Deathstalker 05 - Deathstalker Destiny

office, and sadly stirred the remains of his precious executive desk with his boot.
    "Parcel bomb," he said flatly. "Building security catches most of them, but this one must have been really sophisticated. Obviously I'm attracting a better class of critic these days."
    "Right," said Flynn. "This is what, the fourth explosion so far? And the fourth office. I hear your secretary is demanding danger money just to make the tea these days."
    Toby winced. "Let's not talk about the formidable Miss Kale. She's efficient, professional, and tough-minded, and she scares the crap out of me. I miss my old secretary. Miss Lovett. Good-looking, always a smile and not a brain cell in her head."
    "Yeah," said Flynn. "Pity that all turned out to be a cover, and she was really a terrorist agent. She did a real good job of smuggling in that first bomb as one of her falsies. I always thought she was too dumb to be true. Never trust someone whose lipstick and blusher don't match. It's a sure sign of diverging
    loyalties. Did Security ever find out exactly who she was working for?"
    "Not so far," said Toby. "Apparently after she disappeared, the building was inundated with people calling in to claim responsibility. Lot of people out there don't like me, Flynn. One of the few signs that I'm doing a good job."
    "Know a man by the enemies he makes," said Flynn solemnly.
    "Damn right," said Toby, cheering up a little. "In a way, a bombing is a sign of approval. If they're trying to kill me, I must be getting really close to whatever it is they're trying to hide."
    "If you've quite finished gloating, perhaps I could go home now," said Flynn.
    "It's been so long since we had some quality time together, that Clarence is beginning to suspect I'm having an affair. I could use some downtime. Curl up on the sofa with my sweetie, in a nice little cocktail dress and pearls."
    "Flynn; you're telling me more about your home life than I really need to know.
    Go on; get out of here. Constance won't want us to do any more filming until she and Robert have patched up their spat, and are ready to hold hands in public again. And given how stubborn both of them are, that could take some time.
    Security have set up yet another office for me, so at least I can get some editing done. I'll call you if I need you."
    Flynn looked at him. "You know, it wouldn't do you any harm to take a break too, Boss. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy and a real contender in the heart-attack-before-fifty stakes. Why don't you pop round to your auntie Grace's with a bunch of flowers and a winning smile, and see if Clarissa's in? You know you're sweet on her."
    Toby frowned. "Aunt Grace has made it clear I'm persona non grata at her house as long as I'm still covering politics. She thinks that as a Shreck I should be using my position to support the Families in general and the Shrecks in
    particular. I have to sneak calls to Clarissa when I can. And besides… I've been collating info on this new nano plague, and I think I might just be on to something… You nip off home, Flynn. See you tomorrow."
    Flynn gave up, nodded goodbye, and left. Toby gave the remains of his office one last look, shrugged, and went off in search of whatever tiny cubicle Security had found for him this time. It turned out to be a cramped room at the far end of the annex, that judging from its general atmosphere had probably been used for storing cleaning equipment. There was a strong smell of something not entirely unlike pine. The room was well away from everywhere else at all, on the grounds that nobody else wanted Toby anywhere near them anymore. Just in case.
    Even his own secretary only talked to him over the intercomm these days. Toby made his way through the gorgeously appointed corridors of Imperial News, carrying armloads of equipment and nodding to the people he passed. He tried not to notice how they all gave him plenty of room.
    By the time he'd finished cramming editing equipment into the tiny room, there was only just enough space left for Toby and his swivel chair. He sighed, and resigned himself to slumming it for a while. Luckily, he'd brought along a few of the little necessities of life; a bottle of the very best whiskey, a box of the finest chocolates, and a dozen cigars with illegally high nicotine levels, all hand rolled on the luscious thighs of barely legal women. And two or three bottles of assorted uppers and downers and the occasional sideways bomber. Tools of the