Deathstalker War d-3 Page 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Like I did," said Mary.

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

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

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

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

  "I know," said Topaz.

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

  "Haven't we all."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "And Silver?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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