Deathstalker Honor E-Book

Simon R. Green

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Deathstalker
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1062

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Official hero of the great rebellion, Owen Deathstalker fought impossible odds to throw down the Empress Lionstone XIV and destroy the corrupt Empire. That should have been enough to be feted, honored, and finally retired. Unfortunately, the new Parliament has some different ideas. There's no rest for a Deathstalker. As newly appointed Imperial bounty hunter, Owen tracks down the most dangerous war criminals. His current target: Valentine Wolfe, depraved right hand of the Empress and so-called "butcher of Virimonde." Valentine's latest atrocities are both staggering and deeply personal to Owen, but revenge may have to wait. Humanity faces extermination from enemies new and old, while the fledgling Parliament struggles to maintain control. Worse still, something is alive and beginning to stir in the Darkvoid. The odds are stacked against him again, but Owen Deathstalker will have to face his destiny one more time…or forever damn the future of mankind. Deathstalker: Honor is the fourth book in New York Times bestselling author Simon R. Green's beloved space opera series.

Leseprobe

DEATHSTALKER HONOR

Copyright © Simon R. Green, 1998

All rights reserved

Published as an eBook in 2016 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover design by John Fisk

ISBN: 978-1-625671-83-7

ALSO BY SIMON R. GREEN

The Deathstalker Series

Deathstalker*

Deathstalker Rebellion*

Deathstalker War*

Deathstalker Honor*

Deathstalker Destiny*

Deathstalker Legacy*

Deathstalker Return*

Deathstalker Coda*

Deathstalker Prelude

Mistworld*

Ghostworld*

Hellworld*

The Hawk and Fisher Series

No Haven for the Guilty

Devil Take the Hindmost

The God Killer

Wolf in the Fold (UK: Vengeance for a Lonely Man)*

Guard Against Dishonor*

The Bones of Haven (UK: Two Kings in Haven)*

The Forest Kingdom Series

Blue Moon Rising*

Blood and Honor*

Down Among the Dead Men*

Beyond the Blue Moon*

Once in a Blue Moon*

The Nightside Series

Something from the Nightside

Agents of Light and Darkness

Nightingale’s Lament

Hex and the City

Paths Not Taken

Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tooth

Hell to Pay

The Unnatural Inquirer

Just Another Judgment Day

The Good, The Bad, and The Uncanny

A Hard Day’s Knight

The Bride Wore Black Leather

Tales from the Nightside

The Secret Histories

The Man with the Golden Torc

Daemons are Forever

The Spy Who Haunted Me

From Hell With Love

For Heaven’s Eyes Only

Live and Let Drood

Casino Infernale

Property of a Lady Faire

From a Drood to a Kill

Ghost Finders

Ghost of a Chance

Ghost of a Smile

Ghost of a Dream

Spirits From Beyond

Voices From Beyond

Forces from Beyond

Standalone Novels

Drinking Midnight Wine*

Shadows Fall

Pit of Despair

The Dark Side of the Road

Short Story Collections

Tales of the Hidden World

*available as a Jabberwocky ebook in the UK

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title

Copyright

Also by Simon R. Green

Epigraph

Cast of Characters

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

At the end, when all else fails, there is still honor.

They were, after all, official heroes of the great rebellion.

Owen Deathstalker; outlawed aristocrat and reluctant warrior.

Hazel d’Ark; ex-clonelegger and ex-pirate.

Jack Random; the legendary professional rebel.

Ruby Journey; the infamous female bounty hunter.

Together, they fought impossible odds in the name of freedom and justice, and triumphed time and time again. They gathered an army of the bold and the valiant, the downtrodden and the desperate, and led them to victory. And in the great steel and brass Palace of the homeworld Golgotha, they threw down the Empress Lionstone XIV and destroyed the Iron Throne of Empire forever.

They should have been feted and honored, raised to the heights and celebrated throughout the civilized worlds.

They should have lived happily ever after.

Unfortunately, life isn’t like that.

CHAPTER ONE

Charnel House

On the good ship Sunstrider II

“Bounty hunters!” said Hazel d’Ark disgustedly. “After all we’ve done, after all we’ve been through, we end up as nothing more than glorified bounty hunters!”

“Beats our previous occupation,” Owen said mildly. Tall and rangy, with dark hair and darker eyes, he lounged bonelessly in the lounge’s most comfortable chair. “Chasing down war criminals is important work. I don’t know about you, but I find being the hunter rather than the hunted much easier on the nerves. Besides, must be a nice change for you, being legitimate.”

“It’s the principle of the thing!” snapped Hazel. “We used to be somebody! We led armies! We overthrew the Empire! Risked getting our asses shot off time after time, and all so we could end up doing Parliament’s dirty work. Makes me want to puke.”

Owen was thrown for a moment. He would have been prepared to bet good money Hazel wouldn’t recognize a principle if she fell over it on her way back from the toilet. But he rallied gamely and closed the discussion with an accurate if not entirely tactful point of order.

“As I recall, this was all your idea anyway.”

Hazel glared at him, and then turned away to glower at the nearest bulkhead. She was in one of her moods again, and not about to be swayed by mere logic. Owen sighed, but had the sense to do it very quietly. Truth be told, he found bounty hunting something of a comedown too, but all the alternatives had been worse. When he was fighting the rebellion, he’d never really thought about what he’d do when it was all over. Mostly because he was usually too busy trying to keep himself from being killed, but also because he’d never seriously expected to see an end to the rebellion in his lifetime. Most people who stood up to oppose the Empress Lionstone XIV, also known as the Iron Bitch, tended to end up in early graves. Often with bits missing. But then, nothing in his life had ever turned out the way he expected.

Looking back, he seemed to have spent most of his time stumbling from one crisis to another, acted upon as often as acting from his own plans and wishes. There had been schemes and conspiracies all around him, most of which he knew only by the brief shadows they cast across his life in passing. And in the end it seemed to him that for all his intentions and bold companions, and the mysterious powers he’d acquired from the Madness Maze, he had finally come to stand defiantly before the Iron Throne through his own sheer stubbornness, and a refusal to be beaten by odds that would have frightened off a more sensible man.

He’d ended up a hero and a savior of Humanity, and no one had been more surprised than him.

