Personally, Brett was appalled at how easy it had been for him to get in. Security hadn't demanded a genetest or anything. They all just assumed that if he had official ID, someone else must have run the necessary tests, and they didn't have to bother. Just waved him on through. Brett had half decided to write a very stern note to the Head of Court Security, afterwards.
So; there he was, right in the middle of the greatest social gathering of the century, calmly circulating with his tray of drinks, directing people to the restrooms and getting his bottom pinched rather more than was usual. Must be the uniform. He radiated calm and certainty and confidence, and was ready to run like hell at a moment's notice. First and most important rule of the successful con artist: never be afraid to drop it all and leg it for the horizon if you even suspect something's gone wrong. The ones who hung around in the hope of squeezing just a bit more out of the rubes, or who couldn't bear to abandon their clever plans, were the ones who ended up on work farms on the hellworlds. Brett had seen the inside of a prison once, and hadn't liked it. You met a very rough class of person there. He had decided very firmly never to go back.
He accessed the camera currently impersonating his left eye, and ran a quick diagnostic. Everything was working fine. The camera was recording everything he pointed it at, and he was getting some really nice candid shots of the Great and the Good relaxing their guard and letting their hair down, secure in the knowledge that the official media cameras were under strict instructions as to what they could and couldn't broadcast. Even when they went live for the actual Coronation, the King had insisted on a five-second delay, so that the Court censor could remove anything that might detract from the dignity of the Ceremony. Which was, of course, why Brett had gone to such trouble to sneak himself and his camera in.
His unauthorized, and sometimes very candid, recording was going to make him some serious money from the gossip shows.
Losing an eye and replacing it with a camera had been painful as well as expensive, but Brett was a professional.
He circulated with his tray of drinks, making sure everyone had a fresh glass. People said such interesting things when they were drunk. He was quiet and smiling and unobtrusive, and listened in on all sorts of fascinating conversations as people looked right through him. Servants were invisible, no more noticed than service robots. Brett took advantage of this to help himself to the excellent finger food at the buffet, and even pocketed a few small valuable items that caught his real eye. He decided reluctantly that picking a few pockets would be a step too far. It only took a moments bad luck, a voice raised in outrage, and he'd have to run for his life before the Coronation even began, and lose out on all the best footage. So he controlled himself, just, and hovered hopefully beside a group of MPs, hoping to pick up something juicy that he could use later for blackmail purposes. Every little bit helps.
Behind the Thrones on their raised dais, a projected holoscreen was showing old news footage of Douglas Campbell's exploits as a Paragon. Brett stopped to watch for a moment. There he was, the King to be, always in the thick of battle, being the hero, and beating the hell out of people who were probably only trying to make a living. Lewis Deathstalker was nearly always at the Campbell's side, fighting the good fight and punishing evil. Douglas and Lewis, the King and the Deathstalker; champions of justice.
Brett had never cared much for Douglas. Far too prim and proper. Never had an illegal or impure thought in his life, that one. Born to greatness, and didn't he know it. Brett had always had much more time for the Deathstalker. All he inherited was the burden of a legendary name, but he went on to make a real hero of himself, through his own efforts. Brett admired Lewis; perhaps because the Deathstalker was everything that Random was not, and never would be.
Their ancestors had been friends. Brett thought about that, sometimes.
On the vast screen, they were replaying Douglas and Lewis's most recent battle against agents of the Shadow Court. Brett's ears pricked up. He'd always wanted to make contact with the Shadow Court, the last remnants of the old Families. Officially, the old Clan system was dead and gone. Most of the old Families gave up their ancient names because of the bad connotations, and conspicuously moved out of the political process, and into business. The pastel Towers of the Clans were gone, hauled down long ago. But in the shadows and secret places, some still clung to the old glories, and plotted to be powerful again. They met privately, in cellars and the backs of bars, using the old names, drawing on the old blood loyalties, and plotted to influence politics through bribes and intimidation, blackmail and terrorism. Whatever it took.
No one knew how much influence they really had. Those who took bribes didn't talk about it, and those who wouldn't… tended to end up dead before they could name any names. Shadow Court assassins struck in public, wearing stylized black masks, and self-immolated rather than be captured or questioned. Fanatics, to a man and a woman, convinced their greatness has been stolen from them, determined to be great again.
No one knew how many of them there were; who might actually be a part of the Shadow Court. Similarities to the old hidden horror, Blue Block, had not gone unnoticed.
Brett Random thought they were a bunch of tossers and sad bastards, unable to realize their time in the sun was over. He just knew if he could only make contact with them, he could take them for everything they had, including their underwear.
The image on the holoscreen changed, and there were Douglas and Lewis acting as stewards on a Neuman public demonstration. The Neumen were a fairly recent phenomenon; a political group that had sprung up apparently out of nowhere, with as yet unidentified backers, who had declared themselves Pure Humanity. They wanted all aliens expelled from the Empire, and all clones and espers destroyed, or at the very least, sternly domesticated. For the protection of Pure Humanity, of course. The Neumen only ever appeared in public in large numbers; in public demonstrations that somehow always involved marching through areas where there lived large concentrations of the very kinds they hated so much.
