Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

through us to the Empress. They've always been a potential army we could use to defend ourselves against Imperial aggression. Damn, this goes farther than I thought.

    This is a blow against the fundamental rights and powers of all Lords! With our planets controlled by computers, and our peasants scattered in factories on a dozen worlds, we'd have no real power base at all. If she gets away with this, Lionstone could break the power of the Lords once and for all."
    "Not all Lords," said Kit. "Only those Families whose fortunes are tied to people and places. Other Clans, such as the Wolfes, draw their wealth and prestige from technology these days."
    "You're right," said David slowly. "This would hit the older, more traditional Families, who tend to oppose the Empress, while strengthening the position of the newer Clans, who tend to support her. Damn, this is complicated. Levels within bloody levels. Oh hell, I can't think any more about this now. I can feel a really bad headache hovering over me."
    "Let's go to dinner," said Kit. "The world always looks better after a good meal."
    "To hell with dinner, I need a drink. Lots of drinks. Let's go to the tavern in town, and see Alice and Jenny."
    "Sounds good to me," said Kit.
    High in orbit above Virimonde, unbeknownst to most of those below, the Imperial starcruiser Elegance. Her master, General Shaw Beckett, sat unhappily in his private quarters, drumming the fingers of one hand upon the armrest of his chair. If truth be told, he had no appetite for his present mission, but the Empress's orders had been clear and quite specific, and as a good soldier he would do as he was told. It wasn't the first time he'd followed orders he'd had no taste for, and he doubted it would be the last. Life was like that, more often than not, under the reign of Lionstone XIV, the Iron Bitch.

    Beckett was a large man, and extremely fat, and his chair groaned slightly under him with every impatient movement. All of his invited guests were late, but there was nothing he could do to hurry them. Too much concern might appear as weakness, and this would be a bad group to appear weak in front of. They'd take advantage. Beckett looked testily about his quarters. He felt like throwing things, but there was nothing easily to hand that didn't have some personal or sentimental value. Beckett liked to surround himself with personal items when he traveled, a little bit of home in a strange place. And if a General wasn't entitled to a few home comforts in his quarters, he'd like to know who was.
    He thought about this to keep from thinking about other things. There was a great deal in the near future that he preferred not to think about until he had to.
    The door chimed politely, announcing his first visitor. Beckett growled "Enter,"
    and the door slid open to reveal Lord Valentine Wolfe, in all his morbid glory.
    He was dressed in exquisitely cut clothes of eye-blinding white, topped by a long black cloak with a scarlet interior. His long thin face was white as bone, save for the heavily mascaraed eyes and his wide crimson smile. A mane of jet black hair fell to his shoulders, with heavily oiled and scented ringlets. He carried a long-stemmed rose in one hand, its petals a deep purple, almost fleshy. The stem had vicious thorns that made Beckett wince just to look at them. Valentine stood posed in the doorway a moment, so Beckett could appreciate the spectacle, and then he drifted casually forward into Beckett's quarters. The door slid shut behind him, and Beckett felt a brief but very real twinge of unquiet, as though he was now trapped in a room with a deadly predator. As, in a very real sense, he was.
    Valentine looked unhurriedly about him, taking in the various points of interest
    with his dark-lined eyes, and then dismissed them all with the merest twitch of one painted eyebrow. The Wolfe stopped before Beckett and bowed formally.
    Beckett nodded curtly in return, but didn't bother to get up. It took a lot of effort to heave all his bulk up out of a chair, and he was damned if Valentine Wolfe was worth it. He gestured at an empty chair with one fat hand, and Valentine sank languorously into it.
    "Greetings and salutations, dear General. You've done amazing things with your quarters. I don't like them. But then, my tastes aren't often appreciated by others."
    Beckett snorted. "Possibly because you're a drug-soaked degenerate who's so far gone you probably have to flip a coin to decide which way up