He’d expected to fail. Expected to die, and die horribly. Instead, he’d overthrown an empire that had lasted well over a millennium, deposed its ruler and destroyed her throne, and seen the end of practically every social and political structure he believed in. And that was when the problems had really begun.

Lionstone’s body was barely cold before the vultures began descending. Even while the last battles were being fought, the various parts of the rebel force had begun arguing fiercely with each other over what exactly should replace the old system. Even those few who’d been there at the end couldn’t bring themselves to agree. Owen had wanted things to stay much as they were, with some political reforms and injustices punished. Hazel had wanted it all torn down, with war trials for all the Families, for crimes against Humanity. Jack Random insisted on democracy for all, including all clones and espers and other unpeople. Ruby Journey wanted the loot she’d been promised.

They were soon joined in the Court by representatives of the clone and esper undergrounds, fringe political groups of all shapes and shades, and more religious factions than you could shake a stick at. All of them intent on having their own way. Luckily, they were all too tired to start another war just yet. The argument became a deadlock, and everyone stamped off in different directions to plot and plan anew. For the moment Parliament was running the day-to-day business of Empire, on the grounds that somebody had to, and they at least had some experience in the area. No one trusted them an inch, but there was nothing new there.

Men and women who had once been allies, sworn to defend each other to the death and beyond, now fought each other viciously over points of dogma and precedence. Owen supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a historian, after all. All the various rebel factions had ever really had in common was a shared enemy. And though they all bandied around words like justice and liberty, they meant very different things to different people.

And then there was the deal Random had made, in the midst of the most desperate fighting, to depose but not destroy the aristocratic Families. Faced with an increasingly victorious army calling for their collective blood, the great Houses had banded together and offered to step down from power and privilege, in return for being allowed to survive as purely economic forces. That was the carrot. The stick was their threat to destroy the economic base of the whole Empire, and crash every civilized world back to barbarism. No one doubted they were quite capable of doing it. And so Random had made the deal, to save the lives of billions, but no one thanked him for it. The man in the street was cheated of his revenge, the rebels accused their beloved hero of selling out his political convictions, and the Families hated him for the loss of their precious nobility. Afterward, Random had to hire a secretary just to deal with all the hate mail and death threats.

As if the situation wasn’t complicated enough, Blue Block had emerged from the shadows to unite and control the Families and scare the crap out of everyone else. Blue Block had been the Families’ secret weapon, a last-ditch defense to be used against the Empress if she ever seriously threatened the Clans’ power and status. The youngest sons and daughters of each House were given to Blue Block, trained and conditioned to be loyal to the Families to the death and beyond. Unfortunately, Blue Block turned out to have an agenda of its own.

In their hidden schools, faceless and nameless instructors taught the younger sons and daughters, none of whom would have inherited title or wealth anyway, that the Families as a class were far more important than any one House. And that loyalty to Blue Block therefore superceded any loyalty to individual Clans. They taught their charges other things too, some of them unspeakable, but that still remained a secret. For the moment.

They were the ones who had come up with the deal to put to Jack Random, and now that they had emerged unblinking into the harsh light of public view, they were the ones who enforced it. The Clans saw what they had unknowingly created and were afraid. And so they all bowed down to Blue Block, and kept their rage and plans for bloody revenge to themselves.

Owen, Hazel, Jack, and Ruby were united in their horror of the Pandora’s box of troubles they’d opened, but couldn’t decide what to do about it. Random rushed from one meeting to another, desperately trying to keep a lid on things. It helped that most people were at least willing to listen to him. Everyone respected the legendary Jack Random. Even if they hated his guts. He spent the rest of his time trying to rebuild the very armed forces he’d just finished fighting, in case of attacks by the Empire’s many enemies. The rogue AIs of Shub, the reborn Hadenmen, and any number of potential alien threats were all quite capable of launching an attack upon an Empire distracted by internal divisions.

Ruby Journey meanwhile took every opportunity to loot anyone weaker than her, including several corporations, and lost no time in setting herself up in the kind of luxury she’d always wanted to become accustomed to. She had no interest in politics. If you couldn’t hit or rob something, Ruby was mostly lost for an alternative. So she stayed out of the ongoing negotiations, and everyone else heaved a great sigh of relief.

And Owen and Hazel had become bounty hunters, tracking down escaped war criminals. Officially, they were supposed to bring the villains back to face public trial, but privately it had been agreed on all sides it would be better if certain parties were killed while trying to escape. Owen and Hazel had nodded solemnly when this was explained to them, and decided they’d make up their own minds on the subject, as and when necessary. If there was ever to be any hope of stability in the new order Jack was trying to hammer together, the truly evil had to be punished, and seen to be punished. People like Valentine Wolfe, for example, despised right hand of the Empress and butcher of Virimonde. You couldn’t send just anybody after a dangerous and subtle villain like the Wolfe, so that was where Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d’Ark came in. They were, after all, the most dangerous people the Empire had ever seen.

All Owen had ever really wanted was his old life back, but almost from the moment the rebellion was officially declared triumphant, it seemed to him that everyone and his brother had begun fighting for a chance to grab a piece of the legendary Deathstalker hero. Every political party wanted him as its figurehead. Every cause sent representatives requiring he attach his name and his blade to their demands. Sometimes they even fought duels outside his quarters over who got to speak to him first.

Then there were the holo news networks wanting endless interviews, and agents wanting to buy exclusive rights to his life story. They all wanted pictures and quotes and answers to increasingly personal questions. Not to mention product endorsements and book deals and merchandising rights. Hell, one company even wanted to manufacture a line of action figures based on him and Hazel and Jack and Ruby. Owen just wanted to be left alone, and said so increasingly loudly, but no one listened. So in the end he had fled Golgotha on the Sunstrider II, on what turned out to be the first of many missions as a glorified bounty hunter, licensed and paid by Parliament to clear up the Empire’s more dangerous messes.

Hazel was there too. She said she had just come along to get a little action to keep herself from getting soft, but Owen liked to think she was just bored spitless without an enemy to fight. Though it had to be said she’d never been one to sit around and contemplate the lilies of the field, and settling down to a peaceful and productive life was exactly what she’d become an outlaw to avoid. She couldn’t even get drunk and start fights in bars anymore. Everyone knew who she was, and was scared witless to say anything that might upset her. So when Random had offered her a commission to track down and possibly execute missing war criminals, she’d jumped at the chance, and wasted no time in persuading Owen to join her. Even if she seemed to remember it the other way around. But then, that was Hazel for you. Never happier than when she could lay the blame on someone else.

