesty in her most private and defenseless moments, so Lionstone's maids-in-waiting were deprived of the senses nature gave them in return for more perfect and controllable artificial systems.

It was supposed to be a great honor to serve the Empress in person, and there was a long list of applicants, from the highest to the lowest in the land, but Lionstone would have none of them. To their private relief. Her maids had always been rebels or debtors or outlaws. Or perhaps just someone who had fallen from favor. The Empress had them mind-burned and reprogrammed, and those who had once dared defy her now served as her most devoted slaves. The thought never ceased to amuse her.

She'd done other things to them, too, but no one ever talked of that. Or at least, not when someone might be listening.

Lionstone tapped her long-nailed fingers impatiently on the arms of her chair as her maids-in-waiting put the last touches to her appearance. She held herself immobile till the tall spiky crown cut from a single diamond had been lowered respectfully onto her head, and then she surged to her feet, scattering the maids with a wave of her arm. She studied herself in the mirror, and the reflection nodded approvingly back. The body armor fitted her snugly from throat to toe, dully gleaming where it wasn't disguised by thick luxurious furs from the inner worlds. Only her face remained bare, as tradition demanded. In an age of clones and other duplicates, the Empire liked to be sure exactly who was ruling them.

There were other safeguards and protections built into her armor, and she ran quickly through a warm-up checklist as her personal computer implant flashed it up before her eyes. Everything checked out, not that she'd had any doubts, and she allowed herself one last glance at the mirror before striding out of her boudoir, leaving her maids to hurry after her. They quickly caught up with her and fell into their usual protective shield about her, their cybernetic systems constantly on the alert for any threat or sign of disrespect. They were her bodyguards as well as her attendants, and waking or sleeping they never left her side.

Outside her boudoir, a crowd of people filled the corridor, desperate as always for her attention. Clerks, military attaches, lobbyists of all creeds and persuasions, all wanting answers and decisions for things that could not go forward without the Imperial nod. They swarmed around her in a babble of voices as Lionstone strode down the corridor. The maids kept them from getting too close. No matter how desperate the importuners were, they all had enough sense not to upset the maids. The Empress seemed to be ignoring the crush, but every now and then she'd pick a face out of the crowd and snap yes or no or later. Anything really important would come through the proper channels, but the proper channels could be… diverted, one way or the other, by someone with enough credit or influence. Lionstone believed in being up to the moment.

They finally reached the private elevator at the end of the corridor, and Lionstone waved the crowd away. Most of them fell back immediately; the few who didn't react quickly enough almost fell over themselves backing away as the maids turned their unwavering gaze on them. Lionstone glared at the closed elevator doors as she waited for it to arrive. She was on the verge of being late for her own audience, and that would never do. No one would say anything, of course; if she chose to be late, that was her business, and no one would have the temerity to disapprove. But the word would start quietly in certain quarters that just possibly the Empress was slipping, growing lax, and the kind of people who had assassins on their payroll would lick their lips in anticipation.

A delicate chime interrupted her thoughts as the elevator arrived and the doors slid open. The maids checked it out with their augmented senses, decided reluctantly that it hadn't been tampered with, and allowed the Empress to join them inside the elevator. The doors slid shut on the bowing heads of the crowd in the corridor, and the elevator rose rapidly from the heart of the bunker to the outer levels where court business was transacted. Lionstone XIV smiled slowly, and if the courtiers waiting for her to arrive could have seen that smile, they would have found sudden pressing reasons to he somewhere else that day.

The only way to reach the court chambers from anywhere else on Golgotha was by underground trains controlled directly by palace computers. The trains were prompt, comfortable and guaranteed accident free, but still no one liked using them. People of importance were not used to or happy about giving up control over their personal security, but in this, as in so many other things where the Empress was concerned, they had no choice. Her security came first. Always. As a result, everyone setting foot in a palace-controlled train did so knowing that they were literally putting their lives in the Empress' hands. Lionstone sometimes used the trains as a simple means of dealing with those who had gained her displeasure. At a silent command from the palace computers, the train would stop, the doors would lock, steel shutters would slide over the windows and a lethal gas would fill the carriage from end to end. The gas jets weren't even hidden.

The Lord Jacob Wolfe glowered at the jets, and then looked away. They were old news, and he had more pressing concerns on his mind. The Empress" summons to court had been abrupt and uninformative, even for her, with barely an hour's warning, which meant that whatever had caught her attention was urgent as well as important. It could be that she'd found another traitor, someone sufficiently high up that she wanted the whole court present while she interrogated and executed him as a message to any who might be wavering. Lionstone was a great believer in making examples and putting her point forcefully. And there were always traitors. Some days attending court was like playing Russian roulette when you didn't know how many bullets were left in the gun.

Besides, if it had been anyone important, he'd have heard something before now. The Wolfe had good contacts at all levels. Every Lord did, if they wanted to stay a Lord.

It wasn't necessary to attend court in person; you could always send your holo image. Current technology allowed the elite complete access to all that was happening, with no risk that some of it might happen to you. However, by tradition and law, only those who attended in person would be heard by the Empress. So if you wanted your voice to count, you had to be there. Besides, for someone to appear only as a holo as court was a risk in itself. Lionstone might choose to interpret that as a personal insult, that the Lord didn't trust his Empress to ensure his safety. It didn't do to give the Empress ideas. She had far too many of them as it was. Which was why the Wolfe and his son Valentine were sitting alone in their carriage, without weapon or bodyguard, on their way to court to hear something they probably wouldn't want to know anyway.

Jacob Wolfe was a great bull of a man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest that wouldn't have looked out of place on a professional gladiator. He wore his hair cropped close to his skull, maintained his face as that of a man in his forties, and ignored all fashions as they came and went. His jaw jutted always forward, as though daring anyone to comment. His eyes were dark and piercing, and it was a point of honor to him that he never looked away first. He had hands like mauls, large and blocky, curled most often into fists, and his voice was a growl. The Wolfe had put a lot of time and thought into the image he projected, and he was quietly pleased with the result. It let people know right from the start that he was not a man to be trifled with.

The Wolfe was a hundred and three years old, but thanks to Imperial science, the young man sitting opposite him could easily have been mistaken for his brother rather than his son. Even so, a stranger would have found it hard to detect any Family resemblance between them. Valentine Wolfe was tall, slender and darkly delicate, like a hothouse flower rudely torn from its usual habitat. His face was long and thin and more than fashionably pale, and his shock of jet black hair fell to his shoulders in curls and ringlets. Heavy mascara highlighted his overbright eyes, and a painted crimson smile hid his feelings from one and all. He had an artist's hands, all long slender fingers and languorous gestures, and they fluttered about his throat in moments of excitement like startled doves in the night.

Valentine Wolfe was well known in and out of court for having tried every drug known to man, and a few he'd had made up specially. If you could smoke it, sniff it or stick it where the sun doesn't shine, he'd tried it all once, and twice if he enjoyed it, which he usually did. It was truly said he'd never met a chemical he didn't like. It was a wonder to all who knew him that he hadn't fried his brains long ago, but by some dark chemical miracle, his mind remained sharp and dangerous. He had the usual enemies for a man in his position and looked like he would outlive them all. And though he chose not to play the game of intrigue himself, he could still be a subtle and malevolent influence on those who did. Valentine might be a hothouse flower, but his thorns were poisonous. He produced a tab from a silver pillbox and pressed it against the side of his neck, over the main vein. His painted smile widened like a scarlet wound. His father sniffed disapprovingly.

"Do you have to do that now? We'll be at court soon, and we're both going to need all our wits about us."

"It's just a little something to take the edge off, Father." Valentine's voice was calm and polite, and only a trifle dreamy. "Rest assured that all my many resources are at your disposal. If I was any more alert, my synapses would be going into meltdown. Why do you suppose Her Imperial Majesty, long may she reign, desires our company this time?"

"Who knows why the Iron Bitch does anything these days? I've spent more time traveling back and forth in these damned death traps this last week than I'd normally expect in a month. She's not following any of her usual patterns, and all my usual sources have either disappeared into the woodwork or developed unexpected scruples. I've been paying the little turds good money for years, and just when I really need them they fold on me. Assuming I make it back from court in one fairly large piece, heads are going to roll, boy, and I am not being metaphorical. She's planning something, something she knows the Company of Lords won't approve of, so she's doing all this just to keep us distracted and separated. It's a smokescreen, sleight of hand, but hiding what? Pay attention, boy! One of these days, loath though I am to admit it, you're going to have to take over from me as head of the Family, and I won't have it said I didn't do everything in my power to ready you for that."

"Far away may that time be. Father," said Valentine, and only a careful ear might have detected a note of sarcasm in his voice. "You do so much for me, and I never appreciate it. I have a few trifles about me that are said to boost the intellect and liberate the mind. Would you care to try a little something?"

"No, I would not. I've never needed drugs to be smart. Show me how smart you are. Why do you think the Bitch wants to see us this time?"

