"No," Lewis said quietly. "If I surrender, Finn wouldn't be able to resist the thought of a show trial. I'm the one he really wants. He needs to see me broken, brought down—to prove in front of everyone that I should never have been made Champion instead of him. The rest of you don't matter to him. And you have to be free. You have a mission, remember?" Lewis looked back at Kamal. "What do .you say, Captain? Just this once, can't we do this the sane and responsible way, so no one has to get hurt?"
"You've gone soft, Deathstalker." Captain Kamal almost spat out the words. "The Church Militant has no mercy for traitors. You— and the Jezebel, and the scum you've attracted—are all going back to Logres, dead or alive. Your word is worthless. You have disgraced your name and your position. You are a vileness in the face of God. No deals, Deathstalker. Only blood can atone for your sins."
Lewis nodded slowly. "Nice of you to confirm that you're religious lunatics first, and soldiers second. Looney tunes are always so much easier to outthink than trained professionals. While I've got you here, Kamal, just what are your orders concerning the Ashrai?"
Death to unbelievers."
Captain Kamal cut the connection, and the screen went blank again.
Lewis looked at Carrion. "Well, that was interesting. Short, insulting, and decidedly ominous, but interesting."
Yes," said Carrion. "It was."
He slammed the butt of his bone staff on the floor, and the lobby suddenly blazed with light as new power thundered through Base Thirteen. Old mechanisms stirred into life again, computer systems chattered to each other as they came on line, driven from their centuries-long sleep by the will of one implacable man. Viewscreens blazed into life all across the lobby, displaying long streams of scrolling data. Brett looked around uneasily.
"The generators here are dead, Lewis, powered down hundreds of years ago. You saw the sensor readings. And with this much damage the base shouldn't be able to function anyway. How the hell is he doing this?"
"I don't know," said Lewis. "And I really don't feel like asking him."
"The Maze," said Jesamine. "All the stories, all the legends, and I never really understood… He's no more human now than when he was Ashrai. He's what the Maze made him."
"There are those who would say I wasn't really human even before I went into the Madness Maze," said Carrion, not looking round. "I was an Investigator, after all. I'm using my old security codes to break into the Hector's security files. Back in the day, Investigators had all kinds of backdoor access codes, to get us information we weren't supposed to have, and it seems a surprising number of them still work."
"There haven't been any Investigators since Lionstone's time," said Lewis.
"Probably a good thing," said Carrion. "Ah, what have we here? Personal orders for the captain of the Hector, for his eyes only."
The main viewscreen lit up again to show Finn Durandal's classically handsome features. He smiled out of the screen, calm and composed.
"That's him," said Jesamine. "The Durandal. The real traitor."
"Here are your real orders, my dear captain," Finn said easily. "They are not to be discussed with anyone else, even if they are of higher rank in the fleet than you. These orders come from Pure Humanity. First, you will use all measures necessary to locate and then execute the Deathstalker and all his companions. You will not accept any form of surrender. Bring back their heads, if possible. Second, you will land your troops on Unseeli, and make an example of the Ashrai. They must be punished for their past arrogance. Kill as many as is practical, in the time available, and be sure it's all transmitted live. Do good work, Captain; the whole of the Empire will be watching. We need to make a strong impression here—make it clear to everyone that the old liberal ways are over, and from now on aliens will do as they're told, or pay the price. When you're done, fill your holds with metal from the trees. I don't see why the Empire should have to cover the expense of this mission. Oh, and Captain, don't let the Deathstalker or any of his companions escape. Or don't bother coming back."
The picture disappeared. Carrion studied the blank screen thoughtfully, while the others studied him.
"Well?" Lewis said finally. "You can see for yourself—our enemy is your enemy. We have a common cause."
"They will all die here," said Carrion. "It's been so long, they've forgotten what the Ashrai can do. Even in the bad old days of Lionstone, it took more than armies and war machines to stop the Ashrai. That's why Captain Silence scorched the planet, after all. So, the wheel turns, and war comes to us again. We will make an example here. And if they dare to try to scorch us again, I will show their petty starcruisers the same face I showed the Recreated. I will set their ships on fire against the night…"
"Oh, great," muttered Brett. "Another psycho."
