Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

to sneak one past them. Michel du Bois looked about him, and then cleared his throat carefully. "If your majesty has a solution to this most contentious problem, I am sure we would all be delighted to hear it . . ."
    "Why don't we allow the aliens to have their separate Votes, but only on those matters specifically concerned with alien affairs?" the King said calmly. "Our alien friends will thus acquire valuable experience on how the House works, while allowing the Members to study the aliens' decisions, and determine how best to further integrate them into our system." This was language the House could understand; a compromise that no one liked, but everyone could live with. A solution that allowed progress, without committing anyone to anything. There were a few dark murmurs about the thin edge of the wedge, but they tended to fall quickly silent when the cameras turned in their direction. The MPs quickly voted to allow each alien race their separate Vote (if not an actual Seat) on purely alien matters.
    It was a good start for the King as Speaker, and everyone knew it. Douglas had shown wisdom, a good grasp of politics, and a willingness to work within the process rather than against it. The whole House seemed to relax a little.
    And then Saturday made his race's maiden speech before the House and spoiled it all. You could practically see the good will evaporating as he spoke. Basically, the reptiloid spoke very poetically of his species' delight in the act of slaughter, complimented Humanity on developing the fascinating concept of war, and finished by assuring the House that the reptiloids would never attack Humanity, because they didn't fight amateurs.
    When he was finally finished, the only sound in the House was the quiet laughter of the Swart Alfair.
    Finn Durandal had his own private box at the Arenas, right next to the bloody sands, so he wouldn't miss any of the action. There were huge vidscreens on all sides of the Arena, showing every detail and allowing for repeat shots and slow motion for the best bits, but it wasn't the same as having it happen right in front of you. Ringside boxes cost a small fortune, but no one had ever asked Finn to pay for his. It was an honor just to have him there. It didn't surprise Brett Random in the least. To those who have, shall be given. He'd always known that. He sat uncomfortably beside the Durandal as they watched the opening acts warm up the crowd, eating his complimentary peanuts and flicking some at the slower-moving fighters. He'd never understood the appeal of the Arenas. Life was painful and dangerous enough as it was; the whole concept of volunteering to fight, for the thrill of it, was entirely alien to him.
    And paying good money to watch people suffer and maybe die . .. sometimes Brett thought he was the only sane person left in the Empire. So he watched Finn watch the fighters, and was surprised to realize that the Durandal actually seemed bored, if anything.
    "Not enjoying the show?" he said finally, around a mouthful of peanuts.
    "Amateur hour," said Finn. "I swear some of them are faking it with blood bags. They might as well send in some clowns, and have a piefight. And I hate clowns. What's funny about violence where no one really gets hurt?"
    Brett decided he wasn't going anywhere near that one. "I suppose your honor only appreciates the skills of the more expert fighters."
    "Skill is always interesting," said Finn. "But it's still not what I'd call entertainment. This whole thing is so
    ... artificial, when all is said and done. They fight according to rules and regulations, with every protection under the sun, and after it's all over there are regen machines standing by, to salvage most of the victims.
    It's playacting at fighting, with the odds stacked in your favor whether you win or lose. Nothing like the real thing."
    "Then . . . why do you have a box here?"
    "Because it's expected of me. Just one of the many stupid things I have to do, to maintain my popularity.
    They like to see me here, sharing in their pleasures. It's all part of the image. Now shut up and pay attention; it's time for the first match. Time for the Wild Rose of the Arenas to show us what she's made of."
    Brett looked out over the bloody sands, and saw the opening acts scatter and beat a retreat to the exits as Rose Constantine strode out into the center of the Arena. Clad as always in her trademark, tightly cut red leathers, the color of dried blood from her thighboots to