"That is not me!" Jesamine said firmly. "That is a look-alike, probably fresh out of the body shop. I did do a few... artistic studies, very early on in my career, but they were strictly solo poses, for the serious collector and appreciator of the nude form. I never did anything like that, even when I was touring in rep. I do have my standards, darling. And I haven't been able to get my ankles that far behind my ears since I was nineteen. Who or what is that person she's doing that with?"
"That is Nikki Sixteen," Brett said happily. "An old acquaintance of mine. She's half N'Jarr, all woman, and one hell of a performer. Go, girl, go!"
"Wait a minute," said Lewis. "I thought the N'Jarr were those squishy little mushroom people?"
"That's the larval stage," Brett said patiently. "The final adult form is largely insectile. Exactly what Nikki's human and N'Jarr parents ever saw in each other has always been a mystery to me. Presumably love really is blind after all. She's called Nikki Sixteen because she's one of sixteen broodmates. She's the black sheep of the family, if you can apply the term to someone with antennae, compound eyes, and six breasts. God, look at her flex… What a healthy, enthusiastic, and limber soul she is… Are you sure that isn't you, Jesamine?"
"That's Miss Flowers to you, you degenerate. That is definitely not me, and I can prove it. I have a small purple birthmark on my… person. It's always covered with makeup when the role calls for stage nudity. And besides, that doesn't even look like me, not really. My breasts aren't that big, the nose is all wrong, and I wouldn't do that if you paid me. Lewis… Lewis!"
"Sorry," said Lewis. "I got distracted."
"Go and sit down in your chair again, dear. And push your eyeballs back into their sockets. As for you, Random, I strongly suggest you find something else to look at, before I take that data crystal out of the viewer and ram it so far up your left nostril it will shoot out of your right ear."
"All right, all right, I'm changing the scene!" said Brett. "Touchy, touchy… some people have no sense of humor."
Jesamine gave Brett a long, thoughtful look. "Brett Random," she said finally. "You know, I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before…"
Brett froze, his face automatically falling into innocent mode while all his internal systems panicked. His well-honed sense of paranoia was never far from overdrive at the best of times. He smiled winningly at Jesamine while his mind worked frantically, trying to remember if he'd ever run a scam on her or any of her people. He was pretty sure he hadn't, but there was no denying he'd got around in his time. And given the sheer number of confidence tricks and stings he'd pulled down the years on any number of celebrities who had more ego than common sense and who thought their position made them invulnerable…
"Oh, I'm sure I'd remember meeting such a great star as yourself, Miss Flowers," he said smoothly. "I just have that sort of face. People always think they know me from somewhere."
Jesamine sniffed, unconvinced, but let it go rather than get sucked into yet another argument. "I do meet a lot of people. Or at least, I did. I can't believe my whole life went down the toilet so quickly. And I certainly don't believe my fan base will accept any of the terrible things that bastard Finn has been saying about me on the news broadcasts. I mean, they're my fans. What's the point of having fans if they won't stick with you? Some did. You saw them, Lewis, demonstrating against my imprisonment, outside Traitor's Hall."
"You said it yourself, Jes. The public can be very fickle. I couldn't believe they'd turn on me so easily either." Lewis tapped his fingertips together thoughtfully and frowned down at them. "You can bet Finn will have all his best propaganda people working day and night on discrediting both of us. They'll dig into our respective pasts, and dig up every bit of dirt they can find."
"There's dirt in your past, Sir Deathstalker?" said Brett. "I'm shocked. Shocked!"
"Shut up, Brett."
"Shutting up right now, sir."
"What they can't find, they'll probably make up," said Lewis. "You can't be an honest Paragon without making some enemies—people only too willing to tell tales about you, in the name of revenge. What about you, Jes? Is there much in your past they could find that they could use against you?"
"Well, rather a lot, actually," said Jesamine. "I've never pretended to be a saint, darling. And a certain amount of bad behavior is expected of you when you're a star. It's affairs of the heart, and sort-of-secret assignations that keep your face in the gossip shows. If no one's talking about you, how can you be a star? I admit it, I was a slut sometimes. It was good for business. And you have to throw the odd temper tantrum in public, or no one will take you seriously. You have to give the media stories, or they start making up their own."
