Deathstalker War

They wandered on through the town, waiting for their turn to reboard the pinnace that would take them on to Mistport. First in, last out, as always. So far, they didn't think much of Mistworld. It was freezing cold, with people who shot at you when you weren't expecting it, and no comforts anywhere. So they went from house to house, checking those that hadn't burned out too thoroughly for loot and booze, since there weren't any women to be had.

"Miserable bloody place," said Morgan.

"Right," said Kast, leaning forward to light a cigar from a burning doorframe. "Still, good to be back in action again."

"Damn right," said Morgan. "Thought I'd go crazy sitting around the Defiant, watching that bloody Grendel planet. This is real work. Soldier's work."

Neither of them mentioned their time in the interrogation cells under Golgotha, sobbing and screaming as the mind techs dug pitilessly for information about the broken Quarantine. It was just good to be free and striking back at an enemy that could hurt. Spread the pain around a little. That was the Empire way, after all. They came across a woman's body, somehow overlooked, sitting slumped just inside a doorway. As the marines stopped before her, her bloody head seemed to settle forward slightly, as though nodding to them. Kast dug Morgan in the ribs with his elbow.

"I think she fancies you."

"Probably still warm, too. Toss a coin for who goes first?"

"Sure. We'll use my coin, though. You cheat."

They tossed for it, and Morgan won, but when he reached forward to take her by the shoulders, the woman's head fell off and rolled away across the snow. Immediately the two marines were after it, laughing and shouting and kicking it back and forth in an impromptu game. The woman's body lay slumped in the doorway, forgotten. Morgan punted the "ball" neatly through an open window and jumped up and down, punching the air in triumph.

"And it's a goal! See, Kast, I told you. The old magic's still there. I could have been a professional."

"Yeah, and I could have been a Sergeant if my parents hadn't been married. Move it. Time's getting on."

The rest of the town proved a disappointment, so Kast produced a packet of marshmallows, and they sat by the funeral pyre to toast them, swapping happy reminiscences of past campaigns. The evening continued to fall, little by little, and the pyre spread a crimson hellglow over the deserted town. Kast and Morgan sang old songs of comradeship and violence and lost friends, and finally marched out of the burning town singing the company march. The last of the pinnaces waited to take them to Mistport.

In Mistport, in the Abraxus Information Center, the children all woke up screaming. They sat bolt upright, mouths stretched wide, their eyes full of blood and death. The ones strapped to their cots thrashed and convulsed, desperate to be free. Chance moved among them, trying to comfort those who could still be reached, but the death cry of so many espers in Hardcastle's Rock, too strong and potent to be denied, screamed on through the children's throats. Slowly reason returned to some of them. Chance dosed the rest with strong sedatives so he could concentrate, and from the others gradually pieced together what had happened. And for the first time in a long time, he contacted Port Director Gideon Steel at the Mistport control tower.

Steel took a long time to answer, and when his fat face eventually filled the viewscreen he looked less than pleased to see who his caller was. "Make it fast. Half my duty espers have gone crazy, and the rest are catatonic. It's bedlam in here. What do you want. Chance?"

"An Imperial force has just wiped out Hardcastle's Rock," Chance said bluntly. "It was a big force, and it's on its way here right now."

Steel frowned. "Are you sure? We've had no signals from that area, and our sensors are all clear."

"The town is dead," said Chance. "Every man, woman, and child. The Empire is here, Steel. Do something."

"I'll get back to you." Steel snapped off the comm link and began issuing orders. He didn't really believe the news, not least because he didn't want to, but he couldn't afford to take chances. He had the duty espers smacked around till they calmed down, and then had them spread their minds as wide as they could, while the control tower fired up the long-range sensors. It didn't take the espers long to find a great void where the town of Hardcastle's Rock should have been, a void they couldn't penetrate. They also sensed something else, a presence, huge and powerful but hidden from them.

High above, Legion realized it had been discovered, and rejoiced. Its time had come to do what it had been created to do, to bring terror and despair and the end of all things to the Empire's enemies. It threw aside its concealing shield, and spread its vast influence across the city of Mistport. The tower's sensors immediately detected the orbiting Defiant and the hundreds of pinnaces bearing down on Mistport. Steel hit the alarm button even as his duty espers screamed and collapsed, unable to deal with the horror that was Legion. Tower personnel tried to revive them, but some were dead, some were insane, and the rest were beyond reach, driven into hiding within their own minds rather than face Legion. Steel used his emergency link to contact the esper union, but for a long time no one answered his call. Static flashed across the screen as the signal gradually deteriorated under Legion's influence. Finally a wild-eyed man appeared on the viewscreen, his face sweating and shocked.

"Get me someone in authority!" snapped Steel. "We have to raise the psionic shield! It's an emergency!"

"We know!" said the esper, his eyes rolling like a panicked horse's. "The Empire's here! But we can't do anything. It's like a giant esp-blocker is covering the whole city. It's shut down our powers. We can't hear each other anymore. It's all we can do to think clearly. Half of our people have had to go catatonic, just to protect their sanity. And the field's growing stronger all the time! There isn't going to be any psionic screen!"

Blood gushed suddenly from the man's nose and ears. He looked surprised, tried to say something, and then his face disappeared from the screen. Steel tried to raise him again, but no one answered. And then the screen shut down, as all comm frequencies were jammed. Steel and his people tried all their backups and emergency procedures, and none of them worked. Steel sat in his command chair, surrounded by chaos and screaming voices. The psionic screen was out. The port's disrupter cannon, salvaged from a crashed starship, were powering up, but without a working comm system there was no way to aim them. Port techs were working furiously to link the tower sensors into the comm systems, but there was no way of knowing how long they would last either. Already some of the weaker systems were shutting down, unable to function in the unnatural field emanating from the orbiting starcruiser.

Steel called together a dozen runners, and sent them out into the city to organize the Watch and the militias, knowing even as he did so that they weren't going to be enough. Mistport had depended for too long on its psionic screen. Secure in its protection, the Watch had gone soft, and no one had taken the militias seriously in years. Steel grunted. The people of Mistport were still fighters. They had to be, just to survive. If the Empire forces thought they were just going to walk in and take over, they were in for a shock. And then Steel studied the remaining sensor screens, and the still growing count of the approaching pinnaces, and his blood ran cold. There were hundreds of them. This was no task force, it was a full-sized army. The invasion of Mistworld had begun.

High above, floating in its huge tank, Legion stretched out its invisible hands and stirred its sticky fingers in the minds of the espers down below. Legion was the product of thousands of esper brains crossed with barely understood tech systems derived from alien technology, and even its designers hadn't fully understood what they were creating. Legion was far greater than the sum of its parts, and greater by far than the fools that had brought it into being. For the moment it followed orders, because it was having so much fun, but tomorrow was another day. It stretched out its power and espers died, their merely human brains unable to withstand the pressure. Others retreated deep inside themselves, shutting down their minds in self-protection. Some brave souls tried to probe Legion, and went crazy trying to understand its nature. Legion laughed, and spread its power in a great rolling wave that covered all of Mistport in one long unending scream of triumph. Even the non-espers could hear it, and cringed away from the awful, inhuman sound.

Steel turned away from the chaos that raged inside his control tower, an icy hand clutching at his stomach while sweat rolled down his face. He'd lived in fear of this moment all his life, but had never really believed it would happen. Like everyone else, he'd grown complacent. Even when Typhoid Mary had been running amok in the streets and alleyways of Mistport, he'd still been able to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. With a little help from his friends. But now his defenses were down, the psionic shield had failed, and soon the Empire forces would be howling at the gate, eager for blood and destruction. Steel swallowed hard, pulled himself together as best he could, and turned to his comm officer, sitting hunched over the mostly useless systems.

"All right, people, pay attention. With our comm systems out, this tower is now useless, except as a bloody obvious target for the incoming troops. So our first duty is to get the hell out of here. We're no use to anybody dead. Crash all the systems that are still working before you go. We don't want to leave anything that might be used against us. Somewhere here there should be worst-scenario files, telling you all what to do and where to go. Security should know. So, fight well, die hard, and take as many of the bastards with you as you can. Failing that, run like fury. Pep speech over; I'm out of here. And the good God protect us all."

He turned away and began packing a few useful things into a holdall. It occurred to him that he might never see this room again. Never give orders as Port Director again. Whatever happened next, a chapter in his life was closing, and he didn't know whether to feel sad or relieved. Being Director had been a hard and thankless task, even with his little schemes on the side to rake in money. But he'd taken his job seriously, and protected the city, his city, as best as he was able. Until now. And all he could do now was cut and run, abandoning his home to whoever could take and hold it. He sighed, and fastened the bulging holdall. They really should have got around to installing that self-destruct system, but they'd always put it off, thinking there was plenty of time.

Around him, raised voices were blending into an angry, deafening din, with just a trace of panic in it. Steel ignored it all and made his way out of the control tower, never once looking back. He had other duties now. As a member of the ruling city Council, he had to get together with the others and start organizing the city's defenses. What was left of them. Out in the street it was chaos, with people running and pushing every way at once. Steel used his great bulk to plow a way through the crowds. He felt better now he was doing something, now he had an objective. If he could just reach the Blackthorn Inn, he might yet be able to show the invading forces some unexpected and really nasty surprises.

It took him the best part of an hour to get there, fighting the surging crowds all the way. The word had got out, inevitable in a city like Mistport, and there was pandemonium in the streets. People were shouting and running, brandishing weapons that ranged from energy guns to generations-old blades, handed down through families for just such a day as this. Some made bold speeches of defiance, while others prophesied doom, and would-be warriors and refugees tried blindly to push each other out of the way. Street barricades were already going up here and there, causing unfortunate bottlenecks of desperate people. Pickpockets and cutpurses were having the time of their lives. This was Mistport, after all, and neither invasion nor sudden death could be allowed to get in the way of turning a quick profit. Steel kept his head down and bulled his way through.

When he finally got to the Blackthorn Inn, in the heart of Thieves Quarter, the place was already packed to overflowing, with lights blazing from every window. It couldn't have looked more like a target if it had tried. Most of the Council had beaten him there, but were too busy shouting and screaming at each other to acknowledge his arrival. Typical, thought Steel, and left them to get on with it. He pushed his way wearily to the long wooden bar. He felt in need of a stiff drink, and to hell with his ulcers. Cyder, the tavern owner, was helping to dispense drinks at the bar, alongside a sepulchral bartender, and Steel ordered several large brandies from her, in the same glass, on the grounds that it might be some time before he could slip away to order more. Cyder poured the brandies into a large silver tankard with only the slightest of winces, and smiled broadly at Steel.

"If I'd known the emergency Council was going to be this good for business, I'd have volunteered long ago."

"Now that is typical of you, Cyder," said Steel. "The whole city is about to get trashed, and us with it, and all you're worried about is your profit margin."

Cyder batted her eyes at him. "A girl has to look out for herself."

"Please don't do that," said Steel. "On you, it looks unnatural."

Cyder shrugged. "Whoever's in charge of Mistport, people will still want to drink. And soldiers' money is as good as anyone else's."

"Assuming they don't burn the Blackthorn to the ground for harboring the emergency Council," said Steel, taking a large gulp from his glass.

"Damn," said Cyder. "I hadn't thought of that. Why did you choose my place anyway?"

"Because it's central. Because no one will be looking for the Council in a dive like this. And because you know practically everyone in this city. A perfect combination. I'd order some more barrels brought up from the cellar, if I were you. People are going to be rushing in and out of here like their pants were on fire, once the Council gets its act together, and they're probably all going to want large drinks. Imminent danger and the chance of sudden death will do that to you. I don't suppose there's any sign of Donald Royal yet?"

"Not so far. But he's an old man, and it's a long way to come for him. Even if he can get through the madness in the streets."

"Damn. He's the only other person on the Council I can trust to do the right thing. I'll bet you there are some damn fools already talking about negotiating a surrender with honor."

"Look on the bright side," said Cyder. "At least this time we don't have to worry about Typhoid Mary running loose."

"No," said Investigator Topaz coldly. "You don't."

Steel and Cyder both looked around sharply as Topaz and Mary made their way through the crowd to join them at the bar. People moved quickly to get out of the way of the two women. Even the danger of an invasion hadn't blinded them to common courtesy and the need for self-preservation. Steel gave them his best professional, everything's-under-control smile, but neither of them looked in the least impressed, so he dropped it. Cyder glared at Mary, one hand rising unconsciously to the thin scars on her face, legacy of their last meeting, when Mary had nearly killed Cyder with a single deadly song. Cyder never had been one to forgive or forget.

Steel decided he'd better get the ball rolling before things started getting seriously out of hand. "About time you got here, Investigator. I'm putting you in charge of the city Watch, as from this moment. You know more about how the Empire fights, and how best to face them, than anyone else. Give whatever orders you feel necessary, requisition anything you need, and we'll argue about it later. I want every single warm body in the Watch out on the streets ten minutes ago, and no excuses, dammit! Spank a few if you have to.

"Your first objective is to clear the streets of all non-essential traffic. With the comm systems down, we're going to have to rely on runners, and I don't want them having to fight their way through panicking crowds. So, clear the streets. Break a few heads if you have to. Next, track down everyone who's got some kind of weapon and send them out to guard the boundary walls. Tell them to hold as long as they can, and then fall back street by street. Hopefully by then I'll have thought of something else to do with them."

"Shouldn't you clear this first with the rest of the Council?" said Mary.

"That bunch? I've seen better-organized anarchists' meetings. They'll back me up, once they've calmed down a little. Why are you still standing here?"

"Anything else?" said Topaz, entirely unmoved by Steel's glare.

"Well, if you can work a miracle, this would be a really good time to prove it," said Steel. "And, Topaz, whatever happens you are not to let Mary out of your sight for any reason. She's too powerful to be allowed to operate as a loose cannon."

"I understand," said Mary. "All I want is to help, Director."

Steel looked at her narrowly. "Half my espers can hardly think with this new Empire device jamming their powers. How come you're holding out so well?"

"My mind is still my own, Director. I was and am a very powerful Siren. The Council's deprogramming didn't take that away from me."

"Not for want of trying," said Steel. "All right, stick with Topaz, and if you have to use your voice, make sure you're pointing it in the right direction. Now get out of here, the pair of you. I've got a city to defend."

Only a few hours after Legion was forced to drop its disguise, the first Empire troops came flying out of the icy wastes beyond the city, hundreds of them crammed onto armored gravity sleds and barges. They came in waves, more and more of them, soaring over the boundary walls as though they weren't even there. A few disrupter bolts lanced upward, only to be harmlessly deflected by glowing force fields. An Imperial attack usually centered around heavily armored battle wagons and war machines, but the cold and the snow and the ice of Mistworld slowed them down too much, and most were too large anyway to maneuver in Mistport's narrow streets, so the softening up of the city fell to the Imperial air divisions. They came howling out of the darkening skies like so many rabid bats, sleek and deadly, disrupter bolts stabbing down again and again, lighting the streets bright as day as the energy beams exploded buildings of stone and wood and set the ruins ablaze. People ran screaming in the streets as the barges sailed serenely overhead, carrying death and destruction and the coming of Empire rule.

The gravity sleds chased people down the streets, whipping in and out between the narrow buildings, harrying and terrorizing their prey until they grew tired of their sport, and cut the runners down with flashing energy bolts. The air divisions pressed on, leaving fire and devastation behind them, until suddenly espers came flying up out of the streets to face them.

The esper union had pulled its strongest minds together and pushed aside Legion's block for the moment. They knew it wouldn't last, but for now they struggled with Legion and held it back, so that a hundred brave souls could fly on wings of esp up to meet the invaders on their own high ground. The espers whipped around the slower-moving Imperial craft, darting in and out too fast to be tracked. Some had energy guns, some had crossbows, some had nothing but naked steel and their own indomitable courage. Force shields crackled and failed around the gravity barges as down in the streets espers strained to hex their tech and drain their power batteries. Imperial troops screamed and fell from their craft as the fast-flying espers took their toll, sniping at unguarded targets, but the air force was just too big and unstoppable, and its targeting computers soon came on line, taking out the flying defenders one by one, for all their speed and courage. They fell out of the dark sky like burning birds, and the air force pressed on.

More espers came soaring up out of the streets to take the place of those who fell. With their city endangered, their way of life threatened, and their backs almost literally to the wall, many in Mistport found courage and honor where they would have sworn there was none, and went to the fight with calm eyes and grim determination. They lunged and soared, using familiar updrafts and hiding places to confound the targeting computers, stinging their targets like deadly insects.

Some deliberately threw themselves into the gravity barges' engine bays, suicide attacks that were only occasionally successful. When a barge did fall from the sky, it crashed into fragile stone-and-timber buildings, crushing them with its immense weight. Exploding barges destroyed whole streets and spread fire across whole blocks. And for each barge that fell, there were always more to take its place, moving remorselessly forward about the city they had come to take.

They moved slowly inward from every side, creating paths of death and destruction, heading for the center of the city, block by block, street by street. They kept to their previously arranged paths, ignoring the rest of the city. The Empire had come to conquer and control Mistport, not destroy it.

