Deathstalker

The Man Who Had Everything

The Deathstalker, Owen, Lord of Vuimonde, last of a famous warrior line, lay naked and exhausted among the crumpled silk sheets of his bed and wondered lazily if he could work up the strength to call for a tall iced drink. It was late in the morning of another perfect day on the best of all possible worlds. The sun was shining, what passed for birds on Virimonde were singing their little hearts out, everyone was busy at their work, and he didn't have to leave his bed for ages yet if he didn't feel like it. He sighed and stretched slowly and smiled the slow smug smile of the truly satisfied. He'd just had amazing sex with his long-term mistress, and when she got back from wherever she'd disappeared to, he fully intended to do it all again. Practice makes perfect.

She wasn't really his mistress, in the sense that he didn't pay her a retainer or anything, but he liked the ancient word, with its undertones of sin and debauchery. He stretched again unhurriedly, content as a cat in the sun, staring up at the ceiling high above. When he did finally choose to get up, his most recent history was waiting in the computers for him to take up work on it again. It was a good piece, sharp and pointed and full of new insights. The kind of work he'd always known he was capable of, if he could just get away from interfering distractions like having to train with sword and gun every morning and study military tactics every afternoon in order to be the warrior his line demanded of him. No one had ever asked him if he wanted to be another bloody fighter like all this revered ancestors. But that was all behind him now. His father was dead, he'd inherited the title, and his life was his own at last. In short, he'd got it all. No doubt eventually he'd start getting bored with such perfection in several years or so, but until then he was determined to enjoy every minute of it. And why not? He was a nice guy; he deserved it.

He looked around the huge stone chamber with its hanging tapestries and centuries-old holos. The Deathstalker Standing hadn't changed outwardly in generations. Every modern convenience was in place, ready to hand or call, but expertly concealed behind the traditional overlay. The Standing had been the home of the Deathstalker Clan for generations beyond counting, serving all their various needs with calm efficiency. When Owen had bought the Lordship of Virimonde, he'd had the entire castle dismantled, stone by stone, and had it and its contents shipped to Virimonde, where it was reassembled surprisingly quickly by a small army of fanatical experts. You can do things like that when you're a Lord. The Standing was his, wherever he decided to plant his roots; all that was required of him was that he preserve it and hold it in trust for future generations. Assuming he ever got around to marrying and producing a next generation. His mistress was a delightful sort, but not at all the kind of person one married. As head of one of the oldest Families in the Empire, he had a duty to marry someone of his own rank and station. And he would. Eventually.

Owen looked thoughtfully at the giant holo on the wall opposite his bed, showing the original Deathstalker in all his fearsome aspect and martial glory: Warrior Prime of the Empire and founder of the Clan that still bore his name. He looked a bit rough and ready in his thick furs and steelmesh tunic, bristling with weapons, his head shaved in a mercenary's scalplock, but it didn't take too much imagination to transform his warrior's arrogance into a lord's nobility. According to Family history, he'd been the greatest fighting man of his day, unanimously elected Warrior Prime and elevated to the Peerage by popular acclaim. Hard man by all accounts, and a bit of a bastard, but the public liked that in their heroes. Bloodied his sword on a hundred worlds, and never backed away from an insult or a war.

He was also the creator and wielder of the Darkvoid Device, which put out a thousand suns in a moment and left their planets to sail silently through an endless night. The Dark void. But no one talks about that anymore outside the Family.

Pity about what happened to him in the end, but that's politics for you. His son had taken over as Warrior Prime to the Empire, and things went on as they should. Owen wondered vaguely what the old man would have made of his most recent descendant. Probably would have had him put down the moment he showed any sign of intellectual tendencies. Owen couldn't bring himself to really give a damn. He'd always known he was a writer, not a fighter. He'd had a proper training in weaponry and all the martial arts, as befitted his station and inheritance, but it had never interested him. His interest lay in researching and piecing together the Empire's somewhat tangled history. Nothing excited him like reaching into the morass of legend and myth that made up so much of the past and producing one indisputable new fact, clear and sharp as a diamond in a coal mine. And if he'd learned one thing from all the histories he'd read and the tales he'd investigated, it was that most of the time there was no glory and damn all honor to be found on the battlefield. Only blood and mud and the endless bitterness of lost hopes.

Most wars turned out to be squalid little affairs, once you dug through the lies and propaganda, fought to protect trade interests or save political face. Owen was damned if he'd fight and die just so someone else could look good. Particularly when he had so much to live for. The only real legacy he had from his bad old, mad old ancestor was the Deathstalker ring; an ugly chunky circle of black gold handed down out of the unimaginable past, the sign and seal of Deathstalker authority. According to the Family tradition, he was forbidden to remove it, save to pass it on to his eldest son. They'd had to cut off his father's finger to get it after he was dead. But then, Owen and his father had never got on.

They'd always been surprisingly distant and distinct, considering how alike they looked. They were both tall and rangy, with dark hair and darker eyes, moving always with the quiet grace of breeding and long martial training. These days, in his mid-twenties, Owen had lost some of the athlete's leanness; good living and satisfied appetites had softened the lines of his muscles and padded his stomach. Not excessively so, by any means, but his old weapons master would have thrown up his hands in despair at how out of condition his pupil had become. It was a thought that never failed to please Owen. The two of them had never got on. He still worked out most day's, when he could spare the time, if only so he could keep up with his mistress.

The bedroom door swung open, and Owen's mood changed in a moment as his mistress came bouncing in, bright and bonny and tanned golden from perfect head to pointed toe. Cathy DeVries was in her early thirties, with a tight compact body of wondrous delights. Average height, but far from average in every other way. Long legs, full body, long blond hair falling around a heart-shaped face with marvelous high cheekbones. Cathy was inordinately proud of her bone structure. Prettiness fades, she was fond of saying, but a good bone structure lasts forever. She had the widest smile Owen had ever seen and dark blue eyes to die for. She'd been his mistress for seven years now, ever since she'd been presented to him as a surprise party favor at the Winter Ball on Golgotha. She'd been physically adapted at the House of Joy: a double-jointed contortionist, trained in all the erotic knowledge of the ages, and full of surprises. Multiple orgasms guaranteed or your money back.

Buying up her contract was the best investment he'd ever made.

Cathy was wearing his battered old dressing gown again, belted at the waist for a change. Usually she just let it hang open, partly for freedom of movement and partly because she knew how much he liked to look at her. This time the gown was belted tight, and the thought disturbed him for some reason. It wasn't as though she had anything to hide after seven years of enthusiastic exploration. She was probably just teasing him again. She knew how to get him going. He noted with approval that she was carrying a tall frosted glass of white wine. She always could judge his mood to a nicety. On the other hand, the sight of her was more refreshing than any drink could ever be. He took the drink from her and put it firmly to one side on the bedside table. First things first. He reached for Cathy, and she stepped back, just out of reach. He frowned, puzzled, and she looked at him dispassionately.

"Bad move, Owen. You really should have drunk the wine. You would have just drifted off to sleep and never woken up. So much simpler and more pleasant for both of us. Now we have to do it the hard way."

