Deathstalker 02 - Deathstalker Rebellion

balance. We feel it would be best for all if Valentine could be made to stand down, and others more willing to share the profits of stardrive production took over."
    "Which is where we come in," said Lily. "Daniel and Stephanie will fall easily without Valentine to protect and support them, Constance will be quietly sidelined, and we will take over the Family. Clan Chojiro will support us now in return for future generosity on our part."
    "Quite," said Brendan. "You don't have to do anything much to begin with. We'll supply explosives and provide exact locations where they'll do the most damage.
    All you have to do is place them in those areas of the complex that only you have access to. It won't be a particularly big explosion. Just enough to throw production into chaos and make Clan Wolfe look incompetent."
    "So no one has to get killed?" Michel said quickly.
    "Only as a last resort," said Brendan. "We prefer to avoid actual bloodshed.
    It's so… obvious. Trust me, Michel, we'll try everything else first."
    Michel nodded reluctantly. "All right. When does the balloon go up?"
    "At the ceremony," said the Jesuit. "Live, on holoscreens all over the Empire.
    It'll be a ratings smash."
    "You see, lover," said Lily to Michel, slipping an arm through his. "Even that little toad of a reporter will end up helping us. Everything is planned, down to the last detail. Nothing can go wrong."
    Toby Shreck hurried down the narrow corridor, glanced at the watch face set into his wrist, and swore quietly. This was officially sleep time in the factory
    complex's living quarters, and after the day he'd been through he felt he could sleep for a week. In the hours since his unsuccessful little chat with Lily and Michel Wolfe, he'd been running himself ragged trying to set up all the interviews and factory footage he could.
    No one was cooperating except under the direst of threats, and trying to make this factory look good was a task that even an experienced PR flack like himself would have blanched at. Personally speaking, Toby felt he'd seen sexier-looking abattoirs. But none of that mattered now. He had a chance at a once-in-a-lifetime interview, and he was damned if he was going to lose it now, just because it was an hour when all civilized men had their heads down and were dreaming furiously. Everyone else could give him cold shoulders till their joints froze up; this one interview would make his reputation.
    He tried to hurry himself a little faster, but he was already out of breath. Too much weight. Too many good lunches at PR events and launches. As a result, he was built for comfort rather than speed. All right, he was fat. For once, it didn't matter. No one would be looking at him in this interview. He forced himself on, puffing hard. Trust Flynn to have his quarters halfway across the complex. Actually, that wasn't really fair. Toby had quarters in the better area because he was, after all, an aristocrat, and Flynn very definitely wasn't. Toby sniffed. He didn't feel like being fair. He finally stumbled to a halt before the right door, leaned on it a moment while he got his breath back, and then hammered on the door with his fist.
    "Go away," said Flynn's calm voice. "I am resting. If you're factory personnel, go to hell. If you're Toby the Troubador, go to hell by the express route. If you're a Wolfe, this is a recording. If you're a potential lover, leave your
    name and location on my computer file. Full image, please. Clothes optional."
    "Open up, damn it," said Toby. "You wouldn't believe who's agreed to talk to us."
    "Tell them to take two aspirin, and I'll see them in the morning. I am off duty, and I don't have to talk to anyone I don't want to. If you don't like it, take it up with my Union."
    "Flynn! It's Mother Superior Beatrice of the Sisters of Mercy!"
    There was a pause, and then the door lock snapped off. "Very well. Come in. But on your own head be it."
    Toby growled something uncomplimentary and very basic, kicked the door open, and stormed in. He managed about six steps before he came to a dead stop. The door closed behind him and the lock clicked shut again, but he didn't notice. Someone could have slipped a live grenade into his underwear and he wouldn't have noticed. The cameraman's quarters weren't much, being basically cramped and functional, but a few feminine touches had helped to brighten the place up. And the most feminine thing in the room was Flynn, reclining on his bed in a long flowing cocktail