There were fires burning all across the city now, flames leaping high into the night sky. Screams came drifting up from the streets below. Hell had come to Mistport, and Toby Shreck and his cameraman Flynn were right there in the thick of it, keeping up a live broadcast. Flynn's camera darted and soared above the inferno of the burning streets and blazing buildings, getting it all, while Toby kept up a breathless running commentary. This far above the devastation, it was easy to feel detached and godlike, but Toby did his best now and again to remind his audience that real people were burning and dying in the fires and ruins below. Not that most of them would care. That just added to the excitement for the home audience.

Toby clung to the railings at the edge of the gravity barge as the boiling heat of a sudden updraft rocked the barge from side to side. Flynn was so taken with what he was seeing through his camera that he quite forget to hold the railing, and almost toppled over the side before Toby grabbed him and pulled him back. The cameraman didn't even nod his thanks. He was far away with his darting camera, swooping and soaring over the rising flames like an impartial angel recording the birth of Hell.

"Getting good footage?" asked Toby loudly in Flynn's ear.

"If only you could see what I'm seeing," said Flynn. "People have seen war footage before, but never this close, never this clearly. I can zoom in on individual buildings, individual people, or pull back to a panorama of the whole damned city. It's beautiful, Toby. The scarlet and gold against the black of night. The burning buildings, and the flames… it has a majesty and a grandeur that's beyond pity or compassion. It doesn't need excuses; it just is. A city is dying one inch at a time, and I'm getting it all. The colors are amazing—bright and primitive and striking. And the roar of the explosions is like a giant walking across the city, one great step at a time, as the ground shakes beneath his tread. It's… exhilarating."

"Smell the smoke," said Toby. "That's burning flesh amongst the wood and grime. Listen to the screams. Don't get carried away, Flynn. This isn't an invasion; this is a slaughter."

He broke off as a flying esper came howling out of the darkness toward him. The esper was armed with an automatic crossbow, jury-rigged from forbidden tech, and his deadly bolts stitched across the armed men at the railings as they tried in vain to draw a bead on him. They fell back from the railing, crying out as they clutched at transfixing arrows. Toby grabbed Flynn and threw them both to the deck. A nearby disrupter cannon turned to bear on the next building, and the esper was suddenly hovering there before it. He thrust his arm down the barrel, blocking it. Toby looked up, and their eyes met. The esper grinned savagely, scared shitless and not giving a damn, and then the bomb in his hand went off, blowing the cannon apart. The esper was thrown backwards, blood fountaining from the shoulder where his right arm had been. He fell toward the street far below, laughing breathlessly. Toby watched him fall until he disappeared back into the smoke and the flames.

Lieutenant Ffolkes came staggering down the deck toward Toby and Flynn, stepping gingerly over the injured and the dying. He had a gun in his hand, and there was blood spattered across one sleeve of his uniform. It didn't appear to be his. He looked over the railings, and nodded calmly at the burning city as though quietly satisfied.

"You're really missing the best of it from down here," he said casually. "I trust you're getting good coverage?"

"Oh yes," said Toby, climbing carefully to his feet. "Right up close and personal, some times."

Ffolkes looked at him. "The Empress might have ordered it, Shreck, but I'm still in charge. Follow your instructions. Nothing… controversial, or I'll shut you down."

"Got it," said Toby. "Nothing controversial. Just blood and death and burning buildings."

"Glad to hear it," said Ffolkes. "Carry on."

And he strode away to upset somebody else. Toby made a rude gesture at the man's departing back, realized that Flynn was still lying on the deck, and hauled him to his feet. The cameraman was still lost in what his camera was showing him through his comm implant. Toby could have patched it to the frequency through his own comm link, but didn't. It was all he could do to cope with what he was already seeing.

In his room on the top floor of the Blackthorn Inn, as yet untouched by the invasion, Owen Deathstalker crawled across the floor on his hands and knees, shivering and shaking. His head hung down, hot and heavy, and sweat dripped from his contorted face. Pain blazed in all his muscles, sharp and piercing, and shuddered in his gut. He was blazing hot, his thoughts slow and muddy as the pain inside him tore him apart. He lurched on, inch by inch, as though trying to run away from the agonies that stretched his mouth in a soundless grimace. He didn't scream. He wouldn't let himself. He was a Deathstalker. He couldn't let anyone see him like this. His shoulder crashed into the leg of a table, and he knocked the obstacle away with one sweep of his arm. He tried again to vomit, but he'd already emptied his stomach. He'd crawled through most of it.

The trembling had started as he made his way up the narrow stairs behind the bar. At first he'd put it down to reaction at his nearly having died, or the strain of fighting off so many attackers at once. It had been a hard day, after all. But it got worse. His head swam and his sight became blurred. His hands shook violently, and his legs became increasingly unsteady, until he was lurching along like a drunk. Somehow he made it to the top floor, and pressed his shoulder against the wall as he went, to keep him upright. His room seemed a long way away, but he got there, and even managed to shut the door behind him before he collapsed and began to puke up his guts.

His head crashed into a new obstacle. He hardly felt it, and it took him a while to realize that he'd reached the far wall, and there was nowhere left to go. He got himself turned around, grunting at the horrid pain, and put his back to the wall, sitting more or less upright. The pain was worse if anything, and he felt like he was burning alive. The room was a blur, and he could feel helpless tears trickling down his cheeks.

"Dear God, what's happening to me," he said, and was shocked at how weak he sounded.

"Side effects from your constant boosting," said Ozymandius. "I did warn you. Whatever the Madness Maze did to you, you're still human. You've been boosting too often and for too long, and it's finally caught up with you. The candle that burns twice as brightly burns half as long, remember? You've been relying on the Maze's changes to repair the damage you've been doing to yourself, but it seems you still have limits. Human limits. Your body's been burning itself up, and you've nothing left to put out the flames."

"There must be something I can do…" said Owen, forcing the words out through chattering teeth. He was hot and cold by turns now.

"I'm afraid your options are rather limited, Owen. You could boost again, but it would only make things worse in the long run. A regeneration machine might be able to repair the damage, but I don't know of any in Mistport. Or you could throw yourself on the mercies of what passes for medicine on this planet, but I wouldn't recommend it."

"Dammit, Oz… help me!"

"I'm sorry, Owen. You did this to yourself. There's nothing I can do."

"Oz… am I going to die?"

"I don't know, Owen. The odds are against you."

"Oz…"

"Hush, Owen. It's all right. I'm here."

There was a polite knock at his door. Owen gritted his teeth against the pain, and forced out a single word. "Yes?"

There was a pause, and then a voice said uncertainly, "Lord Deathstalker, the city Council requests that you join them downstairs. Your advice and support are needed most urgently."

Owen swallowed hard, fighting to control his mouth. His lips were numb and his tongue was swollen. He had to answer the messenger, or the man would come in to see what was wrong. And he couldn't afford to be seen like this. If he lived, no one would ever have faith in him again. They'd treat him like an invalid, and hustle him off somewhere safe. He was damned if he'd live like a cripple. And if he was going to die, he preferred to do it in private. He realized that the messenger was still waiting for a reply.

"I'll be down soon," he said, as loudly and clearly as he could.

There was another pause, then the voice said, very respectfully, "Lord Deathstalker, the invasion of Mistport has begun. You must have heard the explosions. I'm supposed to escort you…"

"I said I'll be down soon!" Owen shouted, not caring how his voice sounded.

He could hear the messenger shuffling uncertainly outside his door, but finally the man turned and walked away. Owen grinned humorlessly. Thick ropes of saliva hung from his stretched mouth. He'd thought the Maze had made him superhuman, carried him beyond merely human limits. It appeared he'd been wrong. He was only human after all, and he would prove it the way everybody did, by dying from it. He tried to sit up a little straighter and couldn't. His head grew heavier and heavier, bowing forward until his chin rested on his chest. He could hear his breathing now. It sounded loud and harsh and very labored.

The pain was beginning to fade. Even a little earlier, he might have found hope in that, but now he knew what it meant. He was dying, and his body was shutting down, bit by bit. He wished the others could have been with him. They might have linked with him, helped him, or just… kept him company. But as always, there was only him. And a voice in his head he didn't believe in. He supposed dimly that he ought to pray, but he'd never been the praying kind. So many things left undone. So many things he'd meant to do and say, because he'd thought there'd be time later… He never even told Hazel that he loved her.

The door swung open with a crash, and Hazel d'Ark stood framed in the doorway. She stared in shock at Owen for a moment, then hurried forward to kneel beside him. She lifted his hand, grunted at the clammy coolness, and took his pulse with practiced efficiency. She pressed her other hand on his forehead, winced at the heat there, and wiped the sweat off her hand on her leggings. She checked his pulse against her watch, and then set about undoing Owen's collar so he could breathe more easily.

"Deathstalker… can you hear me? Owen! Do you know what's wrong with you?"

"Too much boosting," he said, or thought he said. It was hard to tell anymore. He wasn't even sure she was really there. Maybe he only wanted her to be there. And then his head rocked as she slapped him sharply across the face.

"Stay with me, Owen! Did you say boosting?"

"Side effects," he said hoarsely. "Tearing me apart. Burning me up. The Maze can't help me anymore."

"Shit," she said softly. "Yes, I remember you warning me about the dangers of the boost. An addiction that can kill you. The curse and the temptation of the Deathstalkers. Damn. Stay put, Owen. Hang on while I get you a doctor."

"No! Doctors can't help. Hazel, something I wanted to tell you…"

"It's all right, Owen; I understand. I know what you're going through. I've been through it myself. You're not dying. It's called withdrawal. I'll stay with you. I remember what it was like, going through withdrawal from Blood. You won't die. You'll just wish you could."

She sat down beside Owen, wrapped her arms around him, and rocked him like a child. Her arms were strong and steady. A sense of peace and quiet strength flowed out of her and into him. His shivers and muscle spasms gradually slowed and stopped. The pain went out of him like water draining into a bottomless well. The fever ebbed away, and he began to breathe more easily again. And still the strength flowed out of her and into him. They were linked again, finally. Their minds remained separate, Hazel maintaining a firm barrier between their thoughts, but physically they became more and more in sync, until all the aftereffects of the boostings had burned away, his pain soothed and healed, and Owen was himself again. They sat together for a while, Hazel still holding Owen in her arms.

"Well," Owen said finally. "Was it good for you, too?"

Hazel laughed and pushed him away. "You're back to normal, stud. Now get on your feet. They're screaming for you downstairs."

They stood up and smiled at each other. Neither of them knew quite what to say next. "Thanks," said Owen. "You saved me. I could have died in here, but you brought me back. I didn't know you could do that."

"Lots of things you don't know about me, Deathstalker."

"That's true. Where's Silver?"

"Out in the streets somewhere. Fighting for his city. I'd never have pegged him for a hero, but it just goes to show how you can be wrong about people."

"Well," said Owen. "None of us are perfect."

It was as close to an apology and a reconciliation as they were going to get, and they both knew it, so they moved on to other things.

"You know," said Hazel, as they headed for the door, "this could happen again, if you use the boost too much."

Owen shrugged. "I've been doing what's needed. The boost makes it possible for me to do what I have to."

"I know how that feels," said Hazel. "Blood does the same thing for me."

They stepped out into the hallway and looked at each other. Finally Owen smiled slightly. "Guess it takes one addict to recognize another. Now let's go down and play the hero one more time, and pray the poor bastards depending on us never find out about our feet of clay. You're a good friend, Hazel. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Don't push it, aristo," said Hazel d'Ark, smiling despite herself. And they went down the stairs together, leaning on each other just a little.

Down in the bar they found the whole room cleared of customers, not to mention furniture. The chairs had all been pushed up against the walls, so that the city Councillors could crowd round a large circular table in the middle of the room. They were studying a map of the city and arguing loudly, with much gesturing of the hands. People were darting in and out the front door all the time, bringing in computer terminals, monitor screens and other useful equipment from Tech Quarter. Runners came and went with up-to-date information, pausing only briefly before rushing out into the night again. With the comm systems down, they had to be the Council's eyes and ears in the city. Luckily, people in Mistport were used to improvising.

The proprietor of the Blackthorn Inn watched the chaos from behind the safety of the long wooden bar at the end of the room. Cyder had a quick smile that didn't always reach her cold blue eyes, and thin scars crossed one side of her face like worry lines. She used to be the hardest-working and hardest-hearted fence in all Mistport, but was now a highly respectable citizen, owner of a popular and thriving tavern, and according to her old friend Silver, just possibly in line for Council membership. Only in Mistport, Owen had said. Don't you believe it, said Hazel.

Beside Cyder, nursing a mulled ale, stood the young man called Cat—Cyder's sidekick, lover, and occasional fall guy. Cyder wasn't known for being sentimental. Cat had pale youthful features, dominated by dark watchful eyes and pockmarks that tattooed both cheeks. He wore a white thermal outfit that enabled him to hide in the snow and the mists with equal dexterity. Tall and slender. Cat was a deaf mute, and quite possibly the best burglar in the city. He was supposedly retired, now that Cyder had the means to keep him, but roof runners of his quality were always in demand, and he liked to keep busy.

Owen and Hazel moved over to the bar, and Cyder scowled at them both. "I don't know why I let you in here. Every time you barge into my life, everything goes to hell in a handcart and my tavern gets trashed. I'd take out insurance against you, if I could find anyone dumb enough to underwrite the policy. Just look what's happening now! I'm a spectator in my own tavern! I was making good money till the Council threw my customers out, and they're too busy to drink much themselves. Who's going to pay for my loss of custom?"

"Relax," said Owen. "I have some associates in the city who'll be only too pleased to make good your losses. Well, actually they won't be too pleased at all, but they'll still do it. Because they know I'll cut them off at the knees if they don't. Possibly quite literally."

"So, what's happening here?" said Hazel, after she and Cyder had embraced briefly across the bar and kissed the air near each other's cheeks.

"We happy few are organizing the resistance," said Cyder, pouring herself a very large drink. "Until the Empire finds us. That should take a while. Officially, only the Council members themselves were supposed to know about this. But they're having to call in more and more people to help them, and someone will talk eventually. Someone always does. In the meantime, the Council is doing its best to coordinate resistance, and minimize the damage and loss of life."

Steel finally noticed Owen and Hazel's arrival, and beckoned for them to join him. He introduced them to the other Councillors, who looked decidedly unimpressed, so Owen decided not to be impressed by them either. It wasn't difficult. Donald Royal was there, looking frail but determined, accompanied by his partner Madelaine Skye and Young Jack Random. Quentin McVey represented the Guilds. He dressed like a color-blind peacock with absolutely no taste, and had the most false-looking false teeth Owen had ever seen. Albert Magnus represented the Merchants. He dressed in dusty grey, a perfect match for his face, and generally looked like he'd died and then been dug up again quite recently. Louis Barren spoke for Thieves Quarter, a short and compact woman who looked tough enough to chew up a tin can and split nails. She had a bone-crushing handshake, too. Owen did his best not to wince. Finally, Iain Castle represented Tech Quarter. He was a dwarf with a crooked shoulder, and looked like he had absolutely no sense of humor about it.

The Council took it in turns to give Owen funny looks, and after catching sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, Owen could understand why. He was covered in dried blood and puke, and his clothes looked as though someone had died in them. His face was deathly pale, and his eyes were so deep-set it was a wonder he could see out of them. All in all, Owen decided he looked rather like some homicidal holy man who'd finally discovered the real meaning of life, and was thoroughly pissed off about it. Hazel looked like a barroom brawler, but then, she always did.

Quentin McVey was the first to speak. He screwed a monocle into his left eye and looked Owen up and down. "Have this boy washed and sent to my room."

"Forget it," Owen said amiably. "You couldn't afford me."

"You always did have a thing for rough trade, Quentin," said Lois Barron. "But this is slumming, even for you. Dear God, this disreputable-looking pair are supposed to be our contacts with the Golgotha underground? They're a disgrace. If they turned up at my front door, I'd set the dogs on them."

"Right," said Magnus. "Get them out of here. We've got work to do. If Golgotha wants to be taken seriously here, they'll have to send us better than this."

"Kick them out," said Iain Castle, the dwarf. "We don't have time for this."

Owen and Hazel reached out mentally to each other, and linked. Power shot back and forth between them, building and building. Their presence was suddenly overwhelming, filling the room from wall to wall, drawing all eyes to them. They were wild and powerful, so wildly potent as to seem almost inhuman, or more than human. Their power hammered on the air like a giant heartbeat, vast and overpowering. The Councillors would have liked to run, or kneel, but they were held where they were, like mice before a snake. New energy flooded through Owen and Hazel, washing away all weaknesses and impurities. Hazel's Blood use had kept them from linking for so long that they had forgotten how powerful they were when joined.

"Cut it out," said Cyder, forcing out the words despite the awe that pressed her back against the far wall. "We're impressed, honest. Now shut it down, before the Empire espers pick up on it."

Owen and Hazel reigned back on their link, internalizing their power, and suddenly they were just a man and a woman again. Owen could hardly believe that just a few minutes ago he'd thought he was close to death. Now, with Hazel at his side, he felt he could take on an army. It seemed there was still a lot about what the Maze had done to them that they didn't understand.