Valentine drew a flower from his sleeve. It had a long stem bristling with thorns, and its thick pulpy petals were black as night. He sniffed the flower appreciatively, then took one petal between his perfect teeth and pulled it free. He ate the petal slowly, savoring the juices.

"The Empress has been most disturbed of late, ever since news came in of two newly discovered alien species outside the Empire with technologies at least the equal of our own. One would have been enough as a potential threat, but the prospect of two such species seems to have practically unhinged the poor dear. Then there's the cyberats, playing their disruptive little games in our computers, the clone underground spreading its proclamations everywhere you look, and let us not forget the elves, bless their black little hearts. The elves have been growing increasingly arrogant, not to mention successful, in their attacks of late. And of course there are always the endless court intrigues, with their plots and schemes and intricate designs. Some days at court you don't dare cough or scratch your ear for fear someone will take it as a sign to start something violent. Still, you don't need me to tell you that, Father."

The Wolfe smiled briefly. It was not a pretty sight. "So, you have been paying attention, at least. They're all good answers, but which one would you pick? Where does the real danger lie for the Empress and for us?"

Valentine Wolfe ate another black petal, chewing thoughtfully. Bright spots of color glowed on his pale cheeks like badly applied rouge, and his dark eyes saw many things. "The aliens are too distant a threat to be worrying our dear Majesty yet. Perhaps we should just introduce the aliens to each other and then stand well back while they fight it out. The cyberats are too few and far between to be anything but a nuisance, and the clone underground lacks the funding necessary to emerge as & real political force. And the elves have been surprisingly quiet these past few days. Obviously that won't last, but I would have to say they've done nothing outrageous enough just recently to justify our dear Majesty's abrupt summons. No, I fear it's more simple than that. Dear Lionstone has caught someone of standing with his pants down or his hand in the till, and she wants us to watch and take notes while she has something extremely unpleasant and instructive done to him. La belle dame sans merci. Our Lady of Pain. The Iron Bitch."

Jacob Wolfe nodded slowly and flexed his great muscles. "Good. That's more like it. One of us is going to get the chop, and she wants us there to witness it and be reminded where the real power at court lies. Nothing new there, except that for once, I don't have a clue as to who it might be. And that is strange. There's usually some whisper going round where my agents can overhear it. So watch yourself when we get to court, boy. Keep your mouth shut and your veins clear, and take your lead from me."

"Of course, Father." Valentine finished the last petal and began to chew slowly at the stem, ignoring the thorns. A thin trickle of saliva mixed with blood ran down his chin as he smiled, and Jacob Wolfe looked away.

* * *

The antechamber to the Imperial Court was grand enough in its own right to put any other court to shame. A huge open chamber of gleaming steel and brass, it stretched away in every direction for as far as the eye could comfortably see, the vista broken here and there by tall intricately worked pillars of gold and silver, set at regular intervals as much for the effect as anything else. And still the packed crowd filled the antechamber from wall to distant wall. Everyone who was anyone, or thought they might be, came to court when the Empress held audience to shake the hand of those in favor or snub those who weren't, to make Family agreements or business deals, or just to be seen at court by the billions watching on their holoscreens throughout the Empire. Food and drink of all kinds were freely available from bewigged servants, but few availed themselves. Waiting to see the Empress, and discover what mood she was in this time, didn't exactly encourage the appetite. Besides, Lionstone had a nasty sense of humor, and it sometimes emerged in the food.

All the Families were there, the cream of the aristocracy, carefully keeping a respectful distance between themselves and sworn enemies, or simply those of discernably lower status. Every Clan had a feud going on with at least one other Clan. It was expected. Holograms stood to one side, nodding politely to each other, given away by the occasional faint shimmering as some security field interrupted the signal for a moment. Forbidden by law and custom from speaking or drawing attention to themselves, they drifted among the gorgeous lords and ladies like ghosts at the feast.

The Families conversed quietly as they waited, searching for support or oneupmanship or simply the latest gossip. Knowledge was power in Lionstone's court, even if it was only foreknowledge of which way to duck. Everyone suspected everyone else of being the prospective victim of the coming court's proceedings, and veiled eyes looked this way and that for signs of weakness, like vultures hovering over a dying man. No one said anything openly, of course. It wasn't done.

Heavily armed guards stood here and there, ostentatious in their scarlet armour and visored faces. No one paid them any attention. The Families knew that they were being watched, and that the guards were only the most obvious part of it. Mostly they were just there to insure the peace among feuding clans. None of the families were allowed bodyguards or weapons of any kind, but when words grew heated, blows often followed. And then the guards would move in and restore order with savage gusto. It wasn't often a low-born guard got the chance to manhandle a lord, and they intended to make the most of it. So the guards watched and waited, and the Wolfes kept away from the Campbells, who kept away from the Shrecks, and so on and so on. Open violence was so gauche, after all.

Lord Crawford Campbell, head of his Clan, moved slowly among the Families with bright eyes and a wide smile, like a shark maneuvering in a shoal of lesser fish. He was less than average height and more than average weight, and didn't give a damn. The Campbells always maintained that the greatness of a man could be seen in the breadth of his appetites, and Crawford Campbell was well known for his many indulgences. He was well over a hundred, but modern science kept his face as full and unmarked as a child's. None of which did anything to blunt the man's intellect, which remained razor-sharp and just as dangerous. The Campbells were in favor at court for the moment, not least because the Campbell had sacrificed so many others who stood in his way. Not that anyone could prove anything, of course. The customs and protocols had to be observed. People nodded respectfully to the Campbell as he passed, and gave him plenty of room. He took it as his due. And if sometimes a lesser Lord or Lady showed a different face to his back, Crawford Campbell never gave a damn. He didn't have to.

Drifting at his side or in his wake like a multicolored bird of paradise was Crawford's eldest son and heir, Finlay Campbell, dressed as always in the brightest silks and graces current styles allowed. Tall and graceful and fashionable to the moment, from his polished thighboots to his velvet cap, Finlay glided among the lords and ladies with a smile and a nod and a polite murmur, allowing himself to be seen by as many as possible. He might have been handsome beneath the cosmetics that made a mask of his face, but it was almost impossible to tell. The current mode called for fluorescent skin that glowed a shimmering silver and shoulder-length metallic hair, every strand individually coated with whatever metals were currently in favor. He wore a cutaway frock coat that showed off his exquisite figure, and a pair of pince-nez spectacles he didn't need, and every pose he struck was the epitome of grace and style.

Finlay Campbell was a dandy and a fop, and though he wore a sword on all occasions when fashion demanded it, he had never been known to draw it in anger. No one ever drew on him, of course, because he was a Campbell, after all, and you could never be sure with them…

His father had given up disowning him because it didn't work, but made no secret of the contempt he held for the fancy poet who had somehow sprung from his manly loins. Even so, no one ever intrigued against Finlay. The Campbell was deadly enough for both of them and would brook no insult to the Family name.

Crawford Campbell worked the crowd with ease, nodding to those in his favor or the Empress', and cutting dead everyone else with glorious scorn. Though his movements seemed random, he was in fact quartering the chamber with military precision, making sure he saw everyone who mattered and marking their face and position in his memory. It was important to know who had come to court, and who had not, or sent a holo in their place. Knowledge was everything in the cut and thrust politics of Lionstone's court. The Campbell approved, when he thought about it. A certain genteel savagery helped to weed out the weak and the timid. His gaze suddenly lightened as it fell upon a familiar but uncommon face, and he strode briskly through the crowd, giving people just enough time to get out of his way if they were quick.

"Summerlsle, my dear fellow," he said finally, an unusual warmth forcing its way past his usual growl. "A pleasure to see you, as always. What brings you to court?"

Lord Roderik Summerlsle bowed formally in return. Against the current fashion, he showed his true age in his lined face and thick white hair, though his back was still straight and he held his head high. The Summerlsle disapproved of the current court almost as much as it disapproved of him, and he was rarely seen in public. He dressed in the formal style of the previous Emperor, even though it was forbidden, and kept dangerous company. No one ever said anything. The Summerlsle had been a master duelist in his day, and no one was at all sure that day was over. He smiled at the Campbell almost reluctantly and took the proffered hand.

"Campbell, looking as disreputable as ever, I see. Still in favor? Of course, silly question. It's been years since I last found it necessary to attend court, but some things never change. Virtue still goes unrewarded, and the scum still rises to the top."

Campbell grinned. "You never did approve of me, Summerlsle. Lucky we're friends, or we'd have killed each other years ago."

"Oh, I doubt it," said the Summerlsle solemnly. "You were never that good with a sword."

Campbell produced a sudden bark of laughter, and people who'd been edging closer to eavesdrop quickly moved away again. It was said by many and believed by most that the Campbell's sense of humor was more dangerous than his rage. Campbell and Summerlsle had been rivals since they were born, and down the long years had been surprised to find it was easier to like an enemy they admired than an ally who had to be supported for Family reasons. The Vogue and the honest man, friends despite themselves, bound as tightly as only opposites can be. Campbell fixed Summerlsle with a thoughtful stare and moved a little closer.

