Deathstalker War

CHAPTER THREE

TO BE A DEATHSTALKER

It was another perfect day in paradise. On the planet Virimonde, great green fields stretched lazily under a vast blue sky, marked here and there by low stone walls, spiky hedge boundaries, and ancient beaten paths. Beyond the fields lay dark, sprawling woodlands, with tall trees and drooping foliage, cool calm refuges from the heat of the summer sun. Sparkling rivers and streams splashed around water-polished stones, tumbling over sudden dips and hollows, where the fishing was always excellent. Food animals of all kinds grazed peacefully in the fields, and what passed for birds on Virimonde were singing their little hearts out under a cloudless sky and a beaming sun. A marvelous open, peaceful world of bounty and tranquility. And David Deathstalker owned it all.

The Deathstalker and his friend Kit SummerIsle, called by some Kid Death, raced their modified flyers in and out of the trees, sweeping this way and that at breathtaking speed, and whooping wildly as they went. The flyers were really little more than gravity sleds, a board to stand on and a vertical yoke for the controls, stripped down to the bare essentials for extra speed and better maneuvering. David and Kit had shut the force shields down, so they could feel the wind buffeting their faces and driving tears from their narrowed eyes. If something were to go wrong; if they misjudged speed or distance or reflexes, and ended up crashing or in collision with some unyielding object, without the force shields' protection they would be instantly killed, but neither of them gave a damn. They were young and fit and rich, with warriors' lightning reflexes and instincts, and, therefore, they were immortal. Accidents were things that happened to other people. And so they went, whipping in and out of the trees, slamming through the gloom of the forest so fast it was nothing but a blur of browns and greens around them. The lead went back and forth between them as they tried seeing how close they could get to the trees without crashing, testing their skill and courage and luck to the breaking point, and laughing breathlessly all the while.

The Deathstalker and the SummerIsle, firm friends and heads of their respective Clans, young and daring and still searching for some definition of who they really were. David; tall and handsome and always immaculately dressed. Dark of hair and eye and wild of heart, a warrior as yet untested in war. A fairly minor cousin of an ancient Family, until Owen's outlawing made him suddenly head of the Clan and Lord of Virimonde. An occasional secret supporter of the rebellion, mostly just for the fun of intrigue.

And Kit, Kid Death, the smiling killer, a slender figure in black and silver, pale and more than fashionably thin, with icy blue eyes and pale blond flyaway hair. Who became head of his Family by killing his father, his mother, and all his brothers and sisters in a series of more or less legal duels. Kit SummerIsle, sometime favorite of the Empress Lionstone, sometime supporter of the underground—a dangerous and isolated man who went where the killing was. Until he met David Deathstalker.

After a while, the adrenaline pounding through their systems began to make them feel giddy in the head, so they called the race a draw and burst up out of the forest canopy, shredding leaves and branches as they went, emerging into the clear blue skies above. They eased back on their speed till they were just coasting along, and leaned heavily on their control yokes, grinning till their cheeks ached as they waited for their breathing to settle. David was glad to see Kit smiling. The SummerIsle was a somber man by nature, usually only enjoying himself in the heat of battle or murder. But away from the pressures of Court and politics, and in the company of a good friend, the notorious killer was finally blooming into an amiable, personable young man. Here on Virimonde, David and Kit could be just two more aristos, secure in power and position, idling away the days as it pleased them.

They drifted with the wind, letting it take them where it would. David looked down at the world moving beneath him, and found it good. The stock stretched away in all directions, cared for by peasants who had done so for countless generations. They knew what they were doing; they didn't need any help or advice from their most recent Lord, any more than the animals did. They both knew their place and purpose in the Empire. Elsewhere in his demesne, other peasants were harvesting crops, tending to the land, preparing the landing pads at the only starport for the next ships to arrive. The transports brought in supplies for the people, and carried away crops and meat. Virimonde had been a food planet to the Empire for as long as records had been kept, supplying poor and rich alike with the staples of diet, and the occasional luxury. Nine-tenths of the planet was given over to food production of one kind or another, and the people who lived there would have it no other way. Virimonde might not have the upsets and excitements and glittering cities of other, richer planets, but still it was a calm and peaceful world, where a man could know purpose, the comforts of tradition, and joy of service to Humanity.