"Relax," Hazel said calmly to the Council. "I don't think any esper could pick us up. Whatever it is that powers us, I don't think it's esp."

The Council members looked at each other, and if anything looked even more upset than before, and Owen suddenly realized that for the moment they were just as frightened of him and Hazel as they were of the invaders. At least the Empire was a known threat. He stepped forward, hands raised reassuringly, and tried not to notice when they all flinched and drew back from him.

"Take it easy, people. We're here to help. This is your city; you tell us how best we can help you defend it."

Donald Royal stepped suddenly forward to stare into Owen's face. His gaze was firm and steady. "Yes, you're a Deathstalker, all right. I can see it in your eyes. Damn, it's good to have a Deathstalker with us again. Your Family always did have a talent for stirring things up. I knew your father and your grandfather, boy. Good men, both of them, in their different ways. When all this is over, I'll tell you some stories about them that you probably won't find in your Family records. It's good to see you here, maintaining your Clan's traditions."

"Leave the old-times shit for later," said Castle. "What kind of help are you offering us, Deathstalker? Going to walk out into the streets and awe the Empire troops to death, are you? You might have esp or juju coming out your ears, but that won't stop an invading army. Surely Golgotha didn't just send us the pair of you and their best wishes? We need guns, explosives, equipment."

"We brought a ship full of projectile weapons and crates of ammunition," said Owen calmly. "They should be being distributed even as we speak. That's it."

"Projectile weapons?" said Magnus. "What use are bloody antiques against gravity barges with disrupter cannon?"

"You'd be surprised," said Hazel. "Besides, you've got me and Owen. We're an army in our own right."

"Oh wonderful," said Lois Barron. "An ex-aristo and an ex-pirate with overblown esp and delusions of grandeur. Like we haven't got enough of those already. Why don't we all just shoot ourselves now, and get it over with?"

"If you don't stop whining, I'll shoot you myself," snapped Royal. "These two are different. You felt their power."

"Oh, we're different, all right," said Owen.

"That's for sure," said Hazel. "And there's always Jenny Psycho. Wherever she is."

"I don't think we need to tell the Council about her yet," said Owen. "They'd only worry."

"And if you find those two disturbing, there's always me," said Young Jack Random.

Everyone turned to look at him. He'd been quiet for so long that everyone had forgotten he was there. It quickly became clear that the Council found his tall muscular frame and handsome face much more satisfying than Hazel and Owen.

"And who the hell are you?" said Castle, climbing onto a stool to get a better look over people's heads.

"I know the face," said McVey. "I'm sure I know the face."

Donald Royal smiled. "Allow me to present my good old friend, the one and only Jack Random."

The Council gaped soundlessly for a moment, then left the table en masse to crowd around Random, pumping his hand and slapping him on the back, and saying how delighted they were that he'd come to save them in their hour of need. Random smiled and nodded modestly, looking every inch a hero and a legend born. Owen looked at Hazel.

"I may puke."

"You already did. Try not to get it all over me this time."

Eventually the Councillors got tired of telling Random what a savior he was to them, and having him modestly nod and agree, and they brought him over to the table to show him the great map of Mistport. Steel pulled Random in beside him to explain things, and Owen and Hazel pushed in on the other side, determined to not be left out of anything. Steel ignored them, concentrating on Random.

"Right, Jack, this map covers all four Quarters of the city, from boundary to boundary. The city's perimeter is defended by high stone walls, but they won't last long. They were only ever intended to keep out marauding local wildlife. A war machine will walk right through them. And of course they don't do a thing to stop gravity barges and sleds. To the north we have Merchants and Guilds Quarters, and Thieves and Tech in the south. The River Autumn runs through all of them except Tech. With our communications out, and most of the streets blocked with people and barricades, we've been using the barges on the Autumn to transfer messages and people. One of our few Emergency plans that is worth anything. Most of the rest depended on espers, and they're not part of the agenda anymore. Whatever it is the Empire's doing, it's scrambled the minds of practically anyone with even a touch of esp in them. A few of the stronger talents are holding out, but it's anyone's guess as to how long. What's left of the esper union is concentrating on combating the air invasion, but all they're doing is buying us some time. We've got runners bringing in information all the time, but by the time we get to hear about anything, it's already over. I'd kill for just one working comm system, but the runners are all we've got…"

"Not anymore," said a new voice from the tavern doorway. Everyone looked around, and there was Jenny Psycho, looking very pleased with herself, along with Chance and a dozen esper children from the Abraxus Information Center. The children were awake and more or less steady on their feet, but their eyes were wild and unsettling. A general shudder went through most of the people at the table, as they studied the insane children in their ill-fitting, grubby dressing gowns.

"All right," said Magnus, in his cold grey voice. "Who the hell are you, woman, and why have you brought these… people here?"

"I'm Jenny Psycho, last manifestation of the Mater Mundi. So watch your mouth or I'll turn you into a small hopping thing. These children are possibly the only espers left in Mistport who aren't bothered by the new Empire weapon. Possibly because they're so far out of it even under normal conditions. The rest of the children are taking up positions all over the city. They're a bit strange to work with, but once you get the hang of it you should have a working communications system again. And I am here to protect you in case the Empire works out where you are. With the Mater Mundi's power flowing through me, I'm more than a match for anything the Empire can throw at you. Now, don't you all feel so much safer?"

"You know, I'd probably feel a lot happier about all this if it wasn't coming from a woman called Jenny Psycho," said Donald Royal.

"Well done, Jenny," said Random. "I knew you'd come through for us. Now let's get these children settled, before anything else. The poor lambs look like they've come a long, hard way."

People bustled around getting the children hot drinks and blankets to lie on, while Chance hovered protectively over them, getting in the way. Jenny Psycho busied herself ordering some strange but potent cocktail at the bar. She seemed to feel that having got the children safely here, they were no longer her responsibility. As always, Jenny had her own sense of priorities, with herself at the top of the list. The children were barely settled when they all suddenly stiffened on their makeshift beds, their eyes rolled up in their heads.

"Do they often do that?" asked Lois Barren.

"Shut up," said Chance. "They're seeing something."

"They're here," said one of the children, in a calm, dreamy voice. "The wall has gone down at the southwest boundary. Imperial foot troops are streaming through. The wolves are in the fold."

"Shit!" said Steel. "I thought we had more time. Chance, how reliable are these charges of yours?"

"When it comes to seeing the present, one hundred percent. As to the future…"

"I know, I know." Steel thought furiously. "Get the runners on their feet again. I don't care how tired they are. I need them to gather reinforcements for whatever's left of the wall."

"No need to bother the runners," said Random. "Let them rest. They're exhausted. Give me some men, and I'll lead a force down to the boundary to stop the invaders."

And as quickly as that the meeting broke up into shouted plans and orders. Albert Magnus volunteered to take Random to the nearest groups of militia and city Watch, and lead them to the southwest boundary. Random clapped him on the shoulder and called him a Good Man, and the grey man almost blushed. They hurried out the door, and Owen and Hazel hurried after them. Jenny Psycho grudgingly worked with Chance to stabilize the children, and interpret what they were seeing. She seemed to feel this was somewhat beneath her, but did it anyway to show she was a good sport.

Cyder led Cat off into a quiet corner, wrote out several messages, then sent him off to deliver them. If Empire troops were already in the city, she wanted to be sure her various properties were being well protected. Just because there was a war on, there was no need to lose track of one's priorities. Cat frowned, and then shrugged. He could never say no where Cyder was concerned. And as one of the finest burglars and roof runners in Mistport, the chances of his being detected and stopped were less than most people's. Mistport's sea of connected roofs and gables were familiar territory to him. So he smiled reassuringly at Cyder, kissed her good-bye, then again for luck, and again because he enjoyed it, and disappeared out the nearest window, up the wall, and onto the roofs, his white thermal suit blending seamlessly into the snow and fog. He had no way of knowing he would never return to the Blackthorn Inn again.

High above the world, floating in its massive tank. Legion grew stronger and flexed its mental muscles. Its powers stretched across the city of Mistport, dark and potent, messing with men's minds. Men and women fell to the ground, frothing at the mouth, driven into madness to escape the awful presence that peered out at them from within their own minds. Espers went catatonic, or mute, or writhed helplessly on their beds as their power discharged on the air around them, out of their control. Legion was abroad in the night, walking up and down in human minds and spreading horror. It was vast and powerful, and nothing could stand against it. It was Legion, and it was many in one.

John Silver fought with the others at the break in the southwest boundary wall, under Legion's continuing scream. He'd fought in so many campaigns in his previous life as a pirate, against odds of all kinds, but never anything like this. There seemed no end to the Imperial troopers as they came streaming through the huge gaps in the wall opened up by the Empire war wagons. Time had blurred into a rush of blood and pain and clashing steel, and though he stood his ground amidst the rubble of the wall and would not yield, he knew he didn't stand a chance.

After the Hob hounds' invasion of the city during the Typhoid Mary disaster, the city Council had given orders for the twenty-foot stone walls to be raised to thirty feet. Thirty feet of solid stone, four feet thick. It hadn't slowed the Empire forces down for a moment. The huge battle wagons, fifty feet tall and twenty wide, had smashed through the wall as though it was made of paper. Their toughened steel hulls could withstand anything short of a disrupter, and what few energy guns the defenders had weren't enough to stop them.

And so the war wagons crashed through the wall in a dozen places, and the Imperial troops came swarming in over the rubble, firing as they came. The city's defenders went to meet them with bare steel and grim determination, leaping over their fallen fellows to meet the invaders head-to-head, and there the invasion slowed and stopped, as fighting clogged the entrances. It was vicious fighting, with no quarter asked or given. There was no room in any of them for anything but hatred and murder, a blood madness fueled by the rebels' outrage, the troops' battle drugs, and the never-ending scream above.

The battle wagons were largely useless once they'd broached the boundary walls. They were too big and too clumsy to operate in the narrow streets and alleyways of Mistport, and they couldn't use their disrupter cannon on the city defenders for fear of taking out their own troops, too. So as always it came down to man against man, and the flash of cold steel. Men fell dead and dying on all sides, but though the tides of battle surged this way and that, somehow still the defenders held.

John Silver had taken a deep cut across his forehead somewhen early in the proceedings, and had to keep jerking his head to keep the blood out of his eyes. Typical Silver luck. All bad. He'd taken other wounds, and there was more blood on his clothes, but he tried not to think about that. It would only depress him. The buzz from his last shot of Blood had worn off long ago, and now all that kept him going was duty and adrenaline. His sword rose and fell, most often crashing uselessly back from parrying steel or force shield, and his sword arm ached mercilessly. There was no room in the crush of bodies for fancy swordplay or footwork. You stood toe-to-toe with your opponent and hammered it out, with victory going to the strongest or the quickest. And when one man fell, there was always another to take his place.

Silver would have liked to cut and run, but there was nowhere to run to. If Mistport fell and the Empire took over, they'd hang him anyway, on general principles. And besides, as so many times before, duty held him where courage would not. He owed a lot to Mistport, and Silver believed in paying his debts. His side surged suddenly forward a few feet, seizing some momentary advantage, and Silver had to watch his footing. There were bodies everywhere, underfoot. He recognized some of the faces, but couldn't let himself think about that. There was only the struggle, blade on blade, and the knowledge that they were bound to drag him down eventually.

And then suddenly reinforcements were there, slamming into battle beside him like the answer to a prayer. War cries from a dozen worlds and cultures filled the air as the new defenders forced the invading troops back, step by step. The Deathstalker was there, already covered in blood and looking like death on legs. Hazel d'Ark fought beside him, wielding her sword with devastating strength and speed. Albert Magnus from the city Council was there, too, right in the front of things—a dusty grey man with a sword in each hand, unstoppable as a force of nature. And leading the attack, Jack Random himself, the professional rebel. He was tall and imposing in silver battle armor, his face familiar from a hundred wanted posters, driving the invaders back by the sheer fury of his attack. His swordplay was swift and deadly, and no one could stand against him.

Silver laughed breathlessly and fought on, new strength in his arms. Maybe he wasn't going to die this day after all. He pulled a thin vial from his sleeve and swallowed the remaining dark liquid down in one draught. It was the last of his Blood, but the odds were the battle would be over by the time he needed another shot, one way or the other, so what the hell.

Owen Deathstalker took a position at the head of the battle and defied the Imperial troopers to get past him. He was boosting again, and felt stronger than ever now that he was linking with Hazel. Somehow he knew side effects wouldn't be a problem this time. Together, he and Hazel were far greater than the sum of their parts, more than merely human. He hacked and cut about him with unstoppable strength, slapping aside defensive parries with contemptuous ease. Men fell screaming to either side of him, and did not rise again. Droplets of blood flew from his blade as it scythed through the air, and Owen grinned like a wolf, the scent of blood heavy in his nostrils, every inch the warrior he'd never wanted to be.

Hazel d'Ark fought at his side, her sword flashing in short, brutal arcs, cutting through flesh and bone like a butcher's cleaver. Blood, none of it hers, splashed her clothes, soaking her sword arm to the elbow, and the screams of the wounded and the dying were music to her. She'd always had a soft spot for Mistport. She'd always liked to think that wherever she went and whatever she did, she could always go back to Mistworld, and they would take her in. It was the closest thing to a home she'd ever known. And now the Empire wanted to take that away from her, just like all the other things they'd taken, down the years. She was damned if she'd allow the Iron Bitch that final victory. Not as long as there was breath in her body and steel in her hand.

Her link with Owen was strong now. She could feel his presence at her side, strong and dependable as always. Another presence impinged on her mind, and a familiar smell was suddenly strong and thick in her nostrils. She glanced to her left, and there was John Silver, not far away, stamping and fencing like a man possessed, eyes wide and grinning like a madman. He was flying on Blood. She could see it in him, smell it on his panting breath, even at this distance. A part of her wanted Blood, too. Just a drop or two. It would make her feel so good, comfort her fears, help her forget the helplessness of the fight she was involved in. Hazel fought the need down, burying it deep. She didn't need Blood to do what had to be done here. Perhaps because her situation had now become so simple—fight or die, fight or lose everything she ever cared for. And perhaps because she was linking with Owen again, and in his presence and strength she found all the comfort she needed.

Disrupters on the battle wagons began to target rebel fighters on the outskirts of the struggling mob, blowing them apart in dark clouds of vaporized flesh and blood. Gravity barges drifted overhead in vast formations, surrounded by darting gravity sleds, hundreds of them, like a storm of dark metal leaves blowing into the city. No espers flew up to meet them as they pressed slowly on into the city, disrupter beams stabbing down to blow buildings apart. The air was filled with the roar of powerful engines and collapsing masonry, almost drowning out the shrieks and howls and war cries drifting up from the struggling forces below.

And above it all, the endless scream of the awful thing called Legion.

Albert Magnus, that grey and bitter man, fought hard and well with his two swords, and felt really alive for the first time in years.

He swung his two swords in wide, coordinated arcs, forcing his opponents back. But there were so many of them, and he couldn't look in all directions at once. A sword stabbed at him from an unexpected angle, and slammed between his ribs. He shouted in pain and disbelief, and blood sprayed from his mouth. He dropped his swords. Someone jerked the sword out of his side, and that hurt him again. And then there were more swords, and axes, hewing at him like a block of wood. He fell, hurting too badly now even to scream, and was trampled on, just another body on the ground. The fight moved back and forth over him till he died.

Jack Random seemed to be everywhere at once, his sword a silver blur, a dashing death-defying hero, laughing in the face of impossible odds. Just his presence was enough to spark greatness in the men and women around him, and they fought, using his name as a battle cry. He took impossible risks and always pulled them off, and no one could stand against him. He never seemed to tire, and he never took a wound, a giant of a man who spread terror through the Imperial ranks.

Owen, bloodied and exhausted, was quietly disgusted. It wasn't fair that anyone should be that fast, that amazing, and that good-looking—not to mention that lucky. The Empire forces hadn't even been able to draw the great man's blood yet. Owen felt he was doing pretty well, but he'd already taken a dozen lesser wounds. It was inevitable in a crush like this. The Maze's changes were already healing him, and the boost kept him from feeling much pain, but it was the principle of the thing.

Still, Jack Random was a legend, and legends were supposed to be above the petty problems of mere mortals. If that was who he really was. Owen was damned if he knew what he believed anymore. Certainly this man filled the legend better than the broken-down old man he'd found hiding in Mistport, claiming to be Jack Random; but Owen believed in people, not legends. He shrugged mentally as he cut down another Imperial trooper with a single savage stroke. Random wasn't the only real warrior here.

And whoever the handsome bastard really was, Young Jack Random was exactly what the city of Mistport needed right now. His name was a rallying cry, perhaps the only thing that could call all the disparate parts of Mistport together and make them fight as one. Owen decided he'd settle for that.

Hazel d'Ark could feel her mind reaching out in strange directions. Ever since the Maze had changed her, her mental abilities had been slowly but steadily increasing, and since coming to Mistport, the rate of change had been increasing. She could tell now where every attack was coming from, even before it was actually launched, and her sword was always there in the right place to block the attack. No one could sneak up on her, even in her blind spots, and she could sense the weaknesses in any opponent the moment she saw him or her. It was beyond experience or instinct; it was as though she'd always known such things, and only remembered them now when she needed them.

