Deathstalker

Friends, Enemies and Fillies

Mistworld was the rebel planet. The only rebel planet in the whole of the Empire. A world made by renegades and traitors, insurgents and troublemakers. When you'd been everywhere else and found no safe haven, there was always Mistworld. Outlaws, rogue espers, criminals, trash and scum all ended up on the planet of eternal winter. The world they'd built wasn't particularly pretty or civilized, but it was free, and every man, woman and child on Mistworld would fight to the death to keep it that way. Schemes for rebellion against the Empire came and went without accomplishing much, because the rebels were only safe as long as they stayed on Mistworld, protected by a powerful psionic screen that was the equal of anything the Empire could send against it The only city, Mistport, seethed with plots and plans and spies, not least from the Empire, who liked to know what was going on. And to this last refuge, this last chance, this last roll of the loaded dice came Hazel d'Ark and Owen Deathstalker, the ex-clonelegger and the outlawed Lord, to start a rebellion that would spread far beyond the world that birthed it.

The Sunstrider howled out of hyperspace like a bullet shot from a gun, and then slowed reluctantly into high orbit around Mistworld. Its shields snapped on again, and the sensor spikes shimmered, but there was no trace anywhere of the two starcruisers that had been attacking it. In the luxurious main cabin, Owen sank back in his chair with a sigh, and Hazel blinked respectfully.

"I'm impressed," she said finally. "We made it all the way here, across half the damn Empire, in just one jump. It normally takes at least seven, and only then if you've got a shit hot navigator. How much power did we just burn up?"

"Hardly any," said Owen smugly. "I told you, this is a whole new kind of stardrive. It's going to make everything else obsolete."

"How does it work?" said Hazel.

Owen shrugged. "I don't know. I just bought the ship; I didn't design it. I had my AI scan the manual so it could fly the thing, but I've only flipped through it. I'm not really very technically minded. I've always had people to do that sort of thing for me."

Hazel sniffed. "That's one attitude you'll have to lose, aristo. An outlaw can't afford to rely on anyone but themselves."

"You should know," said Owen easily. "All right, what's our next step?"

"We ask very politely for landing permission. Once we're dirtside, we're protected by the planet's espers, but out here we're a sitting duck for the first Imperial ship to come along. It won't take them long to come here looking for us, and while this ship might be fast, it's got no heavy-duty weapons systems at all."

"Well, no," said Owen. "It's a pleasure yacht, not a warship."

"Next time, look a little further in the catalogue. I'll contact Mistport. It's the only starport on Mistworld. In fact, it's their only city. It's not what you'd call a densely populated world, and once you've lived there for a while you'll know why. Desolate bloody place, all snow and ice and fog. I just hope I can pull a few strings, call in some old favors. It's been a while since I was last here, and I'm not sure if I've got any friends left in Mistport."

She was silent for a long moment, frowning, and Owen studied her thoughtfully. She fascinated him, if only because he'd never met anyone like her before. He'd grown up believing the only good rebel was a dead rebel, and now he was one. His life had changed completely, and he was going to have to understand Hazel and her world if he was to survive in it.

"What brought you here before?" he said casually.

Hazel started, jerked out of her thoughts, then shrugged self-consciously. "I spent some time here recovering after my stint as a mercenary on Loki, during the succession wars. As usual, with my native wit and massive experience, I had no trouble picking the losing side to sign on with. We got our ass kicked good, my side scattered to the winds, and I ended up here because it was the only place my enemies wouldn't come looking for me. As it turned out, I was wrong about that, too, but that's another story."

"What are we going to do once we've landed?" said Owen. "A hell of a lot of people are going to be looking for me, and the price on my head would tempt a sainted nun."

"What's this we bit?" said Hazel. "I hauled your ass out of the line of fire because I couldn't just stand by and watch you die, but I haven't adopted you. In fact, if I'd known your were an aristo, I'd probably have joined in the shooting myself. As it is, once we are safely down, I am going my way and you can go yours. The last thing I need is a know-nothing tenderfoot like you slowing me down and attracting attention. I have my life to rebuild, and that's going to be hard enough without carrying a passenger."

"I am quite capable of looking after myself," said Owen hotly. "I have been trained as a warrior by some of the finest tutors in the Empire!"

"Judging by what I've seen, you should ask for your money back. You're a liability, Owen, and I've got my own problems. You'll do all right. Selling this ship should make you one of the wealthiest people on Mistworld, if you don't let yourself get fleeced."

"Sell Sunstrider! Are you out of your mind? She's my only chance for getting off this planet!"

"Owen, you're not going anywhere. This is the end of the line for people like us. Mistworld is the only planet where you can hope to survive. Anywhere else, they'll cut your head off the moment you raise it to look around. You aren't going to find it easy here, but at least you'll have a fighting chance. And that's the best you can ever hope for as an outlaw."

Owen thought hard. Much as he hated to admit it, he needed Hazel d'Ark. She was loud, overbearing and definitely common, but she understood this new world of outlaws, and as yet he didn't.

"You can't just abandon me," he said plaintively. "You have contacts here; I don't know anyone. You can't just walk off and leave me to the wolves."

"Watch me," said Hazel. "I don't owe you anything, aristo. If I'd known you were going to cling on like this, I'd have shot you myself."

All right, thought Owen, so much for appealing to her better nature. She is an outlaw, after all.

"How about this: I'll hire you as my bodyguard till I learn the ropes. Name your own price."

Hazel looked at him thoughtfully. "And just what were you planning to pay me with?"

"As you just pointed out, selling the Sunstrider will make me extremely rich. If the right person was there to oversee the deal."

"Ten percent," said Hazel flatly. "I get my money right off the top, and you don't get to make any conditions. You also don't get to whine, complain or ask impertinent questions. I'll stick with you till you're established, but then I'm off. You're too tempting a target, Deathstalker. I feel nervous just standing next to you."

Owen seethed inwardly. He had a strong suspicion that ten percent of what the Sunstrider would bring would be enough to set up a dozen men for life, but it wasn't as if he had a choice in the matter. He couldn't command her as a Lord, or beg her as a friend, so that just left money.

"All right," he said tightly. "You've got a deal."

He put out his hand for her to shake, but she just looked at it. "Forget the handshake, Deathstalker. We've no reason to trust each other. All you need to know is that if you try to cross or cheat me, I'll cut you up into bite-sized chunks, and to hell with all your fancy training. Now let me think."

She stood there for a long moment frowning, concentrating. Owen lowered his hand and let it rest on his belt near his sword. With anyone else, he would have challenged them to a duel for such an insult, but Hazel was different. He had a feeling he could come to respect her. If he didn't kill her first. She sniffed suddenly, as though coming to a decision she wasn't particularly pleased with, and fixed Owen with her sardonic gaze again.

"Assuming the few friends I made last time I was here are still around, and still feeling friendly, I should be able to talk our way past quarantine. We can't afford to hang around long enough to be recognized. Unfortunately, we can't afford to rely on my old contacts. Lifespans tend to be rather short on Mistworld. If the people don't kill you, the planet will. I hope you've got some industrial-strength warm clothing tucked away on this ship somewhere, or we're going to freeze solid just walking off the landing pads.

Owen scowled. "Assuming your old contacts are no longer in the land of the living or the willing, and we can't talk our way past quarantine, how long would they hold us?"

"Long enough to call an esper to dig through our minds in search of something incriminating. Mistport security takes its job very seriously. The Empire keeps trying to smuggle in disguised plague ships and the like."

"And we can't afford to be identified," said Owen. "Great. Just great. All right, Hazel, do whatever you have to, but keep us out of quarantine. Only bear in mind that whatever bribe you end up offering is coming out of your ten percent. Clear?"

Hazel nodded approvingly. "See, you're starting to think like an outlaw already."

"What sort of planet is Mistworld?" said Owen as they headed for the comm panels. "You make it sound like a hellworld."

"It's a hard world, Deathstalker. Very poor, hardly any high tech, and the people who come here tend to be the lowest of the low."

"I'm sure you felt right at home here, Hazel."

"You will come to regret that remark in the long cold days ahead, aristo. You'll either learn to fit in here, or die. Your choice. Ozymandius, are you listening?"

"Of course, Hazel," said the AI promptly. "A great many people have been trying to talk to us. I have been waiting to ascertain whether we wished to talk to them."

"Patch me through to the Mistport control tower," said Hazel. "Everyone else can wait."

"As you wish. May I point out at this stage that I am a very sophisticated system and quite capable of running rings around any AIs the Mistport might have?"

"Don't even think about it," said Hazel sharply. "What they use for computers down there would scare the electronic spit out of you. They're very powerful and extremely dangerous. Shield yourself at all times and stay well clear of anything that isn't entirely human. Like everything else on Mistworld, the computers have got teeth you wouldn't believe."

"Nice place you've brought me to," said Owen.

"It has its charms. Raise the control tower, Ozymandius. Hello, Mistport central. This is the Sunstrider, looking for sanctuary. Please acknowledge."

"This is duty esper John Silver," said a tired voice from the comm panels. "Don't adjust your systems, we've lost visual again. I need a full rundown on your crew, cargo and last planetfall. Don't bother lying; our espers will get it out of you anyway."

"John?" said Hazel, smiling suddenly. "Is that you, Silver, you old pirate? You're the last voice I was expecting. This is Hazel d'Ark. Remember, we worked together on the Angel of Night swindle."

"The good God preserve and save us," said the voice, sounding a little more animated. "Hazel bloody d'Ark. I always knew you'd be back someday, no doubt dragging a long trail of creditors behind you. Who have you got mad at you this time?"

"Practically everyone. Look, John, I need a favor."

"You always do. What is it this time?"

"I can't afford to hang around in quarantine. Too many people looking for me and this ship. I need to go to ground for a while. Will you vouch for me?"

"Depends. Are you alone?"

"One passenger, and I vouch for him."

"That's not much of a recommendation. I have a strong feeling I'm going to regret this, but all right. Put your ship down on pad seven, and then disappear into the mists. I can only buy you twenty-four hours, though."

"That should be enough. Thanks, John. How the hell did a died-in-the-blood pirate like you end up in security?"

Silver chuckled briefly. "Times are hard, girl, and Mistport needed all the espers it could get. Things have gone to hell since you were last here. Empire hit us with something really nasty. Over half our espers are dead or mindburned. As a result, security is tighter than ever, but with nowhere near enough people to enforce it. Look me up when you've got a chance. Unless you're still trouble, in which case I never heard of you. Silver out."

"Now that was a stroke of luck," said Owen, and then stopped as he saw the expression on Hazel's face. "Wasn't it?"

"I don't know. Maybe. The John Silver I knew was an ex-pirate and a confidence trickster. And now he's in charge of Mistport security? Things must have really gone to the dogs since I was last here. And we're not out of the woods yet. We've got twenty-four hours, and then either I report in with a lot of convincing answers, or Silver's people will tear the city apart looking for us. On top of that, we have to use that time to find a buyer for Sunstrider before someone recognizes it. You can bet every Imperial agent on Mistworld has a detailed description of it and you by now. Which means we have twenty-four hours to make the sale, bank the money, and then go to ground so thoroughly that even the really talented and highly motivated people looking for us won't be able to find us. Once things have quieted down a little, we can reappear with new names and backgrounds and a hell of a lot of money to back us up."

"Why can't we just change our looks in a body shop?" said Owen.

Hazel gave him the kind of look a tutor gives a dull but persistent pupil. Owen was getting rather tired of that look, but kept his temper.

"Remember what I said about limited high tech on this world? The only tech they've got here is what smugglers can sneak past the Empire. I'm not saying there isn't a body shop somewhere in Mistport, but if there is you can bet it's the only one, and so exclusive that they charge an arm and a leg. Possibly literally. Which means it'll be watched night and day by Imperial agents, just in case we're stupid enough to go anywhere near it. Try and keep up, Deathstalker. I can't carry you all the way. And before you start sulking again, could you perhaps put a little thought toward raising some stake money? I've got a little credit stashed away here and there in Mistport, but not a lot. I had to earn it the hard way."

"Really?" said Owen. "How?"

"You don't need to know. Ozymandius? Are we cleared to land?"

"As soon as we pay a rather exorbitant docking fee, yes."

Owen asked how much. The AI told him, and Owen nearly had a fit. "I'm not paying that! It's extortionate!"

"Not really," said Hazel. "Not when you consider how much more they could make by handing you over to the Empire. Besides, you're not paying it, I'm going to have to. And just for the record, no, this is not coming out of my ten percent."

Ozymandius cleared its throat politely, something that never failed to disconcert Owen, not least because the AI didn't have a throat to clear. "I really feel I should remind you, Owen, that the new files I discovered hidden in my memory were quite specific concerning an establishment in Mistport that you should visit in order to find help." The AI paused, and when it spoke again it sounded almost apologetic. "I also have a name to go with the address. But you're not going to like it."

Try me," said Owen resignedly. "I'd be hard-pressed to name anything about this situation I do like."

"The name is Jack Random."

"He's here? On Mistworld?" Owen thought hard. "How the hell did he get tangled up with my father's intrigues? I wouldn't have thought they were in the same class."

"A good question, Owen, for which I have as yet no satisfactory answer."

"You've got really polite since Hazel came aboard," said Owen accusingly.

"Are you complaining?"

Owen thought hard. His head was beginning to ache. Jack Random: the professional rebel. Legendary warrior. He fought the system. Any system. He'd been fighting the Empire for more than twenty years, leading one rebellion after another on any number of planets. He was a spellbinding orator, with a keen eye for injustice, and never had any trouble finding more hotheaded fools to follow him to death or glory. And so it went for many years. But the decades passed, and the Empire stood as strong as ever, and people remembered the many lost battles rather than the few triumphs, and they stopped listening. The price on Jack Random's head became increasingly tempting, and the bounty hunters went after him in earnest. He'd been forced to drop out of sight, and no one had seen him for years.

"Trust my father to hook up with one of the biggest all-time losers," said Owen. "Even I have more sense than to tie myself to Jack Random. By all accounts a legendary fighter and hero, but a piss-poor general. Hazel, I place myself in your hands."

"In your dreams, aristo," said Hazel. "But please, Owen, watch your step and leave all the talking to me. If the people we're going to see get even a hint of who you really are, we are both dead."

"Relax," said Owen. "I am not without experience. I know how to comport myself in public."

"That's what I mean! You can't go around using words like comport; it's a dead giveaway. Look, don't say a word, and I'll pass you off as my deaf-mute cousin."

Owen looked at her. "Don't do me any favors."

"Trust me," said Hazel. "I won't."

Owen kept his mouth shut and his eyes open as Hazel led him through the narrow streets of Mistport. The city was in a hell of a state. Rebuilding was going on everywhere he looked, and the people seemed uniformly sour and tight-lipped. From the look of the place, Owen didn't blame them one bit. The stone and timber buildings leaned out over the street like drunken old men apologizing to each other. There was mud and filth in the street, and the smell was appalling. A thick fog pearled the air in sheets of gray, so that lamps burned brightly at irregular intervals, even though it was getting on toward midday. People filled the streets, huddled under heavy furs and cloaks, looking straight ahead and using their elbows with practiced skill.

Owen and Hazel kept the hoods of their cloaks pulled well forward, so that their faces were hidden in shadow. No one stared at them or showed any curiosity; apparently, anonymity was a common state in Mistport. Owen trudged on through the mud and slush and beat his gloved hands together to force out the cold. He'd taken the heaviest clothes from Sunstrider's wardrobe, but there hadn't been a lot of choice. Owen glared at Hazel's back ahead of him. She was striding along like it was just another day. Owen muttered to himself and struggled to keep up with her, elbowing people out of his way with grim satisfaction. Nobody said anything. Apparently that was common practice, too.

Hazel dragged him from one low dive to another in search of old acquaintances, but no one wanted to talk. After the recent troubles, everyone was busy looking after their own affairs. Hazel kept plugging away, while Owen's spirits drooped. He couldn't even talk to Oz for company; they'd agreed to keep communication to a minimum for security's sake. You could never be sure who was listening in on Mistworld. He scowled unhappily and pulled his cloak tightly around him. It was all taking too long. Finally Hazel came up with a name, if not a location: Ruby Journey.

"Never heard of her," said Owen.

"No reason why you should have, aristo. You don't move in the same circles. Ruby's a bounty hunter, and a damned good one. She's an old friend of mine from way back. We mugged our first tourist together. She'll put us in touch with the right people, provided we make her a good enough offer."

"Not another ten percent," said Owen firmly.

Hazel shrugged. "Up to you. But if you want the best, you have to be prepared to pay for it. Don't worry too much about it; she'll give you a discount because you're with me. All we have to do now is find her."

"Oh, great," said Owen. "More tramping back and forth."

"What are you moaning about now?"

"You want it in order? I'm spoilt for choice. Apart from the insanity of trusting our safety to a bounty hunter, it's bitter cold, I haven't a clue where we are, I can't feel my hands anymore, and my feet aren't talking to me. We've been tramping around this pitiful excuse for a city for ages without getting anywhere useful, and my stomach thinks my throat's been cut. Also, the smell is disgusting. Something really drastic must have happened in the sewers."

