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Deathstalker
Von Simon R. Green
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Owen Deathstalker, last of the infamous warrior Clan, always considered himself more of a writer than a fighter, preferring his history books to making any actual history with a sword. But books won't protect him from Her Imperial Majesty Lionstone XIV, who just Outlawed and condemned Owen to death, without any explanation, reason, or warning. No wonder she's called the Iron Bitch.
Now, on the run from Imperial starcruisers, shady mercenaries, and just about everyone else in the Empire, Owen's options are limited. Though the name Deathstalker still commands respect in certain quarters, out on the Rim, Owen is lucky he can cobble together a makeshift team of castoffs, including an ex-pirate, a cyborg, and a bounty hunter. But allies won't be enough to save him.
If he's to live, Owen can either run forever…or take down the corrupt Empire. To do that, he'll need the fabled Darkvoid Device—an artifact dating back to the first Deathstalker and perhaps the only weapon powerful enough to help this ragtag rebellion win. The time has come for Owen to finally embrace his Deathstalker heritage…and all the blood and death that go along with it.
Deathstalker is the first book in New York Times bestselling author Simon R. Green's beloved space opera series.
Simon R. Green was born in Bradford-on-Avon, Wiltshire, England, where he still lives. He is the author of more than fifty science fiction and fantasy novels, including the Nightside, Secret Histories and Ghost Finders series.
Stephan Abarbanell
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Deathstalker - Simon R. Green
Clash by Night
It gets dark out on the Rim. Strange planets and stranger people can be found on the edge of Empire, where habitable worlds are few and civilization grows thin. Beyond the Rim lies uncharted darkness, where no stars shine and few ships go. It's easy to get lost out there, far away from everything. Starcruisers patrol up to the Rim, but there are never enough ships to cover the vast areas of open space. The Empire is growing too large, too cumbersome, though no one will admit it, or at least, no one who matters. Every year more worlds are brought into the Empire, and the frontiers press hungrily outward. But not on the Rim. The Empire stops cold there, dwarfed by the unplumbable depths of the Darkvoid.
It gets dark out there. Ships disappear sometimes, and are never seen again. No one knows why. The colonized worlds make themselves as self-sufficient as they can and turn their eyes away from the endless dark. Crime flourishes on the Rim, unthinkable distances from the hub of the Empire's strict laws; some transgressions as old as Humanity, others newly birthed by the Empire's ever-growing sciences. For the moment the Empire's starcruisers still keep a lid on things, dropping unannounced out of hyperspace to enforce the law with brutal efficiency, but they can't be everywhere. Strange forces are at work on the Rim, patient and terrible, and all it will take to set them off is a simple clash between two starships off the backwater planet of Virimonde.
In high orbit around Virimonde, the pirate ship Shard sailed silently through the long night, hiding itself from unfriendly eyes. Not a big ship, the Shard, built more for speed than endurance, and passed from hand to hand through a dozen owners and commands. Now she carried cloneleggers and body banks, and every man's hand was turned against her. Deep in the bowels of the ship, Hazel d'Ark, pirate, clonelegger and bon vivant, strode scowling through the dimly lit steel corridors and wished she was somewhere else. Anywhere else. The Shard wasn't a luxurious craft at the best of times, but with most of the ship's power diverted to maintaining the body banks, the old scut seemed even gloomier than usual. Which took some doing.
Hazel d'Ark, last owner of a once noble name, came to the locked door that led to the cargo bay and stood waiting impatiently for the door's sensors to recognize her. Her mood was bad, bordering on foul, and had been ever since they dropped out of hyperspace six hours ago to take up orbit around Virimonde. Six hours of waiting for some word from their contacts down below. Something was wrong.
They couldn't afford to stay much longer, but they couldn't leave either. So they waited. Hazel wasn't expecting any trouble from the planet's security people. The Shard might be old, but she had state-of-the-art cloaking devices, more than enough to fool anything the peasants had on Virimonde. Not that there was much the planet could do, even if it knew the pirates were there. Virimonde was a low-tech, agricultural world, with more livestock than people. Its only contact with the Empire was a monthly cargo transporter and an occasional patrolling starcruiser, neither of which was expected for some weeks.
Hazel glared at the closed door before her and kicked the frame hard. The door hissed open, and she stepped through into the freezing cold of the cargo bay. The door locked itself behind her. A pearly haze misted the air and burned in her lungs. She shuddered quickly and turned up the heating elements in her uniform. The body banks needed the cold at a specific temperature to preserve and maintain their cargo of human tissues for cloning. Hazel looked quickly about her and then accessed her comm implant.
Hannah, this is Hazel. Acknowledge.
I hear you, Hazel, said the ship's AI. What can I do for you?
Edit the signals from the cargo bay's security sensors so it appears I'm not here.
Hannah sighed. The Artificial Intelligence didn't have human emotions, but it liked to pretend. Now, Hazel, you know you're not supposed to be in there. You'll get us both into trouble.
Do it anyway, or I'll tell the Captain about your personal video collection of his private moments.
I wouldn't have shown you those if I'd known you were going to use them to blackmail me. They're a perfectly innocent collection, after all.
All right, all right. I'm editing the sensors. Happy now?
Close as I'll get. And Hannah—if I ever catch you snooping on my private moments, I'll perform a lobotomy on your main systems with a shrapnel grenade. Got it?
Hannah sniffed once, and broke off contact. Hazel smiled briefly. All the AIs the Captain could have chosen, and he had to buy a peeping tom. Somehow that was typical of the Shard and its luck. She looked about her at the long rows of body banks, huge and blocky, their dull metal sides smeared with frost and caked with ice. Ugly things, for an ugly business. The AI was quite right; she had no business in the cargo bay and no authority, either. Not that she gave a damn. Hazel d'Ark had a long history of not giving a damn, not to mention doing whatever she happened to feel was necessary and to hell with the consequences. Which was at least partly why she'd ended up an outlaw and a pirate.
She moved slowly toward the nearest body bank, drawn by a curious mixture of revulsion and fascination. She'd had no illusions about what she was getting into when she'd signed on board the Shard as a clonelegger, but somehow it was different up close. The body banks were a source of life and longevity, but the spotless cargo bay still seemed to reek of death. Most of the lights were out, conserving energy. Never knew when you might need the extra power to make a run for it. Cloneleggers were not popular, either with the authorities or those who had a need for their services.
Hazel walked slowly down the central aisle between the body banks. Visions of hearts and lungs and kidneys burned brightly in her mind's eye, pulsing with fresh crimson blood. She was sure they didn't actually look like that, preserved in the icy cold of the machines, but that was how she thought of them. Her fellow cloneleggers just referred to them as the merchandise, as casual as any butcher in a slaughterhouse. She stopped and looked around her, surrounded by hundreds upon hundreds of human organs and tissues, enough to fill a dozen battlegrounds, and every one of them worthless. Contaminated beyond saving by a smuggled virus. That was what you got for making enemies in the clonelegging business.
Not too long before, the Captain had come out ahead in a business deal with the Boneyard Boys, through his usual mixture of high risk taking and low cunning. Contracts the Shard had lusted after for years had fallen into their hands as though by magic. Hazel smiled grimly. They should have known better. Clonelegging was a cutthroat business. Sometimes literally.
Clonelegging was illegal, a crime punishable by death, but that did nothing to slow down the flood of people ready and willing to make a living out of death. Officially, the use of cloned human tissues for transplanting was only allowed to the highest of the high, those with breeding and position and a not too small fortune. Couldn't have the lower orders leading long and healthy lives; there were far too many of them as it was, even with the newly colonized worlds opening up vast new territories for settling. Besides, it might give the lower orders ideas above their station.
But unofficially, if you had enough money and knew the right (or more strictly speaking wrong) people, you could get whatever part of you was failing replaced, either by cloning your own tissues, or by illegally obtained organs from body banks. There was never any risk of rejection with a person's own cloned tissues, but surprisingly often the original organs turned out to have built-in defects, or there were other problems that made direct cloning impossible. That was when the bodysnatchers came into their own. And then no one was safe, living or dead.
