Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

tech support, and partly because everyone felt a lot safer that way. The holo images wandered through the Court, doing their best not to walk through people, and everyone was scrupulously polite at all times. On the whole, the aliens seemed to find the reasons for the Ceremony fascinating, but baffling. Translator tech could only go so far.
    A few aliens had appeared in person, and most people wished they hadn't. This especially applied in the case of the Swart Alfair, from the planet Mog Mor. Huge, brooding, batlike creatures, just humanoid enough to be really upsetting, with dark crimson skin and vast ribbed wings they folded around themselves like cloaks, they had a truly disturbing ambience and altogether too many teeth and claws.
    They'd taken their name from human mythology, on the grounds that humans couldn't pronounce their
    actual names without growing a new voicebox. They did amazing things with computers and had to eat in private, because they ate their meals raw and preferably still kicking. At ten feet tall and more, the three Swart Alfair towered over St. Nick as he did his best to make them feel welcome, but he didn't allow himself to be intimidated. He'd seen scarier in his time. Or so he kept telling himself.
    Most distressing of all, ectoplasm boiled continuously off the aliens. Thick blue mists of (probably) psionic origin that had an almost overbearing physical presence. If you looked into the mists long enough, you would see images of what you were thinking, and sights of peoples and places long past. The weirder images that came and went were supposedly what the Swart Alfair were thinking.
    The espers wouldn't go anywhere near them. Said just thinking about the Swart Alfair gave them a collective headache.
    An unusual civilization, new to the Empire, and very keen to be a part of things, the Swart Alfair.
    Strange and enigmatic, casually cruel and unexpectedly kind. St. Nick smiled and nodded and said all the usual things, and got the hell out of there as fast as he decently could.
    He didn't even try to explain Christmas to them. He still remembered the case of the N'Jarr, some twenty years back. Slow-moving, mushroom people, with far too many eyes. Anxious to make their human ambassadors feel at home, they'd embraced the idea of Father Christmas. They'd studied up on the seasonal celebration and then invited the human ambassadors to a great Christmas party in their honor. The ambassadors turned up in their party best, bearing gifts, and there in the aliens' gathering place to greet them, was the biggest effigy of Father Christmas any of them had ever seen.
    Nailed to a cross.
    Also present at the Court for the great Ceremony, though no one knew it, was Brett Random.
    Confidence trickster, thief, cheat, and complete and utter bastard. Though not just any bastard, as he was fond of pointing out to his acquaintances when he'd had a drink or two. Brett was a member in bad standing of Randoms Bastards, one of the many men and women down the years to claim descent from the legendary freedom fighter, Jack Random. Given Jack's eight wives and innumerable conquests, there were a hell of a lot of people claiming to be descended from the Professional Rebel these days. So many they held an annual Conference in the Parade of the Endless and signed autographs. They also ran any number of websites, mostly fixated on undermining each other's claims.
    Brett Random claimed to be a very special case, descended from Jack Random and Ruby Journey. It should be pointed out that the only person known to believe this was Brett Random.
    He was tall and handsome, with long bright red hair, warm green eyes, a flashing smile, and a ready charm. He was also currently wearing a formal waiter's outfit, complete with spotless white apron, that he'd had specially made. All so that he could replace the real waiter, who was currently sleeping off the drug Brett had slipped into his drink the night before. Brett had stalked his prey for several days before closing in. Good preparation is a vital part of every con. He'd chosen a redhead as his target because people tended to remember the hair, rather than the face beneath it. The face on the ID he'd taken off the sleeping waiter had been close enough, and easily duplicated in an underground body shop he'd had occasion to work with before, but it was the way people wore their faces that made them recognizable, and he couldn't afford a slip. So; bright red hair to attract the eye