"Shut up, Brett," said Lewis. "Sir Carrion, we don't stand a hope in hell of getting back to our ship unless you protect us. Our enemy is your enemy. You have to help us, in Owen's name."
"If you're really a Deathstalker, you won't need help," said Carrion. My last ties to Humanity died with John Silence. I owe you nothing. Go your own way. I have a war to fight."
Rose surged forward, her sword in her hand, the point aimed at Carrion's throat. Her movements were a blur, inhumanly fast, and still she never stood a chance. She'd barely crossed half the space between them when Carrion's staff suddenly blazed with energy and Rose was plucked out of midair and thrown backwards, hurtling across the lobby to slam into the far wall. Her eyes closed, and she slid slowly down the wall, still somehow clinging to her sword. Brett ran over to her. Lewis faced off against Carrion, his ugly face set in harsh, dangerous lines, his hand hovering over his disrupter. Jesamine moved in close beside him. Saturday looked on from the open doorway, his tail sweeping thoughtfully back and forth.
"Keep your attack dog on a leash, Deathstalker," said Carrion. "Or I'll muzzle her. I think you should leave now. Your name buys you only so much protection. Be about your own business, and let the Ashrai tend to theirs."
Lewis backed slowly away, not taking his eyes off the man dressed in black. Jesamine retreated with him, her hands clenched into impotent fists. Amazingly, Rose was back on her feet, though her eyes were dazed and she was leaning heavily on Brett. Lewis led the way out of Base Thirteen and back into the metallic forest. And Carrion stood all alone in the reception lobby, surrounded by ghosts, while viewscreen after viewscreen showed Imperial attack troops moving on the surface of Unseeli for the first time in over two hundred years.
I am Carrion, the destroyer of worlds. I bring bad luck. Oh, John, was it all for nothing, in the end?
The Imperial marines moved slowly through the metallic forest, keeping strict formation, guns at the ready. They spread out across the narrow paths, driven by religious fervor and flying on battle drugs that hadn't been used or needed in centuries, ready to shoot at anything that moved and wasn't them. Most had never been on a nonhuman world before, and were already seriously spooked. It wasn't just the heavier gravity and the huge glowing trees; the whole feel of this world was subtly disturbing, as though they had wandered unknowingly into a psychic minefield. Some thought they could hear voices whispering among the trees, or even singing. Backs crawled with the sensation of being watched by unseen eyes. More than one soldier opened fire suddenly and couldn't explain why. The sheer size of the trees made them feel like children, creeping along the floor of a nightmare adult world. They were all breathing hard now, sweat slick on their faces, eyes wide with adrenaline and battle drugs and fears they couldn't name. They didn't feel like aggressors anymore. They felt… hunted. What had started out as a rapid, confident advance soon slowed to a crawl, and only the rigid discipline of the officers kept them moving—because only the really hardcore fanatics made officer class these days. And yet even they studied the surrounding trees with darting, suspicious eyes. This wasn't at all what they'd been led to expect.
And then the Ashrai came, plunging down out of the cloud layer to fly over the packe
d troops. They were huge and magnificent, with their gargoyle faces and savage fangs and claws, and there were thousands of them. They filled the skies with their gleaming scales and widespread membranous wings, bright as rainbows with bared teeth and blazing eyes. Down below, the troops lurched to a halt in stunned disarray despite the furious commands of their officers. Many just stood and pointed up at the sky, their faces slack with awe, their guns forgotten.