"What does bring you here, after all these years? I thought you'd decided politics were for the lower orders, like myself."

"My opinion of this court has not changed one iota. You are the living proof, Campbell. How many better men have you trampled underfoot to reach your present position?"

"I stopped counting. It was starting to make me big-headed."

Summerlsle shook his head slowly. "You are everything I despise in this court, and I am everything you've sought to stamp out in your long career of murder and double-dealing. What do we have in common?"

Campbell let fly with his sudden bark of laughter again. "Dead enemies, mostly. We've survived because we've outlived everyone who tried to kill us. We've seen Emperors come and go, and the Empire spread a hundredfold. Political parties rise and fall, businesses bloom and wither, but we go on, matchless and unstoppable. Who else could we talk to, who've seen what we've seen, fought as we have fought? Personally, I like you because you don't take any shit from anyone. Especially me. As for you, you value the truth where you hear it, even if you don't like what it's telling you. You know where you are with me, Rod."

Summerlsle smiled briefly. "You always did talk too much, Crawford. How are your sons?"

"A pain in the ass, as always. All married off at last and producing grandchildren, but otherwise no bloody use at all. I swear Finlay is trying to achieve suicide or martyrdom through sheer excess of fashion. Sometimes I wish he would, just so he'd stop embarrassing me. If he wasn't my eldest, I'd have him smothered in his sleep. There were six others ahead of him, good boys all, but they all died from duels or treachery or politics of some kind. They're gone, and I'm left with Finlay as heir. If the genetest hadn't proved he was mine, I'd swear his mother stepped out on me. And the others are worse, if you can believe that. My blood must have been running thin when I fathered that batch. At least Finlay has a mind of his own, even if he doesn't use it much."

Campbell stopped and looked unhappily at Summerlsle. His voice became low and gruff. "I heard about your son's death. He should never have fought that duel. He didn't stand a chance."

"No," said Summerlsle. "He didn't. But he had no choice. Honor demanded it."

"You haven't answered my question yet," said Campbell, changing the subject with as near to tact as he ever got. "What has brought you back to court after all your years of self-imposed exile?"

"Her Majesty summoned me with a personal note in her own handwriting. Said she had someone she wanted me to meet. How could I say no?"

"I would have. When Lionstone starts taking a personal interest in you, it's time to change your name and head for the Rim." Campbell scowled thoughtfully. "What does the Iron Bitch want with you?"

"She didn't say. Just that my presence was required at this audience. It doesn't matter. My wife is dead, and all my sons. All I have left is my grandson, Kit, and we… don't get on. And I'm too old to be frightened. So here I am, a loyal subject of Her Majesty."

Campbell's loud bark of laughter turned a few heads, but only briefly. The space around him and Summerlsle was growing. "Your loyalty has always been to the throne, not whoever happened to be sitting on it I don't think you've had a good word to say about Lionstone since she stabbed her nanny when she was six."

"Oh, I don't know," said the Summerlsle. "I've got a very good word for Lionstone. Only I'm too much of a gentleman to use it." He waited patiently for Campbell's laughter to subside. "Her father was a hard man to love, if not to follow, but I never doubted he had the well-being of the Empire at heart. Lionstone cares for nothing and no one save herself. She's a spoiled brat, and always has been. Which is not exactly unusual in royal stock, but bearable when diluted with some sense of duty. We've seen many royal backsides on the Imperial throne, Crawford, but I honestly fear for the Empire under Lionstone XIV."

"Get out of here, Rod," said Campbell quietly. "Whatever the Iron Bitch has to say to you, I don't think either of us wants to hear it. Nothing good will come of it. Leave now, while you still can."

"Where would I go?" said Summerlsle calmly. "Where could I go where Her Majesty's hounds wouldn't drag me down sooner or later? I never ran from an enemy before, and I'm not about to start now. She's brought me here to kill me. I know that. But I will end my days with dignity, as a loyal subject before his monarch, even if that monarch is not worthy of that loyalty."

"Very pretty," snarled Campbell. "It'll look great on your tombstone. Why make it easy for her?"

"It's called duty, Crawford. You must have heard of it. When honor calls, a man must make his stand, if he is a man."

"As you wish, Summerlsle. Just don't stand too close to me while you're doing it."

They shared a brief smile and then looked round sharply as the great double doors swung smoothly open, the massive slabs of beaten steel gliding back as though they weighed nothing. A long fanfare rang out, silencing the chatter of the courtiers, and bright light spilled out from the great courtroom of Lionstone XIV. The courtiers moved toward it in fits and starts, like moths drawn to a flame.

First went the Company of Lords, all those of the first hundred Families of the Empire, those who ruled planets or companies or armies by right of succession in the Empress' name. The highest of the high, most noble and acclaimed of Her Majesty's subjects. In theory, at least. They strode into the great courtroom, looking neither left nor right, their heads high. Secretly they felt naked without their usual retinues of bodyguards, advisors and sycophants, but a Lord came alone to meet his Empress, without even a sword on his hip. It was a sign of trust and respect Not to mention Imperial paranoia.

And after diem came the two hundred and fifty Members of Her Majesty's Parliament. They represented the economic forces in the Empire, the power and influence of the mighty credit. Only those with a high enough income were allowed to vote, of course. Unless one was of noble birth, Parliament was the only way to gain access to the inner circles of Government. A Member of Parliament might be obliged to bow to a lord if they met in the street, but in an audience with the Empress, their voices were equal. If the Members were ever to act in unison, they could have brought the Company of Lords to heel like so many unruly dogs, but the Parliament was split into several opposing factions, and the Lords took care to keep it split through quiet patronage and the occasional large bribe. Of late, Parliament had been increasingly disturbed over the threat of higher taxes to pay for the expansion of the Imperial Fleet to face the possible threat from the two newly discovered alien species.

In theory, the Empress was bound by law and custom to abide by whatever decisions Parliament and the Company of Lords could bring themselves to agree on. In practice, the Empress would listen, when she was in the mood, and then make up her own mind. Lionstone had the backing of the Army and the Fleet, and as long as she did, no one could make her do a damn thing she didn't want to. Which was why the prospect of an enlarged and more powerful Fleet was causing a lot of sweaty hands and sleepless nights among Parliament and the Lords. Some Members had been heard to say they didn't believe in the new aliens, but as yet no one was prepared to say that in public, let alone at court.

But, on the other hand, Lionstone's position was not as powerful as it had once been. A great many younger sons of the aristocracy, unable to inherit a title, had ended up making careers for themselves in the Army and the Fleet. And as they advanced in rank, so their influence grew, so mat the Army and the Fleet were no longer the unquestioning servants they had once been.

All of which meant that the political structure at court was one of complete chaos, over which the Empress presided through canny politicking and sheer force of personality.

After the Members of Parliament came the bulk of the crowd: Family members, political hangers-on, businessmen and officers, and anyone else who could bribe, beg or steal an invitation. The imperial court was the political and social hub around which the Empire resolved, and everyone wanted to be there, or to be seen to be there. You weren't anybody if you weren't seen at court.

And finally, right at the back, in hard-worn clothes, with hard-worn faces, came the ten commoners who'd won the Imperial lottery that year. They had won the right to visit the court and petition the Empress in person for her aid or charity or justice. Of course, actually raising your voice at court was a risky business. A commoner had no friends there, and sometimes it was better if the Empress didn't notice you. Her sense of justice was whimsical at best, though occasionally she might rule in favor of a commoner just to upset some noble with whom she was displeased. On the whole, lottery winners tended just to enjoy the occasion. Some spent the whole year at court and never did ask their question.

The court itself was a swamp, this time. Thick curls of mist hung on the humid air between gnarled and twisted trees, and everywhere was at least ankle-deep in dark, smelly water. Knotted vines hung down from lowering branches to trail in the water, and the air was thick with flies and other insects. The courtiers splashed doggedly on through the swamp, keeping a wary eye open for crocodiles or other unpleasantnesses that might be lurking in the deepening muddy water. Just because it wasn't a real swamp didn't mean there weren't real dangers to be found in it.

Most of it was holograms with just enough physical reality here and there to make it authentically uncomfortable. Lionstone liked to keep her court interesting, and her tastes were both devious and wide-ranging. In the past, she'd turned her court into a desert, an arctic waste, and an inner city slum. That one had been really dangerous, and everyone had suffered from fleas afterward. The desert had been the most sneaky. Sand everywhere, and air so hot you could hardly breathe it And just to liven things up a little, Lionstone had had tiny metal scorpions hidden in the sand; nasty little copper devices with neurotoxins in their stingers. A minor Lord had been at death's door for a week, and Lionstone still got the giggles when she thought about it.

The courtiers slogged on, muttering darkly, their mood not helped by the knowledge that the whole Empire was watching them suffer. Every planet, no mater how poor or how far flung, had access to the workings of the court thanks to the artfully concealed holocameras. The Lords and the Members swore every year that they were going to put a stop to the ancient custom, but somehow they never did. No one could resist the thought of so large a watching audience.