"Sewers?" said Hazel. "Don't show your ignorance. Around here a cess pit is a sign of luxury. Be grateful the nightsoil collectors have already been round. Still, where we're going next should cheer you up. Another old friend of mine is running a tavern not far from here. The Blackthorn. She'll know where Ruby is. Cyder knows everything. Let's go-"

She set off down the street at a good pace, brimming with confidence and good cheer. Owen trudged after her, grumbling under his breath. He paused for a moment to pull his cloak more tightly about him, and someone pressed a coin in his hand before hurrying on. Owen looked at it for a long moment before realizing he'd been taken for a beggar. He was tempted to throw the money after the giver, but he didn't. Money was money.

He put the coin in his pocket and hurried after Hazel, seething inwardly. Some way, someone was going to pay for all this. He focused his glare on Hazel's unresponsive back. She didn't seem to feel the cold at all. Owen thought, not for the first time, that he might have been better off fighting for his life back on Virimonde. At least he'd understood the situation there. And it had been warm. He didn't understand much about Mistworld, and what he did repulsed him. No law, no custom or honor, no social structure. Everyone out for themselves, and to hell with everyone else. A world of criminals and social misfits, living in poverty and squalor unknown anywhere else in the Empire. They were free, and much good their freedom had done them. Owen felt a sudden rush of tiredness wash over him, and for a moment he was weighed down by the uselessness of it all. He couldn't live here. Not like this. Without civilization and the comfort of social position, his life had no meaning. He would simply wither and die, like a flower from its bed.

The thought shook him out of the daze he'd fallen into. He couldn't die. Not while his enemies still lived. They had destroyed his life, taken away everything he believed in and spit on his name. He had to live, so that someday he could take vengeance on the Iron Bitch and all who had aided her in his downfall. Owen smiled tightly. When all else fails, there is always revenge. He wasn't going to stay stuck on this miserable planet. Somehow he'd find a way off, and then… he'd think of something. He had to. In the meantime, he had to survive. He would endure whatever the planet sent, do whatever was necessary to raise enough money to buy him an army, and a way offplanet. Because if he just lay down and died, then Lionstone would have won after all.

He lurched on through the deepening mud and slush, glaring at everyone and everything around him with renewed disgust. Surely it couldn't all be like this. There had to be some bright spots in the gloom. A window opened above him, and people scattered out of the way. Someone cried a brief warning, and Owen jumped back just in time to avoid the falling contents of an emptied chamberpot. The window slammed shut again, and people moved on, unperturbed, as though this was an everyday experience. Owen sniffed. Probably was. No sewers. Right.

How could people live like this? Didn't they know what they were coming to when they ran from the Empire? It came to him slowly that they must have, and came anyway, because for them life in the Empire was worse. The thought nagged at him and wouldn't let him go. The Empire was full of luxuries and comforts for the upper classes, and security and stability for the lower classes. Unless you were a clone or an esper or some other kind of unperson. Unless you upset someone with connections, or couldn't meet your quotas, or fell ill once too often. There was no place in the lower orders for the weak, or the troublesome, or the unlucky.

It seemed to Owen that he had always known this, but never really thought about it before. As long as his cushioned world went on uninterrupted, he hadn't had to. He couldn't say he hadn't known. He was a historian, and he knew more about the realities the Empire was based on than most. How corrupt had the Empire become that the living hell of Mistworld could be such an improvement? Owen sighed. His head was starting to ache again, probably from too much frowning. He'd think more about this later. He had a feeling he'd have lots of time to think about things in the future.

The Blackthorn tavern turned out to be a pleasant surprise. It was cosy and comfortable without being cramped, and had obviously had a lot of money spent on it. The fixtures and fittings were of the highest quality, and there was a pleasant sense of sanctuary in the smoky room from the harshness and pain of the world. Owen leaned against the long, highly polished bar, sipping an adequate wine, and tried to ignore the vicious pins and needles of returning circulation. The Blackthorn was crowded but full of good cheer, and the noise was almost but not quite overpowering. Everyone had to shout to be heard, and those who weren't shouting were singing, with more verve than accuracy. Owen found it all rather charming, in a rustic sort of way, and was quite prepared to stay there as long as was necessary, if not longer. Particularly if the wine held out.

Hazel was talking earnestly with the Blackthorn's owner, a tall willowy platinum blond called Cyder. They were head to head at the other end of the bar, apparently lip reading as much as listening. Owen studied Cyder curiously. She seemed a strangely delicate flower to be running a tavern in a cutthroat area like the one he and Hazel had just walked through. According to Hazel, it was called Thieves' Quarter, and Owen wasn't a bit surprised. Presumably Cyder had a small army of well-trained muscle standing by ready to jump on anyone who made a nuisance of themselves. Owen had spent some time unobtrusively trying to spot them on the general principle that if trouble was to come his way, he wanted to at least have some idea of which direction it was coming from. He hadn't had any luck. Everyone looked equally violent and disreputable.

And then Cyder looked past Hazel directly at Owen, and he stopped with his drink halfway to his lips. In that moment she looked harsh and uncompromising and very dangerous, with the coldest blue eyes he'd ever seen. The moment passed, and then she was smiling at him and beckoning for him to join her and Hazel. Owen emptied his glass and moved unhurriedly down the bar to join them. He had no doubt that Cyder had deliberately allowed him to see the ice beneath her surface, but he wasn't at all sure why. Perhaps to impress on him that she was someone to be taken seriously. Owen gave her his most charming smile as he arrived and kept his hand near his gun.

Cyder lead the way to a private room up on the next floor, a small unadorned room with comfortable chairs and a crackling fire. Owen sat as close to it as he could bear and tried not to look too interested as the two women discussed Hazel's old times in Mistport. Much of it seemed to have been either disreputable or illegal, and Owen couldn't say he was at all surprised. Eventually the two women caught up to the present and smiled fondly at each other.

"You've put a lot of work into this place," Hazel said finally. "I can't believe this is the old snake pit where I used to drink."

"I came into some money," said Cyder, smiling demurely. "I've been able to… indulge myself."

"Where's Cat?"

"Around. People make him nervous." Cyder shot Owen a mischievous glance. "Does this young gentleman know about your checkered past, Hazel? Have you told him how you made most of your money here in Mistport?"

"No, and you're not to tell him. He doesn't need to know."

"It's a perfectly honorable profession. We've all done a few things we don't like to remember when money gets short."

"That's as may be." Hazel glared at Owen. "And you can wipe that look off your face. I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong."

"I wasn't thinking anything," Owen said, trying hard not think the word prostitute, or at least keep it off his face.

Cyder laughed. "Don't worry, Hazel, your secret is safe with me. Still, it must be said we've all come a long way since you and I and John Silver were thick as thieves and searching for some direction in our lives. He was a pirate, I was a fence, and you… were doing what you were doing. Now he's in charge of Mistport security, of all things, I am the highly respectable owner of a highly profitable tavern, and you're an outlaw with a price on your head. Quite a good price, too. The word was out on you and your friend ten minutes after your somewhat distinctive ship touched down. Don't think I've ever had a lord in my tavern before, let alone one with as famous a name as yours, Lord Deathstalker."

"Call me Owen," he said coolly. "The title's been stripped from me. How long have you known about us?"

"Relax, dear. I don't turn in old friends. I don't have to anymore, and I have my own reasons for hating the Empire and all its works." Her hand rose briefly to brush against a few thin scars on her face. "Half this city has been turning the other half upside down looking for you, and the only reason no one's found you yet is because you've been moving around so much. Fortunately, no one's connected you with your last visit, Hazel, so they don't know to check your old haunts, but it's only a matter of time before someone gets lucky. That's why I brought you up here, away from prying eyes. Times are hard here in Mistport, especially since Typhoid Mary tore the town apart. The prices on both your heads are enough to tempt anyone. Even me, if I didn't have such a personal grudge against the Empire. There's nowhere in this city that's safe for you now; no one you can trust except each other. And you can forget about selling your ship. No one will touch it now, at any price. The Empire's already said it'll blow it apart on sight, no matter who claims to be flying it. I'm afraid you two are stuck with each other. Everyone else has to be seen as a potential enemy. Even I might be tempted, if you stayed around long enough. Friendship is nice, but it doesn't pay the bills."

"There's always Ruby Journey," said Hazel, and Cyder pulled a face.

"Ruby Journey. I should have known that name would come up. I never did know what you saw in her. I always thought of myself as a cold-hearted bitch, but dear Ruby's in a class all of her own. You can't seriously be thinking of throwing yourself on her mercy? She's a bounty hunter!"

"I said that," said Owen.

"She's my friend," said Hazel.

"Bounty hunters don't have any friends," said Cyder.

"Do you know where I can find her?"

"I'm glad to say I haven't the faintest idea. She's around somewhere, no doubt killing someone for money. Or just for the fun of it."

"She's not that bad."

"She's a sadistic, amoral psychopath. And those are her good points."

"You said yourself that Mistport is crawling with Imperial agents, bounty hunters and amateur assassins," Hazel said patiently. "If the aristo and I are going to survive this mess, we need someone like Ruby on our side, if only to frighten everyone else away. Do you have any idea at all where we might look for her?"

Cyder shook her head dubiously and reluctantly provided Hazel with a short list of places to check. Most of them seemed to be taverns, for which Owen at least was grateful. He felt very much in need of a stiff drink, or several. He realized Hazel was scowling at him and sat up straight, trying to look as though he'd been paying attention all the time.

"Much as I hate to admit it, Deathstalker, it appears we're going to be sticking together after all. If we separate, that'll just make us easier to take. Besides, you have a connection that might prove useful after all. Jack Random."

Cyder raised a silver eyebrow. "He's in Mistport? I hadn't heard he was back. Last I'd heard, he'd had his army shot out from under him on Vodyanoi IV, and the Empire was closing in on him from all sides. Of course, that was nearly two years ago. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised he made one of his miracle escapes. He does rather specialize in them. If you're looking for an ally, you could do worse. He's probably the only person on Mistworld that the Empress wants even more than you. Your best bet is to try the Abraxus Information Center, down on Resurrection Street. They're a small business, haven't been around long, but if anyone can find him for you, they can."

"Thanks for the name, Cyder, but we should already have a lead on him. Isn't that right, Deathstalker?"

Hazel looked pointedly at Owen, and he sighed resignedly. He activated his comm implant and contacted Ozymandius.

"Everything all right with the ship, Oz?"

"Oh, sure. A few lowlifes tried to break in, but the yacht's security systems took care of them. Mistport ground staff removed the bodies. There have also been a number of attempts to break into my systems, but nothing I couldn't handle. Strictly amateur hour. These people wouldn't recognize a sophisticated system if they fell over it in the gutter."

"I'm not entirely sure they have gutters here."

The AI sniffed. "Can't say I'm surprised. Where are you? What's been happening?"

"Tell you later. It looks like we're going to need Jack Random after all, Oz. What was the address you had on him?"

"The Abraxus Information Center."

Owen shook his head slowly. "My father's hand is getting clearer by the moment. He's doing everything but lead us by the nose." He broke off contact and looked apologetically at Hazel. "My AI says the same as your friend here. The Abraxus place has all the answers."

"I should hope so," said Cyder. "They charge enough. Do you still have access to the money you banked in Mistport, Hazel? The money from your… previous occupation?"

"Yes," said Hazel, glaring darkly at her. "It's under an assumed name. I should be able to get to it easily enough."

"Good," said Cyder. "You're probably going to need it. Mistport's an expensive place these days."

She led the way back down the stairs and into the bar, which if anything seemed more crowded than ever. The noise was deafening in a convivial sort of way, and two women had started a friendly knife fight in a corner, cheered on by an appreciative crowd. Owen kept a wary eye on it as he followed Cyder and Hazel through the crush. The press of bodies seemed to open up before Cyder, who had a smile and a nod for everyone, but she came to a sudden halt as an alarmingly large figure blocked her path. Owen took one look over Cyder's shoulder and immediately dropped his hand to his sword. The figure brushed Cyder aside as though she was a child and stood smiling down at Hazel, ignoring Owen completely. The crowd fell back a little to give them plenty of room. They knew better than to get involved with a Wampyr.

Owen studied the smiling figure carefully. He'd heard of the Wampyr, but never actually seen one in the flesh. Not many had, and lived to tell of it. The Wampyr had been created to replace the treacherous Hadenmen as the Empire's new shock troops. The augmented men of Haden had proved too powerful to easily control, so the Empire scientists had tried a different approach. They created a new form of artificial blood, supercharged and potent, that would turn any man into an unstoppable warrior: strong, fast and self-regenerating. The only drawback was you had to kill your subject first, flush out the old blood and pump in the new, and then revive him. The scientists finally achieved a seventy percent success rate, which was good enough for the Empire.

The result was a dead man, walking. They felt no pain or pleasure or sensation of any kind. Their only joy was in combat, their only thrills the limited pleasures of mental satisfaction. They delighted in torture, cruel as killer cats, and as patient and deadly. They didn't eat or drink, but their artificial blood had to be replenished and revitalized by the periodic infusion of fresh human blood. Mostly the Wampyr drank it, as much for the effect on witnesses as anything.

They made excellent shock troops, with a tendency to be over thorough and hard to call off, but in the end they were just too expensive to produce en masse, and the project was reluctantly scrapped. But the Wampyr needed battle like they needed blood, and so they scattered throughout the Empire, searching for a little organized death and destruction, and starting it as often as not. They were never popular but often used, and so their legend grew: the undead soldiers who sought their own deaths as eagerly as any other's.

Owen supposed it was inevitable that a Wampyr should turn up on Mistworld. Everyone and everything else did. This particular specimen was seven foot tall, muscular in a lithe, feline way, and altogether disturbing. His skin was completely colorless, and Owen knew it would be ice-cold to the touch. His face was long and angular, all planes and high cheekbones, and his eyes were dark and unblinking. The smile that stretched his pale lips wasn't reflected in his eyes, and he held himself like a fighter waiting for the bell.

For the moment his gaze was fixed on Hazel, and Owen was glad for it to stay that way. The Wampyr was openly disturbing on some deep, primal level. Owen glanced at Hazel to see how she was taking it and was surprised to find she seemed more angry than anything else.

"Hazel d'Ark," said the Wampyr, in a voice as cold and eager as the grave. "You've come back to me."

"Lucius Abbott," said Hazel disgustedly. "Of all the people I didn't want to meet, you were right on the top of the list. Why couldn't you have done the decent thing and died long ago?"

"I did," said Abbott. "They brought me back. Now I live on through people like you. You shouldn't have run away, Hu/el; you're mine, and always will be. Your blood has rushed through my veins."

Owen pushed in beside Hazel. "What's he talking about?"

Abbott's smile widened. "Haven't you told him, Hazel? Haven't you told him how you used to be a plasma baby?"

Plasma baby. A chill rushed through Owen, and he was hard-pressed not to shudder. He knew the term. There were those who gave their human blood for the Wampyr to drink straight from the vein; a master and slave relationship that was said to be closer and more intense than sex or love. One of the few perversions banned throughout the Empire. The Wampyr were dangerous enough without an army of fanatic blood junkies as followers. Owen looked at Hazel, and she glared at the pity she saw in his face.

"I was never one of his sick puppets! I sold a pint of blood on the black market occasionally, but only when times were hard and I really needed the money. His filthy lips never touched my veins, and whatever he got from me he paid top rate for. Now get out of my way, Abbott, or I swear I'll put you in the ground where you should have been years ago!"

"You're mine, Hazel." The Wampyr's voice was cold and commanding. "Kneel."

There was a sudden power in his voice, vile and inhuman and overpowering. Everyone shuddered who heard it, and Hazel fell back involuntarily. She tried to draw her sword, but her hand was shaking too much. Several men and women in the crowd dropped to their knees, and still more fell back, leaving a wide space around the Wampyr and his chosen victim.

This has gone far enough, thought Owen, and murmured the code word boost. Power flooded through him and burned in his muscles, wiping away the command in the Wampyr's voice. Without looking round, Owen picked up a nearby table and hit Abbott with it The heavy wooden table swung through the air like a giant flyswatter, and slammed into the Wampyr with unstoppable force. The impact picked Abbott up, threw him across the tavern and out through a window that was closed. Glass flew in all directions, and the Wampyr disappeared out into the curling mists. Everyone waited tensely, but he didn't reappear. Hazel nodded approvingly to Owen as he put down the table and dropped out of boost.

"Nicely handled, Deathstalker."

Owen smiled modestly. "I have my moments."

"Not that I couldn't have handled him myself, of course."

"Perish the thought," Owen said gallantly. He looked round at the rapt crowd. "Anyone else?"

There was a slight pause, and then everybody very studiously went back to what they had been doing. The noise returned to its previous level, and Owen was about to leave when Cyder stepped in front of him and put a restraining hand on his chest.

"Not so fast, hero. There's a little matter of a broken window to be paid for."

