Deathstalker War

by Green, Simon R.

  As though picking up on that thought, Bartok finally put his miniature shears aside and turned to meet his visitors. His face was cold and unforgiving as he advanced on Toby and Flynn, neither of whom made any attempt to stand at attention, despite Ffolkes’s frantic whispers. Bartok stopped right before them, his face uncomfortably close to theirs, and when he spoke his voice was calm and controlled and utterly intimidating.

  “I have studied your coverage of the rebellion on Technos III. Though technically adequate, your choice of material was little short of treasonous. There will be no repetition of such nonsense under my command. Rebels are the enemy, and are never to be presented as anything else. You will restrict your coverage to recording my troops’ victories, and ignore anything not specifically cleared by Lieutenant Ffolkes. There will be no live broadcasts, except on my specific orders. The bulk of your work will be recorded for later transmission, and the Lieutenant and I will personally examine all footage before it is released. Failure to obey these or any other instructions will lead to your immediate imprisonment and replacement, followed by charges of treason on our return to Golgotha. Is that clear?”

  “Every word, Captain,” said Toby quickly. He smiled and nodded to show he was one of the team, and privately determined always to film Bartok in ways that made him look fat and dumb on camera. He wasn’t bothered in the least by Bartok’s threats and restrictions. They’d said much the same to him on Technos III, and it hadn’t stopped him there either. Every good reporter knew that what mattered was to get the footage out and on as many screens as possible, and argue about it afterward, when it was too late for the powers that be to do anything about it without looking petty. Of course, he hadn’t had to deal with Bartok the Butcher before. The man had a definite preference for solving problems through extreme violence.

  “Come with me,” said Bartok suddenly. “I want you to see something.”

  He stalked past them and left his quarters, only just giving the door enough time to get out of his way. Toby and Flynn exchanged a puzzled glance and hurried after him, with Ffolkes dithering along in the rear, as always. Bartok marched down corridor after corridor, ignoring the salutes of those he passed, until he was well into territory that was usually off-limits to the two reporters. Toby felt a growing excitement. He’d been trying to bluff, badger, and threaten his way into this area since he first came aboard, with no success. Everyone knew there was Something Big locked away, a secret weapon for the invasion, but no one knew that. The few who did were too senior or too scared to talk, all of which had whetted Toby’s appetite to the boiling point. And now he was finally going to get a look at it. He surreptitiously signaled Flynn to start filming. The camera was locked into Flynn’s comm implant, and could be activated with no outward sign, a trick which had come in handy on more than one occasion.

  Bartok finally came to a massive bulkhead door that would only open to an esper scan, and it was all Toby could do to keep from fuming visibly as he waited impatiently for the esper on the other side of the door to clear them. A quick glance at Ffolkes’s white and nervous face suggested that he’d never seen what lay waiting on the other side of the door either, but knew enough not to be at all keen about seeing it now. And then the door finally swung open, and Bartok led the way in, with Toby all but stepping on his heels.

  Before them lay a vast auditorium, surrounded by ribbed steel walls. Filling most of it was a huge glass tank. The sides were easily thirty feet high, and they stretched off into the distance for farther than Toby could comfortably look. The tank contained a thick, pale yellow liquid that moved constantly with slow syrupy tides. And floating in that liquid, huge and dark and awful, was a great fleshy mass, spotted with high tech, connected to the tank and beyond by countless wires and cables. The mass bulged shapelessly, an unhealthy conglomeration of fused living materials, like a single great cancer floating in a sea of pus. It stank horribly, and Toby screwed up his face as he moved slowly forward, fascinated. Behind him he could hear Ffolkes coughing and choking.

  “Marvelous, isn’t it?” said Bartok. “This will be the secret of our success, the single element that makes our invasion of Mistworld possible. It’s currently projecting a screen that keeps the Mistworld espers and their tech from detecting our presence. It has other abilities, too, to be revealed when our invasion begins.”

  “What the hell is it?” said Toby. “Is it alive?”

