Mistworld (Deathstalker Prelude)

by Green, Simon R.

  And my poor crew…

  He remembered their voices, screaming from the comm units as the Balefire fought her way through the outer atmosphere, her shields shuddering under constant fire from the Empire’s ships. He would have waited for his crew if there’d been time, but there was no time, no warning, and he hadn’t dared wait. It had been close enough as it was. Ten of his remaining crew were dead. Twice as many more were injured. And his passengers… his passengers. They’d known the risks when they came to him, when the Outlawing of Tannim was only the barest rumour. They’d known what might happen if things went wrong. They’d known all the risks and accepted them, but neither they nor he could possibly have predicted what had happened; the terrible thing he’d had to do to save his ship.…

  Captain Starlight stared around his empty bridge. His surviving crew were sleeping in their quarters, or trying to. There was nothing left for them to do now. Nothing left for anyone to do. Starlight rose slowly to his feet, weariness surging through him in a slow, familiar tide. The Port Director was waiting to see him, and Starlight had put it off long enough. He had his duties to perform, while he was still Captain.

  They might have taken everything else from him, but he still had that.

  • • •

  Steel glanced surreptitiously at Topaz as she stared grimly into the surrounding fog. He wondered what she was seeing deep in her own thoughts. If there was anything in her of grief or sorrow for the husband she’d lost, she showed none of it to the watching world. Even her revenge had been a cold and determined affair.

  A sudden hum of straining machinery brought Steel’s attention back to the Balefire, as the main airlock slowly irised open, metal grating on metal amid an outrush of stinking air. Steel scowled, and tried to breathe only through his mouth. He stepped forward and peered warily into the open airlock. The great ribbed-steel chamber was fully a hundred feet across, and dimly lit by a single glowing lightsphere set over the door inside the airlock. The ceiling and the far wall were lost in shadows. The foul smell slowly cleared as Mistport’s freezing air entered the chamber, and Steel stepped cautiously in through the open door, followed by Topaz. He’d never liked iris doors. He was always afraid they were going to suddenly contract and close before he could get out of the way. He moved slowly forward, and a dim figure stirred in the shadows at the rear of the chamber. Steel stopped where he was, and frowned uncertainly.

  “Captain Starlight?”

  The figure moved slowly forward into the light. A tall, grey-haired man with hooded eyes, his cloak hung about him like a dirty shroud. His silver uniform was torn and bloodstained. His face was drawn and haggard, and his deep sunk eyes were full of a weary bitterness.

  “I’m Starlight.”

  Steel nodded briskly as Starlight finally came to a halt before him. “Port Director Gideon Steel, at your service, Captain. This is Investigator Topaz.”

  Starlight glared at Steel, obviously struggling for control. “My passengers are all refugees from Tannim. Their planet is dead; they have nowhere else to go. Will they be safe here?”

  Steel shrugged. “As safe as anywhere. Mistworld is a poor world, and a harsh one. Your passengers will have to fend for themselves, or starve. And we have to check them out first.”

  “Of course.” Starlight smiled wearily. “We might all be Empire spies.”

  “Yes,” said Topaz. “You might.”

  Starlight looked at her, and Steel coughed discreetly.

  “How many refugees have you brought us, Captain?”

  “There were fifteen thousand. Most are dead now.”

  “What happened?” asked Topaz.

  “I killed them,” said Captain Starlight.

  The Balefire was full of sound as Starlight led Steel and Topaz through an endless maze of steel corridors. There were constant creaks and groans as metals contracted and expanded under Mistport’s varying cold, the brief furtive sounds like so many unseen mice. From time to time a sudden sputtering noise would make Steel jump, as one or another piece of machinery would give up the ghost and cease to function. Starlight and Topaz paid no attention to anything they heard, their faces equally cold and distant. Steel muttered under his breath and did his best to keep up with them. Though he was damned if he could see what all the hurrying was for; the cargo bay would still be there when they got there.