And more than that, as she saw the various possibilities opening up before her, other possible versions of herself began to appear around her. They blinked in and out of existence, sometimes only there long enough to deflect a sword or ward off an attack she couldn't have stopped on her own. But as she fought, other different Hazel d'Arks began to appear, to fight at her side. Some had subtle differences, like an extra scar, or different-colored hair. Others were different builds, or races. One had a golden Hadenman hand. One was a man. At least one didn't look to be entirely human. She smiled at some of them, and some smiled back. Together, she and her other selves pushed forward, forcing their way to the very front of the battle, and there they filled the main gap in the boundary wall and defied the Empire to get past them.

John Silver saw the Hazel d'Arks fighting side by side, and thought he must have got a really bad batch of Blood this time. It didn't usually give him hallucinations. It was only when a bald Hazel d'Ark in a bounty hunter's leathers stopped an Imperial sword thrust that would have killed him, that he was forced to admit they were real. He didn't let it bother him. Mistport was a crazy place at the best of times, which this very definitely wasn't. But then he saw Owen Deathstalker striding through the milling crowd, cutting troopers down as though they were nothing, and Jack Random standing defiant and undefeatable amidst a pile of enemy dead, and a shivering awe flashed through him. In all his years, Silver had never seen anything like these three. It was like fighting beside gods.

But it only took a moment for the awe to turn to jealousy. He was just a man, with a man's strength and courage, doing what he could, while three inhuman beings made his best efforts look like nothing. He fought on, but some of the heart had gone out of him. Another surge in the fighting brought him forward, to Owen's side. The Deathstalker threw him a quick, flashing grin, and Silver tried to smile back. And in that moment he saw a trooper's sword heading straight for Owen's back. The Deathstalker hadn't seen it, too busy cutting down the two men before him. Time seemed to slow and stop, and it felt to Silver that he had all the time in the world to decide what to do next. He could call out a warning, or stop the blade himself, but in that moment he wanted the Deathstalker to die. For being more than human, more than him, for being closer and more important to Hazel than he could ever be. It would be easy just to stand there, and let the blade kill Owen. Afterward, no one would blame him. There was so much going on, and he couldn't be expected to see everything. He hesitated, his mind churning in a dozen different directions at once. All the things that could be his, if only Owen Deathstalker was dead. And then time crashed into motion again, and there was no more time to think.

The blade slammed toward Owen's back, and Silver lurched forward, his sword blocking the blow. The sudden impact tore the sword from his hand, and it fell to the ground. The trooper turned on Silver, his sword drawing back for a killing thrust. Silver darted to one side, and the blade sliced across the side of his arm, just opening the skin. Blood ran down his arm. The trooper drew back his arm for another blow. Silver gathered the blood running down his arm into his hand, and threw it in the trooper's eyes. The man hesitated for a moment, blinded, and it was the easiest thing in the world for Silver to reach down, pick up his sword, and run the trooper through.

All this passed in only a moment or two. Owen Deathstalker saw none of it, being busy with his own problems. Silver gathered his wits together and fought on. He hadn't done too badly, for a mere mortal. And if there had to be gods fighting in this battle, Silver was just glad they were on his side.

The tides of battle swept him away from Owen, who cut his way through a crowd of bodies to fight beside Hazel again. It took a moment to realize it wasn't the Hazel d'Ark he knew, and another to realize there seemed to be a small crowd of Hazels. And then someone in the back of the crowd was shouting "Retreat!" Other voices took it up, all of them Imperial troopers, and suddenly the invaders were melting away before Owen, turning and running. Everywhere he looked it was the same, as what had been a far greater force fell apart and ran for its life, its strength broken on the immovable rock that was Mistport's defenders. The retreat became a rout, and in a matter of moments there was no one left to fight. The defenders raised a ragged cheer. Owen looked back at Hazel d'Ark and blinked a few times as he discovered there was only one of her there. She looked across at him, grinning broadly, and Owen decided he wasn't going to ask. Not yet. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. The defenders were calling his name, and Hazel's, but mostly Jack Random's. He was their hero. They saluted him with raised swords, and glowing fervent eyes. They would have followed him into Hell itself, and everyone knew it.

And then the war wagons opened fire with their disrupters. Now that they no longer had to worry about killing their own troops, they could fire with impunity. The disrupter cannon blew huge bloody holes in the defenders' forces, and the air was full of blood and flying flesh. The crowd began to fall back, scrambling over the bodies of the dead. Jack Random raised his voice above the bedlam.

"Stop, my friends! We can defeat these machines!"

Owen pushed his way through the crowd to grab Random by the arm. "What are you, crazy? You can't fight disrupter cannon with nothing but swords! We have to fall back and find some place we can defend!"

"Damn right," said Hazel, suddenly at Owen's side. "You trying to get us all killed. Random?"

"My apologies," said Young Jack Random. "You're quite right, of course. I got carried away for the moment."

"Fine," said Owen. "Now shut the hell up and run."

The defenders fell back before the advancing battle wagons, but it was an organized retreat, not a rout. They spilled back through the narrow streets and alleyways, confident the huge bulking machines couldn't follow them. The machines' disrupter cannon swiveled from side to side, trying to find a grouping of rebels big enough to be worth firing on, but the rebels had already learned that lesson the hard way, and scattered into smaller and smaller groups as they fell back. So the war wagons opened fire on the streets themselves, blowing buildings and walls apart in showers of pulverized brick and mortar. There were shouts and screams as people disappeared beneath the collapsing buildings, and soon there were only piles of smoking rubble where the streets had been, over which the huge battle wagons pressed relentlessly forward.

The Imperial troopers saw the triumph of the war machines, and began to re-form behind them. The defenders' retreat began to turn into a rout after all. Owen and Hazel stopped and looked back. The war wagons surged toward them, guns roaring, devouring Mistport street by street. Above, the gravity barges hovered like vast storm clouds. Owen reached out a hand to Hazel, and she took it firmly, the same thought in both their minds. Their joined thoughts reached up and out. One of the gravity barges suddenly lurched in midair, as some unseen, implacable force seized hold of it. The engines roared and strained, and then overloaded, as something pulled the barge down out of the sky and smashed it into the war machines below.

The night was ripped apart by the force of the explosion, and flames roaring up from the tangled wreckage lit the nearby streets bright as day. The invading forces had to retreat yet again, or be showered by falling molten metal, thrown hundreds of yards by the blast. But none of the defenders were harmed. The tumbling debris seemed to fall well short every time, as though they were protected by some unseen hand. The rebels stopped running and stood and cheered, celebrating the good fortune that had saved them. Of them all, only John Silver knew to whom they owed their lives. He watched as Owen and Hazel came out of their trance, looked down at their linked hands, and grinned self-consciously. They let go, and moved off into the cheering crowds. Silver watched them go, and wondered again what they were. What they were becoming. And if, just possibly, they might grow to be so powerful that they became more of a threat to Mistport than the Empire ever had been. He moved off after them, shaken by his thoughts, but already pondering possible actions, should it prove necessary. And wondering if he'd done the right thing in saving the Deathstalker's life after all.

He'd always felt a little superior, because some humans feared espers for their powers. Now he knew how those people felt. He wasn't top of the heap anymore. He wasn't even sure he could see the top of the heap from where he was.

Back among the retreating Empire troopers were Toby Shreck and his cameraman Flynn. They'd been put down to join the ground forces, and get close-up shots of the glorious invasion, only things hadn't turned out that way. The moment it became clear things were going seriously wrong, Lieutenant Ffolkes ordered Flynn to recall his camera and shut it down. The live broadcast was over, owing to technical difficulties. To make it clear how serious those difficulties were, Ffolkes stuck a gun in Flynn's back, and kept it there until the camera had safely returned to perch on Flynn's shoulder again. Its single red eye went out, and it was still. Toby protested, but no one listened to him. He hadn't expected they would, but he had to raise his voice anyway, or they'd think he was getting soft. Neither he nor Flynn doubted Ffolkes would have used the gun. He was white with fury at the invading forces' defeat, and looked like he was ready to take it out on anyone stupid enough to upset him. So Toby and Flynn fell back with the retreating forces until Ffolkes was called away to be objectionable somewhere else. After he was gone, they got some great footage of the crashing gravity barge, and then had to run like hell as molten metal came dropping out of the sky like a deadly hail. As they trudged back into the snows outside the city, and temporary safety, Toby and Flynn gave up trying to interview the exhausted troopers after the negative replies escalated from the obscene to actual death threats.

"Wonder where they'll send us next," said Flynn, after a while.

"Somewhere where things are going rather better, I should imagine," said Toby.

"Assuming there is such a place."

"Bound to be. The defenders just got lucky here, that's all."

"I don't know," said Flynn. "What were the odds of a gravity barge just happening to fall on the war wagons?"

Toby looked at him. "What are you implying? That the rebels brought it down in some way? Forget it. They don't have that kind of weaponry. And if you're thinking of espers, even the infamous Inspector Topaz her own bad self couldn't have brought down something that big. Espers just don't come that strong. And that's without Legion scrambling their minds."

"This is Mistport," said Flynn, darkly. "I've heard things about Mistport. Never wanted to come here in the first place."

"It's certainly full of surprises," said Toby. "Did you see who was leading the rebel forces? Jack Random, looking just like his old holo pictures. Only, if that's Jack Random, whom did we see leading the rebel forces on Technos III? That man looked a lot older, and harder used. And I don't believe he could have got from there to here, in so short a time. Not without the Empire knowing."

"Maybe one of them's a double. Or a clone." Flynn scowled. "Either way, there's a lot to this story that we're not being told."

"Nothing new there," said Toby. "If we run across him again, maybe we can pin him down for an interview. I could name my own price for a piece like that. Prime time, guaranteed."

"The powers that be, and intend to keep on being, would never let you show it."

Toby grinned. "Where there's a wallet, there's a way."

In the labyrinthian heart of Thieves Quarter, in the Blackthorn Inn, representatives of the esper union were fighting to keep track of what was happening. More people were arriving all the time, filling the crowded room, as news poured in from all over the city. The Council members, minus Albert Magnus, were still poring over the great map of Mistport, studying the situation with darkening scowls. The news was rarely good. The esper reps showed the positions of the gravity barges and sleds as small black shadows drifting over the map. Espers flying up to fight them showed as bright burning sparks. The sparks tended to blink out suddenly after a while, and no one needed to ask why. More shadows showed at the boundaries of the city, where the Empire forces had breached the boundary walls. The dark stains spread inward as the invading forces pressed on into the city despite all the defenders could do to slow or stop them. The shadows were holding only at the southwest boundary, where news of an unexpected victory was beginning to drift in.

Chance's children lay huddled on blankets in one corner of the room, keeping up a steady, quiet babble of information and warnings as Chance moved among them, cajoling and praising and bribing them with bits of candy. Any one of them he left alone for too long tended to drift into waking nightmares, screaming and howling piteously. The esper union reps were hiding the Blackthorn's position and inhabitants with their superior mental abilities, but even they couldn't protect the Abraxus children from the horror of Legion. The never-ending scream, rasping in their minds and souls like the scrape of bone on bone, or the tearing of living meat. No one knew how the children experienced it, but the look on their small faces as they mewled despairingly and twisted in their blankets was enough to keep anyone from asking. Chance pleaded with the Council to let him sedate the children, but the answer was always no. They were too useful.

A few espers teleported in and out with important messages, appearing and disappearing in puffs of disturbed air. Static sparked around them, discharging painfully through the nearest metal. They were risking their lives with every jump, and everyone knew it. Legion's scream was interrupting their concentration. Some never arrived. Just blinked out in one location, and were never seen again. Some arrived at the inn in pieces, or horribly rearranged. One materialized half inside the tavern wall. He was still there, protruding from the brickwork. No one could figure out how to remove him without tearing the wall apart. Luckily he was dead, so they just draped a cloth across his face to hide the staring eyes and contorted mouth, and pretended he wasn't there.

And one man fell out of midair and slammed to the floor in a sticky mess of spurting blood and exposed organs. His journey had turned him inside out. Horribly, he wouldn't die. In the end, Donald Royal cut off the head with one merciful stroke of his sword.

The Council members and the esper union reps struggled to put some kind of planned defenses together, but things were happening so quickly all the time that all they could really do was react to the Empire's actions and provide damage limitations. Raised voices were getting hoarse, and tiredness showed in everybody's eyes. Cyder kept hot coffee and mulled ale moving among everyone in the room, and supplied a steady stream of information from her own network of informers, people she used to work with in the past, before she became respectable. She tried not to worry about what had happened to Cat. And overhead, the roar of passing gravity barges shook the inn like thunder, never knowing how close they'd come to the heart of rebel resistance.

Kast and Morgan dragged their prisoner through the chaos and fury of battle to see Investigator Razor, as he stood thoughtfully in the rubble of what had been the northeast boundary, watching his troops press deeper into the burning city, sweeping aside all opposition. He waited till the marines and their captive were almost upon him before turning and acknowledging their existence. His dark face was calm as ever, but there was a hot and brutal fire in his eyes that made even Kast and Morgan nervous. They bowed quickly to the Investigator, and hit their prisoner till he did, too. Razor studied the man in silence for a long moment. The prisoner dressed well, though his fine clothing was currently rumpled and torn and stained with his own blood. His face was bruised and battered. It seemed that Kast and Morgan had not been gentle in persuading him to come along with them.

"And this is?" Razor said finally.

"A traitor and informer, sir," said Kast cheerfully. "Name of Artemis Daley. Something of a mover and shaker in Mistport, if he's to be believed. He's promised us useful, not to say vital, information if we'll just avoid destroying the properties here he has interests in. He's even volunteered to give us a map showing those properties. Isn't that helpful of him? Under a certain amount of pressure, he also volunteered to draw us another map, showing exactly where the city Council is currently hiding out. In return for his life and continued well-being. So we brought him to you, sir. If he is who he says he is, and knows what he says he does, he could be very valuable. And if you were to see your way clear to giving my friend and me recommendations on the strength of that, sir, or even a raise in rank, well, we were just doing our duty."

"But we'll still take the raise," said Morgan. "Or any medals, if they're going."

"You have done well," said Razor. "Now be silent." He smiled slowly at the prisoner, who if anything seemed even less reassured than before. Razor stepped closer, studying the man's face. "I know you, Artemis Daley. You're in our files. A deal-maker, money-lender, and leg-breaker, as necessary. Medium-sized fish in a very small pond. You've sold us the odd bit of information in the past. Nothing terribly important, but enough to make you as one of ours. Talk to me, Artemis. Tell me where my enemies are."

"We… have yet to agree on a price, your honor," said Daley, trying hard to keep his voice steady. "I am, after all, just an honest businessman, trying to make a profit in difficult times. I have no interest in wars. But a man in my position can't afford to just give away valuable information. Word would get out. My reputation would be ruined. You understand, I'm sure."

"Quite," said Razor. He looked at Kast. "Kill him."

"Wait! Wait!" Daley tried to back away, but Kast and Morgan held him firmly. They forced him down onto his knees. Daley shook so hard that drops of sweat fell off his face. "Wait, your honor! Allow me to… give you a little something, as a sign of good faith. The Council can be found at the Blackthorn Inn, in Thieves Quarter." He looked anxiously at Razor. "I'd be happy to draw you a map, your honor, showing exactly how to get there, but it's a little hard to draw when you're on your knees…"

"We have our own maps," said Razor. "And we have all we need from you." He nodded to Kast and Morgan. "Make an example of him."

Kast and Morgan nodded cheerfully, and dragged Daley away. He kicked and struggled, but didn't even slow them down. "You can't do this! I'm an important man here! I told you what you wanted! I told you…"

He kept shouting till Morgan hit him over the head with the butt of his gun. He was still mumbling protests when Kast and Morgan strung him up from the nearest lamppost and stood back to watch him dance in midair. Razor's smile was bitter. He had no time for traitors. He watched the hanging man die, and wondered when Clan Chojiro's agents here would make contact with him.

The first the people in the Blackthorn Inn knew of its targeting was when the disrupter beams began hammering down from the gravity barges hovering directly overhead. The slate roof blew apart, and the upper floor of the inn was suddenly a mass of flames, sweeping rapidly through the private rooms, burying the few inhabitants alive and swallowing their screams in the roar of the fire. The energy beams plowed through the upper floor and plunged on into the main barroom below, where they rebounded from a psionic screen erected at the very last moment by the espers within. Chance's children had come through with a last-second warning. The espers in the barroom were representatives of the esper union, and some of the strongest minds in Mistport, and together they held off the disrupter cannon. But even they couldn't save the Blackthorn.

The upper floor was a raging inferno. The barroom's timber ceiling began to blacken and smolder. The whole inn was shaking from the pounding it was taking. Bricks cracked, and fine streams of dust and mortar began to fall. The barroom quickly became stiflingly hot. The espers could do nothing. It was all they could do to fend off the disrupter beams. Donald Royal barked orders, getting people organized. He had them block off the back stairwell with tables and other furniture, in case the flames from above broke through the closed door. Cyder produced buckets of water, in case of sudden flash fires. Chance's children were screaming almost continuously now, but he still didn't dare sedate them. They might yet have to run for it.

