Deathstalker War (24 page)

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an exclusive interview?” said Toby Shreck. Owen looked at him, and Toby fell back a pace. “No, I didn’t really think so. Come on, Flynn, time to go. We don’t want to outstay our welcome.”

And then they both turned and ran, the camera bobbing along behind them. Owen smiled tiredly. They had no way of knowing his speech had been pure bravado, using up what little strength he had left. He turned unsteadily, and went back to sit down beside Hazel. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was very shallow, but her eyes drifted halfway open as he settled himself at her side.

“Yeah. What you said, stud. Always knew your propensity for making speeches would come in handy one day.”

“How do you feel?” said Owen. It wasn’t a casual question.

“Tired. At peace. What the hell did we tap into just then? Some power the Maze gave us?”

“I don’t think so. It felt more like something we’d always had, something the Maze just put us in touch with. Maybe someday all Humanity could learn to do what we did.”

“Yeah,” said Hazel. “Maybe. But I doubt we’ll be around to see it. That energy blast pretty much used us up. There’s nothing left in me anymore.”

“Same here,” said Owen. “Guess our time’s run out. There are worse ways to go. And at least we got a chance to throw a scare into the Iron Bitch first. Hazel, there’s . . . something I’ve been meaning to tell you . . .”

“Same here,” said Hazel. “My Blood addiction’s gone. I can feel it. That energy surge scoured it right out of my system. I’m clean, at last.”

“I’m glad. Hazel, I wanted to say . . .”

And then his voice was drowned out by the roar of gravity engines overhead. Owen looked up, and then forced himself to his feet again. Six gravity barges were hovering above the square, their disrupter cannon trained on him and Hazel. Owen’s hand clenched around his sword hilt, but knew that this time there wasn’t going to be any last-minute escape. Even at his peak he doubted he’d have been able to stand against the massed disrupter cannon of six gravity barges. He looked up at them and grinned defiantly anyway.

“You people ever heard of the word overkill?”

“The fight’s over, Death stalker,” said an amplified voice from above. “But you don’t have to die here. Lionstone has empowered us to make you an offer. Surrender to us, and you will be allowed to live. Our scientists could learn much from studying you.”

“Tell them to go to hell, Deathstalker,” said Hazel, behind him. “My mother didn’t raise me to be a laboratory rat. Probably vivisect us, first chance they got. Or send their mind techs into our heads, to turn us to their side. We can’t allow that, Owen.”

“Our sensors indicate that you are gravely wounded, and your companion is dying,” said the amplified voice. “We can save both of you. We have a regeneration machine aboard the
Defiant
. She doesn’t have to die, Deathstalker. It’s up to you.”

“Owen . . .” said Hazel.

“I’m sorry, Hazel,” said Owen. “I’m not ready for both of us to die.” He looked up at the gravity barges and threw down his sword. “I surrender. Come and get us. But hurry it up. I don’t think she’s got much time left.”

“You bloody fool,” said Hazel.

He looked back at her, and smiled regretfully. “Always, where you’re concerned.”

Hazel tried to reach for her gun, but her, fingers wouldn’t work. Owen sat down beside her again and listened to her curse him till the Imperial troops came to take them both into custody.

Near the center of Mistport, lit bright as day by the burning buildings and out-of-control fires, Young Jack Random, John Silver, and the forces they led battled the invading Imperial forces to a standstill. The air was hot and smoky, with dark smuts floating in it, and the roar of the fires almost drowned out the roar of the gravity barges and Legion’s triumphant howl. The fighting filled the streets from side to side, and spilled over into back alleys and culs-de-sac. The trampled snow turned to blood-soaked slush, and bodies lay everywhere. The Deathstalker’s projectile weapons were proving their worth at close quarters, but even so the battle raged this way and that, neither side able to take the advantage for long. Steel hammered on steel, the fighters held face-to-face by the crush of the crowds. There was no room for strategy or tactics or fancy footwork, just the hard, steady work of human butchery and slaughter.

Young Jack Random was right there in the thick of it, his great frame standing out in the crowd, larger than life and apparently unbeatable. His war cries rang out above the din, loud and triumphant and unyielding, and every man who fought at his side felt twice the man for being in his presence. Random’s sword rose and fell steadily, cutting a path through the enemy forces toward their commanders, refusing to be slowed or turned aside. His courage and determination inspired the rebels to ever greater efforts, throwing themselves into the fray as though their lives were nothing.

