Deathstalker War

CHAPTER ONE

THE TAKING OF MISTWORLD

Every Empire needs a dumping ground. Somewhere out of sight in the back of beyond where it can dump malcontents and troublemakers. The Empress Lionstone XIV had Mistworld, a cold inhospitable rock well off the beaten track, populated almost entirely by traitors, criminals, rogues whose luck had run out, and runaway espers. Lionstone tolerated Mistworld's presence in her harshly run Empire on the grounds that at least that way she knew where the bad apples were.

She would have preferred to kill them all, but she had advisors wise enough to know that exiles were, on the whole, far less troublesome than martyrs. But over the years Mistworld had become a haven for all kinds of rebels and outlaws, and suddenly what had been a useful dumping ground was now a defiant, poisoned thorn in the Empire's side. Lionstone gave orders for its purging, by fire if need be, only to discover that the planet was now protected by a psionic screen of combined esper minds more than strong enough to withstand anything her Imperial Fleet could throw at it. And so, despite Lionstone's many vicious plots and schemes, Mistworld remained the only surviving rebel planet in the Empire, safe from Lionstone's wrath.

Or so they thought.

The Sunstrider II dropped out of hyperspace and fell into orbit around Mistworld. The long slender yacht glistened with sensor spikes, but there were no Empire starcruisers anywhere in the vicinity. The Empire had learned to keep its distance. There was only the single golden vessel, hanging silently above a cold, featureless sphere. In the main lounge of the Sunstrider II, Owen Deathstalker sat at ease in a very comfortable chair and counted his blessings. Not least of which was that for the moment, at least, no one was shooting at him. Owen had learned to appreciate the quiet moments in his life, if only because there were so few of them.

He'd lost the original Sunstrider in a crash landing on the jungle planet of Shandrakor, but the Hadenmen had rebuilt the ship according to Owen's instructions, around the original stardrive salvaged from the wreckage of the first ship. It was a very special drive, one of the prototypes for the new stardrive the Empire was currently attempting to mass-produce, and for the moment, at least, a great deal faster than anything the Empire had to offer.

Theoretically.

The yacht itself looked pretty much the way Owen remembered, and contained all the original fittings and luxuries, but the Hadenmen hadn't been able to resist improving things as they went along. And sometimes their ideas of improvements only went to show how far the augmented men differed from Humanity. Owen could handle doors that appeared in solid walls as he approached, and lights that turned themselves on and off as necessary without having to be told, but he rather drew the line at controls that operated if he only thought about them. After a few near disasters brought about by his mind wandering at important moments, Owen had decided very firmly to leave the running of the craft to the ship's computers.

The Hadenmen had also got many of the interior details wrong, in small, disquieting ways. Floors that sloped or bulged for no obvious reason, chairs that matched themselves to slightly the wrong shapes, and lights and colors that were subtly uncomfortable to merely human eyes. Owen held up his left hand and studied it thoughtfully. The golden metal of the artificial hand, the Hadenmen's other gift to him, glowed warmly in the lounge's light. He hadn't liked the idea of having Hadenmen technology connected to him so intimately, but after he lost his own hand fighting the Grendel alien in the great caverns under the Wolfling World, he'd had no choice but to accept their gift with thanks. It was a good hand, strong and responsive and practically invulnerable, and if it felt subtly cold all the time and not altogether his, he could live with that. He flexed the golden fingers slowly, admiring their fluid grace. He trusted the hand because he had to; he wasn't so sure about the ship. The Hadenmen might be his allies for the moment, but a people who had once been officially named the Enemies of Humanity, and with good reason, had to remain suspect for all their gifts. There was always the chance they still had their own, separate, agenda, hidden somewhere in the ship, the improvements, and possibly even his hand.

Owen sighed. Life hadn't always been this complicated. He studied his reflection in the mirror on the wall behind him. A man in his mid-twenties stared broodingly back at him, tall and rangy with dark hair and darker eyes. A man who'd been hard used, and expected to be harder used in the future. It wasn't that long ago he'd been a simple scholar, a minor historian of no importance to anyone but himself. Then Lionstone named him outlaw, and he'd had no choice but to become a rebel and a warrior. The Hadenmen named him Redeemer, and the rebel underground called him Humanity's last hope. Owen didn't believe a word of it.

A clinking of glass caught his attention, and he looked fondly over at Hazel d'Ark, who was sorting determinedly through the bottles in the drinks cabinet, searching for something vaguely drinkable. Owen knew how she felt. The Hadenmen had done their best with food synthesizers, but the various alcoholic beverages they'd come up with had proved universally vile. That hadn't stopped Hazel from drinking them, but she persisted in trying to discover some combination that didn't leave her with an overwhelming urge to spit copiously in all directions. Owen admired her patience, and wished her luck. Personally, he wouldn't have touched any of the stuff if someone had held a gun to his head.

He studied Hazel, admiring her sharp, pointed face and mane of long, ratty, red hair. She wasn't conventionally pretty, but then Hazel wasn't conventional about anything if she could help it. Before becoming a rebel, she'd been a pirate, a mercenary, and a clonelegger—and those were just the things she'd admit to. She was good with a sword but preferred a gun, and as many as possible. Since she and Owen had discovered the huge cache of projectile weapons in the Last Standing's Armory, Hazel had made a point of loading herself down with as many guns and as much ammo as she could carry. Owen thought she found the weight comforting. Owen didn't. Hazel tended to be a bit too arbitrary about safety catches for his liking.

He sighed quietly, tapping his fingers on the armrests of his chair as he waited for the Hadenmen computers running the ship to finish their security checks. Technically speaking, he was trusting his life to the smooth running of the AI the Hadenmen installed, which did absolutely nothing for his sense of security and well-being, but it wasn't like he had a choice. Someone had to run the ship, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be him. Keeping on top of a starship's many and various systems was hard, skilled work, and if he'd wanted to work, he wouldn't have been born an aristocrat.

The original Sunstrider had been run by his personal Family AI Ozymandius, but Oz had turned out to be a traitor working for the Empire. It had used hidden control words to turn Owen against his friends, and he'd had no choice but to destroy it. Even though the AI had been his friend long before the others. He'd had to kill his mistress, too, when she tried to kill him, on the Empire's orders. You couldn't trust anyone these days. Maybe not even the woman you loved… Owen turned his gaze away from Hazel, and made himself concentrate on something else. At least the Hadenmen had got the toilets right this time. Their earlier attempts had been somewhat distressing. Apparently Hadenmen had no use for such things, which told Owen rather more about the Hadenmen than he really wanted to know.

Hazel wandered over, drink in hand. The liquid was a pale blue in color, and looked like it was trying to climb out of the glass. She sank into the chair opposite Owen with an inelegant grunt and settled herself comfortably. Hazel appreciated luxuries, big and small, mainly because there'd been so few of them in her life. She took a good mouthful of the drink, pulled a face, but swallowed the stuff anyway. Hazel never believed in letting a drink get the better of her. It was a matter of principle. Owen had had to hide a smile when she'd first explained that to him. He hadn't been aware that Hazel had any principles. He'd had enough sense not to say that out loud, of course.

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

"Trust me," said Hazel. "You really don't want to know. That I am drinking it at all is a sign of how incredibly bored I am. How much longer before we can land?"

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

"Not really, no. Mistport is dangerous, treacherous, and bloody cold, and that's on its good days. I've known rabid rats with bleeding hemorrhoids that were friendlier than your average Mistworlder. I can't believe I let the underground talk me into going back to this hellhole."

Owen shrugged. "It had to be us. Someone had to represent the underground to the Mistport Council, and we know the lie of the land better than anyone else they had to hand. Cheer up; things won't be so bad this time. Probably. We're a hell of a lot stronger and sharper than the last time we were here."

Hazel scowled. "Yeah. That's something else I've been wanting to talk to you about. When that Blood Runner's hologram threatened to take me apart in his laboratory, you reached across light-years of space and blew him to pieces, just by thinking about it. I didn't know you had that kind of power. I don't."

"I didn't think I had either, until I needed it. Our time in the Madness Maze changed us more than we knew. We're different people now."

"I don't like the sound of that. Where do the changes end? Are we still human? Are we going to end up like the Hadenmen, so divorced from what we started out as that we might as well be aliens?"

Owen shrugged again. "Your guess is as good as mine. I think we're as human as we want to be. Our humanity lies not in what we do, but why we do it. Besides, I'm not sure our abilities are all that stable. They seem to come and go. There used to be a link between us, a mental link among all of us who passed through the Maze, but that disappeared when we split up and went our separate ways. Now I can't even feel you through the link. Can you still feel me, in your mind?"

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

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

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

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

"The only difficulty I have is this dead AI that keeps yammering in my ear. If I knew a good cyberdruid, I'd have you exorcised. Whoever or whatever you are, I don't need your help. I can manage perfectly well on my own."

"Well pardon my computations, you ungrateful little snot. If it hadn't been for me, you'd never have got off Virimonde alive, when your own Security people came after you for the price on your head. Your trouble is, you don't appreciate me. Look after yourself for a while. I'm going to sulk."

Hazel studied Owen unobtrusively. He'd gone all quiet again, his eyes far away. He did that from time to time, and it never failed to irritate her. Even though she'd always known he was the thoughtful one in their reluctant partnership. Hazel had always believed in the virtues of direct action, preferably with a sword or a gun. Cut them all down and worry about the consequences later. If at all. She wondered what Owen would think if he knew she was taking Blood again.

Blood. The most addictive and soul-destroying drug known to Humanity. It came from the adjusted men, the Wampyr. One of the Empire's less successful attempts at manufacturing terror troops. Synthetic Blood flowed in their veins, making them stronger, faster, nearly invincible. Just a few drops of Blood could make a mere human feel that way, too, for a while. It made you feel sharp and confident, and Hazel needed that more and more these days. She'd been hooked on the drug once before, in her early days on Mistworld. She'd beaten it then, though the cure nearly killed her. But so much had changed in her since then, and very little of it to her liking.

She'd never wanted to be a rebel. All she'd ever wanted was the comfortable life, free from hunger and danger. She'd been happiest as a confidence trickster, parting rich leeches from their ill-gotten gains and disappearing into the night before they realized how badly they'd been stung. Hazel had only ever fought for money, cash in hand, and never trusted anyone but herself. Now she was a major player in the new rebellion, a target for every bounty hunter and backstabber in the Empire, being asked for opinions and plans on matters she had little or no understanding of. For the first time in her life, the lives and futures of countless numbers of people depended on her every action and decision, with all the stress and uncertainties that involved. Now everything she did or didn't do had consequences, and she just couldn't stand it. The pressure weighed down on her, filling her head till she couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't keep her hands from shaking. So she started taking Blood again. Just a drop, now and then, when she needed it. The Hadenmen had been only too happy to supply her with as much as she wanted. She didn't ask where they got it from. And now she was heading back to Mistworld, where Blood was widespread.

She didn't want to be addicted again. She didn't want to be a plasma baby, her only thought and need for the Blood that was slowly destroying her. She resented anything that had power over her. She'd beaten it once; she could beat it again. She only needed a drop, now and again, after all. Just a little something, to help her cope. She looked at Owen, and her mouth tightened. She knew why their mental link had disappeared. The Blood interfered, separating them. But she couldn't tell him that. He wouldn't understand.

The lounge door opened suddenly, and Owen and Hazel's fellow rebels on this mission walked in, ostentatiously not talking to each other, as usual. The new Jack Random, or Young Jack as Owen always thought of him, was tall, well muscled, and devilishly handsome, with long, dark shoulder-length hair that always looked like he'd just permed it. Owen only had to look at him to feel puny and out of shape. Random wore silver battle armor chased with gold like he was born to it, and he radiated strength, wisdom, confidence, and compassion. A born leader, a charismatic warrior, a hero out of legend and altogether too much of a good thing. He'd arrived out of nowhere, just when the rebellion needed him the most, and Owen didn't trust him an inch.

Owen and Hazel had gone looking for the legendary professional rebel, Jack Random, in the city of Mistport some time back. They'd found a broken old man, hiding from his past, and bullied him out of his hiding hole to fight again, because the rebellion needed the legend, if not the man. He'd fought beside them, and passed through the Madness Maze with them, and at the end he faced impossible odds against the Empire's troops, and emerged victorious. Owen had believed in that man, and been proud to call him friend. The old man had just begun to reclaim his legend when this young giant of a man had burst onto the scene, claiming to be the real Jack Random, and now Owen didn't know what to believe anymore.

Young Jack Random's last campaign had been on the winter world of Vodyanoi IV, some two years earlier. As usual, he had made a lot of noise and raised an army of followers, only to get his ass kicked one more time when they came up against trained Imperial shock troops. His friends smuggled him out at the last moment, so he wasn't around to see his followers slaughtered or imprisoned. His cause had failed, but he kept the legend alive.

Except the older Jack Random claimed that wasn't he. According to him, his last campaign had been on Cold Rock, several years earlier, when his forces were ignominiously scattered, and he was taken captive by the Empire forces. He spent a long time in interrogation cells, tortured and brainwashed by the mind techs, until finally his friends were able to break him out and smuggle him to safety on Mistworld—where he gave up his name and his legend to become just another face in the crowd, hidden and safe from entreaties or responsibilities.

Except… Jack Random, the professional rebel, had been visibly active on several worlds during that time. So who was telling the truth and who was lying? Who was the Real Jack Random? The older Jack admitted that the mind techs had done a real number on him, during his months of captivity, messing with his thoughts and memories as they broke his spirit day by day. Maybe he just thought he'd been the famous professional rebel; a nobody molded by the Empire to be paraded as a broken man for propaganda purposes. As with so many other things, Owen wasn't sure what he believed anymore. At least the older Jack was more or less the right age. The younger Jack looked to be no more than his late twenties, and in perfect shape. Surely his long years of rebellion should have left some mark on him, even allowing for his claimed extensive use of regeneration machines.

The underground hadn't been able to make up its mind one way or the other. The old Jack claimed to have the experience, but the young Jack looked so much more convincing. So for the moment the underground accepted both Jacks, and sent them off on separate missions to prove themselves in action. Old Jack went to stir up trouble on the mining planet Technos III, and Owen and Hazel ended up with Young Jack on their team, despite their loud objections. Young Jack took it all with a good-natured smile, which made Owen trust him even less. Never trust a man who smiles too much, his father had always said. It's not natural, not in this day and age. Hazel was even less impressed with the man than Owen, if that was possible, and had told Young Jack to his face that he was a liar and impostor. He just kept on smiling, and said he hoped he'd have the chance to prove himself to her. Hazel told him that if he laid one finger on her, she'd make him eat the finger. Young Jack chuckled good-naturedly, and said she was very pretty when she was angry, and Owen had to hold Hazel down until the red mist had gone from her eyes.

The other new arrival was the esper known as Jenny Psycho. She had forced her way onto the Mistworld team, on the grounds that a planet largely populated by runaway espers would want to meet the last person to manifest the uber-esper Mater Mundi, Our Mother Of All Souls, who had single-handedly made the great esper escape from Wormboy Hell possible. Jenny didn't look like much, at first glance. She was short and blond, with a pale ghostly face dominated by sharp blue eyes. She had a wide mouth, and an unsettling smile that showed more teeth than humor. Her voice was harsh and unattractive, her throat damaged by constant screaming in the dark cells of Silo Nine.

Before the underground sent her into Wormboy Hell as their undercover agent, she'd been just another esper; but since the Mater Mundi touched her, Jenny Psycho had become a major esper power overnight. Her presence all but crackled on the air around her, an almost tangible effect on any company. Where once she'd been nothing but a minor telepath, now every esper ability was hers to call upon, something which was supposed to be impossible, though no one had even been stupid enough to say that to Jenny Psycho. Most people had enough sense not to get that close to her anyway.

She respected Owen and Hazel for the power they'd brought to the rebellion, but since her personality could change from the relatively sane Jenny to the actually disturbing Psycho in mid-sentence, they'd found it hard to get to know her. They tried to make allowances. She had, after all, volunteered to be sent into Silo Nine, and Wormboy Hell was enough to break anyone. It helped that she didn't trust Young Jack either. Possibly because she didn't like the competition for attention.

She paused for a moment in the doorway, to make sure everyone was looking at her, then flounced across the room to the only remaining empty chair and sank into it as if it were a throne. Young Jack Random stayed by the door, falling naturally into an heroic pose. Jenny ignored him magnificently. "How much longer till we get to Mistworld?" she said icily.

"Now don't you start," said Owen. "Even with the new drive, it still takes time to get from one side of the Empire to the other."

"Actually, we've been in orbit around Mistworld for almost twenty minutes," Ozymandius murmured in Owen's ear.

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

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

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

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

Owen fought down a need to sigh heavily and looked at his fellow team members. "Apparently we are currently in orbit over our destination. So far, no one is shooting at us. Hazel, you know these people better than the rest of us. Patch into the comm system and find out what exorbitant price they're going to charge us for landing this time."

She grunted unenthusiastically and got up out of her chair. It took her a while, and a certain amount of effort, because of the weight of all the guns she'd loaded herself down with. She made her way unhurriedly over to the comm panels and put in a call to Mistport Security. There was only one city and one starport on Mistworld, and that was Mistport. A wild and woolly place, and very definitely not somewhere you went without an invitation. As the Empire had found out, to its cost. As Hazel waited more or less patiently for someone to answer her, Owen looked around him, then stirred uncomfortably in his chair as he discovered that Jenny Psycho was studying him again. Her esp made her somewhat aware of the great changes that had taken place within Owen and Hazel, but it wasn't enough to tell her what those changes were. She sensed that, in their own ways, Owen and Hazel were just as powerful as she was, and she didn't seem able to make up her mind as to whether she should be frightened or awed or jealous. Owen had used that uncertainty to talk her into quietly probing Young Jack's mind, to see what was in there. To their mutual surprise, it turned out that as far as Jenny's esp was concerned, there was no one there. Which meant that either Jack had amazingly tough mental shields, or… So far they hadn't been able to come up with an or they liked. Owen looked away from Jenny's burning gaze. As if he didn't have enough things to worry about.

"Hello, Sunstrider II," said a tired voice from the comm panels. "This is John Silver, head of starport Security. Don't adjust your equipment, we've lost visual again. When I find the pirate that sold us these systems, I'm going to tie his legs in a square knot. Welcome back, Hazel. Don't steal anything big and try not to kill anyone important this time. You can put your ship down anywhere you fancy; there's hardly anything on the pads. Not a lot of traffic comes our way these days."

"Understood," said Hazel. "Cheer up, John, we've got a cargo bay crammed to the ceiling with really nice surprises for you; namely, more projectile weapons, ammo, and explosives than you can shake a really big stick at. Just the thing for expressing your displeasure with Imperial spies and troublemakers."

"You always bring the nicest presents, Hazel. Now pardon me if I leave you all to your own devices. As head of Security, or what's left of it, I'm being run ragged at the moment. The precogs have been going crazy the last few days, insisting Something Bad is in the air. We can't get any details out of them that make sense, but either way I don't have the time to waste on a single ship, no matter how friendly."

"In case he's forgotten," said Owen, "remind him we're not just outlaws on the run this time. We represent the Golgotha underground."

"I heard that," said Silver. "Might have known you'd be aboard, Deathstalker. We haven't forgotten the mess you made on your last visit. Someone will meet you once you're down, but don't expect a brass band or the key to the city. We had to pawn the instruments and the key never did work anyway. Have a nice stay. Don't start anything. Now clear the channel so I can concentrate."