Every now and again, a gleaming silver statue would appear out of the mists, fashioned to show the form of one of the many alien species that had been brought into the Empire and taught their place. There were a hell of a lot of them. No one knew exactly how many. No one really cared. Some of the statues had actually outlasted the species they represented. There weren't many who cared about that, either. It was, after all, first and foremost a human Empire. Some of the older courtiers leaned on the statues to get their breath back, after first checking for booby traps.

The Empress sat casually on a great throne of black iron and gleaming jade, set just high enough to keep her feet out of the water. She looked perfectly at ease, even though the throne had obviously been designed for someone rather larger. The mists curled away from where she sat, calm and comfortable in her own little circle of cool air. She looked cold and regal and perfect in her royal robes and diamond crown, every inch an Empress. Her maids-in-waiting crouched naked in the muddy waters at the base of the throne, like so many hunting dogs straining at unseen leashes.

The courtiers slowly assembled before the throne, careful to maintain a respectful and safe distance, and bowed to their Empress. She looked down at the hundreds of bowed heads and yawned. The courtiers stayed bent over, hot and sweating, waiting to be released. Once she'd kept them there for an hour. She finally gave a signal with a bored wave of her hand. A fanfare sounded, and the courtiers straightened up with some surreptitious massaging of the back here and there. No one was stupid enough to say anything. One look at the maids-in-waiting was enough to put the thought out of anyone's mind. Their faces were blank, inhuman, and their artificial eyes had the direct, unblinking gaze of insects.

They watched the courtiers with unwavering concentration, and now and then metal claws eased out from under their fingernails, ready for use.

A muffled cry sounded among the Company of Lords, as Lord Gregor Shreck stared in open horror at one of the maids. He started to move forward, and the maids tensed. Shreck's Family quickly closed in around him, holding him in place and muttering earnestly in his ears. Finally he had enough sense to look away, though his hands and his mouth still trembled with impotent rage and sorrow. A quiet murmur ran through the court as they realized that the rumor had been true after all. The Shreck's niece had disappeared from her apartments barely a month ago and had not been seen since. No one was surprised. It was increasingly common knowledge that she'd been mixing with the wrong sort of people. There'd been rumors of treason, but then, there always were. And now here she was, her memories and personality stripped away so that her body might serve the Empress' needs as a maid. The Shreck had recognized her, but in the end he said nothing. There was nothing that could be said.

The Empress leaned forward in her throne, and the court became silent. When she spoke, her voice was calm and even and purposeful, carried clearly to every listening ear in the court and far beyond. The courtiers listened respectfully, dabbing with silks at the sweat that ran down their faces. The maids didn't listen. They watched.

"Most loyal subjects, welcome to our court. We trust you find its current aspect amusing. Normally there would now be ceremonies of greeting and respect, but we will pass those by today. We have matters of import to discuss. The Empire faces a threat such as it has never faced before. Not one but two new alien species have been discovered whose technology has achieved comparable levels with our own. They pose a threat to the Empire that is both real and imminent. An attack could come at any time. I have therefore placed our Army and fleet on full alert All reserves will be called up, and all industries shall be placed on a war footing for the duration of the emergency. This will, of course, prove somewhat expensive, and therefore all taxes and tithes have been raised by seven percent, effective immediately."

She stopped and looked about her, as though inviting comment No one was stupid enough to say anything. There was more coining. They could feel it. Lionstone smiled graciously into the silence and continued.

"The news we bring today is not all bad. Our scientists have recently perfected a new form of hyperdrive for our starships, powerful and inexhaustible beyond anything we have ever known before. Mass production will begin shortly, and every ship in our Fleet will be fitted with one."

She waited again, but there was still no response, though thoughts were flying frantically behind a great many impassive faces. If this new drive could do everything the Empress implied it could, it would make all the other drives obsolete. Which would mean, among other things, that the Empress' ships would have an unbeatable advantage over all others. In order to compete, all privately owned ships would have to acquire the new drives, at no doubt exorbitant rates. Another form of indirect taxation. On the other hand, someone was going to acquire the right to mass-produce the drive, and that someone stood to make a hell of a lot of money… It took a moment before the courtiers realized the Empress was speaking again.

"We regret to inform you that the elves have been busy again, spreading pain and destruction throughout our Empire, but our advisors assure us that they pose no real threat. They have limited numbers and little or no access to advanced weaponry. They will be stamped out. Is that not correct, my Lord Dram?"

A man was suddenly standing beside the Empress' throne as the holo that had been hiding him fell away. Tall and dark, in jet-black robes and battle armor, he stood rigidly at parade rest, his stance almost inhumanly perfect. He looked to be in his early thirties, but no one knew how old he really was. He'd appeared apparently out of nowhere some ten years earlier, and guarded his secrets well. He was handsome in an unspectacular way, but his dark eyes and slight smile were utterly cold. He wore an energy gun and a long sword on his hips in the presence of his Empress; the only man in the Empire so entitled. He was the Lord High Dram, Warrior Prime of the Empire.

Elected to that position by popular vote, he held it for life, though Warrior Primes tended not to live all that long. The Empress had bestowed on him control over the military, in all its aspects, and made him personally responsible for her security and safety. The finest fighting man the Empire had ever produced, bloodied in a hundred major actions, he was adored by the commoners, wooed by Parliament, and universally loathed by the Lords for his power and influence with Lionstone. The two of them were supposed to be lovers, but again no one knew for sure. Most of the court found the thought of the Empress having anything to do with something as warm and vulnerable as love frankly ludicrous. It didn't stop a hell of a lot of people trying to find proof one way or the other, so it could be used as leverage.

Dram had made Warrior Prime after personally leading the attack force that destroyed the elves' main headquarters, hidden among the pastel towers in the floating city of New Hope. Dram and his marines had come falling out of the sun on gravity sleds and opened fire the moment they were in range. The fragile towers cracked and shattered as gunfire raked through them, and people ran screaming in the streets. The marines kept firing. The people of New Hope had known what they were doing when they allowed the elves to live among them. Dram had his orders, and taking prisoners wasn't one of them. So the towers fell and people died, and the elves were forced out into the open to fight or die.

They never had a chance. Dram had the numbers and the weapons and the advantage of surprise. Most of the elves were mowed down the moment they showed themselves, and in the end the only ones who survived were those who ran. Dram left the city of New Hope in flames, a burning coal floating in the sky. He brought back the elves' heads so that they could be displayed on spikes, as a lesson for the wise and the virtuous. The people had clapped and cheered whenever Dram made an appearance in public after that. He was the hero of the hour. The people had no use for terrorists, especially those who weren't really human. They made Dram Warrior Prime, and then the Empress took him for her own.

The elves' plans and capabilities had been almost wiped out, and even now, a year later, they were only just beginning to reassert themselves. Everyone was waiting with bated breath for Lionstone to unleash her hound on them again. Dram got results; everyone knew that. What wasn't as widely known was his willingness to sacrifice his own people, if that was what it took to get the job done. A man could make a good career serving under Dram, if he lived long enough. Which was the other reason why Dram was also known as the Widowmaker, though never to his face. The Lord High Dram had fought seventeen duels in the last year, over everything from an open insult to a raised eyebrow at the wrong time, and never even looked like losing any of them. Didn't stop people from trying to kill him, though. The Company of Lords truly hated him, and their pockets had no bottom where Dram's death was concerned.

The rewards for information that could be used against him kept rising, with little practical effect. Dram had no obvious vices and less weaknesses. He seemed completely untouched by the appetites and excesses of the court, had no friends, and his enemies were dead. His voice spoke for the Empress, and its word could not be challenged. Men, women and children were killed openly in his name, for treason and lesser crimes, to discourage others. His last victim of note had been the previous Lord Deathstalker. That death had stopped the Lords plotting for almost a week.

"First order of business," said the Empress, and everyone paid attention. "We will hear from our agents now."

Another man appeared on the opposite side of the throne. Like the Lord High Dram, he had been there all along, hidden behind a concealing hologram, waiting for his cue. The Empress had always had a fondness for the dramatic gesture. The new arrival wore the silver brand of the Empress' personal espers on his brow and was dressed in pale, characterless clothes. Like the maids, he no longer had a mind or personality of his own. The Empress' secret agents and information-gatherers made telepathic contact through the esper's powers, and he then repeated their reports in their own words. The agents remained anonymous, and security remained complete. The esper's face changed suddenly as an invading personality took it over, and the body's whole stance changed, too, becoming casual, even relaxed.

"All right, pay attention because I'm not going to repeat myself. I've worked my way into the heart of the cyberat underground, such as it is. They don't have any formal organization, as far as I can tell. Just a bunch of losers and loners hacking into the computer matrix wherever they can find or force an opening and having as much fun as they can before they get caught.

"Their politics are feeble-minded, and their personalities are inadequate, but unfortunately the threat they pose is all too real and far out of proportion to their numbers. They know computers better than the people who make them. If we stamp out this bunch, others will take their place before you can blink. Makes more sense to keep an eye on the ones we've got; at least we know where to find them if we want them. And just maybe I can keep them on a leash and away from anywhere sensitive.

