Deathstalker Honor (80 page)

“They want something,” said Bonnie. “And they never let anything get in the way of what they want. Least of all morality. I can respect that. Sometimes, in order to achieve anything of value, you have to be prepared to sacrifice something else of value. Friends, honor, morality . . . love. I love my Owen with all my rotten heart, but I’d sacrifice him to save the Empire, and he knows it. Can you say you wouldn’t do the same?”

“I lost my Owen,” said Midnight. “I would sacrifice the Empire and everything in it to have him in my arms again.”

“But how would he feel about that?” said Hazel.

“Oh, he’d be appalled,” said Midnight. “But then, Owen always was much more honorable than me.”

“Where’s your Owen?” said Bonnie to Hazel.

“Around,” she said. “He was overseeing the repairs to the wall, but I haven’t seen him for ages. Been too busy. I thought he was going to die today, but once again he pulled himself back from the brink. Man’s got more lives than a basket full of cats. But . . . just for a moment, while he was lying there in his own blood, I thought,
What would I do without him? What would there be for me to live for with him gone?
”

“Why don’t you tell him that?” said Midnight softly. “If the Hadenmen come again, you might not get another chance.”

“Later maybe,” said Hazel. “We’re still needed here.”

“I can help out for a while,” said Bonnie. “Go find your Owen.”

Hazel looked down at the ground before her. “I never wanted commitment. To be bound to any one person. I’ve spent my whole life fighting to be free, defying any kind of authority, just to be sure that no one ran my life but me. And then I met Owen, and fate bound us together no matter how much we struggled. I . . . admire him greatly. He’s brave and kind and honorable, and he loves me. I’ve always known that. But . . . I never loved anyone in my whole life. I don’t know if I have it in me to love anyone, even a man as fine as Owen. I’m not the loving kind.”

“I thought that for a long time,” said Midnight. “I didn’t realize the truth till my Owen was dead and lost to me forever. Don’t make the mistake I did, and wait too long. We heroes tend to live tragically short lives.”

“Go talk to the man,” said Bonnie. “I’ll cover for you with Saint Bea. Come on, Midnight; you hold them down and I’ll do the stitches.”

They got up, squared their shoulders, and went back into the slaughterhouse. Hazel sat alone on the steps, staring out into the gloom.

 

Owen Deathstalker moved through the open compound, anonymous again in his leper’s cloak and pulled-down hood, listening to the people talk. They sat in small clumps around open fires, passing their last few bottles of booze back and forth. It was supposed to have gone for the infirmary, for emergency use, but it hadn’t taken the lepers long to decide that if their current need wasn’t an emergency, they didn’t know what was, so they’d dug up the hidden bottles they’d stashed away for a dry day, and poured the stuff down their necks as fast as they could stand it. The cheer of their victory hadn’t blinded them to the reality of their situation. They knew they were just waiting for the next act. So they talked and laughed and sang, praised Saint Bea and the Sisters of Glory, and talked about the living legends who had come to lead and protect them.

“They say the Deathstalker died and brought himself back to life,” said a leper with half his face eaten away.

“Nah,” said another man, his face hidden in the shadows of a broad-brimmed hat. “When you’re dead, you’re dead, like the blessed Sister Kathleen. When you’re gone, you don’t come back.”

“That’s for the likes of us,” said the third man at the fire, a tall, gangling sort, sitting hugging his bony knees to his chest. “We’re human. He isn’t. Not anymore.”

“Of course he’s human,” said the first man. “He was born among us to become more than us, to lead us to victory. Like he led the rebels against the Empress.”

“That was Jack Random,” said the second man. “The professional rebel. Though they say he’s immortal too these days. And Ruby Journey and Hazel d’Ark, and that bloody Hadenman Moon. Every bugger except us, seems like.”

“Yeah,” said the third man. “But they’re still human. Old Daft Sally asked Hazel d’Ark to heal her by laying on of hands. Didn’t work.”

“Maybe Sally just didn’t have enough faith,” said the first man.

Owen decided he didn’t like the way the conversation was going. He stepped forward into the light of the fire. “May I join you, friends?”

“Sure,” said the first man. “Take a pew. I’m Harry. The one with the stupid hat is Sigurd, and the boring one is Glum.”

