Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

and distract the attention. It helped that no one paid much attention to waiters anyway.
    Personally, Brett was appalled at how easy it had been for him to get in. Security hadn't demanded a genetest or anything. They all just assumed that if he had official ID, someone else must have run the
    necessary tests, and they didn't have to bother. Just waved him on through. Brett had half decided to write a very stern note to the Head of Court Security, afterwards.
    So; there he was, right in the middle of the greatest social gathering of the century, calmly circulating with his tray of drinks, directing people to the restrooms and getting his bottom pinched rather more than was usual. Must be the uniform. He radiated calm and certainty and confidence, and was ready to run like hell at a moment's notice. First and most important rule of the successful con artist: never be afraid to drop it all and leg it for the horizon if you even suspect something's gone wrong. The ones who hung around in the hope of squeezing just a bit more out of the rubes, or who couldn't bear to abandon their clever plans, were the ones who ended up on work farms on the hellworlds. Brett had seen the inside of a prison once, and hadn't liked it. You met a very rough class of person there. He had decided very firmly never to go back.
    He accessed the camera currently impersonating his left eye, and ran a quick diagnostic. Everything was working fine. The camera was recording everything he pointed it at, and he was getting some really nice candid shots of the Great and the Good relaxing their guard and letting their hair down, secure in the knowledge that the official media cameras were under strict instructions as to what they could and couldn't broadcast. Even when they went live for the actual Coronation, the King had insisted on a five-second delay, so that the Court censor could remove anything that might detract from the dignity of the Ceremony. Which was, of course, 'why Brett had gone to such trouble to sneak himself and his camera in.
    His unauthorized, and sometimes very candid, recording was going to make him some serious money from the gossip shows.
    Losing an eye and replacing it with a camera had been painful as well as expensive, but Brett was a professional.
    He circulated with his tray of drinks, making sure everyone had a fresh glass. People said such interesting things when they were drunk. He was quiet and smiling and unobtrusive, and listened in on all sorts of fascinating conversations as people looked right through him. Servants were invisible, no more noticed than service robots. Brett took advantage of this to help himself to the excellent finger food at the buffet, and even pocketed a few small valuable items that caught his real eye. He decided reluctantly that picking a few pockets would be a step too far. It only took a moments bad luck, a voice raised in outrage, and he'd have to run for his life before the Coronation even began, and lose out on all the best footage. So he controlled himself, just, and hovered hopefully beside a group of MPs, hoping to pick up something juicy that he could use later for blackmail purposes. Every little bit helps.
    Behind the Thrones on their raised dais, a projected holoscreen was showing old news footage of Douglas Campbell's exploits as a Paragon. Brett stopped to watch for a moment. There he was, the King to be, always in the thick of battle, being the hero, and beating the hell out of people who were probably only trying to make a living. Lewis Deathstalker was nearly always at the Campbell's side, fighting the good fight and punishing evil. Douglas and Lewis, the King and the Deathstalker; champions of justice.
    Brett had never cared much for Douglas. Far too prim and proper. Never had an illegal or impure thought in his life, that one. Born to greatness, and didn't he know it. Brett had always had much more time for the Deathstalker. All he inherited was the burden of a legendary name, but he went on to make a real hero of himself, through his own efforts. Brett admired Lewis; perhaps because the Deathstalker was everything the Random was not, and never would be.
    Their ancestors had been friends. Brett thought about that, sometimes.
    On the vast screen, they were replaying Douglas and Lewis's most recent battle against agents of the Shadow Court. Brett's ears pricked up. He'd always wanted to make contact with the Shadow Court, the last remnants of the old Families. Officially, the