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

"Pretty much," said Hazel. "They've raised paranoia to a fine art in Mistport. With good reason. The Empire has a long history of sneaking in dirty tricks to try and undermine or destroy the starport. It wasn't that long ago they started an esper plague here, using a disguised vector called Typhoid Mary. A lot of people died before Security finally tracked her down. They're still recovering."

"They've been through a lot," said Young Jack. "We'll just have to convince them of the importance of our various missions here. We must have Mistworld on our side if we're to win the rebellion. Their espers will be an invaluable asset."

"Glad someone's keeping an eye on the big picture." said Owen. "But I would go easy on the exposition when you get down there. Mistworlders aren't big on speeches."

"You should know," said Hazel.

The landing pads were practically deserted, with only a handful of smugglers' ships, huddled together at one end of the field as though for comfort. The Sunstrider II settled comfortably onto the pad set aside, marked by flaring oil lamps. The tall steelglass control tower was the only sign of high tech at the starport, its bright electric lights blazing through the thick, swirling mists. Owen had the ship's computers shut down everything except the security systems, then led the way out of the ship and onto the landing field.

The cold cut at them like a knife as they filed out of the airlock, searing their exposed faces and burning in their lungs as they all huddled in the thick furs the ship had provided. Owen beat his gloved hands together and glared about him. He'd forgotten how much he hated this place. And not just for the cold.

The mists were at their thickest, in the early hours of the morning before the rising of Mistworld's pale sun. Beyond the control tower, the lights of the city showed only dimly through the shifting grey walls of fog. Young Jack Random looked calmly about him. He didn't even have the decency to shiver like the rest of them.

"The old place hasn't changed a bit. Colder than a witch's tit and even less inviting."

"And when were you last here?" said Hazel, not bothering to hide the suspicion in her voice.

"I've been here several times, down the years," Random said easily. "In fact, I started out here, some twenty years ago, trying to raise troops for a rebellion on Lyonesse. I found a few brave souls to join me, but that was all. They didn't know me then. Hopefully I'll do rather better this time."

"Heads up," said Jenny Psycho. "Someone's coming. Three people. One's an esper, but his mind is closed to me."

"Stay out of the other people's heads as well," said Hazel sharply. "This is an esper city, and they take their mental privacy very seriously. You upset the powers that be here, and we'll be taking what's left of you home in a straightjacket. From this point on, you use your esp by invitation only. Got it?"

Jenny Psycho shrugged. "I can't help it if their minds are shouting at me all the time. And the powers that be here had better watch out for themselves. I have been transformed by the Mater Mundi, and there isn't a mind in this city that's my equal."

"That settles it," said Hazel. "From now on, you stay well clear of the rest of us. That way whenever it happens, whatever horrible thing it turns out to be, we'll all be a safe distance away. Hiding."

They were saved Jenny's acid reply by the sudden emergence of three figures from the shifting mists. There was no warning. One moment there was only the fog, and then two men and a woman came striding out of the mists toward them. Owen found that quietly disturbing. Usually his new powers gave him advance warning of things like that. Why, dammit, did it work sometimes and not others? He found his hand had dropped automatically to the sword at his side and quickly moved it away again. He recognized two of the newcomers from files he'd been shown at his last briefing. Port Director Gideon Steel was a short fat man with calm, thoughtful eyes and a disturbingly cynical smile. He dressed well, if a trifle sloppily, as some of his furs looked distinctly mangy. He was supposed to be in his mid-forties, but he looked ten years older. Trying to run Mistport will do that to you.

The woman beside him was much more impressive, and not a little intimidating. Despite the bitter cold she wore no furs, only the formal uniform of an Investigator. Owen could feel Hazel tensing beside him and prayed she'd have enough sense not to start anything. Investigator Topaz was medium height, slim, handsome, and her gaze was colder than the mists could ever be. Her close-cropped dark hair gave her classical features a calm, aesthetic air, but her ice-blue eyes were killer's eyes. Just looking at her made Owen want to back away slowly and very carefully, doing absolutely nothing that might upset her. He knew about Investigator Topaz. Everyone did. She was a Siren, the only esper ever to be made an Investigator. When she decided to leave the Empire and head for Mistworld, the Empress sent a whole company of Guards after her. Five hundred men. Topaz killed them all with a single song, her voice and esp combining into a deadly force that could not be stopped or turned aside.

In Mistport, she was officially just a Sergeant of the city Watch, but she kept her Investigator's title. Mostly because no one was stupid enough to argue the point with her. In a city full of dangerous and desperate people, no one messed with Investigator Topaz. Having met her, Owen could understand why. Without looking round, he could feel Hazel stirring at his side, like a junkyard dog scenting a rival, and Owen decided to get things started before they had a chance to get seriously out of hand.

"Director Steel and Investigator Topaz," he said smoothly. "So good of you to come and meet us in person at such an early hour. May I present—"

"We know who you are," said Steel. "And if you weren't official representatives of the Golgotha underground, you'd never have been allowed to land. You're troublemakers, and the last thing Mistport needs right now is more trouble. And for your information we haven't got up early; we haven't been to bed yet. Since Typhoid Mary and the esper plague, those of us who survived have been working double shifts just trying to get things back together again. And I haven't forgotten the mess you stirred up the last time you honored us with a visit, Deathstalker. I should bill you for the damage."

"Given the size of the docking fees, I thought you already had," said Owen, completely unruffled.

"And before you ask," said Hazel, "no, you don't get your usual unofficial ten percent cut of the cargo we're carrying. Feel free to argue the point. And I'll feel free to cut you off at the knees. Possibly quite literally."

"Don't mind her," said Owen. "She's just being herself. If I might inquire, since we're so persona non grata, what brings you here at all? Politeness to the underground?"

"No," said Topaz, her voice as cold as the grave. "We just wanted a look at the legendary Jack Random."

Random flashed them his winning smile and bowed formally. "Delighted to make your acquaintances, Investigator and Director. Rest assured, I shall do everything in my power to see that our business is carried out quietly and quickly, with the minimum of disturbance to all concerned. But I make no secret of my intention to bring Mistworld into the underground, and the central path of the rebellion. You've been left alone in the cold too long. It's time for us all to stand together, and take the fight to the Empire."

"Great," said Steel, entirely unmoved. "Another bloody hero. We get a lot through here. They come and they go, and nothing ever changes."

"Ah," said Random, grinning broadly. "But they're not Jack Random."

To Owen's surprise, Steel grinned back. Jenny Psycho stepped forward suddenly. "In case anyone's forgotten, I'm still here," she said loudly. "I represent the Mater Mundi, Our Mother of All Souls."

"Congratulations," said Topaz. "You're the tenth this month. It's the most common confidence trick in Mistport. Probably because so many people are desperate to believe in it. If you weren't with Jack Random, I'd have you thrown in gaol on general principles. So keep your head down and don't make waves. Is that clear?"

Jenny Psycho's eyes blazed suddenly with an inner light, shining from her face like spotlights. Loose energy sparked and crackled on the air around her, as her power stirred within her. Her presence beat on the air like the wings of a giant bird, forcing them all back. Something lived deep within Jenny Psycho, something vast and powerful and not necessarily human, and it was awakening. Gideon Steel drew a gun. Investigator Topaz opened her mouth to sing. And Owen and Hazel threw themselves on Jenny and wrestled her to the ground. Her power lashed out at them, only to be met and swept aside by a greater power, as yet unfocused and untrained, but still more than enough to silence a mere esper who had only been touched in passing by something greater. Her presence shattered like a smashed mirror and was gone. Owen and Hazel cut off their power, rolled Jenny over, and pressed her face against the harsh surface of the landing pad.

Owen sat on her, just in case, and smiled up at Steel and Topaz.

"Don't mind Jenny. She doesn't travel well. Once you get to know her, she's quite objectionable."

Steel sniffed and put away his gun. Topaz scowled. "Something happened then," she said slowly. "I just caught the edges, but you two did something there. There's more to you than meets the eye, Deathstalker."

"There would have to be," said Steel. "Welcome to Mistworld, people, and keep that esper on a short leash, or I'll have her muzzled. The man lurking in the background behind us, and carefully staying out of harm's way, is John Silver, our current head of starport Security. He'll look after you during your stay, and do his best to keep you out of trouble, if he ever wants to see his pension. Best of luck in your various missions, and if anything goes wrong I don't want to hear about it. Don't bother popping in to say good-bye before you leave. Now, if you'll excuse us, Topaz and I have work to do."

And with that the two of them turned and walked away, disappearing back into the concealing fog. John Silver glared after them, made a rude noise and a ruder gesture, and strolled forward to introduce himself with an easy smile. "Don't take it personally; they're like that with everyone. Mostly with good reason, but that's Mistport for you. Hello, Hazel, good to you see again."

"Good to see you, you old pirate," said Hazel, grinning, and stepped forward to hug Silver tightly. Owen was almost shocked. Hazel wasn't usually a touchy-feely kind of person. He took the opportunity to study Mistport's head of Security. Silver was tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp-edged youthful features, and wore thick, superbly cut furs topped with the scarlet cloak of the esper. He wore a simple short sword on his hip, in a well-worn leather scabbard, but Owen had no doubt the man also had a gun or two hidden under those furs somewhere. He looked the type. He also looked like he was enjoying the hug entirely too much. Silver and Hazel finally broke apart and stepped back to hold each other at arm's length.

"Looking good, Hazel. Robbed anyone interesting recently?"

"You'd be surprised. How the hell did a rogue like you get to be head of starport Security? That's like setting a starving wolf to guard a flock of sheep."

Silver shrugged amiably, not insulted. "Even the fiercest wolf has to settle down and turn respectable eventually. We lost a lot of good people here during the esper plague, including most of my superiors. Typhoid Mary killed or brainburned them all in the space of a few days, and when she was finally taken down, I was the only one left standing. To everyone's surprise, including my own, I've been doing a good and mostly honest job ever since. Mostly because there's so much work to be done that I haven't the time or the energy to be crooked."

"Never thought I'd hear you say that," said Hazel, laughing. She looked back, and realized Owen was studying them thoughtfully. "Owen, get up off Jenny and come and meet an old friend." Owen got up carefully. Jenny stayed where she was, breathing harshly. Hazel grinned. "Owen, allow me to present an old confidant of mine. Ex-pirate, confidence trickster, lawyer, and occasional female impersonator when money gets short. Generally a good comrade to have with you, on either side of the law. Particularly if you're working a swindle. Best innocent-faced liar I ever knew."

"Which is why I'm so good at my present job," said Silver calmly. "Takes one liar to spot another. And I know all the tricks, because I've used most of them in my time."

"This is all very charming and picaresque," said Random, "but I have business to be about."

"Oh sure," said Silver. "Hang around, and I'll get you a map and some guards."

"No need. I know my way around Mistport. And I've never needed guarding." He bowed politely to them all, even Jenny, then strode confidently off into the fog, his straight back radiating strength and purpose.

"Impressive," said Silver. "I just hope he doesn't get mugged and rolled. We'd never hear the end of it."

"I have my own mission, too," said Jenny Psycho icily. Everyone looked round sharply, as they realized she'd got to her feet without being noticed. If anything, she looked even more dangerous than she had before. "I don't need a map or guards either. Just stay out of my way."

She stalked off into the fog, and the mists rolled aside to get out of her path. They closed again after her, and she was quickly gone. Hazel shook her head slowly.

"You know, I could have sworn we were supposed to work as a team."

"Don't let it bother you," said Owen. "Personally, I feel a lot safer with them gone. Neither of them would get my vote for mental health poster child of the year."

"You're missing the point, as usual," said Hazel. "God knows how much damage Jenny Psycho will cause on her own, and I particularly wanted to stick close to Jack Random, in the hope of spotting something that would prove whether he's the real thing or not."

"I thought you were sure he's a fake?"

"I am. But proof would be nice."

"We could always go after him."

"No we couldn't. Then he'd know for sure that we don't trust him."

"I hate reasoning like that," said Owen. "You can argue all day and still end up running in circles. We could be wrong about him, you know."

"Hold everything," said Silver. "Are you telling me there's a chance that wasn't the real Jack Random?"

"We're still deciding," said Hazel. "Let's just say we have doubts."

"But he looks the part," said Silver. "Every inch a hero and a warrior."

"Precisely," said Owen. "He's too perfect. Real life isn't like that."

"Paranoia," said Hazel, smiling. "A game for the whole family, and anyone else who might be watching. Let's get out of the cold and find somewhere warm before my toes drop off."

Owen glanced approvingly round Silver's private quarters as he sank into a deeply comfortable chair by an open fire. The ex-pirate Security chief lived in a fair amount of comfort, by Mistport standards. There were a number of high-tech appliances, including electric lighting, rare on a world where all forms of high tech had to be smuggled in past Empire blockades, at great cost to buyer and seller. Either head of port Security paid really well, or Silver hadn't entirely given up on his old piratical ways. Hazel sat opposite Owen, frowning into the dancing flames of the fire. She looked tired and drawn, and older than her years. Something was troubling her, but Owen had more sense than to ask what. She'd only bite his head off. She'd tell him when she was ready, or not at all.

Silver bustled about being the perfect host, making sure his guests were comfortable, chatting cheerfully about inconsequential things, and pressing large mugs of mulled wine on Hazel and Owen. Hazel just held hers, making no attempt to try it, so Owen took a gulp of his, just to be polite. Normally he couldn't stand mulled wine, but this proved to be easy on the palate and hotly spiced, leaving a pleasant warmth behind as it sank past his throat and chest and headed for his stomach. He nodded thankfully to Silver, who pulled up a chair facing his guests and looked at them inquiringly.

"Fill us in on what's been happening recently," said Owen, when a long pause made it clear Hazel wasn't going to start the ball rolling. "We weren't here long enough to ask questions on our last visit. What's this about a Typhoid Mary and an esper plague?"

"The Empire smuggled her in," said Silver. "She was an extremely powerful rogue esper, primed and conditioned to kill other espers. People fell dying and brain-burned all across the city, and where she passed children woke screaming from their dreams and would not be comforted. She destroyed a lot of good people before she was finally brought down. The Empire's plan had been to kill so many espers that the psionic screen which protects Mistworld would collapse, and the Imperial Fleet could move in at will. That didn't happen. But we came bloody close…"

"What happened after she was captured?" said Hazel, not looking up from the fire.

"We deconditioned her," said Silver. "It wasn't her fault. She'd been programmed by mind techs. She works for us now."

"And you trust her?" said Owen. "The Empire could have planted all kinds of control words in her subconscious. She wouldn't even know they were there till someone triggered them."

"There were quite a few. We found them. This is an esper world, Deathstalker. The depths of the mind hold no secrets from us."

"How much damage did she cause?" said Owen.

"Lots. We're still clearing up. Many people in important positions were either killed or brainburned, and for a long time there was chaos in the city as various factions fought for control. The worst of that is over, praise the good Lord, but there's still a lot of jockeying for position going on. Watch your backs while you're here. There's a lot of people who'd kill both of you just so that someone else couldn't have you."

"So," said Hazel, finally turning to look at Silver. "You're doing all right for yourself then, John?"

"I'm doing fine," said Silver, blinking slightly at the sudden change of subject.

"Better than fine. These quarters are a damn sight cosier than that rathole you used to hide out in down by the docks. No, I take that back, now I come to think of it, rats wouldn't have lived there for fear of catching something."

"Head of port Security is a plum job," said Silver easily. "As long as I keep things nice and peaceful, no one looks too closely at how I do it. So, on the one hand, I crack down hard on the kind of people I used to be, and on the other, I salt away a little here and there, to supplement my pension. It's a hard life, but someone's got to do it."

"Aren't you worried about Director Steel finding out?" said Owen, not sure whether he should be shocked or not. This was Mistport, after all.

"Him? He's a bigger crook than I am! No, the one I have to watch out for is Investigator Topaz. If she ever gets anything on me, I won't live to stand trial. In fact, if she ever even looks like getting close, it's me for the mountains on the first gravity sled I can beg, borrow, or steal. How someone that honest ever ended up on Mistworld is beyond me."

"Law-abiding sort, is she?" said Hazel innocently.

Silver shuddered, and not from the cold. "That woman is so straight she even distrusts her own shadow. Luckily, she's usually busy chasing bigger fish than me. Let me give you some idea of the kind of person we're discussing here. Did either of you happen to notice the hole in the back of her cloak?"

"Yeah," said Owen. "Disrupter burn. I take it she wasn't wearing the cloak at the time?"

"No. Her husband was. Someone shot him in the back, at point-blank range. She found the killer, and killed him slowly, but she still wears the cloak, and she never had the hole mended. What kind of person would do that?"

"Cold, obsessed, unswerving," said Hazel. "An Investigator in other words."

"Let's change the subject," said Silver. "Before I start looking over my shoulder and jumping at sudden noises. Jack Random and that Psycho woman took off on their own missions. What are you here for? Or aren't you allowed to tell me?"

"It's no big deal," said Hazel. "I'm here to make contact with the Council on behalf of the Golgotha underground. It should have been someone else, but plans got changed at the last minute, and I was the only one who didn't run away fast enough, so I got volunteered. Owen's here to hunt down an old information-gathering network his father set up in Mistport some years ago. You can make a move when you're ready, Deathstalker. I'm going to spend some time with Silver before I get started."

Owen frowned. "I thought we'd be sticking together. You know Mistport a lot better than I do."

"So what do you want me to do, aristo? Hold your hand?"

"You heard what Silver said," Owen said stubbornly. "We don't have any friends out there, and our… link is unreliable."

"I can look after myself," said Hazel. "So can you."

Owen scowled, nonplussed. It made no sense at all to split up when they both had so many old and new enemies to watch out for. He wondered for a moment if Silver might have been more than a friend in the past, and that was why he was being frozen out, but he didn't think so. The body language was all wrong from both of them. But it was clear he wasn't going to get anywhere with Hazel while she was in this kind of mood. There was also no point in losing his temper. She'd always been better at throwing tantrums than he. He found it all so undignified. Besides, she didn't look too good. She was sweating in the heat of the fire, and her mouth was set in a flat, ugly line. Owen pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

"Well, if you'd rather waste time chatting with an old friend than getting on with the job we were sent here to do, I can't stop you."

"Damn right you can't. And don't take that tone with me, Deathstalker. I know my duty, but I'll take care of it in my own time and in my own way."

"Time is something we're rather short of, Hazel. Or had you forgotten how closely the Empire has been dogging our heels?"

"I haven't forgotten anything! You stick to your mission and leave me to mine! Get out of here, aristo. I'm sick of looking at you. I don't need you!"

"No," said Owen. "You've never needed anyone, have you?"

He bowed curtly to Silver and stalked out of the room, not quite slamming the door behind him. The tense silence continued for a while, as Hazel glared at the closed door, and Silver studied her thoughtfully. He'd seen Hazel in many moods, but this was a new one on him. Clearly the Deathstalker, or at least his opinion, mattered to Hazel. Silver hoped she wasn't falling for the outlawed aristocrat. Hazel had never been any good at handling affairs of the heart. She always got hurt in the end. He almost jumped as Hazel turned suddenly to face him, her eyes hot and fierce.

"We've always been good friends, haven't we, John?"

"Of course we have. We've walked a lot of miles together."

"I need your help, John."

"It's yours. Anything you want, just say the word."

"I need some Blood. Just a drop or two. Do you know where you can get some? Someone… discreet?"

"If that's what you want."

"Yes, John. That's what I want."

Silver pursed his lips. "The Deathstalker doesn't know about this, does he?"