She reached inside the dressing gown and brought out a disrupter. Owen blinked stupidly at the energy weapon in her hand, and then old trained reflexes kicked in, and he threw himself out of his bed as Cathy fired. He hit the floor rolling, still wrapped in his sheets. The bed exploded into flames behind him. Cathy cursed briefly, put away the gun and drew a long knife from inside the dressing gown. Owen wondered briefly what the hell else she had hidden in there, and then lurched to his feet, tearing the enveloping sheets away from him. He had two minutes until the gun's energy crystal recharged. He backed away as she advanced on him with the knife and looked desperately around him for some kind of weapon. Cathy's face was calm but determined, as though she was working on some minor puzzle whose solution for the moment escaped her.

"Cathy, I really think we need to talk about this."

"Too late for talk, Owen."

"If this is some kind of joke, I don't find it in the least bit funny."

"No joke, Owen. I'm canceling our contract. The escape clause is a bit of a bastard, but that's life for you. Or rather, death. Don't struggle and I'll make it quick."

"Whatever they're paying, I'll double it."

"You can't buy yourself out of trouble this time, dear. Now stand still and let me do what I have to. At least have the decency to die with dignity."

Owen realized he'd ended up back by the burning bed and winced away from the leaping flames. He drew himself up to his full height and glared at his mistress. His nakedness rather distracted from the effect. "Cathy, you don't really think you can beat me in a fight, do you? I am the Deathstalker, after all."

"And I was trained in the House of Joy. They teach us all kinds of things there. You'd be surprised. We're both a little out of shape, but you've really let yourself go, Owen. If the knife doesn't get you, me gun will, once it's recharged. Say goodbye, dear. It's been fun; let's not spoil it."

She lunged forward gracefully while she was still talking, the long knife reaching for his heart. Owen side-stepped at the last moment, and the edge of the knife grated across his ribs as Cathy sailed past him. She recovered her balance in a moment and turned to face him again. Owen noted disgustedly that she wasn't even breathing hard. The long cut burned across his ribs, and he could feel blood coursing down his side. Much as he hated to admit it, Cathy clearly was in much better shape than he.

The thought sparked a sudden anger in him, and as she came forward again, Owen fell easily into the defensive stance he should have been using all along. His weapon master had spent enough time hammering it into him. Cathy lunged again, and he stepped gracefully aside, seized her arm in one simple movement and twisted it up behind her back. Her own speed and impetus slammed the hold into place, and she gasped in pain as he applied a steady pressure. Her fingers opened reluctantly, releasing the knife. It fell to the floor, but Cathy kicked it out of reach before Owen could even think about going after it. And then she twisted strangely, pulled free of his grasp and sent Owen flying before he knew what was happening. He scrambled hurriedly to his feet, looking about him for the knife. Cathy pirouetted once, her long leg flying up, and her foot hit Owen expertly just above the ear. He managed to roll with some of the blow, but he still hit the floor hard again, his head ringing.

Great, thought Owen, as he struggled to get his feet under him. All the assassins that could have come after me, and I had to get a double-jointed contortionist kick-boxer. Well, when in doubt, improvise. And if that fails, cheat.

Cathy came at him again, moving almost too fast for the eye to follow. Owen grabbed his clothes from the chair they'd been laid out on and threw them into Cathy's face. For a second she was blind and off balance, and that was all it took for Owen to snatch up the knife and thrust it between her ribs. For a long moment they remained as they were, Cathy on her feet, him on one knee, both breathing hard. Blood poured from Cathy's heaving side. The clothes fell away from her face. She gripped his shoulders fiercely, as though to hold herself up, but all her strength went out of her, and she sank to the floor, still holding onto him. He eased her down and sat with her, holding her tenderly in his arms. She coughed painfully, and blood ran from her mouth. "Damn," she said thickly. "You've killed me, Owen."

"Yes, I think I have. Why, Cathy? Why did you do it?"

"You've been outlawed. The news came through while I was getting your drink. All your titles, lands, properties, and monies have been seized. It's death to shelter or aid you. Anyone who brings your head, preferably unattached to the body, to the Imperial Court on Golgotha will be rewarded with the Lordship of Virimonde and half your monies. Somebody really wants you dead, Owen."

She cleared her throat and spat, and there was more blood. Owen held her tightly. Outlawed? He tried to make sense of it and couldn't. In the space of a few moments, his whole world had gone mad. Cathy coughed painfully and gritted her teeth against the blood. Her hands tightened on his arms, and he held her until the spasm passed. He didn't know what else to do.

"Something else you should know, Owen." Her voice was low and blurred now, and he had to concentrate to make it out. "I'm a spy. From the Imperial Court. They planted me on you, all those years ago. I've been feeding them information ever since."

"Hush, love. Don't tire yourself. I know. I've always known. It doesn't matter."

Cathy looked at him. "You knew? And you never said anything?"

"What was there to say? My AI broke your cover right after you moved in with me. He's good at things like that. I never did anything about it because it was easier to have a spy I knew about, and could keep an eye on, than have to identify and deal with whoever replaced you. And besides, I was fond of you."

"I was fond of you," said Cathy quietly. "I never did have a head for business."

She leaned forward till her head was resting on his shoulder, shuddered slightly, and stopped breathing. Owen held her in his arms as the life went out of her, and then sat quietly with her, rocking her gently like a sleeping child. After a while he let go and laid her out on the floor. She seemed somehow smaller and more fragile now. He looked down at himself and grimaced at her blood and his on his skin. He picked up his shift from the floor and mopped at himself with it. He started to put it on, and then let it drop to the floor again. Nothing seemed to matter much now. The crackling of the flames from his burning bed caught his attention, and he thought vaguely that he should call someone to do something about it. He activated his comm implant, removed the Do Not Disturb and accessed his home's AI.

"Ozymandius…"

"Shut up and listen," said his AI. "You're in a lot of trouble, Owen. You've been outlawed, and there's a hell of a price on your head."

"I know."

"So does your head of security. He's on his way to you right now, with as many guards as he could muster, with the explicit intention of separating your head from your shoulders. You never did pay him enough. You've got to get out of there, now."

"Cathy just tried to murder me. I had to kill her."

"I'm sorry, Owen, but we don't have time for this. Everyone in the Standing is probably heading for you with murder on their mind. You don't have any friends here anymore. Use the hidden exit, make your way through the secret passages and get to your private flyer. By the time you've done that, I should have a clearer picture of what's going on, and just possibly I'll have worked out what you should do next."

Owen padded over to the bedroom door, opened it slightly and peered out into the corridor. There was no one there, but he thought he could hear someone in the distance, drawing closer. He shut the door and locked it, and then walked back to pick up his clothes. He dressed quickly, ignoring the blood on his shirt and skin. Whatever happened, he was damned if he was going to face it naked.

"Oz, why have I been outlawed? It doesn't make sense. I left the court and came here precisely because I wanted to avoid getting involved in the kind of intrigues that get you outlawed. I'm no danger to anyone. I just wanted to be left alone to get on with my histories."

