DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story are the property of the Marvel Comics
Group. They are used without permission, for the purposes of entertainment
only. No profit is being made by the authors of this story.

FEEDBACK:  Please feedback to both authors: erl_redhawk@yahoo.com and
indigo@indigosky.net

PERMISSIONS:  Archival granted upon request and agreement of both authors.
Please do not MST, POP-UP okay.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: To Frito for beta reading

The Star Chamber, or Long Live the King!

by Redhawk and Indigo

The conference room was opulent, as such things tended to be in downtown
Manhattan. The walls were panelled in the finest mahogany, polished until
the natural rich grain of the wood shone through. The floor was covered by a
comfortable thick, black shag carpet. The conference room table, big enough
for a dozen, was currently covered in dog-eared copies of the Wall Street
Journal, Barron's, and various bound financial reports from a dozen Fortune
500 companies. Through the clutter the table's obsidian covering eagerly drank
the light from the Tiffany lamps. Overflowing ashtrays and empty packs of
cigarettes added to the general clutter, as did a set of 18th century
tankards, filled from the minibar along the back wall of the room.

Around the table were a dozen overstuffed chairs,  all polished oak,
brass, and rich dark leather. A thick haze of tobacco smoke clung to
everything, overwhelming the efforts of the overhead fans to dissipate it.

Beyond the heavily draped windows, the sun had set, night had fallen and
deepened unto the midnight hour -- all unnoticed by the room's occupants, so
engrossed were they in their excogitations.

At the head of the table sat Sebastian Shaw. He was dressed in a white dress 
shirt and red tie, his long, dark and wavy hair tied back neatly with a red 
ribbon. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying his thickly-built forearms
and hands, ink smudges evident. His charcoal grey coat was carelessly
thrown over the back of an unused chair, and his red suspenders lay
forgotten at his waist.

His companions were in similar states of elegant deshabille.  Harry
Leland,  right hand stroking thoughtfully through his honey-gold beard,
wore a simple but well-fitted navy pinstriped suit.  His jacket remained
on him as did his vest.  The mustard-colored tie he wore was pulled loose
slightly and the top button of his cream-coloured shirt was undone. As his
blue eyes perused the documents laid before him, his other hand idly toyed
with his pipe. After a moment, he paused, lit it anew and began puffing
thoughtfully, adding a new layer of smoke to the halo that hovered like a
grim spectre over the room.  He took another moment to glance at an antique
gold pocketwatch from his vest, then sighed gustily at how late the hour had
grown.

Donald Pierce seemed to be weathering the sequestering with least
aplomb.  His blond hair wisped free from the black leather thong that
held his ponytail.  His powder blue Qiana shirt hung limply from his
slender frame.  His paisley patterned tie lay flung to the table beside
him. The jacket of his cream colored Brooks Brothers suit was crumpled in
the chair behind him, having been carelessly shrugged off.  He
occasionally glanced up to peer furtively at the others before redoubling
his concentration on the pages before him.  His thin lips were pulled taut
in an unforgiving scowl.

Finally, at the other end of the table opposite Shaw, sat Emma Frost.  Her
manner suggested complete, unrepentant ease and confidence; as though she
accepted it as nothing less than her right to be amongst the men currently
in her company. Unlike the men, however, she had not the luxury of
removing jacket or tie. Indeed, she moved as though her clothing were
inconsequential to her comfort or studious bent. Frost's immaculate white
Givenchy dress clung lovingly to her, fabric crisp as if freshly pressed 
-- though it had been many hours since it had.  Her golden-blonde hair
was likewise flawlessly coiffed -- not a strand out of place.  For all this,
her intensity of concentration was a match for that of any man in the room.

Sebastian cleared his throat. "You all realize that if we don't move very
quietly, and very quickly, that Buckman will destroy us all."  Shaw
continued. "There is a war coming, lady and gentleman. It's becoming
obvious. Buckman hates our kind. He fears us. Tomorrow, the Lords Cardinal
vote on whether or not to allow our kind to even be associated with the
Club. I don't think I have to tell you what that would do to us, to our
holdings."  His expression was serious, though fear was not an emotion that
tinged his countenance.

Emma Frost arched one eyebrow at Shaw from across the table. "Sebastian. 
Darling." She spoke with measured pauses between her words.  "What do we 
truly have to fear from him? Anything he can say, we can dispute.  Why 
let it escalate to that point? Let us shatter his credibility now and have 
done with it. Is that what you were going to suggest?"  She tightened her 
lips in a half-smile. "I *am* a mind-reader, yes."