"No. And you're not to tell him. He wouldn't understand."

"I'm not sure I do. I thought you were clear of that shit. I held your hand and sponged your brow and wiped your ass while you sweated the stuff out of your system the last time. I don't want to have to do that again. It almost killed you, Hazel."

"I'm not talking about going back to being a plasma baby again! I've got it under control this time. I just need a drop, now and again. You don't know what I've been through, John. You don't know the pressure I'm under."

"I said I'd help you. Hazel. If Blood is what you need, I can get it for you. We all have the right to go to Hell in our own ways. As head of port Security, I have access to all drugs seized from incoming ships. No one will miss a few drops." He paused. "Are you sure about this, Hazel?"

"Oh yes. I have to have something in my life I can depend on."

Young Jack Random strode unhurriedly through the streets of Mistport, and no one bothered him. There was something in his unyielding stance and cold confidence that persuaded people to keep their distance. That, and the energy gun he wore openly on his hip. Only the real movers and shakers in Mistport had access to energy guns. Random made his way into Merchants Quarter, in search of an old friend. Councillor Donald Royal had been one of Mistport's greatest heroes in his younger days, and was an influential figure even now, in the autumn of his life.

Random finally came to a halt before a soot-blackened old building in a part of the Quarter that had definitely known better days. Donald Royal could have afforded to live practically anywhere he chose in the city, but this had always been his home, and he wouldn't move. Stubborn old man. Random stepped forward and knocked politely on the door. There was a long pause, and then he sensed he was being studied through a spyhole. He smiled charmingly at the door, and kept his hands well away from his weapons. The door swung open to reveal a striking young woman. As far as Random knew, she was a complete stranger, but he kept his smile going anyway. She was tall for a woman, with a tousled head of reddish-brown hair, falling in great curls to her shoulders. Her face was a little too broad to be pretty, but her strong bone structure gave her a harsh, sensual look. She held herself like a fighter, with a cold steady gaze and a mouth that gave away nothing. Her clothing was strictly functional, but well cut, and she carried an energy gun holstered on her hip. Random noted that her hand was resting on her belt next to the gun and cleared his throat politely.

"Good evening. I'm looking for Donald Royal. I understood he was still living here."

"He's here, but I don't know if he wants to be bothered right now. I'm his partner. I don't let people bother him without a good reason."

"I'm Jack Random. I've come to talk to him about planning the new rebellion against the Empire."

The woman smiled suddenly, and her eyes warmed. "That's… a good reason. I'm Madelaine Skye. Come on in. Pardon my caution, but we don't get many legends around here."

She stepped back, and Random bowed politely before moving past her into a narrow, gloomy hall. He hung up his coat and his sword belt without having to be asked and allowed Skye to lead him down the hall and into a cosy sitting room. Oil lamps provided the only light, suffusing the room with a soft buttery glow. Thick leather-bound books lined three walls, the last wall being covered by a display of well-used bladed weapons, from slender daggers up to a huge double-headed ax. Below them lay a large fire, crackling contentedly in its grate, surmounted by an elaborate mantelpiece of dark wood, carved into blocky Gothic shapes. On top of the mantelpiece, a large clock was set into the belly of a carved wooden dog with an ugly face. Its eyes and lolling red tongue moved to and fro as it ticked. Sitting beside the fire in a large padded armchair was an old man with vague eyes. He'd been a large man once, but the great muscles that had packed his frame in his youth had slowly wasted away down the years, and now his clothes hung loosely about him. Long strands of wispy white hair hung down about a gaunt, bony face. Madelaine Skye stood beside the chair, hovering protectively close.

"We have a visitor, Donald."

"I can see that, woman. I'm not blind yet. Or senile. I assume he's someone important, or you'd have sent him on his way with a flea in his ear." He looked at Random for a long moment, and then frowned. "I know you from somewhere. Never forget a face." And then his gaze cleared, and he rose suddenly out of his chair. "Dear God, it can't be. Jack? Is that you, Jack? Damn me, it is." He grinned broadly and reached out to take Random's proffered hand in both of his, the large wrinkled hands enveloping Random's. "Jack Random, as I live and breathe! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Looking up old friends," said Random, smiling. "Been a long time, Donald."

"You can say that again. Too damned long. Sit down, sit down, and let me take a look at you."

Random pulled up the armchair on the other side of the fire and sat down, politely pretending not to notice as Donald Royal lowered himself carefully back into his chair, with just a little help from Madelaine. Donald studied Random with sharp, weighing eyes. There was nothing vague about him anymore, as though the memory of the man he used to be had recharged him. Madelaine moved away to give them some privacy, but stayed by the door, leaning casually against the doorjamb. It hadn't escaped Random that her hand was still resting near her gun. He smiled warmly at Donald.

"Nice place you have here. Comfortable. I like your clock."

"Do you?" said Donald. "Can't stand the bloody thing myself. But it was a favorite of my late wife's, and I haven't the heart to throw it out. You're looking good, Jack. Must be twenty years since I last saw you, sitting in this room, in these same damn chairs. You were a firebrand then, so young and alive and full of hope and vinegar that I couldn't resist you. Gave you all the gold I had on me, and the names of everyone I could think of who might listen to you. I'd have gone with you myself, but even then I was getting a bit too old and fragile for adventuring. You had the gift of words, Jack, and I never could resist a plausable rogue."

"You were one of the first people to really believe in me," said Random. "I never forgot that. Though it's just as well you didn't come with me to Lyonesse. Things went badly, from start to finish. I was young and inexperienced, still learning my way. We had some victories, but in the final battle we were thrown back and routed. I had to run for my life, while good men and women died to buy me time. But we still struck a blow for freedom, and made the Iron Bitch afraid, if only for a moment."

"I remember Lyonesse," said Madelaine from the doorway. "Your army was cut to ribbons, one in ten of the population was hanged for supporting treason, and the survivors had their taxes doubled for the next ten years. There are those who might say Lyonesse was better off before your rebellion."

"Don't mind Madelaine," said Donald. "She doesn't believe in luxuries like optimism and virtues. She's never happy unless she's seeing the dark side of things. She persuaded me to come out of retirement to work with her as private investigators. I provide the brains, and Madelaine sorts out the bad guys. I have to say, I've felt more alive this last year than I have for ages. I was never meant for retirement. She still insists on acting as my bodyguard, even though I haven't forgotten how to use a sword."

"I'm sure she's very proficient," said Random. "Donald, I need to talk to you."

"Of course you do. Jack. We have a lot to catch up on. Twenty-two years since I last saw you. I've followed your career as best I could. News takes a while to reach Mistworld. You haven't changed a bit. Jack. Unlike me. How have you stayed so young? You must have been in your late twenties when I first met you, and you don't look as though you've aged a day since then."

"I have several heavy-duty regenerations to thank for that," said Random. "And a little cosmetic surgery. People won't follow an old rebel. It's no secret that I've been pretty badly messed up on more than one occasion. I may be young on the outside, but my bones know the truth. But I'm still me. Still the professional rebel, ready to fight for truth and justice at the drop of a hat. My cause hasn't changed in twenty-two years, Donald, and just like then, I need your help."

Donald sighed, and settled back in his chair. "Afraid my help's rather more limited these days, Jack. I'm still on the city Council, but I don't take much interest in politics anymore. Which means my influence is pretty much nonexistent. I stick my oar in now and again, just to remind them I haven't died, and I try to do my own small bit for truth and justice as a private investigator, but truth be told, on the whole the important life of the city just passes me by. I can give you names and addresses of some people who might be willing to listen to you, but my name isn't the recommendation it was the last time you were here. Times have changed, Jack, and not for the better. Mistport is a colder and far more cynical place than you and I remember."

"You can still vouch for me to the Council," said Random. "There seems to be some question as to whether I really am who I say I am. If you were to speak up publicly to confirm my identity, it would help a lot."

"No problem there," said Donald. "I may not be as young as I was, but there's nothing wrong with my eyes or my memory. You're Jack Random. No doubt about it. I'd stake my life on it."

"Don't be so quick," said Madelaine. "Looks aren't everything. You said yourself he looks far too young. How do we know he isn't a clone?"

"A gene test would answer that," Random said easily.

"Unfortunately, we don't have access to tech like that here in Mistport," said Madelaine. "Convenient, that."

"Hush, Madelaine," said Donald. "Easy enough to test the man. There are things only Jack and I would remember. Things we talked about, people we knew, back then. Right, Jack?"

"Of course. Let me think for a moment. It was a long time ago." Random pursed his lips and rested his chin on his fist. "I remember some of the people you sent me to. There was Lord Durandal, the adventurer. Count Ironhand of the Marches. Is either of them still around?"

"No," said Donald. "They're both gone now. Ironhand drowned, saving a child who'd fallen into the River Autumn. He was a good swimmer, for an old man. Got the child to safety. But the shock of the icy waters was too much for him. He knew it would be, but he went in anyway. He was that sort of man. Durandal disappeared into the Darkvoid, years ago, on some damn fool quest to find the Wolfling World. Don't know if he ever found it. He never came back."

"Pity," said Random. "I admired them both. I was hoping they'd vouch for me, too. We still need some proof, don't we? How about this; you gave me all the gold you had on you, twenty-two years ago. And that was exactly seventeen crowns. Am I right?"

"Exactly right!" said Donald, slapping his knee. "I remember now. Seventeen crowns. No one else could have known that, Madelaine."

She shook her head stubbornly. "An esper could have got it out of Jack's head, or yours."

"Oh, don't mind her," Donald said dismissively. "She was born suspicious. Had her mother's milk tested for steroids. You're the real thing, Jack; I can feel it in my bones. I'll vouch for you. And maybe this time you'll listen to me before you go haring off to fight for truth and justice with too few troops and no proper backup."

"I'll listen this time," said Random. "I've learned from my mistakes."

"You've had enough opportunities," said Madelaine, but both Donald and Jack ignored her.

"We've got a real chance this time, Donald," said Random, leaning forward. "An army of clones and espers, and powerful allies beyond anything you've ever dreamed of. I won't throw it away because of my pride."

"Good man," said Donald. "Get your people together and set up a meeting with the Council. Madelaine and I will be there."

"Thank you, Donald. This means a lot to me." Random rose smoothly to his feet, then waited politely as Donald struggled up out of his chair. They clasped hands again, and Random strode out. Madelaine followed him to the door, to be sure he didn't steal anything, and then came back to stand in the doorway and glare at Donald.

"You think he's a fake, don't you?" Donald said calmly, as he eased himself back into his chair.

"Damn right I do. He's too good. Too perfect. Great-looking, muscles to spare, and all the right words and phrases. Like a popular hero designed by a committee. And I don't buy that regeneration story for one moment. I mean, technically speaking I suppose it's possible, but where would a rebel on the run gain access to that kind of tech? Last I heard, regeneration machines were strictly for the aristos. No, Donald, you only believe in him because you want to. Because he's one of the few good memories from your past that's still around."

"Maybe," said Donald. "I don't believe he's telling us everything, or that everything he told us was true. But every instinct I have says it's him. He's just the way I remember him. A larger-than-life hero and a plausible rogue, all in one. He's passed the only tests I could think of. What else does he have to do to convince you, walk on water?"

"If he did, I'd want to check his boots afterward," said Madelaine.

Jenny Psycho made her way through the streets of Mistport, the crisp snow crunching under her steady stride. Her breath steamed thickly on the air before her, but she was pleasantly warm inside her furs. Heat and cold and other vagaries of the world had lost all power over her. According to her briefing, the espers' union had their own hall in Guilds Quarter, but she needn't have bothered with the directions. She could feel it in her mind, like a great searchlight stabbing up from the center of the city. There were people bustling everywhere she went, but they all gave her plenty of room, even if they weren't always sure why.

The hall itself turned out to be modestly sized, set back in its own grounds. Jenny was a little taken aback to see it standing plainly sign-posted and apparently unguarded. Anywhere else in the Empire such a gathering of espers was punishable by death or mindwipe, depending on how valuable their services were. The simple openness of the espers' union cheered her greatly, and she strode up the graveled path to the front door with something like a swagger. There were no visible guards anywhere, but she hadn't expected any, even in a cesspit like Mistport.

Espers had their own, subtler ways of keeping watch and seeing off the uninvited. The great front door looked imposing and impressive. Jenny looked for a knocker or bellpull, but there wasn't one. She raised her hand to knock, and the door swung open before her. A tall slender man in formal evening wear filled the doorway, staring haughtily down at her. His head was clean-shaven, showing small surgical scars here and there, and his eyes were just a little too wide. His smile was formal and entirely meaningless.

"Come in, Jenny Psycho. We've been expecting you."

"I should hope so," said Jenny. "Now, are you going to let me in, or am I supposed to teleport past you?"

The doorman, or whatever the hell he was, stepped back gracefully, and Jenny strode past him with her nose firmly in the air. Start as you mean to go on. The hall was open and airy, the air sweetened by vases of blossoming flowers in every nook and cranny. Jenny would have liked to ask where the hell they found flowers like that on a freezing, inhospitable rock like Mistworld, but she kept the thought to herself. Asking questions could be taken as a sign of weakness, and it was vital she appear strong. The butler took her furs and hung them up. He looked pointedly at her boots, dripping melting snow onto the thick carpet, but she ignored him. Bare feet might be taken as a sign of informality.

"I take it your precogs told you I was coming," said Jenny, casually. "They are supposed to be the best in the Empire, after all. But did they tell you why I was coming?"

"Not yet." He closed the door firmly and turned to smile at Jenny. She didn't like the smile. It was too confident by far. The flunky strode off down the hall without waiting to see if she was following, allowing his words to trail back over his shoulder. "We know who you are. We could find out why you're here if we wanted to, but we'd rather hear it from you directly. This way. Someone will see you shortly."

HeII with this, thought Jenny Psycho. Things were getting out of hand. These people needed reminding who and what she was. She reached out with her mind and drenched the flowers in the hall with her esp. They erupted out of their vases, growing at a tremendous rate, flowers budding and blossoming in a moment as vines and branches sprawled across the walls like runaway trellises. They filled the hall from floor to ceiling, rioting on the walls, pushing each other aside for space to display. The scent of flowers was overpowering, rich and glorious. The servant looked back at Jenny, his face impassive, but only just.

"I didn't know you could do that."

"There's lots about me you people don't know. Now find me someone in charge to speak to, or I'll turn this entire house into a shrubbery."

"They said you'd be trouble," said the butler, or whatever the hell he was. "If you'd care to wait in the study, someone will be with you soon."

"Very soon," said Jenny.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised. And for your information, I am not the bloody butler, I am the Chancellor of this lodge. This is the study. Try not to break the furniture or set fire to things. Some of these books are very old and a great deal more valuable to us than you are."

"That's what you think," said Jenny. "Now beat it, Chancellor. And don't keep me waiting too long or I'll act up cranky."

"I wouldn't doubt it for a moment," said the Chancellor, and ushered Jenny into the study. The room was large and brightly lit, with large comfortable furniture, gleaming wood-paneled walls, and an inviting, well-banked fire. The whole study had a calm, relaxed atmosphere that Jenny didn't trust for a moment. They probably just wanted to put her off her guard. Jenny quietly probed the surrounding rooms and had to hide her surprise when her mind bounced harmlessly away from powerful psionic shields.

"Please don't do that," said the Chancellor. "We have many private places here, mentally shielded to protect our more sensitive people from the clamor of the world. And occasionally to protect the world from some of us. I advise you to respect their privacy. For your own sake, if not for theirs."

Knowing a good exit line when he delivered one, the Chancellor bowed briefly and left Jenny alone in the study, shutting the door firmly behind him. Jenny waited to hear the sound of a key turning in the lock, but it didn't come. Presumably the espers' union thought it had other ways of stopping her if she decided to leave. More fool they. She sniffed angrily and threw herself into the most comfortable-looking chair. She'd been held in Wormboy Hell and survived, and there wasn't much left that could intimidate her now. She glowered around her. Looked at closely, the study was a bland place, with no style or personality of its own. More like a stage set than a place where people lived and worked. Probably set up as neutral ground, a midway place where espers could meet with emissaries from the outside word.

Jenny sank grudgingly back into the comfort of her chair and tried to relax. Nerve and passion and a sense of destiny had brought her this far, but for the first time she wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do next. It all depended on how seriously the espers' union took her. She was no longer used to dealing with people who weren't awed or at least impressed by her presence, or what she'd become. But this house held the greatest minds on a planet of espers. They weren't going to impress easily. And she couldn't just threaten them. The underground needed their wholehearted support and approval. Besides, it might not work. Jenny scowled sulkily. When in doubt, stick to the script. The underground had spent some time drilling her in all the proper words and phrases, till she could have recited them in her sleep. It helped, too, that she believed passionately in the arguments. Still, these people had better learn to treat her with respect. She had been touched by the Mater Mundi, and she was so much more than she used to be.

She concentrated, diffusing her thoughts, letting her esp creep slowly outward, easing unnoticed through the mental shields to every side of her. Immediately a babble of voices filled her head, harsh and deafening, and visions flashed past her eyes almost too fast to follow. Jenny reeled, and had to grab at the arms of her chair to center herself. So many minds, all working at the peak of their abilities. Past records and future possibilities jumbled together till she could hardly tell them apart. They surged around Jenny, like waves crashing against a rock on the seashore, but she held firm and would not be swayed or moved. She concentrated, filtering through the deafening noise for the information she needed, and slowly things came to her, like ships glimpsed briefly through an ocean fog.

Someone was praying, and sobbing so hard she could hardly get the words out. There were visions of buildings burning, and people running screaming in the streets. Something dark and awful was hanging over Mistworld, like a huge spider contemplating its prey. There were guns firing, and a child's blood splashed across a wall. The streets were full of people rushing this way and that as the city burned and death closed in around them. In a padded room not too far away, someone was beating at the walls with raw and bloodied hands, and though he was silent as the grave, his mind was full of an endless horrible scream. And through it all, a name, repeating over and over in a chorus of voices, surfacing through the babble like a heartbeat, like a prophecy of doom that could not be denied.

Legion. Legion is coming. Legion.

Jenny broke free of the contact, shaking and trembling. She breathed deeply, fighting to control her scattered senses. She had no doubt she had seen the future. She had seen the streets of Mistport thrown down into Hell, and watched as Imperial troops butchered the people as they ran. She'd seen the city walls thrown down, and buildings blown apart, and above it all, a scream that never ended. It wasn't a human scream. It might happen a week from now, or a year, or it might already have begun. She had no way of knowing. Precog visions were like that. She cut herself off from all mental contact, slamming down her shields, until she was the only one left in her head, and she was safe and secure again. She groaned quietly, and rubbed at her aching brow.

"Serves you right for peeking," said a harsh voice from the doorway. Jenny's head snapped round, and she scrambled to her feet. She hadn't heard the door open. Standing in the doorway, looking as hard and uncompromising as before, was Investigator Topaz. Beside her stood a tall, painfully thin woman dressed in pale pastel colors. She looked almost as washed-out as her clothes, and stringy blond hair hung uncared for about a sharp, gaunt face with striking ice-blue eyes. There were patches of scar tissue around her cheekbones, and part of her nose had been eaten away. It gave her a stark, almost supernatural glamor. She might have looked dangerous, if she hadn't also looked like a strong breeze would blow her away.

"It's rude to stare," said Topaz. "Frostbite, in case you were wondering. It gets cold around here sometimes. If you ask her nicely, she'll show you the stumps where some of her fingers used to be. Her name's Mary."

