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asking questions. That’s my job. Answering them is yours.”
    “I won’t dignify your remarks by responding,” Anders said. He turned to the rest of the newsbeings. “And… I warn you all… The area your colleague has just encroached upon is forbidden under the crisis-briefing rules. She—and the rest of you— will confine yourself to asking and communicating only those details authorized under those rules. Do I make myself clear?”
    The press room was oddly silent. No one looked at Ranett. Angry enough to peel and parboil Anders, Ranett opened her mouth to bellow one more stinging question.
    Then she saw the deadly look in Anders’s eyes. Saw an Internal Security officer move forward, getting ready for a word from the admiral. Her jaw shut with a snap.
    She smiled, shrugged, and buried her head in her notes.
    Ranett was a survivor. She would get her questions answered—one way or the other.
    As the press briefing broke up and everyone hurried out of the room, Ranett thought about Sten one more time.
    Poor sap. He didn’t stand a chance.
    CHAPTER THREE
    “I AM AFFLICTED with fools,” the Eternal Emperor roared. “Overpaid, overstuffed, smirking, self-satisfied fools.”
    A variety of beings quaked in their footgear as the Emperor detailed his displeasure. There was Avri, the young woman with the very old eyes, who was his political chief of staff. Walsh, the handsome but exceedingly stupid boss of Dusable, who was the Emperor’s toady in Parliament. Anders, the admiral who had run afoul of Ranett at the press conference. Bleick, the Emperor’s chamberlain. And scores of other beings—uniformed and otherwise—were scurrying about the yawning Imperial chamber or hanging their heads in shame as the Emperor railed on.
    The Emperor towered over Anders. Blue eyes shifting to the color of cold steel. “What kind of a press conference was that, Admiral? You’re supposed to be an expert on that sort of drakh. God knows, you can’t pour piss out of a boot when it comes to real military business.”
    “Yessir,” the Admiral said. He was drawn up, heels locked, like a raw recruit.
    “And you , Avri… You were supposed to gameplan this thing with pube brain, here. I gave you the spin on a gilt-edged platter, for crying out loud.”
    “Yessir,” Avri said. Licking lush lips with a nervous tongue.
    “People, I do not have time to explain basic politics to you,” the Eternal Emperor gritted. “Traitors—the privy council—put this Empire in its worst shape in two thousand years. And I barely pulled it out that time.
    “Now I’m saddled with debt, harried by mewling allies, and every time I turn over another rock, a new kind of traitorous slime crawls out
    “In my view—which, dammit, is the only view that counts— Sten is the worst of the lot. I nursed that snake at my bosom for his whole clotting life. Gave him honors. Riches. And how does he repay me? Conspires with my enemies. Plots my murder. And when discovered, he slaughters innocent sailors, and one of the best admirals in my service, in a cowardly sneak attack.”
    The Emperor’s voice lowered. He shook his head. Weary. “Now, that’s a spin, dammit. Guaranteed to turn a drakhhouse into a palace. Not so very hard, is it?”
    “I’m very sorry, sir,” Anders said. “I don’t know how that reporter—Ranett—got in.”
    “Oh, just shut the clot up, Admiral,” the Emperor said. “If you can’t make a plan that can stand the test of somebody with a little smarts, then get out of the clotting business.”
    “Yessir.”
    “Avri, it’s damage-control time. I want all newscasts blanketed by our spin doctors. Hit the Op Ed programs extra hard. ‘Face The Empire.’ ‘Witness To History.’ ‘Countdown.’ That sort of thing.
    “I especially want you to get into the pants of that Pyt’r Jynnings clown over at K-B-N-S-O. Half the Empire watches that piece of drakh he calls ‘Nightscan.’ I don’t know why. Guess he makes everybody