And right there in the middle of it, too, was John Silver. He was soaked in blood, as much from his own wounds as others’, but still his sword was steady in his hand, as he pushed himself relentlessly forward. He was beyond pain or exhaustion now, driven by a simple refusal to lie down and die while he was still needed.

And slowly, step by step, foot by foot, the rebels forced the Empire back, denying them the heart of the city. The invasion met an implacable, unbeatable force, and broke against it. War cries from a hundred worlds and cultures rang above the slaughter, combining into a chilling roar of rage and courage and determination, and the invading forces had nothing with which to answer it. Some marines turned and ran, risking being shot by their own officers, who called desperately on their comm links for reinforcements, or orders to withdraw. The word came back to hold their ground. The gravity barges were on their way. All of them.

The deaf and dumb burglar called Cat sat on a cooling dead body, watching what was left of the Blackthorn Inn burn itself out. A blackened frame showed dimly through the smoke and fog, smoldering here and there. Nothing else remained of the only place Cat had ever thought of as home. There was no sign of Cyder anywhere. Soon he would get up and go into the ruin, and search for bodies, to see if one of them might be hers, but he hadn’t quite worked up the nerve yet. He didn’t think he could face life without Cyder. She was his love, his only love, who gave his life meaning and purpose. She couldn’t be in there. She of all people would have had the sense to get out while the getting was good. But the thought of turning over a blackened corpse and finding her rings on the charred fingers was still too much to bear for the moment. And so he sat where he was, watching what remained of the Blackthorn steam and smolder, and waited for Investigator Topaz to wake up.

He’d carried her unconscious body across the roofs, where he knew he wouldn’t be stopped or challenged. No one knew the roofs like he did. The roar of the fighting didn’t call him, and Legion’s howl didn’t deter him, because he couldn’t hear either of them. Instead, he concentrated on the task at hand, getting the Investigator to a place of safety. And for him, safety had always been the Blackthorn Inn. All the way there, with Topaz’s weight growing heavier and heavier on his shoulders, he’d comforted himself with the thought that Cyder would know what to do about Topaz and Mary’s turning. But now the inn was gone, and Cyder wasn’t there, and he didn’t know what to do.

He felt Topaz stir at his side and turned around to help her sit up. He sat her on the body, too, it was better than sitting in the mud and slush on the road. She held her head for a bit, her mouth moving in shapes that made no sense to him. He could read lips, but things like groans and moans were a mystery to him. Finally she turned and looked at him, and her eyes were dark and steady. She asked where she was, and he told her in fingertalk, but she couldn’t understand it. He pointed to the street sign, and she nodded slowly. He wanted to tell her about leaving Mary, but didn’t know how. Topaz rose to her feet, swaying only a little and only for a moment, nodded her thanks to Cat, and strode off into the mists. Cat watched her go. The body was getting cold and uncomfortable beneath him, so he stood up. Cyder wasn’t dead. He was sure of that. So he’d better go and look for her. And if he could strike the occasional blow against the invading forces while he was doing it, so much the better. Cat turned, scrambled up the wall, and took to the roofs again.

Aboard the
Defiant
, Owen and Hazel had been brought in chains to see Legion, floating in its tank. Investigator Razor was there, with Typhoid Mary, to make sure they behaved, and Captain Bartok was there to watch their faces as they realized they couldn’t hope to stand against anything like Legion. The great glass tank, festooned with wires and cables and strange, unfamiliar tech, was still the only thing in the auditorium. Legion floated peacefully in the thick yellow liquid—a great bulging fleshy mass without shape or meaning. The brains of thousands of dead espers, stitched together with alien-derived tech, controlled or at least dominated by the gestalt mind of Wormboy’s worms. The air stank horribly, and Owen screwed up his face as he peered at the shape in the tank. He started to move forward for a better look, but Razor grabbed one of his chains and pulled him back. Owen almost fell under the weight of his chains, and swore at Razor. The Investigator hit him dispassionately in the kidneys. Owen nearly went down again, but somehow kept his feet.

