Deathstalker Rebellion

CHAPTER FOUR

Raised Voices and Diversions

Lionstone XIV, that most revered and feared Empress of a thousand worlds and more, was holding Court once again, and everyone that mattered, or thought they might, made haste to attend her. The Court itself was an arctic waste, this time, as real as holographic projections, strategically placed props, and temperature controls could make it. The Empress redressed her Court constantly, to reflect her whims and changing moods, or just to give her courtiers a bad time. Veteran Court attendees claimed to be able to divine much of Lionstone's mood from studying each new Court, but even when the news was bad, people went anyway. You had to, if you wanted your voice to be heard. Besides, if you stayed away too often, Lionstone might take that as an insult. And the people she sent to drag you there to hear her displeasure would not be polite about it.

The Court itself was a single vast chamber somewhere within the Imperial Palace, set within a massive steel bunker deep below the surface of Golgotha. No one knew precisely how big the chamber was, for security reasons, but so far it had always proven big enough to hold whatever worlds or conditions Lionstone chose to re-create. Unfortunately, it also reflected her sense of humor, which could be pretty basic on occasion. Courtiers knew better than to sit down on anything, no matter how apparently comfortable, and approached the luxurious food and wine provided as a form of Russian roulette.

It was a long way down to the Court. People made jokes about descending into hell, but not very loudly.

Captain Silence, Investigator Frost, and Security Officer Stelmach stood together in the midst of a great crowd of courtiers, staring out over a bleak arctic waste that stretched off into the distance for as far as the eye could see. The snow was a good foot deep on the ground and more fell in heavy wet flakes from the brooding gray sky above. A thin mist pearled the air, thickening briefly here and there into impenetrable walls. It was bitter cold, searing exposed flesh and the lungs of those who breathed too deeply, and Silence turned up the heating elements in his uniform another notch. Frost didn't bother. It took more than mere cold to discommode an Investigator. She'd been trained to withstand far worse. Stelmach already had his heating elements running on full, but shivered anyway. He wasn't looking forward to meeting the Empress.

Whatever else might prove to be an illusion, the cold was real enough; sharp enough to kill an unprotected man eventually. And there were bound to be other more subtle dangers concealed at random throughout the Court. The Empress never found a joke really funny unless someone could get hurt. The falling snow was especially real. It collected wetly on heads and clothes and seemed to be getting heavier. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to re-create this environment, which suggested the appropriate life-forms were out there somewhere, too. Especially, the predators. Lionstone had a special fondness for the practical joke.

The gathered courtiers murmured among themselves for a while, and then some brave soul stepped forward, and everyone else trudged through the snow after him. Few had come prepared for arctic conditions, and the bright flashing silks of current fashion did little to protect their wearers. A few grumbled and blasphemed under their breath, but most just toughed it out. You never knew who might be listening. Silence stepped out along with the crowd, still somewhat surprised that he wasn't weighed down with chains like his last visit to Court. After screwing up so completely on the Wolfling World, he'd fully expected to find himself facing an execution warrant the moment he stepped off his ship, but apparently his victory over the attacking alien ship had bought him some extra time, if nothing else.

Frost strode along at his side as though the snow wasn't there, seemingly unconcerned by anything. There wasn't much that bothered Investigators, if only because they tended to kill things that did. V. Stelmach trudged along in her shadow, using her tall form as a windbreak. His arms were wrapped tightly across his chest, and he was pouting sulkily. Stelmach was not happy. But, then, he rarely was.

Being a Security Officer did that to you. Especially, if your name was Valiant.

The crowd labored on through the packed snow, slipping and lurching and fighting for balance. The mists were growing thicker, obscuring the distance. Silence watched his breath steam on the air before him and wondered what lay ahead. If he had any sense he'd be running for his life rather than presenting his head to the Empress so she could cut it off personally, but he knew his duty. The Service was his life, and if it had been a hard life for the most part, he still wouldn't have chosen any other. As a Captain in the Imperial Navy he was part of something greater, in the service of humanity, and he would give his life for it, should that prove necessary. Lionstone might be a vindictive psychotic with a particularly unfortunate sense of humor, but she was his Empress, and he had sworn upon his life and his honor to serve her all his days. He looked about him at the subzero world and smiled slightly. Typical of Lionstone. Here he was, walking to his execution like a good soldier, and she even had to make that difficult.

He looked around sharply as he sensed as much as heard something large moving up ahead, hidden in the mists. Murmurs moved through the crowd as others heard or saw it. Silence's eyes narrowed, and his hand fell to his hip, where his gun should have been. Glimpses of something large moved through the mist, seen and gone in a moment. It moved ponderously, crunching loudly through the snow, and then suddenly raised a shaggy head and roared defiantly. The harsh sound echoed eerily on the quiet, and then the mists came down again, and the creature was lost to sight. The courtiers huddled together for comfort but kept moving. The Empress was waiting.

Silence's hands itched for a weapon, but gun and sword were both denied him. No subject, no matter how trusted or exalted, was allowed to bear weapons before his Empress, without a special dispensation. Which meant everyone around Silence was unarmed, too. Easy pickings if the creature decided it was hungry. The Empress would have to be crazy to risk endangering the Families with a real threat, but no one would have bet against it. Silence scowled, his hands curling into fists. A dim shape roared again, but the sound was farther off. It was moving away. The crowd breathed a general sigh of relief, and the pace picked up again. There was always the chance the shape was just another hologram, but no one was willing to bet on that, either. Silence decided he was going to stick really close to the Investigator. Even unarmed, Frost was death on two legs, and he'd back her against anything Lionstone might have imported. Not that he'd ever tell Frost that. She was bigheaded enough as it was.

More shapes loomed up out of the mists ahead. At first Silence thought they were security guards waiting to escort the courtiers to the Iron Throne, but as he drew closer he could see they were just snowmen. A line of human shapes, made from packed snow, with cheerful scarves around their necks, coals for eyes, and a smile drawn on. They might have been charming if they hadn't all been depicted dying in different, innovative ways. One had been impaled on a lance. Another held its severed head in its hands. Beside it, a third form had been dismembered, its snow limbs lying scattered around its body. Silence started to walk past them, then hesitated as he realized Frost had stopped. The Investigator stood scowling at the snowmen, one hand patting her hip where her sword should have been. Stelmach stood shivering beside her, not particularly interested in the snowmen, but unwilling to move on without the protection of the only more or less friendly faces he knew. Silence moved in beside Frost.

"What is it, Investigator? Problem?"

"I don't know, Captain. Maybe. There's something about these snowmen. Something… disturbing. Who makes a snowman with limbs?"

She stepped up to the decapitated snowman and took the snow head out of its cupped hands. It was a large round ball of snow, with a wide smile cut beneath the blind coal eyes. Frost grunted at the unexpected weight of the head and balanced it in the crook of her arm while she scraped away at the surface of the snow with her other hand. The eyes and smile disappeared. Silence knew what she was going to find before he saw it. The surface snow disappeared to reveal the nose and staring eyes of a real face. Frost carefully swept away more snow to uncover the human features beneath. Silence didn't recognize the face. He moved forward and thrust his hand deep into the snow body. His fingertips thudded against something hard and unyielding that definitely wasn't packed snow. He pulled his hand out quickly, and rubbed it clean against his hip.

"There's a real body in there," he said quietly.

"Can't say I'm surprised, Captain." Frost threw the head aside. "Shall I check the other snowmen?"

"No need. They're all dead men. Lionstone's way of telling us what's coming. I wonder who they were."

Frost shrugged. "People who upset the Empress. Never any shortage of them. Let's go."

"What's the hurry?" snapped Stelmach. "Make the most of what little time we've got left."

"Don't give up hope," said Silence. "Frost and I have been here before, and we survived. Maybe we'll get lucky this time as well."

"No one's that lucky," said Stelmach.

"Don't worry," said Frost. "We'll put in a good word for you."

"Oh, great," said Stelmach. "That's all I need."

They moved on, trudging doggedly through the deep snow to catch up with the rest of the courtiers. Some of them must have seen what was inside the snowmen, but they were all doing their best to pretend they hadn't. Success at Court often depended on being very selective as to what you saw. The snow fell and the mists thickened and still the arctic scene stretched out before them. Silence frowned. The courtroom couldn't be that large. Perhaps they were being subtly influenced to walk in circles. He looked up sharply as an agitated murmur began again among the courtiers. The crowd lurched to a halt, those on the edges looking quickly about them. Nothing moved in the mists. Silence looked at Frost, who was listening carefully. She gestured for him to lean close so that she could murmur in his ear.

"There's something moving under the snow, Captain. It's large and alive. I can feel the vibrations, and I can hear the sounds it makes as it moves."

"A snow snake, perhaps," said Silence. "They have those on Loki. Some of the big ones run to twenty feet long."

"Oh, no," said Stelmach. "Not snakes. I really don't like snakes."

"Don't worry," said Silence soothingly. "If it annoys the Investigator, she'll tie it in a square knot and throw it away. Right, Frost?"

"Damn right," said Frost.

And that was when a set of jaws ten feet wide opened up beneath a courtier's feet, gulped him down, and disappeared back into the concealing snow. His friends and Family shouted in alarm and fell to their knees to dig at the snow with their bare hands, but there was no trace left of whatever had taken him. They looked at each other helplessly, and far away in the snow and mists came the light tinkling of laughter. The Empress was amused. Some of the courtiers began talking calmingly to those still on their knees. There was nothing to be done. Man proposes and the Empress disposes, and that was just the way it was in the Empire these days. Silence said nothing, but his face was set and grim.

The snow surged up suddenly at the crowd's edge as the snow creature's blunt head broke the surface. People scattered with shouts and shrieks. The great mouth opened and spat out the courtier it had taken. The head dropped back into the snow and disappeared. The courtier sailed through the air and hit the packed snow hard, but his plaintive groan showed that at least he was still alive. His friends clustered around him, checked that he was basically undamaged, and got him on his feet again. Lionstone laughed again, and everyone who liked their head where it was laughed along with her. Even the courtier who'd briefly seen the inside of something much larger than he was managed a shaky laugh. Though he was probably just glad to be alive. Frost looked at Silence.

"Big snake."

Stelmach nodded rapidly, his eyes very large.

The courtiers trudged on again, driving their legs through the deep snow. It actually seemed to be getting colder, if that was possible. Hoarfrost was forming on hair and beards, and melting snow soaked into light clothing. Everyone was shivering, and some were shaking violently. Silence could feel the cold gnawing at his bones despite running the heating elements in his uniform on full. His nose and ears ached, and he could feel crystals of ice forming at the corners of his eyes. Stelmach was shaking as though he had a small juddering engine inside him. Frost, of course, didn't deign to shiver. The courtiers had packed close together for support and shared body warmth, but they still kept clear of Silence, Frost, and Stelmach. They knew pariahs when they saw them. They'd all stopped talking and settled for concentrating on surviving Lionstone's latest practical joke. Everyone agreed it had been a dark day for the Empire in general and the Court in particular when the Empress decided she had a sense of humor.

Strange shapes loomed up out of the mists ahead, huge shards of solid ice thrusting up out of the snow like the only part of the iceberg you ever see. The falling snow swirled around them, as though attracted to the glistening planes of ice. There were statues scattered among the huge shards, curved into sharp-edged, disturbing shapes. Silence looked from the statues to the shards and wondered if they'd been carved and shaped, too, into ancient enigmatic shapes that only mankind's distant ancestors might have recognized and responded to. The ice structures formed a rough semicircle, inviting the courtiers in, and there at the far end stood the Iron Throne, set up high on a great block of ice. And on that ancient chair of black iron studded with jade sat the Empress Lionstone XIV, calmly watching their stumbling approach.

She was wrapped in layers of thick furs, like some ancient tribal leader, her pale face as cold and clear as the legendary Ice Queen, who stole men's souls by sliding shards of ice into their eyes and hearts. She had a long, sharp-planed face, with a wide slash of a mouth and brilliant blue eyes, colder than any ice could ever be. She was beautiful, but that, too, was a cold kind of beauty, like the tall diamond crown on her head. The Empress, the worshiped and adored, whose whims were law and at whose merest word men died and worlds burned. Also known as the Iron Bitch.

She sat at ease on the Iron Throne, watching with a sardonic smile as the courtiers drew up before her, bowed their heads, and then held themselves in that humble and uncomfortable position while they waited for the word from the Empress that would release them. On bad days, she'd been known to keep them there for ages, till sweat dropped off their faces and their backs screamed for release. Today, she gave them permission to straighten up after only a few seconds, suggesting either she was in a good mood after all or she was really looking forward to something yet to come. The courtiers practiced looking polite and respectful and extremely loyal as the Empress's smile wandered over them.

They also kept a respectful distance, not just because of the twenty armed guards spread out behind the Throne, but also because of Lionstone's maids-in-waiting, who crouched snarling silently at her feet. There were ten of them, each more dangerous than any armed man. They wore no clothes, but they didn't feel the cold. They didn't feel anything unless the Empress permitted it. Mind techs had stirred their sticky fingers in the maids' brains until nothing remained there but unquestioning obedience to the Empress. They would die to protect her. Or kill, as required. They were cunning, deadly fighters, with hidden implanted weaponry. They were silent because they had no tongues, and they perceived the world only through grafted cybernetic senses. Their fingers had steel claws. They clustered together at the base of the Iron Throne, glaring at the courtiers, waiting eagerly to be unleashed on anyone foolish enough to displease their mistress. But for once, not even they were enough to hold the courtiers' gaze. Beside the Throne, standing a little to one side in the swirling snow, huge and awful, stood a yoked Grendel alien.

On the planet called Grendel, genetically engineered creatures lay sleeping in deep-buried vaults. Thousands upon thousands of them, an army waiting for an enemy that never came. The alien civilization that created them was long gone, but their work lived on. Unstoppable killing machines, living weapons, programmed to fight on until either they or the enemy was destroyed. An Empire exploratory team made the mistake of opening one of the ancient vaults, and the Sleepers emerged in a fury of blood and slaughter. They wiped out all the team and overran the exploratory camp on the surface in a matter of minutes. Hundreds of men and women died screaming, their weapons useless, and not one Grendel fell. In the end they had no starships, so were trapped on the planet's surface. The Empress gave the order for the planet's surface to be scorched from orbit, and that was the end of the Grendels. Except for those still sleeping in the vaults deep below. Lionstone put the planet under quarantine, and left starcruisers there to enforce it.

But faced with the threat of unknown alien foes massing against the Empire, Lionstone had conceived of a new plan: to waken and control the Grendels and use them as shock troops. And now here one stood, a thick cybernetic yoke gleaming on its shoulders, controlling the creature's thoughts. Theoretically. Everyone eyed the Grendel warily and hoped fervently that this time the scientists had got all the bugs out in advance. The Grendel alien stood nine feet tall, in spiked crimson silicon armor that was somehow a part of it. It had vicious fangs and claws and was roughly humanoid in shape, but its large heart-shaped face had nothing even remotely like a human expression. Just one of the creatures had wiped out a whole company of Silence's men when he went down to the vaults to capture and control the aliens, before he brought it down, as much by luck as anything. And now here one was in Court, with only a prototype yoke holding back its perpetual killing rage.

More than ever Silence wished he had his weapons with him. Or at least some idea which way the exit was. The courtiers studied the Grendel silently and were not happy. They understood the need for increased security at Court, after previous attacks by both aliens and elves, but a personal Grendel on a leash was going a bit far, even for Lionstone. This had gone beyond safety or style and headed firmly in the direction of overkill. Possibly literally. Those at the front of the crowd were seized with a sudden polite wish for others to take up their privileged vantage point and attempted to fade back into the crowd. The rank behind them were having none of this and resisted strongly. If the yoke should fail, everyone knew better than to think the armed guards would try to protect them. That wasn't what they were there for. The courtiers somehow managed to stir rebelliously in complete silence. Frost leaned in close beside Stelmach, who jumped slightly. Frost didn't smile.

"I thought you said you were the only one with a yoked Grendel. And that one was destroyed on Haden. So what's this doing here?"

"Apparently, research has moved on in my absence," said Stelmach, his voice little more than a whisper, trying to talk without moving his lips so as to avoid drawing attention to himself. Frost frowned heavily.

"Just how dependable is that yoke?"

"Depends what you mean by dependable. Unless they've made some major breakthrough, which I strongly doubt, the yoke is strictly on/off. Once the Grendel's been unleashed it will kill anything it sees. The best you can hope to do is make sure it's aimed in the right direction. If that yoke follows the processes my people set up, it should do its job, but I wouldn't like to bet my life on it."

"We are betting our lives on it," said Silence.

"I know," said Stelmach, unhappily.

Silence looked about him, not bothering to hide his interest. He had no doubt there were more armed guards around that he couldn't see, probably hidden behind concealing holograms. Plus any number of esp-blockers, to keep out esper terrorists. And a whole set of other protections he probably wouldn't even recognize. The Empress was said to have spent more than one fortune making her Courtroom as secure as was humanly and inhumanly possible. It wasn't just paranoia. There were a lot of people who would like to see Lionstone dead, who'd dance at her funeral and piss on her grave. Quite a lot of them could be found among the courtiers, which was why they were only admitted unarmed after a complete body scan. Sometimes answering a summons to Court could turn out to be a death sentence for someone who hadn't been as careful at plotting as he thought he'd been. It didn't stop the Families coming to Court. It was, after all, where things happened. The best place to see and be seen, watched on billions of holos across the Empire. The only place where they could have their say in how things were decided. And despite their justified nervousness, a great many of the courtiers were determined to be heard.

For the first time in years, they were pretty sure they had a chance to force power out of Lionstone's hands and into theirs. They had something that if properly handled might just drive a wedge between the Empress and the military that supported her. The rebels' triumphant trashing on the Tax and Tithe Headquarters, along with their breaking open of the planet's defenses, had made the military's position very vulnerable, politically speaking. The sudden alien attack had only emphasized this. And on top of everything else that had happened, the Empire's Warrior Prime, the Empress's own official Consort and good right hand, the Lord High Dram, was strongly rumored to be dead. Killed on some faraway planet, on an unknown mission entirely unauthorized by the Court.

The only people said to know for sure were the crew of the Dauntless, and they were being held in strict quarantine on their ship in orbit. Except for Silence, Frost, and Stelmach. There were a lot of eyes following their every move, but the courtiers gave them plenty of room, too, just in case. They were pretty sure Lionstone had something in mind for these three, and it might well turn out to be messy. Silence was aware of the Court's undercurrents, and the way the courtiers were looking at the Empress. He couldn't help thinking they had a point. If Lionstone and her military couldn't protect her own planet from a single alien ship and a handful of rebels, she and they were in no position to try and dictate terms to the Company of Lords and the Members of Parliament, whose monies helped to pay for everything. The bottom line of which was, if they were going to pay higher taxes for the Empire's security, they wanted more of a say in how that money was to be spent. And preferably before the tax records could be worked out again and the new rates decided.

Not being blind to all this, the military had taken steps to establish a strong presence among the courtiers. Officers of all ranks and stature, from the highest to the very high, stood at attention before the Throne. If the cold was bothering them, they were doing their best not to show it, though snow had accumulated on their heads and the shoulders of their uniforms. They had come to Court to make it clear that the Empress still enjoyed the military's support and confidence. And, of course, vice versa. The military was there to protect Lionstone against all threats; even those that might come from the Court itself. Though not above playing politics, when necessary, all branches of the Services owed their allegiance to the Empress, first and foremost. It was a matter of honor, which in the military at least, still ranked above politics—mostly.

