Deathstalker War

by Simon R. Green

  “If you don’t have an appointment, there is nothing I can do for you,” she said, in a tone cold enough to make penguins shiver. “You may make an appointment if you wish, but I can tell you now that Mr. Neeson has no openings in his calendar for the next several weeks.”

  Chance looked at Owen. “This is as far as I can get you. Some obstacles are simply too great. Please don’t hit her.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” said Owen. “I’d probably break my hand.” He leaned over the desk to stare into the secretary’s flinty eyes. “I am Owen Deathstalker. My father’s money paid for this business. I’ve come to call in the IOU. Right now.”

  The secretary didn’t flinch, though one eyebrow twitched briefly at the name Deathstalker. “I see. I’m sure that normally Mr. Neeson would be only too happy to see you, but as things are, my desk is completely full . . .”

  Owen stepped back, drew his sword, raised it above his head and brought it hammering down with all his boosted strength behind it. The heavy blade sheared clean through the wooden desk, cleaving it into two jagged halves that fell away to either side of the secretary. Chance shook his head slowly. Owen put his sword away. The secretary cleared her throat.

  “I think you should go right in, Lord Deathstalker. I’m sure Mr. Neeson can find a few minutes to see you. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed. Would either of you care for tea or coffee?”

  “Make it a brandy,” said Owen. “A large one. Mr. Neeson’s going to need it.” He grinned at Chance. “You just have to know how to talk to these people. My Family has been practicing for centuries. Personally, I’ve always thought I’d make a great diplomat.”

  “You’re not in yet,” said Chance. “This is just the outer office. Beyond that door is the antechamber. The real watchdogs will be waiting there.”

  “Well, if they get a bit snappy, I’ll throw them a bone. Which one would you miss least?”

  They passed through the connecting door and found themselves in a small, bare chamber. Between them and the far door were three large, muscular men. Each one had a heavy ax in his hands. The men looked calm and very professional. The axes looked as if they’d seen a lot of use. Chance looked at Owen.

  “An interesting problem in tactics. No room to maneuver, and absolutely no point in trying to talk to them. You might take out one with your disrupter, but the other two would be on you before you could even raise your sword. And a sword is no use against axes. I am, of course, unable to assist you. I have to maintain my position of strict impartiality. You understand.”

  “Of course. Normally if I was facing three Neanderthals like these, I’d be impartial as hell, too. But unfortunately for them, I am in something of a hurry, not to mention a really bad mood, and I can just use someone to take it out on. Watch and learn.”

  He stepped forward, empty-handed, and the three guards came to meet him, axes raised. It was all over in a few seconds. Owen punched out the first guard, swiveled on one foot and kicked the second in the groin. And while the third was still raising his ax, Owen stepped forward, grabbed two handfuls of the man’s shirtfront, and headbutted him in the face. Chance’s jaw dropped. Owen stood there, not even breathing hard, looking around him with quiet satisfaction. The three guards sat or lay moaning on the floor, all looking very upset.

  “You’re right,” said Chance. “You’d make a terrific diplomat. No one would dare disagree with you. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. What the hell are you?”

  “I’m a Deathstalker, and don’t you forget it.” Owen strode over to the far door and rattled the door handle. It was locked. He tut-tutted loudly and hit the door with his shoulder. It burst inward, one hinge torn right out of the wooden frame, Owen pushed the door back, carefully straightening it up again, and smiled at the half dozen men sitting around the long table before him. “Knock, knock,” he said brightly. “I’m Owen Deathstalker, and you’re in big trouble. Any questions?”

  “Come in, Lord Deathstalker,” said the man at the head of the table. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  “Yeah,” said Owen. “I’ll just bet you have.” He looked back at Chance. “Find a chair, sit down, and keep quiet. I don’t want any distractions.”

  “Suits me,” said Chance. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. But you are strictly on your own now, Deathstalker.”