Owen looked at the shattered remains of the window he'd thrown Abbott through and reluctantly admitted that she had a point. He cleared his throat cautiously to give himself time to think, and tried to imagine how much the repairs would cost on a primitive planet like Mistworld. The answer was not encouraging. He did his best to fix Cyder with a determined look.

"Abbott started it; let him pay for the window."

"He's not here," said Cyder. "You are."

Owen mentally checked the contents of his pockets and looked at Hazel. "I appear to be somewhat financially embarrassed at the moment. Do you think you could… ?"

Hazel glared at him and dug into her pockets. "Next time, choose a less expensive way of dealing with him."

"He was your old boyfriend," Owen pointed out.

"He was not my boyfriend!"

"Personally, I never did know what you saw in him," said Cyder, counting the coins Hazel had given her and then making them disappear about her person. "He really wasn't your type, dear."

Hazel started to explode all over again and then sighed resignedly. "All right, so it wasn't just the money. I was feeling down, and just in the mood to be bossed about and mistreated by someone big and dumb and domineering. You know how it is."

"Unfortunately, yes," Cyder admitted. "Before I forget, there are a few people of my acquaintance who might be interested in helping the two of you for various reasons. I'll put the word out and see what happens. Nice to see you again, Hazel. Do let me know how it all comes out in the end."

Hazel and Cyder embraced quickly, kissed the air near each other's cheek, and then Hazel strode out of the tavern into the mists, followed by a dubious but resigned Owen. Cyder watched them go till the mists had swallowed them up and then closed the door. She made her way back through the shifting crowd, frowning thoughtfully, and then sat down at a table tucked away in a niche at the rear of the tavern. The young man sitting there wearing a white thermal suit raised an eyebrow inquisitively. His name was Cat, a slender young man barely into his twenties, but with a lifetime's experience of surviving in the streets of Mistport. He had a pleasant, open face dominated by steady dark eyes and pockmarked cheeks, and there was nothing he wouldn't do for Cyder. He was a roof runner, a burglar specializing in the upper stories of the rich and careless, and mostly he worked on breaking and entering jobs set up by Cyder, who also acted as his fence. Cat was a deaf-mute, but he didn't let it slow him down. On the roofs, it made no difference at all. He watched Cyder's lips carefully as she spoke and waited patiently for his instructions.

"Big things are happening in Mistport once again," said Cyder. "I can feel it in my bones. There has to be a way I can make money on this, if I just keep my wits about me. And if I can keep Hazel and her young Lord alive long enough. I don't think they realize just how desperate their situation is. Half the city's probably out looking for them by now. I'd turn them in myself if I didn't owe Hazel so much.

"I want you to go after them, Cat. Stay out of sight, but help them where you can. Be discreet. We don't want any involvement being traced back to us. Not till we can see who's likely to come out on top. While you're playing guardian angel, I'll send a discreet little note to Tobias Moon. Put him together with Hazel and the Deathstalker, and all kinds of interesting things might happen. Well, don't just sit there, darling; there's work to be done and plots to be spun!"

Cat nodded quickly, kissed her goodbye, did it again because he enjoyed it, and bounded to his feet. He pushed open the window beside him, and dived out into the cold air and swirling mists. He slammed the window shut and then clambered up the outer wall of the tavern with practiced ease. It only took a few minutes to haul himself up over the heavy iron guttering and onto the gabled roof of the Blackthorn, and he crouched there for a long moment like a ghostly gargoyle, looking out over an undulating sea of roofs, stretching away into the gray haze of the mists. Cat was back in his element again. He set off across the roofs of Thieves' Quarter in search of Hazel and Owen, secure in the knowledge that they'd never even know they were being followed.

The Abraxus Information Center turned out to be a single floor above a bakery in a quiet but seedy part of Merchants' Quarter. The smell of baking bread was heavy on the air, and Owen's stomach rumbled loudly. He tried to think how long it had been since he'd sat down to a decent meal of at least four courses, and the answer depressed him. He was always hungry after boosting anyway, and he headed for the bakery door with a determined step. Hazel took him by the arm with an equally firm grip, and steered him past the bakery door and up the exterior stairs to the next floor.

"You can eat later," she said mercilessly. "Business first." Owen sniffed and allowed himself a quiet sulk as Hazel led the way up the creaking wooden stairs. Whatever confidence he might have had in the Abraxus Information Center was shrinking by the moment as he took in the drab nature of the building. It looked in definite need of repair, some of it urgent, and it clearly hadn't seen a coat of paint in years. Who or whatever Abraxus was, Owen was increasingly certain he wouldn't find any help here. Back on Virimonde, he'd kept his stables in better condition than this. He sighed quietly. Virimonde seemed like a long time ago, and it came as something of a shock to him to remember it was only a few days ago that he'd been its lord and his world made sense.

He pushed the thought firmly to one side. It didn't do to dwell too much on who he used to be, or how much he'd lost That way lay madness. He made himself concentrate on Abraxus. Presumably some sort of information-gathering service, with runners and clerks and communications people running everything through a primitive computer of some kind. He hated to think what kind of outdated junk they'd be using in a dump like this. Still, someone with a reputation like Jack Random's should be easy enough to locate. It wasn't as if Mistport was a particularly big city. Besides, Ozymandius had found the address in his hidden files, which suggested some kind of connection between Abraxus and his father's convoluted intrigues. Owen sighed again deeply. He'd spend most of his adult life trying to fashion a life of his own, untouched by his father's plans and ambitions, and here he was sinking deeper and deeper into his father's legacy with every step he took.

He realized Hazel had come to a stop at the top of the stairs just in time to avoid bumping into her, and he let his hand rest on his sword hilt as she knocked more or less politely on the closed door before her. A brass plate fixed to the door read simply "Abraxus." There was no bell or knocker. Hazel was about to hammer with her fist when the door swung suddenly open before her. A large muscular man almost as broad as he was tall filled the doorway. He wore black leather with metal studs, and half his face was hidden behind a complex and very ugly tattoo. He looked at Hazel and Owen and sniffed loudly, unimpressed.

"Hazel d'Ark and Owen Deathstalker? About time you got here. I've been expecting you."

Hazel and Owen were still deciding how to react to that when the huge figure stepped back from the doorway and gestured impatiently for them to enter. They did so, giving him plenty of room, and he sniffed again as he slammed the door shut behind them and locked it Owen started to draw his disrupter, but stopped when Hazel put a firm hand on his arm. The huge figure stomped back in front of them and produced something that might have been intended as a smile.

"I'm Chance. I run Abraxus. Take a look around, and I'll be with you in a minute."

He moved off without waiting for an answer. Owen had a few in mind anyway, only to forget them as he got his first good look at the people who made up the Abraxus Information Center. There were no computers or comm units, no runners or technicians. Instead, two lines of ramshackle cots filled the long narrow room, pressed close together, with a central aisle between them. On the cots, children lay sleeping. They all had intravenous drips plugged into their arms, though their bony forms and skeletal faces suggested they weren't getting much nourishment from them. They also had catheters leading out from under the thick blankets that covered them, dripping into filthy bottles by the beds. How long have they been here like this? thought Owen, and moved reluctantly closer to get a better look. Hazel stuck close beside him.

The children ranged from toddlers of four or five to some who appeared to have just entered their teens. They twitched and turned in their sleep or comas, but their faces seemed somehow intent, focused, and their eyes rolled under their closed eyelids. Some seemed to be muttering to themselves. Two middle-aged women who looked more like charladies than nurses moved unhurriedly along the rows of cots, checking the catheters and IVs, emptying and filling where necessary, but otherwise paying the children no attention. Some of them were secured to their cots with thick leather restraining straps.

Owen felt sick, and a growing rage burned within him. He didn't understand what was going on here, but he didn't need to understand to hate it. No one had the right to treat children in such an inhuman manner. The sword leapt from his scabbard with a harsh, rasping sound, and he started down the central aisle with murder in his eyes. Chance was checking through papers on a desk at the far end of the room. He didn't look up as Owen advanced on him. And then Hazel grabbed his sword arm and pulled him to a halt.

"Hold it, Owen. You don't understand."

"I understand these children are in hell!"

"Yes, maybe they are. But there's a purpose to this. I've seen this kind of thing before."

Owen hefted his sword and then lowered it reluctantly. "All right. Explain it to me."

"Chance could do it better. Stay here and I'll go get him. Promise you won't do anything till you know the whole story."

"No promises," said Owen. "Get Chance. And tell him if I don't like what he has to tell me, I'm going to kill him right here and now."

Hazel patted his arm reassuringly as one would an angry, dangerous dog and hurried down the central aisle toward Chance. Owen's hand clenched tightly round his sword hilt in rage and frustration. He'd never seen anything like this, even in the worst hellspots of the Empire, and he was damned if he'd let it continue. He walked slowly down the aisle, looking from face to face, seeing only a kind of desperation in their gaunt features. One young teenager was stirring restlessly under his restraining straps, muttering fiercely to himself. Owen leaned over the bed to listen to the quiet, breathy voice.

"Brave notes in screaming shocks… The pale harlequins are swarming again… Dear lost shoes and delicate monks are dancing round the summerstone…"

Owen straightened up, obscurely disturbed. It was clearly gibberish, but it bordered on the edge of meaning, as though he might understand it if he just listened long enough. He looked up to see Hazel coming back with Chance and raised his sword just a little. The two of them stopped a respectful distance away, though Hazel seemed more impressed by the drawn sword than Chance. Owen smiled coldly at the big man. It didn't matter how big he was, or what he had to say. Someone was going to pay for what had been done to the children.

"The restraining straps are there to protect them," said Chance, his voice flat and unimpressed. "The children are espers, but they can't always handle what their minds show them. One boy clawed out his eyes rather than see. I don't take chances with them anymore. All these children are retarded to some extent or other. Idiot savants with limitless memories and wide-ranging telepathy. Their minds roam freely out over the city while their bodies rest here, trawling the thoughts of the population and picking out what nuggets of information I require.

"Their families sell them to me when they can no longer look after them, and I put them to work. There's no room on Mistworld for the weak or the handicapped. If they weren't espers, and therefore potentially useful, they'd just be abandoned in the cold and left to die. As it is, I look after them, and they look after me. Few of them last long. By the time I get them, they've already had hard, brutal lives. Fortunately for me, there are always more to replace those who burn out. Don't look at me that way, Deathstalker. I care for them all while they're with me. What comes before and after that is beyond my help.

"Perhaps now we can get down to business. My children told me you'd be coming, and why. You don't have much time. If my espers knew you'd be here, you can bet that others do, too. The penalty of living in a city full of telepaths with loose lips is that there's damn all privacy. Not that I have any right to complain, of course. It is, after all, how I make my living. You needn't worry about payment. The previous Lord Deathstalker had an account with us. He left instructions that if you ever turned up here looking for help, I was to assist you in locating Jack Random and send you to him. Are you going to stand there holding that sword all day, Deathstalker, or will you allow us to help you?"

"I'm still thinking about it," Owen said harshly. "How did you link up with my father?"

"He made Abraxus possible. It was my idea, but his money. He saw the advantages right off, and all I had to do to repay him was make sure he got a copy of whatever information my children turned up. Your father was a visionary: never afraid to experiment."

"He was never afraid to make a profit," said Owen, reluctantly sheathing his sword. "Usually at someone else's expense. How many children have died here since you started Abraxus?"

"Too many. But they would have died anyway. I keep them alive as long as I can. It's in my interest to do so."

Owen looked at Hazel. "You're being very quiet. Don't tell me you approve of this obscenity?"

"This is Mistworld, aristo," said Hazel gently. "Things are different here. If sometimes we're hard and cold, it's because we have to be to survive outside the Empire. If we ever weaken, even for a moment, the Iron Bitch will wipe us out down to the last man, woman and child. She's done it before on other planets. You know she has."

Owen looked away, his eyes moving from one small sleeping form to another, and there was only room in him for a bitter helplessness.

"Ask them," he said brusquely. "Ask them where Jack Random is."

Chance nodded and strode slowly down the center aisle, looking from one side to the other, pausing now and then to study a particular twitching face before moving on. He finally stopped by a boy who looked to be twelve years old. The young esper was scrawny to the point of malnourishment, and his bony face was slick with a sheen of sweat. He was mumbling quickly, breathlessly, his head rolling limply from side to side. He'd somehow managed to pull the IV out of his arm, despite the thick restraining straps, and Chance put it back with practiced ease.

He knelt down beside the bed and put his mouth as close to the boy's ear as he could. He talked slowly, smoothly, and his quiet voice seemed to calm the esper a little. He stopped mumbling and shaking his head and fighting the straps. His eyes stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, or perhaps everything. Owen and Hazel moved forward, and Chance gestured brusquely for them to stay where they were. He produced a small twist of paper from his pocket, took something from it and placed it in the esper's mouth. Owen thought at first it was a pill, and only slowly realized from the movements of the boy's mouth that it had been a piece of candy. Chance put his mouth right next to the esper's ear.

"Come on, Johnny boy, you can do it. Do it for Chance. I've got another treat for you. Got it right here. Just find the man for me, Johnny. Find the man called Jack Random."

He murmured on and on, never raising his voice, never stopping, quiet but persistent, and finally the boy spoke calmly and clearly.

"You want the rebel, the name that is known everywhere, the disrupter of systems, but he is not to be found. Jack Random has another name now, and another life. The Empire's hounds came too close too often, and he went to ground. Go look in his hole, his hiding place. Go to the Olympus health spa down on Riverside, and ask for Jobe Ironhand. He won't want to talk, so it's up to you to be convincing." He broke off abruptly and turned his head to look at Owen and Hazel with his all-seeing eyes. "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."

"That's enough, Johnny," said Chance. The esper closed his disquieting eyes and turned his head away, and his words became quiet and meaningless again. Chance got to his feet and rejoined Owen and Hazel. "Don't take too much notice of that last bit. A lot of my children claim to get glimpses of the future, now and again, but they've proved wrong as often as right. Otherwise, I'd have been a rich man by now."

"I've no plans to die anytime soon," said Owen. "I've been on borrowed time anyway, ever since Hazel saved my ass on Virimonde. Let's get out of here, Hazel. This place gives me the creeps."

Chance shrugged. "Nothing keeping you here, Deathstalker. You've got your name and address, all paid for in advance. The rest of the money in your father's account will go toward keeping me quiet about your visit and your destination. I do regret the necessity, but times are hard, and an honest man must turn a credit where he can. I'm sure you understand."

He broke off abruptly as Owen reached out, took a good handful of Chance's leathers, and lifted him up on his toes. Owen stuck his face into Chance's and smiled unpleasantly. "You understand me, Chance. You breathe a word about me to anyone at all, and you'd better pray they make a real good job of killing me. Because otherwise I'll find you wherever you run and kill you by inches. Got it?"

And then, without looking round, he slowly noticed that something had changed. It was very quiet, very still, and he suddenly realized that the sleeping espers had stopped muttering. Without releasing his hold on Chance, he looked around him. The espers had raised their heads, and they were all looking at him, their faces cold and focused and entirely menacing.

"Put him down, Owen," Hazel said gently. "Please put him down."

Owen let go of Chance and stepped back. He didn't even try to draw his sword or his disrupter. He somehow knew they wouldn't be able to help him. The feeling of menace was thick on the air, and a slow power burned beneath it. Chance readjusted his clothing fussily and sniffed at Owen.

"My children protect me, Deathstalker. Always. I suggest you leave now before they decide to do something unpleasant and terminal to you."

"Time to go," said Hazel. "He's not joking, Owen. Those kids are dangerous."

"So am I," said Owen. "I'm a Deathstalker, Chance, and don't you ever forget it."

"The Empress took your name away," said Chance.

Owen smiled coldly. "It wasn't hers to take. I'm a Deathstalker until I die. And we never forget a slight or an enemy."

Chance looked down his nose at him. "That's what your father said to me the last time he was here."

"I'm not my father," said Owen. "I fight dirty."

He turned and left with Hazel close behind him. The espers on their cots watched them go, their heads turning as one.

In the cold and mists outside the bakery, three toughs with drawn swords waited impatiently in the adjoining alleyway for their prey to emerge. They'd had to pay out good money at the Blackthorn to pick up the trail on the Deathstalker and his woman, but they expected to be fully repaid, and a hell of a lot more, by the reward money on their prey's heads.

Three toughs from the underside of Thieves' Quarter, Harley, Jude and Crow. Cutpurses, back-stabbers and muscle for hire. Normally they would have had more sense than to go after a renowned swordsman and warrior like the Deathstalker, but the reward money had inflamed their minds, and anyway, they felt safe enough attacking together from ambush. With any luck, it would all be over before the Deathstalker even knew what was happening, and then they could each take turns with his woman before they killed her. They clutched their sword hilts tightly and stamped their boots impatiently in the snow. They hadn't planned on so long a wait, but then, planning wasn't exactly their long suit, any more than patience.

