Deathstalker War

by Simon R. Green

  “I’m not perfect,” said Owen. “I just do my job. And that’s all I’ve ever expected of you.”

  “You’re not listening to me,” said Hazel. “You never listen to me.”

  “Why did you never tell me about you and Silver?”

  “Because it was none of your business!”

  “You never told me about him. You never told about the Blood. What else haven’t you told me about? I thought I could trust you, Hazel. I thought I could trust you, at least.”

  “You see? You’re doing it again! Trying to put all the weight on my shoulders so you can be the victim of the piece! Well to hell with that, and to hell with you, Owen Deathstalker, I’m not going to carry it anymore. I’m sick of carrying the weight of your needs and your expectations! And I’m sick of you . . .”

  “Yes,” said Owen. “You’d rather have him, and the poison he feeds you. Anything to avoid having to grow up and be a responsible adult. To support those who depend on you. To care about the people who care about you. You want him; he’s all yours. I’m going out to get some fresh air.”

  And he turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind him, because there was so much anger burning inside him that the only other thing he could have done was hit her, and they both knew she would never have forgotten or forgiven that. And because he wanted to kill John Silver so badly he could taste it. He’d thought that he and Hazel, that someday the two of them might . . . but he’d thought many things, and none of them ever worked out the way he hoped. He’d already lost so many things he cared for. He shouldn’t be surprised that the only woman he ever loved would be taken away from him, too.

  He should never have come back to Mistport. Nothing ever went right here. It wasn’t as though he’d had any hold on Hazel. She went her own way and always would. He’d known that. But he thought she’d chosen to walk with him, for a while at least. She could have come to him about her worries. She could have come to him about the drug. He would have tried to understand, tried to help. He understood about pressure. He’d spent all his life trying to live up to the Deathstalker name.

  He strode heavily down the stairs and pushed his way through the packed crowd in the tavern. Some people made as though to object. Then they saw his face, and thought better of it. They knew sudden death walking when they saw it. Owen pushed open the door and stepped out into the street, and the cold air hit him, sobering him like a slap in the face. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off most of the tavern roar, and he leaned back against it, damping down his rage, getting it under control again. It took him a moment to realize that the street was completely empty. Which was unusual, to say the least, in a perpetually busy city like Mistport. Faces watched from darkened windows, as though expecting something to happen. Owen pushed himself away from the door, his hands falling to the sword and disrupter on his hips. There was danger here, close and ready. He’d have noticed it earlier if he hadn’t been so wrapped up in himself. Three men were suddenly standing on the opposite side of the street, staring at him. Either they were teleporters, or more likely they’d hidden their presence behind a telepathic shield. They didn’t look like much. Average height, plain average faces, they wore the same thick furs as everyone else. But there was a power in them. Owen could feel it, even if he didn’t quite understand what it was yet. The man in the middle stepped forward. His eyes were very dark in a pale face.

  “You have enemies, Deathstalker. Powerful men require your death.”

  “Well hell,” said Owen. “Gosh, I am scared. What are the three of you going to do, gang up on me? Look, I am really not in the mood for this. Why don’t you just start running now, and I’ll give you a five minute start.”

  The man in the middle just smiled, and shook his head. “Time to die, Deathstalker.”

  The ground rocked suddenly under Owen’s feet, throwing him off-balance. He grabbed for his sword, and the street before him split apart, a wide vent opening up as jagged cracks spread in all directions. A bloody light blazed up out of the fissure, and the air was suddenly full of the stench of brimstone and burning flesh. Screams of innumerable people in horrible agony rose up out of the vent far far below. The ground shuddered again, and even as Owen fought for balance he was thrown forward, toward the great crack and all it contained. He could feel an impossible heat now, radiating up from the crevice, as sweat burst out on his face. His furs began to blacken and steam in the heat, and the bare skin of his face and hands began to redden and smart as he stumbled ever closer to the great vent in the street. He fought for control on the edge of the abyss, the crimson air boiling around him. The screams and the stench of sulfur were almost overpowering. Lengths of steel chain shot up out of the crack, ending in great metal barbs that tore through his clothes and sank deep into his flesh. Owen cried out as the chains snapped taut, and began to drag him slowly and remorselessly into the abyss and down to Hell, where he belonged.