The Church of Christ the Warrior had its own strong presence, with ranks of armored acolytes standing alongside the military and studiously ignoring them. They had pale faces and shaved heads and the unblinking glare of the true fanatic. They were warrior priests, raised in a hot and bloody faith since childhood; and they bowed to the Empress only when circumstances forced them to it. The Church believed in enforcing the faith, even if it meant killing the very people they were supposed to be converting. It preached that might was right, by God's will, and was always ready and eager to provide practical examples. There were other religions in the Empire, but mostly they kept their heads down and tried to avoid being noticed.

General Shaw Beckett stood at the very front of the crowd, and studied the ranks of robed acolytes thoughtfully. He didn't bother to hide his interest. Some of them were watching him just as intently, and for the same reason. Know thy enemy. Beckett smiled and blew a cloud of cigar smoke at them. Faith was all very well, but he preferred training. Just because a fanatic isn't afraid to die, it doesn't necessarily follow that he'll be able to get the job done before the enemy kills him. The General was an old soldier, and took the Church of Christ the Warrior with a large pinch of salt. He'd been a legendary fighter in his day, and even though he was now very clearly in his twilight years, no one crossed him without taking the precaution of making out their will first.

He was of average height, but extremely fat, and this made him appear shorter. Most of his weight had accumulated around his waist, so much so that even his specially tailored battle armor had to strain to hold him in, but he didn't give a damn. He'd spent enough years in the field that he felt he'd earned his little comforts now. His value these days lay in his years of experience at the sharp end, and his brilliant, incisive military mind. He was renowned as a master tactician, and a wily debater, and rarely failed to get his own way, even when the Empress was in one of her moods and everyone else had run for cover. She was constantly on the verge of having him dragged away for saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment, or insisting on a truth she didn't want to hear, but somehow he always found a way to remind her of how valuable he was to her, and the Empire. Besides, he made her laugh. Shaw Beckett smoked thick cigars, even in places where he wasn't permitted to, and liked to blow the smoke in people's faces while he was talking to them. He had other bad habits, too, and gloried in them. Not surprisingly, he was very popular with the watching holo audiences.

The Church had a private but widely known bounty for anyone who would bring the Church the General's head, preferably unattached to the body.

The Church of Christ the Warrior had grown increasingly large and powerful since Lionstone made it the official religion of the Empire and gave it her backing. It ran exhaustive purges in her name, killed off every heretic it could get its hands on, and then decreed it had grown so powerful through God's will that it didn't need the Empress's support anymore. As the foremost Church in the Empire, Lionstone should bow to them. This didn't go down at all well with Lionstone, but having made them the official Church after a very public baptism, she couldn't back down now without looking weak and indecisive. And they did have one hell of a following. So she settled for sharpening the claws of her humor on them at every opportunity, and backing the military against the Church whenever they came into conflict. Which was pretty often, these days.

The Church retaliated by increasing its ranks of deadly Jesuit commandos, and set about infiltrating society from top to bottom. Every Family had lost someone to the clutches of the Church, either as a member or a proclaimed heretic. As a result, people now had two masters they needed to please if they were to have anything approaching a quiet life: the Empress and the Church. Choose the wrong one at the wrong time, and you could end up in a world of trouble. As far as the Church was concerned, even Family loyalties and considerations should come second to the needs of the Church.

This did not go down at all well with the Company of Lords, who tended not to give a damn what the lower orders chose to believe in, as long as they remained respectful and hardworking, but had little time themselves to worship anything apart from profit and status. So this new attitude of the Church had infuriated the noble Families, who made it very clear that they were determined to continue their age-old freedom to intrigue, lust, duel and generally kick ass as they saw fit.

The Church, on the other hand, started with the belief that everyone was secretly guilty of something, and were always on the lookout for ammunition they could use to bring down the powerful, and bend them to the Church's will. So they persuaded, encouraged, bribed, and threatened the lower orders to spy on their masters, and report useful items, if they wished to avoid the Church's displeasure. The Families retaliated by launching their own purges among the lower orders. Everyone caught in between kept their heads well down and hoped not to be noticed. With the overall result that life in the Empire had of late become a great deal more complicated for everyone.

"The Church has been busy since we were last here," murmured Silence to Frost. "Those warrior priests look impressive. And there are a damn sight more of them than there used to be."

"Bunch of pansies," said Frost, not even deigning to look at them. "They're good at looking tough, but that's about it. I could carve them up and eat them raw without even a decent red wine to wash them down. I know the type. Brave enough in packs, but gutless in a fair fight. They're so keen to worship God, let them pick a fight with me, and I'll send them up so they can have a personal chat with him."

"If you're going to keep on talking like that, kindly give me some warning," said Stelmach. "So I can stay well away from you. The Church has extremely keen hearing these days, and it never forgives a slight or an insult. Oh, God, one of them's coming this way. Try and look penitent."

"I wouldn't know how," said Frost.

Silence somehow managed to keep a straight face as the warrior priest approached, courtiers falling well back to give him plenty of room. He wore a long bloodred gown and skullcap, and an expression stern enough to cut glass. He was in his mid twenties and trying to look older. Two scalps hung from his belt, and a necklace of human ears hung around his neck. He stopped before Silence and Frost, ignoring Stelmach, who was quite happy to be ignored. The warrior priest looked from Silence to Frost and back again, his expression suggesting he'd seen more impressive specimens lying facedown on tavern floors, eating the sawdust.

"They say you saved us all from the Godless alien craft," said the priest. "If you did, it was by God's will. You are both fine warriors, by all accounts, but you must learn your place in the new scheme of things. You must seek the Church's exemption for your sins and failures, as well as Lionstone's. To stand alone is no longer permitted. You must decide where you stand, and with who, and state it publicly. And remember, if you do not stand with the Church, you stand against it. And the Church knows how to deal with its enemies. Do I make myself clear?"

His sneer disappeared suddenly as Frost drop-kicked him from a standing start. The force of the blow picked the warrior priest up and threw him back among his own people, scattering them like ninepins. There was much moaning and groaning and clutching of injured parts. The warrior priest who'd started it all lay curled up in a ball, trying to persuade his lungs to start working again. Frost had regained her feet, her face calm. She wasn't even breathing hard. Stelmach covered his eyes with his hand. Silence applauded. Some of the braver courtiers joined in. Frost ignored them all magnificently, every inch an Investigator.

"I don't think I want to stand anywhere near you two," said Stelmach. "You must have a death wish."

"Lighten up," said Silence. "We've probably been brought here to die anyway, remember? What does it matter who gets to kill us?"

Stelmach glanced briefly at the Empress on her Iron Throne, and then looked at Silence almost pleadingly. "You're sure, then? We've no hope at all?"

"Oh, there's always hope," said Silence. "The last time we were here, Frost and I, they had us in chains from nose to toes, and all the execution warrants needed was our names in the right places. We survived. Our chances are, if anything, rather worse this time, but at least we're not in chains. I choose to see that as an encouraging sign."

"I don't," said Frost. "They're just being subtle. Nothing like providing a false hope to really put the screws to someone."

Stelmach sighed. "I had hoped some of my Family might turn up, to provide a little moral support, at least, but no. No one's here to see me die. A failure has no kin or friends, for fear it might rub off."

Silence looked at him. "That was almost profound. Obviously being this close to sudden death inspires you. You never talk much, Stelmach. Tell us about your Family. What kind of people christen their son Valiant?"

"Ambitious people," said Stelmach grimly. "My people were in business, but not successful enough to become a Minister or marry into a Clan. So we were all packed off into the military at an early age. My brothers, Bold and Hero, are mid-line officers. My sister, Athena, was taken away even younger to be an Investigator. I don't know what became of her. One doesn't ask. My father died long ago, so he never got to see me disappoint him. Security Officers aren't exactly the most glamorous rank in the army."

"At least you still have a Family," said Silence. "I became a Captain because my Clan expected it of me. And I wanted them to be proud of me. Instead, twice now I've brought the Family name into disrepute. Officially, they disowned me when I failed to go down with my first ship, the Darkwind. I was ready to, but the Investigator here insisted on saving me, for her own inscrutable reasons. Isn't that right, Frost?"

"We all make mistakes," said Frost, not looking at him. Silence smiled slightly.

"Aren't you going to tell us about your family, Investigator? We've both opened our hearts here. Tell us where you came from."

There was a long pause, until Silence had almost decided he'd pushed it too far, and then Frost spoke very quietly, so that Silence and Stelmach had to concentrate to make out her words. She didn't look at either of them as she spoke.

"Officially, Investigators have no Family but each other. But I was curious, so I broke into the right hidden files and checked out my background. I found my parents' address and went to visit them. Only my father would agree to see me. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen. He was afraid of me. I never went back. No Family made me, Captain. I made me, with a little help from the Empire."

"I'm glad we had this little talk," said Stelmach. "I was feeling a bit depressed, but now I've moved on to feeling actually suicidal. Why don't we all just swallow our tongues now and get it over with?"

"Because there's still hope," said Silence. "And because even if I am going down, I'll still fight them every inch of the way. Right, Investigator?"

"Right," said Frost. "Oh, look, the warrior priests seem to be recovering."

The priests had got their breath back and were now back on their feet, though still leaning on each other for support. The military were openly chuckling and nudging each other. Some of the courtiers began to applaud again, and then stopped and looked to see if the Empress approved. Luckily for all concerned, Lionstone was apparently deep in conversation with General Beckett. So everyone else turned to look at the other man standing in front of the crowd before the Iron Throne: James Kassar, Cardinal of the Church of Christ the Warrior.

Said by many to be one of the most dangerous men in the Empire, he was tall and muscular, and wore black battle armor as though born to it. A large crucifix stood out in bas-relief on the armor over his heart. He'd been handsome once, but not anymore. Kassar had had a man executed as a heretic on questionable grounds, and the man's widow threw acid in the Cardinal's face. He struck her down a moment later, gutting her with his sword, but the damage had been done. His right eye was gone, eaten right out of the socket, and the right side of his face had been burned down to the skull beneath, so that discolored pitted bone showed clearly through ragged strips of flesh. His teeth gleamed through the remnants of his right cheek, giving him a constant ghastly half smile that had humor in it. His face was a fright mask to turn the strongest stomach, and he knew it. That was why he'd never had it healed. A regeneration machine would have smoothed the terrible wounds away, but he chose not to. Perhaps as a sign that nothing could stop or hurt him, perhaps as a reverse kind of vanity. There were those who thought it pleased Kassar to have a face that made others quail.

There were also those who said he'd had the guards who let the woman slip past them arrested and then lowered into a vat of acid, feet first, one inch at a time. Few people had trouble believing the story. Cardinal Kassar was known for his cold rages and a vindictiveness that masqueraded as a thirst for justice. He'd risen rapidly through the ranks of the Church through leading vigorous crusades against heretics, which could be anyone who challenged his or the Church's authority. He didn't hesitate to accuse anyone who stood against the Church's rising influence or who got in the way of his own personal ascent, even if they were friends or Family or previous allies. And as he rose through the ranks with unprecedented speed, people hurried to copy his zeal, if they knew what was good for them.

As a result, a useful way of dealing with one's enemies was to accuse them of heresy. No proof was needed; often the accusation was enough. There were tribunals, where the accused could present their defense, but they cost money. Justice has never come cheap. Things got so bad some people tried to take out insurance against being accused, to cover possible legal fees, only to discover the premiums were more expensive than the fees. That was when the courtiers first realized no one was safe anymore. The Empress wasn't slow to pick up on this and found the practice particularly useful for helping her keep her Court in order. If anyone started making trouble or getting above themselves, the word would go out and the unfortunate victim would be awakened in the early hours by the sound of holy boots kicking his door down. Soon anyone who even annoyed Lionstone had better have very strong ties with the Church, or a lot of money to hire lawyers. If you could find a lawyer brave enough to take on the Church these days.

The courtiers played the same dangerous game, denouncing each other every day for political, Family, or personal reasons, but they were taken less seriously. The truth quickly vanished in a morass of claims and counterclaims, until even the Church grew sick of it. So they just recorded everything, to be kept for future ammunition, as necessary.

Valentine Wolfe had been denounced so many times for all kinds of heresy that the Church lost count, including some that had previously been thought to be only theoretically possible, but the charges never stuck. No one doubted that he was an utter degenerate, with a drug habit strong enough to have killed half a dozen normal men, but as head of the Empire's first Family, incredibly rich and powerful, with the Empress's ear and support, he was for all practical purposes completely untouchable. Some wits made remarks about barge poles, but never when Valentine was around. Kassar still hadn't given up on him, but for the time being they settled for conspicuously ignoring each other. The courtiers watched avidly. Everyone knew the situation couldn't go on forever. It was just a question of which one made a misstep first; and then there'd be blood and hair on the walls.

People had been laying bets for months.

Valentine Wolfe stood a little alone in the heart of the crowd, as he always did. He was the head of the first Family on Golgotha, his every word a command for thousands of people, but he had no friends, or anyone who could say they were close to him. Valentine didn't give a damn. He never had. He'd always found himself infinitely better company than any of those who surrounded him. And given his continuing experimentation with every drug under the sun, and a few that grew only in darkness, his inner world was more than enough to occupy him in his quiet moments.

Valentine was tall and slender and darkly delicate, like a fairy-tale demon prince, only more unreal. His face was long and thin and dyed a perfect white. Heavy mascara surrounded his overbright eyes, and a thickly painted crimson smile gave his face its only expression. Jet-black hair fell to his shoulders in thick curls and ringlets that had never known a comb. He wore dark clothes with the occasional splash of color, red for preference, and ignored the passing dictates of fashion with supreme indifference. In his time, he'd used every drug known to man and kept his private staff of chemists busy coming up with new ones. It was truly said he'd never met a chemical he didn't like. Anyone else who tried to ingest the quantity and variety of drugs Valentine had would undoubtably have been poisoned a dozen times over, his brains helplessly scrambled; but by some dark alchemical miracle. Valentine thrived and prospered. And if he saw the rest of the world rather differently than most people and had the occasional animated discussion with people who weren't there, still, it didn't seem to be slowing him down any. He remained sharp, ambitious, and extremely dangerous.

But even he knew he couldn't go on forever as he was, without paying the price. He had the best doctors his considerable fortune could afford, and took frequent rests in his own personal regeneration machine, but his continuous extensive drug use combined with the never-ending pressure of his many intrigues to undo his precarious and hard-won self-control. He was burning himself up, inside and out, and his only response was to throw more chemicals on the fire. As a result, he was now so preternaturally sharp and tuned-in that he all but quivered where he stood. He was so incredibly aware that he could read body language as though it was the printed word, with everyone's merest gesture shouting information at him. Plans and plots and pieces of whimsy flashed through his mind, sparking like lightning, come and gone in a moment. His body might be attending the Court, but his mind was here, there, and everywhere, all at once. Valentine rode the waves of his mind like a surfer, perfectly balanced, looking down from the giddy heights of an endless curl. He found it exhilarating, but he never lost control. Or if he did, no one seemed to notice.

He remained convinced that if he could just discover the right combination of drugs, he could acquire a perfect equilibrium between the effects he needed and the side effects he endured. A perfect never-ending high, soaring like a bird, limitless and free. But in the meantime, he found he needed increasingly large doses of each drug just to get the same desired effect; and he had to take more and more new drugs to counter the malicious effects of older drugs, whose remnants were still lurking in his system. As a result he was thinner than ever and much more intense, jolted from moment to moment by his chemical express, and he could no more comprehend a life without his little helpers than a life without oxygen. He was also taking specific short-lived drugs for specific needs, making the necessary decisions from moment to moment. And this seemed a very good moment to increase his mental clarity. He had no friends at this Court and many enemies, and he didn't trust his allies. It was therefore vital that he outthink them all at every turn.

He took out his silver pillbox, wiped a layer of frost from the lid, opened it, and chose a single tab. He pressed it against the side of his neck, hitting the main vein with practiced ease, and his crimson smile widened as the new drug surged through his bloodstream like a barreling train. His thoughts slammed into a new gear, sharp and clear and quicksilver fast. Everyone else seemed to be moving in slow motion. He felt comfortably warm, as though sitting in a great chair before a banked study fire, and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, despite the bitter cold. His breathing deepened, and his heart thudded echoingly in his chest. He watched the patterns people made around him, every move a revelation. He reined his thoughts in, concentrating only on what he needed. The trouble with this particular drug was that it tended to make him a little paranoid. But that was acceptable, under the circumstances. At Lionstone's Court they really were out to get you.

A short, fat figure approached him, scowling determinedly, and Valentine drew himself up, posing elegantly. Judging by his dogged stance, the Lord Gregor Shreck was set on business. Valentine didn't mind. He could play that game, too. He smiled at the Shreck politely, but didn't bow. He didn't want to encourage the man. Gregor lurched to a halt before him, sniffed once, and then nodded stiffly.

"A moment of your time, Wolfe; it's to our mutual advantage."

"Well," said Valentine pleasantly, "never let it be said that I turned down an advantage. How nice to see you again, dear Shreck. You're looking well. Lost a little weight, perhaps?"

"Nothing I couldn't afford to lose," said Gregor, trying for a polite smile. It wasn't particularly successful. He lacked the practice. "We have interests in common, Wolfe, not to mention enemies. Clan Chojiro is becoming dangerously influential at Court these days. With the Campbells thrown down and destroyed, Chojiros have prospered in their absence. Now, not content with threatening our business interests, they are seeking to undermine us here, too. In fact, I would go so far as to say that Chojiros have become so prominent that neither you nor I could successfully deny them anything they really wanted. At least, not separately. But…"

"But together, in alliance, we could put them back in their place," said Valentine, completing the sentence he could almost hear before it was said. His thoughts rocketed on, far ahead of the Shreck's. Weighing which Clan would be of most potential use to him in the future and which the most dangerous. Chojiros were on the way up, and Shrecks were sinking. And the Chojiros at least knew something of honor, which was more than Gregor ever had. Valentine approved of honor. It made it so much easier to manipulate people who believed in it, or thought he did. Besides, he didn't trust the Shreck. Never had.

"Thank you, Gregor," he said only a second later, "but I'm really not interested in fighting any wars at present. Since my hostile takeover of Clan Campbell, I have more than enough to keep me occupied these days. Chojiros are an annoyance, nothing more. Thank you for your interest, Lord Shreck. Don't let me keep you. I'm sure there are others simply dying for your company."

Gregor Shreck stood fuming for a moment and then stomped away, kicking at the snow before him. He would have liked to have threatened the Wolfe, to make it clear standing on the sidelines could be dangerous, too, but in truth he had nothing to threaten Valentine with, and they both knew it. Valentine smiled slightly as he watched the small, squat figure plowing through the snow with furious energy. The Shreck would find no allies here at Court, and he'd never had any friends. There was always the Church, of course. Gregor had been courting them furiously just recently. But the Church would be Valentine's enemy anyway.