  “Oh yes,” said Bartok. “You are looking at the very latest in bioengineering. Imperial scientists took all the espers imprisoned in Silo Nine, all that were left after the aborted breakout, and executed them. They then removed the thousands of brains and melded the tissues together to form the single construct before you. Thousands of living brains, fused together into one giant esper computer, a single giant esp-blocker, and more besides. It’s controlled by the worms that previously controlled the prisoners—Wormboy’s legacy. They’re hot-wired into the brain tissues at regular intervals, monitoring and maintaining the thought processes. The worms have formed a crude gestalt that enables us to communicate with the construct directly via the brains’ telepathy. It calls itself Legion.”

  “The esper minds,” said Toby slowly. “Are they . . . alive in there? Aware of what they’ve become?”

  Bartok shrugged. “No one knows for sure. They’re part of something greater now.”

  Toby moved slowly closer, till his face was almost pressed against the glass. He could sense Flynn not far behind him, quietly getting it all on film. The horror Toby felt at what had been done to thousands of defenseless people silenced him for a moment, but already he was working furiously on how best to present it to the viewing public. They were going to want to know everything about this . . . abomination, and he was the only one who could tell them. He brought his thoughts firmly under control. You couldn’t let your feelings get in the way of a good story. Every reporter knew that.

  “Why is it called Legion?” he asked finally.

  I am Legion, because I am many. The psionic voice rang inside Toby’s head like the rotting vocal cords of a month-dead corpse, forcing its way into his thoughts. It curled inside his mind like a poisonous snake, writhing and coiling and leaving a slimy trail behind it. It was a pitiless, brutal invasion, a violation of the mind, and Toby wanted to be sick. Just its presence in his head made him feel unclean. He fought for self-control as the voice continued.

  I am everything I was before, and more, far greater than the sum of my parts. No esper can stand before me. Their screen shall fall, and I shall feast on their minds. I will take them into me, and suck them up. And Mistworld will drown in blood and suffering.

  Legion spoke in many voices, simultaneously, a horrid chorus of clashing accents. They were loud and quiet, harsh and shrill, all at once, an unnatural mixture that was disturbingly inhuman. And in the background, like a distant sea that came and went, the sound of thousands of damned souls, screaming in Hell.

  “Who . . . exactly is talking to me now?” said Toby, fighting to hang on to his professional calm. “The esper brains, the worms, the gestalt? What?”

  But Legion didn’t answer, and suddenly its presence was gone from Toby’s mind. The relief was overwhelming. Toby stumbled backwards, desperate to put some space between him and the awful thing in the tank. Flynn was quickly there, with a supporting hand under his arm. In the end, surprisingly, it was Ffolkes who answered Toby’s questions, in a shaken, quiet voice.

  “We don’t know who talks to us. We think Legion is still working out its own nature. All we know for certain is that it is conscious and aware, and growing stronger all the time. It should have no problem destroying any psionic screen the Mistworlders can raise against us, and without that they’ll be helpless.”

  “Just how strong will it get?” said Toby, his voice a little steadier now the thing was out of his head.

  “We don’t know,” said Bartok. “But you needn’t worry. Physically, Legion is quite helpless. It couldn’t survive for a second
outside its tank. Without our tech support, and the chemically saturated plasma it floats in, Legion couldn’t exist at all. It’s quite dependent on us, and it knows it.”

  “But you still don’t know what it really is,” said Flynn quietly. “What it’s capable of.”

  “I’ll tell you what it is,” said Bartok, smiling for the first time. “It’s a weapon. A weapon I can use to crush Mistworld once and for all.”

  Some time later Lieutenant Ffolkes, having escorted Toby and Flynn safely back to their quarters, made his way hurriedly to another part of the ship, and knocked quietly on a particular door, using the code he’d been given. The door opened almost immediately, and he slipped inside. He was sweating, and his hands were shaking. Special computer overrides were supposed to be in operation, hiding him from the security systems, but he had no way of knowing whether they were working or not. Once the door was safely shut behind him, Ffolkes was able to breathe a little more easily. He nodded to the room’s only inhabitant, and Investigator Razor nodded back.