Shaw grimaced. "As if we could possibly forget it, Dame Frost. And you
know as well as I do that the Club could break any one of us. Destroy our
holdings, reduce us to paupers. I, for one, have worked too hard, given up
too much, to _ever_ allow that to happen. Harry, you know the banks. Look
at the numbers! Look at them!" He tossed a bound report across the table to
Leland. It landed with a heavy SMACK that jarred the otherwise quiet atmosphere
of their gathering.

"Buckman's calling in markers across the board. The Diet, the Bundesbank, the
Hang Seng ... all are moving in preparations. He's planning something."

Emma chuckled throatily.  "My dear Sebastian, I know better. You, of all
people, have worked *far* too hard for your fortune to let something like this
threaten your powerbase. I'm not truly concerned that your bank account's
in danger. I'm more curious what your real game is." She leaned forward,
daring him to continue.  She glanced to Leland. "Harry, dear, you however,
probably do need take his words at face value."

Harry took another deep pull on his pipe, sending a fragrant cloud of
smoke towards the ceiling. "I have to agree with Sebastian. The markets
are in extreme flux. right now. A little bird tells me that there are
certain, shall we say, irregularities in the way some persons'
transactions are being handled that will undoubtedly come to the attention
of both the SEC and Interpol tomorrow morning. And I don't think I have to
mention what the precious metals markets are doing..."

Pierce, as usual badly schooling his expressions, winced at this
news. "Don't have to tell me about it, mate. I've got a right profitable
little enterprise running, chiselling out diamonds and industrial metals
out from under the noses of the bloody South African savages. But if
Buckman blows the whistle, I'm going down. Hard. And if I go down... 
it'll ripple to all of you."

Emma nodded at last, permitting herself one vaguely exasperated
sigh.  "All right, then, gentlemen. We are agreed that action must be
taken.  The question remains, then, what action we will be pursuing to
protect ourselves and thwart Buckman."

Sebastian smiled at this, a cold, secret smile. "There is only one
alternative. We seize control for ourselves. We all have our gifts, and we
all know how Buckman is terrified of mutantcy."  The others around the table
murmured thoughtfully.  Before they could give voice to any objection, Shaw
continued. "Wait, hear me out! We do it tonight. I have an ... arrangement,
with the guards to Buckman's suite. We take him, squeeze him for every drop,
and then hang him out to dry. If we're quick, and we're quiet, we can hand the
Lords Cardinal a new Black King. And once there's a new Black King, then he'll
need his court, won't he?" And with that, Sebastian favored everyone in the
room with a level gaze, and a nod.

"Lady and Gentlemen, I am proposing nothing short than the founding of a
_new_ Hellfire Club."

Emma said nothing, but the sparkle in her blue-green eyes and the
predatory smile behind the smoke from her cigarette spoke volumes.  She
was in, and eagerly so.

Harry nodded slowly, as he began to gather in his financial reports. "I'm
in." is all he said.

"Donald?" Emma fixed Pierce with an icy gaze.

Donald grinned, kicking up his feet onto the conference table and leaning
back. "Easiest decision I've ever made, mates. I'm in, all the way."

Emma's icy expression thawed instantly, instead replaced by a sultry
smile. "Well, it appears we are settled." She gestured around the
table. "The man who would be king -- and his court. Game on."

Sebastian nodded once, to acknowledge his friends' fealty, then spoke again,
fixing his steely gaze on each in turn. "Very well, then. We'll need to move
quickly. Emma, we'll need you to make sure no one notices anything untoward.
Harry, your particular talent may be useful in persuading any visitors that
their attentions are unwanted. Pierce, you'll be running interference - I need
you out there, with the other Lords Cardinal. Keep them distracted, keep them
away from Buckman. I really don't care how. As for me ... I believe I have a
throne to take."

Emma's smile widened, and took on a hint of irony. "The king is dead. Long
live the king."  She lifted the glass before her.  "A toast, then, to
politics, strange bedfellows, and the future of our little ... inner circle."

Sebastian blinked at Emma, nonplussed for all of a heartbeat. "Indeed." he
said, warming to the idea instantly. "The King is dead. Long live the King!"

Harry and Donald took up their own tankards, and stood. "Long Live the King!"

Smiling, Sebastian also stood, and walked over to the silver-chased
telephone on the minibar. Picking up the receiver, he dialed a number from
memory. "Chantel, mon cher, les etampe c'est se depouiller de." (1) he
said softly, before gently replacing the receiver.

--

(1) From the French (via InterTran) "Chantel, my dear, the die is
cast." This may not be a 100% correct translation, and 7-bit ASCII won't
let me do the accent marks correctly.