It was snowing again, and the mists were getting thicker. If the temperature had been any lower, it would have dropped off the bottom of the thermometer. Crow scowled. He was nominally the leader, because he talked the loudest, but he was beginning to get a bad feeling about the ambush, even though it had been his idea in the first place. It was taking too long. They couldn't just keep standing around in the alleyway with their swords in their hands. Someone would notice, even in Mistport He turned to Jude to complain about the wait in general and the cold in particular, and then stopped. Jude wasn't there. Crow blinked. Jude had been there a minute ago, large as life and twice as smelly. Crow looked quickly around the narrow alleyway, but there was nowhere he could be hiding. At least Harley was still there. Crow grabbed him by the arm, and Harley nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Don't do that! You know I get a nervous twitch when I'm startled. What do you want?"

"Where's Jude?"

Harley looked at Crow uncertainly, and then looked vaguely round the alleyway. "I don't know. I thought he was with you. He was here a minute ago."

"I know he was here a minute ago, but he isn't here now! What's happened to him?"

"I don't know! Maybe he had to take a leak and… wandered off."

"Without saying anything to us? And why didn't we notice him going?"

Harley thought hard. It wasn't easy. Thinking had never come easily to Harley, and he rather resented Crow asking him all these questions. Harley wasn't in the gang to think. He was there to take orders and hit people. He looked hopefully at Crow, in case he'd come up with the answers by himself, and then looked quickly away again.

"I'll take a look down the end of the alley," he said hastily. "Just in case."

He trudged quickly off through the snow before Crow could ask him just in case what. Crow watched him go and growled under his breath. The ambush hadn't been started properly yet, and already it was going wrong. He glanced back at the bakery to make sure the prey hadn't appeared yet, and then looked back at Harley. Only to find that he'd disappeared, too. Crow made a small whimpering noise. There was no way Harley could have reached the end of the alleyway in the short time he'd taken his eyes off him, but there was nowhere else he could have gone. Except he had to have gone somewhere… Crow spun round in a circle twice, in case he'd missed something, but all it did was make him dizzy. He was giving serious thought to running away screaming, when a noose of thin rope dropped soundlessly over his head from above and tightened round his throat.

Crow dropped his sword and clawed at the noose with both hands, but already his eyes were glazing over. His eyes bulged as he was drawn up into the air, and he was completely out of it by the time Cat hauled him up onto the roof overlooking the alleyway. He laid the unconscious thug out beside his two sleeping friends and grinned widely. He was so smart, and they were so dumb. He loosened the rope noose from around Crow's neck, coiled it round his waist again, and looked thoughtfully at the three slumbering toughs. He couldn't kill them. It wasn't in him. But he gave Harley a good kick in the nuts anyway, for being particularly heavy. He'd nearly done his back in hauling that great oaf up onto the roof. Still, Cyder had told him to make sure that Hazel and the Deathstalker went on their way undisturbed, and he always did what Cyder told him. Partly because he loved her, but mostly because she tended to throw things if he didn't. He crouched down on the edge of the roof, almost invisible in the shifting mists in his pure white thermal suit, and smiled widely as Hazel and the Deathstalker set off down the street away from the bakery. Cat followed them, moving silently from roof to roof above them.

"Owen," Hazel said firmly, "whatever else you do or don't do in Mistport, the one thing you should never do is get an esper mad at you, let alone a whole crowd of crazy espers. There are an awful lot of ways they can make life unpleasant and suddenly short for you. If you're going to continue taking risks like that, please give me plenty of warning so I can completely disassociate myself from you."

"I don't get it," said Owen, his fingers tightening angrily around his sword hilt. "He exploits those children, burns up what's left of their lives, and yet they were ready to defend him!"

"You don't have to get it," said Hazel. "All you have to remember is to keep your nose out of other people's business, or someone will cut if off. Mistport is like that, mostly."

Owen sighed, and shook his head. "All right, where are we going now? You said the health spa we want was due north of Abraxus, and according to my internal compass, we are currently heading southwest."

Hazel looked at him. "You have an internal compass? I didn't know I was walking around with a Hadenman. What else have you got hidden in your plumbing that I don't know about?"

"Never you mind, and don't change the subject. Where are we going?"

"I want to stop off somewhere first," said Hazel. "Just in case the Random deal doesn't pan out, I'll feel happier if we've got a backup. Ruby Journey used to be a red-hot bounty hunter, and she owes me several large favors. If anyone will know how to hide and protect us, it'll be her. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to be in any of her usual haunts, which leaves only one place worth checking. All bounty hunters on Mistworld have to be licensed, on the principle that if you can't control it, tax it; the center for issuing those licenses is just down this street and around the corner. Unless they've moved it again. People keep fire-bombing it on general principles."

Owen considered this silently as Hazel led the way confidently down the street and around the corner. He was pretty sure they were being followed, but so far no one had made any moves. He was beginning to wish someone would, just so he could react. The continuing tension was giving him an ache right between the shoulder blades. He wasn't sure how many there were out there. He kept half-seeing or hearing people, only when he looked again they weren't there anymore. Owen was seriously considering turning around suddenly and shouting "Boo!" very loudly, just to see who'd jump and where, when Hazel came to a sudden halt. Owen stopped with her and studied the new premises thoughtfully. He'd seen worse, mostly in Mistport.

The new location was definitely more upscale than the last, not that this would have been difficult. Presumably the bounty hunter business was booming in Mistport. It was a big building, with curlicued decorations and scrollwork, and people going in and out in a steady stream. Hazel strode in through the open double doors as though she owned the place, and Owen hurried after her. They were immediately caught up in the complete chaos filling the huge lobby from wall to wall. Everywhere Owen looked there were desks and tables buried under piles of paper and people running back and forth between the desks as though their lives depended on it. This being Mistport, thought Owen, perhaps they did. A large crowd of all sorts and types took up all the remaining space, shouting at the people behind the desks and each other with equal volume and tenacity. The walls were covered with overlapping wanted posters, and up on the ceiling someone had painted a series of large murals depicting the human body in some detail, and the best places to hit it with large pointed things.

The din was deafening, the air was hot and sweaty, and the smell was indescribable. Hazel ploughed right through the middle of it, making liberal use of her fists and elbows to get some room. Apparently this was common practice, or at least common enough that only a few people reached for their swords, and by then she was already gone. Owen stuck close behind her, muttering polite apologies that no one heard and glaring at anyone who didn't put their sword away fast enough. It was a good glare; Owen had had lots of chances to practice and perfect it since he'd come to Mistworld. It was a carefully balanced mixture of rage and imminent violence, with just a touch of outright insanity. By the time he was halfway through the crowd, people were backing away to avoid him.

He ended up at Hazel's side in front of a desk at the rear of the room. It had two trays, marked "In" and "Urgent," and there were piles of paper everywhere. Much of it had the rough look of cheap recycling, and Owen was intrigued to note that most of them were covered with handwritten texts. In the circles he was used to moving in, handwritten notes tended to be few and far between, being usually reserved for spies and lovers.

The man sitting behind the desk was a small, intense figure with a put-upon face and a permanent scowl. He was casually dressed to the point of carelessness, and his thick black hair stuck out at angles, as though he tugged at it a lot. Hazel smiled at him charmingly, and the clerk stared back at her with equal pans desperation and apoplexy. Hazel opened her mouth to speak, and he beat her to it in a loud, carrying voice that cut through the general din.

"I don't know! Whatever it is, I don't know and I don't care! I am up to my lower lip in paperwork and sinking fast. Go away. Come back next week. Or next month. Or not at all. See if I care. Why are you still standing there?"

"I only want one name," said Hazel.

"That's what everyone says!" snapped the clerk. "Do you know how much work it takes to track down just one name? No, of course you don't, and you don't care either, do you?

No one cares," he said wistfully. "No one appreciates you here. The lunch break's a joke, there's only one toilet, and the pay's rotten. I'd quit if it wasn't for the pension. And the constant chances to screw up people's lives. I see my job as a kind of revenge against an uncaring society. It's either this or planting explosives in public places, and explosives are expensive. Why are you still here?"

"Why is anybody here?" said Hazel. "Look, can we save the existentialism for later? Just find me a name and an address to go with it, and we'll go away and leave you alone. Wouldn't that be nice? And not only that, if you help us, I can definitely promise to restrain my companion here from picking up all those papers in front of you and scattering them to the four corners of the room."

The clerk grabbed the nearest pile protectively. "That's right. Threaten me. Intimidate me. Who am I? Just a clerk, a minor cog in the great wheel. I can feel one of my funny turns coming on."

"How about if we offered you a small payment?" said Hazel.

"How about if you offered a big payment?" countered the clerk.

Hazel produced a large silver coin from her purse and dropped it onto the desk before him. The clerk looked at it sadly. Hazel had to add three more before he sighed deeply and scooped up the coins with a practiced sweep of the hand.

"All right, give me the name. I'm not promising anything, mind."

"Ruby Journey."

"Oh, her. Why didn't you say? She's working as a bouncer down at the Rabid Wolf. And long may she stay there, well away from civilized people. It's been ever so peaceful around here since she moved. When you find her, remind her that her license runs out next week. I should do it from a safe distance, mind. Now go away and upset somebody else. I have papers to shuffle and civil insurrection to plan."

He picked up the nearest piece of paper and stared at it fixedly. Owen and Hazel exchanged a look and then shoved, elbowed and intimidated their way back through the crowd and out into the calm and quiet of the street.

"Well," said Owen, "that was… different. Are there a lot of people like him in Mistport?"

"Unfortunately, yes," said Hazel. "A lot of people arrive here fleeing from the tyranny of Empire, expecting to find some kind of free, civilized Utopia. The rather different reality of scraping out a living on an unhospitable rock of ice with a population consisting mainly of outlaws, failures and criminals upsets a lot of new arrivals, and some never really get over it."

"Don't you find that rather worrying?" said Owen.

"Not as long as explosives remain really expensive."

"So, you and this Ruby Journey go back a long way, then?" said Owen as they set off down the street. He couldn't help noticing that they still weren't heading north.

"I had a try at bounty hunting myself," said Hazel briskly. "I didn't last long. I was too soft; kept bringing them in alive, and there's no money in that. Ruby was my sponsor and mentor at the time. A good friend, if a trifle… unpredictable. I can't believe things have got so bad for her that she's been forced to work as a bouncer. Mind you, I bet she's a good one. No one would argue with her twice."

"What sort of place is this Rabid Wolf she's working at?"

"A dive, the last time I was there. Dope joint, gambling house, a few girls and a bar that never closes. You know the sort of place."

"Well, actually, no," said Owen. "But it sounds… interesting. Still, I can't help thinking Ruby Journey can wait. Surely we need to find Jack Ransom first, before someone else finds us. He'll be able to protect us from whoever comes after us. Jack Random could stand off a whole army. I mean, the man's a legend."

"Was a legend," said Hazel, looking carefully straight ahead and not slowing down one bit. "The man is well past his prime. The last I heard of him, he was telling stories of his past exploits in bars in return for free drinks."

"Are we talking about the same person? Jack Random, the professional rebel?"

Hazel sighed, but still wouldn't look at him. "Being a rebel and an outlaw is hard work. It wears you down. Jack Random is not the man he used to be. Hasn't led a major uprising since that fiasco on Blue Angel, when he got his ass kicked in no uncertain manner. It was a miracle he got out of there alive and mostly intact, and everyone knows it. And that was years ago. Random is… an unknown quantity. I know I can rely on Ruby. She's death on two legs, with an attitude. The best in the business."

"And currently working as a bouncer."

Hazel glared at him and increased his pace. Owen trudged after her, maintaining a diplomatic silence. He felt as though he should be defending Random more, but the more he thought about it, the less actual evidence he could find to support his argument. All right, the man was a legend. No denying that. He'd led more rebellions against the Empire than any three other outlaws put together, but though he'd fought in some famous campaigns, he'd only ever won fleeting victories. He had the charisma and the rhetoric, but the Empire had the numbers. It always had more ships, more guns, more men to call on. And as the years went on, Jack Random lost more campaigns than he won and was hounded from planet to planet and from battle to battle, while the Empire still stood. Owen sighed. If you couldn't trust Jack Random, who could you trust?

He moved up alongside Hazel and pulled his cloak tightly about him. There was a bitter wind rising, and it seemed to blow right through him. Owen was beginning to find the sudden shifts from icy cold exteriors to piping hot interiors and back again increasingly distressing. Probably end up with a streaming cold on top of everything else, and light years away from civilized medicine.

He tried hard not to think about leeches.

Owen and Hazel trudged off down the street, lost in their separate thoughts, and never saw the hooded figure with a crossbow rise up from an overlooking balcony and draw a bead on Owen's unprotected back. The assassin's finger tightened on the release, and a stone from Cat's slingshot hit him right between the eyes. He fell backward out of sight, and the arrow disappeared into the mists. A cat shrieked briefly in outrage. Cat grinned and recovered his balance on the outcropping gable he was crouching on opposite the balcony. Funny thing about assassins; it never seemed to occur to them that while they were stalking someone, someone else might be stalking them. This was the seventeenth bounty hunter he'd deterred, and he was running out of stratagems. Not to mention stones for his slingshot. He wished Owen and Hazel would work out where they wanted to be and settle there. It was hard work tracking them across the city, jumping from roof to roof and taking care of the apparently endless stream of would-be assassins who dogged their I trail. And now they were off again, heading even deeper into Thieves' Quarter, into areas people usually had enough sense to leave well enough alone. Cat sighed heavily and set off after them, eyes alert for further dangers. He hoped Cyder had some plan to make money out of these people. He'd hate to think he was doing all this for nothing.

The Rabid Wolf was a festering dump tucked away up a side street with no lighting, as though even the street was ashamed of its presence. The only light came from a brazier burning unattended halfway down the street. Owen wasn't sure what was actually burning in the brazier, but it smelled awful. Also, from the look of the street, several horses had recently taken the time to use the street as a toilet. At least, he hoped it was horses. He looked at Hazel, who was looking calmly down the street as though she'd seen worse.

"We don't really have to go down there, do we?" said Owen. "It's going to ruin my boots."

"Don't be such a wimp, Owen. Just watch where you're treading, and don't talk to any strange women, and you'll be fine."

She set off down the street, and Owen followed her, being very careful where he put his feet. The Rabid Wolf looked as though it had seen a great deal of hard use down the years, not to mention the occasional firebombing and outbreak of plague. The front of the inn was covered with scars and gouges and suspicious stains, and the two windows had been boarded over long ago. The open door was guarded by a huge hulking figure with bulging muscles and glandular n problems. The last time Owen had seen something that big it standing upright, it had been glaring back at him from its cage in the Imperial Zoo, as though telling him where he could stick his peanuts.

Hazel walked right up to it, stuck her face into its, and the two of them exchanged tough sounds for a moment, just to establish they were both hard, desperate types, and then Hazel slipped the figure a coin, and it stepped back from the door to let Owen and Hazel enter. Hazel stalked past it with her head held high, and Owen hurried after her, keeping a wary eye on the doorkeeper as he dodged past it, his hand never far from his sword. He tried a tentative smile, and the doorkeeper opened its mouth to reveal four sets of gleaming steel teeth. Pointed gleaming steel teeth, in neat rows. Owen knew when he'd been out-smiled. He looked away as though he'd meant to all along, and almost bumped into Hazel from behind. She'd stopped just inside the bar and was looking around with barely disguised nostalgia.

Owen wrinkled his nose at the smell and thought he could detect several kinds of smoke in the air that were banned throughout the Empire on the grounds that they were dangerous to whoever happened to be around when someone else was smoking them. The light was dim, not helped in the least by the thick smog in the air. The inhabitants of the bar looked the kind who preferred it that way. At least, if Owen had looked that unsavory, he'd have preferred not to be seen too clearly. There was no sawdust on the floor, presumably because the rats had eaten it. He could see a few of them darting busily about in the far shadows. If one of them runs up my leg, thought Owen, I'm going to scream.

Hazel made her way through the smog to the bar, and Owen went after her rather than be left alone. The last time he'd felt this threatened, two starcruisers had been firing at him. The bar itself was encrusted with filth and the remains of spilled drinks, some of which appeared to have eaten holes in the wood. Either that, or the woodworm had been overdosing on steroids. Owen took one look at the bar and decided immediately that he wasn't going to lean against it, even for a moment. Hazel gestured imperiously at the bartender, a grossly fat man with a long, stained apron that might have started out white several decades ago, and grilled him on Ruby Journey's whereabouts. Owen took the opportunity to study the various bottles on display and decided very firmly that he wasn't at all thirsty.

And he didn't think he'd ask about bar snacks, either.

He put his back to the bar and looked about him. The Rabid Wolf struck him as the kind of place his tutors had warned him he'd end up in if he didn't pay attention to his studies. He hadn't seen such an assortment of thugs, villains and general lowlifes in one place since his last visit to the Imperial Court on Golgotha. None of them looked particularly hygenic, and Owen was seized with a sudden certainty that they all had fleas. An itch started immediately over his ribs, but he refrained from scratching himself for fear someone would think he was going for his sword. Not that he was actually afraid of any of these scum, of course. He was a Deathstalker, after all. He just didn't like the odds, or how far it was to the nearest exit.

