Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

restful, to the eye. It won every design award of its day, including a few they made up especially for it. Only the truly ungrateful pointed out that if you let your eyes wander over the rising and falling curves long enough, you could get seriously seasick.
    And everyone in the Empire with a viewscreen was familiar with the grand open floor of Parliament, where all important business was discussed. The great semicircle of Seats faced the single golden Throne of the King as Speaker, each Seat representing a world in the Empire. At present, seven hundred and fifty planets had their own Seat in Parliament, with another five hundred or so of the more recently colonized worlds waiting impatiently for their population to rise to the point where they would be entitled to a Seat, and a Vote, in Parliament. Not everyone got to Speak all the time, of course. There were strict rules of order and precedence, and all questions had to be submitted well in advance, and only the truly cynical would point out how easy it would be for certain vested interests to decide who got to be heard, and who wouldn't.
    To the left and right of the Seats were the open areas for the lesser Seats (though of course no one ever called them that in public). To the left, the clone and esper representatives; to the right, the AIs and the aliens, who got to have their Say on a regular basis. Just... not very often. Pressure of business, you see.
    The only time everyone got a (theoretically) equal chance to speak was during the great Debates, on matters of general policy. And it just so happened that King Douglass first day as Speaker coincided with the first such Debate in months, on the particularly thorny issue of aliens' rights and representation in the House and in the Empire. Except of course it wasn't a coincidence. Parliament was throwing Douglas in the deep end, to see what he was made of. All the media would be there. Not just the twenty-four-hour news channels so beloved of news and politics junkies, but the gossip and celebrity shows as well. If the new King was going to put his mark on the political process, or fall flat on his face and make a complete pratt of himself, everyone wanted to see it. Live. It would be the biggest audience the House had had for months, and the honorable Members were spending even more time in makeup than usual, to be sure they looked their best for their supporters back home.
    This was the public face of modern politics, and most people were content with that. They never got to see the warren of small rooms and narrow corridors that made up the majority of the House, where all the people who did the real work of governing the Empire got together in small groups to wave papers at each other, argue furiously, drink lots and lots of bad coffee, and wheel and deal over the real decisions of everyday politics. Members might decide overall policy, but it was the small army of career civil servants who decided what got done, and when, and Heaven protect any Member fool enough to forget that. Real power is never where you think it is, and just as in show business, what goes on behind the scenes is just as important as what the audience sees out front.
    In one of these small back rooms, tucked well away from the main ebb and flow, the new King and his people were busily preparing for his first day as Speaker. To be exact, Douglas Campbell was sitting slumped in a chair in the corner, while everyone else bustled around preparing themselves for the day's Session. Douglas was wearing his Kingly robes, but already they looked crumpled and untidy, as though he'd slept in them. The Crown was set to one side, on top of a filing cabinet, because the weight of it gave Douglas a headache and rubbed a raw spot on his forehead. His scowl slowly deepened as he worked his way doggedly through the thick sheaf of papers Anne Barclay had stuffed into his hand the moment he walked in. This was on top of all the paperwork she'd insisted he study the night before.
    Information was ammunition, and he couldn't afford to be caught out if an MP asked him a pointed question on the floor of the House. Members could specialize, but the King had to know everything; or at least be able to fake it convincingly.
    Lewis Deathstalker, the new Champion, looked over the security systems one last time and moved over to stand uncomfortably at Douglas's side. Uncomfortable mostly because of the new Champions outfit that Anne had insisted he wear. She'd had it