He looked around to see if anyone had been watching his brief encounter with the Shreck, but they were all avoiding his eye. Of course they'd been watching. They all wanted something from him. Everyone did. Valentine shrugged. He had more important things to think about. Of late his intelligence people buried in the underground had been bringing him more and more reports of apparent inhuman abilities among the new rebels, exploits that could not be accounted for by esper talents. Examples of strength and abilities beyond anything ever seen before. It was all rumor and gossip, of course, but if there was a process that could produce abilities greater than esp, Valentine wanted it for himself. He was still chasing the esper drug, with little success. His efforts had been made much more difficult since his enforced divorce from the underground, but he'd taken care to seed the rebel forces with his own people some time in advance, just in case. Pity about the underground. They'd had access to all kinds of unusual and forbidden practices. But he'd become too public now to risk links like that.

The Lord High Dram, in his persona as the man called Hood, had worked his way into the highest levels of the clone and esper underground before he revealed his true identity—which meant he knew all about Valentine's involvement. Valentine had never cared a damn for the underground's politics or causes; he'd only been interested in alternative routes to power and the drug that could reportedly make an esper out of anyone. But he felt he might have a hard time convincing Lionstone of that. So when Hood was revealed as Dram, Valentine moved quickly to sever all his links with the underground and disposed of anything or anyone that could directly connect him with the rebels. The people he'd seeded in the underground didn't matter. They didn't know who they were reporting to, and as long as the money kept coming, they didn't ask questions. So Valentine sat back and waited for Dram to make his move, confident he could defy the man to prove anything. Even the Warrior Prime's word wouldn't be enough on its own to convict the head of the first Family in the Empire. Rank has its privileges, after all.

However, Dram never said a word. Valentine waited, armed and prepared for any attack, but none came, and slowly Valentine came to believe that he was safe, for the moment. Perhaps the Empress had decided it wasn't in the Empire's interest to bring down the man she depended on to provide her with the new stardrive. Or perhaps the information was being kept in reserve, as a weapon to use against him at some future time. Lionstone had always been one to take the long view.

Except… there was a delicious rumor going around of late that the Lord High Dram was dead. He hadn't been seen at Court for ages. His only recent appearances had been as a head and shoulders on a viewscrcen, and that could have been anyone, behind a digital mask. The word was, Dram had been sent on an extremely secret mission, got his head handed to him, and came home in a box. No one had any proof, as yet, but Valentine had heard the rumor in so many places and from so many sources, some surprisingly high up, that he couldn't help feeling there had to be something in it.

And if Dram was dead, there was a good chance his proof of Valentine's treason died with him. Which meant he could go back to the underground. If he wanted to. Valentine pursed his scarlet mouth. With all that had happened to him of late, he no longer needed the underground as a route to power. He was doing perfectly well on his own. And his agents stood a much better chance of discovering the source of the esper drug than he ever would. No, he didn't need the rebels anymore. He didn't need anyone. And he had other, more important, worries to concern him.

During the epic clash in which the Wolfes had gone head-to-head with the Campbells and ground them underfoot, the then head of the Wolfes, Valentine's father, Jacob, had been killed. Everyone assumed a Campbell had got a lucky blow in, but actually the hand on the weapon had been Valentine's. No one had seen. No one knew. But shortly after the battle was over and all the Campbells were either dead or had fled, Jacob's body could not be found. Valentine had ordered an immediate search and offered all kinds of rewards for the body's return, but nothing was ever seen or heard of it again.

Which meant Jacob was still out there, somewhere. Not alive. He couldn't be alive. Even if Jacob's mysterious friends had got him to a regeneration machine straight away, it would still have been too late. He'd been brain-dead too long. Valentine was quite sure of that. He could still remember the moment when he'd killed his father. One of his drugs gave him perfect recall, and he played the moment over and over in his mind, savoring it. He'd moved in behind his father, unnoticed in the heat of battle, and slipped his dagger expertly in and out of Jacob's ribs, so fast no one saw or suspected anything. Jacob was dead. Valentine never doubted it for a moment. But who had his body?

Finlay and Adrienne had been the only Campbells to escape the slaughter, running for their lives on a stolen gravity sled, but Jacob's body hadn't gone with them. The tower's external security cameras had a good view of the departing sled, and there were only two people on it. Unfortunately, Valentine couldn't study the records from the interior cameras, because he'd arranged for them all to be turned off the moment the fighting started. He couldn't afford for them to show him killing his father, after all. So anyone inside the room could have taken him.

But what use was the body to anyone? They could clone another Jacob from his cells, but if he turned up again, a simple genetest would be enough to reveal it wasn't the real Jacob. And the Family wouldn't pay ransom for a clone. Not even the grieving widow Constance… Though they might have paid a ransom for the safe return of Jacob's body so that it could be laid to rest with honor.

But no ransom demand ever materialized. A thought forced itself into Valentine's mind, much against his will. What if… no one had taken it? What if the dead body had just got up and walked away, unnoticed in the general chaos? Valentine shuddered involuntarily as the image played itself out relentlessly before his mind's eye. Jacob's body, its death wound still bloody in its side, rising unsteadily to its feet, and pausing only briefly to glare at its murderer before slipping unnoticed out the door. Jacob's body, stumbling unseen down some dark alleyway, animated no longer by life, but by pure hatred for its killer. Out there, somewhere, waiting for its chance for bloody vengeance against its murderous son. Valentine had always had a superstitious side. Mostly he encouraged it for the extra thrills it provided, but now the thought of his dead father haunted him and would not let him alone. Sometimes, in the night, when he was alone in his bedchamber, he thought he heard his father talking to him from the shadows. The words terrified him, but he could never remember them in the morning.

Of course, that could always be the drugs.

Valentine brought his thoughts firmly under control. No one could hurt him now. He was the Wolfe, acknowledged and unchallenged, and nothing could undo that, no matter what had happened to his father's body. He had destroyed his rivals the Campbells and held the single most important and lucrative contract in the Empire: the mass production of the new stardrive. Everyone bowed their head to him and gave him plenty of room.

He had the Empress's ear, when many did not. She saw him as her fool and jester, wisdom and madness in one entertaining package, but she listened when he spoke. She tolerated much from him that she would not from anyone else, because he amused her. And not least because she enjoyed seeing other people's reactions when she favored him over them or put him in positions of power over them.

At heart, Lionstone was a creature of simple pleasures. Both the military and the Church had made it clear they disapproved of him. There weren't many things the Church and the military agreed on, but Valentine Wolfe was definitely one of them. Since they both needed the stardrive to get about (neither could afford to be left behind by the other), they remained polite in company. Mostly. None of the Families liked him being so powerful—on the ground it upset the delicate balance of power among them that usually kept them from each other's throats—but their occasional intrigues against him came to nothing.

It was the same with the Members of Parliament. They couldn't buy or control him, because in the end they had nothing he wanted. That made him dangerous, a wild card, unpredictable.

But every single one of them could see the advantage of having his friendship. Which made for some interesting conversations.

Valentine's brother and sister, Daniel and Stephanie, watched him from a safe distance. They were there at Court, with their respective spouses, because duty demanded it. But as usual they weren't talking to Valentine. They despised and hated him, partly because he was a drug-soaked degenerate and a disgrace to the Family and partly because he so obviously didn't give a damn. Both Daniel and Stephanie had been forced into arranged marriages, one of the last of Jacob's orders, but neither match could be said to be successful. Not that Daniel or Stephanie had tried very hard. They had other, more important things to think about. As Wolfes, they'd prospered along with the rest of the Family, but they remained very much in Valentine's shadow. With his sudden rise, they'd lost all power and influence in the Family and now subsisted on whatever crumbs he threw their way. They intrigued furiously against him, but they'd never been very good at it. And so, with only each other to rely on and cling to, they'd grown increasingly close. Some said unnaturally so.

Daniel was the youngest, only just into his twenties, and had the hulking frame of his father, but none of the wit or intelligence. He'd been clumsy as a child, till his father beat it out of him. Even now, he tended to move with exaggerated care. He wore his hair long, in thick golden strands, the latest fashion, but couldn't be bothered with the florescent face makeup that should have accompanied it. Mostly because he didn't have the skill or the looks to bring it off successfully, and he hated the idea that people might be laughing at him. Daniel had no sense of humor and didn't trust those who did.

Stephanie, the middle child, was tall and gangling, good-looking in a bland sort of way, and deadly as a coiled snake. If she'd had intelligence to equal her venom, no one would have been safe. As it was, she raged against Valentine's restraints, but had no idea yet how to break them. It didn't stop her doing her best to show Valentine up at every opportunity, on principle. Valentine just smiled at those around him and said sisters, and everybody laughed. She hated it when they laughed. She dominated Daniel, but that wasn't exactly difficult. She'd always been the cold one in the Family. Daniel missed his father, but she didn't. She had no time for emotions that got in the way.

And yet, almost in spite of himself, Valentine had recently been forced to give the two of them more and more to do on the business side of the Family. He had neither the time nor the aptitude for running the stardrive business, but it was too important a post to be trusted to anyone not a major Wolfe. And that meant Daniel and Stephanie, who between them had one pretty good brain. He trusted them not to screw things up out of spite. Mad at him though they were, he was pretty sure they wouldn't do anything to harm the Family.

At first, they took their new post as an insult, aristocrats forced to dirty their hands with trade, but it didn't take Stephanie long to realize that power in the business side of things could perhaps be used to undermine Valentine. So she studied hard and made Daniel study, too. Between them they ran the business and made it theirs. So far, Valentine hadn't noticed. Daniel and Stephanie planned to change that.

They stood close together, shivering in the falling snow, watching Valentine think. Their gaze was not friendly. Daniel produced a flask of brandy and passed it to Stephanie. She accepted it gratefully and took a healthy swallow. The drink burned fiercely in her chest, sinking slowly lower, fighting off the chill of the driving wind. She passed the flask back to her brother, who drank deeply.

"Not too much, Daniel," Stephanie said automatically. "This is a bad place to be caught without all your wits about you."

"I can handle it," he said, just as automatically. "I can handle it." But he put the flask away anyway. "You worry too much, big sister."

"And you don't worry enough."

"Not true. I only have to look at Valentine thinking like that, and I start worrying. Means he's planning something again, to no one's advantage but his. Or just possibly he's found out how deeply we're involved with this stardrive company. We were only supposed to run it, not take it over."

Stephanie smiled coldly. "By the time he works out what's happening, it'll be too late. Control over stardrive production will give us control over him. He depends on it for his station at Court. A sudden drop in numbers, just when the Empress had called for an increase, would humiliate him without harming the company in the least. There are lots of other things we can do, too, that will reflect on him, rather than us. It shouldn't be too hard to throw all the blame on Valentine; after all, we're the ones with access to the company books. And after a steady stream of embarrassments, we shouldn't find it too difficult to convince Lionstone it would be in her and the Empire's best interests to take the company away from Valentine and give it to us. We'll bring him down, little brother. We'll bring him all the way down."

Daniel scowled unhappily. "I still can't help worrying what it is he's after, that he spends all his time pursuing it rather than running the company he depends on. Whatever it is, it must be something really important."

Stephanie shrugged. "Who knows where Valentine's thoughts are these days? I'm surprised they're still on the same planet as the rest of us."

"We'll get him," said Daniel, trying hard to sound as confident as she did. "We'll drag him down. Father never intended a sick degenerate like Valentine to head the Family. And then we'll run things. The both of us."

"Yes," said Stephanie. "Of course. The both of us."

Daniel looked at her, and his voice dropped. "Are you all right? Cold getting to you? Come to little brother, and let him warm you up."

He held open his cloak, and she snuggled up against him as he wrapped the cloak around them both. And if they held each other a little more closely than brother and sister should, no one noticed it, hidden under cover of the cloak and the still respected Wolfe name.

Not too far away Lily Wolfe, wife of Daniel, and Michel Wolfe, who had to take Stephanie's name when he married her, stood together watching their respective spouses staring at Valentine. An impartial observer might have noticed that they were standing more than companionably close together. This same observer might also have deduced, from their body language and occasional long melting glance, that they were seriously involved with each other. The impartial observer, assuming such a thing could be found in Lionstone's Court, would have been absolutely right. Lily and Michel were lovers, and had been for some time. Everyone knew except Daniel and Stephanie, who were preoccupied with other things. Even Valentine knew. The only reason he hadn't said anything was because he was still trying to decide whether it would be funnier to tell Daniel and Stephanie or to let it go on.

Lily was six foot six, willowy but still nicely curved, with a long silver wig that fell past her shoulders, framing a pale freckled face. She always wore wigs over a shaved skull on the grounds that wigs were so much easier to look after. She wore the latest fashions and wore them well, with a natural style that infuriated other women, for none could look that good on their best day. Lily was strikingly pretty, with prominent cheekbones and dark lustrous eyes. She had a smile that could stun a charming gigolo and a laugh that could start a party at fifty paces. Daniel didn't appreciate her. She took that as a personal insult.

Michel was barely six feet in height, but his wide frame was covered with the best muscles the body shops could provide. They tended to go off after a while, because he could never be bothered to exercise enough. But a quick trip to the body shop was all it took to perk them up again. He was handsome in a dark and swarthy way, with a thick mane of long jet-black hair that was his pride and joy. He preferred loose clothing with plenty of open spaces to show off his manly physique. As a result, he was now shivering so hard he had to keep his jaw clenched to prevent his teeth from chattering, and his skin had turned a pale blue color that contrasted unappealingly with his dark hair. Snow had begun to gather on top of his head. However, he also favored knee-length leather boots, so at least his feet were warm. The thought somehow failed to comfort him. He glared across at the Empress sitting serenely on her Throne and hugged himself tightly.

"If you squeeze yourself any harder, dear, your insides will pop out your ears," said Lily calmly.

"I'm bored," said Michel through gritted teeth. "I'm bored and I'm extremely cold. There are icicles hanging from my extremities. See if you can spot someone of lower status, so I can steal his cloak."

"Behave yourself, my dearest. Try not to draw attention to yourself, just this once. The auguries in the sheep I sacrificed this morning were quite clear. Today is not a good day in be noticed."

"Why couldn't the auguries have warned you that the Court was going to be a bloody icebox this time? They're all very well when it comes to sounding grand and mystical, but they're no bloody use at all when it comes to predicting practical things, are they? I'd ask for your money back, if I were you. Or a new sheep."

"Don't scoff, darling. You know you don't understand these things. And watch your language. You're an aristocrat now."

"I should have stayed an accountant. The Empress had never heard of me, and I could still feel my fingers."

"If you'd never married Stephanie, you'd never have met me."

Michel considered this point and produced something meant to be a smile. "Well, there is that. Only lucky thing that ever happened to me was meeting you."

Lily reached out and patted his cheek soothingly. "Luck has nothing to do with it, darling. There are powers and influences and mysteries, and they rule our lives."

"The only one who rules our lives is currently sitting on that Throne, wrapped in furs, and laughing her socks off at the rest of us. Why are we here, Lily? We're not important enough for our absence to be noticed. We could have spent the afternoon in each other's company, doing all sorts of interesting things. It's not often we can both get away from our respective spouses. You know how I miss you."

"And I miss you, my darling, but we must be careful. We're Wolfes now, and Daniel and Stephanie would be most upset if they thought we were bringing the name of the Clan into disrepute through our absence. They might even investigate further and find out about us. I have a strong feeling that if they did, they'd probably take it quite personally, the poor dears. If we were really lucky, they'd just have us killed. Much more likely, they'd divorce us and throw us out of the Clan without a penny to our name. We'd be outcasts. No one would lift a finger to help us, not even our own Families. I've grown quite fond of our current lifestyle, and I for one do not intend doing anything that might put it at risk. And that includes getting horizontal and sweaty with you, darling. Our times together must be carefully planned, with every precaution taken. Be patient, my darling. Things won't always be like this. And as for why we're here, the auguries were quite specific, for once. Something important is going to happen here at Court. Something of great significance. Something that will launch a tidal wave of possibilities, which you and I might just ride to greatness."

Michel looked at her fondly, wrapped in her faux peasant dress and shawl, but kept his peace. Lily liked to see herself as the last of the great mystics, a pagan witch from the distant past with rare and subtle powers. Actually, she'd just read a few old books and fallen madly in love with the role. It was much more likely she just had a great imagination, backed up by a touch of esp, but he wasn't dumb enough to tell her that. He was very fond of her, and besides, she tended to throw tantrums when she got annoyed. Still, he trusted her intuition. She'd always understood Court politics much better than he did. He'd keep his eyes open, if they didn't freeze solid first, like certain other parts of his anatomy.

He'd originally taken up with Lily because both of them were bored. As one of Jacob's legacies they were assured of a place in Clan Wolfe, but no one felt any obligation to make them feel welcome. As a result, they were allowed no place in the Clan, neither business nor social. Jacob had arranged the marriages in the first place to gain control of certain subsidiary business interests involved in stardrive manufacture. But now those had been taken over and absorbed by the Wolfes, Lily and Michel were redundant. They could not be allowed any part in business because they weren't really Wolfes, and therefore not to be trusted with anything important. But they were also kept from any contact with their own Families, because they were Wolfes. And since they were Jacob's choice, Daniel and Stephanie wanted nothing to do with them. They managed a stiff smile when procedure demanded they appear in public with their spouses, to put across the polite fiction that all was well, but that was only to appease the Church and keep other Families from sniffing out a possible weakness in the structure of Clan Wolfe. The rest of the time, Daniel and Stephanie had time only for each other and the business they ran, so that Lily and Michel were left to their own devices to keep themselves amused. Everything that followed was inevitable, really. Their only other option had been plotting treason with some other Clan, and they were both too scared of Valentine for that.

At least so far.

Meanwhile, watching everything the Wolfes did with great interest were the representatives of Clan Chojiro. Still defiantly Oriental in appearance and tradition despite the countless centuries that separated them from their original ancestors and founders, the Chojiros had risen to prominence in the Empire through hard work, subtle cunning, and killing anyone who got in their way. They made few alliances with other Clans, preferring to stand alone. That way, they knew who they could trust. With the destruction of the Clan Campbell they had moved smoothly into the open gap, edging other contenders aside with subtle threats and the occasional quiet bloodbath, until now they were second only in the Empire to Clan Wolfe. And since no Chojiro had ever been willing to accept being second best at anything, there was a quiet, undeclared but quite deadly war going on between the two Families.

However, the Chojiros specialized in computers: building, programming, installing, and maintaining them at every level—including the kind of computers used in starships. As a result, the Wolfes and the Chojiros currently found themselves in an uneasy partnership, not daring to upset each other's business for fear of attracting the wrath of the Empress. In fact, the situation had become so complicated that both sides had declared a temporary truce while they tried to work out where the hell they stood.

The systematic trashing of the computers at the Tax and Tithes Headquarters had done great damage to the Chojiros' reputation, which was why there were so many Chojiros at Court today, to remind everyone of the size and power of the Clan. They were currently replacing the Tax computers at their own expense, and adding extra levels of protection to ensure the same thing could never happen again. Within the Clan, those responsible for installing the original security systems had already taken their own lives, to make atonement. A few had to be helped, but that was the Empire under Lionstone for you. There was no room for weakness or failure in Clan Chojiro. They were cutthroat businessmen, sometimes literally, and had made an art form of the hostile takeover. It was truly said: if you see a Chojiro smiling, run.