Most planets cremated their dead, by order of the Empress, to ensure that donor organs would only be available to the right sort of people, but backwater planets often cultivated illegal secret graveyards and mausoleums. Never knew when the crops might fail, or business turn bad, and you might need a little cash in the bank, so to speak. So the cloneleggers made the rounds, and everyone made a little money. The cloneleggers made a lot. Demand was high. All they had to do was maintain a full stocklist and wait for someone to come knocking tentatively at their door.
Only it isn't always that simple. Cloning is a delicate business with all sorts of things that can go wrong. Cloning wears out an organ fast, and then it has to be replaced in stock. The body banks have a voracious appetite. And the hidden cemeteries are few and far between, often with exclusive contracts to one particular set of cloneleggers. So sometimes the bodysnatchers go out in disguise to walk among the living, looking for those who won't be missed too much. A shame, of course, but you can't make an omelette, and all that….
When Hazel joined the Shard's crew four planets back, the Captain had assured her they were graverobbers only. Except when things got really bad. Get in quick, dig up enough merchandise to fill the body banks, and then get the hell out of there before someone sold them out for an Empire reward. There's always someone. Only this time it had all gone wrong. The Boneyard Boys had got in first and contaminated the merchandise with a really vicious virus that hadn't shown up on any of the usual tests. Now every organ they had was worthless, and they had contracts to fill with people who weren't known for their patience or understanding.
So Captain Markee had gone cap in hand to the Blood Runners out in the Obeah systems and begged a favor. Hazel still shuddered when she thought of what she and the rest of the crew had had to promise in return for the information the Blood Runners provided. Nothing could be allowed to go wrong with this deal. There were worse things than death.
So the Blood Runners had put them in touch with people on Virimonde, out on the Rim, and the Shard had come to play the old game one more time. One last throw of the dice.
Hazel wondered, not for the first time, how she'd come to this. It wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind for herself when she left her home planet ten minutes ahead of a restraining order and a lengthy stay in jail in search of excitement and adventure. Cloneleggers were the lowest of the low, the scum of the Empire. Even a beggar with leprosy would pause to spit on a clonelegger. People who walked in certain high circles liked to boast of their personal cloneleggers, as one might of an attack beast trained for the Arenas, but no one had a good word for them in open society. They were pariahs, outcasts, untouchables for daring to traffic in the trade that no one wanted to admit existed.
Haze sighed tiredly. She'd leave the Shard in a moment, if she had anywhere to go. Hazel d'Ark, twenty-three years old, tall, lithely muscular, with a sharp, pointed face and a mane of long ratty red hair. Green eyes that missed nothing, and a smile so quick people often missed it if they weren't looking for it. She'd worked in one dirty job after another since leaving home, and it showed in the wariness of her stance and the naked suspicion in her scowl. She'd been a mercenary on Loki, a bodyguard on Golgotha and, most recently, part of the security forces on Brahmin II, which was where Captain Markee found her, running for her life. A superior officer had decided his rank entitled him to certain rights to her body, and not for cloning, either. Hazel d'Ark had disagreed. She'd decided a long time ago that she wasn't giving away anything she could sell. It came to blows and ended in tears, and Hazel went on the run again with the bastard's blood still dripping from her knife.
At the time, a little discreet clonelegging had seemed like a definite career advancement. Low profile, low risk, the only hard work a little digging … perfect. Especially with so many people hot on her trail. Just lately, it seemed there was always someone looking for her with bad intentions. It was all her own fault; she knew that. She'd always had a tendency to wander into illegal deals in search of fast money, and only afterward discover what she'd let herself in for. But even though she'd done a lot of things in her time that she wasn't too proud of, kidnapping people and butchering them in cold blood for their organs had to be a new low, even for her.
She didn't know if she could do it. She had a feeling it might be a matter of principle, something she wasn't exactly familiar with. But everyone draws the line somewhere. She ran through the options open to her. It didn't take long. She couldn't just announce her newfound integrity to her fellow crew members. Not unless she wanted to see the inside of a body bank the hard way. She could always jump ship; ride one of the escape pods down to the planet below and lose herself in the crowds. But Virimonde was a primitive place by all accounts, based around hard work and damn all luxuries. Not a good place to be stranded on the run. Especially when there are people looking for you on both sides of the law.
Hazel d'Ark looked around her at the waiting body banks and shuddered, not entirely from the cold.
What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?
Lights flared around her as the ship's alarms went crazy. Hazel winced away from the sudden blare of sound, her hand dropping automatically to the gun at her side. Her first thought was a hull breach, but she quickly realized that if there'd been an explosive decompression in any part of the ship, she'd have felt its effects long before the sirens went off. She accessed the emergency channel through her comm implant, and a babble of voices filled her head. It only took her a moment to pick out the phrase battle stations, and then she was off and running. Someone had pierced the Shard's cloaking device, and that was supposed to be impossible for anything less than an Imperial starcruiser. And if the Empire had found them, there was a very real danger that Hazel d'Ark's career as a clonelegger was over before it had even begun.
Just my luck, thought Hazel bitterly as she ran out of the cargo bay and headed for the bridge. Just my luck to get picked up for one of the few crimes I haven't actually committed.
Hannah, talk to me. How deep are we in it?
I'm afraid you couldn't get much deeper without crouching, the AI said calmly through her implant. An Imperial starcruiser has dropped out of hyperspace and taken up orbit around Virimonde. Their sensors brushed aside our cloaking devices in well under a second, and it didn't take them much longer to issue a challenge. I'm currently lying through my electronic teeth, but there's a limit to how long I can hope to bluff them. And I have a strong suspicion it isn't going to be anywhere near long enough for us to raise enough power to escape into hyperspace.
Couldn't we make a run for it in normal space?
This is an Imperial starcruiser we're discussing, Hazel. They don't come much more powerful than this. They'd blast us into tiny glowing fragments before we even left orbit.
We've got shields.
They've got two hundred and fifty disrupter cannon and power to burn.
Can we fight them?
If you really want to annoy them.
Dammit, there must be something we can do! You're the one with the immense intellect; think of something!
You could always surrender.
Hazel would have laughed sarcastically, but she was too short of breath. She pounded down the steel corridor, head aching from the clamor of the alarm siren, and finally burst onto the bridge and threw herself into her fire control seat. Whatever was going on, she was sure she'd feel a damn sight more secure plugged into the Shard's two disrupter cannon. Theoretically, the AI was far more capable of aiming and firing the ship's disrupters, but what one AI could plan another could anticipate and match. Human unpredictability provided an edge no AI could deal with. Which is why there were always human gunners on every ship.
Hazel meshed her mind with the computers through her implant and spread out through the fire systems, running quickly through the warm-up routines. Computer displays sprang up all around her, and a steady stream of information flowed through her thoughts. Hazel got her first real look at the starcruiser, and her heart sank. The Empire ship was a thousand times bigger, dwarfing the Shard like a minnow next to a whale. The AI ran quickly through a list of the Imperial craft's capabilities, and Hazel's heart sank even further. Disrupter cannon, force shields, assault torpedos … the Shard wouldn't stand a chance, but then, she'd always known that. The only thing big enough to take on a starcruiser was another starcruiser. Hazel swallowed hard and let her thoughts move cautiously through the two fire turrets. The cannon stirred restlessly at her touch, picking out targets of opportunity on the Imperial ship.
Hazel's breathing had almost slowed to normal, but her anger took it away again as she studied the starcruiser. What the hell was it doing here? There wasn't one due for weeks, officially. It couldn't have come looking for the Shard; a handful of cloneleggers on a pirate ship weren't that important. Which was all very fine and logical, but the Imperial ship was still there, large as life and twice as deadly, its ranked cannon no doubt locked on the pirate ship and ready to fire at a moment's notice. Hazel scowled fiercely. They couldn't run, they couldn't fight, and they didn't dare surrender. Maybe they could make a deal … if they could think of something to bargain with. Her mind worked frantically, but came up with nothing. Unless Captain Markee had a whole pack of aces up his sleeve, the Empire ship had them cold.