A handful of ladies of the evening, or ladies of the mid-afternoon, to be exact, were gathered together at the other end of the bar, garish and striking in their working paints and finery. They were arguing fiercely over a large purse of money, presumably obtained from the man sleeping beside them with his head on the bar. Owen had to admit that they were rather attractive, in a grubby vicious way, and the beginnings of a fantasy stirred in his mind and certain parts of his anatomy. Perhaps the Rabid Wolf wasn't such a bad place after all. At which point, one of the women produced a knife from nowhere and stabbed one of the other women right in her overdeveloped chest. She fell limply to the floor and lay still, and her murderer snatched up the purse from the bar. The other women thought this was the funniest thing they'd ever seen and shrieked with laughter. Owen looked longingly at the door and decided he was going to shoot anyone who even looked at him oddly. Especially if it was a woman. Hazel appeared suddenly beside him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"What's the matter with you?" said Hazel.

"What's the matter with me? This is the most appalling, disreputable and downright awful establishment I've ever had the misfortune to visit! If you were to look up the word sleazy in the dictionary, it would say 'See Rabid Wolf'! Get me out of here before I catch something."

"It's not that bad," said Hazel. "For Mistport. I used to do a lot of my drinking here when I was younger. Of course, I had no taste then. It gets a bit noisy sometimes, and the clientele isn't exactly elite, but on the other hand, it's never boring."

"There's a lot to be said for boring," said Owen. "What did you find out about Ruby Journey?"

Hazel scowled. "Ruby worked here briefly, but they ended up firing her for excessive violence, which probably took some doing in a place like this. They've no idea where she might be now."

"Does that mean we can get out of here now?" said Owen hopefully.

"You really don't like this place, do you?" said Hazel, grinning. "Isn't the ambience growing on you?"

"If it does, I'll scrape it off," Owen said firmly. "I just know I'm going to come down with something disgusting simply from breathing what passes for air in here. I've had boils on my buttocks that were more fun than this."

Hazel pointed out one of the ladies at the end of the bar. "I think she fancies you."

"I'd rather die."

And that was when the fight broke out. Owen didn't see who started it, or why, but suddenly everyone in the inn was fighting everyone else with swords, knives, broken bottles and anything else that came to hand. The din was appalling, with battle cries, screams and foul language filling the air. Blood flew in all directions, and bodies fell to be trampled underfoot. Owen drew his sword and backed up against the bar. One of the few things he had learned from his tutors was that discretion usually was the better part of valor. Or to put it another way, only an idiot gets involved in other people's fights. He shot a glance at Hazel and winced. She was grinning at the mayhem with undisguised glee and looked as though she might dive in at any moment just for the hell of it. Owen grabbed her by the arm, got her attention by shouting right into her ear and pushed her firmly toward the exit. She nodded disappointedly, and standing back to back, they headed for the door. A few individuals disputed their progress, but backed off rather than face the obvious competence with which Owen and Hazel held their swords. They eased out the door, stepping over the unconscious body of the doorkeeper, and lurched out into the street. It seemed very calm and peaceful, though the din inside seemed to be going on uninterrupted. Owen began to breathe more easily and put away his sword.

"All right, let's get out of here before the law arrives."

"The law? Around here? Not unless they're new. The watch doesn't bother this neighborhood for anything less than a full-scale riot."

"And this doesn't qualify?"

"Hardly. Just a few high spirits, that's all. It'll blow over as quickly as it started. You've got to learn to take things more casually, Deathstalker. Mistport's not that bad. It just tends to the dramatic."

The boarded-up window beside them exploded outward as a body came flying through it. Owen and Hazel backed away instinctively, just in time to miss a second flying form. This one wasn't traveling quite so fast and crashed into a snowdrift not far from the shattered window. He got to his feet with a groan, swayed unsteadily a moment, and then cautiously approached the window.

"I'd like to apologize."

"What for?" said a voice from inside.

"Anything."

He then set off down the street, walking slowly and carefully, as though he wasn't sure everything was as firmly attached as it used to be. Owen and Hazel shared a smile and set off after him. Up on a slanting roof overlooking the Rabid Wolf, Cat watched them go with a feeling of relief. He'd been a little worried when they actually went inside the inn, and became even more worried when the mayhem started, because whatever happened, he had absolutely no intention of going in there after them. There were limits.

At the last moment, he glimpsed a movement in the shadows below, and instinct sent him diving to one side as the disrupter beam exploded the roof where he'd been crouching. Even so, the blast was enough to send him flying, all arms and legs, trying to find something to grab onto. And then there was nothing but air under him, and he fell thirty feet into a deep snowdrift and didn't move again. Lucien Abbott, the Wampyr, smiled and lowered the disrupter. He'd never liked Cat. He started down the street after Hazel and Owen, still smiling, still holding the gun.

At the entrance of the unlit street, Hazel and Owen stopped dead in their tracks at the unmistakable sound of an energy weapon being fired and moved immediately to stand back to back again. Owen tried to look in every direction at once, but whichever way he looked there were far more shadows than light. Hazel had told him energy weapons were rare on Mistworld, and he'd stopped worrying about them on such an obviously low-tech world. Now he felt naked and vulnerable, and he didn't even know from which direction the shot had come. He had his gun out as well as his sword, but that was all offense, no defense. A disrupter blast would tear right through him without even slowing. He knew he should have brought a force shield with him.

He looked back and forth, sweat starting out on his face despite the cold. And then, from every side, from every shadow, from every street and alleyway, came a small army of men and women. They were wrapped in greasy, mismatched furs, and they all had some kind of weapon. They moved slowly, remorselessly forward to form a circle round their prey. Owen licked his dry lips. There had to be at least a hundred of them. Maybe more. And then Lucien Abbott stepped out of the crowd, carrying a disrupter, and Owen's heart sank even further. The Wampyr was smiling. His teeth looked large and white and very sharp.

"You didn't really think it was going to be that easy, did you, Deathstalker? Just brush me aside and forget all about me? Takes more than one blow to put me down. You have to remember: I'm Wampyr. I'm not human anymore. Haven't been since they let me die and then brought me back. Do you like my friends? They're all plasma babies. Blood junkies. Blood brothers and sisters, bound to me by ties stronger than love or family, life or death. You never did tell him the whole story, did you, Hazel? What it really means to be a plasma baby. I didn't just drink her blood, Deathstalker; she drank mine. Only a few drops at a time, but a little of my artificial blood goes a long way. I take human blood in and refine it into something else. They tell me it's the most potent drug imaginable; a high so intense it's like living and dying all at once. Isn't that right, Hazel?"

"That was a long time ago, Abbott," said Hazel, and her voice was firm and very steady. "I broke free of you. It took everything I had and then some, but I beat you. You're nothing to me anymore."

"You belong to me," said the Wampyr. "Just like the rest of my children. Come back to me. Taste my blood again, and I'll let you live."

"I'd rather kiss a cockroach," said Hazel.

The Wampyr smiled coldly. "Kill them both. See that they suffer first."

Owen brought his gun up quickly and fired at Abbott, but the Wampyr melted instantly back into the crowd, and the energy beam tore through one of the ragged men and set fire to several others behind him. They died in silence. Incredibly, the crowd didn't falter, hands steady, eyes unwavering. And the Wampyr stepped back into the light, still smiling.

"I thought that would provoke you into using your disrupter. Now it's useless till the energy crystal has recharged. I won't let them have you, Deathstalker. I want you for myself. Not for the price on your head. Money means little to me anymore. No, I want to break you, humble you, cripple you. I shall enjoy that. And then I'll let you drink a little of my blood, and you'll belong to me, body and soul."

Owen put away his gun and swept his sword back and forth before him. "You talk too much, Wampyr. Let's do it."

The Wampyr surged forward, arms outstretched, moving impossibly fast. Owen braced himself and stepped forward in a perfect lunge, sword extended, and Abbott impaled himself on the long blade. It entered just below the heart and punched out his back in a flurry of black, viscous blood. Abbott grunted once, and then stepped forward, forcing himself along the blade so that he could reach the Deathstalker. Owen pirouetted on one foot, brought the other up to slam against Abbott's belly, and jerked his sword free again. He backed away, watching incredulously as the wound in the Wampyr's chest healed itself in seconds.

Right, thought Owen. Fast, strong, regenerates. Wonder what else he isn't telling me…

He cut at the Wampyr's throat, and Abbott slapped the blade aside with his bare hand. Owen backed away again, and Abbott came after him. Hazel was suddenly there behind the Wampyr, aiming her disrupter. A dozen of the crowd piled onto her, ripping the gun from her hand and holding her down. She struggled fiercely, but their weight was too much for her. Owen scowled and sub vocalized the trigger word boost. He'd been using it far too often just recently, and he hated to think what the long-term effects were going to be, but it wasn't as if he had any choice in the matter. The world seemed to slow down as the boost took hold, supercharging his system and buying him time to think. The Wampyr was fast, but so was he, now. If he could just get past the Wampyr's defenses, one good cut to the neck would decapitate him. Regenerate from that, you bastard.

He danced around the Wampyr, cutting and drawing back, spilling the black blood, only to see the cuts heal in a moment. The Wampyr moved with him, his hands reaching out to tear and hurt, the two men moving too quickly for the unaided eye to follow. Owen thrust and stamped, cutting where he could, going always for the throat, but never even getting close, while Abbott's grasping hands came closer every time. Owen licked his dry lips and panted for breath. The boost gave him some regeneration, but he didn't think it would be enough to repair what Abbott intended to do to him.

And then he moved too slowly, anticipated too late, and Abbott's hand closed around his wrist like a vise. The Wampyr's hand tightened, and all the feeling went out of Owen's hand. The sword fell from his numb fingers, and Abbott laughed softly. Owen dropped his free hand to his boot, pulled out the dagger he kept there and rammed it between the Wampyr's ribs. Black blood ran for a moment, and then stopped. The Wampyr smiled, and threw Owen twenty feet. The crowd scrambled to avoid him, and he hit the packed snow hard, driving the breath from his lungs. He rolled over slowly, biting back a groan. His hand was completely numb. Abbott was walking unhurriedly toward him, still smiling, the knife jutting unnoticed from his ribs.

Owen lurched up onto one knee and crouched there for a moment, breathing hard. And then his good hand brushed against something in the snow, and his heart missed a beat as he recognized what it was. Luck had finally smiled on him, and he was back in with a chance. Abbott loomed over him, grabbed Owen's shirtfront with both hands and lifted him off the ground. His feet kicked helplessly, six inches above the snow.

"It's over, little man," said Abbott.

"Bet your ass," said Owen. And he brought up the hand holding Hazel's lost gun, thrust it into Abbott's gaping mouth, and pressed the stud. The energy blast blew the Wampyr's head apart like a rotten fruit, and black blood and brains flew across the air. Abbott's hands slowly released Owen, letting him fall back onto the blood-spattered snow. He scrambled quickly away, tucked Hazel's gun into his belt and scooped up his sword with his good hand, beating the other against his thigh to get the feeling back again. And then, finally, Abbott's body fell and lay still.

The crowd of onlookers surged forward and fell on it like rats on a day-old corpse. They tore the Wampyr's clothes apart, cut the flesh with their weapons and sucked at the black blood like leeches, their mouths working greedily against the pale flesh. Others fought over the blood spilling sluggishly from the severed neck. Owen staggered over to Hazel, who was back on her feet and shaking her head dazedly. She looked up sharply as he approached, then looked across at the feeding frenzy of the mob.

"I really think we should get out of here. Hazel," said Owen. He flexed his hand, grimacing at the pins and needles, and then gave Hazel her gun back. She nodded quickly and looked about her.

"I get the feeling it's not going to be that easy, Deathstalker."

Owen looked around him, and his blood ran cold. The crowd had left the Wampyr's body and reformed itself around them. Most had black stains around their mouths, and all their eyes were fixed on Owen and Hazel. There was a growing tension in the air, and the faces of the crowd slowly filled with the same slow hatred. Their master, their god, was dead. There would be no more of the wonderful blood that had made them feel like gods, too, for a time. Owen looked quickly about him, but the odds were equally bad whichever way he looked. He stood back-to-back with Ha/el, and they held their swords ready. And the mob came at them from all sides.

At first the sheer size of the crowd counted against it; they weren't used to working together and kept getting in each other's way. But the black blood burned within them, and they struggled for a chance to get at the man who had killed their god. Owen cut and thrust with skilled precision, killing coldly and dispassionately, with the minimum necessary movement and strength. The blood junkies died and fell, but there were always more to take their place. Hazel fought at his back, stabbing and cutting. Blades came at Owen and Hazel from all directions: swords and knives and machetes in never-ending numbers. Owen fought on, doggedly refusing to be beaten. The boost still flared within him, bright and powerful, but he wasn't sure how much longer it would last. The candle that burns twice as brightly lasts half as long.

He gutted a skeletal man wrapped in evil-smelling furs, ducked a wild swing from the man next to him and cut viciously at another face that pressed too close. He'd already taken a dozen minor wounds he was too busy to feel, and blood soaked his clothes, some of it his. He grunted and stamped and swung his sword with all his amplified strength, and still the crowd surged around him, desperate to drag him down. Gleaming blades came at him from every side, and he could only evade and parry so many of them. It came to him suddenly and quite calmly that there was no way he and Hazel could survive this. There were just too many of the blood junkies. It only needed one of them to get in a lucky blow, and the fight would be over. A hell of a way for a Deathstalker to die, pulled down by nameless dogs in a nameless back alley. He smiled slightly, even as he cut and thrust. He'd felt this way once before, on Virimonde, when his own men had surrounded him, desperate for his head, but then Hazel had come from nowhere to save him. This time she was in just as much trouble as he was. She couldn't save him… but perhaps he could save her. He considered the thought dispassionately and found it good. He owed her his life, and the Deathstalkers always paid their debts. And at least this way his death would mean something.

He forced back the maddened faces in front of him with wide, sweeping strokes to buy him a little space, and drew his disrupter. Enough time had passed to recharge the crystal. Some of the crowd drew back just from the sight of the energy gun. Owen tilted his head back to yell at Hazel. He could feel her back bumping and jarring against his, showing that she was still alive and fighting, but he had no way of knowing what shape she was in.

"Hazel, I've got a plan!"

"Better be a good one, Deathstalker."

"I'm going to blast a hole through the crowd with my disrupter. When you see the opening, run. I'll keep them occupied."

"Are you crazy? I'm not leaving you to die! I didn't save your ass last time just to run out on you now."

"Hazel, I can't save both of us. If you don't run, we'll both die. Please, let me do this. Let me save you."

There was a pause, and then her voice came back to him. "You're a brave man, Deathstalker. Wish I'd known you longer. Do it."

Owen summoned up the last of his boosted strength and threw himself at the crowd. Blood pounded in his head and boiled through his veins, and all his pain and tiredness disappeared like a fleeting thought. His sword swung and hacked like a part of him, driving back the vicious faces before him, his blade moving too fast for the eye to follow. The crowd fell back still further, confused for the moment by the deadly force in their midst, and Owen raised his disrupter and fired. The blood junkies threw themselves out of its way, but still the searing energy beam tore through those who didn't move fast enough, and for a moment there was an opening in the crowd.

"Run!" yelled Owen as he pulled Hazel round so she could see the opening, and she lowered her head and ran. She burst through the crowd and on into the deserted street beyond. She pounded down the street, and only slowly realized no one was following her. She stopped and looked back, and all she could see were the backs of the crowd intent on one struggling figure in their midst. Hazel slowly lowered her sword and felt something burn in her eyes that might have been tears. He'd never liked her much, any more than she'd liked him, but he'd sacrificed himself to save her. For a moment she wanted to run back and fight beside him again, but that would just have thrown away the chance he'd given her. As she watched, the crowd pressed in from every side, hacking and cutting, and Owen fell beneath them to disappear under the crowd of bodies. A sob forced its way past her trembling mouth.

"Don't mourn for him," said a quiet, distorted voice behind her. "It's not over yet."

She spun round, sword at the ready, and found herself facing a tall, stocky man in a dark uniform she didn't recognize. She had a brief glimpse of a subtly inhuman face with blazing golden eyes, and then the figure was past her and running toward the crowd with impossible speed. A few turned to face him, but he was among them in seconds, swinging his sword in long deadly arcs that picked men up and threw them aside like puppets with broken strings. Men and woman fell to every side of him, and the crowd scattered, unable to face the newcomer's incredible strength and speed. From their midst a blood-stained figure rose up again, still savagely swinging his sword. His voice rose above the clamor, strong and strident.

"Shandrakor! Shandrakor!"

Hazel's heart missed a beat as she realized who it was, and she had to blink back fresh tears. She should have known Owen Deathstalker wouldn't die that easily. Together, he and the newcomer moved among the dispersing crowd like unstoppable nightmares, and bloodied figures fell to the stained snow and did not rise again. No one could stand against them, and after a few moments no one tried anymore. The surviving blood junkies turned and ran, and as quickly as that it was all over. Owen and the newcomer lowered their swords and watched them run, and then looked at each other appraisingly. Hazel ran back to join them, then had to put a supporting arm round Owen as his knees buckled. He was trembling like a horse after a race, but he still managed a ghastly grin for her, despite his many wounds.

