Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned (7 page)

Chien-Chu touched the door release. It hissed open. “Well, suit yourself, but it’s damned silly, if you ask me.”

The driver’s-side rearview mirror provided an excellent view of the foppish footman and the now open door. Frederick watched his boss heave himself out of the backseat, refuse a helping hand, and gather the toga into some semblance of order. Chien-Chu was a short man, and what with the gold bracelet, white robes, and leather sandals, looked the spitting image of a Roman senator.

Frederick shook his head sympathetically. The boss hated this kind of crap and would be miserable all night. He’d welcome a ride when the ball was over and Frederick would be there to provide it.

Chien-Chu waved toward the driver’s compartment, turned, and joined a couple dressed as twenty-second-century air dancers. It took him a moment to recognize them as Governor French and her husband, Frank.

“Sergi! It’s good to see you! I
love
your costume!”

“And I yours,” Chien-Chu replied, eyeing the governor’s next-to-nonexistent attire. She was close to fifty but very well preserved. He leered at her.

“Why, Sergi ... you old goat! Have you met my husband, Frank?”

“Of course,” Chien-Chu replied, exchanging nods with a handsome youth thirty years the governor’s junior. “Frank and I had drinks together during the in-system speedster races last year. A nice finish, by the way ... you nearly won.”

This comment was sufficient to stimulate a highly technical dissertation on Frank’s loss and his prospects for the current year. A somewhat boring conversation but sufficient to carry them through the main doors, down a brightly lit hallway, to the entrance of the Imperial ballroom. Brightly uniformed marines stood along the left side of the wall, eyes front and weapons at port arms.

During this seemingly innocuous journey, all three were aware that batteries of scanners, sensors, and detectors were probing their bodies, clothes, and accessories for any sign of weapons, explosives, or toxic chemicals. Should anything even remotely threatening be discovered, they knew that the marines had orders to fire. Which explained why there was one line of marines instead of two, why all of them wore a receiver in their left ear, and why they stood against the inside wall. Stray bullets, if any, would be directed out and away from the ballroom.

A pair of carefully matched Trooper IIs formed the last line of defense. Like all military cyborgs, they were members of the Legion and stood like statues to either side of the ballroom doors.

They had two missions. The first was to provide the marines with fire support in the case of a massed assault, and the second was to kill the marines if they moved more than a foot out of position.

There was the theoretical possibility of a joint assassination attempt, of course, but, thanks to the carefully orchestrated interservice rivalries that the Emperor had worked so hard to encourage, such an alliance was extremely unlikely.

It was, Chien-Chu thought to himself, a simultaneous measure of the Emperor’s brilliance and paranoia.

They paused while a pair of brightly befeathered aliens preceded them into the room, then they stepped through the door. A truly resplendent majordomo lifted his staff from the highly polished floor and brought it down with a distinct thump.

“Governor Carolyn French, of the Imperial Planet Orlo II, her husband, the Honorable Frank Jason, and the Honorable Sergi Chien-Chu, Advisor to the Throne.”

The sound of his voice was amplified and could be heard by anyone with a pulse.

Chien-Chu had no idea how the majordomo managed to get all the names and titles correct but assumed electronic wizardry of some kind.

The ballroom was huge, large enough to hold a thousand people at one time, and six or seven hundred of them had already arrived. The combined sound of their conversation, laughter, and movement came close to drowning out the ten-piece band.

Though normally light and airy, the room had been transformed into what seemed like a subterranean cave. Columns of light reached up to explode across the ceiling. Multicolored lasers slashed the room into a thousand geometric shapes. People appeared and disappeared as floor spots speared them from below. Their brightly colored costumes and expensive jewelry sparkled with reflected light. Some wore suits and dresses that had been decorated with stardust, the fabulously expensive substance that could only be obtained from the corona of one particular brown dwarf, and was of consider
able interest to Chien-Chu Enterprises.