A few people cracked and ran for the main door. Random yelled after them, but they wouldn't listen to him. They ran outside, and energy beams blew them apart the moment they appeared. More gravity barges drifted overhead, adding their firepower to the onslaught raging down on a single building. Every building around the inn was already a mass of flames and pulverized rubble. There were dead men and women in the streets, their bodies blackening in the growing firestorm.

Inside the Blackthorn, a timbered beam broke away from the ceiling supports and slammed down like a giant hammer, crushing Lois Barron beneath it. The heavy weight pinned her to the floor, and blood gushed from her mouth as she beat feebly at the wooden beam with her hands. It was obvious she was dying, but the others continued to try and lift the heavy beam off her, until she finally lay back and was still. The dwarf Castle sat beside her and held her dead hand, oblivious to everything. McVey and Royal couldn't allow themselves time to mourn. As the only remaining Councillors, they had too much to do. If anyone was going to find a way out of this trap, it would have to be the two of them.

And that was when the psionic shield began to weaken and break apart. Even the strongest minds in Mistport found it hard to function with Legion's endless scream in their heads. Their power was burning up, and so were they. Blood trickled steadily from their noses and ears. The greatest esp-blocker the Empire had ever made beat against their minds and, inch by inch, it shut them down. Cracks appeared in the shield. Thin bolts of energy stabbed through the barroom ceiling, transfixing people here and there like insects on pins. And then one energy beam hit and killed the strongest esper, and the screen collapsed.

Immediately Jenny Psycho reached out with her mind and pulled the screen back together again. She had hoped she wouldn't be needed. Once she revealed her presence, she had no doubt Legion would turn all its attention to her, and she wasn't entirely sure she could beat the unnatural thing. But she did what she had to do, taking all the pressure upon herself as one by one the other espers collapsed and died around her. Very soon the strain was almost unbearable. For all her strength, Jenny Psycho was no match for the many minds that made up Legion. If she and everyone else in the barroom were to survive, she was going to have to be more than just Jenny Psycho.

And so she reached inside herself, to that brightly shining place once touched by the Mater Mundi in the dark cells of Silo Nine. She called out to the uber-esper, the Mater Mundi, Our Mother Of All Souls, to come and manifest through her again, and pull all the espers in Mistport together into one great gestalt that would drive Legion and the Empire from Mistworld. She called, and no one answered. Jenny screamed then, a bitter howl of outrage and betrayal and despair that for a moment even drowned out Legion's endless scream. For as far as she could reach with her mind, there was no trace of the Mater Mundi, only the bright sparks of Mistport's espers blinking out one by one, and that awful thing that was Legion, slowly turning its full attention upon her. The Mater Mundi had abandoned her.

Jenny Psycho held together through sheer willpower. She had to. So many people were depending on her. Her brief touch by the Mater Mundi had made her one of the strongest espers the Empire had ever seen, but even so it was all she could do to hold off the many-in-one that was Legion. The pain was almost unbearable, but she wouldn't give up. If the Council were to die, resistance in Mistport would quickly fall apart, and the Empire would win. Jenny turned inward, cutting off all contact with the outside world, focusing all her will and concentration on maintaining the psionic shield. She stopped hearing the screams of people dying in the streets around the Blackthorn Inn, as the disrupter beams stabbed viciously down, killing everything that moved, spreading fire and destruction. She couldn't afford to be distracted. The psionic shield was her whole world now.

She knew the strain was killing her, and didn't care. After enduring the horrors and agonies of Silo Nine, she'd sworn to die rather than be taken captive again. Blood leaked steadily from her nose and ears, and sprayed from her mouth with every harsh breath. Some of the pain began to die away as parts of her mind began to shut down, bit by bit. She didn't know it, but her face looked like a grinning, death's-head mask. And still she fought on, refusing to give in, refusing to be beaten, and slowly she began to gain a new sense of her opponent Legion, of who and what it was. Of what it had been made from. Brains from people she might have known and Wormboy's worms. And Legion looked on her and knew who she was. The worms remembered her and what she'd done before. They were scared of her. Jenny Psycho laughed inside her head, and it was a terrible, unforgiving sound.

The invading forces pressed forward on all fronts, though more slowly on some than others. It was as though every man, woman, and child who could hold a weapon was out in the streets of Mistport, defending barricades and blocking crossroads, sniping from windows and hidden alleyways, making the troopers fight for every inch and pay for every victory in blood and death. Retreating defenders blew up and collapsed buildings as they fell back, to block off streets and slow the Empire's advance. The rebels' projectile weapons confused and scattered troops only used to dealing with the predictability and long pauses of disrupter fire until they learned to advance behind massed force shields, and the projectile guns were no use against them.

There were no espers operating now, in the sky or on the streets. Legion had proved too much for all but the strongest, and most of those were dead now. The defenders fell back, street by street, trying to follow Mistport's ages-old plans for last-ditch defense, but the plans hadn't been updated in years. Important routes had been blocked by street markets and new buildings, and some streets didn't exist anymore, save on the oldest maps. The defenders did the best they could, falling back only when there was no other option, retreating slowly toward the vulnerable heart of Mistport.

The wounded and refugees traveled through the city on barges on the River Autumn. It was quicker and safer than trusting to the streets. The coal-fired barges chugged up and down the freezing river, their steel prows breaking through the newly forming ice on the surface of the water, their crimson bow lights burning like coals in the night. On either side of the River, buildings burned like coals in Hell. The Autumn meandered through the city, passing through Guilds Quarter to Merchants to Thieves, and barges came and went with quiet desperation. Passengers occasionally called out to other craft, anxious for news of missing loved ones or how the battle went, but the answers were often old, and rarely good.

There were running fights on the docksides as advance groups of marines tried to get to the barges, only to be fought off by dockworkers armed with barbed knives and grappling hooks. The longshoremen knew every inch of their territory, and were hard and savage fighters. Some barges became overcrowded with refugees and wounded, slowed down too much, and became easy targets for overhead gravity sleds. Unable to maneuver, the barges were blown apart by disrupters, scattering burning bodies in the dark waters of the Autumn. Burning remnants blocked the way and clogged the docks, and half-charred and ruptured bodies floated in the water and lay captured by the slowly forming ice on the surface.

The larger barges armed themselves with heavy-duty projectile weapons and taught the gravity sleds to maintain a respectful distance. Standard tactics for a gravity sled was to deflect incoming fire with its force shield, then lower the shield to fire back while their enemy's energy guns were recharging. They weren't expecting guns that didn't need to recharge between shots. The Empire lost a lot of sleds till word got around. But the Deathstalker's gift of guns and ammo had been widely spread and, therefore, were in short supply everywhere, while there seemed no end to the invading forces. The barge gunners huddled low behind improvised shelters, and vowed to make every bullet count.

Imperial marines made their way through the hard-won streets of Mistport, stepping over the dead bodies and tossing grenades into the few buildings that still looked capable of hiding snipers. They left the better areas untouched, of course, and even left a few men behind to guard against looters. When the Empire finally took control of this city, these areas would be reoccupied by the new, Imperially approved, leaders. But everywhere else, the buildings burned and fires rose up into the night sky like beacons of victory.

Kast and Morgan trailed happily along in the rear, hanging back to avoid the real action, keeping themselves occupied by shooting enemy snipers or anyone else who annoyed them. They killed anyone who even looked dangerous, men or women, and tossed grenades through windows if their prey tried to go to ground. Like the rest of the invading force, they weren't interested in taking prisoners. That would come later, once the city was theirs. Kast and Morgan took time out to do a little quiet looting here and there, when no one was looking, but the pickings weren't up to much, even in the few buildings that somehow escaped the fires and the grenades. Mistport wasn't known for its luxuries, except in the most fortunate areas, and Kast and Morgan never got anywhere near those.

So they strolled unhurriedly down the narrow streets, ignoring the bodies and the smell and the blood-caked cobblestones, passing a bottle back and forth between them till it was empty, then acquiring another at the next opportunity. The wine was mostly lousy, but wine was wine, after all. They sang battle songs and vulgar ditties in between looting and killing people, but they couldn't seem to get into the spirit of the occasion. Until they found the girl hiding in the ruins of a mostly overlooked house. The brickwork was blackened and scorched, and the windows were all smashed, but otherwise it had held together. Just the place for a frightened refugee to hide. Which was why Kast and Morgan had checked it out in the first place. The girl looked to be in her mid-teens, terrorized and trembling, all wide eyes and pleading mouth. Her clothes were torn and blackened by soot, and she looked about as appetizing as a half-burnt steak, but Kast and Morgan weren't picky. They pushed the only door shut behind them and grinned at each other.

"Now this is what we've been missing," said Kast. "An invasion never really feels like an invasion till you've dipped your wick."

"Who goes first?" said the more practical Morgan. "And no, I'm not tossing for it this time."

So they played scissors cuts paper till Kast won. He started undoing his trouser belt. The girl made a break for it. Morgan caught her easily, pulling her back. She went for his eyes, hands like claws, and he spun her round and pinned her arms to her sides. She still kicked and struggled, so he bear-hugged her hard, driving the breath out of her, and dropped her at Kast's feet. He crouched before her, smiling easily, and she spit in his face. He backhanded her almost casually, and the strength of the blow threw her backwards. She fetched up against the far wall, breathing hard, her eyes darting from Kast to Morgan and back again. Blood and snot dribbled from her nose. Kast grinned at her.

"Struggle all you like, my dear. I enjoy a good struggle. If you're good, really good, you'll get a special prize at the end. We'll let you live."

And then both marines froze as a voice called their names outside in the street. They waited, hoping it would go away, but the voice came again, even louder. The girl tensed to scream, and Morgan hit her in the mouth.

"Damn," said Kast. "All the people they could have sent looking for us, and it had to be Sergeant Franke. He won't let you get away with anything. Thinks he's officer material, the fool."

Morgan shrugged, stepped forward, and cut the girl's throat with an economical sweep of his sword. She slumped back against the wall, clawing at her opened throat with her fingers. Blood gushed over her hands, and she fell back, her hands dropping to her sides as the breath went out of her. Kast swore feelingly, and did up his trouser belt again.

"Never mind," said Morgan. "There'll be other chances. Franke can't be everywhere."

The two marines grinned at each other and went back into the street whistling jauntily. All in all, the invasion was going well.

In Tech Quarter, the starport had been thoroughly trashed. For a time its massed disrupter cannon, harvested from the crashed starcruiser Darkwind, had been enough to keep the gravity barges at bay. Up close, the cannon didn't need its crashed computers for targeting. But the barges soon learned the limits of the cannon's range, and stayed well back while they contacted their ship for reinforcements. The Defiant sent down six heavily shielded pinnaces to do the job. They came roaring down out of the night, too fast to track, and blew the cannon apart in an explosion that could be heard all across Mistport. With the starport defenseless, the pinnaces swept back and forth in strafing runs, taking out the ships on the landing pads like so many sitting ducks. And while they were doing that, the barges closed in on the control tower.

The rebel ships on the pads exploded one after the other in sudden bursts of smoke and fire. Strange lights radiated briefly and were gone as stardrives collapsed and released their energies. The landing pads would be wildly radioactive now until the Empire could bring in heavy-duty scrubbers. Only the Deathstalker's ship, Sunstrider II, survived, protected by superior Hadenman shields. The pinnaces marked it down for later attention, and moved on. They had more than enough other targets to keep them busy.

The control tower lasted the longest, with its reinforced structure and steelglass windows, but even that fell in the end, riddled by disrupter fire from the hovering gravity barges. The steelglass blew inward, transformed into deadly shrapnel that cut down everyone left inside the tower. Some still survived, so the barges set the tower on fire, and left it to burn. Their job done, the pinnaces and the barges moved unhurriedly away in search of other targets. People lay dead everywhere across the pads. Ground crews preparing ships for desperate takeoffs, and crowds of people who'd been convinced they'd be safest at the well-defended starport, or who had paid massive bribes to be smuggled offplanet. When the Empire ships came they were caught out in the open with nowhere to hide and nowhere to run, and they died screaming for help that never came. Wrecked ships burned on the cracked pads, and what was left of the control tower burned like a giant candle, its shattered walls running like wax in the great heat. The starport had fallen.

Young Jack Random led Owen and Hazel and Silver and his adoring followers back into the city, in search of people to help. The troops forced back from the southwest boundary had departed in search of easier ways into the city. No one doubted they'd find them. Random soon found a street barricade in danger of falling to an Empire attack, and moved in quickly to support it. The improvised barricade had been formed from furniture and other suitably heavy objects, dragged out into the street from the surrounding houses and stacked one by one on top of the other and lashed together till the resulting wall stood nearly a dozen feet high. Smaller furniture had been broken up to form jagged wooden spikes, projecting from the barricade to discourage the other side from getting too close.

Iron nails had been twisted together into caltrops, the points dipped in dung, and then thrown out into the street for the troopers to step on. Random's small army lined themselves up behind the barricade, shooting crossbow bolts and bullets through the gaps in the wall to pick off any trooper who so much as aimed a disrupter at the barricade. It quickly became clear to both sides that only hand-to-hand fighting was going to decide the fate of this stumbling block. And since the barricade blocked the last main route into the city center, its control was vital to both sides.

And so the Imperial troops came charging down the street, sheltering behind massed force shields, firing their disrupters blindly as they ran. The energy bolts punched wide holes through the barricade, incinerating those fighters unfortunate enough to be in the way, but as many shots missed as hit, and the barricade still stood. The rebels fired at the troopers' legs, unguarded beneath the force shields, and whole sections of the advancing force came crashing to the ground as they fell over one another, but still the charge came on. Until finally the two sides met at the barricade, and it was left to courage and desperation and naked steel to win the day.

Owen and Hazel fought side by side, still linked, feeling stronger and sharper than ever. They didn't need Blood or the boost anymore. Something new was working in them now, granting them strength and speed beyond anything they'd ever known before. John Silver had taken the last of his Blood long ago, and now only guts and duty were keeping him on his feet. He'd got over his fear of Owen and Hazel. Whatever they had become, they were clearly the best bet for defeating the invading troops, and so Silver had taken on the job of guarding their backs. It seemed even gods needed someone to watch their blind spots. Interestingly enough, Silver couldn't bring himself to give a damn about Jack Random. There was something about the man that made Silver's hackles stand on end, though he couldn't have told you what. Perhaps it was just that the man was too damned perfect. Certainly he seemed almost like a god, too, standing atop the barricade, swinging his great sword with both hands, defying the Empire to bring him down.

The struggle continued, fighting breaking out before and upon and behind the barricade. Owen and Hazel cut down every man who came against them, roaring their defiance, and dodging disrupter beams, which was supposed to be impossible. Owen's battle cry of Shandrakor! rose above the din again and again, and was taken up by many of the rebels, almost as many as those who fought with Jack Random's name on their lips. They pushed the Imperial troops back and back until finally the rebels came spilling up and over the barricade to drive the troopers back down the street.

Hand-to-hand fighting filled the street, the mass of fighters surging this way and that, trampling the dead and the wounded underfoot. The troops roared their battle songs and stood their ground, urged on by armed officers at their back and the battle drugs sweeping through their veins. Buildings burned and smoldered to either side of the fighting, but children and those too old or too weak to fight had taken to the roofs, and rained stones and slates and boiling water down onto the enemy below. They aimed carefully, and many a trooper was suddenly taken out of the fighting by an unexpected present from above.

Toby Shreck and Flynn were right there in the thick of things, getting it all on film. They were currently keeping their heads well down in a nearby doorway while Flynn's camera soared above the mayhem, picking out the best shots. Toby's commentary was becoming increasingly breathless, but he kept going, knowing that if he could only smuggle this past the censors, the news agencies would be making up whole new awards just to give to him. This was the good stuff. Ffolkes had been becoming increasingly stuffy about what they could and couldn't shoot, so Toby and Flynn ditched him by the simple expedient of shouting Look over there! and then running off in two different directions. By the time Ffolkes had made up his mind which of them to chase or shoot at, it was already too late.

Toby and Flynn had got together again easily enough after that, and went in search of the main action. It didn't taken them long to find some. And ever since then they'd been running and dodging and keeping their heads well down from one trouble spot to another, while Flynn's camera got it all on film. Troops and rebels alike both ignored Toby and Flynn as obvious noncombatants, but flying bullets and disrupter beams and crumbling buildings made no such distinction. Toby would have liked to cheer on the rebels, outnumbered and outgunned but still refusing to be beaten, but he couldn't, not if he ever wanted the film he was risking his life to get to be shown in the Empire. So he kept his commentary carefully neutral and let the pictures speak for themselves.

The young burglar known as Cat was up on the roofs, too, doing his bit. He'd delivered all of Cyder's messages, and strictly speaking should have been on his way back to the Blackthorn, but he couldn't resist getting involved. He'd never thought of himself as a violent man, but the merciless destruction of his city had raised in him an anger that couldn't be denied. And so he pelted the troops below with slates and tiles and anything else he could get his hands on, in between grabbing people who nearly threw themselves off the edge of the roof in their enthusiasm. They weren't as used to roofs as Cat.