They also made the Lord of Virimonde very, very rich. People might argue over territory and war over politics, but both sides still needed to eat, and Virimonde served all impartially. David Deathstalker looked down on his world, and was content. Billions upon billions of credit on the hoof, and all of it his. More money than he could spend in a lifetime. Though that wouldn't stop him trying.

Kit moved in close behind him, playfully bumping the side of his flyer against David's, so that they both wobbled dangerously for a moment. "You've got that look on your face again, Deathstalker. That Lord of all I survey look. Soon you'll be busy all day reading reports and worrying over crop yields and export tariffs, with no time for the likes of me. A man old before his time."

"Never!" said David cheerfully. "I employ other people to worry about such things for me. People like the Steward, bless his dour and dutiful heart. The man's about as much fun as a hailstorm in July, and he gets on my nerves something fierce, but he knows his job. And as long as he does, I don't have to. I just sign everything he puts in front of me, read every tenth one just to keep him honest, and leave it all to him. If I'd wanted to work hard, I wouldn't have been born an aristocrat. No, Kit, this place is one big cash cow, making me richer with every day that passes, and all I have to do is sit back and let it happen."

"But what use are riches if you've nothing to spend them on?" countered Kit. "The few big cities they've got here aren't exactly dens of iniquity and vice, are they? Their idea of excitement is cheating in the horse trials. Just what are you planning to do with all these fields and forests?"

"Enjoy them," said David. "Come on, Kit, we tried practically every amusement you could find on Golgotha, and none of them interested us for more than a few weeks at a time. We've gambled in illegal casinos with our lives wagered on the throw of a die, fought in the Arenas against all comers, rogered our way through the Houses of Joy till our backs gave out, and still we ended up bored, as often as not. That's how we got involved in the rebellion. No, we need time off, Kit. Simpler pursuits on a simpler world. I'm tired of civilization. Been there, done that, puked down my shirt and pissed on my boots. I like it here. Nothing to do but eat and drink and grow fat. Booze away the evenings and frolic with lusty peasant girls. Play catch-as-catch-can on flyers for a bit of excitement. I'm having a good time. Aren't you?"

"Yes," said Kit. "Somewhat to my surprise, I am. And I haven't killed anyone for weeks. Amazing. Mind you, we were supposed to act here as agents for the underground, and we haven't sent in a report since we got here. Do you think we should?"

"Certainly not," said David firmly. "That comes under the heading of work, which I have given up for Lent, Easter, Christmas, and any other holiday you can think of. A pox on the underground and Lionstone both. Here we are safe from all factions, and their impertinent demands. Whatever happens in the rebellion, no one's going to touch Virimonde. Whoever wins, they'll still need to eat. Though it must be said I quite liked being a rebel, with secret meetings, hidden agendas, and special passwords."

"Right," said Kit. "I liked the passwords. I liked knowing things other people didn't. But even that got boring after a while. They would take it all so seriously."

"And we have had enough of seriousness," said David. "I think we've earned the right to be entirely frivolous for a while. Nothing to do, no demands, no duties. Just get up when we want, do what we wish, and play to our hearts' content. Like being a kid again."

"I wouldn't know," said Kit. "I never had a childhood. I was raised to be a fighter and a warrior practically from the moment I could walk. I had a dirk instead of a rattle. Dueling partners instead of friends. I had to be as good a swordsman as my famous father and illustrious grandfather, whether I wanted to or not. As it turned out, I was better than either of them. And weren't they surprised when I proved it by killing them both. I enjoyed that. Making them suffer as they'd made me suffer all my life. I was never allowed a childhood, you see. There was no time for frivolous things like play or fun or laughter. Only the endless training and discipline, to shape me for a destiny I never wanted."

"You're starting to sound like my cousin Owen," said David, keeping his voice carefully light. Kit had never opened up so much to him before, and he didn't want to discourage Kit by letting him see how much he was moved.

"Hardly," said Kit. "I used their training to make something of myself. And if I don't always like what I've made, well, that's life for you.

"I'm glad you brought me here, David. I feel… free, here. Free from everyone else's expectations of who and what I have to be. It's not easy being Kid Death all the time, you know. There are no pressures here, to do the only thing I've ever been any good at. I suppose that's what childhood is, for other people. I'd like a chance to be a child, at last."

"You got it," said David. "To hell with Lionstone and the underground; it's party time! We can be ourselves here, Kit. No Deathstalker and SummerIsle, no scions of an ancient line, no boosted man or Kid Death; just two friends, free at last."