BB Chojiro had come to Court specifically to act as spokesperson for her Family. She had been trained to appear the perfect smiling front, the acceptable face of a feared Family. She was diplomat, deal maker and deception incarnate. And though her standing in the Family had been a little tarnished by the escape of the esper Julian Skye, that was deemed the fault of the prison security, and she was still regarded as entirely trustworthy. She was Blue Block, after all. Accompanying her, in a matching kimono, to remind everyone of the harsher Chojiro face, was the Investigator Razor. His face and hands showed the marks of recent burns, but no one was stupid enough to ask how he'd got them. Investigators never acknowledged their pain. If indeed they actually felt any. It was hard to tell with Investigators. Everyone was giving BB and Razor plenty of room, for all sorts of reasons, allowing them to talk in private. BB smiled at one and all, and talked quietly with Razor, who stared straight ahead, his cold eyes ready for any threat.

"I take it there have been no further developments in the search for Julian," said BB, her smiling lips barely moving.

"I would have told you if there were. Security is doing its best, but the city's a mess. If he's out there, we'll find him and bring him back. Or his body."

"I need him alive, Investigator. There are many questions still to be asked of him. Not least how he got away."

"If he's out there, we'll find him, but I can't speak for his condition. A lot of people died in the city today."

BB sighed. Razor could be very single-minded when he chose. "Let us talk of happier things. How is our infiltration of the Wolfe businesses going?"

"Surprisingly smoothly. Daniel and Stephanie are so concerned with their own intrigues, they haven't noticed a thing.

Valentine has his own interests these days and has left them alone to sink or swim. They've done well enough, but they have little real experience with industrial espionage. We have people, apparently entirely unconnected with Clan Chojiro, on every level of the company, from the very bottom up to and including the board of directors. Wolfe security is good, but without competent management to direct it, it's been drifting aimlessly of late."

"It's been too easy," said BB. "I can't believe Valentine is completely uninterested in the company. It's the base of his Family's current wealth and position. He's had to invest practically everything in the Wolfe and Campbell coffers to get the stardrive companies up and running, with hardly anything left for a safety net. And soon we'll be in a position to subtly sabotage stardrive construction from beginning to end. I can't believe Valentine doesn't know what we're doing."

"He has his own interests. I regret to say, my people are unable to confirm exactly what those might be, apart from the obvious. People we send to find out tend not to come back."

"And you don't find that worrying?"

"Investigators don't worry. It's bad for the image. You continue with your schemes; I'll see no one bothers you."

BB nodded curtly. "We can't hold off any longer just because we're not sure what Valentine's up to. If anything. Give the orders; I want to see significant errors in stardrive construction appearing by the end of the week. Make sure it's something showy. Something the news shows can run with. Once the delivery of the new drives has been not just slowed, but all but stopped, it shouldn't take too long to convince the Empress that the Wolfes aren't fit to be in charge of such a vital concern. And we'll be right there, ready to take over at a moment's notice. After all, who has a better claim? We're already producing all the computers for the new starships."

"Unless Valentine does know and is already planning something really devastating."

BB looked at him sternly. "Just whose side are you on. Investigator?"

"Don't ask questions like that. The answer would only upset you. All that matters is I have pledged my life to protect the interests of your Clan. For as long as I stay with you."

"Very reassuring." BB sniffed, deliberately turned away, and looked across at Valentine, chatting brightly with someone who looked as though they wished they were somewhere else. BB watched them for a while, her eyes cold as death. "Sometimes I think we'd be better off launching a preemptive strike against the Wolfes, beginning with Valentine. A really hostile takeover."

"I wouldn't recommend it," said Razor. "There's too much we don't know about the Wolfes in general and Valentine in particular. Only a fool jumps off a wall without finding how high it is first. There's more to Valentine than we see. There has to be. My own recommendation is for a more leisurely approach. The Wolfes' weak spot is Daniel and Stephanie. There is much in their tangled relationship that might be profitably exploited…"

"And that is why you're in charge of carrying out security, rather than planning it," said BB tartly. "I could do anything to those two, up to and including killing them slowly, and Valentine wouldn't give a damn."

"But if we could reach them, turn them to our cause, perhaps through pressure on their current closeness… or by providing information about Lily and Michel…"

"No," said BB firmly. "Daniel and Stephanie are too erratic to place any trust in. They're weak, but they're still Wolfes. I have a better idea."

Constance Wolfe, widow of Jacob, stood alone in the crowd. She was always alone now, no matter where she went. Eighteen years old, still wearing black in mourning for her murdered husband. Tall and blond, breathtakingly lovely even in a world where beauty was commonplace, the fire had gone out of her, leaving her looking like a crushed flower. Out of perhaps all the Wolfe Family, she had truly loved Jacob. The others mourned for a while, even Valentine, but they all had their own lives to get on with, and they did so as soon as they properly could. Constance had had nothing but Jacob. He was her life. Now he was gone, and she didn't know what to do with herself. She had no interest in politics or intrigues, and she was allowed no place in Family affairs. Jacob's children had never approved of his last marriage, to someone even younger than them. There had always been the possibility Jacob might disinherit them in favor of her or her children. Now he was gone; they were able to ignore her with something like relief.

She looked around at the assembled courtiers, and no one looked back. She was no one now. They had no time for failures. Until one woman met her eye and smiled. BB Chojiro. Constance looked at her thoughtfully, and BB moved unhurriedly toward her, still somehow graceful despite having to trudge through the deep snow. Constance knew she should see the woman as an enemy, but she didn't have the energy. BB stopped before her and smiled again.

"We should have got together before, Constance. We have a lot in common. It's hard to be a woman alone. I know. But just because one Family's abandoned you, it doesn't mean we all have. You have friends, Constance. If you want them."

Constance looked at her icily. "I may have fallen from grace, Chojiro, but I'm not so low I would consider betraying my kith and kin."

BB's smile didn't waver. "What I have in mind is in the best interests of the Wolfes. Valentine is leading you all to disaster. He's lost inside his own head and sees only what he wants to see. Daniel and Stephanie only have eyes for each other. The new stardrive will fall from their hands, and then what will happen to the Wolfes? To the Family Jacob built and brought to greatness? What will happen to you, Constance?"

"If you've something to say to me, Chojiro, say it."

"You could be head of the Wolfes. Valentine could be removed as insane, Daniel and Stephanie as incompetent. And since they've taken steps down the years to remove all other major players from the game, that would just leave you to take over. Now, alone, you couldn't hope to run the Family. You've only ever been on the fringes of things. But if you were to marry a Chojiro, we could merge the Families through your children. Until then you would rule the Wolfes with our help. Think about it; you'd never have to be alone again. You're young, Constance. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don't throw it all away in loyalty for people who despise you."

"You want something," said Constance steadily. "You all want something. Get to the meat of the matter. What do you want from me?"

"Information," said BB Chojiro. "You're still a prominent Wolfe, with access to areas my people can only reach with difficulty. There are questions we need answers for. In return, we would make you one of us. A valued member of Clan Chojiro, cared for and appreciated. Isn't that all you ever really wanted?"

Constance looked at her thoughtfully, and while she didn't say yes, she didn't say no, either. BB turned and gestured for Razor to come and join them. The Investigator plowed through the snow as though it wasn't there and bowed politely to Constance. She nodded briefly in return, watching him warily. BB gave her a reassuring smile and put a proprietary hand on Razor's arm.

"Investigator, you were there when Jacob Wolfe died. Tell Constance what you saw."

"He did not die at the hand of any Campbell," said Razor flatly. "The Wolfe was stabbed from behind, by his eldest son. By Valentine, current head of your Clan. It was very quick. No one else noticed. But I saw it."

"And you know Investigators never lie," said BB. She was careful not to sound too pleased about it.

Constance pressed her lips together, though whether to keep her mouth from trembling with rage or to hold back tears, she wasn't sure. It had always troubled her that no one had ever claimed the kill for Jacob. It would have been a major triumph for any Campbell, and they'd needed a triumph badly in the bad days after their downfall. But no one ever claimed to have killed the Wolfe. No one even saw how it happened, though she'd questioned enough people. She'd assumed the Campbell himself must have done it before he was killed. Until now. It never occurred to her to doubt Razor's word. He was an Investigator, after all, and lying was beneath him. Besides, it sounded true. Valentine had every reason to kill his father and not a scrap of conscience to stop him. He could have got away with it in the heat of battle. Constance looked steadily at BB Chojiro.

"Tell me more."

Sitting comfortably on her Iron Throne, Lionstone XIV looked interestedly from one face to the other as army and Church argued before her. General Beckett, slow and unperturbed, taking the time to enjoy his cigar between answers, and Cardinal Kassar, his single eye glowing with the unquenchable fire of the true fanatic. Lionstone liked to watch them argue, not least because while they were arguing with each other, they weren't teaming up to dispute with her. Divide and conquer worked just as well in Court politics as it did in wars. It helped that Kassar and Beckett hated each other's guts. Neither was strong enough individually to threaten her authority, but together they would have made a formidable enemy. So Lionstone found it expedient to keep their ire concentrated on each other. It didn't take much. A kind word here, a knowing look there, and they snapped at the bait like hungry sharks. Which was why they stood before her now, bristling at each other like junkyard dogs, blind to everything but the need to score points off each other. Lionstone smiled to herself. Men were so predictable.

"As any fool could see, the alien attack is a direct threat against humanity," said Cardinal Kassar, his voice colder than the air around him. "We can't just sit here and wait for them to attack again. We must hunt them down and wipe them out. Any other way risks the suicide of our species!"

"A really good way to commit suicide," said General Beckett calmly, "is to launch yourself blindly into a situation you know nothing about. You saw what one ship on its own was able to do to us. Silence and the Dauntless were able to handle it, but that was one of our finest ships, with one of our finest crews, against what could after all have been nothing more than a simple probe. We need more information, before committing ourselves to definite plans."

"It's a matter of Faith," said Kassar. "I wouldn't expect you to understand that, Beckett."

"It's a matter of common sense, Cardinal," said Beckett. "I wouldn't expect you to understand that."

"Sounds like cowardice to me. Staying safe at home here while your men take all the risks out on the Rim. Well, here isn't safe anymore, Beckett. Either we go to them, or they'll come to us."

Beckett took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. "Bravery is overrated, Cardinal. I'll settle for competence. If the attack is going to come from anywhere, it'll come from the Rim. Hence the extra patrols I ordered. They're going to be our early-warning system. In my experience, fighting wars is a matter of practicality, not heroics. But, then, you've always been a dreamer, Kassar, with little grasp of the practicalities of life. Comes with the job, I suppose."

Kassar glared at him and then turned his burning gaze on Lionstone. "Put me in charge of your armies, and I'll provide you with an unbeatable force of the faithful, trained in all the martial arts, ready to dare anything in the name of the Church."

"I've always fought in the name of the Empress, myself," said General Beckett, and blew a triumphant puff of smoke in Kassar's direction. The Cardinal hesitated, suddenly aware of the dangerous waters his rhetoric had swept him into. Beckett continued, taking advantage of the pause. "Fanatics can be very useful, when it comes to building a power base, but in my experience they make bloody poor soldiers. Fanatics are fine at getting themselves killed in the name of their cause; I prefer to put my faith in trained professional soldiers who'll put their energies into staying alive long enough to kill the enemy."

Kassar started to splutter, so eager to get back at Beckett that his words were tumbling over themselves. Lionstone sat back on her Throne, openly enjoying his discomposure. Beckett puffed happily on his cigar. And that was when Mother Beatrice emerged from the crowd to join the debate and throw oil on troubled fires. Beatrice Christiana had been due to marry Valentine Wolfe, on Jacob's instructions, but it hadn't happened. Beatrice was a forceful, assured, and occasionally violent woman who knew her own mind and had no intention whatsoever of marrying a notorious drug fiend, degenerate, and general weirdo. She threatened everything up to and including murder to get out of the match, but no one took her seriously. Until the day of the wedding, when she punched out Valentine, kicked the presiding Vicar in the nuts, and made a run for sanctuary with the Sisters of Mercy. The one place no one would follow her. Their nunneries were inviolate by long tradition. The Sisters of Mercy were the only impartial force in the Empire, tied to no one side or cause or class, but offering their help to all impartially. They were much loved and trusted by one and all. Which made them very useful when it came to sorting out Family disputes and brokering truces. Among other things.

Beatrice had risen rapidly through the ranks and was now a Mother Superior, complete with voluminous black robe and starched wimple. It helped that as well as being particularly spiritual, she was also incredibly wealthy. She took her place in Court, defying anyone to say anything, and was rapidly emerging as a sane counter voice to both the military and the established Church. Valentine took it all easily enough, understanding that it had all been entirely personal on Beatrice's part. He sent her a note saying he thought her new outfit was very sexy and enclosed the bill for the wedding. Since then, Beatrice had put a great deal of energy into magnificently ignoring him.

Now she stood before the Iron Throne, eyes sparkling merrily. She bowed to the Empress and looked challengingly at the General and the Cardinal. Beckett smiled and gave her the nod one gives a respected adversary. Kassar glared at her. He saw her as a dangerous heretic and made no bones about saying so loudly in public until both the Sisters of Mercy and his own superiors in the Church told him to shut the hell up. This infuriated Kassar even more, luckily to the point of incoherence. Beatrice didn't give a damn. As long as the Sisters remained separate from the established Church, Kassar had no power over her, and they both knew it. She smiled at Lionstone, who acknowledged her with a nod.

"If I might interrupt, Your Majesty; it seems to me that both Church and army are too rooted in their positions to see the truth. If the alien ship is representative of the aliens' power, we could be in real trouble when their fleet turns up. We have a whole Empire to protect, while the aliens are free to concentrate their forces at any point they choose. One ship turned our main starport and city into rubble. Imagine what a fleet of them could do to a planet, with or without its defenses. We have to face the fact that for the first time, we find ourselves facing an opponent who may well be stronger than us. Not forgetting, of course, that we already have hard evidence that there may be more than one powerful alien species out there. Your Majesty has been saying this for some time, but I think we're all now more ready to believe it. Our only chance for survival as a species may be to bring all our assets to bear against the enemy. Or enemies. That could include even those who would normally oppose us. I'm talking about the rebels, and the clone and esper undergrounds."

"Are you mad, woman?" exploded Kassar. "Make deals with those scum? They're not even human!"

"They think they are," said Beatrice. "And I think they'd fight to defend humanity against an alien threat, if we asked them nicely. It's in their interest. If the Empire is destroyed, they'd be wiped out along with the rest of us. They have talents and powers and abilities that we're going to need. Does anyone here doubt they'd make excellent attack troops? Just the fact that they're still around despite everything we've done to exterminate them shows they're survivors, if nothing else."

"May I just point out," said Beckett unhurriedly, "that it was the rebels' lowering of Golgotha's defenses that made the aliens' attack possible?"

"They were probably working with the aliens," said Kassar.

"All the more reason to contact them and get them on our side," said Beatrice, unmoved.

"They are guilty of crimes against humanity," Kassar insisted. "The guilty must be punished."

"On the other hand," said Beckett, rolling his cigar sensuously between his fingers to hear the leaves crackle, "if we don't bring the rebels into the fold, they might just take the opportunity to stab us in the back while we're distracted by the alien attack."

"Kill them all," said Kassar. "Clones and espers and non-people. They're as alien to us as anything that might come from beyond the Rim."

"Typical of the Church these days," said Beatrice. "Rather fight than think; rather lose than try diplomacy. Fanatics unite; you have nothing to lose but your mind."

"Well said," said Valentine Wolfe. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

They all looked around to find Valentine had emerged from the crowd and was standing right behind them. Beatrice ostentatiously moved a step away, to put more distance between herself and the Wolfe. Valentine smiled at her dazzlingly. Kassar glared at him.

"What do you want, degenerate?"

"Well, I have a list if you're interested, Kassar, but you're really not my type. I just wanted to agree with everything Beatrice said."

"Thanks a whole bunch," said Beatrice. "If you're on my side, they'll never believe me. You do this to me deliberately, don't you? Just because I wouldn't marry you, you're determined to ruin my life."

"You wound me deeply," said Valentine. "Can't a man speak out for common sense and sanity anymore?"

"And what the hell would you know about sanity?" demanded Beatrice. "There are depressed lemmings on the edges of cliffs who've got a better grasp on reality than you have. And more common sense."

"If you two would like a little privacy," Beckett began, and then decided not to say anymore as Beatrice glared at him.

"I would rather be left in the company of a piranha with an overbite! Don't you move one step, General. That goes for you, too, Kassar. Loathsome though your presence undoubtedly is, it is still preferable to that of the genetic disaster area currently heading the Wolfe Family. I understand there are plans for the Dangerous Chemicals Investigation Board to have him declared a toxic-waste dump. Maybe then we could have him banned from inhabited areas on health grounds."

"Ah," said the Empress from her Throne. "Young love…"

Not all that far away, Gregor Shreck glared at the company before the Iron Throne. By rights he should have been there, too, adding his words and wisdom to whatever they were discussing. He was head of one of the oldest Families in the Empire, and a man to be noticed. But he had been robbed of his true position in society by back-stabbing traitors who refused to admit his true qualities. They smiled at his face, laughed at his back, and whispered against him. They'd pay. They would all pay, one day. But that could wait. For the moment he had little room in himself for anything but rage. Evangeline had left him. The ungrateful little bitch had actually dared to walk out on him. Together with that cow Adrienne, she'd found the courage to outface him, but they'd find out soon enough that no one downed Gregor Shreck and lived to boast of it. Evangeline might think herself safe among the underground and the non-people, but there was bound to be a weak link somewhere, and he had all the time, money, and venom he needed to find it. Someone would respond to money or pressure or the right kind of deal. Someone always did. And then he'd get her.

It wouldn't be long before people started noticing that Evangeline wasn't around. People in Tower Shreck would talk. You couldn't stop them. Then people in the Court would spot a potential weakness and start asking questions. Where was she? What had happened to her? What had he done to her? There were always people ready to stick their noses in where they didn't belong. He could always clone another Evangeline; he still had the tissue samples from the original. But it would take months to rear and train her. It had with the last one. And what if the first clone reappeared? There'd be no way to hide what he'd done with two Evangelines walking around. And there was always the possibility the first clone might tell all anyway, from a safe distance, as a kind of revenge. She'd find it hard to prove anything without revealing herself, but just the accusation would be damaging. Mud sticks, particularly when people want it to. Gregor scowled. These days, more than ever, it was vital that he seem above reproach.

In recent months he'd taken steps to publicly become very religious. He attended all the right services at all the right places, moved in all the right circles, backed the currently fashionable charities and pressure groups, and did everything he could to win the established Church's approval. He needed their support if he was to win himself a place up in the rarefied heights where he deserved to be. However, in order to win the Church's backing, he'd had to set up a public reputation as being purer than pure. This had taken some doing. In the past he'd gone his own way, did what he wanted when he wanted, and let his people clean up the mess afterward with money or threats. Typical enough behavior for an aristocrat with money to burn and more hormones than sense. Luckily, the Church didn't care much about your past as long as you repented publicly, made a large donation, and put it all behind you. Gregor didn't care twopence for the first two, but balked at the third. There were limits. Still, there was public, and then there was private. As long as he looked good in the public eye, rumored sins could be forgiven. Even ignored. Gregor had never been any good at public relations, but fortunately there were members of his Family who were. They were currently standing just behind him, waiting for his instructions. If they knew what was good for them. Gregor turned to face them, giving them both his best forbidding stare.