  Razor was a tall and blocky man, with thick slabs of muscle and a patient, brooding face. His skin was dark, his close-cropped hair was white, and his narrowed eyes were a surprising green. The Investigator seemed calm enough, but Ffolkes wasn’t fooled. He knew Razor didn’t want to be here. He’d had a perfectly good life as Security chief to Clan Chojiro, until the Empress had decided that Investigators would no longer be allowed to work for the Families, retired or not. Instead, all Investigators of whatever age or status were brought back under direct Imperial control. Razor had been a rich and influential man under Clan Chojiro; now he was just another Investigator, older and perhaps a little slower than most. But the Empress had wanted him for the Mistworld mission, so here he was. Even though he didn’t believe in suicide missions anymore.

  Which was why Ffolkes was there.

  Razor had been seconded to the Defiant because he had worked closely with Investigator Topaz in the past. He’d been her mentor and instructor, in the days when the Empire was still trying to decide whether an esper Investigator was a good idea or not. Topaz’s defection and flight to Mistworld had answered that. Razor had been exonerated of all blame, but no one objected when he applied for early retirement. This was supposed to be a second chance for him, a chance to prove his worth and his loyalty, by using his old acquaintance to get close to Topaz where no one else could. And then he would kill her. No one asked him how he felt about this. Investigators weren’t supposed to have feelings.

  “You have instructions for me?” said Razor quietly.

  “Yes,” said Ffolkes, looking around the Investigator’s bare, spartan quarters so he wouldn’t have to meet the man’s cold, inflexible stare. “I will be your contact with Clan Chojiro. I’m related through marriage. I’m to tell you that you have not been forgotten, and that the Family will reward you handsomely for your work here on its behalf. I’m here to brief you on Captain Bartok’s intentions, once Legion has taken care of the esper shield.

  “We could just scorch the planet from orbit, but Her Imperial Majesty has decided she wants Mistworld taken, not destroyed. Partly because she still sees espers as potential weapons in the coming war against the aliens, and partly to prove no one can defy her and get away with it. She wants the rebel leaders brought before her in chains, so everyone can see them broken and defeated.

  “So, Bartok’s orders are for systematic but not total destruction of Mistport. Up to 50 percent civilian casualties are acceptable. The city is to be taken street by street, by hand-to-hand fighting if necessary. All of which means that the city will be plunged into total chaos and confusion, which we can then take advantage of. Once you’ve dealt with Investigator Topaz and Typhoid Mary, you will be free to make contact with certain influential people, whose names and addresses I have here on this list. Memorize them, then destroy the list. These people were once part of an old spy network in the city, trading in information for the previous Lord Deathstalker. Since his death, a number of them turned to Clan Chojiro for protection and financial support. With the Family’s support after the invasion, these people will become the city’s new ruling Council, Your job is to keep them alive until the invasion is over”

  Razor nodded calmly. “Seems straightforward enough. Any idea why Chojiro wants control of this misbegotten world?”

  “I don’t ask questions,” said Ffolkes. “I find you live longer that way. But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that the surviving espers could make a very useful cash crop, as well as a private resource. Clan Chojiro takes the long view. Good-bye, Investigator. I do hope we won’t have to meet again.”

  “You’re afraid,” said Razor. “I can smell it on you. What are you so afraid of, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Ffolkes. “I really must be going. People will miss me.”

  And then he was flung back against the bulkhead, Razor’s sword at his throat. Ffolkes gasped for air, sweat trickling down his face. He’d never seen anyone move so fast. Razor brought his face close to Ffolkes’s, and he didn’t dare look away.

  “Are you afraid of me, Lieutenant? That’s good. You should be. If you breathe a word of my continuing connection to Clan Chojiro to anyone at all, I’ll kill you. Do you believe me, Lieutenant?”