"The court didn't give any specific reason, but then, it doesn't have to. The word of the Empress is law. I suppose, as a Deathstalker, your name could be useful to any number of factions, in and out of the court. As I understand it, the Empress took a personal interest in you. And you know what that usually means…"

"Yeah. The last time she took a personal interest in someone, his remains ended up being sent to seventeen different planets simultaneously, as an example not to make waves. All right, I'm dressed. Open the stairway."

The holo of the original Deathstalker swung sideways, revealing a narrow passageway. A light appeared deep in the tunnel. Like all good castles, the Deathstalker Standing had several secret doors and hidden runnels. Partly out of tradition, but mostly because the Deathstalkers had always felt it a good idea to have an ace or two hidden up their sleeves. Even Owen's head of security didn't know about these tunnels. Owen pulled on his best cloak and buckled on his sword, picked up Cathy's disrupter, and plunged into the narrow opening. The holo swung shut behind him.

He was still having trouble believing this was all really happening. One minute life was good and full and everything made sense, and the next up was down, in was out, and people he'd known for years were trying to kill him. The last time he'd felt like this was when they'd brought him the news that his father was dead. Cut down in the street as an enemy of the Empire. No one ever said why, or what he'd done, and it wasn't safe to ask. Owen hadn't really been surprised. His father had been plotting and intriguing with this faction or that all of Owen's life. A man should always concentrate on what he's best at, was all his father ever had to say on the subject.

Only it turned out he wasn't as clever as he'd thought, and Owen became the Deathstalker when he was sixteen. He'd tried to mourn his father, but he'd hardly known the man. They never spent much time together. His father was always off on some new scheme, chasing money or influence or fame. He wasn't noticeably successful. Owen's mother died when he was still too young to remember her, so most of his life had been spent under the governship of a series of guardians, tutors, and friends of the Family. His only real friend, certainly the only one he ever trusted, was the Family AI, Ozymandius.

He'd been very fond of Cathy, but he never trusted her. It surprised him that her death hurt him so much.

All his father's warrior training and skill in politics hadn't been enough to save him, and Owen had drawn a lesson from that. He'd never been much interested in current politics, so he'd found it easy enough to turn away the various cabals that came sniffing around him once he inherited the title. He made it clear he was only interested in his histories and did his best to present an image of himself as dull, hopelessly studious, and completely self-involved. He dismissed his weapons master, turned his back on the court and its politics, and bought the Lordship of Virimonde, way out on the Rim, a carefully safe distance from the Empress and her people. He wasn't going to make the same mistakes his father made.

Only somehow it had all gone wrong anyway.

He kept turning it over and over in his mind as he quickly made his way down the passage. Lights turned themselves on before him and turned themselves off after him, so that he moved in a constant pool of light through the darkness. He couldn't have been outlawed for no reason. It had to be some kind of ghastly mistake. If he could just get in touch with the right people, find out what had gone wrong and explain everything, then maybe they'd put things right again, and he could have his life back. But to do that, he had to avoid his enemies and stay alive. Which was easier said than done. Maybe he'd be better off heading for the Standing's communications center. He could barricade himself in, call for help and hope he found a sympathetic ear. Anything was better than just running blindly.

"Oz, what's the state of communications at the moment?"

"Pretty bad. All the main comm channels have been jammed. Local channels are okay, but I don't know for how long. Either way, it's clear you're not going to be allowed to plead your case. The more I look into this, the more convinced I am this was all set up at the highest levels. Hold it; the local channels just went down. All of them. I can keep this private channel open for a while, but I can't guarantee how long. In fact, there's not much I can guarantee anymore, except that you have to keep moving. Your head of security has burst into your bedroom with his people. They're all armed, some with energy weapons. He's found Cathy's body. Now they're tearing the place apart, looking for a hidden exit. They're being very thorough, but they seem to have forgotten my sensors. The head of security is not pleased at your absence. People can probably hear him being not pleased some distance away."

"You can tell me all this later," Owen cut in. "What are the chances of his finding the hidden exit?"

"Not good. They're really not very bright, and I'm scrambling the sensor equipment they brought with them. I told you, you should have let me choose your security people. This bunch hasn't got a clue, and they're getting nowhere fast. I feel like shouting out 'Hot!' and 'Cold!' just to encourage them."

"Don't you dare."

"Spoilsport."

Owen shook his head. "If I ever find out who programmed that sense of humor into you, I'll have him strung up by his giblets. Could we please concentrate on the matter in hand?"

"Of course, Owen. Do you still have the Deathstalker ring?"

"Of course I've still got it. It'd take half a tub of grease to get the damn thing off my finger. Why?"

"I've just discovered a file hidden deep within my memories, designed only to reveal itself in the event of your being outlawed. Someone was thinking ahead, though his motives remain unclear at this time. Apparently the ring is very important. It's a key of some kind. According to the file, you're supposed to take it to Mistworld, where you will find help waiting for you."

"Is that all?" said Owen, after a while.

"I'm afraid so. However, I feel I should point out that if there's one hidden file in my memories, there may well be more with further information, presumably to be triggered by future events."

"This has my father's fingerprints all over it," said Owen disgustedly. "Even after he's dead, he's still trying to run my life. Him and his bloody intrigues. Mistworld, for God's sake! The outlaw planet. Place is full of criminals and murderers, and the living conditions are barbaric. I wouldn't live there if you paid me. No, Oz; wherever I'm going, I'm not going there. I know what he wants. When he was killed, I was supposed to take his ring and swear vengeance, just like in all those operas he loved so much. Well, to hell with him. I wouldn't let him dictate my life while he was alive, and I'm not about to start now. If he wanted to risk being killed tor his squalid little political maneuverings, that was up to him, but I have better things to do with my life. And not being killed is right at the head of them."

"I'm sure your father only had your best interests at heart," said the AI.

"You're only saying that because he had it programmed into you. He never understood me. Never even tried. He never understood that I never wanted to be a warrior."

He hurried on for a while in silence. He had nothing left to say, and besides, he needed his breath for running. The tunnel was definitely heading downward, but after so many twists and turns, he'd quite lost track of his bearings. He'd never used the escape route before and wasn't that impressed by it now. It was cold and damp, the ceiling was uncomfortably low, and it smelt awful. He supposed he should have expected that. You could hardly send the cleaning staff into a secret tunnel every other week. He slowed to a fast walk and breathed deeply. He had to be getting near the exit now, and he didn't want to arrive there exhausted and out of breath. You never knew who might be waiting.

"Oz, you still there?"

"Of course, Owen. Where else would I be?"

"Smartass. Look, none of this makes sense. Even if I have been outlawed, the court wouldn't just announce it to all and sundry. Even these days, under the Iron Bitch, outlawing a Lord is extremely bloody rare, and it's nearly always done in private. It wouldn't do for the lower orders to get a taste for killing nobility, would it? Might start giving them ideas. We're supposed to be special, far above them, untouched and untouchable by their petty little lives. You can't just outlaw a Lord. It just isn't done!"