  The overhead lights flickered uncertainly, and faded one by one as the ship’s computers slowly fell apart, their memory crystals gradually wiping clean as the power levels dropped. The air was breathable, but thick with the unpleasant fumes of burning insulation and spilt coolant, suggesting that the circulating pumps were already breaking down. The heating elements were out, and Mistport’s cold was already permeating the ship. The Balefire was dying.

  “Why you?” said Starlight suddenly, looking curiously at Topaz. His voice echoed on the still air. “Why an Investigator?”

  “That was my idea, actually,” said Steel quickly. “My espers discovered something rather unusual aboard your ship.”

  “Yes, I remember,” said Starlight. “But there are no aliens aboard the Balefire”

  “My espers quite definitely detected something.… “

  “I don’t give a sweet damn what your espers detected! I know my own ship. There’s me, my crew, and the refugees. Nobody else.”

  “No aliens among the refugees?” asked Topaz.

  “None.”

  “You won’t mind if I inspect the ship for myself.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  They walked a while in silence.

  “You said you killed most of the refugees,” Steel said carefully. “What happened, Captain?”

  “You’ll see,” said Starlight. “We’re almost there.”

  He led the way through a narrow tunnel and out onto an equally narrow walkway, and there they stopped. All around them there was nothing but darkness. Light from the tunnel didn’t extend beyond the walkway. Steel glanced uncertainly about him. Although he couldn’t see more than a yard in any direction, he was nonetheless disturbed by the faint echo that accompanied even the smallest sound. And then huge lights flared overhead as Starlight fumbled at a wall control, and Steel shrank back against the wall as the main cargo bay sprang into being before him. The bay was a single vast chamber of ribbed steel a hundred thousand yards square. Golden light shimmered on the walls and reflected back from the thousands of suspended animation units that filled the cargo bay. The surviving refugees from Tannim slept soundly, undisturbed. Stacked one upon the other from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling, the sleep cylinders lay waiting like so many crystal coffins.

  “Tannim was already under attack when I raised ship,” said Starlight, moving slowly along the narrow walkway, which now showed itself to be set high up on the cargo bay wall. Steel and Topaz followed close behind him. Within the nearest cylinders, they could just make out a few of the refugees, floating like shadows in ice. “The Imperial Fleet was dropping out of hyperspace by the hundreds. Refugee ships were being blasted out of the sky all around me. The Balefire was under attack, and my shields were giving out. I needed more power, so I took it from the sleep cylinder support systems. I had no choice.”

  Steel frowned thoughtfully. Even with the extra power, the Balefire shouldn’t have survived long enough to drop into hyperspace. He shrugged; maybe she just got lucky. It happened. And then the significance of what Starlight had said came home to him, and he looked at the Captain of the Balefire with growing horror.

  “How much power did you take from the cylinders, Captain? How much?”

  Starlight leaned out over the walkway’s reinforced barrier, and tried for a life support readout on the nearest sleep cylinder. None of the lights came on. Starlight dropped his hand, and turned back to face Steel and Topaz.

  “The ship needed the power. I couldn’t return it until the Balefire was safely into hyper. By then, it was too late.”

  “How many?” asked
Topaz. “How many of your refugees survived the power loss?”

  “Two hundred and ten,” said Captain Starlight softly, bitterly. “Out of fifteen thousand, two hundred and ten.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  Darkstrom and the Bloodhawk

  THE wreck of the Darkwind lay half-buried in the snow fifteen miles due north of Mistport, in the shadow of the Deathshead Mountains. Between the city and the mountains lay a huge raised plateau covered with hundreds of feet of accumulated snow and ice. The curving mountain range chanelled the roaring winds so that they swept across the plateau in a single broad front, bludgeoning the snow utterly smooth and level, and wiping it clean of all forms of life. Even the Hob hounds avoided the plateau. The snows stretched unbroken and undisturbed for over twenty miles in every direction, and the temperature never rose above freezing, even in what passed for Mistworld’s summer. It was a bleak and desolate place, and it kept its secrets to itself. It had no name; it needed none. Everyone knew of the plateau and its dangers. There were stories of the few brave souls who’d tried to cross it, both alone and in teams, but in all of Mistport’s short history, no one had ever succeeded. You either took the long route around the plateau, or you didn’t make it.

