Legion Of The Damned - 01 - Legion of the Damned by William C. Dietz Page B
Authors: William C. Dietz
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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 considerable 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
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 considerable 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
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