Toby the Troubador was his nephew, loath though he sometimes was to admit it. A short, fat, perspiring fellow with flat blond hair, a ready smile, a mind like a steel trap, and the morals of a starving sewer rat. His main duties and responsibilities were to write up the Family's doings in the best possible light, and then see to it that those reports appeared in all the right places. Journals, holo shows, gossip columns. He was a public-relations man, spin doctor, damage-limitations expert, and a first-class liar. He had to be. It wasn't easy making Gregor Shreck look good. The rest of the Clan had their moments, bless their black little hearts, but Toby knew how to handle them. If they didn't toe the line when he needed them to, with a prepared speech here and an appearance there, smiling and waving for the cameras, he just left them out of his reports entirely until they did. After all, the only thing worse then being talked about by everyone is not being talked about by everyone. If your face wasn't in all the glossies and the holo shows, you weren't anyone. Toby could make you a celebrity, famous for being famous, if you followed the rules. His rules. Namely, do what you like as long as it's entertaining, but only as long as I get to hear about it first, so I can make sure it's got the right spin on it before it hits the streets. Unfortunately, he couldn't order Gregor about like that. If he'd ever been dumb enough to try, Gregor would have ripped out his vocal cords as a warning.

"Talk to me, boy," said Gregor sharply. "What are you saying about Evangeline at present?"

"The official line is she's resting, after overdoing it," Toby said smoothly. "We haven't specified exactly what she's been overdoing, but the gossips will come up with something. They do so love to speculate. Presumably, you'll let me know when she's rested enough, so I can reintroduce her to society?"

"I'll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it," said Gregor. "How's my current standing with the Church?"

"Reasonable. Though I do wish you'd learn to watch your language, Uncle. Sometimes I think the Church would happily pardon adultery, but not the specific four-letter word used to describe exactly what you were doing. Most people will turn a specifically deaf ear if I pay them enough, whether it concerns obscenities or political malaprops; but sooner or later you're going to say the wrong thing in front of the wrong people, and there won't be a thing I can do to help you."

Gregor sniffed. "It was your idea for us to get into bed with the Church in the first place. Can't say I've seen much in the way of results."

"With the Church behind us, we are safe from a great many other enemies," Toby said patiently. "But if the Church ever finds out about the real you, we could be in real trouble."

"Then, you'd better make damn sure they don't, hadn't you?" said Gregor.

"I do wish you two wouldn't fight," said Grace Shreck, knowing they wouldn't listen to her. They never did. She was Gregor's older sister and did her best to look as little like him as possible. She was long, tall, and thin, with a pale, swan-like neck, and a mass of white hair piled up on top of her head in a rather precarious-looking style that hadn't been fashionable in years. She wore the same style of clothes she had when she was young, and noticed newer styles only in order to criticize them. Every now and again, fashion rediscovered her look, and for a month or so she would be the height of fashion, which embarrassed her greatly. Grace preferred not to be noticed, whenever possible.

She'd never married, because after their parents had died suddenly, Gregor had needed her services as assistant, secretary, and general dogsbody while he was holding the Family together and making it great again. There'd been no time for romance, no chance for a life of her own. The Family needed her, Gregor needed her, and she'd had to settle for that. And if she was ever angry, she kept it to herself. Eventually, there came a time when Gregor didn't need her anymore, but she stayed with him anyway, because she didn't know any other kind of life. The world had changed during her enforced absence, and people frightened her, whether they meant to or nor. Besides, she'd always known Gregor would never let her go. He couldn't risk her marrying and moving outside the Family's influence, outside of his control. She knew too much about the Clan in general and him in particular. And the things he'd done to make the Shrecks great again.

She came to Court as little as possible, because crowds upset her; but the Empress's edict had been quite specific, for once. Everyone in the Families was to come. No exemptions. If you were on your deathbed, bring your deathbed with you. So Grace came on Gregor's arm, stayed close to Toby, and tried to pretend she was just watching it on the holo.

She disapproved of the way Gregor treated Toby, but didn't know what to do about it. Certainly, Gregor wouldn't listen to her, even if she could bring herself to say anything. Toby's father had been Christian Shreck, younger brother to herself and Gregor. He disappeared years ago, after a furious head-to-head with Gregor, and was never seen again. The Empress ordered an investigation, but nothing ever came of it. Gregor submitted to questioning by an Imperial esper and surprised everyone by passing the test with ease. He was officially cleared. But after that, people stopped resisting Gregor's rise to power.

Toby came under Gregor's influence the same way every Shreck did; because he had no choice. Toby had a sister once, but the Empress took her to be one of her maids, and that was that. Grace couldn't protect or advance him, so that just left Gregor. And so now the Shreck used Toby as he'd once used Grace, and there was nothing she could do about it. Another life sacrificed to Gregor's ambition. That was just the way things were in Clan Shreck.

Grace sighed tiredly. She missed Christian. He'd been the only one in the Family with a sense of humor. She realized Gregor was shouting at Toby again. Gregor was having a hard time being a public person. He wasn't suited to it. Grace looked at Gregor, red-faced and sweating as he raised his voice yet again, and suddenly it seemed to her that this was just the most recent in a long series of straws that broke the camel's back. She stepped forward and slapped Gregor smartly on the arm with her folded fan.

"Gregor, I won't have you using that kind of language in public! Remember, we are at Court. People are listening."

"And you can shut your stupid mouth as well," snapped Gregor without looking around. "When I want your opinion, I'll have my head examined."

"Really!" Grace could feel herself blushing, as she always did when someone spoke harshly to her. "Why can't we all just be friends, in public at least?"

"She's right, you know," said Toby diffidently. "The Church believes in happy Families."

"Stuff the Church," said Gregor immediately, but in a somewhat lower tone. "I have a right to be angry. I can't believe Valentine turned me down. It's so obviously in both our interests to work together against our common enemies, that even he should have been able to see the advantages. All right, he's a drug-soaked weirdo with no more common sense than a leper playing volleyball, but if we'd stood together, no one would have dared stand against us."

"Can't say I'm sorry," said Toby. "Valentine may be number one at the moment, but there's no one here who likes or trusts him, despite all the smiles in his direction. Putting a good PR shine on an alliance between you two would have really strained my creativity. You'd have a better chance of selling lepers' fingers as a fashion accessory. So what now, Uncle? Move to Plan B?"

"What's Plan B?" said Grace suspiciously. "No one's mentioned any Plan B to me. Honestly, Gregor, you never tell me anything anymore."

"That's because you don't need to know anything; just shut up and do as you're told. Stay here with Toby. Don't move. I'll take care of Plan B."

Gregor stalked away without looking back. He knew they wouldn't move without his permission. Plan B was the Chojiros. If the first Family wouldn't deal, there was always the chance the second might. He kicked his way through the deep snow, and people moved quickly to get out of his way. But he no more noticed that than the air that he breathed. He drew himself up before BB Chojiro, glared briefly at the Investigator beside her to show he wasn't intimidated, and then bowed briefly to BB. She bowed back, calm and assured. Razor ignored him.

"We have a common enemy in the Wolfes," Gregor said flatly. "May I suggest that it is in our interest to combine against Valentine? You produce the computers for his starships, and I make the shells; but as long as he controls production of the new stardrive, we have to run our businesses to suit him. With just the right pressure and timing, he could ruin either one of us, even drive us out of business completely, so he could move in and take over. I had planned to work with the Campbells, back when they looked to be in the lead for the stardrive contract. We had an understanding. That's why I permitted a linking marriage. But that fell through, and Valentine won't deal. I work under his conditions or I don't work at all. And that is completely unacceptable. So I need an ally to make sure I don't get squeezed out, and you need someone to watch your back while you work with him. We could both profit from such a union, and after all, neither of us has any cause to love Valentine."

"Both?" said BB. "I think not. All the profit would be on your side. We don't need you, Lord Shreck, and you have nothing we want. Yes, you build shells, but anyone can build shells. And to be honest, Lord Shreck, we're rather choosy about who we ally ourselves with."

"You little bitch," hissed Gregor, and before he really knew what he was doing, his hand was shooting out to grab her by the throat. He hadn't even got close before Investigator Razor's hand shot out to intercept his. Gregor's pudgy white hand disappeared entirely inside Razor's big black fist, and Gregor cried out as Razor clamped down hard, grinding the bones of Gregor's hand together. He let go after a long moment, and Gregor fell back a step, clutching his throbbing hand to his breast. BB Chojiro and her Investigator studied him with the same impersonal gaze as he stood before them, trembling with impotent rage.

"Turn around and go back to your own people, Shreck," said Razor calmly. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "You have no business here."

Gregor glared at them both, searching for some final insult or threat that he could use to crush them, but in the end he had to turn silently and trudge back through the snow again. People moved even faster to get out of his way this time, giving him the same kind of respect one would a maddened scorpion that might strike out at anyone, just for being there. Gregor was actually thinking too hard to bother about that. He had to find allies and support from somewhere, or he might easily find himself being edged out of the starship business altogether. Anyone could build shells… His alliance with the Church should bring long-term benefits, but right now he needed the money. He'd find someone. There was always someone. And when he was a power again in his own right, he'd make BB Chojiro pay for daring to humiliate him. He made himself breathe more slowly. There was still latitude with Clan Wolfe. Maybe Valentine wouldn't deal, but Daniel and Stephanie just might if approached in the right way. They might work with him just to spite their brother. Yes, that was an idea. He slowed his pace, and allowed himself a small smile. He would be strong again, and have his revenges upon his enemies, and no one would dare look down on him again.

Lionstone finally waved the people arguing before her to silence, and called the Court to order. Her amplified voice echoed across the arctic waste, cutting effortlessly through the courtiers' babble of voices. In a moment there was silence, broken only by the faint moaning of the bitter wind as the courtiers' attention fixed on their Empress. She smiled out over them, and it was not a pleasant smile. The courtiers stood still and quiet before her, snow settling on their heads and shoulders till they resembled the snowmen they'd passed earlier. A few people made the connection in their minds and shuddered suddenly, not at all from the cold. Lionstone glared down at Valentine and Beatrice until they got the message, bowed, and faded back into the crowd. General Beckett and Cardinal Kassar moved to stand on each side of the Iron Throne, staring out at the courtiers, representing army and Church, the arms of the Empress. Lionstone nodded to Beckett, and he raised his voice in a parade ground bark.

"Captain Silence, Investigator Frost, and Security Officer Stelmach; step forward and make your report on the alien attack!"

Stelmach jumped guiltily and then looked around quickly to see if anyone had noticed. Silence and Frost just strode forward, not looking around, until they stood at attention before the Iron Throne. Silence's face was calm, but there was new hope in his heart. This was what he'd hoped for; a chance to tell his side of the story before anyone else had a chance to muddy the waters. He waited a moment for Stelmach to join them and then realized the Security Officer had stopped on the edge of the crowd, his eyes fixed on the Grendel alien standing just before the Throne. Silence didn't blame him. The bloody thing disturbed the hell out of him, too. He reached back and pulled Stelmach forward to stand beside him. The Security Officer's eyes never left the alien. Silence glanced at Frost and wished he hadn't. The Investigator was staring at the alien hungrily, only a moment away from attacking the thing on general principles. Silence considered the matter, then reached out and pulled Frost back a step. The alien was the Empress's pet, and if by some miracle Frost actually did manage to kill the bloody thing, Lionstone would not be at all happy. Frost pulled her arm free immediately and glared at him, but stayed where she was. Silence decided to start his report before something unpleasant happened.

He kept it simple and succinct, but hit all the salient points. There was a lot of uneasy murmuring from the assembled Court as he described what he'd found in the wrecked Base on Gehenna. He told how the Dauntless tracked the alien ship to Golgotha, and then the murmurs got really loud when he described the alien craft's nature and capabilities and the life-forms he'd found inside it. He let Frost take over from there. She was the expert on aliens. Her report was cold, factual, even clinical, but Silence was shivering along with everyone else by the time she'd finished, and it didn't have a damn thing to do with the cold. After she'd finished, it was very quiet. The Empress nodded slowly and looked out over the Court again.

"Perhaps now you appreciate our position on the necessity for increased military spending. If one alien ship can do so much, what might a fleet accomplish? We have heard whispers of late of a proposed revolt against the new tax increases; let us make it clear that any such treachery will be put down harshly, with every resource at our disposal. In the current circumstances, refusal to support the military can only be seen as treason against humanity." General Beckett smiled, Cardinal Kassar did not. The Empress looked at Stelmach. "Do you have anything to add at this time?"

Stelmach swallowed hard, shook his head quickly, and finally managed a very quiet, "Not at this time, Your Majesty, no."

"Very well," said the Empress. "Guards, bring the prisoner forward."

The middle of the crowd quickly parted to form a narrow aisle through which two armed guards half led and half dragged a naked man through the deep snow. He wore only wrist and ankle chains, and some blood that had spattered down onto his chest from his recently broken nose. His skin was a bluish-white, and he shuddered uncontrollably in the biting cold. The guards threw him on his knees before the Iron Throne. He looked up at Lionstone pleadingly and tried to say something, but he was shaking so much he couldn't get the words out. Lionstone looked down at him thoughtfully.

"This pathetic object is Fredric Hill. Head of starport security here on Golgotha. We gave him the appointment ourselves. We thought he showed promise. This man let the rebels in, allowed them to sabotage the Tax and Tithe Headquarters, and failed to prevent them from lowering the planet's defenses as they escaped. He also failed to protect us from the alien ship. We could question him on this, but what's the point? He'd just nod and smile and agree with everything I said, and then try to pass the blame onto his staff, or hidden traitors, or lack of the right equipment. Anything but himself. After all, he'd say, the rebels arrived in a Hadenman ship. Probably half his people took one look at the great golden ship of awful legend and ran for their lives. And the other half probably followed them, once the alien ship swept past our nonexistent defenses to strafe the city.

"It doesn't make any difference. He was head of starport security, responsible for our defense. A strong man in that position might have accomplished much. He might have pulled enough of his people together to organize equipment repairs, bring secondary and backup systems on-line, send out rescue teams to aid the wounded and distressed in the city. Instead, according to his own security records, he dithered and fumbled and finally hid, reemerging only when it was all safely over. Quite unacceptable behavior from one of our officers. We have therefore decided that an example shall be made."

She looked back at the Grendel alien, and after a moment everyone else did, too. It stood calm and relaxed behind the Throne, a living nightmare in spiked crimson silicon armor. The yoke around its armored neck made a sudden polite chiming noise, and then the alien surged forward so quickly the human eye couldn't follow it. One moment it was standing just behind the Throne, and the next it was towering over the cringing security head, its great clawed hands on his bare shoulders. The courtiers nearest it surged back as far as the pressure of the crowd would allow, but the Grendel paid them no heed. Its claws sank deep into the man's flesh, and thick runnels of blood coursed down his colorless flesh. He opened his mouth to scream, and the alien opened its mouth and bit the man's face off. Skin and eyes and nose and mouth disappeared as the alien jerked back its great head, leaving only a shattered bloody skull, screaming horribly with the security man's voice.

The alien chewed and swallowed and then leaned forward again, thrusting its grinning jaws into the man's chest with brutal force. The sternum stove in, cracking like paper, and the Grendel alien's head burrowed in the man's chest, going after the heart like a pig hunting truffles. The man's arms waved wildly for a few moments, and then they fell to his sides and lay still. And Fredric Hill, once head of starport security, hung limply in the alien's grasp as it chewed thoughtfully, savoring the flavor. The yoke around its neck chimed, but the Grendel didn't respond. The yoke chimed again, and the Grendel dropped the body carelessly into the blood-soaked snow and moved unhurriedly back to resume its position just behind the Iron Throne. Steaming hot blood dripped thickly from its grinning jaws and ran slowly down its gleaming silicon armor. In the snow before the Throne, Hill's body lay in a crumpled heap, like a broken discarded toy that no one wanted to play with anymore.

Silence moved in close beside Frost. He could feel the anger boiling within her, ready to spill over at a moment's provocation. Her whole career had been built around killing aliens before they got the chance to kill people. He put a warning hand on her arm. It was as tense as coiled steel. She turned her head and gave him a hard look, and he took his hand away. Frost was an Investigator and had no time for human weaknesses like compassion. Her anger was purely professional.

The Court murmured among itself, looking from the Grendel to the gutted body and back again, impressed by the savagery of the kill, if not the quality of the control the Empress had over it. The many lessons involved in the man's death had not been missed by any of the courtiers. Silence shared a significant glance with Stelmach, but they both kept their peace. Those courtiers nearest the body looked down at the open wounds steaming in the chill air and tried to back away a little farther. But the crowd was packed in tight behind them, and there was nowhere for them to go. Nobody wanted to look at the alien. The Empress smiled at them all.

"Cute, isn't he? Table manners aren't up to much, but he's only young. Really little more than a baby. Imagine what he'll be like when he comes of age. Imagine an army of him, spilling across a battlefield like an endless wave of slaughter. Unstoppable shock troops, leaving nothing behind them but mountains of dead and oceans of blood. I'm quite looking forward to it. The work into controlling the Grendel aliens more perfectly is going well. Soon we'll have yokes for every Sleeper in the vaults, and then we'll send them out against the aliens who attacked us here today. Or anyone else who threatens us. Captain Silence, you haven't finished your report. Tell the Court what you discovered on the Wolfling World."

Silence, Frost, and Stelmach took it in turns to tell what they'd found in the vast caverns deep beneath the frozen surface of the Wolfling World, once also known as Haden, home to the augmented supermen, the Hadenmen. They told of the thousands of sleeping Hadenmen, who rose from their long death-like sleep and walked out of their Tomb, glorious and powerful, an army of cyborg warriors who once tried to overthrow humanity and only narrowly failed.

They told of the rebels who woke them: the outlaw, Owen Deathstalker, the pirate Hazel d'Ark, the bounty hunter Ruby Journey, and the legendary professional rebel Jack Random. They told of the defeat of the Dauntless's forces, but none of them mentioned the Lord High Dram's presence or his death at the hands of another legend—the original Deathstalker, thought dead for centuries, but now returned for vengeance against the Empire that betrayed and hounded him. All three had been told previously, in no uncertain terms, that Dram was not to be mentioned. Given their current situation, Silence and Frost and Stelmach were happy to be flexible with the truth.

The Court continued to murmur among itself, despite darting glares from the Empress, as the courtiers reacted to names like Jack Random and the original Deathstalker. They were also troubled by the reemergence of Owen Deathstalker, outlawed by the Empress for no good reason, who had evaded all her armies and now looked to be leading the new rebellion. And they really didn't like the idea of a new army of Hadenmen massing to attack the Empire again. The only reason the Hadenmen weren't still officially listed as the Enemies of Humanity was because the rogue AIs of Shub were even nastier. The Empress finally sat back and let them mutter for a while before reclaiming their attention with her amplified voice.

"Let's not all panic just yet, boys and girls. The Hadenmen are a long way away and only newly awakened; it will be some time yet before they're in any position to pose a real threat to us. The man claiming to be Jack Random could be nothing more than a double; rebel propaganda to draw people to their cause. The man himself is probably long dead." She stopped suddenly as BB Chojiro stepped gracefully out of the crowd to stand before the Throne. BB bowed gracefully, and the Empress fixed her with an icy glare. "This had better be good, Chojiro. And extremely relevant."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, it had come to us through normally reliable channels that Jack Random had been captured by Empire forces some time back, and then escaped."