Lewis glowered in Brett's direction. "I don't suppose there's any point in asking you, is there?"
"None at all," Brett said briskly. "I'm a scoundrel, and proud of it. The good Lord put me on Logres to shear the sheep, and I have been a busy, busy boy. Wherever rogues and villains gather, my name is on everyone's lips. I am a Random's Bastard, and I glory in it."
"Then what are you doing here, with half the Empire after you?" Rose said calmly.
Brett pouted sulkily. "One moment of conscience in an otherwise spotless life, and my whole career is over. I could spit. I don't even want to think what my old comrades will be saying when they discover I've hooked up with you."
"I've done nothing I'm ashamed of," said Rose.
"Yes, but that covers a hell of a lot of ground," said Brett. "Some of the things you did for the Durandal…"
"Yes, by all means," said Jesamine. "Let's talk about that. You've been only too willing to talk about yourself and your many triumphs during the past few days, but you've hardly said a word about your involvement with Finn bloody Durandal."
Oh, shit, thought Brett, his heart sinking.
"Talk to us, Random," said Lewis. "I want to know everything you know about that man. What he did, and what he had you do.
And all the things he planned to do. Help me to understand why one of my oldest and most trusted friends and colleagues has become the greatest villain of the Golden Age."
"I suppose I should start with the Neuman riot outside Parliament," Brett said reluctantly. "Up till then it had all just been talk— making plans and gathering support and assistance. Finn was responsible for everything that happened in that riot. He planned it, orchestrated it from beginning to end. He planted agent provocateurs in the Neuman march and in the crowds, to stir things up and push them out of control. One of them shot the Paragon Veronica Mae Savage, on his orders, and started all the blood and slaughter that came after. It was all designed to intimidate Parliament and discredit the Paragons. You were supposed to die that day too. I lured you away from the main action, just so that Rose could have a crack at you."
"You shot me," said Lewis. "I helped you, and you shot me."
"It was orders," Brett said weakly. "Finns orders. You don't say no to Finn. Anyway, Saturday turned up and saved you…"
"Yes," said Rose. "I'm still rather annoyed about that." She looked at Saturday, and smiled. There was no humor in her dark rosebud mouth—only a promise of revenge presently delayed. The huge reptiloid looked back at her interestedly, absently flexing the terrible claws on his hands.
Brett hurriedly continued with his tale, describing how Finn had methodically set himself up as the mastermind behind a far-reaching scheme to bring down the whole Golden Age, by whatever means necessary. How he bribed and colluded and intimidated people on all sides of the law to build the secret army he needed, which was led by specialized criminals he recruited from the notorious Rookery. Brett tried to talk about his encounter with the awful uber-espers the Spider Harps, in their charnel-house kingdom deep under the Parade of the Endless, but it still upset him too much.
Making deals with the Esper Liberation Force?" said Lewis, shaking his head slowly. "He must be out of his mind."
I don't think so," said Brett. "I think he was always like this, inside.
He just never had a reason to let it out before."
"But… what does he want?" said Jesamine. "What's this all for? Does he want to make himself King?"
"Perhaps," said Rose. "Or perhaps he just wants to burn it all down, so he can dance in the ashes. The Durandal is an extraordinary man. He has a sense of purpose and destiny that is… pure and uninhibited. A force of will entirely uncorrupted by mercy or compassion. I like that in a man."
Jesamine sniffed. "If you're so hot for the little shit, sweetie, what are you doing here with us?"
"I came to be with Brett," said Rose. "Or perhaps I'm here because fighting for the Durandal would have been too easy. I do so love a challenge. There's no joy to be had in the slaughter of easy prey."
"Oh, I do so agree," said Saturday. "Just as I am here because siding with you offers me the best chance for killing and mass carnage."
"I may puke," said Brett. "Really. I'm not kidding."
