Deathstalker Honor

  "Teach those metal bastards to play with dangerous toys. God bless and keep you, Sister Kathleen, and damn all the Hadenmen to Hell."

  After the battle came the cleaning up. The holes in the outer wall had to be repaired or barricaded, the injured were taken to the infirmary, and the dead were piled up in one of the storage huts. There would be time for funerals later. Hopefully. Each of the dead had to be identified first so that friends and loved ones could say a last good-bye. Sometimes the bodies were so damaged or disfigured that identification was difficult. Those unfortunates were laid out in lines in a separate hut, and tearful survivors moved slowly down the narrow aisles between the bodies, looking for someone familiar.

  Collecting the dead, and either identifying or laying them out, was a disturbing, depressing business, but it had to be done. Most of those who'd gone out to fight were in no shape to do it, physically or mentally, so the duty fell to those who'd stayed within the Mission as a last line of defense to protect those too ill to fight. Colonel William Hand and Otto had ended up guarding the main gate and overseeing tactics, much to their disgust, and now used their military experience to deal with the business of the dead. There were always more, as men and women died waiting to get to the infirmary.

  Hand and Otto weren't bothered by the dead. They'd seen enough bodies in their time to know the trick of treating them as objects rather than the people they'd been. Tobias Moon worked with them. He hadn't been allowed to go outside and fight, because he might easily have been mistaken for one of the enemy. So now he carried the dead into the long, narrow hut and laid them out in neat rows, his augmented arms carrying the load long after even the most determined of the lepers had been forced to give up through sheer exhaustion. He was glad for a chance to be doing something to help. The dead bodies didn't bother him at all. He'd been there.

  William Hand walked slowly up and down the ranks, giving each body a number and making notes of things like personal jewelery, to help in identification. Otto staggered in and out with blankets wrapped around collections of body parts. They'd be matched up later, if possible. For now he just dumped them all in a pile in one corner, and thanked God there were no rats on Lachrymae Christi. He dropped his last load onto the chest-high pile with an emphatic grunt, turned around, and pulled a face.

  "Jesus, this place stinks, Colonel. Couldn't they at least have chosen a hut with windows?"

  "Splash some disinfectant around," said Hand, not looking up from his clipboard. "And if you see anything small and wriggling, hit it with something heavy."

  "Can't," said Otto. "Saint Bea's commandeered all the disinfectant for the infirmary. She's even rounded up all the booze in the camp as backup. Next time, Colonel, let's not get distracted from the fighting. I'd rather take on a whole army of Hadenmen with my hump on backward than go through this shit again. Too much like working for a living." The dwarf looked around him and was quiet for a long moment. "We lost a lot of good people out there, Colonel. Fifteen, maybe twenty percent of us. And a lot more'll be dead by morning."

  "Hadenmen lost a damn sight more."

  "Yeah, but let's face it, that was just a preliminary skirmish. An advance force sent in to test the defenses. That's what I'd have done. The real army is still out there in the jungle somewhere, digesting the lessons it's learned. And they could come at us anytime."

  "You know, Otto, it's your cheerful personality that keeps me going. Don't you have any work to do?"

  "Nope. No more body parts. I had to use a shovel and a bucket for the last lot, though how you're planning to match up things like ears and teeth and red and purple blobby bits is beyond me. Don't know what we'll do with them if they're not claimed. Except maybe make soap out of them. Or soup, if things get really desperate."

  The Colonel looked up from his clipboard. "Of course, your people were cannibals, weren't they?"

  "Only on holy days. And only if we really didn't like someone."

  "Finished," said Tobias Moon from the doorway. "There are no more bodies, though many remain gravely ill. I think you two should rest for a while now. I can continue with your work. I'm not tired at all."

  "Then you're the only one in this Mission who isn't," said the Colonel. He looked at his clipboard, then opened his hand and let it drop to the floor. "Take ten, Otto. I think we've earned it."

  The two of them sat down on the floor, as far away from the bodies and the smell as they could get, and wearily set their backs against the hut wall. Otto produced a battered gunmetal flask from somewhere about his person, winked at the Colonel, and they both drank deeply from it. Moon hovered uncertainly in the doorway. Hand beckoned for him to come over.