Most of the guests had ignored the announcement, but Chien-Chu knew that at least fifty or sixty had paid close attention and were headed his way. Each one of them wanted something. A favor, a deal, reassurance, information, or variations on those themes. That, after all, was what sensible people did at such affairs, leaving the drugs, sex, and vicarious violence to those with little or no self-respect, a group that was consistently overrepresented of late.

The three of them descended the stairs together, promised to see each other later, and separated.

Knowing that various associates, customers, and suppliers were headed his way, Chien-Chu sought to temporarily avoid them. A newcomer was present tonight, an individual with enough power to influence the Emperor, and therefore someone to know.

Such relationships were necessary for the well-being of Chien-Chu Enterprises, and more than that, for the continuation of the somewhat fragile alliance that sought to counter the emperor’s less rational moments. Moments that seemed to arrive with ever greater frequency.

The merchant murmured a steady stream of hellos, excusemes, and how-are-yous as he wound his way across the floor. The air was thick with expensive perfume, cologne, and incense. His destination was the clump of people that always seemed to gather near the largest of the ballroom’s four bars.

These were the men and women of the Imperial Armed Forces, in mufti tonight, but clearly identifiable by their carriage, jargon and tendency to form tribal groups.

There was the navy, known for their loud braggadocio, the marines, unimaginatively dressed in a variety of ancient uniforms, and the Legion, standing back-to-back as if besieged by the other services.

But these were functionaries for the most part, lower ranking generals, admirals, captains, and colonels, jockeying for position and holding court for lesser lights.

Their superiors, the group in which Chien-Chu was primarily interested, had no peers other than each other: men and women who understood what it was to deal with Imperial whims, tight budgets, and corrupt bureaucrats. It was to them that he gravitated, feeling sure that if Legion General Marianne Mosby was anywhere to be found, it would be here among her peers. And he was not disappointed. The military
crème
de la
crème
stood all by themselves, protected by a moat of unoccupied floor, turned in on each other.

Admiral Paula Scolari, chief of naval operations, was a tall, angular, and rather gaunt-looking woman dressed in medieval armor. Her choice of costumes struck Chien-Chu as symbolically appropriate for someone who lived in fear of the Emperor, the court, and, he suspected, of herself.

General Otis Worthington, commandant of the Marine Corps, stood to her right, dressed in little more than a jockstrap, lace-up boots, and a sword. His carefully maintained body rippled with muscle and pent-up power. He had black skin, bright inquisitive eyes, and a quick laugh. Though an excellent officer and well intentioned, Worthington hated politics and ceded more power to Scolari than he should have.

Standing to the admiral’s left was the woman Chien-Chu was looking for. Unlike her associates, General Marianne Mosby had chosen the guise of a well-known holo star, and the likeness was remarkable.

She had long brown hair which the merchant assumed was part of the Costume, a heart-shaped face, and full, sensuous lips. And, like the star that she’d chosen to impersonate, Mosby was ever-so-slightly overweight, as though she was inclined to take her share—and a little more.

But whatever extra flesh the general allowed herself was located in all the right places. The bodice of her gown was cut low and wide, so low that her nipples, rouged for the occasion, appeared and disappeared as she moved, and caused every male within fifty feet to watch her from the corner of his eye. Mosby’s attire was conservative compared to that worn by many in the room, but was outrageous by military standards, as was clear from Scolari’s rather pronounced frown.

Chien-Chu summoned his most engaging smile and stepped across the invisible barrier. It was necessary to yell in order to make himself heard above the noise.

“Admiral Scolari, General Worthington, how good to see you.”

Scolari glowered and inclined her head a quarter of an inch. “And you, Sergi. Have you met General Mosby? The general has assumed command of the Legion’s forces on Earth.”

Mosby extended a hand, but rather than shake it, Chien-Chu lifted it to his lips.

“My name is Sergi Chien-Chu. I had no idea that generals could be so beautiful. The opportunity to kiss one, if only on the hand, is too good to pass by.”

“Sergi has a way with words,” Scolari said dryly. “He owns Chien-Chu Enterprises ... and is one of the Emperor’s most trusted advisors.”