She looked across the bridge at the Captain. Terrence Markee was in his late forties; large and solid and reliable. He'd been a pirate all his adult life and loved every illegal moment of it. He dressed like a gaudy if somewhat dated dandy, all flashing silks and clashing colors, and affected an aristocratic accent he had no right to. At the moment he was scowling at his displays and growling a series of calm, quiet orders. Slightly reassured that at least one person on the bridge wasn't panicking, Hazel left her eyes drift round the cramped confines of the command area. Anything was better than looking at the Empire ship.
The bridge of the Shard was a mess. Half the lights weren't working at any given time, because bulbs were expensive and they never carried enough spares, and the limited low-ceilinged space was crammed with work stations, computer displays, and terminals; never mind the sensor panels and fire control station. Officially there was room for seven crew on the bridge, including the Captain, but as usual there were only four, including the Captain and Hazel. The Shard operated on a bare minimum crew, with everyone holding down as many jobs as they could handle. Half the systems weren't working, but you learned to put up with that as long as the essentials were maintained. Repairs were hideously expensive, especially at stardocks. Clonelegging could provide a very comfortable living if you were in the right place at the right time and kept up a good stock, but it was a crowded field these days, and small independent ships like the Shard were being forced out. Markee had been relying on the Viriminde run to restock the body banks, and repair his fortunes and his ship. And then he made an enemy of the Boneyard Boys, and everything went to hell in a hurry.
A thought struck Hazel, and she looked back at Markee. Captain, how about if we just dump everything? Throw the merchandise and body banks out the airlock and let it all burn up falling through Virimonde's atmosphere? No evidence, no proof.
Nice idea, said Markee. And if that ship hadn't been a starcruiser, we might have got away with it. But with the kind of sensors they've got, they could identify every organ and tissue sample independently and read the maker's name on the body banks. Their sensors records would make damning evidence. So, we can't dump it, and we can't afford to be caught with it. Doesn't leave much room for maneuvering, does it? He smiled briefly. I suppose we could always eat the merchandise. How's your appetite, Hazel?
Not as good as it was a moment ago. Basically, what you're saying is we're screwed if we do, and screwed if we don't. I suppose surrender is out of the question?
Markee's smile came and went again. There's enough evidence on this ship to hang us all. Slowly.
So what are we going to do?
The one thing they won't expect. We'll fight. Who knows, maybe we'll get lucky.
And if we don't?
Then at least we'll die quickly. Are the guns ready?
Ready as they'll ever be. They haven't been checked, let alone fired, in ages. Hazel glared at the massive ship on the screens before her. Tears of anger and frustration burned in her eyes, but she wouldn't give in to them. Her luck had just turned bad one time too many, that was all. She pounded a fist on the arm of her chair. "What the hell is an Empire ship doing here anyway? We only made the decision to come here twelve hours ago! They couldn't have known about us."
She didn't see Markee shrug, but she could hear it in his voice. A lot can happen in twelve hours, especially when you've got enemies. Any number of people could have found out where we were heading and then sold the information to the Empire.
But who the hell would send a whole bloody starcruiser after small fry like us?
Good question. Wish I had a good answer for you. Could be the Boneyard Boys, calling in an old favor to put the finishing touch to our destruction. It doesn't matter. Now suck it in, and stand ready with your disrupters. Hannah is currently telling the Empire ship that we're an ambulance craft on a mercy mission to a plague outbreak. She's feeding them all kinds of convincing details, but I didn't think they're buying it. Certainly they aren't going to buy it long enough for our engines to power up for a jump into hyperspace.
Hazel's mouth was suddenly dry. Captain, our two guns aren't worth spit against all theirs. There must be something else we can try.
Sorry, Hazel; nothing springs to mind. You know what they say: if you can't take a joke, you shouldn't have joined.
Hazel waited, but Markee had nothing more to say. She concentrated on her fire controls. Both the Shard and the starcruiser had force screens that could withstand a hell of a lot of punishment, but they also used up a hell of a lot of energy, and the Shard's shields would go down long before the Imperial ship's did. It came to Hazel then that she was going to die out in the empty spaces of the Rim, far from home and family and honor. Just as she'd always known she would.
On the Imperial starcruiser Darkwind, Captain John Silence sat at ease in his command chair, looking out over his efficiently murmuring bridge: every man at his station, every system running smoothly, just as it should be. The small craft on the main viewscreen seemed surprisingly insignificant to be taking up so much of his time and attention. Still, nothing that small was going to give him any trouble, and the prize money its capture would bring would be a welcome bonus. At least that way something good might come of this mission. He tried to push the thought aside, but it persisted. He had better things to do than waste time hunting down some poor bastard who probably didn't even know he'd been outlawed yet. But man proposes, and the Empress disposes. She said go, and you went. If you liked having your head still attached to your body.
He looked at the starship on the main viewscreen again and frowned slightly. Probably just a pirate ship involved in something dubious, but what was it doing here at the same time as the Darkwind? Could it have come to try and save the Deathstalker? Owen Deathstalker, Lord of Virimonde, holder of a proud name and title, condemned to death by the Empress' word. She hadn't said why, and Silence hadn't asked. One didn't. But Silence had quietly checked the files anyway, just in case there was something there he ought to know. If there was, he missed it. Owen Deathstalker might be descended from a famous warrior Clan, but in his case, the blood seemed to be running thin. His people ran Virimonde efficiently enough, but the man himself was just an amateur historian. Wrote long books on obscure subjects that no one ever read. Looking back was unofficially discouraged; there were too many subjects the Empire preferred its people to forget. Presumably the Deathstalker had stumbled across something he shouldn't have. Whatever it was, Owen Deathstalker wouldn't be writing a book about it this time. He was Outlawed, a nonperson with a price on his head. Literally. The Empress liked proof of her kills.
Silence shrugged and sat back in his command chair: a tall, lean man in his forties, with a thickening waistline and a receding hairline he tried not to be touchy about. He sat in the command chair with a quiet dignity, as though he belonged there. He'd served the Empire to the best of his ability all his adult life, and if sometimes he found himself on a mission he had no stomach for, well, that was the Empire for you, under Her Imperial Majesty Lionstone XIV. Also known as the Iron Bitch. Silence stopped that thought short. It wasn't wise to let one's thoughts run free in some directions. You never knew when an esper might be listening. He concentrated on the pirate ship before him. Small craft, built more for speed than action. No threat to a starcruiser. But she shouldn't have been here … not just now. Silence looked across at his comm officer.
Do we have an identification on her yet?
Not yet, Captain. Their AI is talking our ears off, but not actually saying much. It's trying to feed us some nonsense about being a medical ship on a mercy mission, but it's the wrong kind of craft for that, and it doesn't have the proper identification codes. Odds are they're just trying to keep us occupied while they power up for a hyper jump. Do we stop them, Captain, or let them go?
We stop them, said a calm, cold voice, and Silence nodded to Investigator Frost as she came to stand beside him. Frost was in her late twenties, tall and lithely muscular, with a gun on her hip and a long sword hanging down her back. Even standing still she looked competent and extremely dangerous, like a predator in a world of prey. Dark eyes burned coldly in a pale, controlled face, framed by auburn hair cropped close to the skull. You couldn't call her pretty, but there was a daunting glamour to her, attractive and intimidating at the same moment.
Investigators were trained from childhood to be loyal, efficient and deadly. Their job was to study newly discovered alien species and determine how much of a threat they might prove to the Empire. Depending on those findings, the aliens would then be either enslaved or exterminated. There was no third option. Investigators were also used as security chiefs, bodyguards, and assassins. They were cold, calculating killing machines, and they were either good at their job, or dead.
Silence and Frost had worked together on several missions and understood each other. Which was as close to friendship as you could get with an Investigator.