"You realize," he said thickly, "that this is the second bloody time I've had to be rescued by somebody else? Just once I'd like to rescue myself, okay? Is that so much to ask?"

"Oh, shut up and get your breath back," said Hazel. "If you were drowning, you'd complain the straw you were clutching at wasn't a good enough quality. What was that you were shouting?"

"My Family's battlecry," said Owen. His voice seemed a little stronger. "I never used it before. Never thought I would. Surprising what goes through your mind when you realize you might not be about to die after all. Speaking of which, who's your new friend?"

"Don't ask me," said Hazel. "I thought he was a friend of yours."

They both turned to look at their unexpected savior, and he looked silently back. His face was subtly inhuman, just as Hazel had thought; there was something wrong in its planes and angles, as though strange and unfamiliar emotions had shaped it. But it was the eyes that held the attention, that brought goose-flesh to Owen and Hazel's arms and raised the hairs on their necks. The eyes glowed a bright gold in the dim light of the street, as though lit from within by some strange inner fire. They marked him, like the brand of Cain. He was a Hadenman, one of the legendary augmented men of lost Haden. They were rare now, seen perhaps once in a hundred worlds, the few survivors of the terrible Hadenmen rebellion, when cyborgs created by men sought to wipe out humanity, root and branch. They failed, just, and now the last remnants were scattered far and wide across the Empire, feared and courted wherever they went as the ultimate warriors. They were supposed to be shot on sight, but usually no one was stupid enough to take them on with anything less than an army.

Few and far between now, lost and forsaken; the bitter end of a once brilliant dream.

"I am Tobias Moon," said the Hadenman in a harsh rasping voice that had no place in a human throat. "I am a partially functioning augmented man. Most of my implanted energy crystals are exhausted, and I lack the means to recharge them. I am therefore unable to utilize most of my implants, but I am still more than capable of seeing off a few blood junkies."

"How did you know we needed help?" said Hazel.

"A message from Cyder," said Moon. "She thought you could use some assistance, and that we might be able to help each other."

Up on a roof overlooking the street, Cat sighed with relief. He ached all over from the fall he'd taken, but luckily the snowdrift had been just deep enough to cushion the worst of the impact. Now that the Hadenman had finally put in an appearance, he was free to return to the Blackthorn for some much needed rest. Shadowing Hazel d'Ark and the Deathstalker had turned out to be a full-time job. Still, they should be safe enough now with Moon. There weren't many people stupid enough to annoy a Hadenman. He set off slowly across the rooftops, hoping fervently that he'd never have to see any of them again. They were too dangerous to be around. Even for Mistport.

Down in the street, Owen and Hazel looked round sharply as they heard someone moving in the mess of bodies lying scattered across the bloody snow. A single figure was moving, trying to drag itself away. It's useless legs dragged behind it, leaving a trail of bright red blood. Owen started after it, and Hazel put a staying hand on his arm.

"No need to kill him, Owen. He'll bleed to death before he gets far."

Owen jerked his arm free. "I'm not going to kill him. I'm going to see if I can help."

"Are you crazy? He's a blood junkie. He was quite happy to kill you."

"The fight's over. I can't just leave someone to die if I can help. If I did, I'd be no better than them. I am still a Deathstalker, whatever the Iron Bitch says, and we are an honorable Clan. Besides, a few years ago, that might have been you. Hazel."

He quickly caught up with the crawling figure and knelt beside it. He put a gentle hand on its shoulder, and the figure shrank away from him with a weak, desperate cry of fear and pain. The figure wasn't very big, barely five feet tall, wrapped in filthy shapeless furs. Its legs were soaked in blood from the thighs down. Owen murmured comforting words till the figure stopped wailing, as much through weakness as anything else. Owen examined the wounded legs as carefully as he could without touching them and shook his head slowly. Either he or the Hadenman had cut right through the muscles in both legs. Crippling wounds on a world like Mistworld. He shrugged uncomfortably and pulled back the hood to see the face beneath. The breath went out of him, and he felt suddenly sick. She couldn't have been more than fourteen. Half starved, the bones of her face jutted out against the taut skin. She looked up at him with empty eyes, beyond hope or despair, no room in her face for anything but pain.

"Plasma baby," said Hazel quietly behind him. "They start them young in Mistport."

"She's just a child," said Owen harshly. "Dear God, what have I done?"

"She would have killed you," said Hazel, "and never given it a second thought. Finish it, Owen. We have to go."

Owen looked back at her almost angrily. "What do you mean, finish it?"

"You want to leave her like that? If she's lucky, she'll bleed to death. If not, and the gangrene doesn't kill her slowly, she'll be a cripple for what remains of her life. And Mistport's a bad place to be weak and vulnerable. It's kinder to put her out of her suffering. Do you want me to do it for you?"

"No!" said Owen. "No. I'm a Deathstalker. I clear up my own messes."

He drew the dagger from his boot and thrust it expertly into the girl's heart. She didn't moan or shudder. She just stopped breathing, and her eyes stared straight past him. Owen pulled the dagger out and then just sat there, rocking slightly, trying to hold back the emotions within him. Hazel hovered at his side, unsure what to do for the best. She wanted to put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, let him know she was there and understood, but she wasn't sure how he'd take it. He was strong man, and a proud one, too, but he still had unexpected vulnerabilities. And if you had any weaknesses, you could be sure Mistworld would find them.

Hazel hadn't been sure the Deathstalker had any soft spots in him. He'd always seemed the perfect warrior and aristocrat. She was seeing a new side of him now, and she wasn't sure if she liked it or not. Being weak could get you killed when you were an outlaw. She put a tentative hand on his shoulder, ready to draw it back in a moment, but he didn't even know she was there. She could feel the tension under her hand and knew it was rage as much as sorrow that boiled within him. She looked back at the Hadenman, but he just looked back at her with his inhuman golden eyes, and she had to look away. Owen stood up suddenly, still looking down at the pathetic little body.

"This is wrong," he said flatly. "No one should have to live like this, die like this."

"It happens everywhere," said Hazel. "Not just on Mist world. You're rich, titled; what would you know about living in the underclass?"

"I should have known. I'm a historian, and I studied the records. I knew things like this used to happen. I just never thought…"

"History is what the Empire says it is," said Moon in his rasping, buzzing voice. "They decide what gets recorded. But even the brightest flower has manure at its roots."

"No," said Owen. "It doesn't have to be this way. I will not stand for this. I am a Deathstalker, and I will not allow this to continue."

"What are you going to do?" said Hazel. "Overthrow the Empire?"

Owen looked at her for a long moment. "I don't know. Maybe. If that's what it takes." He turned away from her and the dead child and walked over to the Hadenman. He studied Moon thoughtfully. "Last I heard, there'd been less than a dozen sightings of Hadenmen throughout the Empire. What do you think I can do for you? The Empress put an order of execution on you all as a threat to the Empire and Humanity itself. Can't say I blame her, given the results of your rebellion. You killed millions in your uprising. If you'd succeeded—"

"We'd have killed millions more," said Moon. It was hard to read emotions in his inhuman and buzzing voice, but Owen thought he sensed as much regret as defiance. "We were fighting for our freedom. Our survival. We lost that battle, but the war goes on. I am not the last of my kind. On the lost world of Haden, floating alone in its dark void, an army of my people lies sleeping in the Tomb of the Hadenmen, waiting only for the call to wake again. We learned the hard way that we couldn't win fighting alone. We need allies. Allies like you, Deathstalker. Your only chance for survival now is to raise an army and go to war against the Empress Lionstone. You are a Deathstalker; many would follow you where they wouldn't follow another. Your name always stood for truth and justice and triumph in battle. I speak for the Hadenmen. We would fight beside you, in return for our freedom."

"Hold it, hold it," said Owen, putting up his hands defensively. "This is all going too fast for me. I can't lead a rebellion. I'm a historian, not a warrior."

"On the other hand," Hazel said thoughtfully, "he's right that we can't keep running forever. Eventually, they'll track us down and kill us. We've become too important. If even Mistworld isn't safe…"

"That's not enough," said Owen. "Rebellion against the throne is against everything I was brought up to believe in."

"Not against the throne," said Hazel. "Against the Empress."

Owen looked at her. "I made that distinction earlier."

"I know. I was listening." Hazel hurried on before he could say anything. "At least think about it, Owen. You said you wanted to stop things like that girl from happening."

"I need to think about this," said Owen. "You're asking too much of me."

"Time is not on our side," said Moon. "You must choose soon, or the choice may be taken away from you by events."

Owen looked at the Hadenman almost angrily. "What do you want from me, Moon?"

"Right now? Transport. You have a starship and I do not. I want passage with you to lost Haden and my waiting brethren."

Whatever answer Owen might have expected, that wasn't it. The location of the planet Haden was one of the greatest mysteries of the Empire. All knowledge of its coordinates had vanished at the end of the Hadenman rebellion: the last desperate gamble of the augmented men. And despite all the Empire's increasingly desperate efforts, Haden had remained lost for the better part of two centuries. In an Empire built on information, that should have been impossible. But somehow the augmented men, or their agents, had contrived to wipe every piece of information on Haden and its people from every computer in the Imperial Matrix. As a historian, Owen had found that hard to believe, but after wasting months of research time tracking down rumors and glimpses without getting anywhere, he had been forced to admit he was beaten. Haden was lost, by its own wishes, and would remain so. And so it passed out of history and into legend, a nightmare with which to threaten disobedient children.

Be good, or the Hadenman will get you.

Owen looked thoughtfully at Tobias Moon. "You have the coordinates for Haden?"

"Unfortunately, no, or I wouldn't still be stuck here on Mistworld. But the answer is out there, somewhere, and I will find it. Until then, I offer myself as a soldier in your war. Get me some new energy crystals, and a good cybersurgeon to implant them, and I would be a formidable ally. And when I come at last to Haden, I will speak for you with my people. That is what you want, isn't it?"

"I don't know," said Owen. "I'm not sure of anything anymore. Even assuming that we can find Haden, eventually, do I really want to ally myself with the betrayers of humanity? The butchers of Brahmin II, the slaughterers of Madraguda? I could go down in history as one of the greatest traitors of all time."

"It doesn't matter whether you want us," said Moon calmly. "You need us, if your rebellion is to succeed."

"All right," said Owen. "You're my man, until I tell you otherwise. Now let's get out of here. I'm surprised we're not already hip deep in bounty hunters."

"Think about it," said Hazel. "Would you go rushing in after someone who'd just killed a Wampyr and seen off a whole pack of his blood junkies?"

"Good point," said Owen. "But let's get moving anyway. Standing around make me nervous."

"I think we should get you to a doctor first," said Hazel. "You took a lot of punishment before the Hadenman… helped you out."

"I've felt better," said Owen, "but I'll be all right. One of the more useful properties of boost. Any wound that doesn't actually kill me will heal itself, given time. I'm going to be rather fragile for a while, but I've got you and Moon to look after me, haven't I?"

Hazel thought that was getting a bit pointed and decided it was probably a good time to change the subject. "Where are we going?"

"The Olympus health spa, on Riverside, wherever the hell that is. If I'm going to lead an army of rebellion, I want Jack Random at my side. We'll look for your bounty hunter friend later, assuming she isn't already on our trail for the price on our heads."

"That is a possibility," Hazel admitted. "Friendship is fine, but credit lasts longer. All right, follow me. And let's keep to back alleys and the shadows where we can. I'm starting to feel like I've got a target painted on my back."

She set off more or less confidently into the mists, and Owen and Tobias Moon went after her. Owen strode along, looking at nothing, lost in thought. Events might be rushing him, but he still had his doubts and suspicions. What were the odds of a Hadenman turning up out of the blue just at the right moment to save his ass? Much more likely Moon had been following them for some time, waiting for a chance to look good and gain their confidence. But what made him so important to Moon, if it wasn't the price on his head? Surely there must have been some other ship Moon could have persuaded to get him offplanet. And for someone who claimed not to know the coordinates of Haden, he seemed pretty sure of finding the planet in the not too distant future. Owen scowled. And where did all this tie in with his late father's plot and plans, which had brought him to Mistworld in the first place?

More and more Owen was sure there were wheels within wheels, unseen forces subtly guiding him from the wings, the very things he'd spent most of his life trying to avoid. But if that was so, he had a few surprises in store for whoever was jerking his strings. If push came to shove, he could play that game, too. He was a Death stalker, and intrigue was in his blood. In the meantime… he decided to concentrate on the Hadenman. Did he, or his people, still have a private, hidden agenda? When awakened, would the army of augmented men really join with him, or could they secretly be intending to ally themselves with the rogue AIs on Shub, as the Empress had claimed so often in the past? Owen smiled briefly. He had no answers, or none he could trust, so for the moment he'd go along with Moon. And sleep with one eye open. He moved up alongside Hazel, and she nodded briefly.

"Yeah, I don't trust him either," she said quietly. "But I'd rather have him on our side than working against us. At least this way we can keep an eye on him."

"What do you suggest we do in the meantime?" said Owen.

"Trust no one. Think you can remember that?"

"You've never been to court, have you?" said Owen. "As an aristocrat, I learned to trust no one from a very early age.

Among the Families, you learn intrigue with your letters and numbers, or you don't survive to reach adulthood."

"Sounds a lot like Mistworld," said Hazel, and they both had to laugh. The Hadenman strode silently along behind them and kept his thoughts to himself.

The Olympus spa wasn't far, just the other side of Merchants' Quarter, but the walk was still far enough to chill Owen to the bone. Despite his confident words to Hazel, his wounds had taken a lot more out of him than he was willing to admit. He trudged along through the slush and the thickening mists and muttered direly to himself. He'd been on Mistworld nearly a whole day, and he still hadn't had one glimpse of the sun.

The spa, when they finally got there, didn't exactly make up for the long walk. It was trying desperately to look upmarket, but the neighborhood was against it. It was still an improvement over most of the places Hazel had led him to so far, but Owen couldn't say he was particularly impressed. The stone and timber buildings had clearly all seen better days, and the bare brickwork had been stained a varying gray from the continuous smoke of a nearby factory. The Olympus storefront was wide and brightly painted, and the name above the door was set out in letters so stylized and convoluted it was almost impossible to make them out. There were no windows, but tall plaques described the many wonders to be found inside, together with a series of claims for potential weight loss and muscle building that bordered on the miraculous. Owen gave the place a long, stern look, but it remained stubbornly unimpressive.

"I am not impressed," said Hazel.

"Give it a chance," said Owen automatically. "This is only the exterior. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to judge a place by its exterior?"

"She also told me to avoid outlaws, aristos and sucker joints. Can't say I'm doing too well on any of them. You really think we're going to find Jack Random in a dump like this? I mean, I'd heard he was down on his luck, but can you really see the legendary professional rebel running a cheap ripoff joint like this?"

"It's probably a cover," said Owen stubbornly. "Who'd think to look for him here?"

"He has a point," said Moon in his harsh, buzzing voice, and they both jumped slightly. "I wouldn't be seen dismantled in a place like this."

"The Abraxus people said we'd find him here," said Owen. "And I really don't feel like going back and arguing with them about it. I'm going in. Watch my back, keep your eyes open and your hands off the silver."

He strode up to the door and gave the bell chain a firm tug. He sensed as much as heard the others fall in behind him and smiled slightly. They just needed to be reminded who was in charge now and again. The door swung open, and Owen put on his best supercilious look. When in doubt, treat people like shit. Nine times out of ten they'll immediately assume you're a very superior person, probably there to investigate whatever scam they're running. In Owen's experience, most people had a scam of one kind or another running at any given time. He tried not to think about the other percentage. That was, after all, why he wore a sword.

The door swung back to reveal a tall, graceful, living goddess wearing a wide smile and a very skimpy outfit comprised mostly of black lace. She was also extremely muscular. Her arms and thighs bulged intimidatingly, and somehow Owen knew she did more sit-ups before breakfast each day than he managed in a month.

"Hi," she said breathlessly. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Owen could think of several, one of which would almost certainly put his back out, but he made himself concentrate on the matter in hand. "We need to see the manager," he said in what he hoped was a firm, commanding voice.

"Of course," said the goddess, still smiling widely. "Do come in."

She stood back to let them enter. Owen strode confidently past her, but almost lost it when she took a sudden deep breath just as he drew level and her magnificent chest practically flew into his face. He moved quickly on into the reception area and took a few quiet deep breaths of his own. Behind him, he heard Hazel give one of her familiar sniffs of disapproval. The Hadenman remained quiet. Presumably he was above or beyond such things. The door shut behind them with a worryingly final sound, and then the goddess was with them again. She favored them all with another of her dazzling smiles and struck a casual pose that just happened to show off most of her muscles in high definition.

"Make yourselves comfortable," she suggested winningly. "I'll go tell the manager you're here."

She turned and left in a single smooth motion and disappeared out the far door before Owen could get his breath back. He looked at Tobias Moon.