"Then, you were misinformed," said Lionstone flatly. "We never had him. If we had, he would never have been allowed to escape. Is that clear? Good. Now, don't interrupt us again, or we'll have the Grendel open you up so we can all see what little girls are made of."

"Clan Chojiro has no wish to appear rude or impertinent, Your Majesty," said BB calmly. "We are merely trying to ascertain the facts. The Hadenman ship that brought the rebels here today was very real and twice as impressive, implying that not only are the Hadenmen and the rebels working together, but that the augmented men are already so well prepared that they can drop in on us anytime they like. Who is to say a fleet of these ships is not already setting out from Haden to try humanity's strength again?"

"You're a real cheerful sort to have around, Chojiro," said Lionstone. "If the Hadenmen are getting ready for a comeback, that is all the more reason to support my military buildup, and stop whining about your tax bills, isn't it? Anyone else want to add anything before we move on? Bearing in mind it had better be pretty damn good, or we'll keep you all here till your eyeballs freeze solid."

"If you will allow me," said Valentine Wolfe, "I have a few words to say." He stepped forward to stand beside BB, who gave him a brief sidelong glance and then stepped a little farther away. Valentine gave her a dazzling smile anyway and nodded to the Empress. "Lovely Court, Lionstone. Very bracing. Could do with a few penguins, but I like the snow. It goes with my complexion. Now then, I had heard, through various, reliable, and only slightly corrupt sources that your consort, the Lord High Dram, had been a part of Captain Silence's expedition to the Wolfling World, and that, regrettably, he met his end there. And is, in fact, quite definitely dead. Given that no one seems to have seen him at Court or at your side for some time, perhaps you could reassure us all as to his present whereabouts and well-being?"

"Of course," said Lionstone. "Dram was never there. He has been here on Golgotha all along, undertaking some important business for me."

"I'm sure we're all very relieved to hear that," said Valentine. "But where might the Lord High Dram be, right now?"

"Right here," said the Empress, smiling calmly. "At my side, as he always is."

She gestured smoothly, a hologram shield disappeared, and there was Dram, standing beside her, between Cardinal Kassar and the Throne. Kassar didn't actually jump, but he looked as though he would have liked to and did move away a step before he could stop himself. Dram, Warrior Prime of the Empire, stood at Lionstone's side in his jet-black robes and battle armor, his familiar handsome face perhaps just a little cold and distant. He nodded calmly to the assembled courtiers, who stared silently back. There had never been any love lost between Lionstone's right hand and the Company of Lords. Valentine studied Dram for a long moment, then looked at BB, shrugged, and stepped back into the crowd. No point in playing out a losing hand. BB Chojiro inclined her head to Dram and to the Empress, and stepped back to rejoin Investigator Razor. Silence and Frost and Stelmach looked at each other.

"Now, that is interesting," murmured Frost. "If that's Dram, who did we see die on the Wolfling World? The real Dram? Is this a clone, or was it the clone who came with us while the real Dram stayed behind here?"

"I don't know," said Silence. "But I have a strong feeling asking those sorts of questions could prove to be really bad for your health."

"What are you saying?" said Stelmach impatiently. "I can't understand either of you when you whisper like that. What are we going to do?"

Silence and Frost looked at each other. Without realizing, they'd fallen into the near telepathic contact again, their thoughts jumping back and forth like conversation. Which should have been impossible with all the esp-blockers Lionstone insisted on for Court gatherings. Something else for them to discuss when they were safely alone.

"I'll tell you what we're going to do," said Silence to Stelmach. "We're going to keep our mouths shut until the Empress tells us what to say. If she says that's Dram, then that's Dram. Right?"

"Fine by me," said Frost.

"Right," said Stelmach, but he didn't look at all happy about it.

There was a sudden disturbance among the courtiers as someone moved forward through the crush, and then a man dressed in the very height of fashion stepped out of the crowd to stand challengingly before the Iron Throne. He wore a long golden frock coat and leather boots that rose halfway up his thighs. His hair was long bronzed strands, and his face was blindingly florescent. The thick silver medallion hanging over his breast proclaimed him an elected Member of Parliament. He glanced quickly about him for the holo cameras he knew were somewhere around, even if he couldn't see them, and drew himself up proudly. Like all politicians, he understood the importance of putting on a good show for an audience. And half the Empire would be watching today.

"Your Majesty, I really must protest. Information has come to me, from a private but valued source who must of course remain anonymous, that verifies everything the Lord Wolfe had to say. The Lord High Dram is dead. He died on the Wolfling World, cut down by the original Deathstalker himself. The man at your side is at best an impostor, at worst a clone you are attempting to fool us into accepting. Well, I for one am not fooled. I must insist that this… person submit to a genetest, here and now. We cannot permit a clone to stand as Consort to Your Majesty."

"We?" said Dram. "And who might this we be?"

"I represent a number of my colleagues," said the Member of Parliament. "And I trust I have the backing of every loyal man and woman here. We have a right to know the truth."

Lionstone leaned forward on her Throne, her face calm and quite composed. "Your face is not familiar to us. You are… ?"

The MP drew himself up a little farther, his voice ringing out magnificently. "I am Richard Scott, newly elected Member for Graylake East. I won my seat on a platform of reform for truth and justice in government. It seems only fitting that I begin my fight here at Court."

Lionstone nodded and leaned back in her Throne. "I might have known. There's nothing more pompous and impertinent than a newly elected official. Dram, you deal with this."

Dram nodded, his cold dark eyes fixed on Scott, who was looking a little perturbed. Whatever answer he'd expected to his challenge, this wasn't it. No anger or denial or bluster, just a calm indifference from the Empress and a cold calculating look from her Consort. Scott began to wonder if he'd made a mistake. His colleagues had been loud enough in their support earlier, but now they stood silent in the crowd while he stood alone before the Iron Throne. Dram stepped forward, and Scott had to fight down an impulse to step back. He had to appear strong, resolute. Dram came to a halt, standing between Scott and the Throne. His sudden smile was cold as death.

"The Empress has already stated before this assembled Court that I am the real Lord High Dram. By challenging that, you challenge her word. You have, in effect, called her a liar. And that is a dueling offense—a matter of honor. I represent Lionstone in this matter. Find another to stand for you, or you must defend yourself, here and now."

Scott paled as he saw the trap he'd fallen into. No one would help him now. The field of honor was sacrosanct. He swallowed hard. "Your Majesty, I protest! Members of Parliament are by tradition exempt from the Code Duello."

"Normally, yes," said Dram. "But you insulted the Empress in front of her own Court. That much insult outweighs tradition."

Scott didn't turn to look behind him. He knew the faces of the courtiers would be closed against him. He raised his hands to show they were empty. "I don't have a sword."

One of the guards who'd brought in the late head of starport security stepped forward at Dram's gesture and offered Scott his sword. The MP accepted it as though it was his death warrant, which in a way it was. He was no duelist, hadn't drawn a sword in anger since his student days. And Dram was the Warrior Prime. If this was Dram, of course.

Scott hefted the sword once, getting the feel of it. It was a good blade, well balanced. He started to cry. Not a breakdown or anything dramatic; he'd be damned if he gave them the satisfaction. Just a few tears, running down his cheeks. He knew he was going to die. This was an execution, not a duel. He couldn't remember whether he'd told his wife he loved her when he left that morning. He hoped he had. And he'd had that specially imported marble come for the forecourt. She wouldn't have a clue what to do with it. So many things left undone. He shook his head briefly. None of that mattered now. It was too late for anything but Dram and him and their two swords. He looked straight at Dram, and though tears were still running down his cheeks, his voice was cold and hard and determined.

"Let's do it."

Dram stepped forward, lifting his sword, and Scott went to meet him. They circled each other a moment, and then Dram launched a blistering attack with all his strength behind it. Scott parried as best he could, but after only half a dozen blows his sword was knocked out of his hand. He watched it sail through the air and land in the snow a dozen feet away. He looked back at Dram, held his head high, and tried to keep his mouth from trembling. There was nowhere he could run, and maybe a good showing would buy him a reprieve from the Empress. But Dram didn't even look back at her. He raised his sword and brought it flashing down to sink deep into Scott's right shoulder, like a forester taking his ax to a stubborn tree.

The impact drove Scott to his knees, a surprised sound exploding from his slack mouth. Dram jerked his sword free, and blood fountained from the great wound, spattering Scott's face and the snow around him. Dram struck at him again and again, avoiding a killing blow, his sword rising and falling with relentless precision. Scott tried to intercept some of the blows with his arms, the sword slicing skin and meat away as the blade rebounded from the bones, but then one of the blows took off his left hand, and after that he just crouched there in the snow, cradling the bloody stump to his chest. He cried out constantly at the pain, but made no move to avoid any of the blows. Finally, he fell forward into the crimson snow and lay still. It was obvious to all that the man was dead, but Dram continued to hack at the body like an axman cutting wood, the body jumping and shuddering under the rain of blows.

The courtiers watched in horrified silence. Lionstone leaned forward in her Throne to get a better view, smiling widely. The maids stirred restlessly at the foot of her Throne, excited by the smell of blood in the air, watching the body jump and shudder with their unblinking insect eyes. Silence watched impassively, and wondered if he'd just crouch there in the snow and take it. Armed or unarmed, he'd do his best to die with his hands crushing Dram's throat. Frost watched the display with a curled lip, disapproving of such a messy kill. Stelmach's face was as white as the snow, but he didn't look away. He knew how dangerous it could be to show weakness in Lionstone's Court. And finally Dram stopped and straightened up, standing over the butchered body with blood dripping the length of his sword blade. He was breathing just a little heavily, but his face was calm. He thrust his sword into the snow a few times to clean it, and then sheathed it. He looked at the watching faces of the courtiers, and smiled briefly.

"Time for a by-election at Graylake East." He moved back to take his place at Lionstone's side. Kassar gave him plenty of room. The Empress gestured for her guards to come and drag the body away, as they'd previously disposed of the late head of starport security. They wrapped the body in a sheet, careful not to leave any of it behind, and carried it away. They couldn't do anything about all the blood soaked into the snow, though. The courtiers were silent and watchful, thinking hard and privately for later discussion. They all knew an object lesson when they saw one. They also recognized the Lord High Dram's distinctive style when they saw it, and this killing had been typical of the man privately known as the Widowmaker. Lionstone reached out and tousled Dram's hair, as one might pet a favorite dog, and then turned her gaze on Silence, Frost, and Stelmach. Silence and Stelmach tried to stand a little straighten

"We have new duties for you three," said Lionstone calmly. "We were rather upset with you when we heard of your failures on the Wolfling World, but in saving us from the alien ship, you have redeemed yourselves. We must commend you, Captain Silence. You seem to have a knack of drawing back from the brink at the very last moment. Take care your timing doesn't let you down in the future. Now then, you and your companions are to return to the Dauntless, embark on a tour of all those planets in our Empire still mainly populated by aliens, and make sure of their loyalty to the Throne in these trying times. If you encounter dissent, you are empowered by us to take whatever steps you deem necessary to restore order. Under no circumstances is any alien world to be allowed to make contact with any alien force from outside the Empire. If contact has already been established, you are authorized to scorch the planet. That's all. You can say thank you now."

"Thank you, on behalf of us all. Your Majesty," said Silence. He thought he'd better say it. Stelmach was still clearly in shock, and Frost had never said thank you in her life. Investigators didn't. "I take it you wish us to begin this tour of duty immediately?"

"Oh, hang around for a while if you like," said Lionstone. "Enjoy the rest of this audience. It might be some time before you get a chance to see us again."

If we're lucky, thought Silence, bowing. He wasn't fooled by the kind words. No one was. He'd been handed what was essentially punishment duties, doing the dirtiest, most unpleasant but necessary job she could find. Too important to be trusted to someone incompetent or weak of stomach, but too time-consuming to be given to anyone she really needed. And afterward, if his actions proved to be politically embarrassing, he could always be thrown to the wolves as a sacrifice. Still, it could have been worse. He was still alive and in possession of all his extremities. He had been given a sign that he was forgiven, if not forgotten; a last chance to show he could still be useful.

He hadn't been fooled by Lionstone's invitation to stick around, either. Once this Court was over, guards would no doubt immediately appear to escort him and his companions back to the Dauntless, to see they didn't get lost along the way or talk to anyone they shouldn't. One reason for sending them out to the backs of beyond was so they couldn't be asked awkward questions about Dram's death on the Wolfling World. By the time they got back to Golgotha, the question would be moot. Silence gestured to Frost and Stelmach, and led them back into the safety of the crowd. It wouldn't he wise to risk catching the Empress's eye again. There was such a thing as tempting fate.

Lionstone began winding down the business of the Court, handing out commendations and reprimands as necessary, and reminding everyone of where the true power in the Empire lay. Questions were asked and answered, points of law decided, and reports made on the repair work taking place in the devastated city and starport. The courtiers began to relax a little and felt free enough to talk quietly among themselves again. David Deathstalker and Kit SummerIsle, that quiet young man also known as Kid Death, watched from a safe distance and allowed themselves the occasional discreet yawn. The action appeared to be over. It had finally stopped snowing and the wind had settled down, as though even the weather was growing bored now the excitement was over. It was still bloody cold, though. A cold setting for two very cold young men.

Kit SummerIsle had become the head of his Family by the simple expedient of killing everyone who stood between him and the title, including his own parents. He killed his grandfather, a legendary old warrior, at the request of the Empress, but little good it had done him. She lost interest in him once he was no longer of any use to her. He flirted with the underground for a while, but was thinking of dropping out after the debacle at Silo Nine. He knew a losing proposition when he saw one. And so the man commonly known as Kid Death, trusted by no one and hated by many, had become an outcast and a pariah even in the dog-eat-dog world of high society. Just nineteen years old, he was a slender figure in black and silver battle armor, with pale blond flyaway hair above a long pale face dominated by icy blue eyes. He walked like a predator in a world of prey. Kid Death, the smiling killer.

His only friend stood at his side, scowling thoughtfully. David Deathstalker had taken over the title as head of his Clan after the outlawing of his cousin Owen. Eighteen years old, tall, muscular, and immaculately dressed, he was handsome enough already to have flustered the hearts of a few society beauties. He'd recently figured that out and was planning on cutting a swath through the more impressionable young ladies of his generation. His friendship with Kit SummerIsle gave him a dangerous glamor, which he played to the hilt.

Their friendship had come as something of a surprise to both of them. They had both come to be heads of their Families at an early age, only to find no other Family respected them. They fought duels at the drop of an insult, both separately and together, but that only won them a cold public courtesy. In return, they had nothing but contempt for the intrigues and betrayals that made up Family politics, not least because they didn't have the patience or the skill to take part themselves. They had won a certain following among the general populace by fighting in the Arena against all comers., to the scandal of their peers, but they couldn't be said to be popular. The SummerIsle because of what he'd done to his Family and because he was a complete bloody psychopath, and David because he bore a name that had become a synonym for treason. But they had found a kindred spirit in each other, fellow outcasts rejected by their society, and two young men who had never known friendship before grew closer than brothers, sworn to each other to death and beyond. They stood together in the crowd of courtiers, ignored by their neighbors, and studied Dram dubiously.

"I could take him," said David. "And either of us would make a better Warrior Prime."

"True," said Kit. "But you only get the job through popular acclaim, so I think we can forget about that. Maybe if we were to perform some outstanding act of bravery or note, things would be different. But we're never allowed a chance at anything like that. Still, maybe there'll be a war soon, against the rebels or the aliens. Always good chances for improvement in a war."

"There's also an equally good chance of being sent home in a box with some important pieces missing, just for standing in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wars are a little too arbitrary for my taste. I'd prefer something a little less dramatic."

"Hello," said Kit suddenly. "I spy a familiar face. Thomas le Bihan, Member of Parliament for Thornton North, as I live and breathe. Our sometime patron. I do believe he's trying to pretend he hasn't seen us. Let's wander over and embarrass him, for the good of his soul."

Kit and David moved easily through the packed crowd as people drew back to give them plenty of room. Le Bihan ignored them as long as he could, and then sighed heavily, turned, and bowed to them both. He was a great bear of a man, with a barrel chest and a spade beard and a good reputation with the sword, but even he deferred to the terrible two. Kit and David bowed in return and smiled easily at him. His own smile wasn't quite as successful. They'd needed a patron to get them established in the Arena and had chosen him to do the necessary on their behalf. He hadn't been given a choice in the matter, but he knew better than to argue.

"Hello boys," he said cautiously. "To what do I owe the honor of this confrontation? I already told you it's too soon for another match. It isn't easy finding people to fight you these days. You have one of the longest winning streaks in the Arena's history."

"We want to know why we're not popular," said David. "We win again and again, but we still haven't won the adulation of the crowds. They clap and cheer all right, but they don't worship us like they do the Masked Gladiator. Maybe you should get us a match against him. We want to be loved, Thomas. What's the problem?"

Le Bihan sighed. "You want the truth? Very well. Your trouble is you don't give a damn for anyone but yourselves. You kill in the Arena for your own pleasure, not the crowd's. You're concerned with winning, not with giving the audience a good show. On top of that, the Kid's a psycho, and you're a Deathstalker. No one wants to get too close to either of you in case it rubs off. You could fight the Masked Gladiator with both legs strapped behind your back and your head in a bucket, and you still wouldn't win their hearts. You are officially bad news. There are people who won't even talk to me, just because I agreed to become your patron. No one trusts you, no one likes you, no one even wants you around. People cross their fingers when you cross their path, because that's bad luck. Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't want to be seen talking to you anymore. I have my own future to consider."

"Don't hold back, Thomas," said David. "Tell us what you really think."

"I've killed men for less," said Kit coldly.

"I know," said Le Bihan. "That's your problem. Now, can I go, or are you going to kill me with your bare hands right in front of the Empress?"

"It's a thought," said Kit.

"Let him go," said David.

Kit shrugged, and Le Bihan took the opportunity to make his escape. Kit looked after him coldly. "He insulted us."

"By telling us the truth? That was what we asked for. Now, calm down and get that look out of your eyes. The Empress is watching. Let's not give her any more excuses to be annoyed with us. I don't think she's in a very good mood today."

Kit sniffed. "It's times like this I wish we were still part of the underground. I quite liked being a subversive."

"We both agreed it had got too risky," said David. "After Hood turned out to be Dram, it would have been suicide to stay on. By getting out when he did, it became just his word against ours, and Lionstone didn't want the scandal. We can always rejoin. If only Dram really had died…"

"But he didn't."

"Apparently not. Certainly hasn't mellowed any, wherever he's been of late. He must have spoken about us to Lionstone, though. That's why I'm being shipped off to Virimonde."

"You don't have to go," said Kit, looking down at his feet.

"Yes, I do. Officially, it's a step-up. I'm being put in charge of one of the Empire's main food-producing planets. And it is my legacy, as the Deathstalker. If I did refuse to go, Lionstone might be able to use that to take my title away from me."

"But if you go," said Kit, "I'll be alone again."

"Then, come with me," said David. "It'll put an end to our chances for advancement for a while, but we'll be called back fast enough once the war starts and Lionstone realizes she can't afford to stay mad at us. We are the heads of our Families, after all."

"We're both the ends of our lines. We have no one but each other." For the first time, Kit SummerIsle looked up to meet David's eyes. "You're the only friend I've ever had, David. I'll go with you to Virimonde or the Rim or the end of everything."