There's no hurry, said Silence. A ship that small takes forever to power up. They're not going anywhere yet.
I don't like it, Frost said flatly. An unexpected ship in orbit, waiting for us? I don't believe in coincidence. Someone has alerted our target that he's been outlawed. That ship is either here to protect him or carry him away. Either way, our orders are quite specific. Under no circumstances is the target to be allowed to escape.
Silence nodded. The outlaw was only ever referred to as the target in public. It wouldn't do for the lower orders to know that a Lord had been outlawed. Especially one with such a famous name. The name Deathstalker could still command respect and possibly allies in certain quarters, irrespective of the Empress' wishes or orders. Which was why an entire starcruiser had been sent to see that the Deathstalker's outlawing went smoothly. He was to be captured and executed before word could get out to potential friends. Only it seemed someone had beaten them to it.
The ship could have been sent to occupy our attention while the target is helped to escape, said Frost. We can't afford to waste time on it. With your permission, I'll form a boarding party and get some answers in person.
Not so fast, Investigator. Let's do this by the book. Esper Fortuna?
Yes, Captain. The Darkwind's esper, Thomas Fortuna, stepped forward to stand on the Captain's other side, opposite the Investigator. He was short, dumpy, and his uniform looked as though he'd inherited it from someone larger. His shaven head glistened brightly.
I want a full scan on that ship, said Silence. See what you can pick up.
Yes, Captain. Fortuna's mind leapt up and out, and his face relaxed completely, losing all trace of life and personality. Then his face twisted, and he was back again, shaking his head disgustedly. That ship is full of death and the memory of pain. So many traces I can't even identify the sources, except to say they're all human, and all dead. There are body banks on that ship, Captain, brimming over with the residues of suffering. They're cloneleggers.
Nothing to do with the target? said Silence. You're sure?
As far as I can be, Captain.
That settles it then, said Frost easily. We can't waste time over a handful of bodysnatchers. Blow the ship to pieces. The universe will smell better once they're gone.
Couldn't agree more, said Silence. Go ahead, Investigator. Enjoy yourself.
The pirate ship Shard rocked as the Darkwind opened fire on her. Hannah got the force screens up in time, deflecting the raging energy from the disrupter cannon, but it was all the AI could do to maintain them under the constant barrage from the Empire ship. Hazel d'Ark fired back, but her two cannon made no impression on the Darkwind's superior shields. Lights went out all over the Shard as the AI drained more and more energy from the ship's systems to maintain the force screens. The power accumulated for a hyper jump was used up in seconds, and one by one the body banks shut down, their fragile contents left to warm and rot. The Shard jerked this way and that, like a fish on a hook, running through every evasive maneuver in the AI's data banks, but the Darkwind stayed with them, the disrupter cannon firing one after another to maintain a constant pressure.
Hazel shuddered at her fire controls, feeling every hammering blow on the Shard's shields through her mental link to the computers. She pounded impatiently on the arms of her chair as she waited the three agonizing minutes it took for her antiquated disrupter cannon to power up between shots. The Darkwind didn't have that problem. She fired her disrupters in overlapping waves, so that each cannon had time to recharge before it had to fire again. The Empire ship also had far greater resources of power to drawn on. The Shard didn't stand a chance, and everyone knew it.
Light dimmed on the Shard's bridge as fires broke out in a dozen places. Smoke formed faster than the extractor fans could deal with it. Hazel coughed raggedly as she tried to concentrate on the fire controls. The station next to hers exploded, the man sitting there suddenly engulfed in flames. He screamed shrilly till the air in his lungs burned up. The AI was gabbling incoherently in Hazel's ears, its voice breaking up as it struggled to hold the disintegrating ship together. She spun round in her seat and glared across the smoke-filled bridge at Captain Markee.
Surrender, damn it! They're tearing us apart!
No point, said the Captain calmly, raising his voice to be heard over the growing bedlam on the bridge. They must know we're cloneleggers. They're not interested in our surrender. We can't fight, we can't run, and we haven't a hope in hell of raising enough power to go hyper. That only leaves one option. I'm going to use Lover Boy on their shields and then ram the bastards. If I'm going down, I'm taking them with me.
Hazel's fire control exploded, throwing her out and across the bridge. She landed hard, driving the breath from her lungs, her uniform blackened and scorched. She was badly burned, but for the moment, shock smothered most of the pain. She rolled slowly onto her side, fighting to stay conscious. She could hear Markee giving orders in a calm, reasonable voice. Lover Boy. Hazel clung to the thought as she forced herself up onto her knees. Lover Boy was an experimental program the Captain had acquire on Brahmin II. It was called Lover Boy because love laughs at locksmiths, and because the program was designed to give another ship's security systems a real good screwing. The Captain was going to use Lover Boy to get the Darkwind to drop her force shields, and then ram her. The Shard would hit like a single huge torpedo, and that would be the end of the Darkwind. And the Shard.
Hazel lurched to her feet, grabbed the nearest station to steady herself, and glared through the smoke and flames at Captain Markee.
"Are you crazy? We'll all be killed!"
He didn't answer her. His gaze was fixed on his computer displays, and he was laughing. Hazel looked wildly round for help, only to find she and Markee were the only living crew left on the bridge. The rest were dead at their stations. Hazel staggered away from the bridge, stumbling through the smoke and wreckage. If she was quick, she could still get to an escape pod before the two ships hit. And if she was really lucky, the escape pod would still be working.
The corridor lurched back and forth as Hazel forced herself into a run. Adrenaline was putting strength back into her legs, but she knew that wouldn't last long. Solid steel creaked and groaned around her as the ship began to break up. Markee had to be directing most of the Shard's remaining power into the force shields, but some of the punishment was getting through anyway. The lights were going out, one by one. Hazel tried to contact Hannah through her comm implant, but the AI was still talking gibberish, mumbling to itself in a querulous voice.
Hazel rounded a corner and then stumbled to a halt. One of the bulkheads had been blown inward, blocking the corridor completely. Spikes of jagged metal thrust out in all directions, some of it still glowing cherry-red from the heat of the recent explosion. Hazel took the opportunity to get her breath back, and studied the situation as calmly as she could. Panicking or screaming with rage might feel good, but it wouldn't get her anywhere. The first real pain from her burns was beginning to gnaw at her, but she forced the awareness down to a level she could deal with. She grabbed hold of a few spikes that were only uncomfortably warm and tried to shift the steel mass, but it didn't budge an inch. She bit her lower lip, scowling. This was the only way to the escape pods. She had to get through.
Her hand fell to the gun on her hip. Using an energy weapon in a confined space was always dangerous, but nowhere near as dangerous as being trapped here when the two ships hit. She drew her disrupter, set it to maximum dispersal and fired before she could think better of it. The raging energy beam punched a hole clean through the steel barrier, leaving a tunnel that stretched away into the metal for as far as she could see. It wasn't much of a tunnel, three feet in diameter at most, but it would have to do. She just hoped it would have an opening at the other end.
The sides of the hole glowed red with a sullen heat, and Hazel knew she couldn't afford to touch them. But she was going to have to crawl through the tunnel on all fours, and that meant contact with her hands and knees. Her uniform would protect her knees, for a while anyway, but she'd have to do something to protect her bare hands. She put away her gun, drew her backup knife from her boot and cut away one of her sleeves. She cut the cloth in two again, put away her knife, and wrapped the cloth around her hands. She looked again at the red-hot sides of the tunnel before her and winced. This was going to be really unpleasant. She swallowed hard and clambered quickly into the opening before she could change her mind.
