Simon R. Green - Deathstalker - 3 - Deathstalker War

Simon R. Green - Deathstalker 03 - Deathstalker War

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Deathstalker War by

Simon Green

CHAPTER ONE

THE TAKING OF MISTWORLD

Every Empire needs a dumping ground. Somewhere out of sight in the back of beyond

where it can dump malcontents and troublemakers. The Empress Lionstone XIV had

Mistworld, a cold inhospitable rock well off the beaten track, populated almost entirely

by traitors, criminals, rogues whose luck had run out, and runaway espers. Lionstone

tolerated Mistworld's presence in her harshly run Empire on the grounds that at least

that way she knew where the bad apples were.

She would have preferred to kill them all, but she had advisors wise enough to know

that exiles were, on the whole, far less troublesome than martyrs. But over the years

Mistworld had become a haven for all kinds of rebels and outlaws, and suddenly what

had been a useful dumping ground was now a defiant, poisoned thorn in the Empire's

side. Lionstone gave orders for its purging, by fire if need be, only to discover that the

planet was now protected by a psionic screen of combined esper minds more than

strong enough to withstand anything her Imperial Fleet could throw at it. And so,

despite Lionstone's many vicious plots and schemes, Mistworld remained the only

surviving rebel planet in the Empire, safe from Lionstone's wrath.

Or so they thought.

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The Sunstrider II dropped out of hyperspace and fell into orbit around Mistworld. The

long slender yacht glistened with sensor spikes, but there were no Empire starcruisers

anywhere in the vicinity. The Empire had learned to keep its distance. There was only

the single golden vessel, hanging silently above a cold, featureless sphere. In the main

lounge of the Sunstrider II, Owen Deathstalker sat at ease in a very comfortable chair

and counted his blessings. Not least of which was that for the moment, at least, no one

was shooting at him. Owen had learned to appreciate the quiet moments in his life, if

only because there were so few of them.

He'd lost the original Sunstrider in a crash landing on the jungle planet of Shandrakor,

but the Hadenmen had rebuilt the ship according to Owen's instructions, around the

original stardrive salvaged from the wreckage of the first ship. It was a very special

drive, one of the prototypes for the new stardrive the Empire was currently attempting

to mass-produce, and for the moment, at least, a great deal faster than anything the

Empire had to offer.

Theoretically.

The yacht itself looked pretty much the way Owen remembered, and contained all the

original fittings and luxuries, but the Hadenmen hadn't been able to resist improving

things as they went along. And sometimes their ideas of improvements only went to

show how far the augmented men differed from Humanity. Owen could handle doors

that appeared in solid walls as he approached, and lights that turned themselves on and

off as necessary without having to be told, but he rather drew the line at controls that

operated if he only thought about them. After a few near disasters brought about by his

mind wandering at important moments, Owen had decided very firmly to leave the

running of the craft to the ship's computers.

The Hadenmen had also got many of the interior details wrong, in small, disquieting

ways. Floors that sloped or bulged for no obvious reason, chairs that matched

themselves to slightly the wrong shapes, and lights and colors that were subtly

uncomfortable to merely human eyes. Owen held up his left hand and studied it

thoughtfully. The golden metal of the artificial hand, the Hadenmen's other gift to him,

glowed warmly in the lounge's light. He hadn't liked the idea of having Hadenmen

technology connected to him so intimately, but after he lost his own hand fighting the

Grendel alien in the great caverns under the Wolfling World, he'd had no choice but to

accept their gift with thanks. It was a good hand, strong and responsive and practically

invulnerable, and if it felt subtly cold all the time and not altogether his, he could live

with that. He flexed the golden fingers slowly, admiring their fluid grace. He trusted the

hand because he had to; he wasn't so sure about the ship. The Hadenmen might be his

allies for the moment, but a people who had once been officially named the Enemies of

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Humanity, and with good reason, had to remain suspect for all their gifts. There was

always the chance they still had their own, separate, agenda, hidden somewhere in the

ship, the improvements, and possibly even his hand.

Owen sighed. Life hadn't always been this complicated. He studied his reflection in the

mirror on the wall behind him. A man in his mid-twenties stared broodingly back at

him, tall and rangy with dark hair and darker eyes. A man who'd been hard used, and

expected to be harder used in the future. It wasn't that long ago he'd been a simple

scholar, a minor historian of no importance to anyone but himself. Then Lionstone

named him outlaw, and he'd had no choice but to become a rebel and a warrior. The

Hadenmen named him Redeemer, and the rebel underground called him Humanity's

last hope. Owen didn't believe a word of it.

