Deathstalker (31 page)

“Are you saying you really are Jack Ransom?” said Owen, not even trying to hide his skepticism.

“I used to be. Now I’m Jobe Ironhand. Named myself after an old friend of mine. He died a long time ago, without any heir to carry on the name, so I thought he wouldn’t mind if I used it. You have to be respectful of the dead. There’s enough ghosts plaguing me already without adding more.” He stopped and looked up at Moon. “I don’t remember you. I’ve led too many armies, too many campaigns. Cold Rock was a bad one, though. In the end, most of my people were wiped out by Imperial attack ships, and I only escaped by running for my life. I did a lot of running at the end, but they still caught me.”

He stopped again, his eyes lost in yesterday. Owen leaned forward. “They caught you? What happened?”

“They broke me,” said the man who used to be Jack Random. “Torture, drugs, mind techs, espers … anyone’ll break if you hit them hard enough and long enough. And I was so very tired by then anyway. …”

“So how did you escape?” said Hazel.

“I didn’t. The Empire was getting ready for a major show trial to show off my supposed change of heart. Stand me up
in front of the holo cameras and have me denounce all my old friends and beliefs. You know the sort of thing. I would have done it, too. They’d broken me. Luckily some friends in the clone underground who hadn’t given up on me broke into my holding cell and sprang me. They shouldn’t have done it. Too many good men and women died that day just to rescue a defeated old man with no strength or ideals left. They got me on a ship under an assumed name, and eventually I ended up here, where everyone runs when there’s no place left to go. So if you’ve come looking for the great warrior, the legendary professional rebel, you’re wasting your time. He died years ago in the torture cells under the Imperial Palace on Golgotha.

“Look at me. I’m forty-seven and I look twice that. My hands shake most of the time because my body still remembers what was done to it in the cells, and my memories are a mess. The mind techs really did a job on me. So go look somewhere else for your savior or leader, or whatever the hell you think you need. I’m not who you want, and even if I was, I’d be no use to you.”

“Do you have any evidence of who you are?” said Owen. “Any old trophies or mementos from your past?”

“No. Move fast, travel light, that was always my way. And I don’t care whether you believe me or not. Do us all a favor and leave me in peace.”

Owen looked at the man before him and felt an almost childish disappointment. His father had brought him up on stories of the great rebel Jack Random. When Owen was older, he’d started his career as a historian by searching out the truth on Random, only to find the truth was even more impressive than the legend. Random had done pretty much everything they said he had, and more besides. He’d fought the Empire on a hundred worlds, winning some, losing more, never giving up. Of all his father’s dubious friends and associates, Jack Random was the only one Owen had ever respected.

“Do you remember my father?” he said suddenly. “My name is Owen Deathstalker.”

“Yes. I remember him. Good fighter, and a cunning intriguer.” Random looked at him steadily. “Since you’re here, I gather he’d dead now?”

“Yes. Killed in the streets, cut down as a traitor. I’m the Deathstalker now. Or at least, until the Empire catches up
with me. I’m outlawed, my name and possessions stripped from me.”

Random looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you have your father’s ring? He always said it was important, though he never got around to explaining why. He never was very big on explanations, your father.”

“I’ve got the ring. As far as I can tell, it’s just a ring.”

He showed it to Random, who looked at it for a moment and then sat back on his cot. His fingers played with the cap on his flask, but he didn’t take another drink.

“I’m sorry to hear of your father’s death. I’ve lost a lot of friends down the years, but it never gets any easier. You look a lot like him, you know. Do you have any actual plans, or are you just running?”

“I’ve got plans, yes,” said Owen, just a little defensively. “Do you want to be a part of them?”

“No. But I don’t really think I’ve any choice in the matter. If you could find me, so could others. I’m not worth much anymore, Deathstalker. But what there is left of me is yours.”

“Can I have a word with you a moment, Owen?” said Hazel, taking his arm in a very firm grip. He winced as she all but dragged him to his feet and out into the corridor. He jerked his arm free and carefully shut the door behind him.

“Are you crazy?” said Hazel. “We can’t burden ourselves with a wreck like that! He’s bound to slow us down. We can’t even be sure he is who he says he is!”

“Doesn’t really matter who he is,” said Owen. “Just his name will attract people to our cause. People will fight and die for Jack Random when they wouldn’t lift a hand for you or me.”