Jenny made the connection immediately, and stared at the blond wraith with new respect. "Typhoid Mary? The plague carrier?"

"I don't use that name anymore," said Mary. Her voice was quiet, little more than a murmur, but Jenny had no problem understanding her. There was an almost compelling power in Mary's speech and gaze. "Typhoid Mary was another person; someone the Empire created to do its dirty work. I'm just Mary."

Jenny nodded. "I know about mind techs. They stirred their sticky fingers in my brain, too. Still, considering the damage you caused here in Mistport, I'm surprised they're letting you run loose. Hell, I'm surprised you're still alive."

"Little Miss Tact," said Topaz. "We don't blame people for what the Empire did to them. Here on Mistworld, most of us have done things for the Empire we're ashamed of. The Council gave Mary over into my custody. We work as a team now. We have a lot in common. Mostly things we've lost, because of the Iron Bitch and her damned intrigues. Enough small talk. You wanted to speak to the esper union, but the powers that be are rather busy at the moment. You can talk to us. We'll take it farther, if need be. In the meantime, if you want to make a good impression, leave the flowers alone and respect the mental shields in this house. They're here for your protection, as well as others'. There are a lot of people here who came to us for help and protection, because of the terrible things the Empire did to them, before they found their way to Mistworld. Some of them have yet to be defused. And there are also a lot of people here still mourning for the friends and family and loved ones they lost during the esper plague. Respect their privacy."

Jenny shrugged. She had a mission to fulfill. "They'll all want to hear me, once they know who and what I am. I represent the Mother Of All Souls, and her power moves within me. I will bring light to their darkness, and an end to their suffering. And with their backing, I will bring down the Empire itself."

"Save the speeches," said Topaz. "We've heard it all before. Legends are ten a penny, here in Mistport. Mostly because there are so many people here desperate to believe in them. It's up to you to convince us that you're not just another esper with delusions of sainthood."

Jenny let that pass, for the moment. "Tell me about the esper union. How did it start?"

If Topaz was surprised by the change in subject, she didn't show it. "Originally? In the beginning, the union existed to call espers together, when we had to raise the psionic shield in a hurry. From there it grew into a self-help group, and then a political force, to look out for our own interests. Mistport's no place to be weak and divided. There are people on the streets here who'll eat you alive if they smell fear. And sometimes there are temptations few of us are strong enough to resist on our own.

"These days the union is a political and economic power base with roots and interests throughout the city. And the people in charge aren't all that keen on having their considerable power undermined by some half-crazed ex-political prisoner claiming to be the avatar of the Mater Mundi. Some of them don't believe such a person exists, or ever did. And some have a vested interest in denying it. Which is why you're talking to us and not the leaders of the union. And at least partly because even your name doesn't exactly inspire confidence. So, now you get to make your pitch. And it had better be very convincing."

Jenny Psycho suddenly grinned at Topaz and Mary, and they both stirred uncertainly despite themselves. There was something in the room with them, a presence and a power that hadn't been there before. And then Jenny Psycho wrapped her destiny around her and dropped all her shields, blazing brightly like lightning trapped in a shot glass. Her presence was suddenly overpowering, filling the room and pushing against the walls, beating on the air like the heartbeat of something impossibly huge. Topaz and Mary fell back, and the Investigator's hand fell automatically to the sword at her hip. Jenny's esp lashed out and slammed into Topaz's and Mary's minds, slapping aside their shields with casual ease. They stood naked before her, all barriers down. Jenny could have made them say or do or believe anything, and they all knew it. But instead, Jenny opened up her mind, took her time and suffering in Wormboy Hell, and showed Topaz and Mary all of it in one compressed burst of living hell.

They were all there as the worm ate into Jenny's brain, controlling her every thought and action. They were there as she lay curled and naked on the floor of her cell, shaking and shivering, surrounded by the stench of her own piss and shit and vomit. The cell was little more than an oversize coffin, with featureless steel walls and a ceiling too low to let her do more than crouch or crawl. There was rarely any light. There was just the darkness, and the worm burrowing in Jenny's mind, feeding her the endless nightmares of Wormboy's projected hallucinations and mind games. She lost most of her voice there in Silo Nine, screaming for help that never came, or just for an end to the pain and the horror.

And then there was a miracle. Mater Mundi came to her, Mother of the World, Our Mother Of All Souls, exploding out of her mind like a butterfly from a cocoon, spreading out to gather up every esper in Wormboy Hell, and bind them into a single sword thrust into the heart of Wormboy himself. The gestalt couldn't maintain itself for long without burning out all the minds of those involved, but for that fleeting moment every one of them was greater than Humanity had ever been, and more powerful. And all of it focused through Jenny Psycho.

Except that wasn't her name, really. She'd been someone else originally, an underground agent who'd volunteered to be sent into Silo Nine under a false persona, to gather information on ways into and out of Wormboy Hell. But now her original self and the false persona were both gone, swept aside by Jenny Psycho, who had been touched by greatness, her esp boosted beyond hope or reason. Jenny Psycho, representative of the Mater Mundi, who had once been someone else. Someone sane.

Her projection collapsed as the various selves in her mind warred and screeched, fluttering in her head like moths battering a lamp, drawn beyond sense or reason to try and touch something that would only destroy them in the end. Jenny Psycho, who was so much more, and so much less, than she once was. She fell back into herself and kept falling, hugging herself fiercely to keep from flying apart. Tears burned in her eyes, but she kept them back by sheer force of will. Tears over the memory of something great and wonderful, that had touched and transformed her, and then abandoned her.

Mary stepped forward and put an arm around Jenny's shaking shoulders. "It's all right. We understand. We'll speak to the union leaders. They need to hear you, even if they don't know it yet. You stay here. We'll get things moving."

She gave Jenny a last comforting squeeze, and gestured with her head for Topaz to open the door. She did so, her face entirely impassive. Mary steered Jenny back into her chair, then she and Topaz left the study, leaving Jenny Psycho slumped in her chair like an exhausted child. They shut the door firmly behind them and moved off down the corridor.

"Not too tightly wrapped, is she?" said Topaz.

"Few of us are, these days," said Mary. "But she does seem to be an extreme case. If we don't handle this one with kid gloves, we could end up with a multiple personality on our hands. And a bloody powerful one, at that. Did you feel the energy coming off her? It was like staring into a searchlight. I've never encountered anything like it before. Whatever touched her in Silo Nine, it was a power far beyond my experience. I'm not even sure it was human. Could it really have been the Mater Mundi?"

Topaz shrugged uncomfortably. "I've never been religious. Still, I saw everything you did. She might be crazy, but something manifested through her. Its mark is all over her mind, even now. The Mater Mundi's as good an answer as any. Whoever or whatever that might be. You're right, the leaders have to see her. If only so we can be sure of controlling her. God knows how much damage she could do if we let her run loose."

"Like I did," said Mary.

"That's over now. You're yourself again."

"Maybe. Do you think I don't know that you're still watching over me for the Council? Not everyone's convinced my deprogramming took."

"I'm with you because I choose to be," said Topaz. "Besides, you still have a lot of enemies here in Mistport. Everyone lost somebody to the esper plague."

"I'll never kill again," said Mary. "I'll kill myself first."

"I know," said Topaz.

"Poor Jenny. She's been through so much."

"Haven't we all."

Owen Deathstalker walked alone through the packed streets of the Merchants Quarter, scowling and seething. People passing took one look at his face and gave him plenty of room. Some even crossed to the other side of the street, just in case. Street vendors and stall holders cried their wares in a variety of colorful ways, but Owen paid them no notice. He was working his way into a world-class bad temper, and he didn't care who knew it. His mood wasn't helped by the fact that he wasn't very good at following directions. It wasn't that he was lost, exactly; he just didn't always know where he was. He'd only been this way once before, and that was with Hazel leading the way, and he hadn't paid much attention at the time. Luckily Ozymandius remembered the way.

Owen strode on through the Quarter, kicking at the thick snow and concentrating fiercely on where he was going so he wouldn't have to think about Hazel, alone with John Silver. He had no right to be jealous, as Hazel no doubt would have been happy to tell him, but still… he loved her, in his way, and would no matter what she thought of him. If she ever thought of him. Owen sighed and pressed on, and eventually he ended up in front of the seedy ramshackle building that housed the Abraxus Information Center. Abraxus knew everything that was going on in Mistport, sometimes even before the people concerned knew it. Abraxus could answer all your questions, soothe your worries or confirm your worst nightmares, for the right price.

It wasn't much to look at. Abraxus had the first floor over a family bakery. There was no sign advertising its presence. Everyone knew where Abraxus was. The last time Owen had been here he'd learned many things, some useful, some disturbing. Among other things, Abraxus had told him how he would die.

I see you, Deathstalker. Destiny has you in its clutches, struggle how you may. You will tumble an Empire, see the end of everything you ever believed in, and you'll do it all for a love you'll never know. And when it's over, you'll die alone, far from friends and succor.

Owen shuddered suddenly, his hackles rising as the words whispered in his head again. Even the best precogs were wrong as often as they were right, or they'd have been running the Empire by now, but even so he found the prophecy disturbing. No hints, no riddles, no hidden meanings—just a blunt description of his future and his death. He liked to think he would press on anyway, doing what he knew to be right and damn the consequences, but… he had to talk to Abraxus again. A lot had happened since his last trip to Mistworld, not least his passing through the Madness Maze. That had to change things. In many ways he was a completely new person now.

"Hell," he said finally. "Everyone knows you can't trust precogs."

"So whom do you trust?" said Ozymandius in his ear.

"I wish you'd stop talking to me. You know very well you're dead."

"So maybe I'm haunting you. Answer the question. Whom do you trust these days? Hazel threw you out to be with Silver, Young Jack Random may or may not be who he says he is, and Jenny Psycho is living in a different reality from the rest of us. Whom can you trust?"

"Not you, anyway. I trust the real Jack Random to do what's best for the rebellion. I trust Ruby to back him up right down the line, as long as there's the promise of plenty of loot. I trust Giles to uphold the Deathstalker name. And I trust Hazel to do the right thing, in the end."

"And Silver?"

"Hazel will go her own way. I've always known that."

"I remain unconvinced," said Oz. "Jack Random is mostly famous for getting his ass handed to him on planet after planet, Ruby Journey was a bounty hunter, and therefore not to be trusted on general principles, and Giles's beliefs and aims are nine hundred years out of date. You never were very good at picking your companions, Owen. Hazel is up to something. You know that, deep down."

"Hazel is always up to something. And for a dead AI, you're extremely cynical. You never did approve of my friends, even when you were alive. The bottom line is, I trust my companions because I have to. My only hope for survival is to throw Lionstone off the Iron Throne. For that I need a rebellion, and for that I need allies."

"Is that the only reason you're fighting to change the way things are?" said Oz quietly.

"No. I've seen too much of the everyday evil and suffering the Empire is based on. I can't look away anymore. Things must change; even if it means my life."

"You mean your death. What are you going to replace the Empire with? What else do you know but the privilege of aristocracy, and the rule of the Families?"

"Beats me," said Owen. "Let's win the war first. We can argue about whatever the hell comes next once we're safe from Lionstone's spite. Whatever we end up with, it can't be worse than what we've got."

"Famous last words," said the AI calmly. "You're an historian, Owen. You know what happens after rebellions. The winning side turn on each other and fight to the death to determine which particular faction will replace the old order. Either way, the odds are the victors will have little use for a dyed-in-the-blood aristo like you. You could end up plunging the Empire into a civil war that could last for centuries and leave planets burning in the endless night."

"You know, you've got really depressing since you died. And what do you care, anyway? There'll always be a use for an AI."

"I don't care," said Oz easily. "I was just making conversation."

"Well, shut up then. I have business with Abraxus, and I can't talk to you there. They wouldn't understand about dead AIs."

Oz chuckled briefly and fell silent. Owen looked casually around to see if anyone was watching, then clambered up the rickety exterior stairs to the upper-floor entrance. The place needed a good coat of paint the last time he'd been there, and time had not improved its appearence. Patches of rising damp showed clearly in the wood, and the simple brass nameplate on the door, saying simply Abraxus, clearly hadn't been polished in weeks. Maybe months. There was a distinct smell of cat urine, which rather puzzled Owen, as he hadn't seen a cat all day. There was no bell, of course. Owen hammered on the door with his fist and kicked it a few times for good measure. It made him feel better. After a pause just long enough to make sure Owen understood his place, the door swung open, and the man called Chance filled the doorway. He looked Owen over, then gestured for him to enter. Owen did so, his head held high.

The place hadn't changed. Two lines of ramshackle cots filled the long narrow room, pressed close together, with a narrow aisle down the center. On the cots lay dozing children, from four or five years old to emaciated, spindly teenagers. Intravenous drips fed nutrients into their veins, and catheters carried everything else away into grimy jars. Some of the children were covered in blankets, while others had thrown them off. A few were strapped down. There was a strong pervasive smell of cheap disinfectant and rubbing alcohol. The children were espers, brain damaged as often as not, too weak to survive on a harsh world like Mistworld. Chance bought them from their parents and used their esp abilities to spread a telepathic web over all of Mistport, seeing and hearing everything. And that was Abraxus. Chance kept the children alive as long as he could; it was in his interest to do so. But none of them ever survived to adulthood. They were the weak and the damaged, the broken and the abused, and by the time Chance got his hands on them, it was already too late. It didn't affect Abraxus. There were always more. The children were loyal to Chance, sleeping and awake; he was the nearest thing to a friend most of them had ever known.

Owen shook his head slowly, but wouldn't let himself look away. The first time he'd been here he'd been sickened to his soul. He'd wanted to tear the place apart, and Chance with it, but he hadn't. Much as he hated to admit it, Abraxus was the best these children—genetically damaged and idiot savant espers with terrible pasts and little future—could hope for.

Just another product of Empire rule. Owen turned to glare at Chance, founder and manager of the Abraxus Information Center. Chance was a large muscular man, almost as broad as he was tall, wearing black leathers with metal studs. Half his face was hidden behind a complex and very ugly tattoo. His smile was meaningless, his eyes were too bright, and he didn't blink often enough. Owen often wondered if Chance had been crazy before he started Abraxus, or if endless exposure to death and suffering had sent him over the edge. Either way, Owen maintained a safe distance, and kept his hand near his sword. Chance nodded abruptly to him.

"Knew you'd be back, Deathstalker. What can I do for you this time?"

"Don't you know?" said Owen. "You must be slipping, Chance. I have questions that need answering."

"That's what we're here for," said Chance. "I feel I should point out you exhausted all your credit the last time you honored us with your presence. And my prices have risen dramatically. You understand how it is; small businesses always have to fight to stay afloat."

"Your business exists because my father's money made it possible," Owen said flatly. "Technically, as his only heir, I inherited Abraxus."

"You were outlawed," said Chance. "All assets attached to the Deathstalker name were confiscated by the Empress. And besides, this is Mistport, where possession is every part of the law. Abraxus is mine."

Owen smiled humorlessly. "I think you have me confused with someone who gives a damn. I'm back in Mistport to revitalize the old Deathstalker information network, and make it part of the ongoing rebellion again. And that very definitely includes you and Abraxus. Since, for my sins, I'm one of the people currently leading the rebellion, Abraxus answers to me. So if you want to keep your presumably very well paid managerial position, I strongly suggest you stop pissing me about. Got it?"

"You couldn't run Abraxus without me," said Chance. "The children are mine, body and soul."

"They'd soon get over you. Children are so very… adaptable, after all."

Chance thought about it. "You'd risk ruining my operation, just to get control?"

"Of course," said Owen. "I'm a Deathstalker. We have a long history of getting our way, and to hell with where the chips fall."

Chance sniffed. "What do you want to know, Deathstalker?"

"That's more like it. I have a question."

"Keep it specific, if you want a specific answer. My children are espers, not oracles."

"Ask them who killed my father," said Owen. "Which person, specifically?"

Chance nodded, and made his way slowly down the central aisle, looking speculatively from one child to another. Owen watched impassively, hiding his own surprise at the question he'd asked. It hadn't been the one he intended to start with. He was here to ask about his father's information network. He hadn't known how badly he wanted the name of his father's killer until he heard himself say it. His father had been cut down in the street by an assassin in the pay of the Empress, and at the time Owen hadn't really been surprised. Just assumed that one of his father's many plots and intrigues had finally caught up with him. Mostly, Owen had just felt annoyed at the disruption the sudden death had brought to his previously well-ordered life. He hadn't asked who the killer was. He hadn't cared, then.

Arthur Hadrian Deathstalker, tall and handsome and ruthlessly charming, had delighted in schemes and intrigues, sometimes apparently just for their own sake. Which meant he hadn't had much time to spend on his son. When he remembered he had a son and heir, he ran Owen's life with an iron hand, doing as he thought best and to hell with what Owen might want. His was not a cheerful presence, and their few conversations increasingly deteriorated into blazing rows. The Deathstalker never understood that his son considered himself a scholar, rather than a warrior. When Owen heard that his father was dead, his first feeling was one of relief. He was finally out of his father's clutches and free to be his own man at last.

It was only in recent times that Owen had finally begun to understand the forces that had moved and driven his father. Just by being the Deathstalker, Arthur had many enemies both in and outside Lionstone's Court. An aristocrat on Golgotha could no more avoid intrigue than a fish could avoid the water it swam in. And above all that, Arthur had believed in rebellion. Whether for the sake of the Empire, or for his own amusement and advancement, Owen still wasn't entirely sure, but more and more he was inclined to give his father the benefit of the doubt. As his own eyes were opened to the evils and horrors the Empire was based on, he understood the need to fight it by any means necessary.

He still couldn't bring himself to love or forgive his father. The man who'd ordered his trainers to beat the crap out of his son, over and over again, trying to force to the surface the secret inheritance of the Deathstalkers—the boost. A mixture of gengineered glands and special training that for short periods made a Deathstalker stronger, faster, and sharper than any normal man. The process worked, eventually, but Owen only remembered the pain and the blood, all to give him access to something he didn't want anyway. Only recently had Owen begun to understand that his father had been desperate to make him a fighter rather than a scholar, because he knew a scholar wouldn't be able to survive the forces that would be unleashed by his death. And he'd been right.

As Owen became a leader of the new rebellion, and a fighter for justice, so he became his father's son at last. And only once he understood that truth at last, did he begin to understand how much he'd lost, and how much he needed to know who'd murdered his father.

He looked up as Chance beckoned him impatiently, and moved over to join the big man, standing over a cot holding a girl who couldn't have been more than ten. The child wore a shabby dress two sizes too large, and she stirred constantly, as though disturbed by loud voices only she could hear. Her eyes were closed, but she muttered the odd word or phrase now and again. None of them made any sense to Owen. Chance knelt beside her and produced a paper bag half-full of candies. He chose one, molded it between his fingers till it was soft and pliant, then eased it into the girl's slack mouth. She began to chew slowly. Chase put his mouth right next to her ear.

"Time to play the game, Katie. Time to tell me all those things you know. I have Owen Deathstalker here with me. He wants to know who killed his father. Whose hand guided the blade that took his life. Who was it, Katie?"

The girl frowned, her mouth pursing unhappily, but she didn't wake. She swallowed the piece of candy and spoke in a clear, pure voice. "You asked me that long ago. The answer hasn't changed. It was the smiling killer, the shark in shallow waters, the man who will not be stopped save by his own hand. Kid Death killed the Deathstalker."