  But even at the very edge of damnation, Owen still wouldn’t give in. He braced himself, and the chains snapped, the broken ends whipping back into the great vent The heat blazed up, hot enough to burn him down to blackened bone, and he withstood it. Slowly the thought formed in Owen’s mind, I don’t believe this. I don’t believe in any of this. And in that moment the crevice and the hellfire were gone, and the street was back to normal, everything as it had been. Owen breathed deeply of the cold, bracing air and glared at the three men on the other side of the street.

  “Projective telepaths,” he said flatly. “Strong enough to place an illusion in another man’s mind, and convince him it’s so real that when his image dies, so does he. Pretty rare in the Empire, but presumably not on a planet of espers. Well, gentlemen, you gave it your best shot. Now let me show you mine.”

  Storm clouds rumbled suddenly overhead, and lightning stabbed down to strike the telepath in the middle. The force of the blast killed him in a moment, and threw the other two off their feet. Lightning struck again, and the second man died. The sole survivor scrambled frantically backwards through the slush and snow, staring at Owen with wild, desperate eyes.

  “The lightning isn’t real! I don’t believe in it!”

  “Suit yourself,” said Owen. “But it’s perfectly real. And storms don’t care whether you believe in them or not. I deal strictly in reality.”

  The esper swallowed hard. “If you’ll spare my life, I’ll tell you who hired me.”

  “I know who hired you,” said Owen. “Guess I didn’t teach those businessmen a strong enough lesson. Maybe your death will convince them.”

  “But . . . I’m surrendering! I give up!”

  “I have no pity for hired killers.”

  The esper struck out with his illusions again, but they merely whirled around Owen for a moment like pale ghosts before dispersing, unable to pierce his mental shields. The esper stared desperately at Owen.

  “You held off three of us. That’s not possible. You’re not human!”

  “No,” said Owen. “Not anymore. Now shut up and die.”

  The lightning stabbed down one more time, and the esper died. And that was when a small army of heavily armed men came spilling into the street from all directions. They moved quickly to surround him, cutting off all avenues of escape. They looked grim and determined and very proficient. Owen was impressed. There had to be easily a hundred of them. Neeson and his businessmen friends must have scoured every dive in the city to put together a force this big.

  He was trapped, and he knew it. He’d had to strain his new mental abilities to the limit to produce the three lightning bolts, after all his exertions earlier, and he didn’t have it in him to call down any more. He’d had a hard day; his sword was heavy in his hand, he was deathly tired, and even his bones ached. And none of it mattered a damn. He was Owen Deathstalker, and he was mad as hell, and he could just use someone to work it off on.

  The young esper’s prophecy came back to him, that he would meet his death in the streets of Mistport, alone and friendless, f
acing impossible odds. Owen laughed, and some of the men facing him shuddered at the dark sound. It was the laughter of a man with nothing left to lose. Owen Deathstalker hefted his sword, grinned his death’s head grin, and boosted. He roared his Family’s war cry, “Shandrakor!” and threw himself at his enemies. They pressed forward to meet him from all sides, and there was the clash of steel on steel.

  There was murder and butchery in the narrow street, and blood ran thickly on the cobblestones, and at the end Owen stood triumphant amidst a pile of the dead and the dying, bleeding from countless wounds but still unbowed, laughing as he watched the surviving mercenaries turn and run rather than face him.

  So much for the damned prophecy.

  He dropped out of boost, and was immediately exhausted again. Shock protected him from the pain of most of his wounds, but he knew he had to lie down and rest so the Maze’s legacy could heal him. Couldn’t just pass out in the street. Bad for the reputation. He sheathed his sword with a reasonably steady hand and turned to go back into the Blackthorn Inn, to the room he had there, and then he stopped as remembered Hazel and Silver together. He didn’t want to face them again. Didn’t want to be anywhere near them. But in the end he went back in, and back up to his room. Because he had nowhere else to go.