"That's it, end of report. And while I've got your attention, I'd just like to say that I would very much appreciate being transferred off this job, and as soon as possible. These cyberats are driving me crazy. The sugar-packed junk they eat is doing terrible things to my system, not to mention my teeth, and the conversation is rotting my brain. Away from their computers, these divots aren't exactly social lions, you know."

The esper's face and stance changed again as a different agent reported in. The face seemed suddenly leaner, more aesthetic, the stance that of a man trained in meditation techniques. If he'd looked any more relaxed, he'd have probably floated away.

"Agent Harmony reporting in. My infiltration of the clone underground continues. No one suspects me. They remain suspicious and evasive, but I am making progress. I have as yet discovered no definite aims or planned criminal acts. The underground's politics are largely naive and unfocused, due to the lack of a charismatic leader figure. Should the clone underground acquire such a rallying point, they could become dangerous. As things stand, I have to report that the underground remains a negligible threat to the Empire."

"Yeah, well, that's mostly because you couldn't find your ass in the dark without using both hands and a map," snapped a third voice. The esper was suddenly scowling fiercely, his stance a defiant slouch. "This is Agent Rapunzel, on the Lord Dram's staff. I've been hanging out with the clone underground for three years now, and I'm telling you, these unnatural bastards are potentially the greatest threat the Empire's ever seen. They've got numbers, a rationale, and heavy-level funding and high-tech support from someone high up. And we're talking really high. Don't know who yet, but I'm working on it. In the meantime, these people want civil rights for clones, and they're prepared to do practically anything to get it. All right, they haven't got a charismatic leader yet to pull things together, but the way things are going, it's only a matter of time. Will someone please listen to me! The crunch is coming, and I want out of here!"

"We will speak later," said Dram. "Now give the Empress back her esper."

"Gladly," said the agent. "You wouldn't believe the state of this guy's mind. Doesn't anyone ever clean up around here?"

"Now, Rapunzel."

"No one ever appreciates you in this business," said the agent glumly, and the esper's face became clear and blank again.

The court remained quiet while all this was going on. Clashes between the Empress' private agents and those belonging to the Lord High Dram were common, as both sides fought for the ear of the Empress. Their respective employers encouraged the rivalry to be sure they would continue to hear the things that mattered, whether they wanted to hear them or not. It occasionally came to blows, but as yet they'd stopped short of sabotage, though their clashing over the outlawing of Owen Deathstalker had come damn close. The Empress' agents had wanted it kept quiet, while Dram's agents, for their own as yet inscrutable reasons, had taken it upon themselves to broadcast the news to one and all. The argument was still going on.

Agents lived brief professional lives of stealth and danger, switching identities and even personalities as they strove to dig up information while hiding their true motives in an age where nothing could remain hidden for long. Agents therefore tended to be professional but eccentric, not to mention quick on their toes. They never knew when their cover might be blown and they'd have to leg it for the nearest horizon with a hunting pack snapping at their heels. The Lords and the Members had their own agents, of course. Everyone did who could afford it, and a few who couldn't. Knowledge was power in Lionstone's court, especially if you got it before anyone else.

The Empress looked at Dram, who looked right back at her, and then they both looked back at the court. Whatever disagreements they might have in private, they always presented a unified front in public. A great many people had invested a great deal of money into schemes intended to drive a wedge between them, to no avail. Didn't stop people trying, though. The Empress smiled out over the packed court and an anticipatory ripple spread through the waiting ranks. The Empress was finally getting to the meat of the matter: the reason why so many of Golgotha's movers and shakers had been summoned into the Imperial presence.

"The problems facing our Empire grow more serious with every day that passes. New alien threats, rebel undergrounds and more. Now, more than ever, we must insist on the full support of our subjects. If the Empire were to fall, untold billions would die. Colonists on the outer worlds rely on the Empire for supplies, as the inner worlds rely on them for materials. Even we here on Golgotha, homeworld of the Empire, have become dependent on others. No man can fail to do his best, or the whole system that supports us all would collapse. I therefore have no choice but to call for a ten percent rise in the output of all our industries by the end of the year."

There was a long pause. Ten percent was unheard of. It would mean longer work hours for everyone and cost both lords and members a great deal of money. The members looked at each other. Someone had to say something. After an uncomfortable silence pregnant with unspoken words, the member for Shadegate North cautiously cleared his throat.

"Your Majesty, times are hard for all of us. Credit is scarce, and our resources are not what they were. If we were to attempt the rise in productivity you suggest, I really think the workforce would revolt. We would quite definitely face go-slows, strikes, and even sabotage. Unless, of course, Your Majesty is prepared to provide monies from the Imperial purse to see us through these stormy waters, I fear…"

"Fear," said Lionstone. "You should fear me, Minister. Fear tor the fate of the Empire if our ministers fail us, and fear for yourself if you fail to carry out our commands. If you can't get the job done, we will have you arrested and executed and see if your second-in-command can do any better. Certainly they'll be more strongly motivated to try harder. Is that clear, Minister?"

"Eminently so, Your Majesty. I am sure none of us wish in any way to fail our Empress."

"Oh, some do, Minister. You'd be surprised. Traitors can be found in the most unexpected places. Isn't that right, Lord Summerlsle?"

And everything went very quiet as all heads turned to look at the Summerlsle. People near him drew away slightly, as though his condition might be contagious, and in a moment he was standing all alone in a circle of empty space. Summerlsle looked slowly about him, but didn't seem particularly surprised. He looked back at Lionstone and smiled slightly. His gaze was direct and his head proudly erect, and in that moment he seemed every inch the warrior he'd always been.

"One man's traitor is another man's hero, Your Majesty," he said easily. "Perhaps you had some specific name in mind?"

"Perhaps we did," said the Empress. "You have spoken out against us too many times, Summerlsle, thwarted our will too often."

"I can remember when it was no crime for a man to speak his mind. Of course, that was a long time ago, in your father's day. And many things have changed since then."

Lionstone smiled. "You have displeased us, Summerlsle, because your many words of criticism were aimed not only at ourself, but also at our Empire. Can we rely on you to refrain from such treasonous talk in the future?"

"Don't be silly, Lionstone. I'm too old a dog to learn new tricks, and I wouldn't if I could. I remember you as a child. You were so full of fun when you were younger. If I'd known what you'd grow into… I probably would have let you live anyway. I always was too soft where children were concerned. I'm all that remains of your father's inner circle. The others are all dead. Some at your hand, some not. Just as well. They'd hate to see what you're doing to the Empire they swore to maintain. Under you, honor is a joke and double-dealing is the norm. Justice only for the rich, and death for those who dare to disagree. Thirteen generations of your line built this Empire, Lionstone, only to see it crumble in your iron fist. You are the cancer at the heart of the Empire, the blight on the rose."

There was complete and utter silence in the court. Lionstone had been leaning angrily forward on her throne, but she made herself relax and lean back before she spoke.

"You always did talk too much, old man. You stand condemned by your own words. Let no one say we did not give you a fair chance…"

"Oh, get on with it," said Summerlsle. "I'm to be an example to silence others. I knew that before I came here.

Send forward your pet executioner, and we'll get this show on the road."

He glared defiantly at Dram, but the Widowmaker just stared calmly back, his hands nowhere near his weapons. Lionstone smiled sweetly.

"You're not worthy of the Warrior Prime, Summerlsle. I have a more… appropriate executioner for you."

She nodded to one of her maids, who leapt to her feet, raised her clawed hands above her head and clapped twice. A third man appeared out of nowhere as the concealing hologram blinked out and moved forward through the muddy waters to stand smiling at the Summerlsle. A slender figure in black-and-silver armor, he was young and more than fashionably thin, with pale blond flyaway hair, icy blue eyes and a killer's smile. He carried a sword on both hips, and he walked like a predator. People drew back at the sight of him, and a low whisper passed softly through the packed crowd:

"Kid Death…Kid Death …"

He smiled and nodded to the courtiers, and those nearest him recoiled as though he'd tossed a snake into their midst. They knew who and what he was. Everyone in the court had heard of Kid Death, the smiling killer. He strode slowly forward, and the gentle lapping sounds of the water against his boots were eerily loud in the quiet. He finally came to a halt an arm's length from the Summerlsle, and the two of them stood face to face, the old man and the young. The invincible warrior and the undefeated duelist.

Kid Death drew the sword on his right hip, reversed it, and offered it casually to Summerlsle. The old Lord bowed formally, took it, and then took up a fighter's stance. The younger man drew the sword on his other hip and fell into his own stance. Summerlsle nodded approvingly.

"Glad to see all my training hasn't gone to waste, Kit. You were the best pupil I ever had."

"Thank you, Grandfather." The young man's voice was light and breathy.

"Another child who turned out wrong. What the hell was wrong with your generation? Maybe there was something in the water…"

"I'm what you made me, Grandfather: the most skilled swordsman in the Empire. You sharpened the blade; did it never occur to you that someday it might be used against you?"