A clinking of glass caught his attention, and he looked fondly over at Hazel d'Ark, who

was sorting determinedly through the bottles in the drinks cabinet, searching for

something vaguely drinkable. Owen knew how she felt. The Hadenmen had done their

best with food synthesizers, but the various alcoholic beverages they'd come up with

had proved universally vile. That hadn't stopped Hazel from drinking them, but she

persisted in trying to discover some combination that didn't leave her with an

overwhelming urge to spit copiously in all directions. Owen admired her patience, and

wished her luck. Personally, he wouldn't have touched any of the stuff if someone had

held a gun to his head.

He studied Hazel, admiring her sharp, pointed face and mane of long, ratty, red hair.

She wasn't conventionally pretty, but then Hazel wasn't conventional about anything if

she could help it. Before becoming a rebel, she'd been a pirate, a mercenary, and a

clonelegger—and those were just the things she'd admit to. She was good with a sword

but preferred a gun, and as many as possible. Since she and Owen had discovered the

huge cache of projectile weapons in the Last Standing's Armory, Hazel had made a

point of loading herself down with as many guns and as much ammo as she could

carry. Owen thought she found the weight comforting. Owen didn't. Hazel tended to be

a bit too arbitrary about safety catches for his liking.

He sighed quietly, tapping his fingers on the armrests of his chair as he waited for the

Hadenmen computers running the ship to finish their security checks. Technically

speaking, he was trusting his life to the smooth running of the AI the Hadenmen

installed, which did absolutely nothing for his sense of security and well-being, but it

wasn't like he had a choice. Someone had to run the ship, and it sure as hell wasn't

going to be him. Keeping on top of a starship's many and various systems was hard,

skilled work, and if he'd wanted to work, he wouldn't have been born an aristocrat.

The original Sunstrider had been run by his personal Family AI Ozymandius, but Oz

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had turned out to be a traitor working for the Empire. It had used hidden control words

to turn Owen against his friends, and he'd had no choice but to destroy it. Even though

the AI had been his friend long before the others. He'd had to kill his mistress, too,

when she tried to kill him, on the Empire's orders. You couldn't trust anyone these days.

Maybe not even the woman you loved… Owen turned his gaze away from Hazel, and

made himself concentrate on something else. At least the Hadenmen had got the toilets

right this time. Their earlier attempts had been somewhat distressing. Apparently

Hadenmen had no use for such things, which told Owen rather more about the

Hadenmen than he really wanted to know.

Hazel wandered over, drink in hand. The liquid was a pale blue in color, and looked

like it was trying to climb out of the glass. She sank into the chair opposite Owen with

an inelegant grunt and settled herself comfortably. Hazel appreciated luxuries, big and

small, mainly because there'd been so few of them in her life. She took a good mouthful

of the drink, pulled a face, but swallowed the stuff anyway. Hazel never believed in

letting a drink get the better of her. It was a matter of principle. Owen had had to hide a

smile when she'd first explained that to him. He hadn't been aware that Hazel had any

principles. He'd had enough sense not to say that out loud, of course.

"What does that muck taste like this time?" he asked amiably.

"Trust me," said Hazel. "You really don't want to know. That I am drinking it at all is a

sign of how incredibly bored I am. How much longer before we can land?"

"Not long now. Looking forward to being on your old stamping grounds again?"

"Not really, no. Mistport is dangerous, treacherous, and bloody cold, and that's on its

good days. I've known rabid rats with bleeding hemorrhoids that were friendlier than

your average Mistworlder. I can't believe I let the underground talk me into going back

to this hellhole."

Owen shrugged. "It had to be us. Someone had to represent the underground to the

Mistport Council, and we know the lie of the land better than anyone else they had to

hand. Cheer up; things won't be so bad this time. Probably. We're a hell of a lot

stronger and sharper than the last time we were here."

Hazel scowled. "Yeah. That's something else I've been wanting to talk to you about.

When that Blood Runner's hologram threatened to take me apart in his laboratory, you

reached across light-years of space and blew him to pieces, just by thinking about it. I

didn't know you had that kind of power. I don't."

"I didn't think I had either, until I needed it. Our time in the Madness Maze changed us

more than we knew. We're different people now."

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"I don't like the sound of that. Where do the changes end? Are we still human? Are we

going to end up like the Hadenmen, so divorced from what we started out as that we

might as well be aliens?"

Owen shrugged again. "Your guess is as good as mine. I think we're as human as we

want to be. Our humanity lies not in what we do, but why we do it. Besides, I'm not

sure our abilities are all that stable. They seem to come and go. There used to be a link

between us, a mental link among all of us who passed through the Maze, but that

disappeared when we split up and went our separate ways. Now I can't even feel you

through the link. Can you still feel me, in your mind?"