“We just dropped out of hyperspace over Virimonde,” murmured the AI Ozymandius in Owen’s ear. “Currently maintaining high orbit and all shields. I really don’t know why you wanted to come back here, Owen. I mean, it’s not as if you have any friends here anymore. In fact, I would have to say that the likelihood of our all ending up riddled with holes increases geometrically with every second we are dumb enough to stay here.”

“Nag, nag, nag,” said Owen, subvocalizing so Hazel wouldn’t hear. She didn’t approve of him talking to an AI that was supposed to be dead and no one else could hear. “You never want to go anywhere fun, Oz. This is where our current quarry has gone to ground, so here we are too. Right now Valentine Wolfe is down there somewhere, along with certain aristocratic cronies, all of whom the current authorities would dearly like to see standing in a dock or hanging from a rope. And preferably both. Besides . . . I always said that one day I’d come home to Virimonde.”

There had been a time when Owen Deathstalker had been Lord of the whole planet of Virimonde. And then the Empress Lionstone had outlawed him and taken it all away. His own security people had tried to kill him for the reward on his head, and he’d had to flee for his life. He nearly hadn’t made it. But Hazel had arrived at just the right moment to save his aristocratic ass, as she never tired of reminding him, and they’d been together ever since. He fell in love with her. He still wasn’t sure how she felt about him. His cousin David had been made Lord in his absence, but he died not long after, trying to defend the planet from Lionstone’s troops, led by Valentine Wolfe. The Wolfe had overseen the murder of millions of defenseless people, and the utter destruction of what had been a beautiful rural paradise.

And now Valentine had returned, like a criminal to the scene of his crime, or a dog to its own droppings, and Owen had come back too, to bring belated justice to the destroyer of Virimonde. One way or another.

He sighed quietly to himself. Through all his rebel wanderings, he’d always clung to the secret hope that someday he would be able to return home and take up his old life again as a minor historian of no real importance to anyone but himself. But he’d changed so much, in so many ways, till he wasn’t sure he recognized himself anymore. And given the reports he’d seen of the utter devastation awaiting him below, he wasn’t even sure there was a home left to return to.

“Run sensor scan,” he subvocalized to his AI. “Locate my old Standing and see what kind of force they’ve got protecting it.”

“Way ahead of you as usual,” sniffed the AI. “There’s a fair-sized army surrounding the castle, which according to the comm traffic I’m picking up, Valentine and his associates are currently occupying. Typical. Nothing but the best for dear Valentine. And according to the information we were given before we left Golgotha, which I’ll wager good money you haven’t even looked at, there’s also a hell of a lot of scientific equipment down there, along with scientists to run it. Though no one seems to know what or why.”

“Don’t get uppity, Oz. Just tell me what I need to know.”

“Bully.”

Owen wasn’t quite sure where he stood with Oz. The original Ozymandius had been the Family AI, handed down to Owen from his deceased father. It turned out to contain hidden Empire programming, and had acted as a spy for Lionstone before finally turning on Owen and trying to enslave him with control words it had placed in his subconscious. Owen had had no choice but to use his Maze-given powers to destroy the AI. Only sometime later Oz came back. Or a voice in his head that only he could hear, claiming to be the AI Ozymandius. Certainly it was just as knowledgeable and irritating as the original. Owen had accepted the situation for the time being, for as long as the AI remained useful. And because he hadn’t the faintest idea how to get rid of the voice anyway.

Besides, he’d missed Oz.

“So, do I start the descent or not?” said Oz briskly. “We’re fully cloaked, but there’s no telling how long even Hadenman shields will hold up against the security systems Valentine’s installed here. What used to be standard weather-control satellites have been upgraded with really heavy-duty sensors and more weaponry than your average Fleet cruiser. When the Wolfe says Do Not Disturb, he means it.”

“Maintain orbit,” Owen said firmly. “I want a really good idea of what to expect dirtside before I commit us to a landing. Scan the area surrounding the Standing, ten-mile radius, and report on the local population’s situation.”

“Owen . . . I’ve already done that. There is no local population anymore.”

“What? ”

“I’ve scanned the surrounding areas to the limit of my sensors. There isn’t a single living soul outside of the Standing for hundreds of miles. I’m sorry, Owen.”

Owen shook his head slowly. He’d read the reports on Valentine’s destruction of Virimonde, watched Toby Shreck’s filmed coverage, seen interviews with the few survivors to get off-planet, but he’d always assumed they were exaggerated. No one could oversee the murder of a whole planet’s population just for the fun of it. Not even Valentine Wolfe. Deep down, part of him had desperately wanted to return home to the cheers of his people, overjoyed to have their rightful Lord back at last. He’d wanted to apologize for not being there to protect them. Wanted to promise them that things would be different now he was back. He’d keep them safe, protect them, guard them from all harm. They’d never be hurt again because he was off somewhere else being a hero of the rebellion. There was so much he’d wanted, needed, to say. He hadn’t wanted to believe that all his people were dead.

“What’s the matter?” said Hazel. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” said Owen. “I was just thinking. About the way things used to be here.”

“Don’t,” said Hazel. “That’s always been your problem, Deathstalker. Always living in the past.”

“I understand the past,” said Owen. “Things were simpler then. I understood my world and my Empire and my place in it. Or I thought I did. Since then I’ve seen the destruction of everything I ever believed in, lost everything I ever cared for, and now to top it all, I find I can’t go home again. Because Valentine Wolfe burned it all down and pissed on the ashes. Virimonde is dead.”

“We can’t know that for sure till we get down there and check for ourselves,” said Hazel. “Reports can be exaggerated; sensors can be mistaken. It’s a big world, Owen. He can’t have killed everything.”

“And if he has? If he’s done everything he’s supposed to have done?”

“Then we cut his black heart out, throw it on the ground, and stamp on it. And the same for everyone with him.”

