Deathstalker Legacy

  The viewscreen reappeared before him, and there was Owen Deathstalker and Hazel d'Ark, fighting their way through the packed streets of Mistport, during the Imperial invasion of Mistworld by the Empress Lionstone's terror troops. Fires blazed and buildings crumbled as huge gravity barges moved ponderously by overhead, energy beams stabbing down, illuminating the night. People were running and screaming and fighting everywhere, soldiers and rebels and panicking civilians. Swords clashed, guns fired, and people lay dead and dying in the streets, often trampled underfoot in the crush. Espers flew through the smoke-filled air, throwing themselves in waves at the gravity barges in reckless attacks; grim, brave, suicidal smiles on their faces.

  Owen and Hazel cut and hacked their way through walls of Imperial marines, refusing to be stopped or turned aside. Sometimes they fought side by side, and sometimes back to back, but no one could stand against them. Some troops actually turned and ran, rather than face the Deathstalker and the d'Ark. Whoever was filming the fighting was right there in the thick of it. Again and again, the camera zoomed in to show close-ups of Owen and Hazel's faces. And they… were so much less than legends, but so much more than human. The dark-haired Owen and the flame-haired Hazel, with sweat and blood on their panting faces. Stamping and thrusting and fighting like demons; so much stronger and faster and fiercer than the troops they faced.

  They were somehow finer, more focused, than any mere human should be; their every movement sharp and savage and ruthlessly efficient. Lewis had never seen anything like it, not even in the Arena. Owen and Hazel dashed themselves, over and over again, against overwhelming odds, performing miracles with casual grace, cutting down everything that was sent against them. Sometimes laughing, sometimes snarling, sometimes bleeding; but never once hesitating or turning away. Lewis watched, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, a great pride filling his heart until he thought it would burst. The Deathstalker and the d'Ark, doing what they did best, what they were born to do. Spitting in evil's face and damning it to Hell, because somebody had to. They were killers, not saints; but damn, they were glorious!

  The viewscreen went blank for a moment, and Lewis sat down suddenly in his chair again as his legs gave out. He was breathing as hard as if he'd been there himself, fighting beside his ancestor. He'd seen films, of course, and docudrama reconstructions, but nothing in the sanitized legends could have prepared him for the reality…

  A new scene filled the viewscreen, and there was Jack Random, the professional rebel, and Ruby Journey, the bounty hunter; defending the entrance to a valley on the planet Loki against a whole army of Shub's Furies and Ghost Warriors. Jack and Ruby, side by side, standing their ground against an enemy even they couldn't have hoped to defeat. They looked like heroes. Warriors. They looked like they knew they were going to die. Out beyond the valley, Ghost Warriors stood in countless ranks. Dead men raised to fight again in the service of Shub, with gray rotting flesh, animated by computer brains and implanted servomechanisms in their dead muscles. They looked vile beyond belief; Shub's contempt for the weaknesses of flesh turned into physical and psychological weapons. Lewis looked briefly at the blue steel robot standing beside him, and thought he'd never feel the same about the AIs again.

  "We were different then," the robot said quietly. "We were wrong. We did not understand, that all that lives is holy. We have sworn to die by our own hand, rather then become again what we once were. Now watch…"

  The dead men came surging forward, howling horribly with their decaying vocal cords, and Jack Random and Ruby Journey shared one last smile, and stood their ground. They fought savagely, with sword and gun and unnatural strength and speed, and still they took wound after bloody wound, dying by inches, stamping and slipping in their own pooled blood, but never once retreating. The Ghost Warriors came at them again and again, their numbers seemingly endless, only to crash fruitlessly against Random and Journey, like the sea pounding two unyielding rocks. And again, they were warriors rather than legends; but somehow that was even more impressive. Lewis thought he'd never seen anything so brave in his whole life.

  Legends might inspire awe, and even worship, but it took real men and women to move the heart like this.

  The screen went blank, and disappeared again. Lewis let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. The robot was bowing its blank face over pressed-together hands again.