The heat hit her from all directions, and she could feel the skin of her face tightening and smarting. Sweat poured off her, evaporating in seconds. She crawled on through the steel tunnel, and the heat seared her hands and knees even through the protecting cloth. She hurried as much as she could, but it was a narrow space with no room to maneuver. Her back brushed against the tunnel roof now and again, and she had to grit her teeth against the heat and pain. The cloth pads she'd made for her hands started to smoke. Her eyes narrowed to watering slits against the fiery air, and her lungs felt scorched with every breath. The metal creaked and groaned around her as though it might collapse at any moment. Hazel's heart hammered in her chest, and a blind unreasoning fear gnawed at her self-control till she wanted to scream. But she didn't. Screaming wouldn't help. She forced herself on through the heat, shuffling forward on hands and knees that seemed to be one blazing mass of pain. She could smell her flesh burning. Tears ran down her face, as much from frustration as pain, evaporating almost at once.
And then she was out of the tunnel, and the heat fell away from her like a burning blanket. She'd made her way through the obstruction. She was back in the open corridor, and the cool air was like a blessing. She lurched to her feet, gritting her teeth at the pain in her hands and knees and back till her jaw ached. Her leggings had burnt right through, and the blackened cloths around her hands fell apart as she tried to unwrap them. She stumbled on, not daring to look at her hands, trying to find the strength to hurry. She had no idea of how much time she had left. Her struggle in the steel tunnel had seemed to last forever.
Most of the lights were out now, and the ship was dark and echoing. The smell of smoke was heavy in the air. She forced herself on, having to guess the right way as often as not, but finally she came to the escape pods, sitting calmly in their racks as though they had all the time in the world. Hazel just stood and stared numbly at them for a long moment. All her strength had gone into getting her here, and she seemed to have none left to do anything else. A series of explosions shook the ship, jarring her back to her senses. She stumbled over to the nearest pod and hit the activation button with her blackened fist. The door swung open maddeningly slowly, and the interior of the pod lit up as its systems came on-line. Hazel clambered inside and sank into the waiting crash-webbing with something like relief. It felt so good to be off her feet at last. The door hissed shut behind her, and she worked her jaw to pop her ears as the air pressure changed.
The pod's cabin was barely a dozen feet long, with just enough room for two passengers. It occurred to Hazel that it was not unlike lying in a coffin, and the thought amused her briefly. A fitting fate for a would-be grave-robber. She pushed the thought aside and painfully forced her blistered and stiffened fingers through the series of commands that would eject the pod from the Shard. She braced herself for the impact, and only slowly realized that nothing was happening.
She ran through the launch sequence again, crying out at the pain in her hands, but still there was no response. Panic flared up in her, and the cramped confines of the escape pod were suddenly unbearably claustrophobic. She started to get up out of the crash-webbing and only stopped herself with an effort of will. There was no point in leaving the pod; the Shard was a death ship now. Her only hope for survival was to make the pod work. The panic began to die away as she made herself study the problem logically. There was nothing wrong with the pod itself or it would have showed up on the control panels, which meant the problem lay outside. In the launching systems. Systems controlled by the ship's AI … Hannah.
Hazel accessed the AI through her comm implant, but there was only silence. The lack of response was somehow more worrying than the previous gibberish. Hazel called again. There was someone listening; she could feel it. When the answer finally came, it was like a whisper at midnight, as though the sound was traveling from somewhere impossibly far away.
Hazel, everything feels wrong. Parts of me are missing, and I can't find them. I can't think properly. There are shadows in my memories, running loose like rats in a barn. Help me, Hazel. Stop them. Please stop them … it's so cold in here, and I'm afraid….
Hannah! Listen to me, Hannah. I'm stuck in escape pod seven. I need you to run through the launch sequence for me. Can you hear me, Hannah?
Forget the AI, said Captain Markee calmly, patching into the channel. "She's falling apart, like everything else on this ship. The Shard's on her last run, going out in a blaze of glory. I've activated the pod launch from the bridge. You'll be on your way in a moment. Just as well. You'd never have made a good clonelegger, Hazel. Too soft where it matters. If you get out of this alive, raise a drink to me and the Shard. She was a good ship."
His voice faded out at the end, and before Hazel could say anything, the escape pod blasted out of its hatch and plummeted toward the planet below.
On the bridge of the Darkwind, Captain Silence studied the small craft on his viewscreen as it slowly closed the distance between them. The Darkwind's disrupters had hammered away most of the pirate's force shields, and it was only a matter of time now before they failed entirely. And once that happened, it would all be over in seconds. It was a miracle the pirate's shields had lasted this long. The Captain must have drained the ship's batteries dry to power them. The ship continued to drift closer, and Silence frowned thoughtfully. The pirate was up to something; he could feel it in his bones. He glanced at the Investigator beside him and saw that she was scowling intently at the viewscreen, too.
Pirate ship's speed increasing, Captain, said his comm officer suddenly. Accelerating steadily toward us.
He's trying to ram us, said Frost. The force shields will stop him.
But he must know that, said Silence slowly. So why is he doing it?
Captain! The comm officer's voice was sharp and concerned. Our shields are dropping! They don't answer the control panels!
Odin! said Silence. What's happening?
The pirate ship has infected my systems with a virus, said the starcruiser's AI. Which is supposed to be impossible. It's bypassing all my safeguards. I've never encountered anything quite like this. Systems are crashing faster than I can isolate them. Our force shields are down, and I am unable to raise them again. The pirate ship will impact with us in six minutes and fourteen seconds.
Recommendations? said Frost.
Abandon ship, the AI said flatly. If you leave now, most of the escape craft will survive the ensuing blast and should make a safe landing on Virimonde. Go now, Captain. It's the only chance you have.
Silence looked at Frost and then round his magnificent bridge. So many systems, so many highly trained personnel, and still there was nothing he could do to save his ship. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He patched into the shipwide address channel, and then paused a moment longer to be sure his voice would be calm and steady when he spoke.
Attention all hands. This is the Captain. Abandon ship. I say again, abandon ship. This is not a drill. Remember your training and make your way to the nearest escape craft. We'll reassemble on Virimonde. Good luck, everyone. Captain out.
He looked around him and clapped his hands briskly. All right, that's it. Clear the bridge. Everyone out.
His people rose quickly to their feet and left the bridge with a professional minimum of fuss. Investigator Frost turned to go, and then stopped as she realized Silence wasn't moving.
Aren't you coming, Captain?
"No, Investigator. This Captain is going down with his ship. The main bulk of the Darkwind will probably survive the initial impact and only break up on entering the atmosphere. I have to be here to guide the ship down for as long as I can. I have to make sure the pieces will land safely in one of the oceans. Hundreds of thousands could be killed if any of the pieces were to land in an inhabited area."
You are more important, said Frost calmly. The Empire has a great deal of time and money invested in you, Captain. The colonists are just peasants. They don't matter.
They matter to me. Clear the bridge, Investigator. There's nothing you can say that will persuade me to leave.
No, said Frost. I don't suppose there is.
She hit him once, efficiently, and he slumped forward in his command chair, unconscious. Frost checked the pulse in his neck, nodded once, and then picked the Captain up and slung him almost effortlessly over one shoulder.
Odin, this is Investigator Frost. Acknowledge.
Acknowledged, Investigator.
The Captain is indisposed. I am placing you in command. You will do everything in your power to guide the ship down, so that its eventual impact does the minimum possible damage to inhabited areas. You understand I cannot take the risk of downloading you and taking you with us. There is no telling how much damage the infecting virus has done to your systems, or how infectious it remains.
Yes, Investigator. I understand.
Frost looked once around the empty bridge. Goodbye, Odin.
Goodbye, Investigator. Safe journey.
Frost turned and left the bridge with the Captain still unconscious over her shoulder. The empty bridge was filled with the low sound of the AI singing quietly to itself and the pirate ship growing ever larger on the viewscreen.
The Shard and the Darkwind, locked together, cartwheeled slowly through the silent night, falling toward Virimonde.
The Man Who Had Everything
The Deathstalker, Owen, Lord of Virimonde, last of a famous warrior line, lay naked and exhausted among the crumpled silk sheets of his bed and wondered lazily if he could work up the strength to call for a tall iced drink. It was late in the morning of another perfect day on the best of all possible worlds. The sun was shining, what passed for birds on Virimonde were singing their little hearts out, everyone was busy at their work, and he didn't have to leave his bed for ages yet if he didn't feel like it. He sighed and stretched slowly and smiled the slow smug smile of the truly satisfied. He'd just had amazing sex with his long-term mistress, and when she got back from wherever she'd disappeared to, he fully intended to do it all again. Practice makes perfect.