  Things might have stayed that way for some time, if it hadn’t been for Arne Saknussen’s attempt to cross the plateau. He and his team had only been out on the snow five days when they made their discovery. Like many great discoveries, it happened entirely by accident. The wind had been blowing constantly for the last three days, and the snow was like a solid wall. The compasses were useless so close to the mountains, and Saknussen’s party crept along at a snail’s pace for fear of losing their direction. And then the wind turned into a blizzard, and Saknussen called a halt. His men set thermite charges to clear out a hollow in which they could shelter from the storm, but in the panic of the moment they miscalculated the strength of the charges. The blast killed ten men and injured as many more, but when the wind finally died down, Saknussen and the other survivors found themselves looking down into a hollow half a mile deep, at the bottom of which lay the wreck of the Darkwind.

  That part of the plateau looked very different now. The sides of the hollow had been carefully sculptured and reinforced to provide easy access to the wreck. A series of windbreaks had been set up to protect the small town of fortified shelters that had grown up around the site. And down in the hollow more than half the Darkwind’s length had been painstakingly cleared of snow. The long stretch of burnished hull showed stark and alien against the packed snow, like the hide of some immense metallic snake. Great derricks and cranes stood bunched together before the only opening in the hull, ready to winch out the various pieces of technology as they were brought to the airlock. Seen from the distance the derricks and cranes looked like nothing so much as awkward matchstick men, bending and straightening endlessly against the blinding white of the snow.

  Eileen Darkstrom clambered awkwardly down from the power sledge that had carried her across the plateau, and stretched her aching muscles. The glare from the snow was painfully bright despite her dark glasses, and the bitter wind cut at her like a knife. She pulled her cloak tightly about her thick furs, and stamped her boots experimentally on the packed snow. It seemed firm enough, but she didn’t like knowing there was nothing under her feet but hundreds of feet of snow. Darkstrom decided firmly that she wasn’t going to think about it, and moved forward to the rim of the crater to look down at the wreck of the Darkwind. Her gaze drifted hungrily along the length of the gleaming steel. Councillor Darkstrom had been Mistport’s leading blacksmith for almost twelve years, but she’d never forgotten her time as a starship Captain. And then she smiled wistfully as she realised her main concern now was how quickly the ship could be gutted for its technology. How are the mighty fallen.

  She looked away, and glanced around as she waited for the Bloodhawk’s sledge to catch up with her. All across the wide plateau the mists were so thin as to be nearly transparent. The midday sun shone brightly overhead, and no clouds moved in the clear blue sky. The Deathshead Mountains loomed up to her left and right; great blue-black crags topped with snow. They were supposed to be volcanic, and occasionally rumbled menacingly to prove it. Hot sulphur springs bubbled up out of their cracked sides, raising the temperature of the mountain slopes just enough to make them habitable. But so far, there were only a few human settlements on the slopes; the Hob hounds saw to that.

  Darkstrom looked back into the crater, and scowled. Earlier this year she’d pulled every string she could think of to try and get herself assigned to the plateau. The machinery coming out of the Darkwind made it a technician’s dream, and she’d been determined to be a part of the project. But the Council wouldn’t let her go. They said she was too valuable where she was, in Mistport. Now, finally, she was right where she’d wanted to be, and she couldn’t stay. The only reason she was out on this Godforsaken plateau was to find out why communications were out between the farms and settlements and the city.

  The coughing roar of a sledge engine caught her attention, and she looked round to watch the Bloodhawk’s sledge glide quickly over the snow towards her. The low, squat machine slid to a halt beside her and then shuddered into silence as the Bloodhawk shut off the engine. He climbed gracefully down from the sledge and stretched elegantly. Even after several hours spent hunched over the sledge’s controls, Count Stefan Bloodhawk still looked every inch an aristocrat and a gentleman. His furs were of the finest quality, and his cloak hung in a becoming manner. His slim frame and gracious bearing were more suited to a debating chamber than this desolate plateau. But the Bloodhawk had always shown a strong sense of duty and let nothing stand in his way, least of all his own preferences. Which was perhaps one of the reasons why Darkstrom loved him so very much. He came over to join her, and they hugged each other awkwardly through their furs. He put an arm round her shoulders, and looked down into the crater. The cranes and the derricks were still hard at work, the roar of their engines little more than a distant murmur.