Owen nodded slowly, his face impassive while his hands closed into fists. He hadn't been expecting that particular name, but it didn't exactly come as a surprise either. Kid Death, the Empress's favorite paid assassin for a while, also known as Lord Kit SummerIsle. Now a backer of the rebellion, and a friend of the distant cousin who'd taken the title of Lord Deathstalker after Owen was outlawed. Both currently headed for Virimonde, the planet Owen had once owned and ruled. It didn't matter. It didn't matter that Kit and Owen were on the same side now. Owen would kill him anyway, once the rebellion didn't need him anymore. Kit SummerIsle was a dead man, along with anyone who got in his way. Anyone at all. Owen smiled slowly, and his fists unclenched. Something to look forward to.

"You didn't come here just to ask me that," said the young girl suddenly. Her eyes moved back and forth under her closed eyelids. "There's something else. Something you need to know. Ask me. Ask me."

"All right," said Owen. There was a tightness in his chest, and he had to fight to keep his voice steady. "The last time I was here, one of you told me how I would die. I need to know if it's still true. Has anything changed?"

"No," said the girl flatly. "You die here, in Mistport, alone and forsaken, fighting odds too great to be beaten by any man. And after you're dead, they'll even steal your boots."

"When?" said Owen. "When does this happen?"

"That's a time question," said the young girl, turning her head away. "I've never understood time."

"Try!" said Owen. "Try, dammit!"

He reached down to grab the child by the shoulders and shake her, but Chance was there first, pulling him away. Owen threw the big man off easily, but the moment had passed, and he was in control again. He stood over the sleeping child, breathing heavily, then he turned away.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally, to no one in particular. "I've always known I've been on borrowed time ever since Virimonde. I was supposed to die there. Only a miracle saved me. And a man can't expect more than one miracle in one lifetime. Still, it's hard to hear your own death sentence, and know there's nothing you can do to change it."

"If you don't want the answers, don't ask the questions," said Chance. "And I told you before; you can't trust precogs. If everything they said was reliable, I'd be a rich man by now. For instance, they've all been saying for some time now that Something Bad is coming to Mistport, but I can't get two of them to agree on what the hell it might be. All I've got is a name—Legion. But so far, the only unpleasant thing to turn up here is you."

"It doesn't matter," said Owen. "If I have to die, I'll die well, as a Deathstalker should."

"Oh very poetic," said Chance. "God save me from heroes. Look, I have a business to run. Don't let the door hit your butt on the way out."

"Cut the crap," said Owen. "We still have business to discuss. My first questions were strictly on my own behalf. Now we get to the serious stuff. I'm here representing the Golgotha underground, and on their behalf I'm officially reawakening and revitalizing my father's old information network here in Mistport. He didn't fund just you and Abraxus; there are dozens of people and businesses all through this city that he established and supported, in return for the gathering and passing on of useful information. Some of them went on to be very successful indeed. Movers and shakers in this big city.

"The information started drying up after my father's murder. Presumably they thought his death freed them from their obligations. I'm here to tell them different. I'm the Deathstalker now, and I am calling in my father's markers. With interest. The old network will rise again, this time supplying information to the new rebellion, or I will personally bankrupt every one of the sons of bitches. Including you, Chance."

"Oh shit," said Chance.

"Well quite," said Owen, smiling cheerfully. "You can start by supplying the names and locations you know, and then we'll get the rest from these espers of yours. You will then assist me in setting up a meeting of all concerned parties, somewhen today. In fact, within the next two hours, if they want to hang on to all their business interests and several vital organs. Get moving, Chance. I've a lot to do, and perhaps not as much time as I thought to get it done in."

Chance made contact with the right people through his espers, a procedure from which Owen was very definitely excluded. He waited impatiently on the steps outside, debating whether to carve his initials into the door or the brickwork. Chance made an appearence just a few moments too late, looked at his door, and winced, then led Owen down the exterior stairway and off into the dizzying maze of narrow streets that made up the center of Mistport. The mist had thinned, but a fine annoying sleet was falling, turning the snow underfoot into slippery slush and mud. Owen stuck close behind Chance and tried not to think what he was doing to his expensive new boots.

They passed out of Merchants Quarter and into Guilds Quarter, and the streets and buildings improved almost immediately. There were proper pavements and regular streetlights, some of them even electric. The buildings were decorative as well as functional, and the people passing by looked of a much richer, if not necessarily happier, class. Chance finally came to a halt outside one of the older Guild Halls, and paused a moment so Owen could study it and be properly impressed. It was a squat, sturdy building with three stories, high Gothic arches, wide glass windows, and hundreds of wooden rococo doodlings in every spare inch. The gutters ended in great carved stone gargoyles, water spouting from their mouths, giving the unfortunate effect that they seemed to be vomiting on the people below. Or perhaps it was deliberate. It was a Guild Hall, after all. Owen didn't have the heart to tell Chance he'd seen more impressive privies at Lionstone's Court, so he just nodded thoughtfully, to show he'd finished being impressed, and gestured for Chance to lead the way in.

There were two armed guards at the front door. They bowed respectfully to Chance, and ignored Owen. He didn't kill them. He didn't want to make a scene. Yet. Inside, the main foyer was large and comfortable and extremely respectable. There was much polished wooden wall paneling, and a richly waxed floor that gleamed brightly in the light of the electric lamps, set not so much as to provide light but so that they could be admired the more easily. The various furnishings and fittings were luxurious to the point of opulence, and the whole place positively smelled of money, like an old family bank. Owen felt almost homesick.

As they strode in the doorway, stamping their boots on the metal grille and brushing the sleet and snow from their cloaks, a butler strode imperiously toward them, wearing an old-fashioned cutaway frock coat, a powdered wig, and a practiced sneer of utter condescension. Chance showed the butler his business card, and the man bowed briefly, a mere tilting of the head. He took Chance's and Owen's cloaks between thumb and forefingers and handed them over to a flunky who'd dashed forward to receive them. He then demanded they turn over their respective weapons to him, too, and that was when the trouble started.

"I don't hand my weapons over to anyone," said Owen.

"Don't make a fuss," said Chance, unbuckling his belt and handing over his sword. "It's nothing personal. Just standard security. Everyone does it."

"I'm not everyone," said Owen. "And my weapons stay with me. They'd feel naked without me."

"I must insist," said the butler, in icy tones. "We don't let just anyone walk in off the street, you know."

Owen punched him out. The unconscious butler's body made a satisfyingly loud thud as it hit the waxed floor some distance away and slid a few yards before coming to a halt. People everywhere turned to look. A few looked quietly approving. Security guards with drawn swords appeared from hidden doorways, only to stop dead as Owen let his hand rest ostentatiously near his energy gun.

"He's with me," Chance said quickly. "Much as I wish he wasn't. He is expected."

The security guards looked at each other, shrugged, and put away their swords, clearly deciding that this was someone else's problem. Everyone else in the foyer came to the same conclusion, and the polite murmur of conversation resumed. Owen nodded graciously around him as the unconscious butler was dragged away.

"Please don't do that again," said Chance. "First impressions are so important."

"Exactly what I was thinking," said Owen. "Now get a move on, or I'll piss in the potted plants."

"I wish I thought you were joking," said Chance. "This way. Try not to kill anyone important."

They pressed on into the depths of the Guild Hall, Chance leading the way in something of a hurry. The surroundings remained determinedly lush and expensive. Servants and real people hastened back and forth on silent errands of great importance. Speaking was apparently discouraged, save for the occasional hushed whisper. Owen felt very strongly that he would have liked to sneak up behind some of them and shout Boo! in their ears, just to see what would happen, but he didn't have the time. Maybe on the way back.

They all looked very neat and businesslike. Their outfits were a bit dated, but this was Mistport, after all. They all seemed to know Chance, and never missed an opportunity to bestow a lip-curling sneer in his direction whenever they thought he wasn't looking. Chance ignored them all magnificently. They finally came to a dead end, personified by a grim, entirely unsmiling secretary behind a desk in an outer office, set there to protect her boss from unwanted visitors. She was slim and prematurely elderly, and looked tough enough to eat glass. The guards probably sharpened their swords on her between shifts. Her clothes successfully erased any sign of femininity, and her gaze was firm enough to shrivel weeds.

"If you don't have an appointment, there is nothing I can do for you," she said, in a tone cold enough to make penguins shiver. "You may make an appointment if you wish, but I can tell you now that Mr. Neeson has no openings in his calendar for the next several weeks."

Chance looked at Owen. "This is as far as I can get you. Some obstacles are simply too great. Please don't hit her."

"Wouldn't think of it," said Owen. "I'd probably break my hand." He leaned over the desk to stare into the secretary's flinty eyes. "I am Owen Deathstalker. My father's money paid for this business. I've come to call in the IOU. Right now."

The secretary didn't flinch, though one eyebrow twitched briefly at the name Deathstalker. "I see. I'm sure that normally Mr. Neeson would be only too happy to see you, but as things are, my desk is completely full…"

Owen stepped back, drew his sword, raised it above his head and brought it hammering down with all his boosted strength behind it. The heavy blade sheared clean through the wooden desk, cleaving it into two jagged halves that fell away to either side of the secretary. Chance shook his head slowly. Owen put his sword away. The secretary cleared her throat.

"I think you should go right in, Lord Deathstalker. I'm sure Mr. Neeson can find a few minutes to see you. I'll make sure you're not disturbed. Would either of you care for tea or coffee?"

"Make it a brandy," said Owen. "A large one. Mr. Neeson's going to need it." He grinned at Chance. "You just have to know how to talk to these people. My Family has been practicing for centuries. Personally, I've always thought I'd make a great diplomat."

"You're not in yet," said Chance. "This is just the outer office. Beyond that door is the antechamber. The real watchdogs will be waiting there."

"Well, if they get a bit snappy, I'll throw them a bone. Which one would you miss least?"

They passed through the connecting door and found themselves in a small, bare chamber. Between them and the far door were three large, muscular men. Each one had a heavy ax in his hands. The men looked calm and very professional. The axes looked as if they'd seen a lot of use. Chance looked at Owen.

"An interesting problem in tactics. No room to maneuver, and absolutely no point in trying to talk to them. You might take out one with your disrupter, but the other two would be on you before you could even raise your sword. And a sword is no use against axes. I am, of course, unable to assist you. I have to maintain my position of strict impartiality. You understand."

"Of course. Normally if I was facing three Neanderthals like these, I'd be impartial as hell, too. But unfortunately for them, I am in something of a hurry, not to mention a really bad mood, and I can just use someone to take it out on. Watch and learn."

He stepped forward, empty-handed, and the three guards came to meet him, axes raised. It was all over in a few seconds. Owen punched out the first guard, swiveled on one foot and kicked the second in the groin. And while the third was still raising his ax, Owen stepped forward, grabbed two handfuls of the man's shirtfront, and headbutted him in the face. Chance's jaw dropped. Owen stood there, not even breathing hard, looking around him with quiet satisfaction. The three guards sat or lay moaning on the floor, all looking very upset.

"You're right," said Chance. "You'd make a terrific diplomat. No one would dare disagree with you. I've never seen anyone move so fast. What the hell are you?"

"I'm a Deathstalker, and don't you forget it." Owen strode over to the far door and rattled the door handle. It was locked. He tut-tutted loudly and hit the door with his shoulder. It burst inward, one hinge torn right out of the wooden frame. Owen pushed the door back, carefully straightening it up again, and smiled at the half dozen men sitting around the long table before him. "Knock, knock," he said brightly. "I'm Owen Deathstalker, and you're in big trouble. Any questions?"

"Come in. Lord Deathstalker," said the man at the head of the table. "We've been expecting you."

"Yeah," said Owen. "I'll just bet you have." He looked back at Chance. "Find a chair, sit down, and keep quiet. I don't want any distractions."

"Suits me," said Chance. "I wouldn't miss this for the world. But you are strictly on your own now, Deathstalker."

The six men glared at Chance as he pulled up a chair and sat down in a far corner, where he could see everything but stay well out of the line of fire. Owen moved to stand at the end of the long table, and all their eyes snapped back to him. He looked from one scowling face to another, taking his time. He didn't recognize any of them, but he knew men of influence and power when he saw them. Not just from their perfect tailoring and extra weight, but in their attitude. Their untouched confidence. They were annoyed at his arrival, but not concerned. They weren't afraid of him. They'd been rich and secure for so long they'd got out of the habit of being afraid of anyone. Owen smiled briefly. He'd change that.

And if they reminded him just a little of himself, the way he used to be before he was shocked awake, then that just made it all the worse for them.

"Would you like me to identify these people?" said Oz. "I have all their details in my data banks."

"Sure," said Owen, subvocalizing. "Make yourself useful for once. Hold on a minute—data banks? Where is your hardware these days?"

"Don't get personal. And pay attention; I'm not running through all this twice. We'll start at the left and go clockwise. Beginning with Artemis Daley, a man of many trades. He's a supplier, a fixer. You want it, he can get it for you. Legal or illegal are petty considerations that have never bothered him. If you're late with the payments, he's the one who sends around the legbreakers to reason with you.

"Next to him, we have Timothy Neeson, banker. He owns this building, and a lot more of Mistport. Number one in a very small field, which means that locally he's very powerful. Nothing of an economic nature takes place in Mistport without him taking a cut somewhere along the line. Next to him is Walt Robbins, the biggest landlord in Mistport. He owns everything the banks don't. Specializes in slums and sweathouses, because that's where the most money is.

"Moving down the other side of the table we have Thomas Stacey. Acts as a lawyer for everyone else here, and for anyone else with enough money to meet his exacting standards. Never lost a case, and that has nothing to do with his legal skills. And finally we come to Matthew Connelly and Padraig MacGowan. Connelly owns and runs the docks, everything from the starport to the landing bays on the River Autumn, and MacGowan runs the dock union. Between them they keep things running smoothly, irrespective of who gets hurt in the process. And there you have the movers and shakers of Mistport, in all their sleazy glory. If you killed all of them right now, the smell of Mistport would improve dramatically."

"I never knew you knew so much about Mistport," Owen subvocalized.

"Lot about me you don't know. I am large, I contain wonders."

"Do you have something to say to us, Deathstalker?" said Neeson, the banker, a large fat man with a straining waistcoat. "Or are you just going to stand there and stare at us all day?"

"Just gathering my thoughts," said Owen. "We have a lot of history between us, gentlemen. My father's money brought you to where you are today. Deathstalker money, originally intended to fund an information network here in Mistport. He put you into positions of power and influence so that you could keep track of things for him. Instead, you used his money to become major economic forces in this city, becoming so rich and powerful you forgot your original purpose. Or perhaps you simply decided that such things were no longer important to people as rich and powerful as yourselves."

"Got it in one," said Stacey, the lawyer, long and stringy, with broken veins prominent in his cheeks. "And we've absolutely no intention of becoming politicized again. We don't think in such small ways anymore. We've made over our lives, and we like things fine just the way they are. Among us, we run Mistport; we are the economic lifeblood that keeps this society moving. Mess with us, even threaten us, and the whole city's economy would collapse. We'd see to that. People would lose their savings, money would become worthless, and people would starve as food piled up undistributed on the docks. You can't touch us, Deathstalker. All the people in Mistport would rise up and tear you apart if you even tried."

"They'd get over it," said Owen. "Once they saw the old corrupt system being replaced by a fairer one."

"Fairness is a relative concept," said Robbins, the landlord, a short fat barrel of a man. "There will always be rich and poor. We provide stability. You don't understand the economic realities of a rebel planet like Mistworld."

"I understand greed," said Owen. "I understand treachery and self-interest. And I certainly understand bloodsucking scum when I see them."

"That's good," said Oz. "Win them over with flattery."

"We know why you're here," said Daley, the fixer, a large hunched man with a brooding face. "You want to take our lives away from us in the name of your rebellion and naive politics. Well, boy, you've come a long way for nothing. These days, our influence extends far beyond Mistworld, with investments on many worlds. Even Golgotha. Elias Gutman has been very helpful in shaping our portfolios. Yes, I thought you'd recognize that name. A man of real power and influence. He told us you were coming."

"Gutman," said Owen, as though the name was an obscenity. "He's come crawling around the rebellion more than once, but I've always known his vested interests lie with the Empire. His information comes straight from the Empress herself. When you followed his advice, you did Lionstone's bidding, right here on the rebel planet. Can any of you say, 'conflict of interest'?"

"Money has no loyalties. Or politics," said Neeson. "Gutman has always been a good friend to us."

"I'll bet he has," said Owen, his voice getting colder all the time. "And when his loans finally come due, you'll find the money by squeezing it out of the people here, who owe you. Whether they can afford it or not. And Mistworld will become just another planet bleeding itself dry to maintain Golgotha's wealth."

He looked round the table, to be met only with flat stares or indifferent shrugs. "That's business," said Daley.

"That's injustice," said Owen. "And I have sworn an oath on my blood and on my honor to put an end to it. Which means putting an end to you, and your cosy little setup. Maybe I'll kill you all, and see if your heirs prove more reasonable to work with. Either way, your money will be used to support the rebellion, as it was always intended to be. As my father intended."

"I don't think so," said Neeson. "Guards! Take him!"

Doors flew open on every side and a small army of guards came crashing in, armed with swords and axes and even a few disrupters. Owen subvocalized the word boost, and a familiar strength flooded through him. He felt almost supernaturally awake and aware, as though up till now he'd spent this life sleeping. He felt he could do anything, take any risk, and never pay the cost. Owen clamped down hard on that. It was the boost talking, not him. He was boosting too much and too often these days, despite the dangers, and he knew it, but he trusted to the Maze's changes to protect him from what would otherwise be crippling side effects. He had to; there was work to be done. The blood pounded in his head and in his sword arm, calling him on to battle, and he gave in to it with a smile that could just as easily have been a snarl.

The guards seemed almost to be moving in slow motion as he threw himself into the midst of them, knowing the few with disrupters wouldn't dare use them rashly for fear of hitting their own people. His sword flashed brightly as he swung it with inhuman strength and speed, and blood flew on the air. There were shouts and curses and hysterical orders from the six men around the table, and over it all came the sound of men screaming horribly as Owen's unstoppable blade worked butchery on their bodies. He moved among them like a deadly ghost, too fast to be stopped or even parried, his sword flashing in and out in a second. He seemed to be everywhere at once, hacking and cutting, and men fell howling in pain and horror before him. A man's arm fell to the floor, the hand still clutching desperately at nothing. Bodies fell to litter the blood-soaked carpet, and did not rise again. A disrupter blast scorched the great table from end to end, hitting no one, but leaving a long trail of burning wood behind it.

Owen was laughing now, though there was little humor in the sound. The battle raged from one end of the room to the other, blood splashing the walls till they all ran crimson. The six most powerful men in Mistport retreated from the burning table and huddled together in one corner of the room, watching with disbelief as one man laid waste to their private army. And then, quite suddenly, it was over, and Owen Deathstalker stood among the dead and the dying, a death's-head grin on his face. He looked slowly around him, blood dripping thickly from his blade. His clothes were splashed and soaked with gore, and none of it was his. He wasn't even breathing hard. He turned his smile on the six movers and shakers of Mistport, and they cringed before him. Owen dropped out of boost, but the expected tiredness didn't hit him. He still felt like he could take on the whole city if he had to. Chance came crawling out from under the burning table, where he'd taken shelter. Owen put out a hand to help him up, and Chance flinched away. He scrambled to his feet, looking at Owen with new eyes.

"They never stood a chance. You cut them down like cattle. What in God's name are you?"

"I'm a Deathstalker," said Owen. "And don't you forget it."