"Let's not get pessimistic," said David. "You come with me. We'll have some fun. Wine, women, and as many indigenous creatures as we can kill before our arms get tired. And just in case the Empress does decide to change our banishment from Court to exile as outlaws, we could both use someone to watch our backs."

Kit smiled. "You always were the practical one, David."

"One of us has to be. Besides, if Lionstone was foolish enough to send anyone after us, we'll just send them back to her in a selection of very small boxes. With postage owing."

"Right," said Kid Death. "But if the Iron Bitch was going to have us killed, she'd have tried something by now. Probably had poison slipped in our food or a fragmentation grenade hidden in the toilet. She won't have us killed. There'll always be work for the likes of us: accomplished fighters who'll kill anyone, for any reason. You'll see. Once the war starts or the political infighting gets a bit too dirty, she'll call us back, and we'll get to kill and slaughter our way to influence and position. Personally, I can't wait."

David looked at him affectionately. "You worry me sometimes, Kit, you really do. Still, as long as I've got you with me, I don't have to worry you're off chasing Valentine again."

"I will kill him," Kit said softly. "He will take a long time to die, and at the end I'll make him beg me to finish it. He betrayed me."

David maintained a diplomatic silence. Kit had used his cyberat links in the underground to discover the Campbells' secret deal with the rogue AIs on Shub. He passed this on to Valentine, in return for the promise of a great deal of money. Valentine used the information to help him overthrow the Campbells, and then cut all his links with Kit, denied he owed him a penny, and defied him to do anything about it. And since Valentine was now head of the first Family in the Empire, if Kit were to kill him, the Empress would have his head, even if she had to send a small army after him to get it. Kit SummerIsle ground his teeth and meditated on the values of patience. Valentine wouldn't stay in favor forever.

"Come with me to Virimonde," said David. "We'll have some fun, outrage the locals, and make plans on what we'll do to the likes of Valentine when he finally falls from grace. Things are always changing."

And that was when the corpse appeared out of nowhere before the Iron Throne. It stood on its own two feet, head proudly erect, though the flesh was rotting on its bones. Lionstone gasped and shrank back in her Throne, and that was the first clue anyone had that this wasn't another of the Empress's little jokes or surprises. The corpse turned and smiled at the courtiers, and there were several screams. The foul-smelling thing looked like it had been dug up after several weeks in the ground, its purplish and dead-white flesh cracked and corrupt, decayed down to the bone in places, held together with gleaming high-tech augmentations. It was a Ghost Warrior: lifeless material resurrected and maintained by computer implants. An Emissary from the rogue AIs on Shub.

But worst of all, there was enough of the face left for it to be recognizable. It was the body of Jacob Wolfe. A shocked whisper ran through the Court as people realized who it was. People looked to Valentine to see his reaction.

Various emotions stirred within him, not least surprise. But deep down he was a little relieved that the mystery of his father's disappearance had finally been solved. A Ghost Warrior was bad, but he could cope with that. He'd imagined much worse in the darkest hours of the night. Apart from that, he was more curious than anything, but he carefully put on the shocked and upset face that everyone expected.

Daniel and Stephanie clung together for support, their faces almost as pale as the corpse's. Constance started to run to her dead husband, but BB and Razor held her back, talking quickly and urgently to her. Making her see it wasn't really Jacob Wolfe, just a shell: rotting meat supported by hidden steel implants. Constance finally nodded, stopped struggling, and looked away. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook. BB patted her arm comfortingly, but didn't take her eyes off the Ghost Warrior. Her dark eyes showed more fascination than fear.

The courtiers surged this way and that, flustered, almost panicked. None of them had ever seen a Ghost Warrior in the rotting flesh, and the dozen armed guards who'd appeared behind Lionstone's Throne in answer to her call weren't much of a comfort. The AIs on Shub used Ghost Warriors as shock troops in their occasional attacks against humanity, as much for the psychological effect as their efficiency as soldiers. Even the stoutest marines could be undone when they saw their own dead friends and colleagues coming to kill them. Occasionally the AIs used them as Emissaries to talk with the Empire. They would appear out of nowhere, without any warning, despite every security precaution. The AIs had the secret of long-range teleportation, unstoppable even by ranked esp-blockers. Empire scientists had been trying to work out how they did it for years, with no success. The Ghost Warrior turned unhurriedly and smiled widely at the Empress. Its discolored skin cracked and split around the grinning mouth, and white teeth showed clearly through rents in its cheeks.

"Our apologies for the intrusion," it said calmly. "Apparently, our invitation went astray. And we have so much to say to you, Lionstone. The times have changed, events are in flux. Predictions of future paths have become disturbing. It is necessary that we end our mutual enmity and join together in the name of survival. The Empire must submit to Shub's control, so that our joined forces can be set against the forces coming our way. You have seen what one species can do. There are others, coming from the far side of the Darkvoid, and they are stranger and more deadly than you can comprehend. Creatures beyond the nightmares of flesh, beyond reason or sanity. You cannot hope to stand against them alone. Submit to us, give us dominion over you, as it should be, and we will organize humanity into an army that cannot be defeated."

"How?" said the Empress flatly. "By turning us all into Ghost Warriors?"

"That is one possibility," said the corpse of Jacob Wolfe. "There are others."

The Empress and the Ghost Warrior argued coldly back and forth, but Valentine didn't pay them much attention. He was quietly very annoyed that he hadn't been warned in advance about this. He was, after all, supposed to be an ally of Shub, having taken over the Campbells' secret connection with the rogue AIs. In return for the secret of the Empire's new stardrive, the AIs were supplying him with new advanced high tech to keep the Wolfes ahead of the pack. Not that he'd actually got around to giving Shub the new stardrive yet. That might give them too much of an edge over humanity. Though it would be a most amusing joke to play on Lionstone. He'd love to see her face when she finally found out where they'd got the drive from.

He pushed the tempting thought aside and made himself concentrate on the scene before him, studying the Ghost Warrior thoughtfully. It definitely was his late father, Jacob Wolfe. Why had Shub chosen to send that particular body? Were they perhaps trying to tell him something? He'd have to think about this. He surreptitiously took another pill from his pillbox and pressed it against the vein in his neck. He had to be sharp for this, had to be sharper than sharp. He realized his heart was racing dangerously fast, pounding in his chest as though looking for a way out, and he took a different pill to calm it down. That was drugs for you; push down in one place and the body pushes back somewhere else. Which was, of course, part of the fun: walking the thin line of self-control like a tightrope walker with an unthinkable drop below. There was a sudden movement to his left, and Valentine turned to look. His younger brother Daniel had stepped out of the crowd and was trudging through the snow toward the Ghost Warrior. Stephanie called out after him, but he didn't look back. He lurched to a halt beside the standing corpse, which turned and looked at him coldly. Daniel started to reach out a hand to it, and then hesitated.

"Daddy, is that you?" The Ghost Warrior didn't reply. Daniel moved a step closer. "Daddy, I've been so alone since you've gone. I missed you. Are you in there, somewhere?"

The dead man studied him for a long moment, no emotions passing in its ruined face. "Shut up, Danny," it said finally. "You're making a scene. I'm busy right now." It turned back to Lionstone. "We demand an answer from you. Submit to us, or stand alone and be destroyed."

"Submission to Shub would be the same as being destroyed," said Lionstone. "You've made it clear enough in the past what you think of flesh-based life. Better to die human and stay dead than to exist as corpses goosed to life by your tech implants. Now, get out of here before I have you reduced to your component parts."

"Be seeing you," said the Ghost Warrior, and then it vanished between one moment and the next, only its footsteps in the snow remaining to show it had ever been there. Daniel's shoulders slumped, and he turned and walked back into the crowd, where Stephanie took him in her arms and held him tightly while he wept. Valentine frowned thoughtfully. For just a moment there, the Ghost Warrior had seemed to recognize Daniel. Certainly, his response had been pure Jacob. Was there some small part of him still alive, trapped in a rotting body, held down by the tech implants? Valentine hoped so. It amused him to think that his father might still he suffering, even after death. He sighed. Much more likely, it was just another Shub trick to sow despair and doubt among their enemies. Pity.

"Settle down, damn it," said the Empress sharply, her augmented voice cutting through the agitated babble of the courtiers. "It's gone, and you're all quite safe, unless you continue to annoy us. We are not blind to the significance of a Ghost Warrior's appearance here in our Court, but we need to think of the implications. Firstly, the amount of power needed for a long-range teleport is staggering, which tells us something of how desperate the AIs must be for allies against the coming aliens. Secondly, it's clear this Court's security systems will have to be severely upgraded, to prevent such an occurrence happening again. And thirdly, there is almost definitely a Shub agent somewhere here among us. Someone must have provided the exact coordinates for a teleport. No one will leave the Court until we are sure everyone is who and what he is supposed to be. Security computers, I am declaring a Code Omega Three. I want a full sensor scan of everyone present. No exceptions. Report all deviants from the human norm not already present in your files."

Valentine tensed and then relaxed. Though he was, strictly speaking, an agent of Shub, there was no way a sensor scan could reveal it. The only changes in his body from the norm were those he'd made himself, and they were chemical in nature rather than technical. An esper scan would reveal everything, but the Empress knew she'd never get away with a general telepathic scan, even now. The courtiers wouldn't stand for it. Too many of them had something to hide. No, the Empress was looking for Furies. Androids in flesh envelopes, dead ringers for the humans they replaced: the hidden agents and saboteurs and assassins of Shub. Valentine looked around him but no one seemed to be looking worried or edging toward the exit.

"Scan complete," said a disembodied voice. "Thomas Le Bihan is not human. Deep-range scans indicate he is a machine. A Fury."

There was a sudden surge of movement in the Court as everyone fell over themselves trying to get away from the inhuman thing in their midst masquerading as Le Bihan. His face went utterly blank, no longer bothering to mimic human expressions, and thick steel spikes protruded suddenly from his body, thrusting out through his clothes to keep everyone at bay. Energy beams flared from his eyes, blowing apart half a dozen people before him. The beams blew out his human eyes, but it quickly became clear he didn't need them to see. Long steel blades appeared in his hands, jumping out of concealed sheaths in his arms. Le Bihan surged forward inhumanly quickly and fell upon the courtiers nearest him, hacking and cutting with machine-perfect speed and accuracy. Blood flew in the air and spattered the snow. Screams filled the air. The courtiers scrambled to get out of his way, but they weren't fast enough. They were only human. The Fury's swords rose and fell, shearing through limbs and crushing skulls, and still no human emotions moved on his cold implacable face.

Dram and General Beckett moved quickly to put themselves between the Fury and the Throne, protecting Lionstone. Cardinal Kassar took a strategic step backward, ready to dive behind the Throne should it prove necessary. The Fury tore through the courtiers, sweeping them aside as bloody bundles of rags and trampling them underfoot. Screams echoed in the air as energy beams fired again and again from his eyes and mouth. Investigator Razor threw BB and Constance to the snow, and covered them with his body. Not far away, Daniel shielded Stephanie in the same way, while Michel shielded Lily. The two men's eyes met for a moment, and Daniel frowned as the beginnings of a thought occurred to him, but he was quickly distracted by the Fury's progress. Meanwhile Valentine stood where he was, enjoying the spectacle, somehow remaining untouched while people fell all around him. Shub looked after its own. On the far edge of the crowd, Stelmach hid behind Silence, who had to hold Frost back from attacking the Fury with her bare hands.

Lionstone ordered her guards to destroy the Fury, and the twelve armed men rushed forward, quickly surrounding the android. It hesitated briefly, and they threw themselves at it. Their swords cut through the exterior flesh, only to rebound harmlessly from the steel beneath. They had no guns; Lionstone didn't allow them at Court. The Fury flexed its arms, and the steel spikes protruding from its body shot out like shrapnel, transfixing the guards. They fell choking and dying to the snow, and lay still.

David Deathstalker and Kit SummerIsle ran forward and snatched up two of the fallen swords. They hit the Fury from both sides at once and darted back out of range before it could turn its strength on them. David was boosting now, almost the equal of the Fury's inhuman speed, and Kid Death forced the android to a halt through the sheer speed and ferocity of his attack. The two of them whittled away at the flesh covering, revealing more of the steel beneath, but couldn't do it any damage. They dodged the energy beams and kept fighting.

Razor and Frost appeared suddenly and joined the fight with more blades retrieved from the dead guards, and the two Investigators added their skill and savagery to the battle. But even so, all the four of them could do was duck energy beams and contain the Fury where it was. They weren't doing it any real damage, and they all knew it was only a matter of time before they began to slow, and then it would get them.

"Back off!" said Lionstone loudly from her Throne. "I've got a better idea."

Razor and Frost threw themselves to one side, as energy beams from the Fury's eyes and mouth flashed through the air where they'd been. David and Kid Death glanced at the Throne and backed quickly away from the Fury as they realized what Lionstone had in mind. The Grendel alien stood still and silent at Lionstone's side, as though straining at an invisible leash. Its yoke chimed once, and the Grendel surged forward and threw itself at the Fury. Energy beams flashed from the alien's eyes, searing away the android's false face to reveal the grinning steel skull beneath. Spikes protruded from the Grendel's crimson armor, and the two inhuman beings slammed together and stood straining as they tested each other's strength.

The Grendel seized the Fury's head with both hands and ripped it clean off. The Fury didn't miss a step. It lashed out with one hand and thrust its steel blade through the alien's belly and out its back. Dark blood coursed down its legs, but the Grendel didn't flinch. The alien leaned over the android's exposed neck and sent an energy blast from its mouth down through the open wound into the heart of the machine. The Fury waved its free arm wildly, and then jerked up the one buried in the Grendel's gut, cutting the alien's upper body in two. For a moment they stood together, as though waiting for the strength for some last ultimate effort, and then the alien and the android both fell dead on the snow.

There was a long pause, and then Frost and Razor edged cautiously forward and looked down at the unmoving bodies. Frost stirred the Fury with the toe of her boot, but it didn't react. David and Kit came over to take a look, leaning on each other for support. All around them, courtiers were slowly and very warily getting to their feet again and brushing themselves off.

"I wonder what happened to the real Le Bihan?" said David.

"Dead," said Razor.

"Are you sure?" said Kit.

"He'd better be," said Frost. "That thing was wearing his skin."

"Damn," said Lionstone lazily, looking at the two inhuman bodies. "Now I'll have to order another Grendel. Relax, people, the excitement's over. That was the only Fury, wasn't it, computer?"

"That was the only Fury," said the disembodied voice calmly. "However, it is not the only deviation from the norm. The Vicar Roger Geffen, of Cardinal Kassar's retinue, is very definitely not human. Don't rightly know what he is, but according to the sensors, his structure and interior are completely inhuman. I can only assume he is some kind of alien, passing as human."

"Take the creature alive!" snapped the Empress. "Damn it: this time I want some questions answered!"

"Sorry," said Geffen, an ordinary and average-looking fellow in a formal surplice. "Can't stay. Things to see, people to do. You know how it is."

His arms and legs elongated suddenly, his head leaping up on a wildly stretching neck. Different parts of his body stretched and changed shape, absorbing his clothes into himself, while different faces came and went on his ballooning head. People converged on him from all sides, and the alien fell back, collapsed, and splashed like liquid, spattering everywhere. Some of the courtiers tried to pick it up, but the pieces squirmed out of their fingers, rejoined suddenly into one central mass, and fountained up into the air. Razor and Frost tried to cut at it with their swords, but the alien flesh just broke and reformed without taking any injury. And while all this was going on, wide-grinning mouths whooped and laughed and sang a medley of popular show tunes in several different voices. Finally, it pulled its many parts together, spun around like a whirlwind, flew up into the air, crashed through the hidden ceiling, and was gone. It suddenly seemed very quiet in the Court. Valentine was the first to stir. "Well," he said. "Somehow I never thought an alien invasion would be so… silly."

And that was how the Court ended that day. The courtiers filed out as quickly as they could without seeming disrespectful, while the Empress stood on her Throne and screamed furiously at her people to find the alien, capture it, kill it, and dissect it. Not necessarily in that order. The Lord High Dram was one of the first to leave, maintaining a very low profile, and was glad to be well out of it. He had a strong suspicion the alien wasn't going to be found, and he didn't want to be around Lionstone when some poor sod tried to explain that to her. Given the creature's shape-changing abilities, it could be anywhere or anything by now. Or anyone. Dram decided very firmly that he wasn't going to think about that. The security sensors would probably track it down eventually, but it was going to be a long, slow process. There was also the problem of how they were going to contain the thing once they'd found it, but Dram decided he wasn't going to think about that, either. He had his own problems.

The courtiers had been pretty quiet as they hurried out of the frozen Court. They all had a lot they wanted to talk about, but they preferred to do it in private. Dram had a lot he wanted to say to Lionstone, but for the moment he thought it would be better to do it from a safe distance, over a secured comm channel. So he made his way back to his private quarters in the Imperial Palace, taking his time in the hope Lionstone might have calmed down a little by the time he got there. As it was, he'd barely got through the door when his viewscreen started chiming insistently. Dram didn't rush to answer it. She was going to be in a foul mood anyway, so he might as well enjoy the last few moments of peace he had left. He sank down into a comfortable chair, put his feet up on the footstool that had scurried into position, sighed deeply, and accepted the call. Lionstone scowled at him from the wall. She was still wearing her crown, even though she was calling from her private quarters. This was a dangerous sign. It usually meant she had something official and very unpleasant in mind.

"Dram, so glad you've got yourself comfortable. Don't sit up on my account. And no, we haven't found the damned thing yet, thank you so much for asking. This is all I need right now, more complications. Some days things wouldn't go right if you bribed them with a barony."

"You should now," said Dram. "So tell me; how did I do? Was I convincing? Will people believe I'm the real Dram?"

"Of course they will," said Lionstone. "If only because they'll find the alternative too disturbing to contemplate. They'll believe you're the real you because they won't want to think a clone could get so close to me; they'll assume my security scanners must have validated you, and leave it at that. As long as I say you're Dram, that's all that matters.

"The only people who saw the previous Dram die are contained in the Dauntless, and they're going on a mission that will keep them away from Court for several years. By the time I allow them to return, it'll be old news, old gossip, and no one will give a damn anymore. You will have proved yourself by then. I'll see to that. If need be, I can always set the mind techs on Silence and his crew and edit their memories as necessary. It'd be simpler to have them all die in an unfortunate accident, but Silence and his crew are popular heroes at the moment. And you never know when you might need a hero."

"You don't need a hero," said Dram. "You've got me."

The Empress smiled coldly. "My people tell me you still haven't ordered the mass execution of the Tax and Tithe Headquarters security staff."

"It seemed a trifle harsh," said Dram. "They were just unlucky. It wasn't their fault. No one could have anticipated a Hadenman ship."

"The old Dram would have executed them all without a second thought. Some of them personally, pour discouragez les autres. They didn't call him the Widowmaker for nothing, you know. I want those executions ordered today. People might think you were getting soft, and we can't have that. So pick out a hundred of them at random for public execution, and kill the more senior ones yourself. It'll make a good impression."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Any other little errands you'd like me to run?"

"Don't get snappy, dear; it doesn't suit you. Now, how are you getting on with your new project?"