“But he’s a janitor!”

“So what? Really, Hazel, if anyone’s going to be a snob here, it should be me. And I don’t think you’re in any position to throw stones, considering your previous occupation in Mistport.”

Hazel frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, as I understand from Cyder’s comments, you were a … lady of the evening.”

“Lady of the … I ought to tear your head off and piss down your neck! I was never a whore!”

“Then what were you?”

“If you must know, I was a ladies’ maid!” Hazel realized
she was shouting and lowered her voice again. Two bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. “And you needn’t look at me like that. It’s a perfectly respectable profession. And work was scarce just then.”

“So … why did you give it up?”

“Lady of the house told me to sweep out the corners once too often. I smacked her in the mouth, stole some of the silver and left before they could call the watch. Satisfied now?”

“Eminently. It’s always good to have a profession to fall back on. If times get hard, I’m sure I can always find you a position on my staff.”

“I’d rather die,” said Hazel. “No, I’d rather kill you.”

“Ironhand!” They both looked round to see the giant form of Tom Sefka pounding down the corridor toward them. They fell back automatically as he stopped and hammered on the janitor’s door. “Ironhand, get your worthless ass out here! I’ve got half a dozen regulars waiting to use the showers, and you still haven’t cleaned them out. Either you get your ass in gear right now, or you’re fired!”

He turned and looked at Owen and Hazel. “And you needn’t think you’re going anywhere, either. Word finally got here as to who you are, Deathstalker. If I’d known who you were, I’d never have let you in. Last thing I need is a bunch of bounty hunters in here getting blood all over the place. You even try and draw your gun or your sword, and I’ll rip your arm out of your socket. Price on your head will make me rich, Deathstalker. You’re mine, and your companions. Unless you think you can take me?”

He flexed his muscles meaningfully. Owen thought about it. He was tired, and still healing, and Sefka really was a hell of a size. On the other hand, if he could draw his gun before Sefka could get his hands on him … Sefka looked like he could move pretty fast for a big man. Hazel would probably avenge his death, but he didn’t find the thought all that comforting.

He was still trying to come up with an answer when the door opened, and Random stepped out into the corridor. He walked right up to Sefka, holding the big man’s eyes with his, and reached out and took Sefka’s genitals in a death grip. He piled on the pressure, grinning nastily all the while, and all the color went out of Sefka’s face as he sank to his knees. Random gave him one last white-knuckled squeeze,
which brought tears to Owen’s eyes, released his hold, reached back into his room and brought out his mop. Sefka raised his head just in time to see the long wooden handle coming for him at incredible speed. If the mop had been a sword, Sefka’s head would have gone bouncing down the corridor. As it was, the wood connected with his temple with a very solid-sounding thud, and the big man fell unconscious to the floor. It was probably a relief, thought Owen. Random lowered his mop and leaned on it as though it was a sword.

“Just for the record, I quit.” He tossed the mop back into his room, just missing Tobias Moon as the Hadenman joined them in the corridor. Random looked at the fallen man and smiled unpleasantly. It was an expression his face seemed to fall into easily. “Good to know I haven’t entirely lost my touch. Now let’s get out of here before someone comes looking for him. Or us. We can decide where we’re going later.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “Nothing like a little gratuitous violence to stir the blood. I feel almost human again. You’d better have a good reason for disturbing my retirement, Deathstalker. I was happy being nobody. No demands, no responsibilities. You’ve woken me up, and I won’t easily go back to sleep. If I’m going to try for the gold ring one last time, it’s going to have to be worth it.”

“Stick with us,” said Owen, “and you’ll have all the action you can handle, and then some. It’s us or the Empire now; death or glory. But then, for you I suppose it always is.”

“Something like that,” said Random. “Something like that.”

Outside the Olympus health spa, the mists had come down thick and heavy, and the world was gray and silent. Owen looked around uneasily. Any number of assassins could be hiding out there in the fog. Hopefully, they were just as blind and disorientated as he was. Hazel looked left and right and scowled unhappily.

“Don’t tell me you’re lost,” said Owen. “That’s all we need.”

“It’s a long time since I was last here,” said Hazel defensively. “And the fog isn’t helping. Anyway, I thought you had a built-in compass that told you where you were?”