  The Imperial starcruiser Defiant dropped out of hyperspace, and fell into orbit around Mistworld. In his private quarters, Captain Bartok, also know as Bartok the Butcher, waited tensely for any reaction from the world below. Ever since Typhoid Mary, the planet’s surviving espers had taken to attacking any Imperial ship the moment it appeared. But the moments passed and nothing happened and Bartok finally allowed himself to relax a little. The new shields were working. Theoretically no esper or group of espers should have been able to detect the Defiant‘s presence, but there had been no sure way of testing it in advance.

  Captain Bartok rose from his oversize chair and moved unhurriedly round his quarters, a large, bearlike man with slow, deliberate movements. His uniform was perfect, spotless and sharp, with every crease in place. A cold, calm man, Bartok didn’t believe in emotions, especially his own. They just got in the way of duty and efficiency. His quarters were large and comfortable, and entirely dominated by the plants that covered every wall and even hung down from the ceiling. There were vines and flowers and spiky shrubs, intertwined around each other and fighting for space. Huge blossoms vied with strange growths from a hundred worlds, kept alive by a complicated hydroponics system. They filled the air with a thick, heady perfume that only Bartok found tolerable. He preferred plants to people. He knew where he was with plants, not least because plants were predictable and didn’t answer back. He found the brilliant colors and rich scents soothing, in a Service where he knew he could never relax or trust anyone, and only left his private quarters when he absolutely had to.

  Bartok had been ordered to bring Mistworld back into the Empire. An honor, to be sure, but a very dangerous one. Certainly no one else had been ready to volunteer, except him. His previous duty had been guarding the Vaults of the Sleepers on the planet Grendel. His six starcruisers had maintained the Quarantine on that planet without incident for years, until Captain Silence of the Dauntless had gone down to the planet on the Empress’s orders, and discovered that somehow the rogue AIs of Shub had slipped a force past the blockade and plundered the Vaults. Even now, Bartok had no idea how such a thing could have happened. His ships’ instruments and records had been adamant that nothing had got past them. And no one on any of the ships had admitted to seeing anything untoward.

  Bartok and his crews had been recalled in disgrace, and on arrival at Golgotha, every one of them from Bartok down to the lowliest crew member had been examined at length by espers and mind techs, determined to find an answer to the mystery. They found nothing, though the extremity of their methods killed some of the weaker members of the crews and drove others insane. Bartok still woke trembling in his bed from bad dreams of the terrible things they’d done to him.

  In the end, he and the surviving members of his crews were officially exonerated, only to find that no one trusted them anymore. Bartok didn’t blame them. His own secret fear was that Shub had done something to his mind, installed secret control words and instructions buried so deep that no one could find them. He had no doubt this thought had also occurred to others, and wasn’t surprised when his orders finally came through, detailing him to return to the Fleet Academy, as an instructor. Thus putting an end to his career, and enabling the Security forces to keep a close eye on him.

  And then came a call for volunteers to take on the Mistworld mission. It had to be volunteers. Everyone knew the odds were it was a suicide mission. Bartok grabbed at the chance eagerly. Odds didn’t worry him. If his Empress said the mission was possible, that was good enough for him. And he was desperate to prove his loyalty, to be taken back into the fold and reinstated. Though whether he wanted to prove himself to his Empress or to himself remained uncertain. Lionstone accepted him as commander of the mission immediately. Partly because his record indicated he would get the job done, whatever the cost; and partly because if he failed, he and his crew wouldn’t be any great loss. Bartok knew that and accepted it They were his thoughts also.

  His door chimed politely and opened at his growled command. Lieutenant Ffolkes strode in, ducking his head just a little to avoid the hanging creepers around the door, followed by the reporter Tobias Shreck and his cameraman, Flynn. Tobias, also known as Toby the Troubadour, was a short, fat, perspiring man with flat blond hair, an easy smile, a mind like a steel trap, and absolutely no morals that he was aware of. All of which had combined to make him a first-class reporter. Flynn was a tall gangling sort with a deceptively honest face. His camera perched on his shoulder like a monocular mental owl.