"It's certainly unusual," said the AI. "I can only assume the Empress really wants you dead. The reward on your head is unprecedentedly high. Hmmm. I wonder how much she'd give me for you?…"

"Oz…"

"Just a thought. Hold everything; new update. Someone is trying to break into my programming. Professionals, too. They're cutting through my outer defenses like they're not even there. They've got some really heavy codebreakers, Owen. We could be in real trouble."

"Imperial?"

"Has to be. But don't start panicking yet. I've been looking after you Deathstalkers for some time now, and I've learned a few tricks down the years. Including how to appear a lot dumber than I really am while carefully leading them away from my core identity. Right now, as far as they're concerned, I'm just a jumped-up number-cruncher with an AI overlay. And by the time they've figured out the truth, I plan to be long gone. So, my files are safe for the time being, but the sooner you can download me from the castle mainframe, the better."

"Hold everything, Oz; what have they done to my credit rating?"

"Owen, what they have done to your credit rating, I wouldn't do to a dead dog. You are now worth squat. They've wiped out every penny you had and seized all your properties and holdings, including several they weren't supposed to know about. Look, I told you most of this already; aren't you paying attention?"

"Shut up, Oz, this is serious. Without a credit rating, I'm dead. Wherever I'm going, I'm going to need money. Let me think for a moment… The Family jewels! They've got to be worth a small fortune!"

"Forget it, Owen. One, you don't have time to go back and get them; two, your head of security has people waiting for you there in case you're stupid enough to go after them; and three, the jewels are quite well known in their own right. You'd be identified the moment you tried to sell them."

Owen scowled. "I hate it when you're right."

He rounded a corner in the tunnel and stepped out into the caves below the Standing where he kept his private flyer. A disrupter beam blew away part of the wall where he'd been standing, sending stone fragments flying through the air. Owen threw himself back into the tunnel, swearing softly so as not to give away his position. He clutched tightly at Cathy's disrupter.

"Why the hell didn't you warn me mere were people lying in wait for me?" he subvocalized fiercely.

"Sorry, Owen. The codebreakers have shut down my sensor apparatus inside the Standing. I can no longer access any of the security systems. They're in deeper than I thought. They're getting close to the real me, Owen. There's still a lot I can try to hold them off, but I'm getting a really bad feeling about this. You have to download me soon, or risk losing me."

"Great. Just what I needed; something else to worry about. Look, can you access the flyer's sensors through my implant and see through those?"

"It'll be risky. The codebreakers could follow me to you."

"Do it. I need to know how many men I'm facing and how many of them have energy weapons."

"All right, I'm in. Three men. One disrupter. They've all got swords. They've taken cover behind the flyer."

"Damn," said Owen. "Who the hell are they?"

"More of your security people. I can give you their names if you want."

"Wouldn't know them if you did. Not my province. As long as the head of security did a good job, I didn't interfere."

"Well, in the future, assuming we have one, I suggest you take the time to make a few friends among your security people. Never know when it might come in handy."

Owen growled something in response, but he wasn't really listening. The fact was, in a moment he was going to have to take on three armed men, one of them with an energy weapon, and he couldn't put it off much longer. A hand disrupter only took two minutes to recharge between each shot, which meant he was running out of time fast. He had to make his move while the gun was still useless. Three to one odds weren't that bad. Not for someone with his training. But that was all he'd had: training. He'd never had to face these kind of odds for real before. And he'd let himself get out of shape. He'd been so sure he was safe here… He pushed the thought to one side and unconsciously sucked in his gut. He was going to have to be a fighter after all, despite all the promises he'd made to himself after his father's death. He was going to have to be a Deathstalker, and all that that meant.

He drew in a deep breath, held it, and then let it out. A slow, purposeful calm crept over him. He smiled briefly, acknowledging the irony, and then spoke the activation word boost. Blood thundered through his head and his heart raced. The buried subliminals kicked in, flooding his system with adrenaline and endorphins, and other serums from specially gengineered glands. His muscles swelled and his senses blossomed. He was stronger, faster, more efficient in every way. His thoughts were sharp and lightning fast. For as long as the boost lasted, he would be more than human; more than merely human. He couldn't maintain it for a long, or it would burn him out. But he could stand it long enough to do what he had to do.

He burst out of the tunnel entrance again, moving too quickly for the human eye to follow, raised his disrupter and shot the man holding a gun through the chest while he was still reacting to Owen's sudden appearance. The energy beam punched right through the security man's chest and threw him aside. The energy gun flew from his hand, out of reach of the others. Owen was upon them both before the first man hit the ground. They seemed to be moving in slow motion to him, every second an age. Their swords rose nightmarishly slowly, and then he was among them, inhumanly fast and strong, supercharged almost beyond the ability of the human frame to bear. His sword ripped through one man's throat, half severing the head from the body, and then leapt on to plunge into the third man's chest. And as quickly as that, it was all over.

Owen snapped out of boost and almost fell as all the accumulated stress hit him at once. He'd been using controlled hysterical strength, though not all of it. Using the muscles to their full extent would tear them clean away from the bones. His abused heart was hammering painfully fast in his chest, his breathing was quick and strained, and he was soaked with sweat. He shook uncontrollably as the chemical stew he'd pumped into his system slowly began to disperse. Just the shock alone would have killed an ordinary man, but he was far more than that. He was a Deathstalker, and the boost was the real Deathstalker inheritance.

The shaking died away, and he smiled tremulously. Damn, he felt good. He shook his head slowly, forcing down the euphoria. It wasn't real; just a side effect of the endorphins still in his blood. This was the Deathstalker secret; what made his Family such perfect fighting machines. The constant temptation that had to be faced and mastered. A rush greater than any single drug could ever provide; a potential addiction stronger than any will could deny. This was the key to Deathstalker training, backed up by subliminal commands deep within the subconscious mind: only to use the boost when you had to. Owen had never really been tempted. The few times he'd used it before, under strictly controlled conditions, it had scared the crap out of him. It pushed aside the mind, brought out the beast that lurks in every man, and made him like it. Made him just the kind of man he'd always sworn he'd rather die than become.

He pushed the thought aside and sheathed his blood-smeared sword without bothering to clean it. He'd pay a price for the boost later, but he couldn't let himself collapse and sleep until he was safely away from here. If anywhere was safe for him now. And assuming he didn't have to use the boost again.

A memory came to him, reinforced by the last of the chemicals still moving sluggishly in his blood. He was fourteen years old, and his father was beating the shit out of him in a training session to force him to use the boost, to become an adult Deathstalker. It took a lot of beatings before he finally learned how to summon the boost.

Thanks a lot, Dad.

"Oz, any sign of more of these idiots?"

"No, Owen. According to the flyer's admittedly somewhat limited sensors, there are no other life signs in the immediate vicinity. There aren't that many people who know about your outlawing so far, and they have a lot of ground to cover. But there is no knowing when they might discover your escape route and follow you down here. May I earnestly suggest that you power up the flyer and get the hell out of here? Both your options and mine are shrinking fast. I'm having to use more and more of my systems to defend myself against the Imperial codebreakers. My mind is under threat. If you don't download me soon, I will be unable to assist you further."