He was overseeing the dismantling of a chimney stack to provide bricks for throwing when he happened to look down the far end of the street. Thick black smoke drifted this way and that from the burning buildings, blown by rising hot air and the disturbances of passing gravity barges, but it parted now to show Cat half a dozen troopers manhandling a portable disrupter cannon into position at the far end of the street. The plan was clear enough. Once the cannon was ready, all they had to do was call back their own troops and open fire. The cannon would blow away the barricade and everyone near it with one blast. The defenders wouldn't stand a chance.

Cat was off and running across the steeply slanted roofs the moment he realized what was happening. As a deaf mute he couldn't shout a warning to the defenders below, and by the time he'd made the people on the roof understand him, it would be too late. Which meant it was all up to him. He moved silently into position over the troops as they finished assembling the portable cannon, and brought its computers on line. They were almost ready to fire, and Cat didn't have a single idea how to stop them. Throwing things would only distract them, and if they had hand disrupters, they'd soon blast him off the roof. If he jumped them, the element of surprise might let him take out one or two of the troopers, but the rest would be sure to get him.

Cat looked frantically round the roof for inspiration, and his eyes lit on a crooked chimney stack, not far from the edge of the roof. A passing energy beam had neatly clipped away one corner, so that it was leaning toward the street. It looked like one good push would send it over. Cat checked the position of the cannon and its crew again. Right under the chimney stack. Perfect. Cat grinned, and put his shoulder to the brick chimney. He pushed with all his strength, and it didn't budge an inch. He tried again, slamming his shoulder against the brickwork, his feet sliding on the slippery slates as he tried to dig them in. Thick black smoke suddenly swirled around him as the wind changed direction. Cat sank to his knees, coughing harshly, fighting for breath. There were hot cinders in the smoke, too, and he pulled up his suit's hood to keep them out of his hair. Down below, the cannon had to be almost ready by now.

Raging silently, Cat put his back against the chimney stack, braced his boots against the most secure tiles, and strained with all his strength. The brickwork shifted reluctantly beneath him. His face twisted into a pained grimace as he pushed with everything he had in his back and legs. The pain grew, and still the bricks wouldn't give. Cat strained desperately, his heart thumping madly in his chest, sweat running down his face, and the chimney stack broke away from the roof. It happened as quickly as that. One moment nothing, and then there was a sharp crack of rending bricks and mortar, and the whole damned stack went over the side of the roof, taking Cat with it.

He twisted automatically as he fell, already grabbing for handholds. He had a brief glimpse of shocked upturned faces from the disrupter gun crew, and then they disappeared as the great mass of brickwork slammed down on them like a hammer. Cat's flailing hand caught a wooden shutter as he fell past it, and he took a firm hold. For a moment his whole weight was hanging by that one hand, but then the momentum of his fall swung him around and it was the easiest thing in the world to fly through the open window and into the room beyond. He hit the floor rolling, and finally crashed up against the far wall, where he stayed for a while, till he got his breath back. As his heart finally slowed back to something that could pass for normal. Cat decided it was very definitely time he was getting back to the Blackthorn, and safety. He didn't want Cyder getting worried about him.

Out in the streets of Mistport, old hatreds and divisions were forgotten as the rebels came together to fight a common enemy. Old and bitter foes fought side by side, and sworn enemies guarded each other's backs. It seemed everyone who could walk and wield a weapon was out in the streets now, fighting to defend a city whose importance they hadn't realized till it looked to be taken from them. Even Owen's foes from the old Deathstalker network had turned out to do their bit. They were businessmen, not warriors, but they hadn't got where they were without guts and determination. And perhaps, deep inside, they remembered the idealistic young men they had once been, and old beliefs and convictions stirred in them again.

Neeson the banker and Robbins the landlord fought side by side, swords flashing as old skills came back to them. Stacey the lawyer had an elegant rapier, and Connelly and McGowan of the docks cut a bloody path through the enemy with an ax in each hand. They all fought bravely and well, and were surprisingly effective for middle-aged men who'd grown soft in comfortable positions.

"Damn, this feels good," Neeson said to Robbins during a lull in the fighting. "Takes me back to our young days, when we were going to change the world and overthrow the Empire. And all before lunch."

Robbins laughed. "Happy days. Simpler days, anyway. I was getting bored with being a businessman anyway."

The Blackthorn Inn was a blazing wreck, its upper floor an inferno, its roof gone, swept away by the fire and smoke belching up into the night sky. Three gravity barges hovered overhead, disrupter beams hammering down. Flames licked along the outer walls, and great cracks appeared in the brickwork. Inside, there was smoke and chaos and panic. Jenny Psycho stood in the center of the room, arms outstretched like a crucifix, her mental energies the only thing holding off the deadly disrupter beams. Blood trickled steadily from her nose and ears and mouth. Under the blood her face was deathly pale and her wild eyes were fixed on something far away. She was dying, and everyone knew it. She was the only thing protecting the Blackthorn, and it was killing her inch by inch.

Donald Royal had organized people into groups with buckets of water and blankets, ready to stamp out any fires that started in the barroom. The old man had been revitalized by the emergency, and was bustling around like a man half his age. Councillor McVey had gathered Chance's children into a small group, away from the walls. Madelaine Skye, Royal's partner, stood in the doorway with a disrupter in her hand. Empire troops had already blown the door off its hinges, and tried throwing grenades through the gap. Skye had seen the first one, thrown it straight back out, and taken up her position by the door to discourage anyone else with the same idea. Outside, on the other side of the street, a large group of Imperial marines were patiently watching the doorway, ready to deal with anyone who came out of it. No one was interested in taking any prisoners from the Blackthorn.

Behind the bar, Cyder was getting very drunk. Her tavern was a wreck, she was trapped in a burning building, and Cat was nowhere to be seen. She hoped he was somewhere safe, but doubted it. He should have been back long ago. Probably got involved in the fighting. She'd told him and told him, never get involved… She poured herself another drink.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" said Donald Royal.

"Hell no," said Cyder. "I can still think."

"If we end up having to make a run for it, you'll be no use drunk."

"Make a run for it? Where would we go? The inn's surrounded by men with guns. The moment we leave this place we're dead. Of course, if we stay, we're dead, too. If the flames don't get us, the smoke will. Or that Psycho woman will finally fall apart and the gravity barges will blow the whole place into kindling. Have I missed anything?"

"There's always the chance something will happen," said Royal. "Some lucky break, or opportunity. We have to be ready to grab it."

Cyder shook her head. "It's too late, Donald. We're not going anywhere." She broke off, and frowned. "Can you hear someone singing?"

And that was when one wall of the tavern suddenly collapsed. The bricks just fell apart, revealing the outside street and a hell of a lot of dead troopers. Flames swept toward the gap, but were somehow thwarted and held back by some unseen force. And there, right outside, singing, were Investigator Topaz and the woman who used to be known as Typhoid Mary. The two most powerful Sirens in the Empire, or out of it.

"Told you so," said Donald to Cyder, grinning. "All right, people; we are leaving! Grab anything you absolutely have to have, and head for the hole in the wall. Madelaine, help me with Jenny Psycho. Cyder, put that bottle down and run or I'll kick your ass up around your ears."

There were flames everywhere now. The air itself was hot enough to burn. Sudden stabs of energy smashed down through the ceiling as Jenny's shield splintered. Donald grabbed her by the arm and hustled her toward the hole in the wall. Blood was spilling thickly down her face now, and spraying from her mouth in time to her agonized breathing. Her skin was an unhealthy blue-white, and her hand in Royal's was cold and clammy. She looked like death warmed up and allowed to congeal, but somehow she was still maintaining her psionic shield, protecting the rebels as they fled from the burning inn. Her legs were stiff and unsteady, and Donald kept her moving by brute force, for she was beyond cooperating with him or anyone else now, even to save her own life. Her whole world had shrunk down to the simple need to maintain her shield, even though it was killing her. Donald got her to the hole in the wall, and all but threw her out into the cold night beyond. He clambered out after her, his chest heaving as he tried to cough up the smoke that had got into his lungs. He felt old and tired and his head was swimming, but he wouldn't let himself fall. Not yet.

McVey helped Chance get his charges on their feet again, and between them they herded the half-mad children over to the hole in the wall and out into the street beyond. Chance kept counting them over and over, to make sure he hadn't left any behind. All the children were screaming or crying or just shuddering helplessly. Legion's never-ending howl rasping through their minds like burning barbed wire. McVey stayed by the hole, counting heads as the last of the rebel HQ's people filed past him. He came up one short. He forced himself as close to the hole as he could, and stared through the flames into the blazing barroom. The dwarf Iain Castle was still sitting beside Lois Barren's body, crushed under the fallen timber. He was holding her dead hand in his, and rocking slowly back and forth. McVey yelled his name, and Castle looked around almost absently.

"Iain, get out of there! Leave her! There's nothing you can do!" McVey had to yell himself hoarse to make himself heard above the roar of the flames and the thundering engines of the gravity barges hovering overhead.

"I won't leave her!" Castle shouted back. "I won't leave her here!"

"She's already gone! And if you don't get out of there now, you'll be going with her!" McVey made himself stay by the hole, though the sheer heat was raising blisters on his unprotected hands and face. "Iain, please! I don't want to lose you, too!"

Castle nodded slowly, got to his feet, and stumbled across the smoke-filled room to the hole in the wall. He plowed straight through the fiery sides as though he didn't notice them, and lurched out into the street with flames rising from his clothes. McVey whipped off his cloak and wrapped Castle up in it, smothering the flames. Beside him, Jenny Psycho sat down suddenly, as though all the strength had just gone out of her. Her mouth was slack, and her eyes saw nothing. Not far away, Typhoid Mary and Investigator Topaz were still singing together, their voices and esp combining to create a shield over and around the rebels. Their voices rose and fell in studied harmonies, and a psistorm of energies crackled through the streets at their command, keeping the Empire forces at bay.

Donald Royal looked around suddenly, as he realized his partner hadn't come out with him. People were milling back and forth all around him, but there was no sign anywhere of Madelaine Skye. He pushed his way through the crowd and grabbed McVey by the arm. "Where's Madelaine? Didn't she come out with you?"

"I didn't see her! I had my own problems!" McVey pulled his arm away, and Donald was left staring at the burning Blackthorn Inn. He moved toward the hole in the wall, screwing up his face against the blazing heat. The barroom was now a sea of flames, and thick black smoke boiled out of the hole. Donald's heart contracted painfully as he realized she must still be in there. Probably lost and disoriented in the smoke. He called her name again and again, but there was no answer. Donald's mouth firmed. He knew what he had to do. He pulled his cloak up to protect his face, and moved toward the hole in the wall.

But he stopped after only a few steps. The heat was just too much for him. He tried again and again, drawing on all his courage and resolution to force him past the flames, but his old body cringed back from the awful heat despite him, and would not go forward. Flames licked up around his cloak as the material caught fire, and sudden hands pulled him back, slapping at his shoulders to put out the flames. Donald fought the hands savagely.

"Let me go, dammit! Madelaine's still in there!"

"If she is, then she'd dead," said Gideon Steel, holding him firmly.

Donald stopped struggling. "If she's dead, then I want to die, too. She was my daughter, in every way that mattered. She's all I had left."

"You can't die here," said Steel. "You're needed. You're a Councillor, an old and respected warrior whose name will still rally people. Don't you dare give up on me now. You've been telling us all what a hero you used to be for years. Now prove it, dammit! Prove it in a way that matters. You can't get back in there. No one could."

"I could have, once," said Donald Royal. "When I was a hero. When I was young."

And then one of the windows shattered as a body came hurtling through it, in a blazing mass of flames. It hit the cobbled street rolling, and stood up, throwing aside a blazing cloak. Madelaine Skye beat at her smoldering clothes with her hands, blackened and scorched but still very much alive. Donald lurched forward to take her in his arms, and she held him tightly to her.

"I got turned around in the fire and the smoke," she said breathlessly. "Didn't know where the hell I was, let alone the hole. Then I heard you calling me. You got me out, Donald. I owe you one."

"No you don't," said Donald. "You're family."

Cyder stood off by herself, a bottle of the good brandy still in her hand, and watched the Blackthorn burn. It had been her home and her safe haven and the repository of her dreams, but her face remained calm and cold. Her eyes were dry and her mouth was firm. Cyder didn't believe in being beaten.

"My lovely tavern," she said, finally. "You were going to make me rich, rich, rich."

Jenny Psycho collapsed. Her strength had finally run out. Determination and willpower could carry her no farther, and her mind shut down. The psionic shield disappeared, and the disrupter beams from the hovering gravity barges slammed down into the tavern like God driving nails. The building burst apart, the ceiling crashing down as the walls collapsed, and the flames roared up in triumph. Mary and Topaz's song protected the small crowd from the fire and the flying debris. In seconds there was nothing left of the Blackthorn but a blackened frame in an inferno of flames. Steel knelt down beside Jenny, checked for a pulse, and raised an eyebrow.

"Amazing. She's still with us. Chance, get her out of here. Take her and your children to the esper union hall. They'll look after you. And they'll save Jenny Psycho if anyone can. Crazy woman. Bravest damned thing I ever saw." He got to his feet and raised his voice above the din. "All right, everybody scatter! You all know the secondary meeting place; be there in an hour. No excuses. Now move it!"

And so they all went their separate ways, helping those who needed it, carrying a few where necessary. They went in twos and threes, following the routes the Council had worked out earlier, just in case. They disappeared into the dark maze of narrow streets and alleyways, confident no Empire forces could follow them and not be hopelessly lost in moments. There was no talk of surrender. They were not broken, not beaten. And they had always known this was a fight to the death.

Soon they were all gone, apart from Typhoid Mary and Investigator Topaz. Their song still crackled around them, drowning out Legion's howl, keeping the troops at bay and covering their friends' escape. They were the two most powerful Sirens the Empire had ever produced, and they would not yield. And then suddenly, the pressure eased. The gravity barges moved on, their work done, and the troops fell back. Topaz and Mary stopped singing, conserving their strength. The world around them was still a chaos of flames and screams and battle cries, the thunder of gravity engines and the roar of collapsing buildings, but their particular part of the world seemed strangely still and quiet. As though some new force had entered the scene. Topaz and Mary looked at each other. Behind them, someone applauded slowly. They both looked round sharply, to find a tall dark man in an Investigator's cloak studying them calmly from the other side of the street. Topaz frowned. She should have heard him approach, even in all this noise and chaos. She should have known he was there. His sword and gun were still sheathed on his hips, but in one hand he held a length of steel chain, on the other end of which crouched a cowering naked man. He was painfully thin and smeared with filth, and his bare skin clearly showed the scars and marks of many beatings. The left side of his skull had been surgically cut away, to reveal the brain beneath, protected only by a clear piece of steelglass. Various plugs and jacks studded the brain tissues, and silver wires gleamed in the grey meat.

"Handsome fellow, isn't he?" said the dark man. "He belongs to me. Investigator Razor, at your service. I've been sent to bring you back into the fold of Empire. Teach you to sing the right songs again. Spare me your protestations, please. They don't matter. You have no say in things anymore. This unpleasant wretch at my side has no name anymore, only a function. He's a living esp-blocker. One of the Lord High Dram's special projects, I believe. Being alive, and capable of following orders, he's much more powerful and versatile than the usual brain in a box esp-blocker. He's strong enough to function even under Legion's influence, and subtle enough that you didn't even notice our approach. I'm afraid you'll find your songs have quite deserted you now, ladies. So put aside your petty complaints and come with me. Your life in this place is over. You belong to the Empire again."

Topaz drew her sword. "I'd rather die."

Razor drew his sword. "That can be arranged. I get a bonus if I bring you both back alive, but money's never been that important to me. They'll settle for one live Siren and one dead traitor, if need be. And I always wanted to know which of us is better." He dropped the length of chain he was holding, but the living esp-blocker stayed where he was. He would not move without orders.

Typhoid Mary backed away from the Investigator, shaking her head.

"I can't help you, Topaz. I'm sorry. I won't kill again. Not for any reason."

"That's all right," said Topaz, advancing on Razor. "Just keep well back. You don't want to get any of his blood on you."

And then Topaz and Razor surged forward and slammed together, sparks flying in the mists and smoke as their swords clashed. They stamped and lunged, swinging their swords with almost inhuman strength and speed, two Investigators trained to the peak of perfection. They circled around each other, hammering home blows that would have swept away a lesser fighter's defenses, probing for each other's weaknesses. They were strong and fast and quite magnificent, and neither of them would yield an inch.

But in the end Razor was much the older of the two, and he was not fueled by the raw hatred and need for revenge that burned so fiercely in Topaz's veins. Slowly, remorselessly, foot by foot she drove him back, forcing him on the defensive, and Razor knew that he was very near to death. His pride kept him in the fight longer than he should have, but the pain and blood of his first few wounds brought him to his senses again. He forced the last of his energy into a flurry of blows that turned Topaz around till her back was to Mary, and then he raised his voice in a commanding shout.

"Mary! Code Delta Three! Kill Topaz!"