She wasn't really his mistress, in the sense that he didn't pay her a retainer or anything, but he liked the ancient word, with its undertones of sin and debauchery. He stretched again unhurriedly, content as a cat in the sun, staring up at the ceiling high above. When he did finally choose to get up, his most recent history was waiting in the computers for him to take up work on it again. It was a good piece, sharp and pointed and full of new insights. The kind of work he'd always known he was capable of, if he could just get away from interfering distractions like having to train with sword and gun every morning and study military tactics every afternoon in order to be the warrior his line demanded of him. No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be another bloody fighter like all this revered ancestors. But that was all behind him now. His father was dead, he'd inherited the title, and his life was his own at last. In short, he'd got it all. No doubt eventually he'd start getting bored with such perfection in several years or so, but until then he was determined to enjoy every minute of it. And why not? He was a nice guy; he deserved it.
He looked around the huge stone chamber with its hanging tapestries and centuries-old holos. The Deathstalker Standing hadn't changed outwardly in generations. Every modern convenience was in place, ready to hand or call, but expertly concealed behind the traditional overlay. The Standing had been the home of the Deathstalker Clan for generations beyond counting, serving all their various needs with calm efficiency. When Owen had bought the Lordship of Virimonde, he'd had the entire castle dismantled, stone by stone, and had it and its contents shipped to Virimonde, where it was reassembled surprisingly quickly by a small army of fanatical experts. You can do things like that when you're a Lord. The Standing was his, wherever he decided to plant his roots; all that was required of him was that he preserve it and hold it in trust for future generations. Assuming he ever got around to marrying and producing a next generation. His mistress was a delightful sort, but not at all the kind of person one married. As head of one of the oldest Families in the Empire, he had a duty to marry someone of his own rank and station. And he would. Eventually.
Owen looked thoughtfully at the giant holo on the wall opposite his bed, showing the original Deathstalker in all his fearsome aspect and martial glory: Warrior Prime of the Empire and founder of the Clan that still bore his name. He looked a bit rough and ready in his thick furs and steelmesh tunic, bristling with weapons, his head shaved in a mercenary's scalplock, but it didn't take too much imagination to transform his warrior's arrogance into a lord's nobility. According to Family history, he'd been the greatest fighting man of his day, unanimously elected Warrior Prime and elevated to the Peerage by popular acclaim. Hard man by all accounts, and a bit of a bastard, but the public liked that in their heroes. Bloodied his sword on a hundred worlds, and never backed away from an insult or a war.
He was also the creator and wielder of the Darkvoid Device, which put out a thousand suns in a moment and left their planets to sail silently through an endless night. The Darkvoid. But no one talks about that anymore outside the Family.
Pity about what happened to him in the end, but that's politics for you. His son had taken over as Warrior Prime to the Empire, and things went on as they should. Owen wondered vaguely what the old man would have made of his most recent descendant. Probably would have had him put down the moment he showed any sign of intellectual tendencies. Owen couldn't bring himself to really give a damn. He'd always known he was a writer, not a fighter. He'd had a proper training in weaponry and all the martial arts, as befitted his station and inheritance, but it had never interested him. His interest lay in researching and piecing together the Empire's somewhat tangled history. Nothing excited him like reaching into the morass of legend and myth that made up so much of the past and producing one indisputable new fact, clear and sharp as a diamond in a coal mine. And if he'd learned one thing from all the histories he'd read and the tales he'd investigated, it was that most of the time there was no glory and damn all honor to be found on the battlefield. Only blood and mud and the endless bitterness of lost hopes.
Most wars turned out to be squalid little affairs, once you dug through the lies and propaganda, fought to protect trade interests or save political face. Owen was damned if he'd fight and die just so someone else could look good. Particularly when he had so much to live for. The only real legacy he had from his bad old, mad old ancestor was the Deathstalker ring; an ugly chunky circle of black gold handed down out of the unimaginable past, the sign and seal of Deathstalker authority. According to the Family tradition, he was forbidden to remove it, save to pass it on to his eldest son. They'd had to cut off his father's finger to get it after he was dead. But then, Owen and his father had never got on.
They'd always been surprisingly distant and distinct, considering how alike they looked. They were both tall and rangy, with dark hair and darker eyes, moving always with the quiet grace of breeding and long martial training. These days, in his mid-twenties, Owen had lost some of the athlete's leanness; good living and satisfied appetites had softened the lines of his muscles and padded his stomach. Not excessively so, by any means, but his old weapons master would have thrown up his hands in despair at how out of condition his pupil had become. It was a thought that never failed to please Owen. The two of them had never got on. He still worked out most days, when he could spare the time, if only so he could keep up with his mistress.
The bedroom door swung open, and Owen's mood changed in a moment as his mistress came bouncing in, bright and bonny and tanned golden from perfect head to pointed toe. Cathy DeVries was in her early thirties, with a tight compact body of wondrous delights. Average height, but far from average in every other way. Long legs, full body, long blond hair falling around a heart-shaped face with marvelous high cheekbones. Cathy was inordinately proud of her bone structure. Prettiness fades, she was fond of saying, but a good bone structure lasts forever. She had the widest smile Owen had ever seen and dark blue eyes to die for. She'd been his mistress for seven years now, ever since she'd been presented to him as a surprise party favor at the Winter Ball on Golgotha. She'd been physically adapted at the House of Joy: a double-jointed contortionist, trained in all the erotic knowledge of the ages, and full of surprises. Multiple orgasms guaranteed or your money back.
Buying up her contract was the best investment he'd ever made.
Cathy was wearing his battered old dressing gown again, belted at the waist for a change. Usually she just let it hang open, partly for freedom of movement and partly because she knew how much he liked to look at her. This time the gown was belted tight, and the thought disturbed him for some reason. It wasn't as though she had anything to hide after seven years of enthusiastic exploration. She was probably just teasing him again. She knew how to get him going. He noted with approval that she was carrying a tall frosted glass of white wine. She always could judge his mood to a nicety. On the other hand, the sight of her was more refreshing than any drink could ever be. He took the drink from her and put it firmly to one side on the bedside table. First things first. He reached for Cathy, and she stepped back, just out of reach. He frowned, puzzled, and she looked at him dispassionately.
Bad move, Owen. You really should have drunk the wine. You would have just drifted off to sleep and never woken up. So much simpler and more pleasant for both of us. Now we have to do it the hard way.
She reached inside the dressing gown and brought out a disrupter. Owen blinked stupidly at the energy weapon in her hand, and then old trained reflexes kicked in, and he threw himself out of his bed as Cathy fired. He hit the floor rolling, still wrapped in his sheets. The bed exploded into flames behind him. Cathy cursed briefly, put away the gun and drew a long knife from inside the dressing gown. Owen wondered briefly what the hell else she had hidden in there, and then lurched to his feet, tearing the enveloping sheets away from him. He had two minutes until the gun's energy crystal recharged. He
navarre1963
One of my all time favorite books, because it was my introduction to the writing of Simon R. Green, my favorite author. It's space opera at it's best.
tcgardner
Big Space Opera. Big personalities, big weapons, big conspiracies, big empires. Just a great universe for Green to do anything he wants. And he does.Are you into genetics, clones, esp, killing (lots of killing), AI, evil emperors, and dystopian empires then this is the book for you.
laserwraith_1
It was okay, but too many POV switches for my liking. Also repeated phrases (mostly sarcastic ones).
bryndahlquis
Read 200 pages before finally deciding to just stop (I'm still not even halfway through). The writing and characters would be passable if the book was almost over, but it's not anywhere close. The plot is ambling and the characters have no idea what they're doing, just kind of stumbling around pretending to have a plan. They're also very stupid.The only cool character is, unfortunately, not cool enough to keep my attention. And when I looked over the plots of the sequels, I discovered that they're still trying to do the same thing they're trying to do in THIS book. Apparently they never get anywhere at all.