"What a warm and understanding chest that girl had."

"Nice deltoids," said the Hadenman.

"When you two have finished drooling," said Hazel icily, "you might care to notice that she locked the front door behind us. If she's recognized you…"

"Relax," said Moon. "I'm with you now."

Hazel gave him a withering stare. "How are your batteries holding up?"

"I have more than enough power in my systems to deal with any problems we may encounter."

Hazel sniffed. "If you're so powerful and dangerous, how did you end up here?"

"I trusted the wrong people," said Moon, and there was something in his inhuman voice that kept her from continuing.

Owen looked around at the reception area. It seemed the safest thing to do. Even standing still and silent, there was something very disturbing about the Hadenman. Owen had now been in his company for nearly an hour and was no nearer feeling at ease. It was as though there was something within Moon that was always poised to strike, ready to kill at a moment's notice. Owen decided he wasn't going to think about that for a while and concentrated on the reception area.

He was tempted to sneer, but settled for a condescending smile. The Olympus' idea of fashion was at least twenty years out of date, and the furniture had clearly been designed by someone more interested in style than comfort. Not that he knew much about style, either. Owen decided against sitting down. He had a feeling one of those chairs could do terrible things to your lower back. Not unlike the goddess at the door…

His thoughts had just started to drift again when the door at the far end of reception swung open and a giant walked in. Owen realized after a moment that the newcomer wasn't really that tall, no more than six foot six at the most, but his great slabs of muscle made him seem much bigger. He was incredibly well developed, with muscles in places Owen wasn't sure he even had places. The man looked like he'd been lifting weights since he was a baby, and from the way his muscles flexed and swelled as he walked, Owen was surprised he could move around without pulling something painful. The giant came to a stop before them and gave them all a brief, impersonal smile. Owen was surprised again to realize the man was quite handsome. It just wasn't the first thing that got your attention, mainly because the giant was wearing only a pair of tight-fitting trousers, the better to show off his highly developed muscles. Among other things. Owen couldn't help noticing that Hazel was staring at the giant with undisguised fascination, all but devouring him with her eyes. Owen sniffed. There were more important things than muscles.

He coughed politely to get the giant's attention, and the huge man came to a halt before him. Owen felt like he was standing in a hole.

"I'm Tom Sefka," said the giant, in a voice so low it almost trembled in Owen's bones. "Manager and owner of the Olympus health spa. I'm assuming this is something important. Delia doesn't usually disturb me for anything less, but the Hadenman impressed her." He looked Moon over thoughtfully. "If you're looking to make some quick money, I've got several regulars who'd pay good money to take on an augmented man in the ring."

"Thanks," said Moon, "but I tend to break things when I play."

Sefka blinked at the inhuman voice, then turned back to Owen. "So what can I do for you?"

"We're looking for Jobe Ironhand," said Hazel, just a little breathlessly. "It's really important that we talk to him."

Sefka frowned. "You had me called away from my work just for that? What the hell do you want with him?"

"We rather assumed he was the owner or business partner," said Owen, and Sefka smiled unpleasantly.

"Hardly. You want Jobe, he's out back doing his chores. You can talk to him if you want, but don't keep him from his work. Come and see me when you're finished. You all look like you could use a little weight on your frames in the right places."

Owen frowned. "Won't Ironhand mind us just walking in on him?"

"It's not his place to mind," said Sefka. "He's only the janitor, after all. You'll find him through that door, second on the right and down the corridor. When you're finished with him, tell him the shower floors still need cleaning."

He nodded to them all briefly and turned and left, disappearing through the far door. Owen was a little surprised the floor didn't shake beneath him when he moved. Hazel watched Sefka go with hungry eyes. Owen felt a little irritated. Sefka wasn't that special. Probably had muscles where his brains should be.

"Maybe we should see him afterward," said Hazel. "I'd just love to put my body in his hands."

"If you could control your animal lusts for a moment," Owen said icily, "we really ought to find this Jobe and sort out what's going on here. The Abraxus must have got it wrong. Perhaps Random is someone else here at the spa."

"Give me an hour alone with that body, and I'd show him some animal lusts he'd never forget," said Hazel.

"Muscles aren't everything," said Moon.

"How true," said Hazel. "It's not just his muscles I'm interested in."

"I wonder if this place has cold showers," said Owen.

"Let's go find Jobe Ironhand," said Moon diplomatically. "Maybe then we'll find out what a living legend is doing working as a janitor."

"It's regular work," said Hazel. "Maybe the pay's good."

Moon looked around him. "It would have to be."

Hazel shrugged. "Even a professional rebel probably has to turn his hand to some honest work now and again to put food on the table between rebellions."

"He must be working undercover," Owen decided. "Staying out of sight while Imperial agents are searching for him. It makes sense."

He set off for the far door without waiting for the others to agree with him. The door led into a tiled corridor which branched in difference directions according to whether you wanted the signposted weights room, the steam room, or the showers. Owen took the second turning on the right, as directed. According to the handwritten sign on the wall it led to the locker rooms. Owen led the way at a brisk walk and tried not to think about the implications of what he'd been told. Jack Random, the Jack Random, working as a janitor in a place like this? It had to be a mistake, or a cover, or… something.

The locker room looked like any other locker room, bare and functional, with a smell of perspiration and liniment. Most of the lockers stood open and empty, suggesting that the spa was going through a quiet time. As they moved further into the room, the air thickened with the scent of cheap disinfectant. The door at the far end opened, and a man entered carrying a mop and bucket. He was about five foot six and looked to be in his late sixties, with a lined face and thinning gray hair. He wore baggy overalls that looked as though they'd been made for someone rather larger, and he looked like he'd missed more than his fair share of meals lately. His hands were trembling, and his face had a pale, unhealthy look.

A wave of relief passed through Owen. Whoever this was, he clearly wasn't Jack Random. This half-pint in saggy overalls probably wouldn't even know which end of a sword to stab you with. Presumably a spa this size needed more than one janitor, and this was the other one. The janitor stared blankly at Owen and his companions, his watery eyes straining against the gloom.

"What are you doing back here? Locker room's closed."

"Sorry to bother you," said Owen graciously. "We're looking for Jobe Ironhand. Do you know where we might find him?"

The janitor blinked at him. "That's me. I'm Jobe Ironhand. What can I do for you?"

Hazel looked at Moon. "Didn't you just know he was going to say that?"

Owen felt his jaw dropping and closed his mouth with a snap. There had to be a mistake. This couldn't be Random. The age was all wrong, for a start. Jack Random was a professional warrior, respected on a hundred worlds. This broken down old wreck barely had the strength to hold onto his bucket and mop. It couldn't be him.

"This can't be him," said Hazel. "I mean… look at him."

"For once, I agree with you," Owen said heavily. "Someone's been leading us astray. Let's get out of here."

"I thought you wanted Jack Random," said Tobias Moon. "This is him."

Owen and Hazel looked at the Hadenman. "What makes you think that?" said Hazel.

"I fought beside him in the rebellion on Cold Rock. A few augmented men had joined his army for the experience, and I was one of them. I saw Random several times at staff meetings, and I never forget a face."

Hazel looked back at the janitor. 'This bag of bones faced down the Imperial High Guard on Cold Rock? Give me a break."

"Oh, hell," said the janitor. "You'd better come with me."

They all looked at him, startled. His voice had… changed. He put his bucket and mop down, and produced a battered silver flask from a pocket in his overalls. He rescrewed the cap with some difficulty and took a long drink. His Adam's apple bobbed jerkily in his scrawny unshaven neck. He lowered the flask, sighed deeply and carefully refastened the cap. His hands didn't seem to be shaking nearly as much now, and his gaze was sharp and direct. He looked Owen and Hazel over, and then he turned away and disappeared back through the far door, leaving the others to hurry after him.

He wandered down the corridor without looking back to see if they were following and pushed open a door almost hidden in shadows. He stood back and gestured for the three of them to enter. They did so, just a little diffidently, and found themselves in a boiler room that had also been pressed into service as living quarters. Apart from the boiler, most of the space was taken up with a long cot covered with disheveled blankets. Ironhand sank down onto it with a relieved sigh. Owen looked around for a chair, but there wasn't any.

"Shut the door and sit down," the janitor said testily. "You make the room look untidy."

Owen shut the door and sat on the floor, drawing his legs awkwardly up beneath him. Hazel sank easily into a full lotus beside him. Moon stayed standing at parade rest. Owen looked hard at the janitor, trying hard to see some sign of the legendary warrior in this beaten down little man. The janitor looked back at him with a surprisingly steady gaze, and Owen slowly discerned that the man sitting opposite him didn't look nearly as unimpressive as he had before. His back was straight and his hands had stopped shaking, and there was a new strength in his unshaven face.

"I thought I'd hidden myself pretty well," he said grimly. "Suppose you start by telling me who gave you my name?"

"The Abraxus Information Center," said Owen, and the janitor grunted irritably.

"Those damn telepaths get everywhere. Looks like I'm going to have to move again. Can't say I'll be sorry to go. The place is a dump, and the work stinks. They charge me rent for this room, you know. You wouldn't think they'd have the nerve, would you? Still, I've stayed in worse in my time. Spent most of my adult life on the run, one way or another, and people can always tell when the pressure's on you. That's when accommodation suddenly gets scarce, friends turn their back on you and the price of everything goes through the roof." He broke off to take another drink from his flask. He pulled a face and screwed the cap back on tight. "I can remember when I wouldn't have used booze like this to clean my boots with. Amazing what you can get used to when you've no choice. I can remember when I drank only the finest vintages, the fiercest brandies, sparkling champagnes… Of course, that was when I was somebody. When it mattered who I was."

"Are you saying you really are Jack Ransom?" said Owen, not even trying to hide his skepticism.

"I used to be. Now I'm Jobe Ironhand. Named myself after an old friend of mine. He died a long time ago, without any heir to carry on the name, so I thought he wouldn't mind if I used it. You have to be respectful of the dead. There's enough ghosts plaguing me already without adding more." He stopped and looked up at Moon. "I don't remember you. I've led too many armies, too many campaigns. Cold Rock was a bad one, though. In the end, most of my people were wiped out by Imperial attack ships, and I only escaped by running for my life. I did a lot of running at the end, but they still caught me."

He stopped again, his eyes lost in yesterday. Owen leaned forward. "They caught you? What happened?"

"They broke me," said the man who used to be Jack Random. "Torture, drugs, mind techs, espers… anyone'll break if you hit them hard enough and long enough. And I was so very tired by then anyway…"

"So how did you escape?" said Hazel.

"I didn't. The Empire was getting ready for a major show trial to show off my supposed change of heart. Stand me up in front of the holo cameras and have me denounce all my old friends and beliefs. You know the sort of thing. I would have done it, too. They'd broken me. Luckily some friends in the clone underground who hadn't given up on me broke into my holding cell and sprang me. They shouldn't have done it. Too many good men and women died that day just to rescue a defeated old man with no strength or ideals left. They got me on a ship under an assumed name, and eventually I ended up here, where everyone runs when there's no place left to go. So if you've come looking for the great warrior, the legendary professional rebel, you're wasting your time. He died years ago in the torture cells under the Imperial Palace on Golgotha.

"Look at me. I'm forty-seven and I look twice that. My hands shake most of the time because my body still remembers what was done to it in the cells, and my memories are a mess. The mind techs really did a job on me. So go look somewhere else for your savior or leader, or whatever the hell you think you need. I'm not who you want, and even if I was, I'd be no use to you."

"Do you have any evidence of who you are?" said Owen. "Any old trophies or mementos from your past?"

"No. Move fast, travel light, that was always my way. And I don't care whether you believe me or not. Do us all a favor and leave me in peace."

Owen looked at the man before him and felt an almost childish disappointment. His father had brought him up on stories of the great rebel Jack Random. When Owen was older, he'd started his career as a historian by searching out the truth on Random, only to find the truth was even more impressive than the legend. Random had done pretty much everything they said he had, and more besides. He'd fought the Empire on a hundred worlds, winning some, losing more, never giving up. Of all his father's dubious friends and associates, Jack Random was the only one Owen had ever respected.

"Do you remember my father?" he said suddenly. "My name is Owen Deathstalker."

"Yes. I remember him. Good fighter, and a cunning intriguer." Random looked at him steadily. "Since you're here, I gather he'd dead now?"

"Yes. Killed in the streets, cut down as a traitor. I'm the Deathstalker now. Or at least, until the Empire catches up with me. I'm outlawed, my name and possessions stripped from me."

Random looked at him thoughtfully. "Do you have your father's ring? He always said it was important, though he never got around to explaining why. He never was very big on explanations, your father."

"I've got the ring. As far as I can tell, it's just a ring."

He showed it to Random, who looked at it for a moment and then sat back on his cot. His fingers played with the cap on his flask, but he didn't take another drink.

"I'm sorry to hear of your father's death. I've lost a lot of friends down the years, but it never gets any easier. You look a lot like him, you know. Do you have any actual plans, or are you just running?"

"I've got plans, yes," said Owen, just a little defensively. "Do you want to be a part of them?"

"No. But I don't really think I've any choice in the matter. If you could find me, so could others. I'm not worth much anymore, Deathstalker. But what there is left of me is yours."

"Can I have a word with you a moment, Owen?" said Hazel, taking his arm in a very firm grip. He winced as she all but dragged him to his feet and out into the corridor. He jerked his arm free and carefully shut the door behind him.

"Are you crazy?" said Hazel. "We can't burden ourselves with a wreck like that! He's bound to slow us down. We can't even be sure he is who he says he is!"

"Doesn't really matter who he is," said Owen. "Just his name will attract people to our cause. People will fight and die for Jack Random when they wouldn't lift a hand for you or me."

"But he's a janitor!"

"So what? Really, Hazel, if anyone's going to be a snob here, it should be me. And I don't think you're in any position to throw stones, considering your previous occupation in Mistport."

Hazel frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, as I understand from Cyder's comments, you were a… lady of the evening."

"Lady of the… I ought to tear your head off and piss down your neck! I was never a whore!"

"Then what were you?"

"If you must know, I was a ladies' maid!" Hazel realized she was shouting and lowered her voice again. Two bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. "And you needn't look at me like that. It's a perfectly respectable profession. And work was scarce just then."

"So… why did you give it up?"

"Lady of the house told me to sweep out the corners once too often. I smacked her in the mouth, stole some of the silver and left before they could call the watch. Satisfied now?"

"Eminently. It's always good to have a profession to fall back on. If times get hard, I'm sure I can always find you a position on my staff."

"I'd rather die," said Hazel. "No, I'd rather kill you."

"Ironhand!" They both looked round to see the giant form of Tom Sefka pounding down the corridor toward them. They fell back automatically as he stopped and hammered on the janitor's door. "Ironhand, get your worthless ass out here! I've got half a dozen regulars waiting to use the showers, and you still haven't cleaned them out. Either you get your ass in gear right now, or you're fired!"

He turned and looked at Owen and Hazel. "And you needn't think you're going anywhere, either. Word finally got here as to who you are, Deathstalker. If I'd known who you were, I'd never have let you in. Last thing I need is a bunch of bounty hunters in here getting blood all over the place. You even try and draw your gun or your sword, and I'll rip your arm out of your socket. Price on your head will make me rich, Deathstalker. You're mine, and your companions. Unless you think you can take me?"

He flexed his muscles meaningfully. Owen thought about it. He was tired, and still healing, and Sefka really was a hell of a size. On the other hand, if he could draw his gun before Sefka could get his hands on him… Sefka looked like he could move pretty fast for a big man. Hazel would probably avenge his death, but he didn't find the thought all that comforting.

He was still trying to come up with an answer when the door opened, and Random stepped out into the corridor. He walked right up to Sefka, holding the big man's eyes with his, and reached out and took Sefka's genitals in a death grip. He piled on the pressure, grinning nastily all the while, and all the color went out of Sefka's face as he sank to his knees. Random gave him one last white-knuckled squeeze, which brought tears to Owen's eyes, released his hold, reached back into his room and brought out his mop. Sefka raised his head just in time to see the long wooden handle coming for him at incredible speed. If the mop had been a sword, Sefka's head would have gone bouncing down the corridor. As it was, the wood connected with his temple with a very solid-sounding thud, and the big man fell unconscious to the floor. It was probably a relief, thought Owen. Random lowered his mop and leaned on it as though it was a sword.

"Just for the record, I quit." He tossed the mop back into his room, just missing Tobias Moon as the Hadenman joined them in the corridor. Random looked at the fallen man and smiled unpleasantly. It was an expression his face seemed to fall into easily. "Good to know I haven't entirely lost my touch. Now let's get out of here before someone comes looking for him. Or us. We can decide where we're going later." He took a deep breath and let it out. "Nothing like a little gratuitous violence to stir the blood. I feel almost human again. You'd better have a good reason for disturbing my retirement, Deathstalker. I was happy being nobody. No demands, no responsibilities. You've woken me up, and I won't easily go back to sleep. If I'm going to try for the gold ring one last time, it's going to have to be worth it."