"It's the dragons," said more than one voice. "The dragons that flew with the blessed Owen, against the Recreated! No one told us… we can't fight them. Not Owen's dragons…"
Some even threw their guns on the ground. The troops began to babble loudly, arguing among themselves. Some were on their knees, praying. Old words, heavy with significance, moved through the ranks: dragons, aliens, angels… And it might all have ended there, but the Church Militant had chosen its officers wisely. Men of steadfast faith, cold discipline, and ruthless nature, they moved calmly among the chattering ranks, and shot down any man who wouldn't pick up his gun. They lashed their men with harsh, hateful words, reminding them of the vows they had made, to their Empire and their God. A few troopers tried to run, but they didn't get far. The officers strode through the ranks, blood on their armor and on their boots, and no one could meet their fiery gaze. In a few moments, the army had changed to a rabble and back again, and now the marines hefted their guns, shamed and angry and ready to fight. The officers ordered them to open fire on the Ashrai overhead, but none of the energy beams came close to hitting a target.
The officers called in the gravity barges, but they were having trouble forcing a way through the tops of the tightly packed trees. The metallic forest was no match for force shields and disrupter cannon, but still it was slow going. And down on the ground, the war machines weren't doing much better. The paths were far too narrow for them, and they had to smash their way through. It didn't help that most of them had been mothballed since Lionstone's day, and the troops operating them were unskilled and unpracticed. They forced their way through the forest, leaving wide trails of devastation behind them, their guns moving uselessly back and forth in search of an enemy.
Back in Base Thirteen, Carrion watched them advancing on the viewscreen, and felt almost nostalgic. He recognized the war machines from the days of the last Ashrai rebellion. Things had been so much simpler back then. He'd never doubted which side he was on, even though his oldest friend had become his most hated enemy. But now the Terror was coming, and he had sent the Deathstalker away, probably to die at the Empire's hands. Carrion watched his viewscreens, and wondered if perhaps he had forgotten too many important things while he played at being an Ashrai.
Lewis knew there was no point in meeting any of the advancing troops head on. The odds were insanely against him, and only he and Rose possessed energy weapons. So he led his people silently through the metallic forest, sticking to the shadows, and practiced hit-and-run attacks only when he had to. There were a lot of troops blocking the way to the Hereward now, but the narrow pathways split them up into manageable sizes, and there were always some who dragged along behind the others. Lewis reminded himself they were merciless fanatics who served a traitor, and hardened his heart.
Some were undoubted good men who honestly thought they were in the right, but the fate of the Empire was at stake, and they'd chosen the wrong side.
So Lewis came running unexpectedly out of the trees and hit the startled troops from one side, while Rose Constantine hit them hard from the other. Jesamine guarded Lewis's back, while Saturday roared happily as he fell upon the stragglers at the rear. And Brett did his best to keep out of everyone's way. Swords flashed brightly in the diffused light, and blood flew through the air, splashing thickly across the dull gray ground. The troops cried out in shock and panic. The last thing they'd expected was an attack. Lewis cut down the armored marines with professional ease, his ugly face grim with concentration. He was fast and furious, his every move textbook perfect, and no one could stand against him. Jesamine swung her lighter sword with determined skill, defending Lewis's back, killing when she had to. She kept her face calm and her hands steady, but only her iron will kept fear and panic at bay. It was one thing to play a warrior upon a stage, and quite another to be one.
Rose hacked her way through the troops, a song on her lips and a warm, happy feeling in her heart. She towered over most of them, an angel of death in her bloodred leathers, crying out with joy at every death stroke. No one could come close to touching her, and she danced through her opponents with almost contemptuous grace. Her sword swept back and forth, too fast to be seen, leaving a bloodstained trail behind it. Saturday stamped ungracefully through the milling mob, tearing out throats and hearts with his deceptively fast forearms and crunching off heads with his great teeth. The spikes on his furiously lashing tail ripped through men and crushed them inside their battle armor. The reptiloid tore a savage path through the demoralized troops, as implacable and remorseless as a force of nature. Blood spilled thickly from his grinning mouth. Saturday was having a good time.
The carnage lasted only a matter of minutes, just long enough to make a bloody mess out of the straggling troops, and then Lewis led his people back into the trees before the main mass of the army could catch up to them. It was simple enough to scatter and lose their pursuers in the maze of narrow pathways, and then reform later at a prearranged point. The troops had the advantage of superior firepower, but energy weapons weren't much use with so many metal trees in the way to soak up disrupter fire.