  “Stefan,” said Darkstrom finally, “what are we doing here? Grief knows I can use a rest from the sledge, but we can’t afford too many stops if we’re to reach Hardcastle’s Rock before nightfall.”

  “The Rock can wait a while,” said the Bloodhawk calmly. “I’ve been talking to Councillor du Wolfe on the comm unit. It seems some of the technology leaving the Darkwind hasn’t been arriving in Mistport. Since we had to pass the site on our way to Hardcastle’s Rock, I said we’d stop and take a look at what’s been happening here. It shouldn’t take long. And besides, I know how much you’ve wanted to have a good look round the Darkwind”

  Eileen Darkstrom shook her head ruefully, a slow smile tugging at her mouth. Sometimes she thought he knew her better than she knew herself. Saknussen’s crater was actually some way off their route, but she hadn’t been able to resist at least taking a quick look at the Darkwind. Once the Bloodhawk had realised where she was leading him, he must have contacted Mistport and looked for some excuse that would let them stop at the site a while. Bless the man.

  “All right, Stefan,” she said gruffly. “I suppose we can spare the time for a brief visit. What kind of tech has been going missing?”

  The Bloodhawk shrugged, and led the way along the rim of the crater towards the nearest set of steps leading down to the Darkwind. “It’s hard to say, exactly. Most of the technology seems innocuous enough in itself; it’s only when you put the various pieces together and see what they have in common that the losses become rather… disturbing. They’re all the kind of thing that would be very useful to a clonelegger or a body bank.”

  Darkstrom swore viciously. She’d take an oath there were no cloneleggers on Mistworld, but there were several illegal body banks. The Council and the city Watch spent a lot of their time trying to find the evidence that would close the evil places down. She ran the various names through her mind, trying to pick out those with enough money or influ
ence to stage something like this. “Vertue,” she said finally. “Leon Vertue; it has to be.”

  “He’s a possibility, certainly,” said the Bloodhawk. “But there are others. Let’s take this one step at a time. First, we’ll check with the on-site security, and see exactly what technology has gone missing. Then we’ll check which personnel had access to that technology. And then… “

  “We play it by ear.”

  “Exactly, my dear. We ask questions, poke into corners, and generally make ourselves obnoxious. I can be rather good at that, when I put my mind to it.”

  “Indeed you can,” said Darkstrom solemnly.

  The Bloodhawk smiled. “So can you,” he said generously.

  They laughed together, and started down the wide snow steps cut into the side of the crater.

  Inside the Darkwind it was comfortably warm. Darkstrom pushed back her hood and pulled off her dark glasses, glad to be out of the cutting wind and away from the endless glare of the snow. She looked curiously about her as the Bloodhawk stepped out of the airlock to join her. It had been twelve years and more since she had last set foot in a starship, but the gleaming steel corridor brought memories flooding back. It was almost like coming home again. The walls were smooth and featureless, unrelieved by any ornament or decoration. The Empire didn’t want its crews distracted from their duties. The overhead lightspheres glowed brightly, probably powered by a site generator, but the gentle, almost inaudible hum was just as she remembered. The first time you joined a ship the never-ending hum from the lights drove you crazy, but after a week or so you just didn’t hear it anymore.

  Darkstrom walked slowly down the wide, spacious corridor, the Bloodhawk at her side. He said nothing, recognising that she was caught up in old memories, but stayed close at hand in case she needed him. Without looking round, Darkstrom reached out and took his hand in hers. She felt in need of some support. She’d forgotten how much she missed being Captain of her own ship. No, she corrected herself, that wasn’t quite true. She hadn’t just forgotten; she’d forced herself to forget. It was the only way to stay sane. She walked a little more quickly, as though trying to leave her memories behind her.