  "Join us, sir Moon. You've earned a break too, even if you don't need it. Pull up a floor and sit down. Fancy a drop of something bad for you?"

  "Thank you," said Moon. Alcohol did nothing for him, but he took the proffered flask anyway. He understood that was part of being sociable. He sat down beside the Colonel, took a modest drink, and then passed the flask back. "It has an… unusual flavor."

  Otto laughed. "The flavor isn't why you drink it, friend. You've been out in the main compound. What's the latest news?"

  Moon hesitated, running the information available through a filter of what most people found interesting. "The holes in the wall have been dealt with. The few fires did remarkably little damage."

  "The people, Moon," said Hand impatiently. "What about your friends, the living legends?"

  "The Deathstalker was badly injured but has recovered. Hazel d'Ark and Midnight Blue are helping Mother Beatrice in the infirmary. Bonnie Bedlam suffered extensive damage, but is healing at an accelerated rate, and expects to be fully functional within an hour or two. Those of us who have been through the Madness Maze are very hard to kill."

  "Yeah," said the Colonel. "We noticed. You're probably even immune to what we've got." Hand looked at Moon for a long moment. "What would you have done if the Hadenmen had broken through our defenses and got in here? Would you have fought your own kind?"

  "Yes," said Moon immediately. "Because they are not my people anymore. I am neither man nor Hadenman. I owe allegiance to no race now, only my friends."

  "In the end, that's all any of us have," said Hand, lifting the flask to his gray lips again. "Friendship and honor. Nothing else matters."

  "But what if honor requires that you turn against your friends?" said Moon.

  "Tricky one," said Hand. "I guess you have to ask yourself: would they still be your friends if they knew you'd betrayed your honor?"

  "It is very hard to be human," said Moon, sighing.

  "Got that right," said Otto.

  By the time things had started to settle down, it was night. The dark fell early on Lachrymae Christi. Saint Bea and Sister Marion were still working in the infirmary, struggling to save lives with insufficient medicines and instruments. It was starting to look less like a hospital, and more like a slaughterhouse. Hazel d' Ark and Midnight Blue helped as much as they could, taking breaks outside when they couldn't stand the screams or the suffering or the stench of exposed guts anymore. They sat together on the steps outside, breathing in the fresh air, gathering up the courage to go back in again. It was hard to be so powerful and so helpless at the same time. After a while Bonnie Bedlam came striding out of the shadows to join them. She wore the standard gray clothing, and was perfectly healed, so much so they barely recognized her. All her piercings and tattoos and body modifications were gone, blasted away by the energy beam, and not re-created when she healed. She was scowling fiercely as she sat down beside Hazel, just a little unsteadily.

  "I hate looking like this. Like everyone else. Years of hard work gone in an instant! Even my old leathers were destroyed, that I was wearing under my cloak. I've had them for years. Made them out of the skin of an old enemy. And I'm still weak from the regeneration. Never had to do that much work before. If the Hadenmen attacked now, I couldn't beat them off with a paper towel."

  "Nice to see
you too," said Midnight. "We're fine, thanks."

  "You look a lot more like me now," said Hazel.

  "Oh, God," said Bonnie. "It's not that bad, is it?"

  "Any disturbances out in the jungle?" said Midnight.

  "Just the plants, eating and humping each other. How's it going in the infirmary?"

  "Depends on how you look at it," said Hazel. "We're losing more than we're saving, but given the appalling conditions, it's a miracle we're saving so many. She really is a Saint, you know. Been working all day, and she's still going when we're out on our feet. I've never seen so much blood in one place. The floor's awash with it, no matter how much disinfectant we sling about. Shock kills a lot of them, either from their wounds or from the surgery. I guess leprosy weakens all the body's defenses."

  "It's not fair," said Midnight. "They fought so bravely. They won the battle. They deserved better than the little we're able to do for them."

  "Yeah," said Bonnie. "It's one thing for us to go out and fight; we're practically unkillable. We can get hurt, but nothing really threatens us anymore."