  "They fought for hours," said the robot. "And they would not yield. In the end, they put their lives on the line, to summon up enough power to defeat us with their Maze-given abilities. They could do wondrous things in those days, the men and women who walked the Madness Maze. Things neither we, nor the Empire, nor the greatest adepts of the over-soul, have ever been able to duplicate in all the years since. Now do you understand why the Maze fascinates us so? Why we need so badly to know what the Maze can teach us? Having seen gods at play, how can we bear to be any less?"

  "They didn't look like gods," Lewis said roughly. "They bled, and suffered. They looked… like heroes."

  "They were not perfect," the robot admitted, lifting its head again. "We remember many things, that Robert and Constance chose to suppress. The Maze people did terrible, awful things, in their time. Unforgiveable things, sometimes. For all their power, they were still only, very, human. But at the end, when it mattered, they transcended what they were to become what they had to be; to save us all. At the end, they were all… magnificent."

  "People should see this," said Lewis. "Everyone should be able to see what you've just shown me. It would mean so much to them. Far more than a bunch of old stories, and stylized figures on stained-glass windows."

  "This is for your King and Parliament to decide," said the robot. "And Lewis… you have seen only the smallest part of the truth. There are other histories, in our records, that would test your faith—and your belief in your heroes—to the limits. The Rebellion wasn't always the simple conflict between Good and Evil that the accepted version would have you believe. People interpret legends to fit their own needs. Heroes aren't nearly so accommodating."

  "People deserve to know the truth," said Lewis.

  "Even about Owen? What do your people need most now, sir Deathstalker? The lie that comforts, or the truth that damns?"

  Lewis thought about that, all the way back through the twisting tangles of the technojungle, as the robot led him back to the original teleport point. What could Shub know, or remember, that was so bad the AIs believed people wouldn't be able to deal with it, even after all these years? What could the Maze people have done, that Robert and Constance felt obliged to wipe away history, and replace it with legend? What could be worse than knowing Owen Deathstalker was dead? Or… could the AIs be lying; hoarding ancient knowledge for their own secret reasons? By the time they reached the teleport point, Lewis was frowning so hard over his churning thoughts that he'd given himself a headache.

  "This is as far as we go," said the robot. "You must decide what to do next, Lewis. We trust you to make the right decision. You are, after all, a Deathstalker."

  "You have no idea of how tired I am of being told that," said Lewis. "I always thought it was more important that I was a Paragon, but—" A sudden thought struck him, and he looked sharply at the robot. "I knew there was something I'd forgotten. Something I meant to ask you. What does Shub think about the Mog Mor aliens, and their offer? Could the Swart Alfair really have new, unknown tech that could save us from the Terror? Tech that's possibly even greater than yours?"

  "It doesn't seem likely," said the robot. "A greater probability would be that they are bluffing, to take advantage of the situation. But, on the other hand… we had no idea this species even existed before they chose to make their presence known to the Empire. They hid themselves, from the Empire and from us, by entirely unknown means, for unknown centuries. So they must have something. You may have to promise them at least some of what they want, to find out what they've got. We understand the concept of bargaining, and the making of deals. We would offer Humanit
y whatever they might ask of us, in return for access to the Madness Maze."

  "Don't start that again," said Lewis, just a little testily. "I told you; I don't have that kind of influence with the King anymore."

  "You heard Captain Silence's words. Tell the King, and your Parliament. It was always intended that we should all go through the Maze, and become more than we are, so that we could oppose the Terror. It was what the Maze was constructed for. And it was Owen's last wish…"

  "You're like a dog with a rat," said Lewis. "You just can't leave it alone, can you? For what it's worth; I believe you. I'll do what I can, to convince the King and the House. But it seems… I'm not everything I used to be."

  "You are a Deathstalker," the robot said forcefully. "You bear the Owen's ring. Perhaps… you should go through the Madness Maze, as your ancestor did before you?"