"All right, leave off the emotional blackmail. I'll see what I can do once I get to my private yacht. The Sunstrider has more than enough system capacity to hold you." Owen smiled suddenly. "And they said I was crazy to pay that much money for a yacht. I'll show them. The Sunstrider's got options built into her that most people have never even dreamed of."

"The yacht was a wise choice in retrospect," said Ozymandius. "I have always admired your Family's capacity for practical paranoia."

Owen laughed breathlessly and threw open the canopy of his private flyer. It wasn't much to look at; just a long slender cabin with wings and a small motor. Top speed of a hundred, if the wind was with you, and the energy crystals only lasted about a week between rechargings, but it was useful for getting around his estates, so he'd kept it handy. He'd never seriously considered it as an emergency route, but he'd felt more secure knowing it was there, and he wasn't reliant on anybody else for transport. He slipped into the pilot's seat and pulled the canopy shut. It only took a few seconds to power up the craft, then he lifted it carefully off its dais and flew it out of the caverns and into the bright morning sunlight.

The canopy darkened automatically to keep out the sunlight, but it still seemed painfully bright. He headed north, pushing the speed to maximum as fast as he dared. Virimonde looked cool and green and calm and peaceful. It didn't seem possible that his life could be threatened in such a perfect world. The great grasslands rolled away in one direction, fields of waving com in the other, both stretching as far as the eye could see. Low stone walls crisscrossed here and there, and people worked unhurriedly in the fields as though this was just another day. The bitter thought, It isn't fair, flashed through his mind and was gone. He didn't have the time for self-pity. Owen tore his gaze away from his people and accessed the flight computers through his comm implant. All systems were responding normally, and the energy levels looks sufficient to get him to where he'd hidden the Sunstrider. If nothing went wrong. The flyer had no weapons systems and no energy shields. A disrupter blast would rip through the cabin like a knife through paper. Owen felt suddenly vulnerable, alone in a flimsy craft, and he shuddered for a long moment before he could bring himself back under control again.

The flyer's sensors suddenly murmured in his ear, informing him that there were two other flyers on his tail. They were only a few minutes behind him, and slowly but steadily they were closing the gap. Owen swore feelingly. He should never have authorized the extra flyers for his security people. He tried for more speed, but the low energy levels made the craft sluggish. It only took a quick calculation to show Owen the other flyers would catch him up long before he could reach Sunstrider and safety.

"Oz, you still with me?"

"There's no need to shout, Owen. I'm not deaf."

"Then take over the flyer's controls. Your reflexes are a lot faster than mine."

"Yes, Owen." The flyer lurched suddenly to one side and then back again, rising and falling at unexpected intervals. "Evasive maneuvers," the AI explained.

"Next time," said Owen, trying hard to hang onto his seat and his stomach's contents, "a little warning would be appreciated."

"Of course, Owen. I feel I should also warn you that according to this flyer's long-range sensors, there are at least three energy weapons on the flyers behind us. It will only take one hit in the wrong place to force us down."

"I had worked that much out for myself, thank you. Any other good news you want to share with me?"

"Again according to the long range sensors, there are three more craft heading in pursuit. Too far off yet to identify the craft, but their speed implies they are much more powerful than the flyers, and they're closing fast."

Some days, Owen thought, things wouldn't go right if you paid them.

The flyer lurched suddenly as a disrupter beam tore through the left wing. The whole craft shuddered painfully, and its speed began to drop. It threw itself about the sky as the AI ran through every emergency maneuver the flyer was still capable of, but the damage had been done. Speed was down, altitude was falling, and the pursuing ships were drawing steadily nearer.

"You'll have to take control, Owen," said the AI suddenly. "I'm under increasing attack, and I can't spare any more of myself to help you. You can contract me again if you reach Sunstrider. If not, I have enjoyed our relationship. Goodbye."

"Oz! Ozymandius! Talk to me, damn you!" Owen waited, but there was no response. "Shit! Boost!"

He didn't like to think what boosting again was going to do to him so soon after the last time, but it couldn't be helped. He needed the extra speed and reflexes it would give him. Blood hammered in his head, and new strength flooded through him. The flyer shuddered again as a second energy beam hit it from behind. The motor lost its high confident tone and began to stutter. The nose dipped, and the flyer headed for the ground. To Owen it all seemed to be happening in remorseless slow motion, but even though his hands were incredibly fast and sure on the controls, all he could do was guide the descent, not stop it He was still a long way short of his destination, and for the first time Owen realized he probably wasn't going to escape after all.

The ground rose slowly up before him, and he aimed for an open patch of tilled ground next to a line of windbreak trees. His hands clutched at the controls with such strength that he bent them out of shape, and the flyer began to sluggishly respond. Then another energy beam hit him from behind, and all the lights on his control panels went out. The flyer dropped like a stone, the motor silent, and the ground came rushing up. The left wing hit first, spinning the flyer around. The impact slammed Owen forward against the restraining straps with brutal force, driving the air from his lungs.

For a moment he hung there, dazed and helpless, and then the boost jerked him awake. The flyer had dug its nose into the ground, and he was hanging over the spider-webbed canopy. He hit the strap release and lashed out with his fist as he fell forward against the canopy. Part of it shattered and fell outward, but there still wasn't enough space for him to crawl past the jagged stumps of glass thrusting out from the canopy surround. There was smoke in the cabin, and behind him he could hear the crackling of flames. He took firm hold of the edges of the canopy, breaking away some of the glass and ignoring fragments that still bit into his hands, and slowly he forced the metal rim outward. The solid steel groaned as it yielded reluctantly to his boosted strength. Blood slithered down his hands. Smoke filled the cabin, tearing at his lungs. He bent away the steel edges and finally forced his way through the jagged glass and out.

He dropped bonelessly to the ground and lay still on the broken earth for a moment, before the boost forced him to his feet again. Flames roared in the cabin of the flyer, and thick black smoke billowed up into the sky like a marker. The pursuing craft couldn't miss him now if they tried. He'd landed just a few feet short of the windbreak trees, and empty fields stretched out around him. He had no idea where he was, and the only maps were burning inside the flyer. He tried his implant again, but the AI was still silent. The boost moved in him like liquid fire, trembling in his supercharged muscles, and he felt as though he had all the time in the world to do whatever might be necessary. He checked his hands dispassionately. They weren't too badly damaged, and the smaller cuts were already sealing themselves. He felt no pain in his hands or anywhere else, and wouldn't till he came out of boost. At which point his aggrieved body would have a hell of a lot more to worry about than a few cuts and bruises. The human body wasn't meant to work at this kind of level for this long.

He looked up and saw two flyers falling unhurriedly out of the bright sky toward him. Three more craft hung in the distance like high-flying kites. Owen drew his sword with one hand and his disrupter with the other and headed for the trees. He wanted something he could put his back against. He might not be a warrior like his father, but he was still a Deathstalker, and he would show his enemies what that meant. Whoever the enemy was. Probably more of his own security people, the ungrateful bastards. He set his back against a wide tree trunk and leaned against it for support. They might come at him from the front and sides now, but not from behind. Good to have something you could rely on in an uncertain world.