  "And in the end Sister Kathleen won the battle," said Midnight. "Not one of us. And gave her life to do it. Didn't even hesitate."

  "Lord, what marvels these mortals be," said Bonnie.

  "We're like the monsters in the old stories," said Hazel. "Cut us, shoot us, burn us; we just keep coming back for more. Unless they stick a stake through our heart, cut off our head, burn it, and scatter the ashes. I don't think even you could come back from that, Bonnie."

  "I'd give it a bloody good try," she said.

  "The Hadenmen," said Midnight. "They're the real monsters. Giving up their humanity for their love of tech. Perfectability isn't achieved through the body but through the spirit. What honor is there in attacking a Mission full of sick people?"

  "They want something," said Bonnie. "And they never let anything get in the way of what they want. Least of all morality. I can respect that. Sometimes, in order to achieve anything of value, you have to be prepared to sacrifice something else of value. Friends, honor, morality… love. I love my Owen with all my rotten heart, but I'd sacrifice him to save the Empire, and he knows it. Can you say you wouldn't do the same?"

  "I lost my Owen," said Midnight. "I would sacrifice the Empire and everything in it to have him in my arms again."

  "But how would he feel about that?" said Hazel.

  "Oh, he'd be appalled," said Midnight. "But then, Owen always was much more honorable than me."

  "Where's your Owen?" said Bonnie to Hazel.

  "Around," she said. "He was overseeing the repairs to the wall, but I haven't seen him for ages. Been too busy. I thought he was going to die today, but once again he pulled himself back from the brink. Man's got more lives than a basket full of cats. But…just for a moment, while he was lying there in his own blood, I thought. What would I do without him? What would there be for me to live for with him gone?"

  "Why don't you tell him that?" said Midnight softly. "If the Hadenmen come again, you might not get another chance."

  "Later maybe," said Hazel. "We're still needed here."

  "I can help out for a while," said Bonnie. "Go find your Owen."

  Hazel looked down at the ground before her. "I never wanted commitment. To be bound to any one person. I've spent my whole life fighting to be free, defying any kind of authority, just to be sure that no one ran my life but me. And then I met Owen, and fate bound us together no matter how much we struggled. I… admire him greatly. He's brave and kind and honorable, and he loves me. I've always known that. But… I never loved anyone in my whole life. I don't know if I have it in me to love anyone, even a man as fine as Owen. I'm not the loving kind."

  "I thought that for a long time," said Midnight. "I didn't realize the truth till my Owen was dead and lost to me forever. Don't make the mistake I did, and wait too long. We heroes tend to live tragically short lives."

  "Go talk to the man," said Bonnie. "I'll cover for you with Saint Bea. Come on, Midnight; you hold them down and I'll do the stitches."

  They got up, squared their shoulders, and went back into the slaughterhouse. Hazel sat alone on the steps, staring out into the gloom.

  Owen Deathstalker moved through the open compound, anonymous again in his leper's cloak and pulled-down hood, listening to the people talk. They sat in small clumps around open fires, passing their last few bottles of booze back and forth. It was supposed to have gone for the infirmary, for emergency use, but it hadn't taken the lepers long to decide that if their current need wasn't an emergency, they didn't know what was, so they'd dug up the hidden bottles they'd stashed away for a dry day, and poured the stuff down their necks as fast as they could stand it. The cheer of their victory hadn't blinded them to the reality of their situation. They knew they were just waiting for the next act. So they talked and laughed and sang, praised Saint Bea and the Sisters of Glory, and talked about the living legends who had come to lead and protect them.

  "They say the Deathstalker died and brought himself back to life," said a leper with half his face eaten away.

  "Nah," said another man, his face hidden in the shadows of a broad-brimmed hat. "When you're dead, you're dead, like the blessed Sister Kathleen. When you're gone, you don't come back."

  "That's for the likes of us," said the third man at the fire, a tall, gangling sort, sitting hugging his bony knees to his chest. "We're human. He isn't. Not anymore."

  "Of course he's human," said the first man. "He was born among us to become more than us, to lead us to victory. Like he led the rebels against the Empress."