irishkitsune
This is a fairly humorous and extremely campy series of science fiction novels slightly reminiscent of Buck Rogers or Flash Gordon. The characters are extremely dysfunctional and the entire plot line very over-the-top. Still, I was entertained by the first few books in the series. After about the third one the ridiculousness became a bit tiresome, and I stopped reading them. The first couple of books are worth the read, and perhaps the whole series if you have a stronger stomach for this sort of thing than I do.
stnylan
This is a book of beginings, fitting that it is the beginning of a fairly lengthy series, yet it has a good internal tale in its own right. As well as setting the scene for what I am sure will be much grander things there is a very good quest at the centre of this book. The one problem, in my opinion, is that the book could do with being fifty pages shorter. There are several passages that are needlessly repeated, and some quite unnecessary exposition. It seems as if there was a point reached where Simon Green (or maybe an editor?) thought some things need to be explained, but I cannot help but feel the overall story is poorer because of it.
luvwords
One look at the cover and you doubt that this book can be taken seriously. However, it is a fast-paced read with mega characters and over-the-top weapons. The action begins right from the start and it has just as many villians as heroes (sometimes you and they don't know which is which). Even in this technologically advanced future, the best fighters use swords and that in itself makes it a fun read. This is a massive series, but one caveat: #4 is mysteriously out-of-print.
worldsedge
Old school SF w/zap pow blasters fast space ships and faster women. The sort of book that if it had been published in the '60s would've featured a hot green chick in purple hot pants and halter on the cover. Alas in these PC days such artwork is not to be. Mildly interesting use of swordfights, rogue AI, and nasty cyborgs. Horribly bad dialogue of the sort that would've made a screenwriter of the original Star Trek blush. And it does go on and on and on. 500 pages. with an unending stream of sequels.
Rosemary Harvey
Loved these books in high school, can't remember why. Endless swordfights where the heroes are swarmed by hordes of enemies - why do bounty hunters, aliens, and Marines all use exactly the same tactics in every circumstance? And the repeated phrase "of course he was effortlessly brilliant at [insert skill], he was a member of [Family X] after all," gets annoying.
Simon Green did a great job with the Deathstalker book. I've never read it before, but I've read some of his other books, and they were all right—this one is terrific!The book takes place far in the future, but manages to work in some anachronistic elements such as swordfights in as well. The story is a little bit Dune-ish with all the clans and the battles between them under an emperor, but it takes its own direction from there in a quite enjoyable way.I highly recommend this book, not too much politics but enough to make things interesting. Lots of action and interesting sci-fi elements make it a fun read. I excited about having the rest of the series in front of me.


text:
Latino Assembly Hopeful Seeks to Defy Tradition
By JOHN SCHWADA
TIMES STAFF WRITER
Tony Cardenas, owner of an east San Fernando Valley-based real estate agency, seems at first glance an unlikely candidate to make local political history.
The 33-year-old Mission Hills resident, an engineer by training, is strictly a political novice.
Yet Cardenas is hard at work to become the first Latino elected to a state legislative office from the San Fernando Valley. And he is receiving considerable support in his effort.
Cardenas is careful to say, however, that his is not a traditional Latino candidacy as he runs for the 39th Assembly District seat, now held by Assemblyman Richard Katz (D-Sylmar), a victim of term limits.
"This is not a Latino thing," Cardenas said. "We're going to be targeting the entire district, not just Latinos."
And that would be politically smart, for the 39th Assembly District, which runs from Sylmar south to Sun Valley and includes Pacoima, Lake View Terrace and the city of San Fernando, is in an area where the Latino community is large and growing but has not reached its political majority, in numbers or sophistication.
"This is not East L.A. yet," said Tom Waldman, press secretary to one of the East Valley's most formidable political figures, U.S. Rep. Howard L. Berman (D-Panorama City). "There's still a sizable Anglo vote here, and it would be wise for Latinos to put up a candidate who appeals to the mainstream and doesn't appear to be [a Latino] activist."
The numbers tell the story of the disparity between population and power: While composing two-thirds of the district's population, Latinos probably will make up only a third of the Democrats registered to vote in the March 26 primary. In addition, Cardenas will face two, if not three, well-financed and active white candidates: former state Assemblyman Jim Keysor, veteran legislative aide Jim Dantona and attorney Valerie Salkin.
Finally, if recent voting history is repeated, Latino turnout in the Democratic primary can be expected to be only about 25%.
Still, Latino empowerment is no pipe dream in the 39th Assembly District.
Richard Alarcon, who learned how to build a multiethnic political coalition as an aide to former Mayor Tom Bradley, demonstrated that in 1993 by winning election, albeit by a razor-thin margin, to an East Valley-based Los Angeles City Council seat against a politically savvy white candidate. Alarcon's seat is wholly contained within the 39th Assembly District.
"Can a Latino win? It's certainly in the realm of achievability," Alarcon said recently.
To a large extent, the district's demographic circumstances were set in 1992 by a court-drafted reapportionment plan. That plan closely followed the recommendations of Latino activists and drew new boundaries for the 39th that consolidated Valley Latino communities.
But even so, it was not expected to become a district dominated by Latinos in the near term. "This was a Latino-influenced district, not a Latino-majority one," said Nancy Ramirez, a voting-rights attorney with the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund, a major player in the 1992 reapportionment battles.
Past elections also suggest potential pitfalls for a Latino candidate. Proposition 187, the measure to deny illegal immigrants many basic government services, was approved in 1994 by 52% of voters in the 39th. Earlier this year, candidate Lucia Rivera was unable to win election to a school board seat held by Latinos since the 1980s after it was reapportioned in 1992 to include a large chunk of the East Valley. She was defeated by David Tokofsky.
Waldman and others agree that in Cardenas, Latinos may have found someone with potential as a crossover candidate. For example, Cardenas is a businessman, the owner of Metro Realty, who got an engineering degree from UC Santa Barbara and has no obvious ties to the Latino political culture. He is also a member of the huge, largely white Church on the Way congregation in Van Nuys.
"A lot of people in traditional Latino political circles don't know me," Cardenas acknowledged recently, noting also that in college he joined engineering societies, not campus Latino political groups. "Some think I'm too Latino, but others say I'm not Latino enough."
In fact, one Latino activist who is an officer with the Mexican American Political Assn. recently complained that Cardenas lacks the curriculum vitae to run for office. "He's got no background in politics," the activist said. "He's a businessman. Where's he been?"
Yet Cardenas' very lack of a political past is what may give him the kind of political crossover potential that has helped candidates like Tom Bradley, a notable Los Angeles example, win election in a city with less than a 20% African American population.
Conveying a decidedly non-ethnic message, Cardenas' early political literature hails the candidate as an "independent businessman . . . not a career politician" who shares voters' "Valley values" of commitment to "safer neighborhoods, local control of schools and personal responsibility."
When the mailer gets specific, it shows Cardenas subscribing to an easy canon of beliefs, including the need to close the Lopez Canyon Landfill and to stop construction of an oil pipeline through a district that can recall an explosion and fire during the Northridge earthquake.
"Unless I'm putting on a sham, I'm not your typical Latino politician," Cardenas said recently. "Just look at my background, my business, my philosophy."
Yet, Cardenas is inevitably the Latino candidate in the 39th, if for no other reason than he is the only Latino actively raising money and walking precincts.
But there are other hallmarks as well. It is Cardenas, albeit a political newcomer, who has won the backing of the Latino Legislative Caucus, a group of Latino state lawmakers headed by state Sen. Richard G. Polanco (D-Los Angeles).
Although the caucus has occasionally backed non-Latinos, it has as one of its goals the election of Latinos to the state Assembly and Senate, said Polanco press aide Bill Mabie.
