Deathstalker 01 - Deathstalker

made an appearance in public after that. He was the hero of the hour. The people had no use for terrorists, especially those who weren't really human. They made Dram Warrior Prime, and then the Empress took him for her own.
    The elves' plans and capabilities had been almost wiped out, and even now, a year later, they were only just beginning to reassert themselves. Everyone was waiting with bated breath for Lionstone to unleash her hound on them again. Dram got results; everyone knew that. What wasn't as widely known was his willingness to sacrifice his own people, if that was what it took to get the job done. A man could make a good career serving under Dram, if he lived long enough. Which was the other reason why Dram was also known as the Widowmaker, though never to his face. The Lord High Dram had fought seventeen duels in the last year, over everything from an open insult to a raised eyebrow at the wrong time, and never even looked like losing any of them. Didn't stop people from trying to kill him, though. The Company of Lords truly hated him, and their pockets had no bottom where Dram's death was concerned.
    The rewards for information that could be used against him kept rising, with little practical effect. Dram had no obvious vices and less weaknesses. He
    seemed completely untouched by the appetites and excesses of the court, had no friends, and his enemies were dead. His voice spoke for the Empress, and its word could not be challenged. Men, women and children were killed openly in his name, for treason and lesser crimes, to discourage others. His last victim of note had been the previous Lord Deathstalker. That death had stopped the Lords plotting for almost a week.
    "First order of business," said the Empress, and everyone paid attention. "We will hear from our agents now."
    Another man appeared on the opposite side of the throne. Like the Lord High Dram, he had been there all along, hidden behind a concealing hologram, waiting for his cue. The Empress had always had a fondness for the dramatic gesture. The new arrival wore the silver brand of the Empress' personal espers on his brow and was dressed in pale, characterless clothes. Like the maids, he no longer had a mind or personality of his own. The Empress' secret agents and information-gatherers made telepathic contact through the esper's powers, and he then repeated their reports in their own words. The agents remained anonymous, and security remained complete. The esper's face changed suddenly as an invading personality took it over, and the body's whole stance changed, too, becoming casual, even relaxed.
    "All right, pay attention because I'm not going to repeat myself. I've worked my way into the heart of the cyberat underground, such as it is. They don't have any formal organization, as far as I can tell. Just a bunch of losers and loners hacking into the computer matrix wherever they can find or force an opening and having as much fun as they can before they get caught.
    "Their politics are feeble-minded, and their personalities are inadequate, but
    unfortunately the threat they pose is all too real and far out of proportion to their numbers. They know computers better than the people who make them. If we stamp out this bunch, others will take their place before you can blink. Makes more sense to keep an eye on the ones we've got; at least we know where to find them if we want them. And just maybe I can keep them on a leash and away from anywhere sensitive.
    "That's it, end of report. And while I've got your attention, I'd just like to say that I would very much appreciate being transferred off this job, and as soon as possible. These cyberats are driving me crazy. The sugar-packed junk they eat is doing terrible things to my system, not to mention my teeth, and the conversation is rotting my brain. Away from their computers, these divots aren't exactly social lions, you know."
    The esper's face and stance changed again as a different agent reported in. The face seemed suddenly leaner, more aesthetic, the stance that of a man trained in meditation techniques. If he'd looked any more relaxed, he'd have probably floated away.
    "Agent Harmony reporting in. My infiltration of the clone underground continues.
    No one suspects me. They remain suspicious and evasive, but I am making progress. I have as yet discovered no definite aims or planned criminal acts.
    The underground's politics are largely naive and unfocused, due to the lack of a charismatic