"No," said Hazel. "Not for some time now."

"That might be my fault," said Ozymandius in Owen's ear. "Perhaps my presence is

disrupting your accord."

"Shut up, Oz," Owen subvocalized. "You're dead. I destroyed you."

"You wish. No, I'm still with you, Owen, here to advise and guide you through life's

little difficulties."

"The only difficulty I have is this dead AI that keeps yammering in my ear. If I knew a

good cyberdruid, I'd have you exorcised. Whoever or whatever you are, I don't need

your help. I can manage perfectly well on my own."

"Well pardon my computations, you ungrateful little snot. If it hadn't been for me, you'd

never have got off Virimonde alive, when your own Security people came after you for

the price on your head. Your trouble is, you don't appreciate me. Look after yourself for

a while. I'm going to sulk."

Hazel studied Owen unobtrusively. He'd gone all quiet again, his eyes far away. He did

that from time to time, and it never failed to irritate her. Even though she'd always

known he was the thoughtful one in their reluctant partnership. Hazel had always

believed in the virtues of direct action, preferably with a sword or a gun. Cut them all

down and worry about the consequences later. If at all. She wondered what Owen

would think if he knew she was taking Blood again.

Blood. The most addictive and soul-destroying drug known to Humanity. It came from

the adjusted men, the Wampyr. One of the Empire's less successful attempts at

manufacturing terror troops. Synthetic Blood flowed in their veins, making them

stronger, faster, nearly invincible. Just a few drops of Blood could make a mere human

feel that way, too, for a while. It made you feel sharp and confident, and Hazel needed

that more and more these days. She'd been hooked on the drug once before, in her early

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days on Mistworld. She'd beaten it then, though the cure nearly killed her. But so much

had changed in her since then, and very little of it to her liking.

She'd never wanted to be a rebel. All she'd ever wanted was the comfortable life, free

from hunger and danger. She'd been happiest as a confidence trickster, parting rich

leeches from their ill-gotten gains and disappearing into the night before they realized

how badly they'd been stung. Hazel had only ever fought for money, cash in hand, and

never trusted anyone but herself. Now she was a major player in the new rebellion, a

target for every bounty hunter and backstabber in the Empire, being asked for opinions

and plans on matters she had little or no understanding of. For the first time in her life,

the lives and futures of countless numbers of people depended on her every action and

decision, with all the stress and uncertainties that involved. Now everything she did or

didn't do had consequences, and she just couldn't stand it. The pressure weighed down

on her, filling her head till she couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't keep her hands from

shaking. So she started taking Blood again. Just a drop, now and then, when she needed

it. The Hadenmen had been only too happy to supply her with as much as she wanted.

She didn't ask where they got it from. And now she was heading back to Mistworld,

where Blood was widespread.

She didn't want to be addicted again. She didn't want to be a plasma baby, her only

thought and need for the Blood that was slowly destroying her. She resented anything

that had power over her. She'd beaten it once; she could beat it again. She only needed

a drop, now and again, after all. Just a little something, to help her cope. She looked at

Owen, and her mouth tightened. She knew why their mental link had disappeared. The

Blood interfered, separating them. But she couldn't tell him that. He wouldn't

understand.

The lounge door opened suddenly, and Owen and Hazel's fellow rebels on this mission

walked in, ostentatiously not talking to each other, as usual. The new Jack Random, or

Young Jack as Owen always thought of him, was tall, well muscled, and devilishly

handsome, with long, dark shoulder-length hair that always looked like he'd just

permed it. Owen only had to look at him to feel puny and out of shape. Random wore

silver battle armor chased with gold like he was born to it, and he radiated strength,

wisdom, confidence, and compassion. A born leader, a charismatic warrior, a hero out

of legend and altogether too much of a good thing. He'd arrived out of nowhere, just

when the rebellion needed him the most, and Owen didn't trust him an inch.

Owen and Hazel had gone looking for the legendary professional rebel, Jack Random,

in the city of Mistport some time back. They'd found a broken old man, hiding from his

past, and bullied him out of his hiding hole to fight again, because the rebellion needed

the legend, if not the man. He'd fought beside them, and passed through the Madness

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Maze with them, and at the end he faced impossible odds against the Empire's troops,

and emerged victorious. Owen had believed in that man, and been proud to call him

friend. The old man had just begun to reclaim his legend when this young giant of a

man had burst onto the scene, claiming to be the real Jack Random, and now Owen

didn't know what to believe anymore.