  Toby and Flynn had been chosen personally by the Empress to cover and record the taking of Mistport. She’d been very impressed by their coverage of the rebellion on Technos III, and had made it very clear to both of them that this assignment was one they would be wise not to turn down. Not if they liked their major organs where they were. They were both quietly unsure as to whether the assignment was a reward or a punishment, but had enough sense not to ask. So Toby and Flynn said Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty, and wondered how the hell they were going to survive this one.

  There was no doubt the taking of Mistport would provide all kinds of first-class opportunities for recording history as it happened, along with plenty of the blood and destruction the home audiences so enjoyed; there was also no doubt in their minds that they stood a bloody good chance of getting their fool heads blown off. Rebels fighting for their home and their lives wouldn’t pause to distinguish between an Imperial trooper and an honest news team just trying to do their job. But as Toby had said so often in the past, wars and battles always provided the best footage; so if you wanted the good stuff and the awards and rewards that would bring, you had to go where the action was. Flynn maintained a diplomatic silence on this, as he did on most things.

  Of course, there was always the problem of Imperial censorship. Lionstone was going to want footage that made her troops look good, and the rebels very, very bad, and wouldn’t be above ordering her censors to cut any film that suggested otherwise. Toby and Flynn’s misgivings were further confirmed by the official minder they’d been given to oversee their work and keep them out of trouble. Lieutenant Ffolkes was career military to the bone, a tall spindly sort who followed orders to the letter and was always eager for a chance to please any officer superior to himself. Probably slept at attention and gave himself extra fatigues for impure thoughts. He made it clear to Toby and Flynn and anyone who would listen that he regarded reporters and their cameramen as necessary vermin, who would do well to follow his own instructions to the last detail if they knew what was good for them. Their refusal to take him at all seriously, and refer to him as Gladys behind his back, upset him deeply. As did their habit of sprinting in the opposite direction whenever they saw hi
m coming.

  Toby and Flynn studied the Captain’s private quarters with interest as Bartok ignored them for the moment, quietly pruning something small and defenseless with great concentration. Ffolkes fidgeted nervously, unsure as to whether he should perhaps cough politely to announce his arrival. Toby and Flynn had never been invited to the inner sanctum before. Mostly they’d been confined to the coffin-sized quarters Ffolkes had assigned them, well away from the rest of the crew. They weren’t supposed to fraternize with any of the ship’s crew, partly because they might pick up information they weren’t cleared for, and at least partly because they might inspire the crew into asking awkward questions themselves. Imperial officers had always believed that an ignorant crew was a happy crew.

  Toby spent most of his time being torn between rage at being kept from the fame and awards that his coverage of the Technos III rebellion had earned him, and his growing certainty that the invasion of Mistworld was going to be one of the greatest events in modern times, and thus provide him with even more juicy opportunities for even more fame and awards. If he could just sneak the good stuff past the censors, as he had on Technos III. He didn’t see many problems in outsmarting Ffolkes. A retarded hamster on a bad day could manage that, and probably had. Captain Bartok was another matter. Toby studied the miniature jungle of the Captain’s quarters carefully, looking for insights into the Captain’s character that he could use against him.

  Flynn predictably didn’t give a damn. He hated everything about the military anyway, from the Fleet in general to the Defiant in particular, and didn’t care who knew it. He was not one to suffer discipline or fools gladly, not least because of his certain knowledge that he was breaking all kinds of regulations just by existing. Flynn was happily homosexual and a transvestite in his private life, either of which would get him thrown into the brig if Ffolkes found out. Though Flynn claimed to have spotted a few like-minded souls among the junior officers. As it was he was prevented from wearing any of his pretty dresses, even in the supposed privacy of his own quarters, for fear of discovery by the ship’s omnipresent security systems. So he settled for wearing frilly underwear beneath his everyday clothes, and the use of just a little understated makeup. Toby lived in fear that his cameraman would have an accident and have to be rushed to the medlab for an examination. He just knew Bartok wouldn’t understand.