"Stick with us," said Owen, "and you'll have all the action you can handle, and then some. It's us or the Empire now; death or glory. But then, for you I suppose it always is."

"Something like that," said Random. "Something like that."

Outside the Olympus health spa, the mists had come down thick and heavy, and the world was gray and silent. Owen looked around uneasily. Any number of assassins could be hiding out there in the fog. Hopefully, they were just as blind and disorientated as he was. Hazel looked left and right and scowled unhappily.

"Don't tell me you're lost," said Owen. "That's all we need."

"It's a long time since I was last here," said Hazel defensively. "And the fog isn't helping. Anyway, I thought you had a built-in compass that told you where you were?"

"Oh, I know where I am," said Owen. "I just don't know where anything else is. I can point due north, if that's any help."

"Follow me," said Hazel. "And stay close. It'd be only too easy to get lost and separated in fog like this, and we haven't the time to send out search parties."

She moved slowly and carefully away from the spa, one hand held out behind her. Owen moved after her, almost treading on her heels. Random followed him, and Moon brought up the rear. The two walls of a narrow alleyway slowly formed out of the mists to either side of them as they walked on, gray and stained and characterless, with no clues as to their location. The only sound was the soft trudging of their feet through the packed snow. Owen tried hard to see the positive side.

"If nothing else," he said finally, "it's got to be as hard for our pursuers as it is for us. We could walk right past each other in this fog and never know it."

"Unless they're listening to you," said Hazel. "Or unless they've got an esper with them."

"That's right," said Owen. "Cheer me up, why don't you?" He glanced back at the Hadenman. "How about you, Moon? See anything worth seeing with those amazing eyes of yours?"

"Just fog and more fog," said Moon, and then he stopped suddenly, and cocked his head slightly to one side. The others stopped, too, and looked back at him.

"What is it?" said Owen.

"There's someone out there," said the augmented man. "I can hear their feet breaking the snow."

"Which way?" snapped Owen, drawing his disrupter. "Give me a direction."

And then he broke off as a tall figure formed slowly out of the mists before him. He started to raise his gun, and then lowered it again as he recognized the muscular goddess from the health spa. She walked toward him, smiling seductively, hands open to show they were empty. And then Moon stepped forward, his golden eyes blazing brightly.

"It's a hologram. There's someone behind it."

Owen's hand snapped up, and he fired his gun. The energy beam ripped through the hologram without harming it, and then the goddess disappeared in a moment as the beam exploded a wall beyond her. Owen caught a brief glimpse of a fleeting figure in the mists, then an energy beam snapped right past him and he dived for cover, yelling for the others to do the same. Within moments, Owen was alone in the mists, crouching beside the nearest wall to make a smaller target. He switched the gun to his left hand and drew his sword. For the next two minutes, both his gun and his opponent's were useless till their energy crystals had recharged, and that brought it down to steel. Unless the bastard had two guns. Or a friend with a gun. Owen cursed silently and strained his ears against the quiet. The hologram had been a good trick, and he'd very nearly fallen for it. He hadn't expected that kind of high-tech sophistication on Mistworld.

He moved slowly forward, keeping his shoulder pressed against the wall to orientate himself. His boots made soft crunching sounds in the thick snow for all his care, and his back muscles crawled in anticipation of the energy beam or sword thrust he'd probably never even feel. He didn't dare boost, not so soon after the last time. There was also no getting away from the fact that he was feeling distinctly fragile from his earlier wounds. His spell in the regeneration machine on the Sunstrider had briefly supercharged his healing processes, but there were still limits, and he was fast approaching them. A good night's sleep and a few high-protein meals would work wonders, but he couldn't see his pursuers letting up that long. The bastards. It seemed to Owen that he'd done nothing but run and hide since he'd learned of his outlawing, and the thought grated. He glared about himself, and the mists looked impassively back.

A heavy form crashed down into him from above, and he fell sprawling in the snow. He tucked one arm under him and rolled to one side, dislodging his attacker. He scrambled forward, and a sword stabbed into the snow where he'd been. Owen lurched to his feet and found himself facing a medium-height woman wearing black leathers mostly concealed under white furs. No wonder he hadn't spotted her in the mists. The furs provided perfect camouflage. Her face was pale and pointed, with dark steady eyes and a helmet of short black hair. She held her sword like she knew how to use it, and her slight smile was cool and confident.

He just had time to take that much in and then she was upon him, the point of her sword leaping for his heart. He got his own sword up just in time, and for a moment they stood face-to-face, steel clashing on steel as they tried out each other's skill. It didn't take Owen long to realize he was facing a master swordswoman, and he was surprised to discover he didn't give a damn. This was at least the kind of fight he preferred; one on one with everything up front. He was tired of faceless pursuers and attacks from hiding. He wanted an enemy he could hit. His opponent was good, no doubt of it, but he was a Deathstalker, and she was going to find out what that meant.

They stamped back and forth on the slippery snow, searching for an opening, hammering their swords together. Owen used all his strength and guile and skill and was still hard-pressed to match the fury of his opponent's attack. The temptation to boost was almost overpowering, but he wouldn't do it. Partly because he was worried what it would do to his already weakened system, but mostly because he was damned if he'd escape into boost just to take out a single attacker. He had his pride. He'd never thought of himself as a warrior, but he'd been trained in swordsmanship by some of the finest tutors in the Empire. And besides, he'd done too much running just lately.

He threw himself at his opponent, forcing her back by the sheer strength and speed of his attack, then swept her sword aside and shoulder-charged her. The impact drove the breath from her lungs and threw her backward. Her feet shot out from under her and she crashed heavily onto the packed snow. Owen was immediately standing over her, one foot stamping down on her wrist to keep her from lifting her sword. She groped for her gun with her other hand, but Owen already had his pointing at her. She lay back, resigned but not defeated, and glared up at him. When she spoke, her voice was cold and unwavering.

"Do it."

Owen surprised himself by hesitating. It was one thing to kill someone in the heat of battle, but to murder a helpless enemy… that was the Empire's way, and he was no longer a subject of the Empire. On the other hand, if he didn't kill her, she was almost certainly going to get up and kill him. He was still considering this, while trying very hard to keep it off of his face, when his companions emerged out of the mists to join him, drawn by the sound of fighting. Hazel looked down at the fallen bounty hunter and shook her head disgustedly.

"Owen, meet Ruby Journey."

"Of course," said Owen heavily. "It would have to be, wouldn't it?"

He took his foot off the bounty hunter's wrist and stepped back to let her rise, still covering her with his disrupter. She rose slowly to her feet, never taking her eyes off him. It occurred to Owen that while she wasn't pretty and never would be, there was still something darkly attractive about her: cold but sensual, like a deadly snake with beautiful markings. The thought surprised him, and he pushed it to one side. He still hadn't decided whether he ought to kill her or not.

"Ruby, what the hell did you think you were doing?" said Hazel. "Didn't you get any of my messages?"

The bounty hunter shrugged. "The price was too tempting. Besides, I wanted to see if I could take him. I've never killed a Deathstalker."

"Well, you can forget that now," said Hazel briskly. "Join up with us and I promise you all the fighting and loot you can handle. The odds are we'll probably all die horribly, but if we make it, we'll have the Empire by the throat. What do you say?"

Ruby looked at Owen. "What does he say?"

Owen lowered his gun but didn't put it away. "I know I'm going to regret this, but… you're an excellent fighter, Ruby; we could use another good fighter."

"Then I'm in," said Ruby. "I never could resist a challenge."

"How can we trust her?" said Moon.

"We can't," said Jack Random. "She's a bounty hunter."

"And we're all outlaws," said Hazel. "Nobody trusts us, either. Anyway, she's my friend and I vouch for her. Anyone have any problems with that?"

Owen had quite a few, but had the sense not to say so. He shrugged, put his gun away, and smiled at Ruby Journey. "Welcome to the rebellion."

They made their way back to the Sunstrider easily enough. Between them, Ruby and Hazel knew every back street in the city. And word quickly got around that the Deathstalker was now accompanied by both a Hadenman and the legendary Jack Random, plus the infamous Ruby Journey, so that most of the would-be bounty hunters got a sudden attack of the scruples and decided they weren't cut out for the work after all. Back on board ship, Owen wasted no time in diving back into the regeneration device and emerged some time later feeling more like himself again. He showed his new companions around the yacht, enjoying their various reactions to its sybaritic luxuries, and finally got them all settled in the lounge in comfortable chairs with a glass of something warming in their hand. Hazel had suggested they hole up somewhere in the city, away from prying eyes, but Owen had decided very early on that he had no intention of sleeping anywhere where the rooms came supplied with hot and cold running fleas.

"All right, Oz," he said easily. "We've all had time to let the cold seep out of our bones, so let's have the bad news. What's been happening since I last spoke to you?"

"You wouldn't believe half of it," said the AI. "Practically everyone and his brother has tried to break into this ship while you were gone, using everything from computer viruses to a hammer and chisel. I tried reasoning with them and I tried shooting them, but they kept coming. Finally I persuaded the control tower to station a large presence of the city watch at the entrances to the landing fields, and that helped. By the way, the port controller asked me to tell you that he would like to have a word with you, and the word he has in mind is 'goodbye.' Mistport wants us out of here at the earliest possible moment, and if we don't get with it, they'll gather all their espers together and throw us back into space. I'm not entirely sure they're bluffing."

Owen frowned. "Any Imperial ships in the vicinity?"

"Hard to tell while I'm stuck down here. Nothing obvious on the far sensors, but there could be a small fleet hidden in orbit behind their screens, and the first we'd know of it would be when they opened fire. Next time you choose a yacht, pick something with a little more firepower."

"Relax," said Owen. "You worry too much. This ship can outrun anything the Iron Bitch might send after us."

"Speed isn't everything, Owen. It takes time to make the calculations that allow us to drop into hyperspace, even for a computer like me, and during that time we might as well have a target painted on our hull. Now then, if you've quite finished with me, I would like to have a word with you and Jack Random."

Random looked inquiringly at Owen, who shrugged. "Oz has been finding all kinds of stuff hidden in his memory files, mostly planted there by my father, designed only to appear as and when necessary. Apparently your being here has triggered one."

"Go ahead, Oz," said Random. He looked at Owen. "The last time I heard from your father, I ended up paying postage on it."

"Yeah," said Owen, "that sounds like Dad."

And then suddenly a hologram of Owen's father was standing before them in the lounge, large as life and twice as confident. A cold hand clutched at Owen's heart. His father looked exactly as he had the last time Owen had seen him in the flesh, just twenty-four hours before he'd been cut down in the streets as a traitor. It occurred to Owen that he'd never had a chance to say goodbye and wondered why that suddenly mattered to him so much. The late Deathstalker looked harried and preoccupied, but his voice was steady and courteous.

"Hello, Jack. Been a while, hasn't it? If you're listening to this then I'm dead, and young Owen has come looking for you. Look out for him; he means well, but he's not a warrior. Spends all his time poring over books and histories. Don't ask me where he gets it from. Not quite what I had in mind for my only son and heir, but hopefully his distance from me will help to protect him if things go wrong. I'd like to think some good came of it. Jack, just because I'm dead, don't let the cause fall apart. Fight on. I don't want to have died for nothing.

"Owen, if all has gone according to plan, you should have my .ring. Guard it well. Concealed in its structure are the coordinates for the planet Shandrakor, where the original Deathstalker, founder of our Clan, fled in disgrace many centuries ago. Know now the great secret of our Family: the Deathstalker is not dead. He lies waiting in stasis, in his Last Standing on Shandrakor, together with a mighty armory of ancient and forbidden weapons. You must go there and wake him. He knows many secrets, including the location of the Darkvoid Device. With this weapon, lost for so long, your forces will be the equal of anything the Empire can send against you.

"Also hidden in my ring are the coordinates for the planet Haden, lost world of the Hadenmen. An army of augmented men lie waiting there in stasis for you to awaken them, in the Tomb of the Hadenmen. Our Family has had dealings with them in the past. They will respect your name and will fight for the cause. How much you trust them is up to you.

"I'm sorry this has been thrust upon you, Owen. It was never meant that you should have to carry such a weight. But it seems we have a traitor in our midst. One by one, all the key figures in the planned rebellion have been singled out and killed. I can only assume my own time is near. I've loaded the AI with everything I thought might prove useful, hidden as deeply as I can. This is the last message; there won't be any more. You're on your own now, Owen. I wish… I wish I'd talked with you more. I know you never approved of my intrigues, or the cause; hopefully by now you will have discovered why I thought it so important and will have made the cause your own. Be strong, Owen. Do what you have to.

"I wasn't really such a bad father, was I? I know I wasn't there as often as I might have been, but there was always so much work that needed doing. Never think I didn't love you. You can trust Jack Random. He's a good man. I keep thinking there's something else I should be saying, but I don't know what. Goodbye, Owen. Goodbye."

The hologram snapped off and Owen's father disappeared, and for a long moment there was only quiet in the lounge. Jack Random sighed heavily.

"Another old comrade gone. I never thought I'd outlive so many friends."

"Are you all right, Owen?" said Hazel.

"Yes. I'm fine. He's still doing it. Still trying to run my life." Owen tried to be angry, but for once the anger wouldn't come. "What really makes me mad is I have no choice but to follow his plans and take up his precious cause, whether I believe in it or not, just to survive. He's still pulling the strings of my life, even after he's dead."

"I always thought the original Deathstalker was dead," said Hazel. "I mean, I saw his tomb on the holo once on Golgotha."

Owen nodded distractedly. "According to all the histories, he was hunted down and killed by the Shadow Men, nine hundred and forty-three years ago. He was officially pardoned, if not exonerated, some four hundred years later. They even built a monument for him. I wonder whose body they put in the tomb… Well, at least now we have a choice of destination. Shandrakor to search for my ancestor, or Haden to raise an army."

Tobias Moon fixed Owen with his disquieting golden eyes. "I have waited a long time to rejoin my people."

"Well, you'll have to wait a bit longer," said Random. "If there's an armory on Shandrakor, we need to check it out. Especially if the Darkvoid Device is there."

"This is my ship," said Owen. "I'll decide where we're going."

"Then get on with it," said Ruby Journey, trimming her nails with a nasty-looking dagger. "There are a lot of people looking for you, Deathstalker, and I don't think we should still be here when they arrive."

"She's got a point," said Hazel, and Owen nodded.

"We're going to Shandrakor. If my ancestor is there, he and Jack can take over this rebellion, and maybe then I'll be allowed to retire to the background and get a little peace. Oz, power the ship up. We're leaving."

"Yes, Owen. I have a message from Mistport control tower."

"Put it on."

"Sunstrider, this is Mistport security," said a harsh voice. "You do not, repeat not, have permission to take off. Power down your engines; our people will be boarding you shortly."

"Don't put money on it," said Owen. "Oz, are we ready?"

"Just say the word, Owen."

"Get us out of here."

The AI shut off the Mistport channel in mid-splutter, and the Sunstrider leapt up off the landing pad and into the sky. Several ships started after her, but they were no match for her speed. Sunstrider shot beyond the atmosphere and settled into orbit, ready to make its jump through hyperspace. And that was when things really went to hell.

"Ah, Owen," said the AI, "we have a problem. Two Imperial starcruisers are heading right for us. They must have already been here in orbit waiting for us. They're opening fire."

"Shields up!" yelled Owen. "I thought we left those bastards behind on Virimonde. What the hell are they doing here?"

"Hitting us with everything they've got," said Ozymandius dispassionately. "Shields are holding, but I don't know for how long. They were never designed to take this kind of punishment."

"Two starcruisers?" said Jack Random. "Two bloody starcruisers?"

"They must really want your aristocratic ass," said Ruby Journey. "This heap of yours have any weapons?"

"Nothing that'll stop a starcruiser," said Owen. "Oz, make the jump. Now."

"I'm afraid that's not possible, Owen. I'm still working out the exact spacial coordinates. Jump too soon, without everything correct to the last decimal place, and we could end up materializing inside a sun, or something equally unpleasant. Port shield just went down. Brace yourselves."

The ship shook and alarms shrilled as everyone staggered back and forth. The ship shook again and again, and smoke billowed into the lounge. Bottles fell from the bar and smashed on the floor. Owen clung to a wall bracket and thought frantically about what to do next. Somewhere entirely too close he could hear the crackling of a large fire.

"Oz, status report!"

"Bad, and getting worse. Half our shields are down, outer hull penetrated in seventeen places, inner hull breached in three. We're losing air fast."

"Can't we try and run?"

"If you really want to annoy them. Just hold on, Owen. We'll be gone in a few minutes."

"We don't have a few minutes! Go now! Make the jump!"

"I really cannot recommend that, Owen. If we jump now, I cannot guarantee a safe arrival."

"Jump now! That's an order!"

"Yes, Owen. On to Shandrakor, and death or glory!"

The lights flickered and went out. Smoke filled the lounge. The ship lurched heavily as the stern blew apart in an echoing explosion, and then the Sunstrider dropped into hyperspace and was gone on its way to an uncertain destination.