"It won't last," said Kit. "You know it can't."

"It can if we want it to," said David. "We don't ever have to leave here, if we don't want to. Do you really miss anything from Golgotha?"

"I still kind of miss the Arenas," said Kit. "The roar of the crowd, the smell of fresh blood on the sands. The clash of steel on steel, and the joy in your heart as an enemy dies at your hand. The sheer seductiveness of testing your skill in the only way that really matters, when your very life is on the line."

"They never liked us," said David. "The crowds. They didn't like the idea that we might be fighting for our own amusement, rather than theirs. And anyway, we'd done all there was to be done in the Arenas."

"Not quite everything," said Kit. "I never did get a chance to face the Masked Gladiator."

"File it under unfinished business," said David.

"I could have beaten him."

"Yeah, you probably could, if his managers had ever let you get anywhere near him, which I doubt. There's got to be a lot of money, not to mention honor, tied up in being the undefeated champion of the Arenas. He was getting very cautious about who he went up against, at the end."

Kit shrugged. David hoped he'd let the matter drop. Though he'd never admitted it to Kit, David had been glad to leave the Arenas. He hadn't liked what they were doing to him. He'd always been good in a fight, and taken an honest pride in it, but out on the bloody sands before a roaring crowd, he'd discovered in himself a dark joy and satisfaction in the act of slaughter that disturbed him greatly. It didn't fit in with the image he'd always had of himself, of the kind of man he wanted to be, and it frightened him. Much as he cared for Kit, he didn't want to become another Kid Death. So he ran away to Virimonde, first chance he got, to try being another kind of man, steeped in peace and the quieter pleasures. And maybe Kit could find a kind of peace here, too, away from the dark needs that drove him.

"Thank you," Kit said suddenly. "For bringing me here. For being my friend. I know it's not easy. I don't always know what to do with a friend. I don't have the experience. For as long as I can remember, there's only ever been me. All I knew was how to kill. No one ever liked me, or trusted me, even when they used me to get them what they couldn't get themselves. I never had a friend before you, David. I was never really alive, until you taught me how to live."

David reached out and clapped a hand on Kit's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. "It's too bright a day for such dark thoughts. Forget the past, Kit. No one here cares who you used to be, and no one from our past can reach us anymore. We're free to reinvent ourselves, to be who we want to be. Come on; race you back to the Standing. Loser buys drinks for everyone tonight!"

"You're on!" said Kit and gunned his engine. His flyer plunged forward, rapidly gaining speed. David roared with mock rage, and sped off after him. Together they disappeared into the distance, their laughter sounding clear and happy and untroubled on the quiet summer day.

They parked their flyers in the caves under the Deathstalker Standing, and made their way up through the great old house, arguing amiably about who'd won the race. As always, the result had been so close they finally agreed on a draw. Neither really cared about winning, which was a new experience for both of them. David looked around him approvingly as they strode through the wide stone corridors on their way to the great dining hall. The Standing had been in the Deathstalker Family for generations, on various planets. Owen had had the vast building transferred to Virimonde brick by brick and reassembled there when he bought the planet's Lordship. It was Family tradition that each new head of the Clan chose a new world for his or her Standing, but David couldn't be bothered. Virimonde suited him just fine, and it pleased him to rebel against Family tradition, even if only in such a small way. He didn't want to be just another Deathstalker.

David had spent a lot of time and effort in removing all traces of Owen's presence from the Standing. He was Lord now, and he didn't want anyone being reminded of his predecessor. So he had all of Owen's remaining belongings thrown out or burned, and did his best to fill the many rooms and halls with his own belongings. If truth be told, his own bits and bobs looked rather small and out of place in the great old house, crowded as it was with treasures and trophies from generations of Deathstalkers, but he wouldn't admit that to anyone but Kit. In the end, all that mattered to David was that the Standing and the world were his now, and by the time he'd finished, no one would remember that there had ever been any other Lord.

They'd almost reached the dining hall when the Steward intercepted them. David took one look at the thick sheaf of papers in the Steward's hand and groaned loudly. He hated paperwork, and made sure the Steward knew it, but still he insisted on dealing with the really important business himself. The Steward could deal with day-to-day things, but David didn't want the man making decisions that were the rightful province of the Lord of Virimonde. He didn't trust the Steward. He'd wasted no time in turning against Owen when the Empress outlawed him, and a man who betrayed one Deathstalker might well betray another.