  The edge of Razor’s blade bit delicately into Ffolkes’s neck, and a single drop of blood slid slowly down his throat. He didn’t dare nod, but he managed a trembling answer in the affirmative. Razor smiled, took his sword away from Ffolkes’s neck, and stepped back a pace.

  “Just so we understand each other. Now get out of here, turncoat. If I have to talk to you again, I’ll find you. And if you make me come looking for you, I’ll be the last thing you’ll ever see.”

  He opened the door and Ffolkes bolted past him, out into the corridor, running at full tilt and to hell with whether anyone was watching. No amount of payment was worth this. Nothing was.

  The Defiant‘s pinnaces fell out of the early evening like silver birds of prey against a bloodred sky, carrying the Empire’s warriors down to the surface of the rebel planet. Mistport’s espers saw nothing, heard nothing, never knew they were there. Legion was testing and expanding its abilities. Theoretically it had been certain it could shield the pinnaces even from a distance, but as with so many of Legion’s powers, it learned by doing. Hundreds of silver ships landed one after another on a wide plain of snow and ice on the outskirts of the Deathshead Mountains; some distance away from Mistport but quite close to a small outlying settlement called Hardcastle’s Rock. Apart from a few scattered farmsteads, it was the only other heavily populated area of Mistworld. A small town of no real importance, population 2031, according to the Empire’s information. No real defenses, very little tech. A good testing ground, before the main assault.

  Men and women came running out of the square stone houses to watch the pinnaces falling out of the sky. Legion might be able to fool espers and sensors, but even it couldn’t hide the roar of so many thundering engines from the people directly below them. At least, not yet. The townspeople gathered by the high stone walls surrounding their town, and watched and babbled excitedly as the ships just kept on coming. It didn’t take them long to figure out what was happening. They’d spent most of their lives expecting and preparing for an invasion. The day the Empire came to reclaim Mistport as its own. Men and women ran to get their weapons and hide the children from what was to come.

  Troops filed out of the long narrow ships, weighed down by armor insulated against the bitter cold, carrying swords and energy weapons and force shields. The pinnaces had disrupter cannon, but they were being saved for Mistport. Marines moved quickly to establish a perimeter around the landing field, ignoring the town for the moment. Imperial troops stood in ranks, waiting for the word. Cold-eyed, seasoned, disciplined killers, eager to make a start. Sergeants barked orders, officers strolled into position, and still the ships fell, and more men came marching out onto the snow and ice.

 
Toby Shreck and his cameraman Flynn, wrapped in heavy-duty furs, lumbered out into the cold, swore briefly, and began filming. They’d been instructed to cover everything, and Lieutenant Ffolkes was right there to see that they did. He watched the army assembling, and swelled with pride. It was days like this that made you glad to be a member of the Imperial Fleet.

  And finally, from out of the last ship to land, came the commander of the Imperial forces, Investigator Razor. He hadn’t bothered with insulated armor or furs, wearing only the blue and silver of an Investigator’s formal uniform. He didn’t feel the cold, but then, everyone knew Investigators weren’t really human. The Empress herself had placed Razor in charge of all ground troops. Partly because he had led invasion forces in the past, before his retirement, and partly to show that the Empress trusted him entirely, despite his age and Chojiro connections.

  Razor’s staff officers gathered around him, bringing him up-to-date, anxious to show that everything was as it should be. Razor nodded curtly. It had never occurred to him that it wouldn’t. Beginnings were easy to plan. His personal staff officer handed him a pair of binoculars, and he studied the town and the surrounding area. Normally he would have linked into the ship’s computers through his comm implant, and accessed the sensor arrays, but with Legion blocking all frequencies, he’d had to arrange for low-tech aids for himself and his troops. Apart from the town there was nothing but snow and ice for as far as the eye could see, except for the long range of the Deaths-head Mountains, plunging up into the sky. They looked cold and indifferent, as though nothing that happened below them could possibly be of any significance. Razor smiled slightly. He’d change that.