Owen had to smile slightly. “Life’s always been so simple for you, hasn’t it, Hazel? Good guys and bad guys, and a direct, forceful answer to every problem. But you heard the man at the briefing. There are still powers that be who want Valentine brought back alive for a show trial. If only because they could sell holo rights for a small fortune.”

“I keep up with things,” said Hazel. “And for every faction that wants the Wolfe brought back alive, I’ll bet I can name ten who’d very much rather he came back with flies buzzing around him. Not least the clone and esper undergrounds. If word ever gets out that Valentine Wolfe had once been an active part and supporter of the undergrounds, they’d lose what little public support and popularity they have. And on top of that, there are any number of people who struck questionable deals with him in the past, and don’t want it coming out now they’ve re-created themselves as pure-hearted supporters of the rebellion.”

“And that’s why we’re going to bring the bastard back alive,” Owen said firmly. “Not necessarily in one piece, but definitely alive. I’m no man’s puppet, and no organization’s either. I need to send a signal that no one pressures me. And I won’t kill him just because I want to.”

“You and your damned conscience,” said Hazel. “All right, so we try to take him alive. What about his supporters?”

“Massacre the lot, for all I care.”

“Now you’re talking,” said Hazel.

Owen leaned back in his chair, interlocked his fingers before him, and stared at them thoughtfully. “He wasn’t always a monster, you know. Valentine. We were children together, moved in the same circles, went to the same parties. He seemed quite . . . normal then. Nothing out of the ordinary. No sign then of the psychopath he became. Just another kid, perhaps a little quieter than most. Much like me. We were never actually friends, but I can remember good times we had together. And then we went our different ways, to be trained as a Wolfe and a Deathstalker, and I didn’t see him again for years. And sometimes I find myself wondering how two such similar children became such different adults.”

“People change,” said Hazel. “Whether they want to or not. Life writes our scripts, and we just get to ad lib now and again.”

Owen looked at her. “Why, Hazel, that was almost profound.”

“Don’t you patronize me, Deathstalker. I have a mind. I have read the occasional book in my time. When there was nothing else to do. I just meant that even while we’re busy changing the universe, it’s busy changing us. Look at you; you’re not the person you used to be, even a few years ago. Thank God. The Owen Deathstalker I saved from certain death down below is a very different man from the official hero who toppled an empire.”

“I know,” said Owen. “That bothers me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Hazel. “He really was a stuck-up little prig.”

Owen raised an eyebrow. “Then why did you stick with him?”

Hazel smiled. “I thought I saw potential in him.”

Owen’s mouth twitched. “I thought much the same about you.” And then he frowned again.

“Oh, hell, Owen, now what? I swear, you know more ways to depress yourself than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I was just thinking about Finlay Campbell. We should have included him on this trip.”

“We’ve been through this, Owen. The man is obsessed. He’s sworn a vendetta against Valentine. Sworn to kill the man, on his blood and on his honor. If we’re to keep our options open down there, we can’t afford to have the Campbell anywhere near us. He’s always been . . . erratic. They tried using him as a bounty hunter, but he always brought them back dead. Sometimes in pieces. Last I heard, his girlfriend, Evangeline, was trying to get him interested in politics. God help Parliament, that’s all I have to say.”

“He fought beside us. He was a hero of the rebellion, just like us. And Valentine wiped out his whole Family. It doesn’t feel right, keeping this from him.”

“Owen, we hardly know the man. You’re the one who wants to bring Valentine in alive. If the Campbell were here . . .”

“Yes, I know. But if we’re keeping secrets from people who are supposed to be our comrades, what might they be keeping from us?”

“Hell,” said Hazel lightly. “Everyone’s got secrets.”

She realized how that sounded only after she’d said it, and she held her breath a moment before Owen grunted and turned away to study the sensor readings on the main display screen. Hazel let her breath out slowly, so Owen wouldn’t hear it, and tried to relax. There were still things she was keeping from Owen, partly because she didn’t want him getting upset, and partly because she still believed in keeping her own business to herself. Ever since she’d first passed through the Madness Maze on the Wolfling World and been changed forever, she’d been having problems with dreams. To begin with, they had been just disturbing images, but more and more these days the dreams persisted into her waking world, and she couldn’t push aside the thought that they meant something. Something important. She was dreaming every night now, clear and distinct, and she couldn’t tell if she was seeing the past or the future. It was as though Time was unraveling in her head, in the darkest hours of the night, when her defenses were at their weakest. Something in her mind was showing her things, and wouldn’t let her look away.

While on Mistworld, she’d dreamed of the Empire invasion hours before it actually happened.

Last night there had been three dreams, one after the other. First she dreamed of the Blood Runners, the evil inhabitants of the dark Obeah worlds, far out on the Rim where no one ever went, who’d once tried to kidnap her for their never ending experiments into the nature of suffering and existence. Owen had saved her then, reaching out with his mind across countless light-years to strike down their leader. In her dream, they looked at her with knowing, cruel eyes, watching and waiting with horrid patience. They held something in their hands. Something sharp.

Then she dreamed of Owen’s Family Standing, on Virimonde. She’d walked the empty stone corridors with easy familiarity, though she’d never been there before. It was bitter cold, the cold of the grave, and blood trickled down the walls, staining the ancient tapestries and exquisite carpets. There was someone waiting around the next corner, and far down below, something awful.

And finally she dreamed she stood alone on the bridge of Sunstrider II while all hell broke out around her. There were ships attacking from every side, ships beyond counting, overwhelming her defenses even as she fought frantically to hold them back. All the alarms were sounding, and the Sunstrider II’s guns fired again and again. There was no sign of Owen anywhere.

Past, present, and future. Maybe. But were they predictions or just warnings? Did they mean she had a chance to change things, rewrite history, defy destiny? Or was she just going crazy, like everyone else around her?

There had been a time when the forbidden drug Blood had helped her cope with many things, including the dreams, but she’d moved beyond that. She’d been so physically transformed from what she used to be she doubted Blood would even be able to make a dent in her body chemistry these days. Besides, Blood was heavily addictive, and she was damned if anything or anyone was ever going to have control over her again, including her own weaknesses.

“What do you suppose Valentine and his cronies are up to down there?” she said suddenly, determined to distract herself.