“I’m Giles,” said Owen. “I’m . . . new. I’ve met the Deathstalker. He didn’t seem all that special to me. Just a man, trying to do what’s right.”

“Then you must have had your eyes shut,” said Harry, picking at a scab on the side of his face he still had left. “He’s been touched by God. Has to have been to do all the things he’s done. They say angels fought alongside him in the great rebellion, and were seen flying in the skies above all the great battles.”

“He’s no Saint,” said Sigurd. “There’s only one Saint here, and she’s still up to her elbows in guts in the infirmary. And I saw the Deathstalker on the holo, fighting in the streets on Golgotha, and there weren’t any bloody angels there. Just Hazel d’Ark, and she sure as hell isn’t any angel. Unless it’s the fallen kind. Nice tits, though.”

“Angels wouldn’t show up on a film,” said Harry patiently. “They’re spiritual creatures.”

“If he was a Saint, he’d heal us,” said Glum, still looking down at his knees. “Save us all, and wipe out the Hadenmen with a wave of his hand. But he didn’t, because he can’t. No, he’s powerful, all right, but he’s still one of us.”

“There are those who say he’s a monster,” Owen said quietly. “That no one should be able to do the things he can do. That all power corrupts—”

“Bull!” said Harry angrily. “He was born an aristo, but he gave it all up to champion the downtrodden! He gave up wealth and position of his own free will, refusing to live in comfort while the people lived in slavery! He’s a hero. A legend.”

“That was Jack Random,” said Sigurd stubbornly.

“Random was a failure on his own. Everyone knows that. The Deathstalker fought for us when no one else would. Freed Jack Random from prison and put new life into him. He could have been Emperor if he wanted, but he turned it down.” Harry shook his head wonderingly. “You only see his like once in a thousand years.”

“He gave the Hadenmen a chance at redemption,” said Glum, looking up for the first time. “Who else would have done that? All right, they betrayed him in the end, but that’s Hadenmen for you.”

“They say he killed a Grendel with his bare hands,” said Harry reverently. “A Grendel, mind you! No man could do that who wasn’t touched by God.”

“But doesn’t it scare you, some of the things he can do?” said Owen.

“Oh, hell,” said Sigurd. “Of course he’s scary. Heroes always are. They’re all pretty spooky, all the Maze people. If they did go bad, who could stop them? They could kill us all, lay waste to whole planets, destroy the damned Empire if the whim took them. They could be monsters. But the point is, they aren’t. The Deathstalker came here to save us when no one else would. He could die here, along with us, and no one would ever know. But he came anyway, because it was the right thing to do. In the end, that’s all that matters.”

“Touched by God,” said Glum. “Driven by destiny. Chosen to be a hero. Poor bastard.”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “He could have taken the crown. I would have. Instead he’s here with us. In Hell.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Owen. “From what I’ve heard, Parliament’s an even more dangerous place than this. At least here you can be sure who your enemies are.” He got to his feet. “I have to go. Thanks for your company, friends.”

He left them sitting around their fire and made his way back across the compound, heading nowhere in particular. He’d heard them talk about Owen Deathstalker as a hero and a legend, and as some poor bastard touched by God, and didn’t recognize himself in either vision. As a historian, he’d always known such revision and reinvention of his life was inevitable, but it came hard to see himself already disappearing behind the old masks of myth and folk hero. They’d be saying he was born in a manger next, with three wise Lords come to visit him.

His feet took him to the infirmary, where Hazel was. When in doubt, he always went to Hazel. She was perhaps the only person who’d known him from the beginning, who’d been through all the changes with him. Perhaps the only person left who knew the real him. He found her sitting on the steps outside the infirmary, her head hanging tiredly down. He sat down beside her, and she grunted an acknowledgment.

“You should get some sleep,” said Owen gently. “It’s been a long day.”

“You’re the one who should be sleeping,” said Hazel. “Hell, you nearly died today.”

Owen shrugged. “Business as usual. Saint Bea still working in there?”

“Yeah. Nearly finished, though. Those who were going to die have done so, and the rest have all been attended to. She’s just mopping the place out now. Getting ready for tomorrow. How many do you think we’ll lose tomorrow, Owen?”