“Oh, I know where I am,” said Owen. “I just don’t know
where anything else is. I can point due north, if that’s any help.”

“Follow me,” said Hazel. “And stay close. It’d be only too easy to get lost and separated in fog like this, and we haven’t the time to send out search parties.”

She moved slowly and carefully away from the spa, one hand held out behind her. Owen moved after her, almost treading on her heels. Random followed him, and Moon brought up the rear. The two walls of a narrow alleyway slowly formed out of the mists to either side of them as they walked on, gray and stained and characterless, with no clues as to their location. The only sound was the soft trudging of their feet through the packed snow. Owen tried hard to see the positive side.

“If nothing else,” he said finally, “it’s got to be as hard for our pursuers as it is for us. We could walk right past each other in this fog and never know it.”

“Unless they’re listening to you,” said Hazel. “Or unless they’ve got an esper with them.”

“That’s right,” said Owen. “Cheer me up, why don’t you?” He glanced back at the Hadenman. “How about you, Moon? See anything worth seeing with those amazing eyes of yours?”

“Just fog and more fog,” said Moon, and then he stopped suddenly, and cocked his head slightly to one side. The others stopped, too, and looked back at him.

“What is it?” said Owen.

“There’s someone out there,” said the augmented man. “I can hear their feet breaking the snow.”

“Which way?” snapped Owen, drawing his disrupter. “Give me a direction.”

And then he broke off as a tall figure formed slowly out of the mists before him. He started to raise his gun, and then lowered it again as he recognized the muscular goddess from the health spa. She walked toward him, smiling seductively, hands open to show they were empty. And then Moon stepped forward, his golden eyes blazing brightly.

“It’s a hologram. There’s someone behind it.”

Owen’s hand snapped up, and he fired his gun. The energy beam ripped through the hologram without harming it, and then the goddess disappeared in a moment as the beam exploded a wall beyond her. Owen caught a brief glimpse of a fleeting figure in the mists, then an energy beam snapped
right past him and he dived for cover, yelling for the others to do the same. Within moments, Owen was alone in the mists, crouching beside the nearest wall to make a smaller target. He switched the gun to his left hand and drew his sword. For the next two minutes, both his gun and his opponent’s were useless till their energy crystals had recharged, and that brought it down to steel. Unless the bastard had two guns. Or a friend with a gun. Owen cursed silently and strained his ears against the quiet. The hologram had been a good trick, and he’d very nearly fallen for it. He hadn’t expected that kind of high-tech sophistication on Mistworld.

He moved slowly forward, keeping his shoulder pressed against the wall to orientate himself. His boots made soft crunching sounds in the thick snow for all his care, and his back muscles crawled in anticipation of the energy beam or sword thrust he’d probably never even feel. He didn’t dare boost, not so soon after the last time. There was also no getting away from the fact that he was feeling distinctly fragile from his earlier wounds. His spell in the regeneration machine on the
Sunstrider
had briefly supercharged his healing processes, but there were still limits, and he was fast approaching them. A good night’s sleep and a few high-protein meals would work wonders, but he couldn’t see his pursuers letting up that long. The bastards. It seemed to Owen that he’d done nothing but run and hide since he’d learned of his outlawing, and the thought grated. He glared about himself, and the mists looked impassively back.

A heavy form crashed down into him from above, and he fell sprawling in the snow. He tucked one arm under him and rolled to one side, dislodging his attacker. He scrambled forward, and a sword stabbed into the snow where he’d been. Owen lurched to his feet and found himself facing a medium-height woman wearing black leathers mostly concealed under white furs. No wonder he hadn’t spotted her in the mists. The furs provided perfect camouflage. Her face was pale and pointed, with dark steady eyes and a helmet of short black hair. She held her sword like she knew how to use it, and her slight smile was cool and confident.

He just had time to take that much in and then she was upon him, the point of her sword leaping for his heart. He got his own sword up just in time, and for a moment they stood face-to-face, steel clashing on steel as they tried out each other’s skill. It didn’t take Owen long to realize he was
facing a master swordswoman, and he was surprised to discover he didn’t give a damn. This was at least the kind of fight he preferred; one on one with everything up front. He was tired of faceless pursuers and attacks from hiding. He wanted an enemy he could hit. His opponent was good, no doubt of it, but he was a Deathstalker, and she was going to find out what that meant.