He turned his gaze on the six men huddled together in the far corner of the room. Only a few even tried to meet his gaze. Owen moved unhurriedly toward them, stepping casually over the unmoving bodies. His boots squelched quietly in the blood-soaked carpet. Stacey, the lawyer, glared at Owen with something like defiance.

"You're a monster; but you still can't beat us. We have the money. We can hire more men. We can hire a whole army of mercenaries, if that's what it takes to bring you down."

"Bring on your army," said Owen. "Let them all come. They won't save you."

"You can't kill us," said Neeson. "If we die, all our money will be tied up in probate. Maybe for years. No one would be able to touch it."

"Nothing's going to stop me," said Owen. "Not you, not the law, not the whole damned Empire. Your day is over, and I'm bringing down the night."

"You're crazy!" said Daley. "Just like your father was!"

"My father was worth a hundred of you!" said Owen, and he put away his sword. He was too angry. He wanted to do this with his bare hands. Boosted strength roared within him again, and something else as well. He grabbed the long heavy table, ignoring the flames, lifted it off the floor, and tore it in two. He let the jagged halves fall to the floor and advanced on the six secret masters of Mistport. They ran screaming for the door, Chance right behind them. They ran through the outer chamber, yelling for help, and Owen came right behind them.

He was more than human now, an almost elemental force on a rampage. His anger stormed through the rooms and corridors, smashing everything in its path. Walls cracked and collapsed, the bricks crumbling and the mortar exploding into dust. Great vents appeared in the floor and ceilings. Wood burst into flames, burning with a harsh unnatural light. People ran screaming as ceilings collapsed, showering them with falling masonry. The carpeted floors undulated like waves on an ocean, before rising up and splitting apart like a never-ending earthquake. And behind them all came Owen Deathstalker, silent and remorseless, bringing down the great Guild Hall as he would one day bring down the Empire it represented.

A few brave guards tried to stop him, and were swept aside. Doors were blown off their hinges and exploded out of doorways. Windows shattered, the jagged glass flying like shrapnel. Scattered papers flew on the air like frightened birds. Walls bulged apart and ruptured water pipes sprayed everywhere. Exposed electrical wires sparked and crackled. The whole building seemed to be roaring in pain as it slowly collapsed in upon itself. Owen Deathstalker walked on through the screams and the chaos, and found it good. One brave soul fired a disrupter at him, but the energy beam bounced harmlessly away. Nothing could touch or stop him now.

He finally came to the last door, the door through which he'd originally entered the Guild Hall. The door exploded from its frame, flying out into the street before the crowds who'd come to see what was happening. They were babbling and shouting as the Hall collapsed, but when Owen stepped out into the street they fell suddenly silent and backed away. They could feel the power in and around him, beating on the air like a giant heartbeat. Owen let his mind drift back through what was left of the building, making sure no one was trapped inside, and then he brought it all down in one giant upheaval. The roar of crashing masonry filled the street, and smoke billowed out of the empty doorways and window frames. In only moments what had been one of the greatest Guild Halls in Mistport was reduced to nothing but a pile of rubble. Silence slowly fell, broken only by the muffled sounds of debris settling. The buildings on either side stood completely unaffected. And the one man responsible for it all looked upon what his anger had done and found it good. He slowly brought his power back inside him and shut it down, and was just a man again.

That was when the Watch turned up. All ten of them. They stopped some distance away and studied the scene carefully. Owen smiled at them.

"Private business. Hostile takeover. Nothing for you to worry about, gentlemen."

The Watch looked at him, then at what was left of the building, and finally at each other, before deciding firmly to go and Watch somewhere else. The six men who used to run Mistport called plaintively after the Watch as they left, but they were ignored. The Watch didn't interfere in private quarrels. This was Mistport, after all. The six men turned slowly to look at Owen, who stood before them, smiling unpleasantly.

"You poor bastards wouldn't last five minutes on Golgotha," Owen said calmly. "They'd eat you alive and still have room for dessert. Now do as you're told, and you might get out of this alive and still attached to most of your major organs. Kneel down." They did so. They had no fight left in them. "You've got a new boss, gentlemen. A Deathstalker is back in charge. From this moment on, you are going to dig into your no doubt cavernous pockets and rebuild the information network as my father originally envisaged it. A means of collecting and compiling information to protect and serve the people of Mistworld, and keep it safe from outside attack and influences. You will also pay for the conceiving and setting up of new defenses to protect this planet. With the psionic screen weakened by the esper plague, you're going to need a strong high-tech system to back it up. Get on it. And finally, my father's money was always intended to make possible a fairer and easier life for the people of this city. I expect a series of wide-ranging but practical schemes from all of you, in writing, within the week. If anybody's late, I'll have him nailed to a wall to motivate the others. And I am not being metaphorical."

"But… we have shareholders," said Neeson. "People we have to answer to. They'd never let us do all that…"

"Send them to me," said Owen Deathstalker. "I'll convince them. Anybody else have something to say? No? Good. You're learning. Now you six assholes are going to obey my instructions, to the letter, or I'll turn you inside out. Slowly. Is that perfectly clear?"

They all nodded vigorously, and Owen turned his back on them and strode off down the street. He could still feel the power the Maze had given him, wrapped around him like a comforting cloak. The Maze had changed him, in ways he didn't understand yet, but the power was real and it was his, and he reveled in it. He felt like he could do anything, if he just put his mind to it. And it felt so good, to be able to put things right in such a simple and direct manner.

"You do realize," said Oz, "that you're walking in the wrong direction if you want to head back to the center of town?"

"Shut up, Oz. I'm making a dramatic exit."

He decided he would go to the rooms they had booked and see how Hazel and John Silver were getting on. He couldn't wait to see the Security man's face when he told him what he'd done to the Guild Hall. Who knew; it might even impress Hazel, just a little. He was worried about her. Despite the new power within him, he still couldn't feel her presence through their mental link. Besides, he wanted to talk to Hazel about this new power, and what it felt like. Maybe she had it, too. They had so much to discuss. Owen Deathstalker strode on through the streets of Mistport, and the mists themselves curled back to get out of his way.

Hazel d'Ark and John Silver, old rogues and older friends, sat in their comfortable chairs on either side of the open fire, sipping hot chocolate from lumpy porcelain mugs, and staring at the small phial of black Blood standing on the table beside them. It didn't look like much, but then the really dangerous things never do. They both knew what it could do, both to and for them, and it was a sign of their strength of will that they hesitated. Blood came from the Wampyr, the synthetic plasma of the adjusted men. Just a few drops could make a normal human strong and fast and confident. For as long as you kept taking it. Blood could make you feel wonderfully alive and aware, as though the normal world was just a grim and grey depressing nightmare from which you had finally awakened. Of course, the effect never lasted, and gradually you needed larger and larger doses to achieve the same effects. And slowly, drop by drop, the Blood burned you up from within. It had been designed to bring Wampyr back from the dead and make them superhuman. It had never been meant to coexist with the merely human system.

But people wanted it, needed it, would fight and kill for it; so there were always those ready to synthesize and market it, for the right price. Especially on a planet like Mistworld.

"It's really very simple," said Silver. "As head of starport Security, I have access to all Blood confiscated on the streets. And as I control all the computer records, no one's going to notice if I liberate a few drops now and then, for myself and a few special friends. You can't try and run a hellhole like Mistport without some crutch or other to lean on. And we don't all have it in us to be incorruptible heroes, like Investigator Topaz. I'm not an addict. I can control it. I'm not so sure about you, Hazel. You always were the greedy kind. Coming off it the last time nearly killed you. You really want to go through that again?"

Hazel stared down into her mug, not looking at him. "You don't know the pressure I'm under, John. So much has happened in such a short time. One minute I'm just a small-time outlaw, of no interest or importance to anyone but myself, and the next I'm a rebel, and everyone's after my head. Including some of those supposed to be on my side. As long as I was fighting and running for my life and didn't have time to think, I was fine, but now… Everything I do matters, everything I say has consequences, not just for me but for the whole damned rebellion. They've made me a bloody hero and a leader, and expect me to be perfect.

"And that's not all. Something happened to me on the Wolfling World, John. Something… changed me. I'm more than I used to be, and I'm scared all the time. I don't think I'm me anymore. I have bad dreams, and I can't tell if I'm remembering the past or the future. I can do things now that I never could before. Strange and terrible things. The Blood is the only thing that helps. It… stabilizes me, calms me… helps me believe I'm still human."

She put down her mug and reached out with her hand, and the glass phial of Blood leaped up from the table and shot into her waiting hand. Silver looked at her, startled.

"I didn't know you were an esper, Hazel."

"I'm not. I'm something else. Something… more." She unscrewed the top of the phial and sniffed delicately at the black liquid inside. Her nostrils flared as the familiar scent filled her head, dark and smoky. She breathed deeply, sucking it into her lungs, and sparks flared and fluttered in her veins. She tilted the phial carefully, and allowed a single drop of Blood to fall onto her tongue. She swallowed quickly, to avoid as much of the bitter wormwood taste as she could, and then refastened the phial's cap and put it back on the table, so not to be tempted to take a second drop. She leaned back in her chair, and groaned aloud as the familiar heat rushed through her, burning along her nerves, making her strong and powerful and confident again. The pressures and the duties and the doubts that plagued her were swept away, and, for the first time in days, her face relaxed. She smiled slowly. It felt so good. So good not to have to care anymore.

Silver watched her from his chair, keeping his own counsel till he was sure she was well under. He had intended to join her, but memories of what Hazel had been like in the worst throes of addiction had changed his mind. He wasn't an addict. He could control himself. So he stayed straight and sober, because he had a strong feeling that Hazel needed him to be there, watching over her. Even as he thought that, her half-shut drowsing eyes snapped suddenly open, and she sprang to her feet, looking wildly about her. Silver was quickly on his feet, too, putting his mug on the table so he could take Hazel by the arms. She didn't seem to notice him, and her arms were rigid as steel bars. Silver watched her carefully. You had to be careful with Blood users, when you weren't cranked yourself. With their new strength they could kill a normal human in a moment and not give a damn till after the Blood had worn off. Hazel stared about her, her head twisting violently from side to side, her eyes huge in her suddenly gaunt face.

"Hazel," said Silver, keeping his voice carefully calm and even. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's different," Hazel said thickly. "I'm different. I shouldn't have taken Blood here. Not with so many espers around. They're… affecting me. I can't tell what's in my head and what's outside. The Blood's… awakening something within me. Something I didn't even know was there. I can see things, John, so many things. Nothing's hidden from me anymore."

She stared at the wall before her, and suddenly it was gone. It only took Silver a moment to realize that he was seeing what she was seeing; her mind linking with his to show him what was in the next room. The young burglar named Cat was spilling brightly shining jewels onto a table from a leather pouch, while his fence, the woman called Cyder, laughed and clapped her hands. Hazel turned her head away, and the wall became visible again. She glared at the opposite wall, and it disappeared to reveal a card game deteriorating into muffled shouts and accusations.

Silver tried to shake her, but couldn't move her an inch. She suddenly turned her stare on him, and in that moment he felt utterly transparent, as though she could see everything within him, good and bad and in between, all captured in a moment. She seemed bigger than Silver, towering over him like some ancient god of judgment with no trace of mercy or compassion. He stepped backwards, jerking his hands away from her arms as though they'd burned him. Hazel's stare turned inward, and images began to blink in and out around her. Visions came and were gone in seconds, cycling through faces and places, some of which Silver recognized.

An old man sat slumped on a cot, worn and broken down by life, wearing a janitor's uniform. "They broke me. Go look somewhere else for your savior or leader." Then he was gone, and Owen took his place, bleeding from a dozen wounds, sword held out to ward off an unseen enemy. "When you see the opening, run, Hazel. I'll keep them occupied." A mob of shadows surged forward from all sides, and he disappeared beneath them, still swinging his sword. They blinked out, replaced by a grinning Ruby Journey. "I'm just in it for the loot." Silver tried to reach out to Hazel again, but couldn't get near her. Her memories had the force of reality.

Ruby was replaced by a tall, furred, and lupine figure that Silver realized with a jolt had to be a legendary Wolfling. The huge figure looked right at Silver, and said, "It is a sad and bitter honor to be the last of one's kind." He disappeared, replaced by a Hadenman with glowing golden eyes. Behind him towered a vast honeycomb of gold and silver, thickly encrusted with ice. The long-lost Tomb of the Hadenmen. The augmented man called Tobias Moon stared at Silver, and said in his buzzing inhuman voice, "All we ever wanted was our freedom." And then the ice melted, and strange colors came and went on the air, and the Hadenmen emerged from their Tomb, great and glorious and perfect beyond hope. And then there was only Owen again, staring sadly into Hazel's eyes. "You can't fight evil by becoming evil."

Hazel turned away from him, and Owen disappeared as she looked at Silver. Their eyes met, and new visions appeared. Silver, making deals with crooks and scum, to keep the peace in Mistport's streets. Silver, paying off legbreakers like Marcus Rhine, so they wouldn't interfere with his Blood distribution network. Silver, looking the other way, as rivals were eased out or shut down the hard way. The visions faded away, and Hazel looked at Silver with new, cold eyes.

"Just a few drops, now and then, for you and a few special friends? Bullshit. You've been running your own distribution network for the drug, all over the city. How many new plasma babies are there out there now, John? How many Blood junkies lying stiff and cold in empty rooms because they couldn't afford your prices?"

"I don't know," said Silver. "I try not to think about it. I'm just… getting by, like everyone else in Mistport. Inflation's gone crazy since the esper plague. Money's not worth half what it was. What savings I had were wiped out. If I wasn't doing it, someone else would. You know that. I never meant to hurt anybody, but…"

"Yes," said Hazel. "But. There's always a but, isn't there?"

Silver stepped forward, one hand reaching out to her. She grabbed it with her own, and he winced at the harsh, unforgiving strength in her. She smiled at him coldly. "The show's not over yet, John. You've seen the past and the present. Now here comes the future. Whether we're ready or not."

Her hand clamped down hard, and Silver cried out as the room disappeared around them and chaos took its place. People were running screaming in the streets of Mistport. Buildings were burning. Attack sleds filled the skies above. Energy beams stabbed down through billowing clouds of black smoke. The dead lay everywhere. War machines smashed through the city walls. Burning barges floated down a River Autumn thick with blood and choked with corpses. And above it all, a never-ending scream that had nothing of Humanity in it. Hazel released Silver's hand and reality crashed back as the small cramped room reappeared around them. Silver fell back a step, shaking and shuddering, his head still full of the stench of spilled blood and burning bodies, the hideous unending scream still ringing his ears. Hazel stood and looked at him, cold and unforgiving as any oracle.

"That's the future, John. Your future and mine. And you helped bring it about. Something Bad is coming to Mistworld, Something Very Bad. And it will be here soon."

And then suddenly she was just Hazel again, her cloak of power and majesty gone in a moment, and she sank back down into her chair by the fire again, looking small and tired and very, very vulnerable. Silver slowly moved forward and sat down in the chair facing her. Part of him wanted to run screaming from the room, but he couldn't do that. Part of him was frightened almost to panicking by the hideous thing he'd seen his old friend become, but he couldn't let her see that. She needed him, needed her old friend and comrade, and though he had done many awful things in his time, a few of which even he was ashamed of, John Silver was damned if he'd let her down. They sat in silence for a long while, the only sound in the room the quiet crackling as logs shifted in the heat of the fire. The room seemed very cold.

"What happened to you. Hazel?" Silver said finally. "You never had those powers before."

Hazel smiled wearily. "What happened to you, John? What happened to the people we used to be?"

"Things were simpler, when we were young," said Silver, looking into the fire because he found it easier than looking at her. "You were a merc, and I was a pirate, both of us convinced we were destined for greater things. We made a great team as confidence artists. We ran the Angel of Night swindle for three years straight, remember? Though my favorite was always the lost Stargate con. I had great fun making up the maps. So impressive, they were practically works of art. We'd still be running those cons if we hadn't got unlucky."

"And greedy," said Hazel.

"That too."

"Things were simpler then. It was us versus them, and we only took money from those who could afford to lose it. Simple, innocent days. But we changed, moved on. We're not who we used to be. Our friends and allegiances have changed, and all we have in common now are our memories and Blood. And neither of them comfort me like they used to. Can we trust each other anymore, John?"

"We have to," said Silver. "No one else would."

"Owen would," said Hazel.

Silver made himself look at her. "You know him better than I do. What's he really like, this Deathstalker?"

"He's a good man, though he doesn't realize it. A hero. The real thing. Brave and dedicated and too damn honest for his own good. He'll end up leading this rebellion completely before he's through. Not because he wants to, but just because he's the best man for the job. He's a nice guy, but there's so much he doesn't understand. Like the pressures and responsibilities and insecurities that drive lesser people like you and me to Blood or drink or dumb relationships. He's never needed a crutch to lean on in his life. He just sees the right thing and goes for it, complaining all the while, fooling nobody. A good man, in bad times."

"You love him, don't you?" said Silver.

"I never said that," said Hazel.

Silver knew what was needed. He made himself lean forward till their faces were only inches apart, and then he kissed her, and both of them knew it was good-bye. And that was when Owen Deathstalker entered the room and saw them together. He stopped just inside the doorway, saying nothing as Hazel and Silver broke apart and rose quickly to their feet. For a long moment, no one said anything. Hazel was breathing deeply, but her face wasn't flushed. Silver saw Owen's hand drop to the sword at his side, saw the coldness in Owen's eyes, and knew he was very close to death. Not because Owen was jealous, but because this was one too many secrets, one too many betrayals that had been kept from him. And then Owen's eyes went to the phial of Blood on the table, and everything changed. He knew what it was, and what it meant, and anger and a great weariness fought for space inside him.

"So that's it," he said flatly. "No wonder our mental link's been so screwed up, with all that junk in your head. How long have you been taking it. Hazel?"

"Long enough."

"Where did you get it?"

"From the Hadenmen city. Moon was very understanding." Hazel's voice wavered between defiance and a need for him to understand. "I need it, Owen."

"Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I knew you'd react like this! You don't understand the pressures I've been under!"

"We've been together from the beginning. What have you been through that I haven't? Dammit, Hazel, I was depending on you to hold up your end in Mistport! I can't do everything! Our work here is important!"

"I know!" Hazel glared at him, her hands clenched into fists. "You depend on me, the underground depends on me, the whole bloody rebellion depends on me! Did it never occur to anyone that I might get tired of carrying so much weight? We can't all be superhuman like you, Owen. We can't all be bloody heroes. You've never had a moment's indecision in your life, have you? You've always known the right thing to do, the right thing to say. But we can't all be perfect!"

"I'm not perfect," said Owen. "I just do my job. And that's all I've ever expected of you."

"You're not listening to me," said Hazel. "You never listen to me."

"Why did you never tell me about you and Silver?"

"Because it was none of your business!"

"You never told me about him. You never told about the Blood. What else haven't you told me about? I thought I could trust you, Hazel. I thought I could trust you, at least."

"You see? You're doing it again! Trying to put all the weight on my shoulders so you can be the victim of the piece! Well to hell with that, and to hell with you, Owen Deathstalker, I'm not going to carry it anymore. I'm sick of carrying the weight of your needs and your expectations! And I'm sick of you…"

"Yes," said Owen. "You'd rather have him, and the poison he feeds you. Anything to avoid having to grow up and be a responsible adult. To support those who depend on you. To care about the people who care about you. You want him; he's all yours. I'm going out to get some fresh air."