Mosby smiled and subjected Chien-Chu to the same lightning-fast evaluation that she used on raw recruits. What she saw was a relatively short man, five-nine or five-ten, who was at least twenty-five pounds overweight. His features had a Eurasian cast to them, which made an interesting contrast to his piercing blue eyes and olive-colored skin. He radiated confidence the way the sun radiates heat. And, unlike most men, Chien-Chu had managed to maintain contact with her eyes rather than her breasts. He was, she decided, a force to contend with, and worthy of her attention.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Chien-Chu. I’m familiar with your company. One of the few that make promises and keep them.”

Chien-Chu bowed slightly. “The honor is mine ... and thank you ... we place a high value on the Legion’s business.”

Mosby extended her arm. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Would you care for some refreshments?”

“I shouldn’t,” Chien-Chu responded cheerfully, “but I will.” He took her arm. “If you two will excuse us?”

Scolari gave a barely perceptible nod and Worthington grinned widely. “Nice work, Sergi. Move in on the most beautiful woman in the room, steal her right out from under my nose, and make your getaway.”

Chien-Chu smiled and shrugged. “Some of us have it ... and some of us don’t. General Mosby?”

Mosby nodded to her peers and allowed herself to be steered across the room. This was only her second visit to the Imperial Palace, the first having been for a short ceremony years before, and she was amazed by the goings-on.

She had chosen the gown with every intention of being provocative but was outclassed by those around her. Some of the guests were clad in little more than a sequin or two. Many were engaged in casual sex, pairing off on the floor or heading for side rooms where more comfortable furnishings could be found.

In some of those rooms, acrobats staged live sex acts and the audience joined in. In some, drugs were served on silver trays. In others, even darker activities were said to take place.

One part of Mosby, the part that had been raised on a conservative planet named Providence, was repulsed by what she saw. Another part, the part that had driven her off-planet to look for adventure, was titillated. What would it feel like to take her clothes off and roll around on the floor with a perfect stranger?

Damned uncomfortable, she decided, eyeing one such couple and sidestepping another.

She made eye contact with Chien-Chu. “Has it always been like this?”

“Like what?” Chien-Chu asked distractedly. His mind had been elsewhere.

“Like this,” Mosby said, gesturing towards the rest of the guests. “I’ve been to some wild places, and even wilder night spots, but this puts most of them to shame.”

Chien-Chu shifted mental gears. He’d forgotten that Mosby had spent the last two years on Algeron and was therefore unused to the debauchery currently in fashion.

“No, it’s rather recent, actually. It started about six months ago when the Emperor made love to Senator Watanabe during the opening performance of the Imperial Opera. The whole thing took place in his box, but the cheaper seats could see in, and half the people present had opera glasses. The critics said he was marvelous. It’s been like this ever since.”

Mosby laughed. She was having a good time. Chien-Chu was charming and, if the Emperor lived up to even half of his reputation, would be interesting as well. She couldn’t wait to meet him.

“Where
is
the Emperor anyway? Will he arrive soon?”

Chien-Chu shrugged and guided her towards the far end of an enormous buffet table. Mosby had presented him with a choice. He could be honest, and tell her that the Emperor spent a lot of his time conversing with people no one else could see, or he could play it safe, and say something less risky. The second choice seemed better.

“The Emperor’s a busy man ... it’s hard to say when he’ll arrive. Here ... try some of this lab-grown beef ... it looks quite good.”

Mosby liked food and was quickly overcome by both the quality and the quantity of the feast spread before her. Lights had been positioned to illuminate the Emperor’s offerings and they were generous indeed. She saw the beef that Chien-Chu had mentioned, ham, two or three kinds of fowl, alien flesh from something called a “snooter,” several varieties of fish, vegetables, great bowls of fresh hydroponically grown fruit, and enough baked goods to feed a company of legionnaires for a week.

Mosby’s plate was quite full by the time that she reached the far end of the table and required both hands to hold it. Chien-Chu brushed her elbow.