  Lewis smiled tiredly. "Even if they did open up the Maze again, I'm pretty sure they wouldn't put me anywhere near the top of the list. Besides; I'm not sure I'd want to do it. Whether you believe the legend or the history, one thing is clear about Owen's life. The Maze might have made him superhuman, but it sure as hell didn't make him happy."

  "What about duty?" said the robot.

  "What about it?" said Lewis. "I did everything that was ever asked of me, and more. I gave my life to duty, and to honor. And it didn't make me happy, either."

  "Perhaps some things are more important than being happy," said the robot.

  "Perhaps. Send me home. I'm tired, and I want to go home."

  Once again, the teleport happened faster than human senses could experience, and Lewis was standing in the doorway to the Shub Embassy on Logres, looking out on the empty Row. He sighed, and stepped out into the street, and the door closed silently behind him. His gravity sled was still waiting for him. Lewis stepped aboard, and ascended slowly into the sky. Wondering how much of the truth he would tell, to Douglas and the House and Humanity. Just how much truth they could stand. And how much… would only be cruel.

  From the shadows of an alleyway farther down the street, Finn Durandal watched Lewis go. When the Deathstalker was safely out of sight, Finn walked calmly down Ambassadors' Row, and stopped before the door to Shub's Embassy. He waited a while, but it didn't open before him. He knocked loudly, and then stood there with folded arms, with the air of someone prepared to stand there forever, if that was what it took. The door swung open and a blank-faced robot stood before him, blocking the way.

  "Why would you speak with Lewis, and not with me?" Finn said bluntly.

  "Because he is the Deathstalker. And Humanity's Champion. He came to us from King and Parliament."

  Finn sniffed dismissively. "He won't be Champion much longer. And the rest is just a name; nothing more. He isn't even a direct descendant of the blessed Owen; just a distant cousin. His grandparents only took the Deathstalker name because Robert and Constance asked them to. I would have thought you'd have known that."

  "We knew that," said the robot. "We know many things, sir Durandal."

  "Either way; Lewis is on his way out, while I am very definitely on my way up. Sooner than you think, I will have influence and then power beyond your imagination. Assuming that AIs have such a thing. I will be Champion. I will be King, and more. You support me, when I need it, and I promise you access to the Madness Maze. Who else will do that for you?"

  "So far, only you," said the robot. "We have watched you with interest, sir Durandal. Come inside, and we will discuss this further. It might be that there are areas of mutual interest, where we could be of use to each other. Perhaps we can use each other, to get what we each want."

  "Of course," said Finn, stepping forward as the robot stepped back. "I'm sure we can find things to agree on. Common interest, and the like."

  "All that lives is holy," said the robot.

  "So I'm told," said Finn.

  Douglas Campbell put aside his Crown and kingly robes when he went to see Donal Corcoran, the only survivor of the Terror's arrival. He had a strong feeling that the official trappings of King and Speaker wouldn't get him anywhere with a man who everybody agreed was now as crazy as a bag of weasels.

  No one was quite sure exactly what was wrong with Donal Corcoran. Two doctors had actually threatened to fight a duel over their diagnoses, until Douglas had his men forcibly separate them. Corcoran exhibited definite symptoms of hysteria, delusion, depression, compulsive-obsessive disorders, mania, and mood swings so rapid you could get serious whiplash just trying to follow them. His intellect was intact, but strangely warped, his thoughts often chasing abruptly off in directions that even the most experienced scientific observers had trouble following. His emotions were clearly out of control. He laughed and cried a lot, sometimes simultaneously, for no obvious reason, and his reactions to some people and conditions could be violently extreme. To himself, as well as others. The doctors doped him with every medication under the sun, to no useful effect. He could be quiet and calm and lucid; and then the theories he expressed on the possible nature of the Terror gave even the most hardened analysts nightmares.

  Several doctors had had to retire from the case, hurt, three had retired to start their own religions, and one had had a mystical epiphany and a sex change. Everyone currently working with Donal Corcoran got hazard pay. Direct exposure to the man was strictly limited, and all admittance papers to the institution where he was being held were stamped ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK.