The army grew increasingly ragged in formation as various groups stumbled among the trees, searching desperately for the traitors who didn't seem to realize that they were supposed to be the prey. Lewis kept up the hit-and-run tactics, splitting the troops into smaller and smaller groups and demoralizing the survivors. And all the time leading his people closer and closer to where they'd left the Hereward.
He was too preoccupied to notice the way Jesamine looked at him. She'd never realized how at home her Lewis was in the heart of battle. How unconcernedly he threw himself into butchery and slaughter, smiling his cold smile, like a man coming home at last—because he was a Deathstalker, and this was where he belonged. The last time she'd seen him fight with such pitiless savagery had been during the Neuman riot outside Parliament, when he hadn't seemed to care how many he killed. This wasn't the Lewis she knew—or thought she'd known.
Rose Constantine, on the other hand, gloried in the bad odds. It had been a long time since she'd had any real challenge to her abilities. And while killing aliens in the Arena was fun, nothing satisfied her like the murder of men. Her heart sang as she danced among the screaming troops, and if she wished for anything it was for a higher standard of fighter among the troops. Some actually turned and ran rather than try to face her. She killed them too, of course, but it wasn't the same. She had her standards, after all.
Saturday romped among the soldiers, claws and jaws soaked in blood. He was huge and fast and strong, and the humans died so prettily. And best of all, there was no one here to tell him not to eat his kills afterwards. Human meat tasted just as good as he'd always known it would.
Brett watched it all from among the trees, shaking and shuddering. He would have liked to run, but there was nowhere to run to. So he used Rose's disrupter to snipe from concealment when he thought he had a clear shot, and otherwise did his best not to be noticed. He was muttering to himself almost continuously now, a high-pitched querulous yammer that made no sense even to him. He didn't belong here. He wasn't a fighter. His stomach hurt.
Hit and run, kill the enemy and vanish into the trees, all the time edging towards the Hereward. They were all getting tired now, except possibly Saturday. Even Rose was slowing, the punishment she'd taken from Carrion finally catching up with her. But still they fought on— even Brett now. With so many armed troops running wildly in the forest, nowhere seemed safe to hide anymore, so he drew his sword and did his best to look dangerous. Inevitably, his luc
k ran out sooner rather than later. Three burly troopers cut him off from the others and advanced on him smiling, with drawn swords and force shields buzzing on their arms. Brett screamed for help and looked frantically around for an escape route, but they had him surrounded.
So he threw himself at them with all the rage and terror of a cornered rat, all vicious speed and precious little skill. He caught one marine by surprise and stabbed him in the groin, and then had to retreat quickly as the other two closed in on him. He swept his sword widely back and forth in front of him, and almost dropped it. One of the troopers laughed. Brett swore, and cried angry, frustrated tears. He threw his sword on the ground and put both his hands as high into the air as he could. He wasn't a fighter, and he was a fool ever to think he could be. But the marines just kept coming, grinning nastily now, and Brett remembered Finn's words on the base viewscreen: You will not accept any form oj surrender. They were going to kill him anyway.
Brett lost his temper. He lashed out with his esp, and his power of compulsion slammed into the mind of the trooper nearest him. And then it was the easiest thing in the world for Brett to make that trooper shoot his companion. Hit at point-blank range, the marine was dead before his body hit the ground. The controlled man just stood there, his face blank, while Brett snatched up the sword he'd thrown away and ran the man through.
Brett stood there awhile, breathing hard, looking at the three marines he'd killed. His head ached, his nose was bleeding, but he was alive and they weren't. Brett laughed briefly—a soft, disturbing sound—and then he walked openly through the trees, sending his psionic compulsion out before him, and no one could see him. His headache grew steadily worse, and he could feel blood trickling from his nose and welling up from under his eyelids, but he was just too angry to care. Every now and again, he'd reach out with his mind, and one marine would kill another for no reason, and Brett would laugh again. If he'd had time to think, he might have realized this wasn't like him at all, but that wouldn't occur to him until much later.
Deathstalker Return Page 7