  The six men glared at Chance as he pulled up a chair and sat down in a far corner, where he could see everything but stay well out of the line of fire. Owen moved to stand at the end of the long table, and all their eyes snapped back to him. He looked from one scowling face to another, taking his time. He didn’t recognize any of them, but he knew men of influence and power when he saw them. Not just from their perfect tailoring and extra weight, but in their attitude. Their untouched confidence. They were annoyed at his arrival, but not concerned. They weren’t afraid of him. They’d been rich and secure for so long they’d got out of the habit of being afraid of anyone. Owen smiled briefly. He’d change that.

  And if they reminded him just a little of himself, the way he used to be before he was shocked awake, then that just made it all the worse for them.

  “Would you like me to identify these people?” said Oz. “I have all their details in my data banks.”

  “Sure,” said Owen, subvocalizing. “Make yourself useful for once. Hold on a minute—data banks? Where is your hardware these days?”

  “Don’t get personal. And pay attention; I’m not running through all this twice. We’ll start at the left and go clockwise. Beginning with Artemis Daley, a man of many trades. He’s a supplier, a fixer. You want it, he can get it for you. Legal or illegal are petty considerations that have never bothered him. If you’re late with the payments, he’s the one who sends around the legbreakers to reason with you.

  “Next to him, we have Timothy Neeson, banker. He owns this building, and a lot more of Mistport. Number one in a very small field, which means that locally he’s very powerful. Nothing of an economic nature takes place in Mistport without him taking a cut somewhere along the line. Next to him is Walt Robbins, the biggest landlord in Mistport. He owns everything the banks don’t. Specializes in slums and sweathouses, because that’s where the most money is.

  “Moving down the other side of the table we have Thomas Stacey. Acts as a lawyer for everyone else here, and for anyone else with enough money to meet his exacting standards. Never lost a case, and that has nothing to do with his legal skills. And finally we come to Matthew Connelly and Padraig MacGowan. Connelly owns and runs the docks, everything from the starport to the landing bays on the River Autumn, and MacGowan runs the dock union. Between them they keep things running smoothly, irrespective of who gets hurt in the process. And there you have the movers and shakers of Mistport, in all their sleazy glory. If you killed all of them right now, the smell of Mistport would improve dramatically.”

  “I never knew you knew so much about Mistport,” Owen subvocalized.

  “Lot about me you don’t know. I am large, I contain wonders.”

  “Do you have something to say to us, Deathstalker?” said Neeson, the banker, a large fat man with a straining waistcoat. “Or are you just going to stand there and stare at us all day?”

  “Just gathering my thoughts,” said Owen. “We have a lot of history between us, gentlemen. My father’s money brought you to where you are today. Deathstalker money, originally intended to fund an information network here in Mistport. He put you into positions of power and influence so that you could keep track of things for him. Instead, you used his money to become major economic forces in this city, becoming so rich and powerful you forgot your original purpose. Or perhaps you simply decided that such things were no longer important to people as rich and powerful as yourselves.”

  “Got it in one,” said Stacey, the lawyer, long and stringy, with broken veins prominent in his cheeks. “And we’ve absolutely no intention of becoming politicized again. We don’t think in such small ways anymore. We’ve made over ou
r lives, and we like things fine just the way they are. Among us, we run Mistport; we are the economic lifeblood that keeps this society moving. Mess with us, even threaten us, and the whole city’s economy would collapse. We’d see to that. People would lose their savings, money would become worthless, and people would starve as food piled up undistributed on the docks. You can’t touch us, Deathstalker. All the people in Mistport would rise up and tear you apart if you even tried.”

  “They’d get over it,” said Owen. “Once they saw the old corrupt system being replaced by a fairer one.”

  “Fairness is a relative concept,” said Robbins, the landlord, a short fat barrel of a man. “There will always be rich and poor. We provide stability. You don’t understand the economic realities of a rebel planet like Mistworld.”