“Too many. They fight well, and they’re brave enough, but most of them belong in sick beds. And even if they were fit, they’d be no match for an army of Hadenmen. I don’t think anything is, under these conditions. Maybe not even us. The real army will be here tomorrow, and maybe even somewhen tonight, and then the walls to this place will come down like matchsticks, and the real butchery will begin. What the hell do they want here? Moon said there’s something out there in the jungle, something he could sense but not describe. Called it the Red Brain. Maybe that’s what the Hadenmen want.”

“What we need is a miracle,” said Hazel. “Maybe if we asked Saint Bea very nicely . . .”

“I don’t think God’s listening to us right now,” Owen said tiredly. “We’re on our own.”

“Nonsense,” said Mother Beatrice briskly, coming out of the infirmary, freshly starched and spotlessly clean. “God is always with us. He just won’t fight our battles for us.”

“I don’t believe in God anymore,” said Hazel. “Not after everything I’ve seen. All the evil, all the suffering, all the death.”

“People were responsible for that evil,” said Mother Beatrice. “Not God. And you have lived to see much of that evil come to an end. Be content with that.” She sat down beside Owen on the steps, rubbing her hands with a damp cloth. There were still specks of dried blood around her fingernails.

“Why did you come here?” said Hazel. “Didn’t you have enough of seeing people die after Technos III?”

“I came here because I was needed,” said Mother Beatrice calmly. “Why do you and Owen keep throwing yourselves into danger?”

“Same reason, I suppose,” said Owen. “Because people need us, because no one else can do what we do. I still believe in the old virtues of duty and honor, even though they seem to have gone out of fashion in today’s new order of deals and compromises.”

Mother Beatrice smiled. “And that part of you is the part that hears God’s voice. You can’t ignore it anymore than I can.”

“I fight because I’m good at it,” Hazel said stubbornly. “My life’s revolved around violence and killing for as long as I can remember. Everywhere I’ve been, it was always kill or be killed. Where’s God’s voice in that?”

“It isn’t what you do that matters,” said Mother Beatrice patiently. “It’s why you do it. It is the cause we fight for that defines us. God gave you the warrior’s gift, Hazel, but left it up to you what to do with it.”

“I never wanted to be a warrior,” said Owen. “It was thrust upon me by circumstances.”

“Maybe in the beginning,” said Mother Beatrice. “Nobody sane wants to be a hero. Few tales of real heroes have happy endings. But you became what you are because of who you are, because you couldn’t look aside and do nothing while evil flourished. You are the best kind of warrior, Owen—the man who never wanted to be one. I never wanted to be a Saint. I still wince inside whenever anyone uses the word. Hell, I only joined the Church originally to get out of marrying Valentine Wolfe. But I found my faith, or it found me, and I can no more turn aside from those who need help than I can stop breathing. In the end, honor defines us all. Because without honor, our lives would have no meaning at all.”

Owen listened, and wanted so desperately to believe, but still couldn’t be sure.

And then the three of them looked up sharply as all hell broke loose in the jungle around the Mission. Owen and Hazel drew their guns, forced aside their tiredness, and ran for the outer wall. People ran alongside them, rubbing too little sleep from their eyes and shouting questions no one had answers for. Owen and Hazel sprinted up the wooden steps that led to the catwalk inside the top of the outer wall, and looked out across the clearing at the jungle beyond. The light from the Mission didn’t penetrate far into the dark, and there was no moon above to light the scene. Hazel called for more light to be brought. Owen listened intently to the commotion raging in the jungle, but couldn’t make any sense of it. Were the Hadenmen fighting each other? Soon the catwalk was packed with people, most of them holding up torches or lanterns, and for the first time movements could be seen in the jungle, of dark forces rushing back and forth. And then the first screams came out of the jungle, in the unmistakable buzzing tones of Hadenmen, followed by the familiar deadly sound of energy weapons discharging.

Owen strained his eyes against the dark and the rain. The clearing was utterly deserted. Whatever was happening was limited to the jungle. He could hear screams and cries of anger, and the sound of people running, crashing through the heavy foliage. Dark figures could be seen fighting and struggling. They might have been Hadenmen. But there were other shapes too, dark and indistinct, moving too fast to be defined. And where they went, the screaming rose anew.