The Empire had kept its promise. They’d put Hazel in the
Defiant’s
regeneration machine, and she’d emerged whole and healed of all her wounds. But the machine had been able to do nothing about the almost spiritual weariness that she and Owen shared after tapping into the mental force that saved their lives. Physically, they were both still weak as kittens. That hadn’t stopped Bartok from taking all their weapons and weighing them down with chains till they could hardly stand. They’d even wanted to remove Owen’s golden Hadenman hand, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. There had been talk of cutting it off, just in case, but Bartok had been too eager to show off his secret weapon to his illustrious prisoners. Besides, they could always cut it off later.

Typhoid Mary wore no chains. The control words in her head held her more securely than any physical restraint. She hadn’t said a dozen words since she had come aboard the
Defiant
. Owen and Hazel had both tried talking to her, but she only responded to Imperial orders. She stared blankly at the thing in the tank, apparently unmoved by its appearance or its smell.

“So,” said Captain Bartok to Owen and Hazel. “What do you think of our wondrous creation?”

Owen sniffed. “Looks like one of God’s more disappointing bowel movements. Smells like it, too. Haven’t you people ever heard of air-conditioning?”

Razor hit him again, and he almost fell. Hazel kicked Razor in the knee, that being all her chains would allow. Razor hit her in the face, bloodying her mouth and nose. Owen and Hazel leaned on each other, glaring impotently at the Investigator. He didn’t smile. He didn’t have to. Mary watched impassively, her face quite blank. The control words buzzed in the back of her head like a swarm of angry bees, but still a small part of her was able to think clearly. She kept it to herself, hidden so deep not even another esper could have detected it. She’d seen herself strike Topaz down as if from a great distance, helpless in her own body. She assumed Topaz was dead, or she’d be here, too. Mary, who had sworn never to kill again, had killed her best friend. The anguish and the horror nearly overwhelmed her when she thought of it, but she kept it deep and secret, and none of it reached her face.

Bartok took her by the arm, and led her toward the great tank. She went unresistingly.

“Hello, Legion,” said Bartok. “I’ve brought someone to see you. This is Typhoid Mary. A Siren, and quite possibly one of the most powerful espers in the Empire.”

Welcome, Mary
, said Legion in its many voices. Owen granted as the horrid chorus rang inside his head, thick and smothering like the stench of rotting fruit. Hazel shook her head, as though to drive the voices out. Mary didn’t react at all. Legion spoke in many voices at once, combined into an awful harmony of male and female voices, young and old, alive and dead. And faintly, in the background, they could all hear the sound of thousands of voices screaming helplessly, damned to a man-made living Hell.

I’m so glad you’re here, Mary
, said Legion.
They’re going to rip your brain out of your head, and make it part of me. All your power and all your songs will become mine. And I shall put them to good use down in the streets of Mistport. Already they quail and shiver at my voice, but with your songs I’ll trample through all their heads and stir my sticky fingers in their souls. They will all dance to my tune, or die horribly.

“Well?” said Bartok, after a while. “Talk to Legion, Mary.”

“Who’s speaking to me?” said Mary slowly. “The brains or the worms?”

You’ll find out.

“Why are you hurting and killing your fellow espers? They’re your own kind.”

Because it’s fun. And because I can. I’m nothing like them. Or you. There’s never been anything like me before. There’s no limit to how big I can grow, no limit to how powerful I can become. Call me Legion. I am vast. I contain multitudes. Someday, all espers shall be a part of me. This tank won’t hold me forever. And on the day that I break free, let all Humanity beware. Let all that lives beware.

Typhoid Mary looked at her future, and at the future of Humanity, and despair and rage boiled up within her, blasting aside the restraints of the Empire’s conditioning. New power blazed through her, wild and potent, as something wonderful was suddenly there in the auditorium with them, bright and shining and perfect, with Mary as its focus. The Mater Mundi, Our Mother Of All Souls. Mary’s face was exalted, her eyes shining like the sun. Razor reacted immediately to the new threat, his sword instantly in his hand, but some unseen force picked him up and threw him aside as casually as a bothersome insect. Legion surged back and forth in its tank, awed by the sheer power it could feel building in the auditorium. The Mater Mundi reached out, and all the espers of Mistworld were suddenly drawn into its single purpose. In that moment, the thousands of minds came together and were one, guided by the Mater Mundi, focused through Typhoid Mary. She turned her unyielding gaze on Legion, and it was afraid.