  No one had expected Corcoran to survive his dreadful experiences unscathed, of course. But it was becoming more and more vital that the nature and extent of his change be understood, before the Terror appeared again. Douglas in particular needed to know whether Corcoran's unique condition was the result of stress, strain, and shock… or whether Corcoran was the inevitable result of even long-range contact with the Terror. The populations of the attacked Rim worlds had been driven insane by the presence of the Terrors appalling heralds, but Corcoran had been right at the edge of the solar system, racing towards hyperspace and safety. He should have been out of range, and safe… but he had looked back, through his probes, and seen the Gorgon. He had looked into the face of the Medusa. Could just that have been enough to make Corcoran into something other than human? Douglas needed to know.

  He had other worries too. All across the Empire, worlds in the line of the Terror's projected approach path were spending every credit they had, or could borrow, on upgrading their planetary defense systems to the maximum limit. They were buying attack ships, weapons and orbiting mines and force shields, and every defensive and offensive safeguard known to Humanity. Some were even pinning their hopes on strange unproven devices of alien origin. The Rim worlds' defenses had been no use at all, but then, they'd been far short of state of the art.

  When the Recreated were freed from their awful state by the blessed Owen, their humanity and their planets restored in a moment, they were of course hundreds of years behind everyone else. And even after two centuries of determined self-improvement, and a hell of a lot of Imperial grant money, they still hadn't caught up entirely. So an awful lot of worlds were planning to protect themselves with cutting-edge weapons tech, and to hell with what it cost them. What did the future matter? If the Terror came and found them wanting, none of them would have a future.

  Douglas wasn't convinced any of this would help. Neither were most of these worlds' representatives in the House. But if it kept people busy, and offered them a modicum of hope and security… better economic stupidity than mass panic. Douglas, however, remembered the most important lesson of Empire. First; know thine enemy. So he decided he needed to see Donal Corcoran for himself, hear what the man had to say firsthand. He didn't tell the House. They'd just throw a major hissy fit at the prospect of the King putting himself into possible danger, and order him not to go. So he decided not to worry them, and go anyway. He didn't even tell Anne.

  Armed guards, heavy-duty tanglefields and force shields, and even a few portable disrupter cannon guarded the
asylum holding Donal Corcoran, as much to keep people out as keep him in. The media had been using every trick in the book to try and get to him, and there were any number of fanatical groups and individuals ready to use any method to force their way in. Some wanted to kill Corcoran, in case he was somehow infected by the Terror and had brought its evil back with him. Some claimed he was a judas goat, leading the Terror to its prey. Some wanted to worship him, for being touched by God. Some wanted to kidnap and interrogate him, in the hope of learning useful information about the Terror, which they could then sell to the threatened worlds. And a few wanted to marry him. People will do the craziest things… if they're scared enough.

  Douglas wasn't crazy enough to go in there alone. He'd felt the need for specialist help on this one. So he contacted the oversoul, and they sent him a top-level telepath to assist and protect him. This turned out to be a tall strapping brunette who dressed in sweeping black silks, and sported jet black lips and heavy eye makeup. She also wore a bandolier of silver throwing stars, carried a disrupter on her hip, and had steel-toe capped boots. She was at least a head taller than Douglas, and radiated so much sheer presence that when she walked into a room it felt like everyone else had just left. Running. Her name was Crow Jane, her gaze was disturbingly direct, and she had a voice just dripping with rough, smoky sensuality. If nothing else, Douglas was pretty sure she'd get Corcoran's attention.

  "If you're going to talk to the survivor, you're going to need heavy-duty protection," Crow Jane said, very directly, even before they'd finished shaking hands. "We're not going to take any chances with this guy. I've been studying the reports. I don't think it's safe for normal minds to spend too much time in his company. Madness on this scale can be contagious. Especially when it's something new."

  "Really? How interesting," said Douglas, just to be saying something. "I'll have to depend on you, then, to keep his thoughts out of my head. I need to get some answers out of him. What do you think our chances are?"