Young Jack Random's last campaign had been on the winter world of Vodyanoi IV,

some two years earlier. As usual, he had made a lot of noise and raised an army of

followers, only to get his ass kicked one more time when they came up against trained

Imperial shock troops. His friends smuggled him out at the last moment, so he wasn't

around to see his followers slaughtered or imprisoned. His cause had failed, but he kept

the legend alive.

Except the older Jack Random claimed that wasn't he. According to him, his last

campaign had been on Cold Rock, several years earlier, when his forces were

ignominiously scattered, and he was taken captive by the Empire forces. He spent a

long time in interrogation cells, tortured and brainwashed by the mind techs, until

finally his friends were able to break him out and smuggle him to safety on

Mistworld—where he gave up his name and his legend to become just another face in

the crowd, hidden and safe from entreaties or responsibilities.

Except… Jack Random, the professional rebel, had been visibly active on several

worlds during that time. So who was telling the truth and who was lying? Who was the

Real Jack Random? The older Jack admitted that the mind techs had done a real

number on him, during his months of captivity, messing with his thoughts and

memories as they broke his spirit day by day. Maybe he just thought he'd been the

famous professional rebel; a nobody molded by the Empire to be paraded as a broken

man for propaganda purposes. As with so many other things, Owen wasn't sure what he

believed anymore. At least the older Jack was more or less the right age. The younger

Jack looked to be no more than his late twenties, and in perfect shape. Surely his long

years of rebellion should have left some mark on him, even allowing for his claimed

extensive use of regeneration machines.

The underground hadn't been able to make up its mind one way or the other. The old

Jack claimed to have the experience, but the young Jack looked so much more

convincing. So for the moment the underground accepted both Jacks, and sent them off

on separate missions to prove themselves in action. Old Jack went to stir up trouble on

the mining planet Technos III, and Owen and Hazel ended up with Young Jack on their

team, despite their loud objections. Young Jack took it all with a good-natured smile,

which made Owen trust him even less. Never trust a man who smiles too much, his

father had always said. It's not natural, not in this day and age. Hazel was even less

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impressed with the man than Owen, if that was possible, and had told Young Jack to his

face that he was a liar and impostor. He just kept on smiling, and said he hoped he'd

have the chance to prove himself to her. Hazel told him that if he laid one finger on her,

she'd make him eat the finger. Young Jack chuckled good-naturedly, and said she was

very pretty when she was angry, and Owen had to hold Hazel down until the red mist

had gone from her eyes.

The other new arrival was the esper known as Jenny Psycho. She had forced her way

onto the Mistworld team, on the grounds that a planet largely populated by runaway

espers would want to meet the last person to manifest the uber-esper Mater Mundi, Our

Mother Of All Souls, who had single-handedly made the great esper escape from

Wormboy Hell possible. Jenny didn't look like much, at first glance. She was short and

blond, with a pale ghostly face dominated by sharp blue eyes. She had a wide mouth,

and an unsettling smile that showed more teeth than humor. Her voice was harsh and

unattractive, her throat damaged by constant screaming in the dark cells of Silo Nine.

Before the underground sent her into Wormboy Hell as their undercover agent, she'd

been just another esper; but since the Mater Mundi touched her, Jenny Psycho had

become a major esper power overnight. Her presence all but crackled on the air around

her, an almost tangible effect on any company. Where once she'd been nothing but a

minor telepath, now every esper ability was hers to call upon, something which was

supposed to be impossible, though no one had even been stupid enough to say that to

Jenny Psycho. Most people had enough sense not to get that close to her anyway.

She respected Owen and Hazel for the power they'd brought to the rebellion, but since

her personality could change from the relatively sane Jenny to the actually disturbing

Psycho in mid-sentence, they'd found it hard to get to know her. They tried to make

allowances. She had, after all, volunteered to be sent into Silo Nine, and Wormboy Hell

was enough to break anyone. It helped that she didn't trust Young Jack either. Possibly

because she didn't like the competition for attention.

She paused for a moment in the doorway, to make sure everyone was looking at her,

then flounced across the room to the only remaining empty chair and sank into it as if it

were a throne. Young Jack Random stayed by the door, falling naturally into an heroic

pose. Jenny ignored him magnificently. "How much longer till we get to Mistworld?"

she said icily.

"Now don't you start," said Owen. "Even with the new drive, it still takes time to get

from one side of the Empire to the other."

"Actually, we've been in orbit around Mistworld for almost twenty minutes,"

Ozymandius murmured in Owen's ear.

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"What?" said Owen, subvocalizing furiously. "Why didn't the ship's AI tell me?"