  “I understand greed,” said Owen. “I understand treachery and self-interest. And I certainly understand bloodsucking scum when I see them.”

  “That’s good,” said Oz. “Win them over with flattery.”

  “We know why you’re here,” said Daley, the fixer, a large hunched man with a brooding face. “You want to take our lives away from us in the name of your rebellion and naive politics. Well, boy, you’ve come a long way for nothing. These days, our influence extends far beyond Mistworld, with investments on many worlds. Even Golgotha. Elias Gutman has been very helpful in shaping our portfolios. Yes, I thought you’d recognize that name. A man of real power and influence. He told us you were coming.”

  “Gutman,” said Owen, as though the name was an obscenity. “He’s come crawling around the rebellion more than once, but I’ve always known his vested interests lie with the Empire. His information comes straight from the Empress herself. When you followed his advice, you did Lionstone’s bidding, right here on the rebel planet. Can any of you say, ‘conflict of interest’?”

  “Money has no loyalties. Or politics,” said Neeson. “Gutman has always been a good friend to us.”

  “I’ll bet he has,” said Owen, his voice getting colder all the time. “And when his loans finally come due, you’ll find the money by squeezing it out of the people here, who owe you. Whether they can afford it or not. And Mistworld will become just another planet bleeding itself dry to maintain Golgotha’s wealth.”

  He looked round the table, to be met only with flat stares or indifferent shrugs. “That’s business,” said Daley.

  “That’s injustice,” said Owen. “And I have sworn an oath on my blood and on my honor to put an end to it. Which means putting an end to you, and your cosy little setup. Maybe I’ll kill you all, and see if your heirs prove more reasonable to work with. Either way, your money will be used to support the rebellion, as it was always intended to be. As my father intended.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Neeson. “Guards! Take him!”

  Doors flew open on every side and a small army of guards came crashing in, armed with swords and axes and even a few disrupters. Owen subvocalized the word boost, and a familiar strength flooded through him. He felt almost supernaturally awake and aware, as though up till now he’d spent this life sleeping. He felt he could do anything, take any risk, and never pay the cost. Owen clamped down hard on that. It was the boost talking, not him. He was boosting too much and too often these days, despite the dangers, and he knew it, but he trusted to the Maze’s changes to protect him from what would otherwise be crippling side effects. He had to; there was work to be done. The blood pounded in his head and in his sword arm, calling him on to battle, and he gave in to it with a smile that could just as easily have been a snarl.

  The guards seemed almost to be moving in slow motion as he threw himself into the midst of them, knowing the few with disrupters wouldn’t dare use them rashly for fear of hitting their own people. His sword flashed brightly as he swung it with inhuman strength and speed, and blood flew on the air. There were shouts and curses and hysterical orders from the six men around the table, and over it all came the sound of men screaming horribly as Owen’s unstoppable blade worked butchery on their bodies. He moved among them like a deadly ghost, too fast to be stopped or even parried, his sword flashing in and out in a second. He seemed to be everywhere at once, hacking and cutting, and men fell howling in pain and horror before him. A man’s arm fell to the floor, the hand still clutching desperately at nothing. Bodies fell to litter the blood-soaked carpet, and did not rise again. A disrupter blast scorched the great table from end to end, hitting no one, but leaving a long trail of burning wood behind it.

  Owen was laughing now, though there was little humor in the sound. The battle raged from one end of the room to the other, blood splashing the walls till they all ran crimson. The six most powerful men in Mistport retreated from the burning table and huddled together in one corner of the room, watching with disbelief as one man laid waste to their private army. And then, quite suddenly, it was over, and Owen Deathstalker stood among the dead and the dying, a death’s head grin on his face. He looked slowly around him, blood dripping thickly from his blade. His clothes were splashed and soaked with gore, and none of it was his. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He turned his smile on the six movers and shakers of Mistport, and they cringed before him. Owen dropped out of boost, but the expected tiredness didn’t hit him. He still felt like he could take on the whole city if he had to. Chance came crawling out from under the burning table, where he’d taken shelter. Owen put out a hand to help him up, and Chance flinched away. He scrambled to his feet, looking at Owen with new eyes.