Their right to march and demonstrate in public were protected by the Free Speech laws, but every time they appeared, there was sure to be trouble. Even if minority interest groups didn't organize counterdemonstrations, the Neumen had never been popular with the general public, who still venerated the superhuman Owen Deathstalker and his companions, and saw Neumen propaganda as an attack on their heroes. Basically, whenever the Neumen appeared, you could guarantee crowds would appear out of nowhere just to throw things at them. And that was when the Paragons would be called in, to organize security around the Neumen marches, and try to prevent, or at least contain, trouble. Paragons enforced the law, no matter where their sympathies might lie.
The holoscreen showed a recent confrontation in the Parade of the Endless, with Douglas standing calmly between two angry armed camps, and steadily cooling everyone's temper with reasonable words and a personal authority. When he spoke, people listened. Even furious crowds and fanatical Neumen. It probably helped that Lewis was standing right beside Douglas, his hands on his weapons, glowering fiercely at absolutely everybody, and clearly ready to crack heads if anyone was stupid enough not to listen to reason.
In his time, Brett Random had sold weapons and the like to both sides of the conflict. He had no interest in politics, except how best to take advantage of the people involved. Fanatics always made the best suckers; you could sell them practically anything, as long as you could convince them that someone else didn't want them to have it.
And then the holoscreen switched to a more recent exploit, and suddenly the Court was quiet. Everyone was watching. Three weeks earlier, the Hellfire Club had attacked a Church right in the heart of the Parade of the Endless. It wasn't a big Church. Not very old, or particularly impressive. No one important went there. It was just a Church, where ordinary everyday people went to pray and worship; and that was enough for the Hellfire Club.
The Club itself had been around for some time; a bunch of self-proclaim
ed free-thinkers who disapproved of the Empire having an official religion. According to these radical philosophers with far too much free time on their hands, organized religion was a Bad Thing. It stopped people from thinking for themselves, and thus prevented them from being all that they might be. Religion got in the way of human evolution. There should be only Science, the creation of human minds. Anything else was a waste of time, and distracted people from doing something productive with their lives.
No one paid the Club a lot of attention. It was briefly fashionable, but fashion moved on, as fashion does, and most of the radical philosophers found something else to pontificate about. Something more likely to get them invited back on the chat show circuit again.
But the Hellfire Club didn't die. It went underground, its few surviving members becoming even more radical, more extreme. They became decadents, glorying in excess of all kinds, opposed to all restraints on human nature. They made Sin their religion, and the Church their hated Enemy. Just for the fun of it. They set fire to Churches. Committed blasphemies in graveyards. Assassinated a few priests. And finally decided they weren't getting enough publicity. Something new was needed. Something big. Something awful.
Douglas and Lewis had answered a routine emergency call from a Church in the Parade of the Endless. When a news crew with nothing better to cover asked if they could send a camera along, Douglas had shrugged, and said Sure. Why not?
On the holoscreen, the camera recording showed Douglas and Lewis standing outside the main door of the Church. It was hanging open, supported by a single brass hinge. Blood was spattered across the pale wood, in runs and splashes, and in the bright red shape of a handprint, clear as day. Douglas and Lewis looked at each other, and drew their guns. Their faces were stern, but calm. They thought they'd seen it all before. Lewis pushed the door open and Douglas darted inside, gun at the ready. Lewis followed him in, and the camera went after them.
Inside, there was blood everywhere. Bodies lay slumped and scattered among the overturned pews. Men, women, and children in their Sunday best, hacked apart. Arms lying outstretched in the aisles, as though still begging for mercy, or help that never came. Hands piled up like offerings. Heads impaled on the wooden railings, silently screaming. Douglas and Lewis walked slowly down the center aisle, checking the shadows for an ambush. Everyone in the Court watched in silence. They knew what was coming. Even Brett was holding his breath now.
Douglas's face was full of a cold fury. He had his disrupter in one hand and his sword in the other now, and he stalked down the center aisle like a wolf on the trail of its prey. His whole body radiated an outrage and an anger almost beyond control. Lewis stopped and knelt beside a dead child, cut in half at the waist. He slowly put out a hand to close the child's staring eyes. The camera zoomed in for a close-up of Lewis's familiar, ugly face. He looked… tired. So much evil, his face seemed to say. How could people do such things? And as they watched, as everyone in the Court watched, the tiredness went out of his face, replaced by stern, uncompromising resolve. Lewis was going to kill someone, and everyone knew it.
At the far end of the Church, they came to a heavy hanging curtain. Douglas pulled it down and threw it aside, with one violent movement, and saw a sight out of Hell itself. The altar had been used for sacrifice. Lots of it. The whole marble edifice was running with fresh blood. Behind the altar, the Church's priest had been crucified to the wall, upside down. His throat had been cut, afterwards. And half a dozen members of the Hellfire Club, shaped by illegal body shops into the nearest they could get to devils (red skin, curled horns on their brows, hoofs instead of feet), were taking turns to drink the blood they'd collected from the slashed throat in the priest's own silver chalice.