"You didn't tell it to. It is, after all, nowhere near as complex as I."

"Well, why didn't you tell me we'd arrived?"

"Who, me? I'm dead, remember? Far be it from me to put myself in where I'm not

wanted."

Owen fought down a need to sigh heavily and looked at his fellow team members.

"Apparently we are currently in orbit over our destination. So far, no one is shooting at

us. Hazel, you know these people better than the rest of us. Patch into the comm system

and find out what exorbitant price they're going to charge us for landing this time."

She grunted unenthusiastically and got up out of her chair. It took her a while, and a

certain amount of effort, because of the weight of all the guns she'd loaded herself

down with. She made her way unhurriedly over to the comm panels and put in a call to

Mistport Security. There was only one city and one starport on Mistworld, and that was

Mistport. A wild and woolly place, and very definitely not somewhere you went

without an invitation. As the Empire had found out, to its cost. As Hazel waited more

or less patiently for someone to answer her, Owen looked around him, then stirred

uncomfortably in his chair as he discovered that Jenny Psycho was studying him again.

Her esp made her somewhat aware of the great changes that had taken place within

Owen and Hazel, but it wasn't enough to tell her what those changes were. She sensed

that, in their own ways, Owen and Hazel were just as powerful as she was, and she

didn't seem able to make up her mind as to whether she should be frightened or awed or

jealous. Owen had used that uncertainty to talk her into quietly probing Young Jack's

mind, to see what was in there. To their mutual surprise, it turned out that as far as

Jenny's esp was concerned, there was no one there. Which meant that either Jack had

amazingly tough mental shields, or… So far they hadn't been able to come up with an

or they liked. Owen looked away from Jenny's burning gaze. As if he didn't have

enough things to worry about.

"Hello, Sunstrider II," said a tired voice from the comm panels. "This is John Silver,

head of starport Security. Don't adjust your equipment, we've lost visual again. When I

find the pirate that sold us these systems, I'm going to tie his legs in a square knot.

Welcome back, Hazel. Don't steal anything big and try not to kill anyone important this

time. You can put your ship down anywhere you fancy; there's hardly anything on the

pads. Not a lot of traffic comes our way these days."

"Understood," said Hazel. "Cheer up, John, we've got a cargo bay crammed to the

ceiling with really nice surprises for you; namely, more projectile weapons, ammo, and

explosives than you can shake a really big stick at. Just the thing for expressing your

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displeasure with Imperial spies and troublemakers."

"You always bring the nicest presents, Hazel. Now pardon me if I leave you all to your

own devices. As head of Security, or what's left of it, I'm being run ragged at the

moment. The precogs have been going crazy the last few days, insisting Something Bad

is in the air. We can't get any details out of them that make sense, but either way I don't

have the time to waste on a single ship, no matter how friendly."

"In case he's forgotten," said Owen, "remind him we're not just outlaws on the run this

time. We represent the Golgotha underground."

"I heard that," said Silver. "Might have known you'd be aboard, Deathstalker. We

haven't forgotten the mess you made on your last visit. Someone will meet you once

you're down, but don't expect a brass band or the key to the city. We had to pawn the

instruments and the key never did work anyway. Have a nice stay. Don't start anything.

Now clear the channel so I can concentrate."

"Is that a typical Mistworld welcome?" asked Jenny Psycho, after a moment.

"Pretty much," said Hazel. "They've raised paranoia to a fine art in Mistport. With good

reason. The Empire has a long history of sneaking in dirty tricks to try and undermine

or destroy the starport. It wasn't that long ago they started an esper plague here, using a

disguised vector called Typhoid Mary. A lot of people died before Security finally

tracked her down. They're still recovering."

"They've been through a lot," said Young Jack. "We'll just have to convince them of the

importance of our various missions here. We must have Mistworld on our side if we're

to win the rebellion. Their espers will be an invaluable asset."

"Glad someone's keeping an eye on the big picture." said Owen. "But I would go easy

on the exposition when you get down there. Mistworlders aren't big on speeches."

"You should know," said Hazel.

The landing pads were practically deserted, with only a handful of smugglers' ships,

huddled together at one end of the field as though for comfort. The Sunstrider II settled

comfortably onto the pad set aside, marked by flaring oil lamps. The tall steelglass

control tower was the only sign of high tech at the starport, its bright electric lights

blazing through the thick, swirling mists. Owen had the ship's computers shut down

everything except the security systems, then led the way out of the ship and onto the

landing field.

The cold cut at them like a knife as they filed out of the airlock, searing their exposed

faces and burning in their lungs as they all huddled in the thick furs the ship had

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