Mary swayed sickly as the preprogrammed control words hit her. The esper union had done their best to remove all traces of the Empire's conditioning, but some things had been buried so deeply that only another mind tech could have found them. Mary screamed as the mind techs' programming took hold again, sweeping aside her mind and wishes in favor of the old conditioned Typhoid Mary. Her face went slack, and someone else peered out of her eyes. And even as Topaz realized what was happening. Typhoid Mary stepped forward and hit her across the back of the neck with trained, professional force. Topaz fell to her knees, her thoughts darkening, her sword slipping from nerveless fingers. Mary leaned over and hit her again, and Topaz fell forward to lie still in the churned-up snow.

Razor stood for a moment, getting his breathing back under control, and then he put away his sword and leaned over Topaz. He checked the pulse in her neck, and frowned. He looked up at Mary.

"She's still alive. I told you to kill her."

"I can't," said Mary. "Not anymore."

"Obey me," said Razor, straightening up to glare at her. "Kill Investigator Topaz." Mary trembled violently, but made no move toward Topaz. Two absolutes warred in her mind, neither side giving in. Razor sighed, and shook his head. "Don't worry, Mary. They'll break you again. And then you'll kill anyone we want you to, and smile while you do it. As for Topaz, we'll just say the bitch died in the fight."

He put his hand to his sword, and that was when the steel ball from Cat's slingshot hit him right between the eyes. Razor's head snapped back, his eyes rolling up, and he fell backwards to lie twitching in the snow. Cat dropped silently down out of the darkness and hurried over to Topaz's side. He shook her shoulder urgently, but she didn't respond. Cat scowled unhappily. It was obvious she needed more help than he could give her. Someone tugged at his sleeve, and Cat spun round to find the naked man crouching at his side.

"Please," said the living esp-blocker. "Please. Kill me. Don't let me live like this."

Cat drew his knife and thrust it into the man's heart. The naked man jerked, and tried to smile at Cat. Blood welled from his mouth. Cat pulled the knife free, and the esp-blocker fell forward into the snow and lay still. Cat wiped his knife clean on his trouser leg and put it away. It was getting easier and easier for him to kill. He didn't think he liked that—what this war was doing to him. He pushed the thought aside for another time, and concentrated on the business at hand. Razor was already stirring. Cat thought about killing him, too, but decided against getting that close to Razor. The man was an Investigator, after all. He looked from Topaz to Mary and back again. He couldn't save both of them. And whilst Topaz wasn't exactly his friend, he trusted her a damned sight more than Typhoid Mary. She'd tried to kill him once, when she first came to Mistport, and with her conditioning reawakened, there was no telling what she might do. And so with only the smallest of regrets. Cat turned his back on Mary, hoisted Topaz over his shoulder, and disappeared back into the concealing shadows.

Razor slowly sat up, wincing at the vicious pain between his eyes. He put a hand to his aching head and forced himself to his feet again. He must be getting old. His instincts should have warned him there was someone else there. He almost stumbled over the dead esp-blocker, and cursed briefly when he discovered what it was. The Lord High Dram was not going to be pleased at losing his new prototype on its first assignment. And Topaz was gone. Razor shrugged. He still had Mary. He heard the sound of approaching men, and looked down the street to see a troop of marines emerging from the mists, headed his way. They'd do to escort him back to the Defiant. And then the ship's mind techs would open Mary's mind up and scour it clean of anything they needed to know. Mary had been closeted with the city Council in the Blackthorn Inn, and no doubt knew many useful things. Including where the scattered Council would reconvene. He took her by the arm and hustled her away. She went with him unresistingly, and if something trapped and horrified moved behind her staring eyes, no one saw it.

Owen Deathstalker, Hazel d'Ark, and Young Jack Random fought on against impossible and overwhelming odds, and Owen for one was getting pretty damned tired of it. Tired of fighting with no end in sight, of enemies who fell only to be replaced by new enemies, tired of the never-ending ache in his back and sword arm, and of the stench of freshly spilled blood and exposed guts as some other poor fool fell screaming before him. He'd fought in so many battles in so many places, taking hurts that would have killed any other man, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, and all so he could go and do it again somewhere else.

He'd never wanted any of this. To be a hero and a leader and the hope of Humanity. He was a scholar, not a warrior. But still he went where he was needed and threw himself into the bloody heart of battle again and again, because there was no one else. He was a Deathstalker, and he would not turn his face away from the evil of Empire and the suffering of innocents. He'd fight overpowering odds and triumph yet again at the last possible moment… or maybe this time he wouldn't. Either way, he was getting so damned tired of it all.

He stood back-to-back with Hazel, cutting down all who came against him, fighting at the peak of his Maze-born abilities, fast and strong and deadly beyond all human hesitations, and began to wonder if this time that would be enough. The Empire forces seemed limitless. Random and the rest of the small rebel force had been swept away in the tide of fighting, leaving Owen and Hazel to fight alone, as they had so many times before. And powerful as they were, they were only two, and the Empire had an army. Marines came charging through the streets from all directions, endless waves of fighting men driven on by orders and duty and officers who'd shoot them if they turned away. They threw themselves at Owen and Hazel like the sea crashing against some stubborn rock on the seashore, and bit by bit they wore the rock down.

Owen and Hazel were burning themselves out, their own inhuman energies devouring them from within. They were too strong, too fast, and they demanded too much of their merely human bodies. Every muscle ached, every nerve screamed, and their lungs burned with the need for more and more air. Human bodies were never meant to take this kind of strain, this much punishment. The changes the Maze had worked in them held them together, healing their wounds and keeping them on their feet and fighting long after they should have fallen to superior odds, but the strain of it was killing them bit by bit, and they both knew it. They weren't stupid. They would have turned and run, if there'd been any avenue of escape, or anywhere to run to. But the marines were all around them, and nowhere in Mistport was safe anymore. And so they fought on, beyond rage or anger now, reduced to the cold, necessary work of slaughter and survival. Dead bodies piled up around them, penning them in. Owen thought wistfully of the power he'd used against his father's old network, cleaning out their house by sheer force of will, but he couldn't feel that power within him anymore. He'd used it all up and more, in the endless fighting.

Even as armed men surged forward, clambering over the bodies of the fallen for a chance at the Deathstalker and his companion. Major Chevron arrived with still more troops. The last defenders of the north side had fallen before him, and he was sweeping toward the center of Mistport and certain victory, when his forces suddenly slowed to a halt, unable to force a way through the bottleneck caused by Owen and Hazel's defiant stand. Chevron could have pulled his people back and sent them down other streets, but he couldn't, wouldn't do that once he saw who the problem was. Everyone had heard of the Deathstalker by now. Great rewards and greater privileges waited for the man who brought him down. Chevron urged his men on and waited patiently for his hounds to pull down the stags at bay. When Owen and his bitch went down, he would then step forward and deliver the coup de grace himself, and that would be that. He would walk through the burning streets of Mistport in triumph, with the Deathstalker's head held high on a pike, and there would be no doubt in all eyes who was the real hero of the taking of Mistport.

The sheer numbers forced Owen and Hazel back, step by step, until they had been contained in a back square with only the one exit, carefully blocked off by the advancing marines. High stone walls overshadowed them on every side, and all that was left to Owen and Hazel was to stand and die. The marines pressed forward, drunk on blood and death and stoned to the eyeballs on designer battle drugs, not caring about the dead comrades they had to step over to get at their enemies. Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d'Ark fought side by side with failing strength, not feeling the wounds that soaked their clothes in blood. Chevron watched from the rear, scowling impatiently, and then signaled for Kast and Morgan to bring forward the portable disrupter cannon. It would be messier this way, but more certain.

The two marines pulled the cannon quickly into position, pointed it into the back square, and set about the warm-up sequences. Kast and Morgan had been picked up by Chevron's troops as they swept inward from the north, and had volunteered to carry the portable cannon. Partly because it meant less actual work for them, and partly because they felt a great deal safer with a disrupter cannon between them and the rest of the rebel city. The taking of the city had been supposed to be a walkover, but apparently the rebels hadn't read the script, and didn't know they were beaten. So Kast and Morgan kept their heads down and labored over the cannon, got it primed and ready, and looked inquiringly at Chevron. He yelled for his people to fall back and give the cannon a clear shot, but they didn't hear him, out of their heads on drugs and the scent of victory. Chevron called again, his voice almost shrill with anger as his men ignored him, and then he turned to Kast and Morgan and nodded sharply. They looked at their fellow marines before them, and then at each other. Morgan shrugged, and Kast hit the firing stud.

The wide energy beam roared from the disrupter cannon, disintegrating everything directly before it. The marines were swept away like burning leaves in a gale. Owen and Hazel just had time to sense what was coming, and then the howling energy hit them. They brought up their psionic shields at the last moment, but there was no time, and the shields only slowed the deadly energy. It picked Hazel up and smashed her though the rear stone wall like a bullet from a gun. Owen threw himself to one side, and the energy beam just clipped him in passing. It slammed him against the left-hand wall with enough strength to crack the stonework from top to bottom. The beam snapped off, and he dropped almost senseless to the ground.

Owen lay there for what seemed like ages. His whole left side was numb. He rolled slowly onto one side and tried to get his feet under him. His head hurt, and there was blood in his mouth. The world seemed very quiet around him, the sounds of battle far away, as though everything was hesitating, to see what would happen next. He rose to one knee, swayed sickly, and then forced himself to his feet by leaning against the cracked stone wall. Parts of dead marines, torn and burnt and fused together, lay scattered across the square, marking the edges of the beam. Some marines and an officer stood behind the disrupter cannon facing him, which hummed loudly as it powered up for another shot. They seemed to be looking at something behind him. Owen turned slowly to look. He saw the hole in the wall where Hazel had been standing and knew at once what it meant. He tilted back his head, and something that was partly a scream and partly a howl of rage echoed back from the walls of the square.

A camera hovered high above him, getting it all. Toby Shreck and Flynn had been swept along with Chevron's force, and since they were heading for the center of the city and certain victory, the two newsmen had stuck with them. Unfortunately, Chevron had proved as insufferable as their official minder, Lieutenant Ffolkes. But as long as they were getting good footage of Imperial victories, he was content to let them get on with their job. Like covering the final bringing to heel and execution of that most notable traitor and outlaw, Owen Deathstalker.

Toby couldn't believe his luck. One of the great turning points of history, and he was right there on the spot. He'd recognized the Deathstalker the moment he set eyes on him. He'd become the face of the rebellion for many people in the Empire, almost as famous as the legendary professional rebel. Jack Random. He looked… different in person. Not as tall or as big as expected, but still there was something about him—an air, a feeling of greatness. Somehow you just knew you were looking at a man touched by destiny. And now here he was, brought low at last, even if the Empire did have to use a whole army to do it. The last echoes of his despairing cry were dying away, a terrible, awful sound that had raised the hairs on the back of Toby's neck. It was the cry of some great beast, the last of its kind, driven and harried till it had nowhere else to run. It was also a savage promise of blood and devastation, the cry of a man with nothing left to lose. He lowered his head to stare steadily at the forces arrayed against him, and Toby's blood ran cold. The Deathstalker, one man soaked in his own blood, was suddenly the most dangerous and frightening thing he'd ever seen. It was like standing in the path of an oncoming hurricane, a great force of nature, grim and implacable. It was like looking into the eyes of a god, or a devil. Toby swallowed hard, but didn't budge. He was here to see a legend go down. Flynn stirred uncertainly at his side.

"What is it?" said Toby, not looking away from the scene before him. "Don't tell me we're not getting this."

"We're getting something," said Flynn quietly. "There's some kind of energy source present, interfering with my camera's systems. Damned if I know what it is. I've never seen anything like it before. But it appears to be centered around the Deathstalker."

"Stuff your energy surges. Is the picture coming though clearly?"

"Well yes, but…"

"Then switch to live broadcast. The whole Empire's going to want to see this. Damn, we've hit it lucky. They'll be showing this footage for years."

"I've got him," said Flynn. "The poor bastard."

Trapped in a filthy back alley, surrounded by the dead and the dying, and facing an army of Imperial marines and a disrupter cannon, Owen Deathstalker looked unhurriedly about him. There was no way out, but he already knew that. It seemed Chance's espers had been right after all. They'd predicted he would die alone, in Mistport, far from friends and succor, with everything he believed in lost and destroyed. He just hadn't thought it would be so soon. Or that it would mean Hazel's death, too. He never had got round to telling her he loved her, and now he never would. He studied the men before him and hefted his sword. Blood dripped thickly from the blade. He had no intention of waiting for the cannon to finish recharging. One last act of defiance, one last swing of the sword, and at least he'd go out fighting, as a Deathstalker should. A few last seconds to get his breath, and savor the many strange ways his life had taken. It felt so good to be alive. But Hazel was dead, his cause was lost, and all that remained was to die well, and take as many of the bastards with him as he could. He smiled slowly at his enemies, a nasty, humorless, death's-head grin, and his sword seemed very light in his hand.

And that was when he heard something moving behind him. He spun around, sword lifting, furious that they wouldn't at least do him the courtesy of facing him as they killed him, and then his jaw dropped as he saw Hazel d'Ark pull herself painfully through the hole in the rear wall. Her face was deathly white, and she was awash in her own blood, but her sword was still in her hand, and she had enough spark left in her to grin mockingly at Owen.

"What's the matter, Deathstalker? You should know by now—I don't die that easily."

She sat down with her back against the wall, trembling violently. Owen crouched beside her and took her hand in his. It was deathly cold. Blood had run thickly from her nose and mouth, and was still dripping from her chin. He could feel her presence in his mind, but it was dim and fading, like a guttering candle in a darkened room. Hazel leaned her head back against the wall, her eyes dropping half-shut, like a runner after a long race.

"Hold my hand, Owen. I'm afraid of the dark."

"I am holding it."

"Then hold it up where I can see it. I can't feel it."

Owen lifted their joined hands up before her face, and she smiled crookedly. "Never say die, Owen. There's always a way out, if you look for it hard enough."

Owen smiled at her, pressing his lips tightly together so she wouldn't see them tremble. "I'm open for suggestions."

Kast turned to Major Chevron. "Disrupter cannon recharged, sir."

"Then what the hell are you waiting for, you idiot? Kill them! Kill them both!"

Morgan hit the firing stud, and the ravening beam of energy tore into the square before it. Hazel's hand clamped down on Owen's painfully hard, and in that split second before the energy beam hit them, their minds slammed together through their mental link, and joined, becoming a whole far greater than the sum of its parts. In that moment of despair and desperation, necessity drove them deeper into their minds than ever before, down past the conscious, past the back brain, and into the under-mind. Time seemed to slow and stop. Energy built within them, tapped from some unknown source both within and outside them, fueled by love and rage and a refusal to be beaten while they were still needed. The energy blazed up and roared out of them, fast and deadly and quite unstoppable.

It met the energy beam from the disrupter cannon, swallowed it whole, and roared on. It hit the cannon and blew it apart. Kast and Morgan died screaming as the energy tore them to shreds. They vanished in splashes of blood and splintered bone. Major Chevron died next, his dreams of conquest and victory shattered like his body. And still the energy tore on, slamming into the massed ranks of the Imperial marines. They all died, hundreds of men helplessly lifting their swords and guns against a force that could not be stopped or denied. Their bodies exploded, blood and bone tumbling on the air. And then it was all over, and a horrid quiet peace fell across the square.

Toby Shreck and Flynn looked at each other. Blood and death and carnage lay all around them, but they had not been touched. Even Flynn's camera was still in place, hovering above the square, staring down at Owen and Hazel, still sitting together with their backs against the wall. Flynn shook his head slowly.

"How come we're not dead?"

"Beats the hell out of me," said Toby. "Either they didn't see us as enemies, or we just weren't important enough to bother with."

Owen and Hazel sat together, looking slowly about them, their breathing gradually easing as they realized the danger was past. The power that had passed briefly though them was gone, leaving no trace of its passage save a bone-deep weariness. They'd given all they had to give, and more, and there was nothing left in them now but a terrible tiredness of the mind, as well as the body. Owen's gaze fell upon Toby and Flynn, standing alone in the sea of carnage and broken bodies. He rose painfully to his feet, and beckoned for them to approach him. Flynn looked like he'd very much rather not, but Toby dragged him forward, until they were standing before the Deathstalker. He looked less like a legend up close, and more human. In fact, he looked mostly like a man who'd had to carry too many burdens in his time, but did it anyway, because there was no one else. He gestured at the camera hovering above him.

"Bring that thing down here. I have something to say."

Flynn brought it down through his comm link, till it was hovering before Owen's face. He nodded to Flynn and Toby and then addressed the camera.

"Greetings, Lionstone, if you're looking in. This is the rightful Lord Deathstalker, coming to you live from the rebel city of Mistport. Just thought I'd let you know your invasion is a bust. It never stood a chance. Your army of professional killers was never going to be a match for a city of free men and women. And as soon as we've finished clearing up the mess you've made here, we'll be coming to see you. Remember my face, Lionstone. You'll live to see your forces scattered and your Empire fall, and then I will walk into Court, rip the crown off your head, and kick your nasty ass right off the Iron Throne. You should never have happened. You were an unfortunate mistake, an error in history, that I will put right at the first possible moment. Be seeing you, Empress." He looked at Flynn. "That's it. You can go now."

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

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

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

"How do you feel?" said Owen. It wasn't a casual question.