The more he looked at his injuries, the more serious they seemed, so he stopped looking at them. The boost was screening him from the pain and shock, but it was also burning up dangerous reserves of strength. It couldn't maintain him much longer, especially if he had to fight for his life. He glared up at the sky, at the craft hovering overhead like vultures. The two flyers landed a respectful distance from his burning craft, and guards spilled out onto the tilled field. Owen counted fourteen and nodded, satisfied. He was glad to see they were taking him seriously. Anything less would have been an insult.

The three other craft dropped unhurriedly out of the sky. Owen tried to focus his drifting thoughts. There were bound to be more guards in the other craft, some with energy guns. In the end it didn't matter how fast or how strong the boost made him; there were just too many enemies to fight. And even if by some boost-inspired miracle he could beat them all, staying boosted for so long would kill him anyway. Damned if he did, damned if he didn't. And maybe that was the real legacy of the Deathstalkers.

It occurred to Owen that he was going to die here, lost and alone and abandoned by all those he trusted, but the thought didn't scare him as much as he'd thought it would. He'd lost everything that mattered and a few that didn't: title, money, position, even people. I was fond of you, Cathy. Even if he could somehow find a way to survive this ambush, and what he was doing to himself with the boost, the only future he'd have was as an outlaw and renegade, with every man's hand turned against him. Dear God, I've killed Cathy.

Owen felt suddenly tired, despite the boost. It wasn't that he wanted to die; he just didn't see the point in going on.

Everything he valued had been taken from him by people far beyond his reach. Revenge seemed unlikely, and even pointless now. It wouldn't bring back what he'd lost. If he was going to die, he thought he'd rather go out in a dignified way, not fighting and squealing like a pig in an abattoir.

He cut off the boost and almost fell as his wounds burst open again. Blood poured down his body, and his legs trembled so much he could hardly stand. He used the last of his strength to put away his sword and disrupter. He wouldn't give the bastards the satisfaction of a struggle. The men who used to be his guards advanced purposefully, weapons at the ready. Owen wrapped himself in what was left of his pride and dignity and fought to keep his head up.

And then a ship came crashing down out of nowhere, and everything changed. The guards scattered, crying out in shock and alarm as they tried to run every way at once. The gleaming steel craft blocked out the sun as it roared down and then slammed into the broken earth and sat there, large and ugly and immovable. Owen would have run too, but his legs weren't listening to him. He looked blankly at the squat, squarish ship before him: a simple steel container without identification or markings. Which was of course strictly illegal. He slowly realized it wasn't any kind of flyer, but rather some kind of escape pod from a larger craft. A hatch swung open, and a steel ramp slammed down. A slim figure appeared in the hatchway. Owen took a moment to register that it was a. woman, and another to realize that she was almost the same age as him and in almost as bad condition. She was burned, her flesh and her clothes blackened and scorched. He thought she might have been pretty if her face hadn't been white and splotchy from pain and shock. She was also carrying the biggest and ugliest handgun he'd ever seen. She glared at him and gestured at the interior of her ship.

"Move, you idiot! Those bastards will be back any moment, and I for one don't plan to be here when they get their act together and start shooting. Shift your ass and get in here!"

Owen lurched forward. He didn't know who she was, or what she wanted with him, and he didn't care. A moment before he'd been ready to die, but now he'd found hope again, and he wanted to live. He could recognize destiny when it came calling. He could take a hint. He stumbled up the ramp, leaving a bloody trail behind him, and she yanked it up the moment he was clear and slammed the hatch shut. There were two sets of crash webbing just inside, and Owen sank gratefully into one as the woman threw herself into the other and jabbed frantically at the control panels. The ship lurched under him, engines roared, then they were up and off and moving. Owen let the webbing support him and studied his rescuer thoughtfully. The most obvious guess was that she wanted the reward on his head and didn't feel like sharing, but somehow he didn't think so. He supposed he should cautiously draw her out with clever questions and gradually determine what she wanted with him, but he didn't have the strength or the patience. So, when ail else fails, be direct. He cleared his throat painfully.

"I'm Owen Deathstalker. Who are you, and why did you help me?"

His voice sounded weak and thin to him, but if his rescuer noticed, it didn't show in her answer. "I'm Hazel d'Ark. How I got here's rather complicated. I rescued you because I didn't like the odds you were facing. I've always had a soft spot for the underdog. What did you do to get so many people mad at you?"

"I've been outlawed. There's a very attractive price on my head, if you think you can take it."

"Relax, stud. I'm an outlaw, too. No way I could collect your price without getting topped myself. There's a lot of us about these days, but then, that's the Iron Bitch for you. Deathstalker. That name rings a bell."

"I should hope so," said Owen wryly. "I used to be Lord of this planet."

Hazel whistled. "I'm impressed. I don't normally move in such high circles. Look, you got any ideas where I should point this tub? There are five ships right behind us and closing fast. I feel I should also point out this is a ship's escape pod, and my power cells are almost dead, so don't start getting ambitious. We've got maybe forty minutes of flight left, assuming I don't have to divert power to the energy shields."

Owen hesitated. "You still haven't explained why you risked your ship and yourself to rescue me."

"Underdogs have to learn to look out for each other because no one else will. An outlaw needs all the friends he can get. You'll learn that, if you survive this mess. Life as an outlaw can be very enlightening."

"All right. Head due north. There should be a large lake about ten miles from here, unless I'm even more lost than I thought I was. Tell me when we get there."

He lay back in the crash webbing and fought to clear his thoughts. He had an ally now, and a second chance at escape. If she could just get him to the Sunstrider, he might yet live to get his revenge after all. The thought stirred new strength in him, and he took a second look at his surroundings. Apart from the crash webbing, the control panels, and the bulkheads, there wasn't much to look at. It was all pretty minimalist, but it seemed solid enough. Presumably there wasn't much point in wasting frills and fancies on an escape pod.

"It's been a long time since I traveled in anything this primitive," he said finally. "What does it run on: steam?"

"Any more smart remarks like that and you can get out and push," said Hazel. "Don't knock this tub. It's saving your ass and mine. Okay, forward sensors report a large body of water dead ahead. Rear sensors report a whole mess of people coming after us in everything that flies. You'd better have a plan to get us out of this, Deathstalker, because I am fast running out of options."

"Relax," said Owen. "I have an ace up my sleeve and it's a beauty. In fact, she's waiting for us at the bottom of that lake."

Hazel looked across at him sharply. "Wait a minute; we're going diving?"

"You got it. My private yacht is sitting in its own little niche right at the bottom, hidden from everything but heavy-duty sensors. No one knows it's there but me. Had a feeling it might come in handy someday. Paranoia doesn't just run in my Family, it gallops. Part of the territory that comes with being a Lord. Drop this thing in the lake and head straight down. I'll contact the yacht, lower her shields and start powering her up. Your sensors will pick up the Sunstrider once you get close enough. Slip in next to her and fasten on to the outer airlock.