“Beats the hell out of me,” said Owen, still studying the data scrolling past him on the viewscreen. The data was moving far too fast for normal eyes to follow, but neither of them mentioned it. They were used to small changes like that. “He’s reinforced the Standing’s shields. I’m not picking up anything useful. Which is in itself significant. He shouldn’t have access to anything strong enough to keep out Hadenman-designed sensors. So who’s been supplying him with tech?”

“We’ll have to ask him,” said Hazel. “When we get down there.”

“Too many questions,” said Owen, finally shutting down the viewscreen. “Too many unknowns. Why did he return here? Why did he take over my old home? What did he hope to achieve here that was so important he was willing to risk me coming after him?”

“He’s here for a specific purpose,” said Hazel. “Has to be, or he couldn’t have persuaded so many people to come here with him. And somebody must have paid for all that fancy equipment he’s supposed to have with him. If you ask me, it’s something to do with drugs. Everything with Valentine turns out to be something to do with drugs.”

“Or revenge. He’s a Wolfe, after all. And Oz says his security systems are advanced far beyond anything he should have access to.”

Hazel looked at him sharply. “You’re still hearing voices, aren’t you?”

“I do wish you wouldn’t put it like that. And it’s only one voice.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me? At this rate you’ll be saying you only overthrew the Empire because the Devil told you to. That’s going to go down really well with the general populace.”

“It’s just my old AI!”

“Then why can’t I hear it on my comm system? Why can’t anyone else hear it? And you were very definite you’d killed the bloody thing after it betrayed us on the Wolfling World.”

“I thought it was dead. But I’m not as sure about a lot of things as I used to be. After all, you and I have been through a lot of things that should have killed us. Haven’t we?”

Hazel had no quick answer to that. So they stared at each other in an uncomfortable silence for a long moment, until they were suddenly interrupted by all the yacht’s warning sirens going off at once, the floor rocking under their feet as something really powerful hit the ship like a hammer.

“Oz!” yelled Owen. “What the hell’s going on?”

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you,” said the AI calmly. “Valentine’s security systems have finally broken through our cloaking shields, and the armed satellites are currently throwing everything they’ve got at us. Which is actually quite considerable. Main shields are holding. For the moment. Do I have your permission to return fire?”

“Of course you bloody do! Blow the nearest satellites out of the sky and then get us dirtside as fast as you can.”

“Landing coordinates?”

“Not too far from the Standing. Walking distance.”

“About time you got some healthy exercise,” said the AI approvingly. “You’ve been putting on weight.”

“Well?” said Hazel. “What’s happening?”

“Valentine knows we’re here. And the voice in my head now thinks it’s my mother. I’m bringing the ship down fast. Grab onto something and pray for a soft landing.”

“Hell with that,” said Hazel. “I want to get some shots of my own in first.”

“Why bother? The ship’s fire computers are perfectly capable—”

“God, you’re a wimp sometimes, Deathstalker. It’s the principle of the thing.”

And off she went, up to the bridge to plug herself into the fire systems. Owen let her go. That was Hazel for you. Never happier than with a gun of some kind in her hand, causing destruction and devastation and ruining someone’s day. He strapped himself into his chair and waited patiently. At least the Sunstrider II had decent guns. The original Sunstrider had spent most of its short life being chased from one world to another, often shot up and on fire, until it finally crash-landed in the deadly jungles of Shandrakor. When Owen had the new yacht built around the salvaged engines of the old, he had insisted the Hadenmen install as many state-of-the-art weapon systems as the craft could hold. He didn’t like having to run. It wasn’t in his nature.

And then the ship lurched again, as something really nasty slammed through the energy shields and impacted on the reinforced hull. The lights flickered briefly, and Owen tensed, waiting for the shrill warning of a hull breach. It didn’t come, but Owen decided his proper place was on the bridge, after all. Defense computers could do only so much. He ran all the way, but still had enough breath left when he got there to demand of Hazel what the hell was going on.

“Damned if I know, Deathstalker,” said Hazel briskly, eyes fixed on the control panels before her. “I’ve never encountered firepower like this. At least, not from any human tech.”

Owen dropped into the seat beside her and quickly studied the tactical displays. Main shields were still holding, but they were taking a hell of a battering. There was some damage to the outer hull, mostly superficial. The Hadenmen knew how to build a ship. “This shouldn’t be happening,” he said finally. “The Hadenmen assured me we could stand off everything up to and including an Empire starcruiser.”

“Should have got it in writing, stud,” said Hazel, smiling briefly as one of Valentine’s satellites exploded under her guns. “Maybe Valentine made a deal with the Hadenmen too. Or he’s been talking to Shub. Or even the aliens. Selling out all Humanity for simple personal gain is exactly the kind of thing you’d expect from Valentine Wolfe. Either way, we are in over our heads and sinking fast. Suggestions of a practical nature are urgently invited. Also prayers.”

“To hell with trying to fight it out,” said Owen. “Throw as much power as you can into the shields and get us down fast, Oz. Hopefully the satellites are only programmed to hit things in a predetermined area. Once we’ve dropped below their response level, they should leave us alone. And then let us all hope Valentine hasn’t also invested in some ground defenses.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Hazel. “Can I make the landing?”

“No,” said Owen firmly. “Let Oz do it. I’ve seen your landings, Hazel.”

“Spoilsport.”

The Sunstrider II plunged screaming through the atmosphere, wreathed in flames, until finally it fell out of range of the satellites, and the attack cut off. Owen and Hazel braced themselves for ground responses, but there were none. Apparently Valentine had expected his souped-up satellites to be all that was needed to discourage visitors. With any other ship he’d probably have been right. Oz finally eased off the steep descent and searched out a landing spot not too far from the Standing. Owen allowed himself to relax a little.

“It would seem Valentine has powerful new allies,” he said thoughtfully. “I wonder what other surprises he has in store for us.”

“Something nasty, no doubt,” said Hazel. “Knowing Valentine. But we can handle it.”

“Don’t get cocky,” said Owen. “Valentine hasn’t survived this long by leaving anything to chance. He must have known I’d be coming after him once he set up shop here. He must have made . . . preparations.”

“There’s nothing he can throw at us that we can’t throw right back at him,” said Hazel calmly. “I could have handled those satellites eventually, if you hadn’t chickened out. Nothing can harm us anymore, Owen. Not after all we’ve been through.”