The Steward was a grey man. Tall, stick-thin, and grey-haired, he wore grey clothes and presented a grey, passionless face to the world. His voice was a respectful murmur, his eyes were always respectfully downcast, but David could never quite escape the feeling that the man was silently mocking him. He seemed to care for nothing but the upkeep of the Standing and his precious never-ending paperwork, and sometimes gave the impression that he considered the Standing his, and the various Deathstalkers who passed through merely visitors. Deathstalkers may come and go, his bearing seemed to say, but I and my people remain. He snacked constantly on little pieces of bread without butter, and cracked his knuckles loudly if you kept him waiting. David detested the man, but tried to keep it to himself. He knew he couldn't run the Standing without him.

"More papers?" he said resignedly. "Can't they wait till after dinner?"

"That's what you said at breakfast, my lord," said the Steward in his calm, grey voice. As always, he made the title sound like an insult. "The various matters here have, if anything, only grown more urgent since then. I must respectfully insist…"

"All right, all right," said David. "There's an office just off this corridor, isn't there? We can do it there. And this had better be really important, or I'll have you inventory all the silverware again. Kit, you stay with me. If I have to suffer, everyone suffers."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Kit calmly. "I love to watch the veins throb in your forehead as you struggle with the longer words. Besides, suffering's good for the character. Or so they tell me. I wouldn't know. Anyone who ever tried to make me suffer is dead and buried. Sometimes in several places."

David sat behind the desk in the pokey little study and worked his way doggedly through the paperwork. Some work couldn't be avoided, if you didn't want to wake up one morning and find they'd finessed everything you owned out from under you. He took a spiteful pleasure in making his signature as indecipherable as possible. Strictly speaking, he should have sealed each paper with wax, and stamped it with his Family ring and crest, but Owen still had the ring, bad cess to the man. David had ordered a new Family ring made for him, but had yet to make up his mind on the final design. By the end, he was just skimming through the papers, to make sure he wasn't signing his own death warrant. Too many lines of dense print made his eyes ache. Kit sat off to one side, humming tunelessly. Kit liked to sing, but truth be told couldn't carry a tune if it had handles on it. However, since no one had ever dared tell him that, he remained blissfully unaware that he had a voice like a goose farting in a fog. And David didn't have the heart to tell him. For the moment Kit was amusing himself by staring unwaveringly at the Steward till the man all but squirmed in his buttoned-down shoes. The SummerIsle made the Steward nervous.

Hell, the SummerIsle made everyone nervous.

David signed the last page with a flourish and sat back in his chair with a theatrical sigh. He studied the Steward glumly as the man shuffled the papers together. The Steward reminded him of his many tutors (none of whom lasted long), who'd struggled with varying degrees of success to implant some useful learning into his rebellious young mind. Not a one of whom had ceased to remind him of his intellectual cousin Owen, the famed if minor historian. Owen was constantly held up as an example of everything David wasn't and knew he never could be. No surprise, then, that David had despised his elder cousin before they ever met. They weren't close, even by blood; Owen's father, Arthur, had a younger brother, Saul. Saul married Elouise, whose sister Margaret was David's mother. Under normal circumstances, David would have stood no chance at all of ever succeeding to the Family title, but the tainted inheritance of the boost killed a great many Deathstalkers before they ever reached maturity. So when Owen was outlawed, David found himself suddenly in possession of a title and responsibilities he'd never expected or really wanted.

Especially if all he ever got to do as Deathstalker was sign bloody papers.

The Steward finally nodded curtly, declaring himself satisfied for the moment, and David threw his pen out the window before the Steward could change his mind. "So," he said peevishly, "can I finally go to my dinner now, or is there some scrap of parchment left in the Standing that I haven't scrawled my name on?"

"That is the last of the documents, my lord," the Steward said calmly. "But there is still a delegation of peasants waiting to meet you. You did say you would see them, my lord."

"Did I?" said David, frowning. "I must have been drunk."

"Let them wait till after dinner," said Kit. "That's what peasants are for."

"No, Kit. If I promised, I promised. Where are they, Steward? Main hall? All right, lead the way. And don't dawdle, or I'll kick your ankles."

The Steward gave him a bow calculated to the inch to be barely acceptable and led the way. David and Kit trailed after him. Kit sniffed loudly as his stomach rumbled.

"For my birthday, let me kill him, David."