  "That was Jack Random," said the second man. "The professional rebel. Though they say he's immortal too these days. And Ruby Journey and Hazel d'Ark, and that bloody Hadenman Moon. Every bugger except us, seems like."

  "Yeah," said the third man. "But they're still human. Old Daft Sally asked Hazel d'Ark to heal her by laying on of hands. Didn't work."

  "Maybe Sally just didn't have enough faith," said the first man.

  Owen decided he didn't like the way the conversation was going. He stepped forward into the light of the fire. "May I join you, friends?"

  "Sure," said the first man. "Take a pew. I'm Harry. The one with the stupid hat is Sigurd, and the boring one is Glum."

  "I'm Giles," said Owen. "I'm… new. I've met the Deathstalker. He didn't seem all that special to me. Just a man, trying to do what's right."

  "Then you must have had your eyes shut," said Harry, picking at a scab on the side of his face he still had left. "He's been touched by God. Has to have been to do all the things he's done. They say angels fought alongside him in the great rebellion, and were seen flying in the skies above all the great battles."

  "He's no Saint," said Sigurd. "There's only one Saint here, and she's still up to her elbows in guts in the infirmary. And I saw the Deathstalker on the holo, fighting in the streets on Golgotha, and there weren't any bloody angels there. Just Hazel d'Ark, and she sure as hell isn't any angel. Unless it's the fallen kind. Nice tits, though."

  "Angels wouldn't show up on a film," said Harry patiently. "They're spiritual creatures."

  "If he was a Saint, he'd heal us," said Glum, still looking down at his knees. "Save us all, and wipe out the Hadenmen with a wave of his hand. But he didn't, because he can't. No, he's powerful, all right, but he's still one of us."

  "There are those who say he's a monster," Owen said quietly. "That no one should be able to do the things he can do. That all power corrupts—"

  "Bull!" said Harry angrily. "He was born an aristo, but he gave it all up to champion the downtrodden! He gave up wealth and position of his own free will, refusing to live in comfort while the people lived in slavery! He's a hero. A legend."

  "That was Jack Random," said Sigurd stubbornly.

  "Random was a failure on his own. Everyone knows that. The Deathstalker fought for us when no one else would. Freed Jack Random from prison and put new life into him. He could have been Em
peror if he wanted, but he turned it down." Harry shook his head wonderingly. "You only see his like once in a thousand years."

  "He gave the Hadenmen a chance at redemption," said Glum, looking up for the first time. "Who else would have done that? All right, they betrayed him in the end, but that's Hadenmen for you."

  "They say he killed a Grendel with his bare hands," said Harry reverently. "A Grendel, mind you! No man could do that who wasn't touched by God."

  "But doesn't it scare you, some of the things he can do?" said Owen.

  "Oh, hell," said Sigurd. "Of course he's scary. Heroes always are. They're all pretty spooky, all the Maze people. If they did go bad, who could stop them? They could kill us all, lay waste to whole planets, destroy the damned Empire if the whim took them. They could be monsters. But the point is, they aren't. The Deathstalker came here to save us when no one else would. He could die here, along with us, and no one would ever know. But he came anyway, because it was the right thing to do. In the end, that's all that matters."

  "Touched by God," said Glum. "Driven by destiny. Chosen to be a hero. Poor bastard."

  "Yeah," said Harry. "He could have taken the crown. I would have. Instead he's here with us. In Hell."

  "Oh, I don't know," said Owen. "From what I've heard, Parliament's an even more dangerous place than this. At least here you can be sure who your enemies are." He got to his feet. "I have to go. Thanks for your company, friends."

  He left them sitting around their fire and made his way back across the compound, heading nowhere in particular. He'd heard them talk about Owen Deathstalker as a hero and a legend, and as some poor bastard touched by God, and didn't recognize himself in either vision. As a historian, he'd always known such revision and reinvention of his life was inevitable, but it came hard to see himself already disappearing behind the old masks of myth and folk hero. They'd be saying he was born in a manger next, with three wise Lords come to visit him.