And he turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind him, because there was so much anger burning inside him that the only other thing he could have done was hit her, and they both knew she would never have forgotten or forgiven that. And because he wanted to kill John Silver so badly he could taste it. He'd thought that he and Hazel, that someday the two of them might… but he'd thought many things, and none of them ever worked out the way he hoped. He'd already lost so many things he cared for. He shouldn't be surprised that the only woman he ever loved would be taken away from him, too.

He should never have come back to Mistport. Nothing ever went right here. It wasn't as though he'd had any hold on Hazel. She went her own way and always would. He'd known that. But he thought she'd chosen to walk with him, for a while at least. She could have come to him about her worries. She could have come to him about the drug. He would have tried to understand, tried to help. He understood about pressure. He'd spent all his life trying to live up to the Deathstalker name.

He strode heavily down the stairs and pushed his way through the packed crowd in the tavern. Some people made as though to object. Then they saw his face, and thought better of it. They knew sudden death walking when they saw it. Owen pushed open the door and stepped out into the street, and the cold air hit him, sobering him like a slap in the face. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off most of the tavern roar, and he leaned back against it, damping down his rage, getting it under control again. It took him a moment to realize that the street was completely empty. Which was unusual, to say the least, in a perpetually busy city like Mistport. Faces watched from darkened windows, as though expecting something to happen. Owen pushed himself away from the door, his hands falling to the sword and disrupter on his hips. There was danger here, close and ready. He'd have noticed it earlier if he hadn't been so wrapped up in himself. Three men were suddenly standing on the opposite side of the street, staring at him. Either they were teleporters, or more likely they'd hidden their presence behind a telepathic shield. They didn't look like much. Average height, plain average faces, they wore the same thick furs as everyone else. But there was a power in them. Owen could feel it, even if he didn't quite understand what it was yet. The man in the middle stepped forward. His eyes were very dark in a pale face.

"You have enemies, Deathstalker. Powerful men require your death."

"Well hell," said Owen. "Gosh, I am scared. What are the three of you going to do, gang up on me? Look, I am really not in the mood for this. Why don't you just start running now, and I'll give you a five-minute start."

The man in the middle just smiled, and shook his head. "Time to die, Deathstalker."

The ground rocked suddenly under Owen's feet, throwing him off-balance. He grabbed for his sword, and the street before him split apart, a wide vent opening up as jagged cracks spread in all directions. A bloody light blazed up out of the fissure, and the air was suddenly full of the stench of brimstone and burning flesh. Screams of innumerable people in horrible agony rose up out of the vent far far below. The ground shuddered again, and even as Owen fought for balance he was thrown forward, toward the great crack and all it contained. He could feel an impossible heat now, radiating up from the crevice, as sweat burst out on his face. His furs began to blacken and steam in the heat, and the bare skin of his face and hands began to redden and smart as he stumbled ever closer to the great vent in the street. He fought for control on the edge of the abyss, the crimson air boiling around him. The screams and the stench of sulfur were almost overpowering. Lengths of steel chain shot up out of the crack, ending in great metal barbs that tore through his clothes and sank deep into his flesh. Owen cried out as the chains snapped taut, and began to drag him slowly and remorselessly into the abyss and down to Hell, where he belonged.

But even at the very edge of damnation, Owen still wouldn't give in. He braced himself, and the chains snapped, the broken ends whipping back into the great vent. The heat blazed up, hot enough to burn him down to blackened bone, and he withstood it. Slowly the thought formed in Owen's mind, I don't believe this. I don't believe in any of this. And in that moment the crevice and the hellfire were gone, and the street was back to normal, everything as it had been. Owen breathed deeply of the cold, bracing air and glared at the three men on the other side of the street.

"Projective telepaths," he said flatly. "Strong enough to place an illusion in another man's mind, and convince him it's so real that when his image dies, so does he. Pretty rare in the Empire, but presumably not on a planet of espers. Well, gentlemen, you gave it your best shot. Now let me show you mine."

Storm clouds rumbled suddenly overhead, and lightning stabbed down to strike the telepath in the middle. The force of the blast killed him in a moment, and threw the other two off their feet. Lightning struck again, and the second man died. The sole survivor scrambled frantically backwards through the slush and snow, staring at Owen with wild, desperate eyes.

"The lightning isn't real! I don't believe in it!"

"Suit yourself," said Owen. "But it's perfectly real. And storms don't care whether you believe in them or not. I deal strictly in reality."

The esper swallowed hard. "If you'll spare my life, I'll tell you who hired me."

"I know who hired you," said Owen. "Guess I didn't teach those businessmen a strong enough lesson. Maybe your death will convince them."

"But… I'm surrendering! I give up!"

"I have no pity for hired killers."

The esper struck out with his illusions again, but they merely whirled around Owen for a moment like pale ghosts before dispersing, unable to pierce his mental shields. The esper stared desperately at Owen.

"You held off three of us. That's not possible. You're not human!"

"No," said Owen. "Not anymore. Now shut up and die."

The lightning stabbed down one more time, and the esper died. And that was when a small army of heavily armed men came spilling into the street from all directions. They moved quickly to surround him, cutting off all avenues of escape. They looked grim and determined and very proficient. Owen was impressed. There had to be easily a hundred of them. Neeson and his businessmen friends must have scoured every dive in the city to put together a force this big.

He was trapped, and he knew it. He'd had to strain his new mental abilities to the limit to produce the three lightning bolts, after all his exertions earlier, and he didn't have it in him to call down any more. He'd had a hard day; his sword was heavy in his hand, he was deathly tired, and even his bones ached. And none of it mattered a damn. He was Owen Deathstalker, and he was mad as hell, and he could just use someone to work it off on.

The young esper's prophecy came back to him, that he would meet his death in the streets of Mistport, alone and friendless, facing impossible odds. Owen laughed, and some of the men facing him shuddered at the dark sound. It was the laughter of a man with nothing left to lose. Owen Deathstalker hefted his sword, grinned his death's-head grin, and boosted. He roared his Family's war cry, "Shandrakor!" and threw himself at his enemies. They pressed forward to meet him from all sides, and there was the clash of steel on steel.

There was murder and butchery in the narrow street, and blood ran thickly on the cobblestones, and at the end Owen stood triumphant amidst a pile of the dead and the dying, bleeding from countless wounds but still unbowed, laughing as he watched the surviving mercenaries turn and run rather than face him.

So much for the damned prophecy.

He dropped out of boost, and was immediately exhausted again. Shock protected him from the pain of most of his wounds, but he knew he had to lie down and rest so the Maze's legacy could heal him. Couldn't just pass out in the street. Bad for the reputation. He sheathed his sword with a reasonably steady hand and turned to go back into the Blackthorn Inn, to the room he had there, and then he stopped as remembered Hazel and Silver together. He didn't want to face them again. Didn't want to be anywhere near them. But in the end he went back in, and back up to his room. Because he had nowhere else to go.

The Imperial starcruiser Defiant dropped out of hyperspace, and fell into orbit around Mistworld. In his private quarters. Captain Bartok, also know as Bartok the Butcher, waited tensely for any reaction from the world below. Ever since Typhoid Mary, the planet's surviving espers had taken to attacking any Imperial ship the moment it appeared. But the moments passed and nothing happened and Bartok finally allowed himself to relax a little. The new shields were working. Theoretically no esper or group of espers should have been able to detect the Defiant's presence, but there had been no sure way of testing it in advance.

Captain Bartok rose from his oversize chair and moved unhurriedly round his quarters, a large, bearlike man with slow, deliberate movements. His uniform was perfect, spotless and sharp, with every crease in place. A cold, calm man, Bartok didn't believe in emotions, especially his own. They just got in the way of duty and efficiency. His quarters were large and comfortable, and entirely dominated by the plants that covered every wall and even hung down from the ceiling. There were vines and flowers and spiky shrubs, intertwined around each other and fighting for space. Huge blossoms vied with strange growths from a hundred worlds, kept alive by a complicated hydroponics system. They filled the air with a thick, heady perfume that only Bartok found tolerable. He preferred plants to people. He knew where he was with plants, not least because plants were predictable and didn't answer back. He found the brilliant colors and rich scents soothing, in a Service where he knew he could never relax or trust anyone, and only left his private quarters when he absolutely had to.

Bartok had been ordered to bring Mistworld back into the Empire. An honor, to be sure, but a very dangerous one. Certainly no one else had been ready to volunteer, except him. His previous duty had been guarding the Vaults of the Sleepers on the planet Grendel. His six starcruisers had maintained the Quarantine on that planet without incident for years, until Captain Silence of the Dauntless had gone down to the planet on the Empress's orders, and discovered that somehow the rogue AIs of Shub had slipped a force past the blockade and plundered the Vaults. Even now, Bartok had no idea how such a thing could have happened. His ships' instruments and records had been adamant that nothing had got past them. And no one on any of the ships had admitted to seeing anything untoward.

Bartok and his crews had been recalled in disgrace, and on arrival at Golgotha, every one of them from Bartok down to the lowliest crew member had been examined at length by espers and mind techs, determined to find an answer to the mystery. They found nothing, though the extremity of their methods killed some of the weaker members of the crews and drove others insane. Bartok still woke trembling in his bed from bad dreams of the terrible things they'd done to him.

In the end, he and the surviving members of his crews were officially exonerated, only to find that no one trusted them anymore. Bartok didn't blame them. His own secret fear was that Shub had done something to his mind, installed secret control words and instructions buried so deep that no one could find them. He had no doubt this thought had also occurred to others, and wasn't surprised when his orders finally came through, detailing him to return to the Fleet Academy, as an instructor. Thus putting an end to his career, and enabling the Security forces to keep a close eye on him.

And then came a call for volunteers to take on the Mistworld mission. It had to be volunteers. Everyone knew the odds were it was a suicide mission. Bartok grabbed at the chance eagerly. Odds didn't worry him. If his Empress said the mission was possible, that was good enough for him. And he was desperate to prove his loyalty, to be taken back into the fold and reinstated. Though whether he wanted to prove himself to his Empress or to himself remained uncertain. Lionstone accepted him as commander of the mission immediately. Partly because his record indicated he would get the job done, whatever the cost; and partly because if he failed, he and his crew wouldn't be any great loss. Bartok knew that and accepted it. They were his thoughts also.

His door chimed politely and opened at his growled command. Lieutenant Ffolkes strode in, ducking his head just a little to avoid the hanging creepers around the door, followed by the reporter Tobias Shreck and his cameraman, Flynn. Tobias, also known as Toby the Troubadour, was a short, fat, perspiring man with flat blond hair, an easy smile, a mind like a steel trap, and absolutely no morals that he was aware of. All of which had combined to make him a first-class reporter. Flynn was a tall gangling sort with a deceptively honest face. His camera perched on his shoulder like a monocular mental owl.

Toby and Flynn had been chosen personally by the Empress to cover and record the taking of Mistport. She'd been very impressed by their coverage of the rebellion on Technos III, and had made it very clear to both of them that this assignment was one they would be wise not to turn down. Not if they liked their major organs where they were. They were both quietly unsure as to whether the assignment was a reward or a punishment, but had enough sense not to ask. So Toby and Flynn said Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty, and wondered how the hell they were going to survive this one.

There was no doubt the taking of Mistport would provide all kinds of first-class opportunities for recording history as it happened, along with plenty of the blood and destruction the home audiences so enjoyed; there was also no doubt in their minds that they stood a bloody good chance of getting their fool heads blown off. Rebels fighting for their home and their lives wouldn't pause to distinguish between an Imperial trooper and an honest news team just trying to do their job. But as Toby had said so often in the past, wars and battles always provided the best footage; so if you wanted the good stuff and the awards and rewards that would bring, you had to go where the action was. Flynn maintained a diplomatic silence on this, as he did on most things.

Of course, there was always the problem of Imperial censorship. Lionstone was going to want footage that made her troops look good, and the rebels very, very bad, and wouldn't be above ordering her censors to cut any film that suggested otherwise. Toby and Flynn's misgivings were further confirmed by the official minder they'd been given to oversee their work and keep them out of trouble. Lieutenant Ffolkes was career military to the bone, a tall spindly sort who followed orders to the letter and was always eager for a chance to please any officer superior to himself. Probably slept at attention and gave himself extra fatigues for impure thoughts. He made it clear to Toby and Flynn and anyone who would listen that he regarded reporters and their cameramen as necessary vermin, who would do well to follow his own instructions to the last detail if they knew what was good for them. Their refusal to take him at all seriously, and refer to him as Gladys behind his back, upset him deeply. As did their habit of sprinting in the opposite direction whenever they saw him coming.

Toby and Flynn studied the Captain's private quarters with interest as Bartok ignored them for the moment, quietly pruning something small and defenseless with great concentration. Ffolkes fidgeted nervously, unsure as to whether he should perhaps cough politely to announce his arrival. Toby and Flynn had never been invited to the inner sanctum before. Mostly they'd been confined to the coffin-sized quarters Ffolkes had assigned them, well away from the rest of the crew. They weren't supposed to fraternize with any of the ship's crew, partly because they might pick up information they weren't cleared for, and at least partly because they might inspire the crew into asking awkward questions themselves. Imperial officers had always believed that an ignorant crew was a happy crew.

Toby spent most of his time being torn between rage at being kept from the fame and awards that his coverage of the Technos III rebellion had earned him, and his growing certainty that the invasion of Mistworld was going to be one of the greatest events in modern times, and thus provide him with even more juicy opportunities for even more fame and awards. If he could just sneak the good stuff past the censors, as he had on Technos III. He didn't see many problems in outsmarting Ffolkes. A retarded hamster on a bad day could manage that, and probably had. Captain Bartok was another matter. Toby studied the miniature jungle of the Captain's quarters carefully, looking for insights into the Captain's character that he could use against him.

Flynn predictably didn't give a damn. He hated everything about the military anyway, from the Fleet in general to the Defiant in particular, and didn't care who knew it. He was not one to suffer discipline or fools gladly, not least because of his certain knowledge that he was breaking all kinds of regulations just by existing. Flynn was happily homosexual and a transvestite in his private life, either of which would get him thrown into the brig if Ffolkes found out. Though Flynn claimed to have spotted a few like-minded souls among the junior officers. As it was he was prevented from wearing any of his pretty dresses, even in the supposed privacy of his own quarters, for fear of discovery by the ship's omnipresent security systems. So he settled for wearing frilly underwear beneath his everyday clothes, and the use of just a little understated makeup. Toby lived in fear that his cameraman would have an accident and have to be rushed to the medlab for an examination. He just knew Bartok wouldn't understand.

As though picking up on that thought, Bartok finally put his miniature shears aside and turned to meet his visitors. His face was cold and unforgiving as he advanced on Toby and Flynn, neither of whom made any attempt to stand at attention, despite Ffolkes's frantic whispers. Bartok stopped right before them, his face uncomfortably close to theirs, and when he spoke his voice was calm and controlled and utterly intimidating.

"I have studied your coverage of the rebellion on Technos III. Though technically adequate, your choice of material was little short of treasonous. There will be no repetition of such nonsense under my command. Rebels are the enemy, and are never to be presented as anything else. You will restrict your coverage to recording my troops' victories, and ignore anything not specifically cleared by Lieutenant Ffolkes. There will be no live broadcasts, except on my specific orders. The bulk of your work will be recorded for later transmission, and the Lieutenant and I will personally examine all footage before it is released. Failure to obey these or any other instructions will lead to your immediate imprisonment and replacement, followed by charges of treason on our return to Golgotha. Is that clear?"

"Every word. Captain," said Toby quickly. He smiled and nodded to show he was one of the team, and privately determined always to film Bartok in ways that made him look fat and dumb on camera. He wasn't bothered in the least by Bartok's threats and restrictions. They'd said much the same to him on Technos III, and it hadn't stopped him there either. Every good reporter knew that what mattered was to get the footage out and on as many screens as possible, and argue about it afterward, when it was too late for the powers that be to do anything about it without looking petty. Of course, he hadn't had to deal with Bartok the Butcher before. The man had a definite preference for solving problems through extreme violence.

"Come with me," said Bartok suddenly. "I want you to see something."

He stalked past them and left his quarters, only just giving the door enough time to get out of his way. Toby and Flynn exchanged a puzzled glance and hurried after him, with Ffolkes dithering along in the rear, as always. Bartok marched down corridor after corridor, ignoring the salutes of those he passed, until he was well into territory that was usually off-limits to the two reporters. Toby felt a growing excitement. He'd been trying to bluff, badger, and threaten his way into this area since he first came aboard, with no success. Everyone knew there was Something Big locked away, a secret weapon for the invasion, but no one knew what. The few who did were too senior or too scared to talk, all of which had whetted Toby's appetite to the boiling point. And now he was finally going to get a look at it. He surreptitiously signaled Flynn to start filming. The camera was locked into Flynn's comm implant, and could be activated with no outward sign, a trick which had come in handy on more than one occasion.

Bartok finally came to a massive bulkhead door that would only open to an esper scan, and it was all Toby could do to keep from fuming visibly as he waited impatiently for the esper on the other side of the door to clear them. A quick glance at Ffolkes's white and nervous face suggested that he'd never seen what lay waiting on the other side of the door either, but knew enough not to be at all keen about seeing it now. And then the door finally swung open, and Bartok led the way in, with Toby all but stepping on his heels.

Before them lay a vast auditorium, surrounded by ribbed steel walls. Filling most of it was a huge glass tank. The sides were easily thirty feet high, and they stretched off into the distance for farther than Toby could comfortably look. The tank contained a thick, pale yellow liquid that moved constantly with slow syrupy tides. And floating in that liquid, huge and dark and awful, was a great fleshy mass, spotted with high tech, connected to the tank and beyond by countless wires and cables. The mass bulged shapelessly, an unhealthy conglomeration of fused living materials, like a single great cancer floating in a sea of pus. It stank horribly, and Toby screwed up his face as he moved slowly forward, fascinated. Behind him he could hear Ffolkes coughing and choking.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" said Bartok. "This will be the secret of our success, the single element that makes our invasion of Mistworld possible. It's currently projecting a screen that keeps the Mistworld espers and their tech from detecting our presence. It has other abilities, too, to be revealed when our invasion begins."

"What the hell is it?" said Toby. "Is it alive?"

"Oh yes," said Bartok. "You are looking at the very latest in bioengineering. Imperial scientists took all the espers imprisoned in Silo Nine, all that were left after the aborted breakout, and executed them. They then removed the thousands of brains and melded the tissues together to form the single construct before you. Thousands of living brains, fused together into one giant esper computer, a single giant esp-blocker, and more besides. It's controlled by the worms that previously controlled the prisoners—Wormboy's legacy. They're hot-wired into the brain tissues at regular intervals, monitoring and maintaining the thought processes. The worms have formed a crude gestalt that enables us to communicate with the construct directly via the brains' telepathy. It calls itself Legion."

"The esper minds," said Toby slowly. "Are they… alive in there? Aware of what they've become?"

Bartok shrugged. "No one knows for sure. They're part of something greater now."

Toby moved slowly closer, till his face was almost pressed against the glass. He could sense Flynn not far behind him, quietly getting it all on film. The horror Toby felt at what had been done to thousands of defenseless people silenced him for a moment, but already he was working furiously on how best to present it to the viewing public. They were going to want to know everything about this… abomination, and he was the only one who could tell them. He brought his thoughts firmly under control. You couldn't let your feelings get in the way of a good story. Every reporter knew that.

"Why is it called Legion?" he asked finally.