I'll bet Owen never had these problems, thought Lewis. Aloud, he said, "Let us all try to keep to the subject. You spent the most time with Finn, Brett. He must have talked to you. How could he have gone so bad so quickly? He was the greatest living Paragon, dammit. They'd almost run out of awards to give him for courage and heroism above and beyond the call of duty. He was admired and adored, all across the Empire. And now he's a traitor and a murderer, betraying all his old friends? Just because I was made Champion instead of him? It seems such a… petty reason, to fall so far so fast."
"I think for him, it was a wake-up call," Brett said slowly. "Because he never was a hero, not really. He just played at being one, until something more interesting came along. You worked beside him, Sir Deathstalker. Did you never notice some of his more… extreme tendencies?"
Lewis shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't know. It worries me that perhaps I did, and turned a blind eye, because he was so good at catching villains. But we spent time together off duty, Finn and Douglas and me. We talked, and drank together, had good times. I trusted him to guard my back, and he never let me down. Till now."
"I never trusted him," said Jesamine. "He was always too pretty, too perfect. When people like that break, they break all the way." She glared at Brett. "At least Finn has the excuse of being crazy. Why did you go along with him, knowing what he was?"
Brett cringed under the weight of her contemptuous gaze. "Hey, it wasn't like I had a choice in the matter! He said he'd kill me if I didn't go along, and I had every reason to believe him. Some of the things I heard him say… I'm no saint, lady, Sir Deathstalker, I'm a career criminal and proud of it, but… he's so far over the edge now he can't even see it from where he is. Like Rose said, there's nothing he won't do, no atrocity he'd flinch from, to get what he wants. And much to my surprise, it turned out there's a line even I won't cross, after all. After what I found in his secret files, I had to help you escape. And… I am a Random, after all. My ancestors and yours were friends, comrades. Perhaps… we're meant to be together."
"Oh, please," said Jesamine. "Spare me. Lewis was a Paragon, and I was a star, but even we are not the stuff of legends. You are and never will be anything more than a common thief who got in over his head and panicked."
"I was never a common thief!" Brett said hotly. "I was a top-rank thief! I could con you out of everything you owned, including the clothes you were wearing, and so skillfully you wouldn't even notice until the wind changed direction."
"We left the Durandal of our own free will," said Rose Constantine. "Brett for his reasons, and I… because Finn wasn't worthy of me. He had ambition, but no taste. For him, killing was just killing. I expect a much higher quality of murder with you, Sir Deathstalker. With you, I confidently expect death-defying schemes, overwhelming odds and suicide missions, and all the other things that make life worth living. The killing's always good around a Deathstalker. You draw it to you. It is your destiny. Just lead me to the slaughter and turn me loose upon your enemies. It is all I ask of you."
I want to go home, Lewis thought miserably. I want to go back to when my life made sense, and I wasn't surrounded by crazy people.
Thank you, Rose," he said finally, because he had to say something. "Rest assured that if we ever come to the point where one of us has to make a last desperate stand so the others can escape, I promise I'll think of you first."
Rose considered him thoughtfully. "How is it, Sir Deathstalker, that a warrior of your renowned abilities never fought in the Arena? I would have been delighted and honored to cross swords with you."
"I kill for duty," Lewis said stiffly. "When there's no other way to get the job done. Never for pleasure."
Rose sniffed, and looked away. "Boring," she said, seeming to lose all interest in Lewis. He didn't know whether to feel insulted or relieved.
"Don't you dare turn your back on us like that," said Jesamine, flaring up immediately at the insult to her Lewis. "Since we're talking about your career on the bloody sands, perhaps you'd care to explain to us just how a complete bloody psychopath got into the Arena in the first place? There are supposed to be a whole series of psychological tests that have to be passed by all would-be gladiators, expressly designed to keep out people like you! So how the hell did you get in?"