Summerlsle hefted his sword, his face fixed on his grandson's eyes. "You killed your father and your mother and both your brothers, and the law couldn't touch you, because you said they were duels, and there was no one to contradict you. I should have killed you myself, but I couldn't. You and I are all that's left of the Summerlsle line, Kit. Don't let it end here, in senseless bloodshed, just to please the Iron Bitch."

"I'm doing this to please myself, Grandfather. Doesn't the student always want to prove that he's become better than the teacher? As to serving the Empress, I am a killer, so I must go where the killing is. My parents disapproved of the life I led and tried to stop me; so I stopped them. And my brothers too, later, when they came looking for vengeance. They won't be missed, any of them. They dared little and achieved less. But I go on, the best of the best, death on two legs, Her Majesty's executioner in all but name. One day I'll have that, too, and then there'll be a new Warrior Prime."

"You won't last that long, Kit. She'll see to that. Tell me, boy, did you ever feel anything for your Family? I loved them so much."

"No, Grandfather, not a thing. Not even when I killed them. Enough talk, old man. Let's dance."

He stepped forward, the sword moving easily this way and that, searching for an opening. Summerlsle went to meet him, moving only as much as he had to, the tip of his sword pointing always at his grandson's heart, and his eyes were cold and steady. For a moment they circled, each wary of the other, and then they came together in a flash of steel and the crashing of blades. The encounter was over in a moment, then they were circling again. There was a long red slash along Kid Death's left cheek, and blood trickled down his face. Summerlsle had drawn first blood. His grandson smiled widely, then threw himself forward. His sword was everywhere, and the sheer ferocity of his attack forced Summerlsle back, step by step. And then he stood his ground, and would not give up another step, no matter how hard Kid Death pressed him, as though he had said, This far will I go, and no further. Their swords slammed together and they stood face to face, straining with all their strength for the upper hand. Summerlsle's breath was coming fast, and his face was flushed. His grandson wasn't even breathing hard. Kid Death held Summerlsle's eyes with his and surreptitiously drew a dagger from a concealed sheath in his sleeve. Summerlsle smiled suddenly and nodded, and Kid Death thrust his dagger between the old man's ribs.

Summerlsle grunted once, and then coughed. Bright bubbling blood spilled from his mouth, and the strength went out of him. His sword fell, and Kid Death ran him through with a short, brutal motion. Summerlsle sank to his knees, his blood spattering the surface of the water. Kid Death pulled free his sword, sheathed it, and then bent over his grandfather, their faces close together.

"You knew that trick," the young man said quietly. "You taught it to me. You knew it was coming, and you did nothing to stop me. Why?"

"Because I have no wish to live on… in the kind of Empire Lionstone is building." The old man paused to spit out a thick gobbet of blood. "And because you… are the last of the Summerlsle line. If I'd killed you… the line would have ended with me. Can't have that. You'll be the Summerlsle now, boy. Maybe you'll make a better job of it than I did."

His head dropped slowly forward, as though he was bowing to his grandson, and then he fell forward into the muddy waters and lay still in a widening pool of his own blood. And Kit, Lord Summerlsle, straightened up, shrugged briefly and turned away.

"I have my own name, old man, the name I earned. And I like it better than anything you ever gave me."

He drew his bloody sword and saluted Lionstone with it, and she bowed regally in return.

"Don't go too far, Lord Summerlsle. I may have need of your services again. There is still another traitor who must be dealt with."

Kid Death took a relaxed stance beside the throne, pushing the Empress' esper out of the way, and set about cleaning the blood from his blade with a piece of rag. In the forefront of the crowd, the Campbell watched guards drag Summerlsle's body away and said nothing at all. Lionstone nodded to her maid again, and once more she rose up and clapped her hands twice. Two guards appeared from the mists behind the throne, pushing a large transparent sphere ahead of them. It hovered at waist height, kept clear of the foul waters by its antigrav field. Within the sphere, a man sat slumped, his head hanging down from exhaustion. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a heavyset face and figure. His long golden robes might have been imposing once, but they were tattered and soiled now, mostly with his own blood and vomit. He wore no chains, but the sphere held him as securely as any cage. A quiet murmur, quickly stilled, ran through the court as those at the front recognized the new prisoner and sent his name back through the crowd. The guards brought the sphere to a halt before the throne so that Lionstone could look upon her new victim. Her voice rang sweet and mocking on the quiet.

"My Lords, Ladies and gentle friends, allow us to present to you Judge Nicholas Wesley. Once, he presided over the highest court in our Empire, his name a synonym for law and justice. We thought that, of all our subjects, we could trust him implicitly. We were wrong. He thought his word was law, but there's only one law in the Empire, and that is ours. And having forgotten his duty, he threw away his honor by associating with quite the wrong sort of people. Tell us, Judge; how long have you been a supporter of the clone underground?"

The packed court was deathly silent as it waited for the Judge's answer. If ever a man in the Empire had been trusted and admired, even revered, it was Judge Wesley. His judgments were legends of reason and honesty, his few books required reading. And now he sat slumped in a stasis sphere, bloodied and humbled, and perhaps there was no justice in the Empire anymore. He looked up slowly, as though even as simple a matter as that took much out of him. Somewhere along the line, he'd suffered a severe beating. One swollen eye was entirely closed, and dried blood crusted his split lips. But even though he had fallen so very far, there was still a dignity about him, and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm and measured.

"I served you for thirty-eight years, Lionstone. I gave justice to all who came before me. Or that is what I told myself. It is my shame that it took me so long to see the evil in you and your laws. My life had become a mockery of everything I thought I believed in. But finally I saw the truth, and I will not look away now, even if the light is painfully bright. A simple truth undid me: that clones are people, too."

"Not unless we say they are," said the Empress. "You haven't answered our question, Judge. How long have we nursed a traitor to our bosom?"

The Judge met her gaze unblinkingly and said nothing. The Empress smiled.

"Do you understand the nature of the sphere that imprisons you, traitor? It's a stasis field. Within that sphere, time does as we command. We can speed it up or slow it down. A year can pass in a second, or a second can last a year. You could lose a decade in the blink of an eye, live out your whole life in the time it takes you to answer our questions. Unless you choose to be reasonable. Give us the names of the scum you dealt with, and where they may be found, and you shall go free. We give our word as Empress."

The Judge smiled suddenly, and fresh blood ran down his chin as his lips split open again. "Your word is worthless, Lionstone. Truth and honor are not in you. I have nothing to say."

The Empress sat back in her throne and gestured sharply to one of the guards by the sphere. He made a small adjustment to the control on his wrist, and the Judge grunted loudly as though someone had hit him. His hair grew longer and thick strands of white appeared in it. Heavy lines dug deeply into his face. His frame shrank subtly, and his hands withered into claws. He moaned with pain as arthritis filled his joints. Lionstone raised a hand, and the aging stopped. Within the sphere, the equivalent of forty years had passed in a few moments.

"Talk to us, Nicholas. This is the last chance we can offer you. Are you really willing to die to protect creatures who aren't even human?"

Judge Nicholas Wesley gave her a smile that had as much of the skull as humor in it. "The lowest clone is more human than you, Lionstone."

The Empress gestured angrily, and time roared through the sphere like sands rushing through an hourglass. The Judge grew withered and frail. His hair fell out and his skin mottled. A skull replaced his face, as bones pushed out against the tightening skin, and still he had nothing to say. Time passed. The Judge died and his body decayed, and then there was nothing left in the sphere but his torn robes and a few bones crumbling into dust. The guard collapsed the stasis field and the sphere disappeared. The Judge's robes dropped into the muddy waters and sank from sight.

* * *

Out in the antechamber. Captain Silence and Investigator Frost sat alone, in chains, inside a force screen. The field shimmered on the edges of their vision whichever way they looked, so that the antechamber had an unreal, ghostly look to them. Silence wasn't fooled. The danger they were in was all too real. He'd lost his ship and allowed the Deathstalker outlaw to escape. He should have died honorably at his post as his ship went down. His Clan would have mourned his name, and it would all have been over. But the Investigator had insisted on saving him for her own inscrutable reasons. And so here he was, secured at the ankles, wrists and throat with enough chains to hold a dozen men, waiting to see which interesting and especially painful death the Empress had in mind for him.

Officially he was entitled to a Court Martial before a board of his peers and fellow officers, but the Empress outranked them all when she chose to, so she had first claim on him. Besides, the best he could have hoped from a court martial would have been a quick death. Silence rattled his chains briefly and sniffed. Shoddy workmanship, but still more than enough to hold him even without the force screen. He wasn't going anywhere. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere the Empress couldn't find him. Besides, he wouldn't have wanted to live as an outlaw anyway—always on the run, looking back over your shoulder to see if they were gaining on you. No peace, no chance for happiness… or honor.

Silence sighed heavily, not for the first time, and looked at the Investigator sitting beside him. Their captors had taken special pains with her bonds, loading her down with thick steel chains until a normal person would have collapsed under the weight of them. Frost ignored them, sitting proud and erect on the wooden bench as though it was her own idea to be there. The force screen was mainly for her. She was an Investigator, after all, and no one was taking any chances.