“Cocky,” said Owen. “Definitely cocky. It’ll all end in tears—”

He would have said more, but navigation chimed discreetly, alerting him that the Sunstrider II was coming in for a touch down. Owen and Hazel studied the short- and long-range sensor displays carefully, but the ship landed without incident. Oz made them wait while he ran through his landing checklist.

“Air quality, tolerable. Cold for the time of year, but within acceptable limits. No life signs. All right, it’s now officially safe to disembark. For old times’ sake, I’ve put down at the exact spot where Hazel first encountered you, Owen. Just call me a silly old sentimentalist.”

“Shut up, Oz.”

They made their way down to the airlock, and then Owen waited patiently while Hazel weighed herself down with a few more guns and ammunition belts. For all her claims of invulnerability, she still never felt really comfortable about going out in public unless she was carrying more guns than the average armed patrol group. Owen leaned against the steel bulkhead and remembered how things had been the first time he’d met Hazel d’Ark.

He’d been on the run from his own security guards, badly wounded, fleeing desperately in a damaged flyer. They’d shot him down only a few miles from his Standing. He’d staggered away from the burning wreckage, bleeding profusely, and set his back against a nearby tree, to hold him up while he made his last stand.

And then Hazel had appeared out of nowhere to save him from his enemies, cutting them down like a glorious if somewhat shop-soiled valkyrie, and together they’d fled Virimonde in the first Sunstrider. Owen had never been back since. He’d always meant to, but the rebellion never gave him time. He’d spent his childhood on a dozen different planets, as his father darted around the Empire pursuing his endless intrigues. But Virimonde had been his and his alone, his haven from a Family and a warrior’s destiny he’d never wanted. The only place he’d ever thought of as home.

“Come on, stud, let’s get this show on the road. I haven’t killed anyone in hours, and I’m starting to get twitchy.”

And then there was Hazel, large as life and twice as dangerous, carrying enough guns to start her own war. Owen had to smile.

“What’s so funny?” she said suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that according to Oz, we’ve touched down at the exact spot where you and I first met.”

“You always were too nostalgic for your own good, Deathstalker. Crack that airlock and let’s get our feet dirty. I didn’t come all this way just to stand around.”

“You don’t have a single sentimental bone in your body, do you, Hazel?”

“For which I thank the good Lord daily. Sentiment just gets in the way of getting the job done.”

Owen sighed and opened the airlock. The planet’s air wafted in, and he took a deep breath, expecting the old, familiar scents of grass and earth and growing things. Instead he coughed harshly as his lungs were filled with hot, dry air choked with dust. Owen and Hazel looked at each other, and then Owen stepped cautiously out onto the planet he had once owned. The sky was dark and overcast, the light gray and lifeless. Where once there had been green fields and the rich foliage of rambling woods, now there was only churned-up mud for as far as he could see in any direction. No fields or crops or low stone boundary walls, just the mud, dark and gritty with trodden-in ashes.

For a moment Owen thought he must have come to the wrong planet. Nowhere on the pastoral world of Virimonde had ever looked like this. But of course it did, now. Just as he’d always known it would, deep down.

“Damn,” said Hazel quietly. “I’m sorry, Owen.”

“I think the trees were over there,” said Owen. He tried to point, but his arm seemed very heavy. “Right over there. But they’re gone now. It’s all gone. Everything. Nothing to show they or we were ever here. They even took my past away from me. And it’s all my fault.”

“How the hell do you work that out?” said Hazel.

“I was Lord of this world. This planet and everyone on it were given to me, and put under my protection. But I went away and left them defenseless when the Empire’s wolves came. I wasn’t here when they needed me.”

“Now, that is bullshit,” said Hazel. “They threw you out! Your own security people turned against you. You were outlawed. And you can be damned sure there wasn’t a man or a woman here who wouldn’t have cheerfully sold you out in a moment for the price on your head. Your cousin David was Lord here after you, and he couldn’t even save himself when the Empire forces came. Hell, he was one of them, and they killed him anyway.”

“You’re right,” said Owen. “But it doesn’t help. I should have been here.”

“Then you’d be dead too. Is that what you want?”

“Sometimes. The old me is dead. I lost him somewhere along the long rebel trail that led to Lionstone’s Court. I miss him. I liked him a lot better than the killing machine I’ve become.”

“Don’t start that again. Change isn’t death.”

“It was for Virimonde. This used to be a food planet. The crops and livestock we raised here fed people all across the Empire. Who’ll feed them now? Look at it, Hazel. They killed this world.”

“You could start over. Pump enough microorganisms into the soil, plant the right seeds, and this world could bloom again. In time.”

“Maybe. But it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be the world I knew.”

Hazel shook her head exasperatedly. “It always comes back to you, doesn’t it, Deathstalker? Typical aristo, seeing everything in terms of himself. Virimonde isn’t the only world to get trashed by the Empress’s whims. That’s the kind of thing we fought the rebellion over. Remember?”

Owen tried to smile for her. “I know. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I don’t really have the right, I suppose. My people lost everything. But I can at least avenge them. Valentine will pay for what he did here. I’ll see him die, and die hard, and to hell with the consequences.”

Hazel clapped him hard on the shoulder. “That’s more like it. When all else fails, there’s always revenge.”

“You’re a woman of simple pleasures, Hazel.”

“That’s what you think, stud.” She grinned at Owen, and he had to grin back.

They stood together for a while, sharing the moment. The world was very quiet, not even a murmur of breeze to disturb the dead silence. Owen and Hazel looked slowly around them, and nothing looked back. Hazel frowned suddenly.

“What?” said Owen.

“I hate to sound morbid . . . but shouldn’t there be a hell of a lot of bodies lying around? Or bits of bodies, or . . . something? All I can see is miles and miles of mud.”

“You’ve got a point,” said Owen slowly. “It is a bit . . . tidy, isn’t it? I wasn’t aware anyone had sent in a clean-up crew yet. Hang on a minute.” He accessed his AI. “Oz, where are all the bodies?”

“Damned if I know, Owen. According to the records, there was a major battle right here, between the incumbent peasants and the invading forces.”

“Scan the area, Oz. Find me some bodies.”