"She's special, my Sunstrider. Has all the power and facilities we'll need to make our escape, and then some. Once we're up and moving, nothing's going to catch us. Got her own hyperdrive, based on a new, more powerful design that was only recently discovered. Only a dozen ships fitted with it so far, and none of them anywhere near here. Cost a fortune, but I've always believed in going for the best. Take us down, please."

Hazel shook her head, smiling. "How the other three percent lives. Going down, Deathstalker. You'd better be right about this."

"Trust me. Have I ever lied to you?"

"How would I know?"

Owen laughed quietly as Hazel sent the escape pod plunging beneath the waters of the lake. Hazel watched the sensor panels carefully as the pod sank slowly through the dark waters, and then she leaned forward suddenly. Huge forms were rising up out of the depths toward the craft. They were hundreds of feet long, and according to the sensors, very much alive. They reached the escape pod in seconds and circled around it, moving unsettlingly quickly for things so large. Hazel's hands itched for some kind of weapon, but the beasts didn't seem to be attacking the craft or even warning it off. In fact, if she hadn't known better, she would have sworn they were escorting the ship down… A thought occurred to her, and she looked across at Owen.

"According to the sensors, we've picked up an escort. Whatever they are, they're disturbingly large and quite definitely alive. Would you know anything about this?"

He smiled tiredly. 'They're behemoths, from Virimonde's oceans. I had the lake seeded with a breeding pair to discourage people from using the lake. I didn't want any diving teams stumbling over my hidden ship. I understand fishing along the shores of the lake has become regarded as a danger sport. The locals play it up as a tourist attraction. I should have applied for a percentage."

Hazel looked at him dubiously. "Then why aren't these things attacking us?"

"Because they're actually relatively harmless. They're big and ugly and have teeth like knives, but they're timid as hell. Say boo to them and they'd run a mile. Of course, I don't tell anyone that. There's nothing to worry about. They're probably just curious about us. Ignore them."

Hazel looked as though she was about to say something cutting, so it was probably just as well that a flashing light on the sensor panels caught her attention. They'd found Owen's yacht. She eased the escape pod into position above it and then let the onboard computer oversee contact with the yacht's outer air lock. The behemoths circled hopefully above them for a few moments and then disappeared back into the dark waters.

For a while, Owen and Hazel just lay back in their crash webbings, gathering their strength. They'd used up most of their reserves to get this far, and both of them felt like they'd been running on empty for some time. A bone-deep weariness held them in the webbing like iron weights. It was tempting just to lie there and escape the stress and strain of their situation in dreamless sleep. Owen slowly realized that if he didn't move soon, he'd just lie there until he bled to death. He forced himself up and out of the webbing, then roused Hazel from hers with harsh words and the promise of luxurious quarters inside the yacht. It took her a while to open the airlock with her burned hands, refusing his offer of help, and then she stepped back for Owen to lead the way. He grinned sardonically and stumbled toward the yacht's outer airlock on unsteady feet.

He entered the correct security code, and the lock swung open. Owen stepped through, Hazel close behind. Lights turned themselves on as the ship sensed their presence, and Hazel stopped just beyond the inner airlock and gawped openly at the sheer opulence before her. Every form of convenience and luxury had been catered for in the ship's fittings, everything from rich furs on the floor to the very latest computer hardware. There was even an old-fashioned bar, all gleaming mahogany and cut-glass decanters. Owen grinned briefly at her reaction and waved her into the nearest leather-upholstered chair.

"She is a little beauty, isn't she? One hundred and fifty feet long, thirty wide, with a reinforced, gold-plated hull and all the extras I could find in the catalogue. Get your breath back while I find out if we've still got an AI to run things."

He accessed the ship's computers through his comm implant, contacted the Standing's computers, and downloaded Ozymandius into the ship's mainframe. It all took less than a second, and he broke contact as quickly as he could, just in case something was lying in wait to follow him back. And then the AI's comforting voice was with him again, and he relaxed a little.

"Owen, dear boy, don't ever leave it that late again. Still, I'm relieved to see you survived this far. I'm afraid your Standing is completely overrun and somewhat vandalized. The Imperial codebreakers are currently trying to crack an empty shell I set up as a distraction, and probably will be for some time, but I think it would be in both our interests to get the hell off this planet as quickly as possible. If not faster. We have definitely overstayed our welcome, and it's well past time we were gone. I see you've acquired a new friend. Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"Hazel d'Ark," Owen subvocalized briskly. "She's an outlaw, like me. Give her low-level security clearance, for the time being."

"Very well, Owen. With your permission, I'll start running the ship through some wake-up routines and get it ready to depart."

"Yeah, you do that. And keep the long-range sensors alert. If there's anything moving anywhere near this lake, I want to know about it."

"Hey, Deathstalker, this is some ship you've got here," said Hazel, and Owen turned his attention back to her. She was slumped in the over-sized chair with a large drink in her hand, like a ragged doll that had been left too close to the fire. "I could buy a dukedom for what this must have cost. The last time I saw luxury like this was in a top-rank brothel parlor back on Loki."

Owen winced, but managed a polite smile. "I'm so glad you approve. Right now, I suggest we move into the next room. There's a certain little device there that will do us both a power of good."

Hazel looked at him suspiciously. "This wouldn't involve a bed, would it?"

Owen laughed briefly. "Thanks for the interest, but no. I don't think either of us are in any condition for that. Please, step this way."

Hazel emptied her glass, let it drop onto the carpet, and struggled up but of her chair. Owen knew better than to offer her any help. It took her a while, but eventually she was back on her feet and swaying only slightly. In the sharp unforgiving light of the yacht's main quarters, she looked worse than ever. Her clothes were scorched and tattered, and her burns were deep and disfiguring. Her hands were charred claws. He offered her his arm, and she took it as though she was doing him a favor. He led the way into the next compartment; a small, compact room dominated by a long steel cylinder, eight feet long and three wide. Hazel studied it warily. It looked disturbingly like a body bank.

"All right," she said finally. "I'll bite. What is it?"

"Cell regenerator," said Owen smugly. "Promotes rapid healing in minor injuries, and major ones, too, if you've got the time to spare. Works on the same principles used for cloning human tissues. Strictly forbidden for any but those of noble birth on pain of a very unpleasant death. Still, I won't tell anyone if you won't. You want to go first?"

"After you," said Hazel very politely, and Owen grinned. He activated the necessary systems through his implant, and the cylinder split apart, revealing a surprisingly comfortable-looking interior. Owen climbed in, gave Hazel a reassuring smile, and lay back with a sigh as the cylinder closed itself over him. After that, it got very still and very quiet. Hazel looked about her. She had to keep fighting down an urge to sneak back into the other room, pick out the smaller valuable items and stuff them into her pockets. She had a strong feeling that would be a bad idea. Partly because it would have been a betrayal of Owen's trust, but mainly because she had an extremely strong feeling that she was being watched. She leaned against the cylinder to steady herself, cleared her throat and raised her voice.

