Deathstalker 02 - Deathstalker Rebellion

inside his fur coat, pulled out a filthy-looking handkerchief, and blew his nose noisily.
    "I hate this place. The weather's insane, the natives are as friendly as a serial killer on amphetamines, and there isn't a decent restaurant on the whole damn planet. I should have known there had to be some underhanded reason for the Home Office's eagerness to sign me up and offer me an immediate assignment."
    "Think positive," said his cameraman, a tall gangling sort called Flynn, wearing a long heavy coat of assorted dead animals that still wasn't long enough to accommodate someone of his great height. He had a deceptively honest face, only partly undermined by the holocamera sitting on his shoulder like a squat, deformed owl. He set about dismantling the lights that had shown Toby to his best advantage and carried on speaking with a blithe disregard as to whether Toby was still listening. "At least we've got nice warm quarters in the complex to hole up in. Those poor sods on guard duty are wearing thermal suits on top of their thermal underwear, and they're still freezing their butts off. I hear if you fart out here, it rolls down your trouser leg onto the ground and breaks."
    Toby sniffed. "Those guards are highly paid mercenaries, highly trained in the
    art of rendering people down into their component parts in the shortest time possible, and therefore by definition not really human. And you can bet they're being paid a damn sight more than you and I are. And the factory complex gives me the creeps. Most of the factory's automated, and the clone workers who do everything the machinery can't are even less human than the guards."
    Flynn shrugged, and his camera grabbed his shoulder with clawed feet to steady itself. "Clones aren't employed for their social skills. They've been designed and conditioned to within an inch of their humanity to be the perfect work force, and nothing else. They're here only because there has to be a human decision-making presence at all times. Can't just leave it to the computers. Not after the Shub rebellion."
    "We can cut the last few seconds from the tape," Toby said heavily, turning away from the monitor. "Did I leave out anything important?"
    "Not really. Technically, you should have mentioned that it was the Campbells who started the ball rolling here, before the Wolfes took it over. And you could have mentioned there are a few local problems with rebel terrorists, which will undoubtably be sorted out soon."
    "No I couldn't," said Toby firmly. "The Wolfes would only censor it. We don't need any depth for an introductory piece. Leave it till the interviews, and I'll try and bring it up then. Though you can be sure nothing even remotely good about the Campbells will make it into the final cut. Doesn't make any difference. The Wolfes won the hostile takeover, and no one likes a loser. These days, the few surviving Campbells are about as popular as a fart in an air lock.
    Let's get inside, Flynn. I can't feel my fingers, and my feet aren't talking to me. And the weather can turn extremely nasty in the blink of an eye when it feels like it. God, I wish I was back on Golgotha. Even attending Court was
    safer than this."
    "Why are you here?" said Flynn. "You never did get around to explaining just what you did to get Gregor Shreck his own bad self so mad at you."
    "I don't have to tell you anything," said Toby. "You haven't even told me what your other name is."
    "One name is all a cameraman needs. Now, spill all the grisly details, or I'll make you look really podgy on camera."
    "Blackmailer. All right, basically, the Church was growing increasingly dubious about the moral probity of its ostensibly faithful son Gregor. I'd been keeping his extremely dubious private habits under wraps through some inventive PR and heavy backhanders where they would do the most good, but stories kept getting out anyway. There was talk of a full Church investigation, and then even all Gregor's money and social standing might not be enough to buy him a clean bill of health. Nasty, disgusting little toad that he is. I told him he'd have to keep a lower profile once he got in bed with the Church, but did he listen? Did he, hell. So, I did the only thing left to me. I figured out who would most likely end up running the investigating team, set him up with a young lady of the evening of my professional acquaintance, let nature take its merry course, recorded it all on film from every angle, and blackmailed him. How was