“Scanning. Now, that is interesting. I’m picking up some decayed animal remains mixed in with the mud, but absolutely no trace anywhere of human remains, in any form. I have no explanation for this.”

“So what the hell happened to the bodies? Could Shub have paid a visit here, looking for raw materials for their Ghost Warriors?”

“Unlikely,” said the AI. “Even allowing for the current scattered state of the Imperial Fleet, such a visit would hardly have gone unreported. And you can forget about a clean-up crew. There isn’t enough manpower available to deal with the needs of the living right now, never mind the dead. Unless . . . Valentine had them removed.”

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“To show he’s sorry, and make amends?”

Hazel cut in, demanding to know what Oz was saying. Owen told her, and she snorted dismissively. “You can forget that. Valentine never apologized for anything in his life.”

“But I’ll bet he does know what happened,” said Owen. “It’s the kind of thing he’d want to know. So I guess we’ll just have to slog our way through the mud to my old Standing, haul him out by the scruff of the neck, and ask him.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Hazel. “Is it okay if I stick my gun in his ear while you question him?”

“Be my guest.”

Owen started out across the sea of churned mud in the direction he thought his old Standing lay. The distance was concealed behind a gray haze, grimly enigmatic. According to Oz, his old home was just over two miles away, so he and Hazel were just out of range of the castle’s sensors. Unless Valentine had souped them up too. Owen smiled humorlessly. It didn’t matter a damn if Valentine had. Let him know his death was coming. There might only be the two of them, against an unknown number of enemies, but Owen didn’t care. Even an army couldn’t stop him now. The thought pulled him up short, and he scowled. More and more these days he found himself thinking things that scared him. He wondered what he was becoming. The changes the Madness Maze had worked in him seemed to be accelerating, if anything. At first he’d just been a man with an edge, and then a man with unfamiliar esp abilities, but he hadn’t been merely human in a long time. He was leaving his humanity behind, and he knew it, and it scared him. Which was perhaps why he clung so desperately to his old, human, beliefs in honor and justice.

He sighed tiredly. He’d come a long way from the simple minor historian he’d been the last time he was here. But he’d lost everything when he was outlawed, and had no choice but to become the warrior his Clan had always wanted. Become what he despised most, or die. He’d achieved a great deal, righted wrongs and meted out justice high and low, but at the end of the day there was just so much blood on his hands. . . . Most of it from people who deserved to die, but not all. For every clear villain who’d died at his hand, there’d been a hundred men who were just soldiers following orders, doing what they thought was right. Protecting a corrupt Empire because all the other alternatives seemed worse. Brave fighters who’d died because they were unfortunate enough to stand between Owen Deathstalker and his destiny. So many faceless dead. He dreamed of them sometimes.

There was a child he’d crippled and killed in the grimy back streets of Mistport. It had been an accident. And she had been trying to kill him at the time. But none of that mattered. He’d struck out blindly, in the rage of battle, and the result was a young girl lying in the blood-spattered snow. He’d never forgiven himself for that, and never would. If there was any purpose to the warrior he’d become, it was to put an end to a system that produced children like that. And perhaps to protect people like that from people like him.

That was what it meant to be a Deathstalker.

He glanced across at Hazel, striding determinedly beside him. Her long, ratty red hair fell down around a sharp and pointed face. Not conventionally pretty perhaps, but then Hazel d’Ark didn’t believe in being conventional in anything if she could help it. Owen thought she was beautiful, but then, he was biased. He loved her, quietly, secretly. She wasn’t at all the kind of woman he’d thought he’d fall in love with, and certainly not the kind of woman he was supposed to marry, to continue the centuries-old Deathstalker line, but he loved her nonetheless. Despite all the reasons, or maybe even because of them. Hazel was bright and funny, honest when it suited her, and the bravest woman he’d ever known. Not to mention hell on wheels with any weapon you could name. He admired her immensely, but was careful to keep it to himself. She’d only take advantage. She was confident when he was not, cautious when he forgot to be, and she never forgot what they were fighting for. And he knew that if he ever mentioned the word love, she’d leave him flat. Hazel had made it clear, on more than one occasion, that she didn’t believe in things like love. They tied you down, made you vulnerable, and led to subjects like commitment and trust and openness, none of which had any place in Hazel’s life. So he accepted what warmth and friendship she offered on her own terms, and hoped. They were together, and if that was all he could have, it was more than he’d ever had before.

“Why are we walking?” said Hazel suddenly. “I made sure they loaded gravity sleds on board before we left.”

“Sleds would show up on the Standing’s scanners,” Owen said patiently. “We, on the other hand, have proved invisible to most scanners ever since we passed through the Maze. Just another useful side effect that no one understands. So we walk, and hopefully slip through Valentine’s defenses unnoticed.”

“Hate walking,” said Hazel, scowling. “Makes my back ache. If God had meant us to walk, he wouldn’t have given us antigrav.”

“Admire the scenery,” suggested Owen.

“Ha bloody ha. Last time I walked through anything like this, all the field toilets had failed at once.”

“Walking is supposed to be very good for you.”

“So is eating sensibly and abstinence, and I hate them too. I’m warning you right now, Deathstalker: I’d better get to kill a hell of a lot of people at your Standing, or there’s going to be trouble.”

“Oh, I think I can guarantee that,” said Owen. “The one thing you can be sure of is that we have absolutely no friends at all at the Deathstalker Standing.”

* * * *

The Deathstalker Standing was a great stone castle set on top of a hill, its pale gray stone marked here and there by damage and burns from energy weapons from when the Empire had laid seige to the castle to capture its then Lord, David Deathstalker. Now it suffered the occupation of Lord Valentine Wolfe and his cronies. The Wolfe had come to Virimonde for his own purposes, and the others had followed because they had no choice. He was their only hope of unseating the rebellion and putting them back in power again. Not for them the lesser glories of trade and influence. They wanted, needed, to be lords and masters.

They were also there because he held their lives in the palm of his hand, though they tried not to think about that unless they were forced to. But nothing else could have persuaded such aristocratic movers and shakers to ally themselves so closely with the notorious Valentine Wolfe. He was mad, bad, and dangerous to know, but he had something, a weapon of such potential power that they couldn’t risk losing it. So they allied themselves with the despised Wolfe and bet their lives they could outmaneuver him at some future point. Which was a sign of how desperate they were.