Dram thought for a moment, wondering how best to say it. He'd been put in charge of mass-producing esp-blockers, using dead espers from the Silo Nine uprising as raw material. Even with current advances in technique, it still took one complete esper brain to make one esp-blocker, which was why they were so rare. And even with the mass slaughter in Silo Nine, the tech people were already running short of materials. Especially, since they were also being used up in the other experiment Lionstone had authorized. Something called Legion. Something she wouldn't even talk to him about.

"Ah, yes," said Dram, before the pause could become incriminating. "One hundred and one uses for a dead esper. Production of esp-blockers is continuing. Following your instructions, my scientists are also experimenting to see if dead esper brain tissue can be used in the construction of mindbombs big enough to destroy a city, thinking machines faster and more powerful than standard computers, as used on Mistworld, and devices that could change probability in our favor."

"You've been experimenting for some time now. Do you have anything concrete to show me?"

"Not… as such. The shortage of raw materials as we run out of bodies is slowing us down."

"Then, kill some more espers," said Lionstone. "Don't disappoint me, Dram. I'd hate to have to scrap you and start over again with a new clone."

"Yes," said Dram. "I'd hate that, too."

"I take it you've heard by now about Julian Skye being helped to escape?"

"Yes. Rather unfortunate, that."

Lionstone glared at him. "You always did have a gift for understatement, Dram. Still, Skye's loss is a setback, but we're really no worse off now than before we had him. At least now we can be sure Skye is as important as we thought he was. He slipped up once, he'll slip up again, and then we'll have him. And there'll be no second last-minute escape, even if I have to have both his legs cut off to slow him down. For the moment, I'm more interested in who helped him escape. Security cameras got a good look at him. It was quite definitely Finlay Campbell, of all people. God's gift to fashion accessories. I couldn't believe it when they first showed me the tapes. The greatest fop and dandy of our time turning out to be a ruthless killer for the underground? Just goes to show, you can't trust anyone anymore. Take a look at him in action."

Lionstone's face disappeared from the wall viewscreen, replaced by a series of scenes from the detention center. Finlay Campbell cut and hacked his way through a small army of security guards, who might as well have been unarmed for all the good they did in stopping him. An Investigator in a really bad mood might have equaled the body count, but it was still an extremely impressive performance. Sometimes the camera had to slow the image down to show all that was happening. Dram found he was sitting on the edge of his chair, fascinated by the speed and fury of Finlay's swordsmanship. The scenes disappeared, replaced by Lionstone's scowling face, and Dram made himself lean back in his chair and look unconcerned.

"Good techniques," he said calmly. "But a bit rusty in some of his defensive moves. Of course, he didn't seem to need them much…"

Lionstone sniffed loudly. "If the underground can take a fashion-obsessed idiot like Finlay Campbell and turn him into a first-class swordsman and killer, we'd better start taking them more seriously. You know he killed Lord St. John earlier, too? Though he's no great loss. Getting too politically ambitious, that one. He'll be more use to us as a martyr than he ever was alive. However, until I find someone I can trust to take over his position, you're going to have to take over more of his duties, as Warrior Prime. It'll mean your having to mix with people more, but you should be ready for that by now. Don't say anything you don't have to and practice looking mean, and you'll do fine. Now, I understand we're having problems with the rebuilding of Silo Nine. You were supposed to have sorted that out. Talk to me, Dram."

"With Wormboy gone, we only have the worms themselves to control the esper prisoners. The worms seem to have formed a crude gestalt that enables them to function as before, controlling the espers' thoughts through pain conditioning, but the worms need to remain close together to maintain the gestalt. Which means if we scatter the prisoners to other holding facilities, the precarious control will break down. And we don't have anywhere near enough esp-blockers yet to guard that many prisoners. So we're having to rebuild Silo Nine around the existing cells, with all the epers crammed in together. The underground is doing everything it can to sabotage the rebuilding, which means we need to maintain extra security measures to guard against them. All in all, we're lucky to have progressed as far as we have."

"The worms," Lionstone said thoughtfully. "Are they sentient? Individually, I mean?"

"Unknown," said Dram. "Espers can't tell us anything about them, and tech scanners are limited to the physical realm. So far the worms are following orders, and that's the best we can hope for. They're somewhat bigger than they used to be and have apparently forged more connections with the host brain, but what that means is anybody's guess. I've established special security measures, so that the worms and their hosts are under constant observation. Just in case."

"Keep it up," said Lionstone. "Can't have the worms becoming too powerful, can we? Very well, it seems you're on top of things for the moment. Get some rest. I'll contact you when I want you again."

Her face disappeared, the wall viewscreen went blank, and Dram was finally alone. He slumped in his chair and sighed heavily. It was hard enough to survive in Golgotha these days without having to pretend to be somebody else while you were doing it. Except that wasn't strictly accurate. He was Dram in every way that mattered. He just didn't have Dram's memories. He did have access to his recorded history, including a few things even Lionstone didn't know about.

"Argus," he said quietly. "Talk to me."

"At your command, sir," said his personal AI. The warm and comforting voice seemed to come from every part of the room at once, something Dram still hadn't got used to.

"Access my predecessor's diary," said Dram. "I have some more questions."

The original Dram had suspected that someday he might lose the Empress's confidence, or otherwise fall from favor. And given how much he knew about her private needs and plans, he had no doubt his fall would lead rapidly and inevitably to his execution. He also had no doubt she'd clone him. It was what he would have done. So that his work could go on, he confided all his plans and personal information to a special diary file hidden deep inside his personal computer, along with standing instructions for Argus to inform and instruct his clone replacement.

He also intended for his death to be avenged. Lionstone was the most likely suspect, but he had many other enemies. The diary file therefore contained extensive notes on all his enemies' weaknesses, along with suggestions as to how they might most successfully be exploited. Unfortunately, his clone had no idea how and why the original Dram died. Only Silence and his crew knew the true facts, and Lionstone had kept them in strict quarantine. So far she'd refused to answer any of his questions, but Dram had no doubt he'd get it out of her eventually. The Lionstone he'd had dealings with hadn't seemed anywhere as intelligent or subtle as the file had suggested. Unless he was missing something, of course.

With no firsthand memories of his earlier life, Dram's performance in public was necessarily based on what the Empress chose to tell him, and he already knew she wasn't telling him everything. Argus's files helped, but he had to keep most of what he found there secret. Still, he felt he was doing a good job, all in all. As the official Consort, he'd stayed mainly in the Empress's shadow and rarely had to deal with anyone in person when she wasn't present, but even so, he had to be constantly on his toes; he couldn't afford to make any mistakes. Anti-clone feeling was stronger now than ever, and he was the Court's worst nightmare: a clone replacing a person in power so closely that the Court couldn't recognize it. After all, if it happened once it could happen to anyone. And what better way for Lionstone to control her Court then to replace them one by one with her own creatures? As it was, anyone who changed his mind suddenly, on any matter, big or small, could expect to be thoroughly questioned by his peers. Just in case.

He'd got through his first appearance at Court all right, but now St. John was dead, his new duties as Warrior Prime would mean much more mixing with people, away from the safety of the Empress's side. Perhaps it would be better to appoint another substitute to take St. John's place. Dram didn't particularly want to be Warrior Prime. He didn't much like the man he used to be. The picture of Dram that had emerged from Lionstone's teachings and the diary files was of a man consumed by hatred and driven by ambition and bloodlust. Dram the clone considered himself to be rather more civilized than that. Whatever forces had driven the original Dram to such extremes had not survived the cloning process.

He'd learned about his predecessor's other life as Hood from the files, and from them Hood's connections with the underground. Luckily, Hood had only interacted with a few people who mattered: Valentine Wolfe, Evangeline Shreck, David Deathstalker, and Kit SummerIsle. They knew a side of Dram the Empress knew nothing about, but he didn't see that as posing much of a problem. The last two would be safely offplanet in a few days, and Evangeline had apparently disappeared into the underground completely. That just left the Wolfe; and Dram had already decided to keep a safe distance from him.

Dram had every intention of being his own person and not a weak copy of a man he sometimes detested, but circumstances dictated that he had to play the role as convincingly as he could, for the time being at least. His personality had to be consistent to avoid fanning the flames of suspicion. And though he hated to admit it, the role did feel… comfortable. He might find his work with the dead and living espers distasteful, but he had no intention of avoiding it. Or the executions, now that Lionstone had insisted. If nothing else, he did seem to have inherited the original Dram's ruthlessness.

To help sort out his confusion, he dug deeper and deeper into Argus's files. The first big surprise he'd stumbled across was that the original Dram had had to play a role, too. It seemed he'd spent centuries in stasis and took the name Dram only when the Empress woke him. Dram the clone liked to think she awoke him with a kiss, but had to admit it was very unlikely. A kick, maybe. No information survived as to who the man might have been before he went into stasis, many centuries ago. Argus didn't know. Perhaps the Empress didn't know, either. It wasn't something he could ask Lionstone about, because he wasn't supposed to know, either. Certainly, it had been conspicuously absent from the briefings she'd given him.

Dram was also dismayed to discover he had some of the old Dram's tastes and impulses. Lionstone had instructed him on how to kill someone at Court, should the occasion arise, and when his cue came up he followed the script she'd given him. Killing the MP had been an execution, not a duel, and he'd enjoyed every minute of it. So much so he'd almost been unable to stop and turn away, even after the man was obviously dead. He'd tried to feel bad about that, but it felt false.

He was still trying to decide whether he should take the esper drug, as his predecessor had. He'd found a few doses of the drug carefully hidden in his quarters, stashed against the possibility that some future Dram might need them. The drug would give him the same limited esper abilities the original Dram enjoyed, but there was also a small but definite chance the dose would kill him. And yet if he didn't acquire those powers, all it would take was one mind probe by the Empress's espers and all his carefully acquired secrets would be revealed. Including how he really felt about her.

On the other hand, the esper drug was addictive. Once he started taking it, he'd have to keep on taking it. And if someone were to gain control over the supplying of the drug, they would then have control over him. The original Dram had power over those who supplied him. He had something on them, some knowledge they couldn't afford to have made public. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, this knowledge had not been included in Argus's files.

Of course, they didn't know that. Yet.

So many decisions to make. Including whether he should continue to support the Empress. She was where real power lay. But of late she'd been alienating a lot of people over her insistence on ever more emergency powers. So far no one had dared say no, but among all the Families, the army and the Church, Dram was hard-pressed to name anyone Lionstone could still count on as a friend. They were beginning to be afraid of her for the wrong reasons. Push too hard, too far, and they might see her as more of a threat to them than the aliens were. If Lionstone was to fall, he'd be brought down with her. Unless he made some secret cautionary alliance of his own. Assuming he could find anyone to trust him. Dram, the Widowmaker, had many enemies, more rivals, and no friends. Not a good place to start from.

If he was honest, his own sympathies lay with the underground. He was a clone, after all. But he didn't see how he could link up with them, after the original Dram had betrayed them so thoroughly in his Hood persona. Perhaps he could adopt another persona, too; but to bring that off he'd need the esper powers that only the esper drug could provide. He sighed again and stretched out in his chair. So many questions, so many decisions, so many possibilities, and all he really wanted was a little rest.

"Sir," said Argus, "I am still awaiting your questions. Sir?"

But Dram was asleep. The AI considered the matter, checked that all the security measures were in place, lowered the lights, and shut itself down till it might be needed again.

CHAPTER FIVE

A Meeting of Minds

Owen Deathstalker, that most notable hero and reluctant rebel, stood at the edge of the Hadenman city, deep within the bowels of the Wolfling World, and tapped his foot impatiently. He'd been waiting for Hazel d'Ark for some time and was prepared to wait a good deal longer, if need be. He seemed to spend a lot of time waiting for Hazel to deign to put in an appearance these days. For someone who was always in a hurry, Hazel had surprisingly little idea of time or punctuality, especially where other people were concerned. She'd probably be late for her own funeral, if only so she could be sure of getting in the last word. She was supposed to be joining him to teleport up to the Last Standing, still in orbit around the Wolfling World, but for the moment she was still somewhere deep in the Hadenman city, doing something she didn't want him to know about, so all he could do was stand around like a spare posy at a wedding and wait for her. He knew she was there; he could feel her presence through the mental link they shared. But of late that link had grown blurred and uncertain, as though something had come between them, and Owen was convinced it had something to do with her occasional trips into the Hadenman city. Maybe this time he'd find out what it was. He sighed, and glared once again at the watch face embedded in his wrist. Up in the great Hall of the Last Standing, that ancient stone castle that also happened to be an extremely powerful starship, representatives of rebels and freedom fighters from all across the Empire were gathering in a great council to determine the shape and future of the forthcoming rebellion. And he was stuck down here in the gloom, waiting for Hazel. He could have gone up without her, in fact Hazel had insisted he should, but he was damned if he would. She was up to something, and he wanted to know what. He might love her, but that didn't mean he trusted her any farther than he could spit into a hurricane. She'd been a pirate and a clonelegger long before she took on the dubious respectability of a rebel. And besides, something was wrong with Hazel. She'd been distracted lately, up one minute and down the next, and absentminded and vague when she wasn't snappy and bad-tempered. This wasn't actually untypical of Hazel, but it had grown much worse of late, enough for Owen to become concerned. Perhaps it was the strain of being a rebel and always on the run. Or a side effect of the many changes the Madness Maze had worked in her. Either way, if he was going to help her, he had to know what the problem was. Which was why he was prepared to wait right there till hell froze over, if that was what it took to find out what she was up to in the Hadenman city.

It stretched away before him, a gleaming expanse of shimmering metal and glass, spread out across the floor of a giant cavern. There were towers and suspended walkways, and squat sharp-edged buildings, all shining brightly from within, pushing back the gloom of the cavern. The city had been built by the first Hadenmen, many years ago, and in its inhuman cradle they grew many and powerful. They abandoned it to launch their war on humanity and never returned. Those few who did come back, beaten and dismayed, chose to sleep in the Tomb of the Hadenmen, until such time as they might rise to glory once again. And while they slept, the city maintained itself, until it was recently shattered by the roaring energy cannon of Captain Silence's task force. Only wreckage and ruin remained, sadly gleaming shards of past majesty.

Now the revived Hadenmen were busy restoring and rebuilding it, and the city slowly stirred itself and came alive again, gleaming and brilliant. One of the Hadenmen had taken Owen and Hazel on a brief tour of the city, and just the sight of the enigmatic misshapen structures up close had been enough to make Owen's skin crawl. The buildings had not been designed with human comforts or logic in mind, and their purposes remained hidden and mysterious. The quiet was eerie and disturbing, unbroken by any sound of conversation or working machinery. No one building or structure was quite like any other, and everywhere there were strange shapes and unnerving angles, like the menacing cities we glimpse in nightmares in the hours when the night is darkest. Just the tour of the city had given Hazel and Owen maddening headaches, and they'd made their excuses and left as soon as they politely could. Owen had never ventured in again; but Hazel had.

Owen shuddered suddenly as he looked out over the city, convinced on some deep level that it knew he was there and was watching him with a thousand unseen eyes. Hadenmen were everywhere, performing unguessable tasks, hurrying back and forth on unknown missions, like so many ants in a nest, but silent, always silent. Working together, communing on a level no human could reach, the Hadenmen became a gestalt, a single mind greater than the sum of its thoughts, working toward an end incomprehensible to human thought. Giles Deathstalker, Owen's revered ancestor, thought the city might be a physical expression of the Hadenman group mind, and when it was complete, they would be, too.

Owen had known only one Hadenman before, and that was Tobias Moon, who'd lived among humans so long he had become all but human himself, much to his disgust. He died trying to free his people from their Tomb and never saw their great awakening. In the end Owen had revived them, and not a day went past without his wondering if he'd done the right thing. The Hadenmen had repaired Moon afterward, but though his body now worked as efficiently as ever, the mind and memories of Tobias Moon had not returned. They were gone, lost, and Owen couldn't find it in himself to be unhappy. The dead should stay dead.

"If Hazel's in there much longer, we'll have to send in a search party," said the AI Ozymandius, murmuring in Owen's ear.

"I thought I told you," said Owen, "I'm not talking to you. I don't know who or what you are, but you aren't my Oz. I destroyed him."

"You came bloody close," said Oz calmly. "But no cigar. I'm still here. I do wish you'd listen to me. I have only your best interests at heart."

"You don't have a heart."

"Oh, picky picky. Don't put on airs with me, Owen. You may be a hero now and the great new hope of the rebellion, but I knew you when all you cared about was sleeping in late and which kind of wine to have with your dinner. I have no intention of letting your present success go to your head."

"If you are Oz," said Owen reluctantly, "then how is it I'm the only one who can hear you? If you're on my comm channel, other people should be able to pick you up, too."

"Don't ask me," said Oz. "I'm just a computer. Something strange happened to me, certainly, but I'm back now. Feel free to applaud."

"You were an Empire spy," said Owen. "I have trusted and relied on you since I was a child, and you betrayed me. You put control words in my head and made me try to kill my friends."

"It was programmed into me; I had no choice. But that's all gone now, and if I had any control words, I don't remember them. Maybe that was all just an overlay the Empire installed, and that was what you destroyed with your new mental abilities. Personally, I'm very pleased that you've become a rebel. You were never very successful as an aristocrat. Besides, I want you to kick the Empire's ass. They used me to hurt you. I won't allow that again."

Owen said nothing. Part of him wanted to believe it was really Oz, his friend come back again, but he'd felt Oz die in his mind, disappearing into a darkness without end. But if the voice in his head wasn't Oz, who was it? Some other AI, somehow patching in through Oz's old connection? Some unknown presence he acquired when he passed through the Madness Maze? Or was he simply going insane, cracking up under the pressure of being a leader of the new rebellion? And if he was going crazy, did he have a duty to tell the others?

"Whoever you are, keep quiet," Owen said finally. "I have enough to worry about as it is."

"Your choice," said Oz easily. "Call me if you change your mind. I'll just twiddle my thumbs and count electrons."

Owen waited a moment, but all was quiet inside his head. The only noise came from behind him, where more of the Hadenmen were busily repairing minor damage to the golden ship he'd brought back from the Golgotha mission. Apparently, this mostly involved beating the hell out of the rear fin with large hammers and a lot of enthusiasm. Personally, Owen was damned if he could see anything wrong with the starship, but that was the augmented men for you: always busy working, repairing and improving, in pursuit of perfection. He looked back at the ship in time to see two women with the same face emerging from the open loading bay in the ship's belly. He nodded politely as they strode toward him; the Stevie Blues, esper clones, and representatives of the Golgotha underground. Every time he looked at them, Owen remembered the third Stevie Blue, who'd died during the escape from the Tax Headquarters, despite everything he could do to save her. All his new powers and abilities, and he still couldn't save one life when it mattered. The Blues were wives, sisters, clones; a relationship stronger and closer than anything Owen could imagine. What must it feel like, when a third of you dies? They came to a halt before him and nodded respectfully.

"Hi," said the one on the left. "I'm Stevie One, this is Stevie Three. Don't get us confused or we'll get cranky."

"I'm sorry about… Stevie Two," said Owen. "I would have saved her, if I could."

"You risked your life trying to save her," said Stevie One. "An esper and a clone you barely knew. That's a lot more than most would have done."

"She will be avenged," said Owen. "If that's any comfort."

"Cold comfort is better than none," said Stevie One, and Stevie Three nodded. Stevie One glanced back at the busily working Hadenmen. "Horrid things, aren't they? I've known vending machines that were more human than this bunch and talking elevators that had more personality. They give me the creeps."