"Is there an AI on board this yacht?" Yes, miss," said the AI through an overhead speaker. "I ;tm Ozymandius, at your service. How may I help you?"

"Tell me about Owen Deathstalker."

"Head of the Deathstalker Clan, and Lord of Virimonde, until his outlawing. A good man, within his limitations. You can trust him to do what he feels is right."

"That's rather vague."

"That's Owen for you. He's never been a very positive person. Something of an underachiever, in fact. I have hopes the current emergency will bring out the best in him. If he doesn't get horribly killed first."

Hazel was about to say something rather cutting when the cylinder suddenly started to open, and she had to stand up quickly to avoid being thrown off. The sudden movement made her feel giddy for a moment, but she had it back under control before Owen could notice. He stood before her and struck a jaunty pose, and she had to admit he was looking a hell of a lot better. His injuries had healed with no trace of scars, and he had a new confidence in his bearing. Even his clothes had been cleaned and repaired. He smiled cheerfully at her reaction.

"I told you; this yacht has everything you can think of, and a few things you never dreamed of. Climb in, and the machine'll take care of you, too."

Hazel wasn't at all sure she liked the way he'd put that, but she didn't really have any choice, and she knew it. The shock that had protected her from the worst of her burns had worn off long ago. Every movement was agony now, and she was hovering on the edge of total exhaustion. She couldn't argue anymore, and anyway, sooner or later she was going to have to trust the Deathstalker. Even if he was a Lord. She nodded stiffly to Owen and stepped clumsily into the cylinder. She lay down and gave herself up to fate with something like relief. She shut her eyes as the cylinder closed over her.

"Do you want me to make any changes in the young lady?" said the AI diffidently.

Owen frowned. "How do you mean changes?"

"Well, there are several programs I can run while she's in the cylinder that would make her more… tractable. Programs to make her loyal to you, for example, and prevent her from raising any weapon against you. They're quite safe and would do her no lasting damage. It's simply a matter of security, Owen. She is an outlaw, after all."

"So am I," said Owen. "You leave her mind alone. That's an order."

"Yes, Owen. As you wish."

Owen wasn't sure why he was so angry. The computer was programmed to look after his best interests. It was just doing its job. But Hazel had risked her life to save his for no profit that he could see. No one had ever done that for him before who didn't have to, and he wasn't sure yet how he felt about that. Until he was sure, Hazel d'Ark was under his protection. Even from himself, if necessary.

"Anything new on the sensors?" he said finally.

"Nothing so far. Your plunging into a lake has confused the hell out of them. I'm picking up all kinds of unprotected transmissions. Some think it was desperation, others are suggesting suicide. Right now they're arguing about whether to wait for you to reemerge, or go in after you."

"Let me know when they make up their minds." Owen stretched slowly. The cylinder had repaired all his physical hurts, but he was still mentally exhausted. "I still can't believe everything fell apart so fast. I seem to have gone through the only experience left for the man who has everything: losing it all. This has to be some kind of ghastly mistake. I've done nothing to be outlawed for."

"Perhaps," said the AI, "if you were to surrender yourself, and offer to hand over Miss d'Ark as a sign of good faith…"

"No. I don't want to hear that kind of idea from you again. Besides, I already thought of that, and it wouldn't work. They'd just take her and kill me anyway. Is the ship ready to go yet?"

"Yes, Owen. Ready for takeoff."

The cylinder opened, and Hazel emerged like a rather bedraggled butterfly from its cocoon. Her overalls had been repaired and looked cleaner than Owen would have thought possible. She allowed Owen to help her out, studying her now flawless skin with awe. "I know people who would pay a medium-sized fortune for access to something like this."

"If we find ourselves dangerously short of money, perhaps you can set up a deal," said Owen, smiling. "Now, if you'd like to join me in the main compartment, I think it's time we got the hell out of here. Once we're up and moving, there's nothing on this planet that can catch us. Oz, take us up, and don't stop for anything till we're in orbit."

"Yes, Owen."

"Then where?" said Hazel, following him back into the first compartment.

Owen shrugged. "I was hoping you'd have some ideas. I'm new to the outlaw business. Where can we go where we'll be safe from the kind of people who'll be coming after me? And before you say anything, no, I am not interested in joining up with any rebel groups against the Empire. I am still loyal to the Iron Throne and the Empire, if not the Empress."

"Nicely rationalized," said Ozymandius.

"There's only one place we can go," said Hazel. "Mistworld, the rebel planet. But it's a one-way trip. You'll be safe enough there, but no one ever leaves Mistworld."

"Mistworld. I might have known." Hazel looked at Owen inquiringly, and he shook his head. "Don't ask. Very well, for want of anywhere better to go, Mistworld it is. Set the coordinates, Oz. Let me know when we're ready to make the hyper jump."

"Yes, Owen. We are now in orbit."

"What, already?" said Hazel. "I didn't even know we'd taken off."

"I told you this yacht was special," said Owen smugly. "Oz, show us what's happening on the main viewscreen."

One of the walls became a viewscreen, showing Virimonde far below, and an Imperial starcruiser heading straight for them. Even as they watched, a second starcruiser dropped out of hyperspace behind the first.

"Two starcruisers?" said Owen, staring at the screen in disbelief. "They sent Mo bloody starcruisers to get me? Cut me some slack, dammit."

"There is a possibility this might be something to do with me," said Hazel reluctantly. "My previous ship rammed a starcruiser just after I got away in the escape pod. Presumably they got a distress call out as they went down."

"Thanks a whole bunch," said Owen. "Any other nasty little surprises you've been keeping from me? No, tell me later. Oz, shields up and go hyper the moment the power levels are steady. I don't know why they're not firing already___"

"Presumably they're being extra cautious, after already losing one ship," said the AI. "It's not something that happens all that often. They're trying to contact us. Should I talk to them?"

"It couldn't hurt. Lie a lot."

"There's no way this ship can stand up to that kind of firepower," said Hazel. "And there's no way we can get out of here before they open fire."

"Not necessarily," said Owen. "This ship has a new kind of hyperdrive. Very powerful, very fast."

"Why do I get this strong feeling that there's a but hanging on the end of that?"

"But, it's rather… untested. No one's had a chance to use it much yet, and there's always the chance they haven't got all the bugs out. I always intended to take her on a long shakedown run, but what with one thing and another, I never found the time. And then circumstances rather caught up with me."

"Great," said Hazel. "Just great. If I had anything left in my stomach, I think I'd be sick."

"All systems are ready, Owen," said the AI. "Or as ready as they're ever going to be. Power's up and all tests are positive. I'm lying my head off to both starcruisers, but I don't think they're in a listening mood. Both are now in firing range. It's time to go, Owen. There's nothing left to hold us here."

The viewscreen filled with light as both starcruisers opened fire on the Sunstrider. Owen and Hazel winced instinctively.

Take us out of here, Oz," said Owen. "We're going to Mistworld."

"And the good God grant us luck," said Hazel. "Because we're going to need it."

The Sunstrider dropped into hyperspace and was gone, and the starcruisers were left to orbit Virimonde alone.