I am Legion, because I am many. The psionic voice rang inside Toby's head like the rotting vocal cords of a month-dead corpse, forcing its way into his thoughts. It curled inside his mind like a poisonous snake, writhing and coiling and leaving a slimy trail behind it. It was a pitiless, brutal invasion, a violation of the mind, and Toby wanted to be sick. Just its presence in his head made him feel unclean. He fought for self-control as the voice continued.

I am everything I was before, and more, far greater than the sum of my parts. No esper can stand before me. Their screen shall fall, and I shall feast on their minds. I will take them into me, and suck them up. And Mistworld will drown in blood and suffering.

Legion spoke in many voices, simultaneously, a horrid chorus of clashing accents. They were loud and quiet, harsh and shrill, all at once, an unnatural mixture that was disturbingly inhuman. And in the background, like a distant sea that came and went, the sound of thousands of damned souls, screaming in Hell.

"Who… exactly is talking to me now?" said Toby, fighting to hang on to his professional calm. "The esper brains, the worms, the gestalt? What?"

But Legion didn't answer, and suddenly its presence was gone from Toby's mind. The relief was overwhelming. Toby stumbled backwards, desperate to put some space between him and the awful thing in the tank. Flynn was quickly there, with a supporting hand under his arm. In the end, surprisingly, it was Ffolkes who answered Toby's questions, in a shaken, quiet voice.

"We don't know who talks to us. We think Legion is still working out its own nature. All we know for certain is that it is conscious and aware, and growing stronger all the time. It should have no problem destroying any psionic screen the Mistworlders can raise against us, and without that they'll be helpless."

"Just how strong will it get?" said Toby, his voice a little steadier now the thing was out of his head.

"We don't know," said Bartok. "But you needn't worry. Physically, Legion is quite helpless. It couldn't survive for a second outside its tank. Without our tech support, and the chemically saturated plasma it floats in. Legion couldn't exist at all. It's quite dependent on us, and it knows it."

"But you still don't know what it really is," said Flynn quietly. "What it's capable of."

"I'll tell you what it is," said Bartok, smiling for the first time. "It's a weapon. A weapon I can use to crush Mistworld once and for all."

Some time later Lieutenant Ffolkes, having escorted Toby and Flynn safely back to their quarters, made his way hurriedly to another part of the ship, and knocked quietly on a particular door, using the code he'd been given. The door opened almost immediately, and he slipped inside. He was sweating, and his hands were shaking. Special computer overrides were supposed to be in operation, hiding him from the security systems, but he had no way of knowing whether they were working or not. Once the door was safely shut behind him, Ffolkes was able to breathe a little more easily. He nodded to the room's only inhabitant, and Investigator Razor nodded back.

Razor was a tall and blocky man, with thick slabs of muscle and a patient, brooding face. His skin was dark, his close-cropped hair was white, and his narrowed eyes were a surprising green. The Investigator seemed calm enough, but Ffolkes wasn't fooled. He knew Razor didn't want to be here. He'd had a perfectly good life as Security chief to Clan Chojiro, until the Empress had decided that Investigators would no longer be allowed to work for the Families, retired or not. Instead, all Investigators of whatever age or status were brought back under direct Imperial control. Razor had been a rich and influential man under Clan Chojiro; now he was just another Investigator, older and perhaps a little slower than most. But the Empress had wanted him for the Mistworld mission, so here he was. Even though he didn't believe in suicide missions anymore.

Which was why Ffolkes was there.

Razor had been seconded to the Defiant because he had worked closely with Investigator Topaz in the past. He'd been her mentor and instructor, in the days when the Empire was still trying to decide whether an esper Investigator was a good idea or not. Topaz's defection and flight to Mistworld had answered that. Razor had been exonerated of all blame, but no one objected when he applied for early retirement. This was supposed to be a second chance for him, a chance to prove his worth and his loyalty, by using his old acquaintance to get close to Topaz where no one else could. And then he would kill her. No one asked him how he felt about this. Investigators weren't supposed to have feelings.

"You have instructions for me?" said Razor quietly.

"Yes," said Ffolkes, looking around the Investigator's bare, spartan quarters so he wouldn't have to meet the man's cold, inflexible stare. "I will be your contact with Clan Chojiro. I'm related through marriage. I'm to tell you that you have not been forgotten, and that the Family will reward you handsomely for your work here on its behalf. I'm here to brief you on Captain Bartok's intentions, once Legion has taken care of the esper shield.

"We could just scorch the planet from orbit, but Her Imperial Majesty has decided she wants Mistworld taken, not destroyed. Partly because she still sees espers as potential weapons in the coming war against the aliens, and partly to prove no one can defy her and get away with it. She wants the rebel leaders brought before her in chains, so everyone can see them broken and defeated.

"So, Bartok's orders are for systematic but not total destruction of Mistport. Up to 50 percent civilian casualties are acceptable. The city is to be taken street by street, by hand-to-hand fighting if necessary. All of which means that the city will be plunged into total chaos and confusion, which we can then take advantage of. Once you've dealt with Investigator Topaz and Typhoid Mary, you will be free to make contact with certain influential people, whose names and addresses I have here on this list. Memorize them, then destroy the list. These people were once part of an old spy network in the city, trading in information for the previous Lord Deathstalker. Since his death, a number of them turned to Clan Chojiro for protection and financial support. With the Family's support after the invasion, these people will become the city's new ruling Council. Your job is to keep them alive until the invasion is over."

Razor nodded calmly. "Seems straightforward enough. Any idea why Chojiro wants control of this misbegotten world?"

"I don't ask questions," said Ffolkes. "I find you live longer that way. But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say that the surviving espers could make a very useful cash crop, as well as a private resource. Clan Chojiro takes the long view. Good-bye, Investigator. I do hope we won't have to meet again."

"You're afraid," said Razor. "I can smell it on you. What are you so afraid of, Lieutenant?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Ffolkes. "I really must be going. People will miss me."

And then he was flung back against the bulkhead, Razor's sword at his throat. Ffolkes gasped for air, sweat trickling down his face. He'd never seen anyone move so fast. Razor brought his face close to Ffolkes's, and he didn't dare look away.

"Are you afraid of me, Lieutenant? That's good. You should be. If you breathe a word of my continuing connection to Clan Chojiro to anyone at all, I'll kill you. Do you believe me, Lieutenant?"

The edge of Razor's blade bit delicately into Ffolkes's neck, and a single drop of blood slid slowly down his throat. He didn't dare nod, but he managed a trembling answer in the affirmative. Razor smiled, took his sword away from Ffolkes's neck, and stepped back a pace.

"Just so we understand each other. Now get out of here, turncoat. If I have to talk to you again, I'll find you. And if you make me come looking for you, I'll be the last thing you'll ever see."

He opened the door and Ffolkes bolted past him, out into the corridor, running at full tilt and to hell with whether anyone was watching. No amount of payment was worth this. Nothing was.

The Defiant's pinnaces fell out of the early evening like silver birds of prey against a bloodred sky, carrying the Empire's warriors down to the surface of the rebel planet.

Mistport's espers saw nothing, heard nothing, never knew they were there. Legion was testing and expanding its abilities. Theoretically it had been certain it could shield the pinnaces even from a distance, but as with so many of Legion's powers, it learned by doing. Hundreds of silver ships landed one after another on a wide plain of snow and ice on the outskirts of the Deathshead Mountains; some distance away from Mistport but quite close to a small outlying settlement called Hardcastle's Rock. Apart from a few scattered farmsteads, it was the only other heavily populated area of Mistworld. A small town of no real importance, population 2031, according to the Empire's information. No real defenses, very little tech. A good testing ground, before the main assault.

Men and women came running out of the square stone houses to watch the pinnaces falling out of the sky. Legion might be able to fool espers and sensors, but even it couldn't hide the roar of so many thundering engines from the people directly below them. At least, not yet. The townspeople gathered by the high stone walls surrounding their town, and watched and babbled excitedly as the ships just kept on coming. It didn't take them long to figure out what was happening. They'd spent most of their lives expecting and preparing for an invasion. The day the Empire came to reclaim Mistport as its own. Men and women ran to get their weapons and hide the children from what was to come.

Troops filed out of the long narrow ships, weighed down by armor insulated against the bitter cold, carrying swords and energy weapons and force shields. The pinnaces had disrupter cannon, but they were being saved for Mistport. Marines moved quickly to establish a perimeter around the landing field, ignoring the town for the moment. Imperial troops stood in ranks, waiting for the word. Cold-eyed, seasoned, disciplined killers, eager to make a start. Sergeants barked orders, officers strolled into position, and still the ships fell, and more men came marching out onto the snow and ice.

Toby Shreck and his cameraman Flynn, wrapped in heavy-duty furs, lumbered out into the cold, swore briefly, and began filming. They'd been instructed to cover everything, and Lieutenant Ffolkes was right there to see that they did. He watched the army assembling, and swelled with pride. It was days like this that made you glad to be a member of the Imperial Fleet.

And finally, from out of the last ship to land, came the commander of the Imperial forces, Investigator Razor. He hadn't bothered with insulated armor or furs, wearing only the blue and silver of an Investigator's formal uniform. He didn't feel the cold, but then, everyone knew Investigators weren't really human. The Empress herself had placed Razor in charge of all ground troops. Partly because he had led invasion forces in the past, before his retirement, and partly to show that the Empress trusted him entirely, despite his age and Chojiro connections.

Razor's staff officers gathered around him, bringing him up-to-date, anxious to show that everything was as it should be. Razor nodded curtly. It had never occurred to him that it wouldn't. Beginnings were easy to plan. His personal staff officer handed him a pair of binoculars, and he studied the town and the surrounding area. Normally he would have linked into the ship's computers through his comm implant, and accessed the sensor arrays, but with Legion blocking all frequencies, he'd had to arrange for low-tech aids for himself and his troops. Apart from the town there was nothing but snow and ice for as far as the eye could see, except for the long range of the Deathshead Mountains, plunging up into the sky. They looked cold and indifferent, as though nothing that happened below them could possibly be of any significance. Razor smiled slightly. He'd change that.

He studied the ten-foot-high stone wall surrounding the town. It was solid stone and mortar, sturdy and well-constructed. A few energy blasts would take care of it. Men and women from the town stood watching from catwalks along the top of the inner wall. Most were armed with swords and axes and spears, but a few had energy weapons. Nowhere near enough to make any difference, though, and both sides knew it. The townspeople were all dead. They just hadn't lain down yet. Razor breathed deeply of the icy air, centering himself. This high up on the plateau, there were few mists, and the air was sharp and clear. He gave the order to begin, and a hundred marines opened fire with their disrupters. The stone wall exploded, stone fragments and bloody flesh flying in all directions.

Smoke rose up, and sharp-edged rubble and small body parts pattered to the snow in an awful rain. There were shouts and screams as the survivors fell back from the great gaping hole in the wall. A few stayed to try and drag wounded from the wreckage, but the marines picked them off easily. More troops had moved into position on the other side of the town, and they blew that wall out, too. The townspeople had nowhere to go now, trapped between two advancing forces. Razor nodded to his staff officers, drew his sword and gun, and led the way into the small town of Hardcastle's Rock.

The battle was grim and bloody, but it didn't take long. The marines had the advantage of far greater numbers, massed energy weapons, and force shields. The townspeople fought bravely, men and women standing their ground fiercely. Swords rose and fell, and blood flew on the air, hot and steaming. There were screams and battle cries and roared orders, and bodies and offal lay scattered across the churned-up snow. There was no room or time for heroes, only two mismatched forces struggling in blank anonymity. Above the bedlam of battle came the occasional roar of energy weapons, followed by the sudden stench of roast meat. The troops couldn't use disrupters much for fear of hitting their own people, but the few townspeople with energy weapons barricaded themselves in their houses and sniped desperately from shuttered windows. But in the end, the Imperial forces were able to pinpoint which houses were being used, and blew them apart with concussion grenades and shaped charges. The squat stone houses collapsed inward as the powerful explosions ruptured the walls, bringing down the roofs and crushing those inside. The marines advanced remorselessly from both ends of the town, driving all before them, cutting down those who wouldn't or couldn't fall back fast enough. Until finally the townspeople were caught and trapped and slaughtered in the middle of their own town.

When finally it was over a sullen quiet fell across what had been the town of Hardcastle's Rock. The last defenders had fallen, and the few who had thrown down their weapons and surrendered, mostly women and children, stood huddled together in small, well-guarded groups. Houses burned to every side, crimson flames licking out darkening stone windows. The dead lay everywhere, mostly townspeople, some marines, well within acceptable losses. A few dozen marines moved among the fallen, marking wounded troopers for the med teams, and putting the wounded rebels out of their misery.

Investigator Razor stood in the middle of the town, in a small open space his troops had cleared for him. He looked unhurriedly around, not too displeased with the way things had gone. He'd lost more men than he expected, but then he hadn't expected energy weapons in the hands of rebels. He raised a hand and summoned his main staff officers and his Second in Command, Major Chevron. Chevron was a tall, well-muscled man who looked as though he'd been born to wear body armor. He crashed to a parade halt before the Investigator, but didn't salute. Technically, he was superior in rank to Razor, but they both knew who was in charge.

"The town is secure, sir," Chevron said calmly. "The townspeople are either dead or prisoners, apart from a few still hiding in their homes. The town has fallen."

"They had energy guns, Major," said Razor. "Why wasn't I informed that the townspeople would have energy weapons?"

"There were only a few, sir. Like the town walls, they were there to defend against local predators. Nasty things called Hob hounds. It was mentioned in the original briefings, sir."

Razor just nodded, neither accepting nor rejecting the implied criticism. "Are we sure there are no more rebel settlements in the area?"

"Quite sure, sir. Just a few farmsteads, here and there. We can hit them from the air while traveling to Mistport. Word won't get there ahead of us. Legion is jamming all frequencies. Apparently it's not uncommon for communications to break down from time to time out here. Mistport won't worry about lost contact for quite a time yet. By the time they do realize something's wrong, we'll be hammering on their front door."

"So we have some time to play with. Good." Razor smiled slightly. "Gather all the prisoners together and execute them."

"Sir?" Major Chevron blinked uncertainly at the Investigator, caught off guard. "It was my understanding that prisoners were to be used as hostages and human shields…"

"Then you understood wrong. Was my order not clear enough? Kill them all. That includes those hiding in their houses. Do it now."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

The Major gathered up the nearest officers with his eyes, and gave the orders. They passed the order on to their men, who drew swords and axes already crusted with drying blood, and set about their task with calm, detached faces. Blades rose and fell, and the women and children and few men were quickly cut down. They barely had time to scream, and the only sound on the quiet air was the dull thudding of heavy blades sinking deep into human flesh. The hacking and chopping went on for some time, finishing off those who wouldn't die immediately. Women tried to shield their children with their bodies, to no avail. The marines were very thorough.

Razor smiled. He wanted his marines to be sure of their duty. And besides, it was important that people not think he was growing soft in his old age. He knew there were those watching from the sidelines, waiting to take advantage of any perceived weaknesses in his handling of this mission. Starting very definitely with Major Chevron, who'd made no secret of the fact that he thought he should have been in charge.

Marines gathered around the few houses still holding rebels within. They tried setting fire to them, but the stone walls and slate roofs were slow to burn, so the marines settled for shooting out the shuttered windows, and tossing in grenades. A few townspeople burst out of their doors rather than wait to be finished off by fire or smoke or explosions. They came charging out, roaring obscure battle cries and waving their swords and axes, and the marines calmly shot them down from a distance. It didn't take long, and soon every house in Hardcastle's Rock was burning, sending a heavy pall of black smoke up into the lowering evening skies.

Toby and Flynn were right there in the thick of it, recording everything. Flynn kept his camera moving in and out of the action, flying quickly back and forth on its antigrav unit, hovering overhead when the action got a little too close, while Toby kept up a running commentary. Flynn grew sickened by the slaughter and wanted to stop filming, but Ffolkes wouldn't let him, even putting a gun to the cameraman's head at one point. Toby just kept talking, and if his voice grew a little hoarse at times, well there was a lot of smoke in the air. Toby and Flynn had grown used to recording sudden death in close-up on the battlefields of Technos III, but nothing there had prepared them for this. Technos III had been a war between two more or less equally matched sides. This was just butchery. Ffolkes wasn't around when Razor gave the order for the executions. Flynn looked at Toby.

"I can't do this. I can't."

"Keep filming."

"I can't! This is obscene. They've already surrendered."

"I know. But it's important we cover everything."

Flynn glared at him. "You'd do anything for good ratings, wouldn't you?"

"Pretty much. But this is different. People have to see what happened here. What Lionstone is doing in their name."

Flynn's mouth twisted into an ugly shape, and his eyes were wet with tears, but he got it all on film, right down to the last bloody cough and shuddering body. When it was over he sat down suddenly in the blood-splattered snow and cried. His camera hovered overhead. Toby stood over Flynn, patting him on the shoulder comfortingly. He was too angry to cry.

"Bartok will never let this film be shown," Flynn said finally. "He'll censor it."

"The hell he will," said Toby. "He'll be proud of it. His troops won a great victory here today. The first on Mistworld soil. You don't understand the military mind, Flynn."

"And thank the good God for that." Flynn got to his feet again, waving away Toby's offer of help. His camera flew down to perch on his shoulder again. Ffolkes came over to join them. There was blood on his armor, none of it his, and his face was very pale. He looked at the pathetic piles of mutilated bodies, then looked at Toby and Flynn almost desperately.

"Don't worry," said Toby. "We got it all."

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Ffolkes said thickly. "This isn't war."

"Yes it is," said Investigator Razor, and Ffolkes spun around immediately. Razor stirred one of the bodies with the toe of his boot. "These are scum. Enemies of the Empire. There are no innocents here. Just by choosing to live on Mistworld, they are automatically traitors and criminals, and condemned to death."

"What about the children?" said Flynn. "They didn't choose to live here. They were born here."

Razor turned unhurriedly to look at him. "They would have grown to be traitors. Don't have much stomach for this, do you, boy?"

"No," said Flynn. "No, I don't."

"Don't worry, boy. This is nothing, compared to what's going to happen in Mistport. I'll make a man of you yet."

And he strode away, calmly giving orders. The marines gathered up the bodies of the fallen townspeople and piled them together in one great heap in the middle of the town. The pile grew steadily larger, the marines having to clamber up and over bodies to pile them higher, until finally it was all done. The great mound of bodies rose up above the burning roofs of the nearby houses. And then Razor had them set on fire, too. Smoke billowed up, and the scent of roasting meat was thick on the air. This was too much for some of the marines. They turned away from the bodies curling up in the flames, from the bloody flesh blackening and cracking, and they vomited into the snow. Officers stood over them and shouted abuse and orders. Flynn got it all on film.

"I'll see Razor dead," he said finally. "I swear I'll see him dead."

"He's an Investigator, Flynn. Ordinary people like you and me don't kill Investigators."

"Somebody has to," said Flynn. "While there are still some ordinary people left."

The billowing black smoke rose high above what had once been the town of Hardcastle's Rock, population 2031, as the marines trooped back to their ships for the flight to Mistport.

Two marines strode down the main street of Hardcastle's Rock, passing a bottle of booze back and forth between them. Buildings burned to either side of them, and the great funeral pyre blazed fiercely in the middle of the town, sending a great pall of greasy black smoke up into the evening sky. For Kast and Morgan, career marines, it was just another job. They'd seen and done worse in their years serving under Bartok the Butcher. There wasn't much to choose between the two marines. Both large, muscular men in blood-spattered armor, with broad cheerful faces and eyes that had seen everything.