Two armed guards stood before the closed double doors, waiting for the call to bring the prisoners in. They looked large and tough and extremely competent. Silence would have doubted his chances against them even without the chains and with a sword in one hand and a grenade in the other. He sighed again and rattled his chains mournfully.

"I wish you'd stop doing that," said Frost.

"Sorry. Not much else to do."

"They'll let us out of the screen soon."

" That won't make any difference, Investigator. We're not going anywhere."

"You mustn't give up, Captain. There are always options."

Silence looked at her. "Is that why you rescued me from the bridge of the Darkwind?"

"Of course, Captain."

"Thanks a whole bunch. But I forgive you. Frost. It must have seemed like a good idea at the time."

Frost stirred, and her chains rattled briefly. The armed guards looked at her thoughtfully. "I was just doing my duty, Captain."

"Does that mean you wouldn't try to escape now, if you could?

"Of course I would, Captain. I'm loyal, but I'm not stupid. We must keep our eyes open and our wits about us. There are always options."

And then the double doors swung open a short way, and the two armed guards moved toward the prisoners. One drew his disrupter and pointed it meaningfully at Frost. Silence felt vaguely insulted. The second guard made an adjustment to the controls on his wrist, and the force screen disappeared. Silence looked at Frost.

"If you have any suggestions or ideas, now would be a really good time to share them."

"We could always use our chains to club anyone to death who got too close to us."

"Good idea. Get them to kill us quickly. Keep thinking, Investigator."

The guards gestured for Silence and Frost to pass through the double doors and into the waiting court. They kept well back, both their guns trained on the Investigator. Silence gathered up his chains and rose awkwardly to his feet. It took him a moment to get his balance as the heavy weight shifted, and then he stumbled toward the doors. If he hadn't had experience on heavy gravity planets, he doubted he'd have been able to move at all. The guards would have loved that. They were just looking for some excuse to beat the crap out of him again. Silence gritted his teeth and kept moving. Frost walked beside him, back straight and head erect, ignoring her chains as though they were so many party favors. She was courteous enough to keep pace with Silence, and somehow that made it worse.

They passed through the waiting doors and were immediately ankle deep in filthy water. Silence was past caring. It was just one more indignity. He splashed on, fighting to keep his head up. The court was packed. They must be expecting a really unpleasant execution. A narrow aisle formed before him, people drawing back as though not wanting to be associated with him even by proximity. Silence didn't care. At least they weren't shouting or spitting or throwing things. Though, come to think of it, he might have preferred a little shouting. The continuing silence was becoming unnerving. He struggled on, Frost at his side, the guards a respectful distance behind them. Silence looked about him as best he could, and the courtiers looked back with something in their faces that might have been expectancy. And it occurred to Silence that the Empress wouldn't have summoned this many important people to court just to watch him and Frost die. They had to be here for some other, more important, reason. Which suggested that just maybe there were still options open to him, after all.

Finally Silence and Frost came to a halt before the throne of Lionstone XIV. Silence felt ready to drop, but forced himself to stand straight despite the chains. He had a strong feeling this would be a really bad time to show weakness. Frost stood beside him, looking calm and composed, as always. Something moved in the deeper waters not too far away, and Silence wondered fleetingly if there was something alive just below the surface. Something alive and hungry. The Empress did so like her little jokes. It didn't really matter. If it got too close, Frost would take care of it.

Silence looked back at Lionstone and she smiled down at him coldly. He bowed as best he could. She was his Empress, after all. Frost didn't bow. One of the guards stepped forward, gun raised to club her to her knees. Frost braced herself and lashed out with a stiffened leg. The guard took the boot in his gut and just had time for a surprised breathless grunt before he went flying backward into the crowd. They all ended up in the water, splashing and cursing. The guard didn't get up again, and neither did some of the courtiers he'd slammed into. Silence had to smile. You could always depend on Frost to make an impression. A brief clamor of protesting voices began in the surrounding crowd, only to die swiftly away as the Empress glared at them. She looked back at Silence and Frost, and Silence for one was surprised to find she was still smiling. It only took him a moment to decide that he didn't like the look of that smile at all.

"Leave my guards alone, Investigator, there's a dear. They're frightfully expensive to replace. Believe me, you're in no danger here. The chains are just a formality."

"A rather heavy formality, Your Majesty," said Silence. "May I enquire as to why we are here?"

"We have a use for you, Captain. We were rather annoyed with you and the Investigator. You lost us a perfectly good starship, and you failed to bring us the head of that most wretched traitor, Owen Deathstalker. We wanted his head very much. We were going to stick it on a spike, right here at court, so that everyone could see what happens to those who dare defy us, whatever their status. We were also planning to have you both killed in slow, painful ways, as a sign to those who dared fail us, but… we changed our mind. We have a use for you."

Here it comes, thought Silence, wishing he could duck.

"You pleased us greatly in your handling of the alien menace on Unseeli, both ten years ago and more recently. Their uprising threatened the stability of the Empire, but you put a stop to that, and to them. You also discovered the alien starship that crashed there recently and dealt with its occupant before it could contact its own kind and warn them of our existence. For this, and other services on our part, you have our gratitude and a pardon for all your crimes."

The crowd broke into more or less spontaneous applause as the remaining guard activated the controls on his wrist. Padlocks clicked open one after the other, like a run of firecrackers, and the chains fell away from Silence and Frost. They dropped into the muddy waters and were gone. Silence rubbed gingerly at his chaffed wrists, his mind whirling. It wasn't so much what Lionstone had said as what she hadn't said. She hadn't mentioned their discovery of a new stardrive in the alien ship. Of course, there were all sorts of reasons for that. Firstly, it wouldn't do for the court to get the idea that the aliens might actually have a technology that was, in some ways at least, superior to the Empire's. And secondly, as long as the court thought her scientists controlled production of the new stardrive, they wouldn't do anything that might offend her for fear of being refused access to the drive. Both of which were very good reasons for having him and Frost silenced. Something bad was coming all right, and it was headed right toward him. He could feel it, like the cold breath of Death herself on the back of his neck.

"We hereby reinvest you in your previous ranks," said the Empress, almost casually. "We give you a new ship, the Dauntless, fitted with our new stardrive. You will go to the planet Grendel and open the Vaults of the Sleepers."

A shocked gasp rippled through the court. Everyone remembered what happened the last time a starship made contact with Grendel. The planet had seemed empty, peaceful, perfect for colonization. But deep in the ground, the Investigatory team had found the remains of a vast alien city, long abandoned, and massive steel Vaults, ancient almost beyond measurement. They opened one of the Vaults, and the Sleepers awoke.

Hideous alien creatures, nightmares in flesh and blood and spiked silicon armor that was somehow a part of them. They were huge and impossibly fast, with metal claws and teeth. They wiped out the entire landing party in a matter of minutes. The Empire sent down seasoned attack troops, battle espers, even adjusted men. They all died. Luckily the aliens had no starship of their own. They were trapped on the planet's surface. The Fleet moved in and scorched the surface of the planet from orbit. Grendel was under quarantine now, guarded by half a dozen starcruisers. There were other Vaults, and other Sleepers, and the Empire had no wish that they should awaken.

Apparently that had changed now. Silence shook his head disgustedly. Grendel. He almost thought he'd rather have been executed.

"Might I enquire why we're opening this particular can of worms again, Your Majesty?"

"Of course, Captain. You're going to open the Vaults one at a time and discover, by whatever means you deem necessary, how to tame and train the Sleepers. You will have unlimited access to funds, men and weaponry. Call on whatever you need to do the job. It is our intention to use the Sleepers as shock troops in our coming conflict with the two newly discovered alien species. Any questions?"

"Do I have time to make a will before I go?" said Frost.

The Empress laughed briefly and called forward more guards with a wave of her hand. "Escort the Captain and the Investigator to their new ship. See they don't get lost along the way."

Silence bowed, and he and Frost left the court with their heads held high, doing their best to ignore the dozen heavily armed guards who escorted them. Silence shook his head ruefully as he left. Not only had Lionstone presented him with a near impossible task, quite likely to get him and the Investigator killed, she had also ensured that he would have no chance at all to open his mouth about the origins of the new stardrive. Lionstone didn't lack for courage or cunning, which was at least partly why she was still Empress.

Lionstone waited till they were gone, and then smiled out over her court. "We trust it is now clear what lengths we will go to protect the Empire? Good. We will defend the Empire from any enemy, without or within. Make no mistake, most gracious Lords and Ladies and gentle friends, the new stardrive gives our Imperial Fleet an unbeatable advantage over any who might try to stand against us. Our enemies shall fall. There will be nowhere they can hide from us. Nowhere we will not follow them. Our will shall be unchallenged.

"Now, is there any other business?"