They were laughing when the heavy curtain suddenly disappeared, revealing them. They spun around, and their crimson faces fell as they saw Douglas and Lewis. Arrogance and devilish glee were gone in a moment, and there was only fear. They went for their guns. Douglas and Lewis shot the two whose hands were closest to their weapons, killing them instantly, and then they charged forward, swords in hands. Douglas was shouting something, his voice thick and incoherent with rage. Lewis was silent. They fell upon the remaining devils. One of them tried to put up a fight, and Douglas gutted him with one swift sideways cut from his blade. The devil fell screaming to the blood-soaked floor, dropping his sword to try and push his guts back into the wide hole in his belly they were spilling out from. Douglas stamped on his head to shut him up. The other devils looked at Lewis and Douglas and dropped their swords, surrendering.
Douglas glared at them, breathing harshly, gripping his sword so hard his knuckles showed white. He was ready to kill them. Everyone could see it in his face. He took a step forward, and the devils flinched back. Lewis watched Douglas carefully but did nothing, said nothing. And in the end, Douglas lowered his sword. The two Paragons put the devils in restraints, and the three prisoners were careful to do nothing to antagonize them. Lewis called a medic for the unconscious devil bleeding on the floor, and then he and Douglas bustled the others up the main aisle towards the door. And then one of the devils saw the news camera floating on the air before them, getting it all, and he laughed.
"Hail and salutations, viewing millions! Did you enjoy the show? We did it all for you!"
"Shut the hell up," said Douglas, pushing the devil forward so hard he stumbled and almost fell.
"You needn't think this means anything," said the devil, snarling back at Douglas as he regained his balance. "Nothing that happens now matters worth a damn. You can't undo what we did here! You can try us and imprison us and hate us, but everyone here will still be dead, and we'll still be right, and there's nothing you can do about it!"
"Wrong," said Lewis Deathstalker. "We can make an example of you."
Something in his voice interrupted the devil's composure, but only for a moment. He lurched to a halt and glared at Lewis, refusing to move.
"Why not kill us now, Paragon?" he said, grinning widely. "Why wait for the courts to judge us? Why not do it yourself? You know you want to!"
"Because we're better than you," said the Deathstalker. "Because we have to be."
The image froze on Lewis's face, stern and resolute, and then the holo-screen shut down. The Court slowly began talking again. Brett felt like applauding. A better piece of stage management he hadn't seen in a long time. The whole devils piece had been carefully chosen, a setup; a direct answer to Finn's actions in the Arena. Someone wanted to send a very specific message about what kind of a King Douglas was going to be. And what Paragons were supposed to be.
Brett would have liked to have been a Paragon; worshipped and adored and always right. But he was a Random, bastard son of a long line of bastards, outlaws, and thieves; so he became a con man. And, it had to be said; he was very good at it. He stole a politician's wallet in passing, just because he could, and carried on passing out long cool flutes of champagne to anyone who looked like they could use a drink after what they'd just seen.
And then suddenly the whole Court seemed to be cheering at once. The Paragons Lewis Deathstalker and Finn Durandal had just arrived. People shouted and applauded, and stamped their feet. They surged forward to shake Lewis and Finn by the hand, and clap them on the back. And perhaps only Brett noticed the Members of Parliament hanging back, watching carefully to see how many in the crowd went to Lewis, and how many to Finn. Lewis was very popular, but it was Finn Durandal the crowd surged around. Because we're letter than that might be inspiring, but it was still revenge that warmed the cockles of most people's hearts.
Douglas came striding through the packed crowd, and it opened up before him, bowing and curtseying. He embraced Lewis, and then Finn. The crowd applauded, and then drew back a little and turned away at Douglas's gesture, so that the three men could talk in private. Finn looked at Douglas, and cocked an eyebrow.
"Come to rap my knuckles, have you, Douglas?"
"You're supposed to be a Paragon, Finn; not an ex
ecutioner."
"Do you doubt the ELFs' guilt?"
"Not in the least. I shed no tears at their passing. But we're supposed to be the law."
"Really? I thought we were supposed to be the King's Justice."
"Yes," said Lewis. "The King's. Not our own."
Finn looked at him, and his thin smile was almost openly contemptuous. "You never did have much taste for vengeance, did you, Lewis? Or the stomach for it."
"I prefer law," said Lewis, entirely unmoved. "No individual should have the right to decide who lives and who dies. Isn't that why my revered ancestor overthrew Lionstone, all those years ago? We're supposed to be the King's Justice; not his hired killers."
"That's enough," Douglas said quickly. "I'll have no arguments among my friends, not on my Coronation day. You both did a good job, under difficult conditions. Let it go."
"For now," said Lewis.
"Yes," said Finn. "For now."
"Where's your father?" said Lewis.
"Backstage, resting," said Douglas. "He was looking tired and frayed at the edges, so I sent him off to have a bit of a lie down, before the Ceremony proper gets under way."
Deathstalker Legacy Page 7