Rose turned back to smile at Jesamine with her humorless crimson mouth. "It was easy. The Arena owners rig the tests. They always have. They realized a long time ago that people like me, the natural born murderers, make the best fighters—the stars who'll give the crowds what they want, and keep them coming back for more. Sane people don't last long on the bloody sands. They get careless, or they burn out too quickly. Come on, what sensible, well-adjusted person would want to fight in the Arena anyway, to face the threat of suffering and dismemberment and even death, over and over again? The Arena is where we go to sate our ancient appetite for blood. I've often thought they should test the crowds… but that would give the game away, wouldn't it?"
"The Arena is a place to display valor and skill and fortitude," said Lewis. "A testing ground, to bring forth heroes."
Rose laughed breathily, a dark disturbing sound. "Blood, Deathstalker. It's always been about blood. When your civilized men and women go to the Arena, they go to see people like me. To glory in what we do. And afterwards, they dream about being me. Underneath all the culture and refinement of your precious Golden Age, all the old appetites are still there, repressed but not forgotten. Why do you think Pure Humanity and the Church Militant became so popular so quickly?"
"No," said Lewis. "I don't believe that. I won't believe it. People are better than that. They proved it, by overthrowing Lionstone, and building the Golden Age. We have our dark side, our baser instincts, but it has always been the triumph of Humanity that most of us rise above them."
"Of course you believe that," said Rose. "You're a Deathstalker. You are the best of us. But you still need someone like me, just as the blessed Owen needed his Ruby Journey."
"Excuse me," said Saturday. "Fascinating though this conversation undoubtably is to those who care about this sort of thing, I have a question. How is it that you and I never fought in the Arena, Rose Constantme?"
"Because we were stars," Rose explained patiently. "And the Arena owners didn't want to risk either of us while they could still make money out of us. You wouldn't believe what they make off of merchandising alone. They would have given you to me eventually. When they'd made all they could off of you." The pale tip of Rose's tongue moved briefly over her dark lips. "I was looking forward to it."
"I'm sure it would have been quite delightful," the reptiloid said politely.
Brett looked disgustedly at Rose. "Hardly a word out of you for days, and now you can't stop talking. A whole new philosophical side to you, and all of it utterly depressing. Why can't you say something nice, just for once?"
"Sorry," said Rose. "I don't do nice."
I can't believe what I'm hearing," said Jesamine. "Such corruption, and… vileness, going on right at the heart of Logres. It's like somet
hing out of Lionstone's time!"
People want what they want," said Brett, immersed in his private viewscreen again. "And as long as they do, other people will be right there, ready and willing to supply it to them. For a price."
Lewis glared at Brett. "God, you depress me. I used to bust scumbags like you. Psycho killers in the Arena, alien porn… why do people want shit like that anyway?"
Brett sighed and looked up from his screen. "Because, Sir Deathstalker, Sir Paragon, people always want what other people think they shouldn't want; things they can't have because other people say they shouldn't be allowed. Maybe especially in a Golden Age. Being civilized is hard work. The higher we rise, the more fun there is to be had in allowing yourself to fall. Honor and virtue are all very well, but they don't satisfy like a good old roll in the mud. You and Miss Flowers should understand that. She was engaged to be married to your best friend. You were the Champion, and she was going to be Queen. But you both threw it all away to be together. So here you are, Sir Deathstalker, on the other side of the law, with scumbags like me. How does it feel? Had any good insights yet?"
"What we did," Jesamine said steadily, "we did for love."
"Oh, love," said Brett. "Well then, that makes everything all right, doesn't it?"
"Finn Durandal has to be fought," said Lewis. "He has to be stopped. Nothing else matters. And if I have to work with poor materials like you, Brett, then that's what I'll do. I'll make a hero out of you or kill you trying."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Brett growled, and turned ostentatiously back to his viewscreen.
Lewis leaned back in his captain's chair and pretended to study the comm panels before him. For all his professed confidence, he felt lost, abandoned, and very alone. So much of what he'd believed in had turned out to be built on sand. Or blood. The people he'd sworn to protect had disowned him and betrayed his faith in them by embracing madness and evil. He'd fought so hard to be perfect, for them. Surely he had the right to expect as much from them? And now here he was, a reluctant rebel against the very authorities he had once proudly represented.
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