The ceiling high above the throne exploded, and debris rained down through the shifting mists. The maids-in-waiting leapt up and sheltered the Empress's body with their own. Sharp-edged rubble cut their pale flesh and blood flowed, but none of them flinched. The court screamed and panicked, milling this way and that in their fear and confusion. Dram drew his sword and gun and looked about him for an enemy. And out of the smoke and mists above the throne dropped a dozen long lines, down which slid men and women dressed in leathers and chains. They hit the water and stepped quickly aside to make way for others coming down after them. Dram looked at the dozen guns facing his one and stood very still. The newcomers gestured for him to drop his gun and sword, and he did, watching expressionless as they disappeared into the dark waters and were gone. Kit Summerlsle dropped his sword without waiting to be told. The maids moved a little away from Lionstone to form a defensive circle around the throne, staring at the newcomers with unblinking insect eyes. The courtiers were all shouting and talking at once, and one word rose again and again above the rest.

Elves … the elves have found us…

"Honor to the Esper Liberation Front!" shouted one of the newcomers, a young woman in battered leathers and far too many chains, over a T-shirt bearing the legend "Born To Burn." She was short and stocky, with muscles bulging on her bare arms. Her long dark hair was full of knotted ribbons, and she might have been pretty if her eyes hadn't been alight with the fire of the true fanatic. Other elves gathered around her; half trained their guns on the quieting court, the others on the throne. Lionstone watched in silence from behind her maids, her eyes full of fury. Neither she nor Dram nor anyone in the court was foolish enough to go up against energy weapons.

The esper terrorists looked hard and roughly used, but the chains holding their leathers together were freshly polished, and they all wore bright colors on their faces and in their hair. Most of them were young, some barely out of their teens, but they all had scars somewhere on their bare skin. The Empire used espers harshly, which was why so many died or went rogue. Most died. There were very few old espers. The elf wearing the "Born To Burn" T-shirt stepped forward and bowed mockingly to the silent court.

"Sorry about the mess, but a good entrance is so important. Now be good boys and girls, and do as you're told, and you'll be able to leave here with all your major organs intact and still attached in the right places. Annoy us, and we'll think of something amusing to do to you. And some of us have a really nasty sense of humor. Being an outlaw can do that to you."

She turned to look at Lionstone. "Relax, dear, we're not here to kill you. We've come for one of our own. Now do you want to step down from that throne, or would you rather be thrown down?"

Lionstone rose to her feet and stepped down into the dark waters with icy dignity. The maids moved immediately to surround her. The elf ignored them all and crouched down beside the throne, running her hands carefully over the black iron studded with jade.

"Do you have a name, traitor?" said the Empress.

"Stevie Blue; not at all pleased to meet you."

"My guards will be here soon. There is no way you can hope to escape."

"Your guards are currently being run in circles by associates of ours. Your only protectors are those poor mind-burned souls acting as your maids, and the esp-blocker built into your throne. Ah, got it."

She slid back a recessed panel in the side of the throne and carefully removed a translucent cube the size of her head. An esp-blocker was really quite a simple device: the living brain of an esper, removed from its body and held in suspension. A low current passed constantly through the frontal lobes, keeping the brain awake and aware and functioning, using its esp to prevent any other esper abilities from functioning in its vicinity. Just another hell the Empire made, and the only real defense against a rogue esper. Or an elf.

Stevie Blue lifted the cube above her head and brought it down with savage force on the arm of the throne. The fragile container shattered, and the brain tissue fell apart, already dying. The bloody tissues slipped down the side of the throne and dripped into the water.

"Be at peace, my friend," said Stevie softly. "The fight goes on." She turned her gaze on Lionstone again. "That's one less soul living in a hell you made for them."

Lionstone smiled. "I'll get another. There's no shortage of donors."

She broke off as the elf took a step forward and then stopped herself. Stevie Blue looked at her coldly. "I could kill you now, Lionstone. Any of us could. We want your death so badly we can taste it. We dream about it at night and wake to plan new ways of taking it. One day we'll take your precious Empire apart stone by stone till there's nowhere left for you to hide, and then we'll come for you. But if we were to kill you now, while you're weak and helpless, you'd just be replaced by another from your corrupt line, and the new Emperor would order massive reprisals among the esper community. Thousands would die, and thousands more would suffer. But we didn't want to leave without giving you some indication of our true feelings for you. So we brought you a little present."

She reached back and a large cream pie was placed in her hand. Stevie Blue grinned at Lionstone's shocked expression, and then aimed and threw the pie with one easy motion. It hit Lionstone squarely in the face, and she fell back a step, clawing at the mess on her face.

Stevie laughed. "You'd be justified in calling for reprisals over an assassination attempt, but over a pie in the face? You'd just look extremely petty. Not to mention weak. Goodbye, Lionstone. It's been a pleasure."

Lionstone glared past the thick swirls of cream and pointed a quivering finger at the elves. "Kill them! Kill them all!"

The maids sprang to obey. They surged forward, steel claws shooting out from under their fingernails, and the elves went to meet them, manifesting their abilities. Stevie Blue wrapped herself in fire, living flames of pure heat, but the maids jumped her anyway. They were beyond such weaknesses as pain or fear. Stevie disappeared beneath the clawing figures, and the other elves raced to help her. The maids split up to greet them. They fell upon the first two espers and tore them apart with their unnatural strength. Blood flew on the air as the elves screamed and died. One esper gestured desperately, and the maids stopped suddenly as though they'd slammed into an invisible wall. And then they stumbled forward again as the wall collapsed. Stevie Blue's flames flickered and went out. Lionstone laughed and sat upon her throne again.

"You didn't really think I'd trust my safety to just the one esp-blocker, did you?"

She had to shout the last part over rising screams as the maids moved among the desperate elves. Disrupters fired, but the maids moved too quickly to be hit. Then they were among the elves, and it was too dangerous to use the guns anymore. The maids leapt among the espers like wolves in the fold, tearing at defenseless flesh with their clawed hands and stuffing the bloody meat into their mouths. They were hungry.

One esper stuck his gun in a maid's mouth and fired it. The maid's head exploded, spraying bloody gobbets everywhere. Another maid appeared behind the esper and wrapped her arms around him in a bearhug. The esper's ribs collapsed and drove inward, piercing his heart and lungs. The remaining elves tried to run, but the maids were everywhere. The elves fell, one by one, until finally only one man remained free. He ran toward the throne and tried to fire his disrupter, but the energy crystal was still recharging. He threw the useless gun aside and drew his sword. A maid jumped him and pulled him down into the water. She held him under and watched impersonally as he drowned. He kicked and struggled, and then his sword thrust up out of the water and slammed into the maid's belly. The force of the blow threw her back, and the esper burst up out of the water, coughing and choking. He fixed his gaze on Lionstone again and hefted his sword. He moved forward, and the maid jumped him from behind. She concentrated in the way she'd been taught, and the shrapnel bomb set inside her body exploded. Both she and the elf were torn apart by the blast, and blood and shrapnel rained down for long moments.

Quiet fell slowly across the court, the only sound that of the four surviving maids-in-waiting feeding on the bodies of the fallen elves. Lionstone called to them and they came, clustering around her throne with bloody hands and mouths, like hounds called away from the kill. The Empress looked down from her throne at Stevie Blue, crouching torn and bloodied in the water at the base of the throne. She'd managed to draw her sword, but her hand was trembling violently from the shock and pain of her wounds. She stumbled forward, forcing herself on, her bloody mouth set and determined. Dram stepped in behind her and ran her through with his sword.

Stevie Blue fell to her knees. She whimpered, and blood ran from her mouth. Dram pulled his sword out and she shook once, as though at a sudden chill. Lionstone stepped down from her throne to kneel before her. She had an ornate silver dagger in her hand. She leaned forward till her face was right before the esper's.

"Have you nothing left to say to me, elf? About how weak I am, or how clever you were? No last declaration for the cause?"

Stevie shuddered again. Blood poured down her chin. When she spoke, only the Empress could hear her.

"I'll be back. There are lots like me. One of us will get you. Burn in hell, bitch."

Lionstone slid the dagger delicately into Stevie's heart and breathed the esper's dying exhalation into her own mouth, savoring it like a connoisseur. She pulled out the dagger, put her fingertips against the esper's breast and pushed. Stevie Blue fell back into the dark water and lay still. Lionstone straightened up, made the dagger disappear up her sleeve again, and allowed Dram to help her up onto the throne again.

"Elves never talk," Dram said casually. "They program their minds to self-destruct, rather than give up any secrets. If anything, you gave her an easy death."

"You always want to spoil my fun, Dram. She died in despair. That will do for me. For the moment, I'm more interested in how that many elves got past your security defenses."

"A good question," said Dram. "And one which I will be putting to my staff very forcefully once this audience is over. I can only assume I have a traitor somewhere in my organization."

"I thought that was supposed to be impossible."

"So did I. If there is a traitor, I'll find him."

"I hope so, Dram," said the Empress. "Because if I can't trust you to protect me, what use are you?"

Dram smiled and carefully dipped a finger into the traces of cream still on her face. He tasted it thoughtfully.

"Brandy buttersauce. My favorite. If nothing else, the elves do have excellent taste."

"Of course," said Lionstone, "just ask my maids."