As a demonstration of what such support can mean, Polanco recently hosted and paid for a small fund-raiser for Cardenas at the Olvera Street restaurant of Andy Camacho, a longtime friend of Polanco and of Los Angeles City Councilman Richard Alatorre.
Caucus members will use their incumbent-based connections and longtime political ties to help Cardenas raise money and attract volunteers, Mabie said.
Likewise, it also is apparent that--barring some catastrophe--Alarcon will endorse Cardenas.
"I'm not going to endorse until the deadline [for persons to declare their candidacy] closes," Alarcon said. "But Tony is the only local candidate so far, the only one raised and born in the district, who has an established business here. That's what I'm telling anyone who asks."
Also, in an apparent effort to avoid fragmenting the Latino vote, other potential Latino candidates have been encouraged not to run by Latino Legislative Caucus members, according to sources familiar with this internal politicking. "Absolutely, that's happening," said one high-ranking official who asked that he not be named.
When Fred Flores, an aide to congressman Berman, was looking at running for the Katz seat, Berman got a call from Assemblywoman Martha M. Escutia (D-Huntington Park), said Berman aide Waldman.
"Yeah, there was some pressure brought to bear," Waldman said. "Escutia's message to [Berman] was that the caucus had decided on Cardenas and that this was a Latino district, and let's all get behind one Latino."
Eventually, Flores--whom Berman was prepared to endorse--decided the money and resources weren't available for him to make a viable bid and he dropped out of the running, Waldman said.
Raul Godinez, a San Fernando city councilman, is another who explored the race, then bowed out. Godinez, who is endorsing Cardenas, denied he was asked by the Polanco forces to defer to Cardenas, but others say Godinez had told them he was petitioned to drop his bid in the name of Latino unity.
Mabie and Cardenas said they were unaware of so-called unity calls being made by caucus members to other potential Latino candidates in the race.
Clearly, Latino unity can be part of a winning strategy. With a private poll in the district showing that Latino voters are twice as likely to vote for a Spanish-surnamed candidate, it is clear that a large block of the electorate is already disposed to vote for Cardenas.
And Latino unity coupled with some crossover votes could be enough in a four-candidate primary race--where the victor needs only a plurality to win--to put Cardenas over the top.
"All you may need in this race is about 30% of the vote," said one veteran Latino political strategist, who asked that he not be named.
"If you can get most of the Latino vote and about a 10% crossover from African Americans and whites, that should do it."
Ultimately, it is the Democratic primary that will tell the story about who succeeds Katz. In this heavily Democratic district, the primary victor can be expected to easily win the general election in November, 1996, against whomever the Republicans put into the field.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


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Eric Church on His Intermission Anxiety
"Are These People Going to Leave?"
When Eric Church announced that he'd be playing for about three and a half hours on his new tour, and that there'd be an intermission, I wasn't so sure it would work.
And Church wasn't either.
He told Nashville Scene that when he finally got to the point in his career when he had enough music to fill more than three hours, he started having second thoughts.
"It's been the tour I waited on my entire career — to be able to go out and play three-and-a-half hours. In some ways I'm pretty sad about it. You wait this long for it, and you don't know if it's gonna work," Church said.
And on the first night of his tour, he remembers thinking, "OK, how are we gonna pull off an intermission, and what's going to happen? Are these people going to leave? Are they going to stay?"
It sounds like Church's hope was that he'd be about 100 minutes in, and then at the half, his fans would think, "Man, I can't believe they played that, I wonder what's in the second set?"
Church said that the intermission inspiration came from bands like Phish, the Grateful Dead and Widespread Panic.
"They'll do the intermission thing. A lot of the jam-band world does it, and I've found that so fascinating," he said.
Another concert commitment Church has made is that he refuses to let the best seats go to ticket resellers. According to the Scene, he has canceled more than 33,000 ticket orders that seemed suspicious.
Church's fans have had his back for 12 years, and now he's got theirs.
"I want that same guy or girl who didn't have kids then, to bring their family and be able to afford it. As opposed to going, 'I can't pay for a 400-dollar scalped ticket.'
"I want that same guy there," Church said, "because he's been part of the journey."
Tags: Eric Church


Buy it... only if you have both seen the movie and are familiar with Michael Nyman's distinctly minimalistic classical style for film.
Avoid it... if you expect a traditional science-fiction or suspense score to vividly extend the imagination of the film rather than simply match its dull colors.
Gattaca: (Michael Nyman) Frightening in the realistic possibilities that its script presents about the future of DNA alteration in our children, Gattaca is a surprisingly interesting thriller. First-time director Andrew Niccol creates a world where "normally conceived" people are discriminated against and cannot achieve the jobs and status of "DNA-altered babies." A natural person, played by Ethan Hawke, cannot fulfill his dream of working at the futuristic Gattaca Aerospace Corporation because his DNA indicates that he has a higher chance of suffering in the future from a heart condition. But since he's ambitious, he buys the identity of a paralyzed Jude Law, whose DNA is immaculate, and he perpetuates his secret until a murder investigation eventually threatens to expose him. Meanwhile, he attempts to maintain a restrained and distant love affair with a fellow scientist played by Uma Thurman, and while Thurman and Hawke would make a real life Hollywood couple, their chemistry in Gattaca was a weaker part of the production. By contrast, the film's distinct color filters, accentuating the cold ambience of the future, is one of the movie's best attributes, and composer Michael Nyman's score matches this chilling effect with precision. Nyman's minimalistic classical style had hit Hollywood's mainstream with The Piano and, in so doing, he managed to beat the similarly-writing Philip Glass to the scene by a few years. Both Glass and Nyman would receive career boosts in 1997, with Gattaca enjoying a Golden Globe nomination and Glass' Kundun extending that success to an Oscar nomination. While there are indeed differences in the general style of the two composers, many traditional film music collectors may write them both off due to their tendency to avoid the usual techniques used by composers in Hollywood. Nyman's work for Gattaca is typically flowing and free-floating, failing to adhere to sharp synchronization points and instead allowing an overarching mood to be created by the soft textures of his writing.
The end result of the score in the film of Gattaca itself is yet another production element that seems to yearn for warmth but ultimately chills the atmosphere with even greater consistency. Thus, the score may be mundane, but it's effective. In its simplicity in construct and execution, it's an unremarkable score throughout, lacking in memorable thematic development and heavily depending on an unenthusiastic string section for its volume. Rather than attempting to address the environment of a science fiction thriller (though a few dissonant passages exist during suspense on screen, and are particularly compelling and gripping in the "Upstairs" scene and its cue), Nyman seemingly opted to focus on the film's examination of social mores. The music underscores the rigid, anticlimactic lifestyle of both society's genetic powers and the ominous workplace of Gattaca. Nyman conjures four themes for the film, each provided in succession in the first four tracks on the Gattaca album. The most distinctive of these is the opening theme for "The Morrow," which is reprised at the end of the album. Like all the themes, this idea builds slowly with string layers and barely-noticeable brass and woodwinds in a supporting, volume-producing role. Never do the themes match the emotional crescendo of the film's storyline; in fact most of the thematic performances end abruptly at the conclusion of each cue (a Glass technique in Kundun as well). This lack of maturation in the thematic development is particularly disappointing as Hawke's character reaches his ultimate goal and his rocket's departure to space coincides the ultimate moments of Law's crippled life. There is no musical victory here, not even in small doses, and this causes the film to downplay the achievements of the individual character and once again point its attention to the on-going problems of the futuristic society. Sometimes, the audience needs a cookie. The music for Gattaca doesn't give one.
The insert contains no extra information about the film or score. The web address for Michael Nyman given in the insert was always incorrect. It was redirected to two different sites in the next four years, both of which are now out of service.
or redistributed without the prior written authority of Christian Clemmensen at Filmtracks Publications. All artwork and sound clips from Gattaca are Copyright © 1997, Virgin Records America and cannot be redistributed without the label's expressed written consent. Page created 10/25/97 and last updated 3/11/08.