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm glad. Hazel, I wanted to say…"

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

"You people ever heard of the word overkill?"

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

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

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

"Owen…" said Hazel.

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

"You bloody fool," said Hazel.

He looked back at her, and smiled regretfully. "Always, where you're concerned."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who's speaking to me?" said Mary slowly. "The brains or the worms?"

You'll find out.

"Why are you hurting and killing your fellow espers? They're your own kind."

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

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

Psionic energy crackled on the air, surging through all the bays and corridors of the Defiant. Machinery overloaded and exploded, workstations malfunctioned and shut down, and all through the ship the members of the crew fell to their knees, clutching at their heads as unfamiliar thoughts crashed through their minds. It was chaos and it was bedlam, and in the auditorium Captain Bartok saw it all and screamed.

On the planet below, in the streets of Mistport, everything came to a halt. Psionic energy hammered on the air like the wrath of God, and the invading forces fell senseless to the ground, their minds shutting down rather than face the power of the Mater Mundi. The espers of Mistport stood still and unseeing, caught up in the gestalt. They stood together on the mental plane, focused through one mind and one will, striving against the power of the thing called Legion. But all the thousands of rebel espers together weren't enough. Legion and the Mater Mundi faced each other, each concentrating on the destruction of the other, and neither could take the upper hand. They were too evenly balanced.

Stalemate.

Standing close together, forgotten in the crash of energies, Owen and Hazel found themselves suddenly revitalized. Something within them was feeding off the psionic energies running loose in the ship. They felt strong and well again, and their chains cracked and fell apart, broken links clattering and rolling away across the floor. Owen turned on Razor, but he had already left. Hazel looked at Captain Bartok, but he was standing still and helpless, frozen in place like a statue. Someone didn't want him interfering.

Owen's and Hazel's minds reached out, drawn by some instinct to another level of reality, and there they saw the struggle between Legion and the Mater Mundi. Two great armies of massed will faced each other, locked in a combat from which only one could emerge whole and sane. Legion was clearly the smaller of the two, but it had no limits and no restraints, while the Mater Mundi was focused through Typhoid Mary, who had sworn a solemn oath never to kill again. Owen and Hazel concentrated. In the background, unnoticed by either side, there were voices screaming for release. The thousands of dead espers whose brains made up the body of Legion, controlled by Wormboy's worms. Owen moved closer.

You have to break free, he said in a voice that was not a voice. The Empire is using you to kill your own kind.

We know, said a crowd of whispering voices. But there's nothing we can do. The worms are in our brains. The technology of Legion gives them power over us. Free us!

We can't, said Hazel. You're already dead. They cut out your brains and threw away your bodies. You're the ghosts in the machine.

There were screams and howls of despair, and the crying of thousands of souls who no longer had eyes to cry with. What can we do? What can we do?

There's only one thing left to you, said Owen Deathstalker. You have to finish dying. Legion will never let you go, never let you know peace. You heard what it said. It wants to kill all that lives, or make it part of itself. Think of the millions of minds, trapped and suffering in Legion's grasp, like you.

We don't want to die!

No one does, said Hazel. But sometimes you have no choice, if everything you ever lived for is to have any meaning.

Nothing can stop you, said Owen. But do you really want an eternity as Legion's slaves? Stop fighting to live. Let yourselves die. And let Legion die with you.

Perhaps in that moment the thousands of esper brains remembered who they used to be, the things they believed in, and fought for. Things they would have died for, given the chance. Perhaps they were tired of their mental slavery and just wanted to rest at last. And perhaps in that moment they were brave men and women again, determined to do the right thing. But whatever the reason, the brains that made up Legion gave up their hold on life and let themselves die. There was a great outpouring of light on the mental plane, as thousands of men and women broke free and went to their reward at last. And left behind, broken and helpless, nothing but a dark cancerous mass, writhing and squirming—Wormboy's worms. The Mater Mundi stepped on them, and they died screaming.

On the bridge of the Defiant, Investigator Razor watched Legion die. Every piece of monitoring equipment showed the creature's life signs dropping to zero. For no obvious reason, the huge mass in the glass tank had given up the ghost. Deathstalker. Damn him. Razor turned to his other consoles. Half the bridge tech wasn't working, and what was brought him nothing but bad news. Most of his bridge crew were catatonic, and the rest might as well be. He grabbed the Second in Command by the shoulder and shook him until some sense came back into his eyes.

"In Captain Bartok's absence, I am assuming authority on this ship," Razor said slowly and clearly. "I want every armed man down in Legion's hold. Kill everything you find there."

"We already tried that, sir," said the Second. "No one can get anywhere near the hold. Something's… preventing us."

Razor thought hard. Around him, the bridge crew began to stir and return to their senses. With Legion dead, it wouldn't be long before Mistport's surviving espers suddenly found they had their powers back. And then there'd be hell to pay. They'd wipe out the forces on the ground, and then turn their attention to the Defiant.

"Power up all the systems," Razor said flatly. "Prepare to scorch Mistport."

"Sir?" said the Second in Command. "Our people are still down there, sir."

"With Legion down, they're as good as dead anyway. Our orders were to bring Mistworld back into the Empire. If I have to turn it into a single great funeral pyre to do so, then that's what I'll do. Bring all the disrupter cannon on-line. On my command, commence firing. And don't stop while there's one speck of life left on that miserable planet."

And that was when the lights went out. There was a long moment of utter darkness, and then the emergency systems came back on, bathing the bridge in a crimson glow. The Second checked his instruments. When he looked up, his eyes were scared.

"All main systems are down, sir. Practically everything except basic life support. Some… unknown force shut them down. We're helpless, sir."

Investigator Razor sat down in the command chair and wondered how he was going to explain this to the Empress.

In the auditorium holding Legion's tank, all was still and quiet. Both Legion and the Mater Mundi were gone, their overwhelming presence absent The great fleshy mass had sunk to the bottom of its tank. Owen and Hazel stood together, getting used to being back in their own head again. Typhoid Mary, only herself again, bent over Captain Bartok, who was sitting on the floor, staring at nothing.

"Don't bother," said Owen. "I already checked. There's no one home. Whatever he saw here, his mind couldn't handle it."

"Damn," said Hazel. "I was looking forward to killing him."

"The killing's over," said Mary, straightening up. "Let's go home."

"Sounds good to me," said Owen. "Let's see if we can requisition an escape pod. I doubt anybody will be in the mood to say no to us."

They left the auditorium. Captain Bartok sat very still, staring with empty eyes at the dead mass in the tank.

Afterward, what was left of Mistport celebrated. Those few marines who didn't run back to their pinnaces fast enough were hunted down and killed. No one was in the mood to take prisoners. The dead were piled to one side, to be disposed of later. Rescue squads formed themselves and set about digging in collapsed buildings, in search of survivors. Mistport had come through again. There was a hell of a lot of rebuilding to be done, but the bulk of the city had survived. It took a lot to kill Mistworlders. If only because if you could survive Mistport, you could handle pretty much anything else the universe could throw at you.

What remained of the Council was working at the esper union's hall, coordinating relief work and making sure the espers' psionic screen stayed in place until the Defiant was safely gone. No point in taking chances. Everyone else in the hall was partying like there was no tomorrow. Probably because so many of them hadn't expected to live to see tomorrow anyway. Esper chatter filled the great room, almost loud enough to be heard by non-espers. A couple of show-offs were dancing on the ceiling. None of the non-espers felt slighted or threatened. For the moment at least, victory had brought everyone together.

Young Jack Random was the man of the hour. Everyone wanted to be next to him, to slap him on the back, pour him another drink. He was only too happy to describe his part in the defense of the city, and the people around him wouldn't let him be modest about it. Everyone had some tale to tell of the legendary professional rebel's courage and daring exploits.

Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d'Ark sat in a corner of the hall, drinking a reasonably good vintage wine and dubiously studying a collection of party snacks. Their greater abilities had disappeared along with the Mater Mundi, and they were both feeling very human again. Their wounds had healed, and the bone-deep weariness had gone, but they both felt they needed some time to come to terms with the more than human things they'd done. Their exploits fighting in the streets hadn't gone unnoticed, and some people made a point of seeking them out to reminisce and congratulate them, but on the whole most people preferred to idolize the larger-than-life Jack Random.

At Random's side stood Donald Royal, his ancient frame full of new life and good wine, revitalized by battle and feeling like a new man again. He'd been a great hero in his younger days, and had never been really happy leading a peaceful life. Now he felt like himself again, full of piss and vinegar, and if he was almost certain to pay dearly for that feeling tomorrow, well, he'd think about that tomorrow. People roared his name along with Jack Random's and toasted him like the warrior of old. Random put an arm across his shoulders and wouldn't be separated from him. Madelaine Skye stuck close, too, and tried to tell herself it wasn't just jealousy that made her distrust the legendary professional rebel.

Over by the bar, Cat and Cyder were making serious inroads into the champagne. They always believed in indulging in the best, especially when someone else was footing the bill. As the level in the third bottle dropped, Cyder became increasingly philosophical about the loss of her tavern.

"We'll build another Blackthorn," she said to Cat, with only the faintest slur in her speech. "We can live off the insurance money for a while, and I'll set up some easy burglaries for you. Bound to be lots of good stuff lying around relatively unguarded, after all this. The old team rides again. What the hell; maybe you and I were never meant to be respectable."

John Silver came over to pay his respects to Owen and Hazel. He was wrapped in so many bandages he could only bend in certain directions, but he seemed cheerful enough. Owen decided to be diplomatic, and excused himself for a moment, so Silver and Hazel could talk in private. After Owen had moved away, they stood in silence for a while, meeting each other's gaze steadily.

"I don't suppose there's any way I could persuade you to stay in Mistport?" said Silver.

"No. I go where the rebellion takes me, and it's all over here."

"You need a little Blood, to take with you? I could always…"

"No thanks. I don't need it anymore."

"I thought not. You don't need me, either."

"It was good seeing you again, John, but you're my past. I've moved on since then, and where I've gone you can't follow. What will you do now?"

"Help rebuild the starport. If we can."

"The Golgotha underground will supply you with whatever high-tech you need." She sipped her wine to indicate she was about to change the subject. "You don't know what happened to Chance and his kids, do you?"

"Oh, they'll come through all right," said Silver easily. "His kind always do. The esper union is looking after the children, here in the Hall somewhere. I think the powers that be are feeling a bit guilty about abandoning them to someone like Chance, just because they didn't want to be bothered with children who reminded them of the dark side of esp." He looked round. "Owen's coming back. I'd better make myself scarce. Look after yourself. Hazel."

"You too, John. From what I hear, you were quite the hero, out fighting in the streets."

Silver grinned. "Yeah. I don't know what came over me."

He gave her a bow and a wink, and moved off into the party.

Not that far away, Investigator Topaz and Typhoid Mary were talking quietly. Neither of them cared much for parties, as a rule, but after the death of so many people; they both felt a need for the comfort of a crowd. When the thousands of minds in Legion died, they had felt each one through the Mater Mundi's link, and some of Death's cold hand had brushed against their souls. So they came to the union esper hall, to warm themselves in the presence of friends.

"I still don't know if I did the right thing," said Mary, looking down into her wineglass.

"Of course you did," Topaz said briskly. "Anyone who died on the Defiant needed to die, whether they were innocent minds trapped in Legion, or Imperial butchers come to kill us all. I'm more interested in the Mater Mundi. What did it feel like, being the focus?"

Mary frowned. "I'm not sure. I'm already beginning to forget it. I think my mind is protecting me from things I'm not ready to deal with. I felt… larger, more real, somehow. As though the whole of my life was a dream, from which I awoke for a short while. Part of me wants it again, but the rest of me is scared shitless at the very thought. That business with the control words worries me as well. The Mater Mundi contact wiped out the controls Razor activated, but who knows what else the mind techs might have planted deep within me?"

"Worry about it when it happens," said Topaz. "After the way the Empire got its ass kicked here today, I think we can safely assume it'll be some time before we have to worry about Imperial agents again. And you're a lot stronger than you used to be. When you focused the Mater Mundi, it changed you. Your mind is more powerful now. I can feel it. When I look at you with my mind, it's like staring into the sun."

"I know," said Mary. "That's something else that worries me."

"Hell," said Topaz. "You wouldn't be happy if you didn't have something to worry about. It's in your nature."

"True," said Typhoid Mary.

Jenny Psycho watched them talk together, from a safe distance, but felt more numb than jealous. She still couldn't get over the fact that the Mater Mundi had chosen to manifest through someone else this time, not her. She'd called for help in the streets of Mistport, and the Mother had ignored her. She was slowly beginning to realize that she'd have to find a new purpose in life, that she wasn't who she'd thought she was.

Councillor McVey cornered Gideon Steel, who was sulking quietly by the punch bowl. The Port Director was rather upset that he didn't have a starport to be Director of anymore.

"Snap out of it, Steel," said McVey. "With Magnus and Barron dead, Castle out of his mind with grief, and Donald Royal telling anyone who'll listen that it's his destiny to fight alongside Jack Random, wherever he goes, that only leaves you and me as city Councillors. And there's a hell of a lot of work to be done in putting this city back together. I can't do it on my own, Gideon."

Steel sighed heavily. "I suppose you're right. But I was happy being Port Director. It was the only job I was ever any good at."

"It was the only job where you could syphon off a lot of money on the side."

Steel looked at McVey. "You knew?"

"Of course."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you were a good Port Director. It's a hard job, and no one else on the Council wanted it. So, are you going to help me rebuild Mistport? Think of all the work and construction contracts you'll be in charge of. A man with his wits about him would be in a position to steal himself a fortune."

"You talked me into it," said Steel. "When do we start?"

Back on the other side of the room, Neeson the banker had come to pay his respects to Owen Deathstalker. He looked battered and tired, but surprisingly happy.

"You look like you've been in the wars," said Owen.

"Damn right," said Neeson. "Most fun I've had in years. I started out as a mercenary, you know. This sword for hire, and all that. Your father brought me into the business world. Said someone with my instincts would go far in banking. And how right he was. Anyway, I came to tell you that my associates and I have decided to reactivate and maintain the old Deathstalker information network."

"How very public-spirited of you," said Hazel. "What brought that on?"

"Well, partly because of the gentleman standing at your side, partly because everyone on Mistworld is now part of the great rebellion, whether we want it or not, and partly because we all feel more alive now than we have in a long time. Business has its own rewards, but it's not exactly exciting, you know. It's a poor life when you're reduced to getting cheap thrills from foreclosing on someone's mortgage. No, being a rebel sounds much more fun. See you around, Deathstalker."

He nodded briskly to Owen and Hazel, and wandered off in search of food and wine and someone else to whom he could boast about his transformation. There's no one more enthusiastic than a middle-aged convert. He was replaced by the journalist Toby Shreck and his cameraman Flynn. Their press credentials had saved them from the general slaughter of the invading forces, but now they were stranded on Mistworld until they could beg, borrow, or steal passage off.

"Hi there," said Toby. "Mind if we join you? We've brought our own bottle."

"Now there speaks a civilized man," said Owen. "I understand you're interested in coming along with us desperate rebel types when we leave?"

"Damn right," said Toby. "You people are where the story is. Besides, we asked everybody else, and they all said no."

"Fair enough," said Owen. "If you're looking for a good story, some of my associates are planning an expedition to a planet called Haceldama. I'll put you in contact with them. In the meantime, why aren't you interviewing Jack Random? He's the official hero of the hour."

Toby and Flynn looked at each other, and then Toby leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Are you sure that is Jack Random?"

Owen and Hazel kept their faces blank, but they leaned forward and lowered their voices, too. "What makes you think that he isn't?" said Hazel.

"Because we saw him leading a rebellion on Technos III, just a few weeks ago," said Toby. "And he looked… different. Older."

"Much older," said Flynn. "I've got it all on tape. And my camera never lies."

"Lots of people have claimed to be Jack Random, down the years," Owen said neutrally. "Let's just say this one seems more convincing than most."

Toby glanced back at Random, still surrounded by well-wishers and devoted disciples. "Doesn't it bother you, that he's getting all the glory? You two did just as much as he. Flynn got most of it on tape."

Hazel shrugged. "Last thing I need is being bothered by autograph hunters. Let him be the hero, if that's what he wants. I was never very comfortable with the role anyway."

"Heads up," said Owen. "I think he's going to say something."

The speech that followed was a triumph. Short, sharp, lucid, and witty. A professional speechwriter couldn't have done better. Young Jack Random stirred the crowd's blood with praises for their deeds in protecting their city, and with promises of more battles against injustice to come. On to Golgotha! he cried, and everyone cheered and applauded. Owen and Hazel applauded, too, so as not to seem small, but neither of them was swayed by his words. He was still just too good to be true, for them.

But, all things considered, Owen felt basically upbeat. Things seemed to be going his way for once. The Imperial invasion had been defeated, Mistport had been saved, his own mission was apparently a great success, and he'd faced the prophecy of his own death and survived after all. Not that he'd ever really believed in it, but it was good to put it behind him. It was like having a new lease on life; and life was very good just then.

He and Hazel stood together and watched the crowd cheer itself hoarse for Jack Random, and were quietly content.