Valentine sat at his ease in the Lord’s chair in the great dining hall of what had been the Deathstalker’s Standing, and watched tolerantly as his cronies wrecked the place. They were partly drunk, from too many bottles of wine with a good dinner, and now they were laughing as they threw food around and overturned the furniture. The Lord Silvestri was throwing his knives at the Family portraits hanging on the walls, showing Deathstalkers down the ages. He was aiming for the eyes, and hitting them more often than not. The Lord Romanov had pulled down a precious tapestry and was wearing it like a shawl as he drank brandy straight from the bottle. The Lord Kartakis was stamping back and forth on top of the table, fondly believing he was dancing to the ribald song he was singing defiantly off key. Valentine smiled on them as errant children and allowed them their fun. There wasn’t much for them to do, and they had been cooped up in the castle for a long time. And Valentine did so like to see the Deathstalker’s precious things being violated, as he would someday destroy the man himself.

Valentine Wolfe sat in a chair far too large for him, one long leg slung over an arm of the chair, his other foot up on the table. Dressed as always all in black, his pale white face surrounded by long dark ringlets of oiled and scented hair, his mouth a scarlet slash, and his eyes heavy with mascara, he looked the very picture of the utter villain he strove to be. And the drugs, the glorious drugs, ran riot in his system as they always had. It had been truly said of Valentine that he’d never met a chemical he didn’t like, and if you could smoke it, swallow it, inject it, or stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, Valentine was right there at the front of the line, ready to give it a try. He saw his chemically enhanced mind as an ongoing work of art, and was constantly striving to perfect it. The ultimate high was still out there somewhere, and Valentine pursued it tirelessly.

To that end he’d taken the rare and immediately addictive esper drug, even though he knew it killed a small but significant percentage of those who took it. Valentine had survived, of course. Probably because you couldn’t affect his radically transmuted body chemistry with anything less than fuming nitric acid. The drug had given him minor telepathic powers, along with complete control of his autonomic nervous system, and his thoughts moved along strange and unfamiliar tracks. He threw one drug on top of another, maintaining a complex balance through sheer effort of will. Valentine thought of himself as the first in a new breed of Humanity, like the Hadenmen—an alchemical step forward, or perhaps sideways, on the evolutionary ladder.

He watched Carlos Silvestri throw his knives again and again, tearing the eyes out of great men just because he could, to prove to everyone that he wasn’t afraid of the mighty Owen Deathstalker. Silvestri was a tall, thin man, all long limbs and sudden angles. He dressed in shades of red, the traditional color of his Clan. It didn’t suit him. His face was round and puffy, as though it hadn’t yet decided what it wanted to be when it grew up, though the man had to be at least forty. He shaved his head bald and plucked his other hairs. He was good with a knife and better with a sword. He would have made a great swordsman and duelist if only he’d had the courage of his convictions. But the Silvestri had always been a very cautious man who preferred to watch from the sidelines and work through underlings, and never, ever, get his hands dirty himself. He’d never forgiven Finlay Campbell for the assassination of his good friend William St. John, and had spent much time and money on plans to have the Campbell killed, but none of them had succeeded. Now with Finlay a man of power and substance once again, and the Silvestri’s powers drastically reduced by Random’s deal and the emergence of Blue Block, Carlos Silvestri had been forced to turn to Valentine as his only possible savior. And if that had turned out very differently from what he’d intended, it just put a little more emphasis into the throw of his knives.

Valentine smiled and turned his attention to Pieter Romanov, that fat and ruddy man wrapped in a torn masterpiece. Pieter believed a man should be recognized by the breadth and achievement of his appetites, and indulged each sense till they groaned under the weight of his will. There was in him a hunger that would not be satisfied, no matter how he tried. His people obeyed his every whim, or he had them killed and replaced with those who would. Pieter was an aristocrat’s aristocrat, and he had taken Random’s deal hard. Not for him the lesser power and rewards of mere business. So he went looking for an ally, a great man of power and influence, who would put things back the way they once were, the way they should be. A man of vision and destiny. Unfortunately, all he could find was Valentine. But the Wolfe at least had a plan, which was more than most, and Pieter couldn’t help but admire a man whose taste for indulgence actually surpassed his. So Pieter and Valentine had made a pact, and if the Romanov found the source of their power base to be somewhat distressing, there was always another meal and another bottle from the Deathstalker’s excellent wine cellar to help distract him.

And finally there was Athos Kartakis. A short and swarthy man with a flashing smile and a temperament that could change in a moment from brightest day to darkest night. He collected insults and saw dueling as a sport. He never accepted first blood, and always went for the kill. People tended to be very careful what they said around the young Lord Kartakis. His Clan had never been more than a fairly minor House, and generations had been spending money faster than it came in. Kartakis had inherited many debts, and wasted no time in adding many of his own. Creditors preferred to forget their bills rather than risk fighting a duel over them, but even so, everyone knew the true state of affairs, and Kartakis knew they knew. The deal Blue Block had brokered with Random had been the last straw. Take away his lordship, and Kartakis had nothing left. He’d never survive as a businessman. If only because he’d made so many enemies in trade. And so he had pawned what was left of his soul with Valentine.

Valentine watched his people at their play, and thought pleasantly on the day he wouldn’t need their support anymore and could have them all killed in slow and interesting ways. He’d just begun to number the ways and select his very favorite when the viewscreen on the wall chimed politely. Valentine raised a painted eyebrow. He’d given the servants to understand that he wasn’t to be interrupted at his dinner for anything less than a major emergency, and after he’d had that footman flayed from the waist down, they’d learned to follow his instructions to the letter. So he accepted the call and directed his cronies to hush themselves. The screen cleared to show that sinister butterball of a man, the ex-Lord Gregor Shreck. The Shreck sat behind an ugly but functional wooden table, covered with papers and reports. He nodded curtly to Valentine, the nearest he ever got to polite behavior, and plunged right in without bothering with any more amenities:

“You’re in trouble, Wolfe. Parliament’s sent a force to investigate what you’re up to on Virimonde.”

“Really?” said Valentine, unperturbed as always. “Andjust how large an army are they sending?”

“It’s worse than an army. They’ve sent Deathstalker and d’Ark.”