  “They never stood a chance. You cut them down like cattle. What in God’s name are you?”

  “I’m a Deathstalker,” said Owen. “And don’t you forget it.”

  He turned his gaze on the six men huddled together in the far corner of the room. Only a few even tried to meet his gaze. Owen moved unhurriedly toward them, stepping casually over the unmoving bodies. His boots squelched quietly in the blood-soaked carpet. Stacey, the lawyer, glared at Owen with something like defiance.

  “You’re a monster; but you still can’t beat us. We have the money. We can hire more men. We can hire a whole army of mercenaries, if that’s what it takes to bring you down.”

  “Bring on your army,” said Owen. “Let them all come. They won’t save you.”

  “You can’t kill us,” said Neeson. “If we die, all our money will be tied up in probate. Maybe for years. No one would be able to touch it.”

  “Nothing’s going to stop me,” said Owen. “Not you, not the law, not the whole damned Empire. Your day is over, and I’m bringing down the night.”

  “You’re crazy!” said Daley. “Just like your father was!”

  “My father was worth a hundred of you!” said Owen, and he put away his sword. He was too angry. He wanted to do this with his bare hands. Boosted strength roared within him again, and something else as well. He grabbed the long heavy table, ignoring the flames, lifted it off the floor, and tore it in two. He let the jagged halves fall to the floor and advanced on the six secret masters of Mistport. They ran screaming for the door, Chance right behind them. They ran through the outer chamber, yelling for help, and Owen came right behind them.

  He was more than human now, an almost elemental force on a rampage. His anger stormed through the rooms and corridors, smashing everything in its path. Walls cracked and collapsed, the bricks crumbling and the mortar exploding into dust. Great vents appeared in the floor and ceilings. Wood burst into flames, burning with a harsh unnatural light. People ran screaming as ceilings collapsed, showering them with falling masonry. The carpeted floors undulated like waves on an ocean, before rising up and splitting apart like a never-ending earthquake. And behind them all came Owen Deathstalker, silent and remorseless, bringing down the great Guild Hall as he would one day bring down the Empire it represented.

  A few brave guards tried to stop him, and were swept aside. Doors were blown off their hinges and exploded out of doorways. Windows shattered, the jagged glass flying like shrapnel. Scattered papers flew on
the air like frightened birds. Walls bulged apart and ruptured water pipes sprayed everywhere. Exposed electrical wires sparked and crackled. The whole building seemed to be roaring in pain as it slowly collapsed in upon itself. Owen Deathstalker walked on through the screams and the chaos, and found it good. One brave soul fired a disrupter at him, but the energy beam bounced harmlessly away. Nothing could touch or stop him now.

  He finally came to the last door, the door through which he’d originally entered the Guild Hall. The door exploded from its frame, flying out into the street before the crowds who’d come to see what was happening. They were babbling and shouting as the Hall collapsed, but when Owen stepped out into the street they fell suddenly silent and backed away. They could feel the power in and around him, beating on the air like a giant heartbeat. Owen let his mind drift back through what was left of the building, making sure no one was trapped inside, and then he brought it all down in one giant upheaval. The roar of crashing masonry filled the street, and smoke billowed out of the empty doorways and window frames. In only moments what had been one of the greatest Guild Halls in Mistport was reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble. Silence slowly fell, broken only by the muffled sounds of debris settling. The buildings on either side stood completely unaffected. And the one man responsible for it all looked upon what his anger had done and found it good. He slowly brought his power back inside him and shut it down, and was just a man again.

  That was when the Watch turned up. All ten of them. They stopped some distance away and studied the scene carefully. Owen smiled at them.