David had to laugh. "Sorry, Kit, but much as I hate to admit it, I need him. He's the only one here who knows all the ins and out of running a Standing of this size. I wouldn't know where to begin. Replacing him would be a nightmare. He's made himself indispensable, and he knows it, the smug bastard."

"Why are we seeing the peasants? It's not as if we have to."

"Yes we do. Or rather, I do. Partly because I want the locals to like me. Owen could never be bothered with them, which was why he had no one to turn to when the Empress outlawed him. That's not going to happen to me. Then, the more contact and feedback I have with the locals, the less influence the Steward has. I want them looking to me for authority, not him. And finally, of late the peasants have been experimenting with a little local democracy, and I want to encourage them."

"What the hell for?" said Kit, honestly shocked. "Peasants do as they're told. That's why they're peasants. Allowing them to make decisions for themselves is just asking for trouble. Not least from Lionstone. If she finds out…"

"She won't do anything, as long as the food keeps coming," David said calmly. "The Empire relies on what we produce, and she knows it. As to why I'm encouraging the peasants, I admire their bravery, and I understand their need for a little personal independence. And it amuses me to think of Lionstone fuming helplessly. Besides, encouraging local democracy will keep the underground off our backs. Don't worry, Kit, I know what I'm doing. Encouraging the peasants and undermining the Steward's authority means I get to hear things I might otherwise not. No one's going to catch me napping like they did Owen."

The meeting went well. The peasants bowed respectfully to David and to Kit, said all the right things, and put forward a few modest proposals. David pretended to consider them for a moment and then gave his approval. Local democracy was alive and well on Virimonde, the Steward was quietly fuming, and as far as David was concerned, all was well with the world. He liked to see the peasants happy and the Steward unhappy. He was, at heart, a man of simple pleasures. The peasants bowed again, satisfyingly deeply, and left, happy and smiling. David allowed himself to think of dinner again. And that was when the Steward sprang his little surprise.

"What do you mean, more business?" snapped David.

"I've signed everything that doesn't move, and talked to everything that does. Whatever's left can wait until after I've eaten, digested, and had a little nap."

"I'm afraid not, my lord," said the Steward, unruffled. "There has been a communication from the Empress herself, concerning her plans for the future of Virimonde. Plans which, I regret to say, will render your assurances to the peasants both redundant and meaningless."

David looked sharply at the Steward. This was the first time he'd heard of any plans for Virimonde's future. Especially from the Empress. He hadn't thought Lionstone even knew where Virimonde was. And as Lord of the planet and its people, he should have been contacted well in advance of any plans. And there had been something in the Steward's tone he hadn't liked at all. Something almost smug, and knowing. David scowled at the Steward, and sank back into his chair. If this was something the Steward didn't think he'd approve of, he wanted to know what it was right now.

"All right. Steward, put it on the main screen. Let's see what the Iron Bitch has to say for herself."

The Steward nodded serenely and moved over to activate the viewscreen controls. The screen lit up on the wall before David and Kit, and the nightmare began. Lionstone provided the voice-over, but the images on the screen were clear enough on their own. Virimonde was to become a completely automated world—one huge factory, from pole to pole. The towns and the villages and the great fields would vanish under miles-long sheds, with the livestock contained in pens, stacked hundreds high. Animals would be born in the cloning bays, live short, artificially fattened lives, and die in the attached slaughterhouses, without ever once seeing the outside world. Fed through tubes, lobotomized to keep them calm, slaughtered by machines. No more need for the countryside. No more need for farms or farmers. The computers would run everything. The peasants would be rounded up, transported to other worlds, and found useful work in factories. The projected meat production would rise thousands fold in the first year alone, and would pay for itself in ten years or less.

And that was Lionstone's plan for Virimonde, a future with no place in it for human hands. The final scene on the viewscreen was a computer simulation of what the new world would look like. A landscape of endless sheds and factories, with thick black smoke belching up from the slaughterhouse incinerators, as bones and hooves and other nonessentials were melted down to make glue. Nothing would be wasted in the automated world. The screen went blank as the message ended, and the Steward coughed politely to remind them he was still there.

"Any questions, my lord?"

"Is she out of her tiny mind?" said David. "Does she really think I'll stand for this? You can't just destroy an entire world and its culture! The people here have traditions of service that go back centuries!"

"They're just peasants," said the Steward calmly. "Their duty and purpose is to serve, here or elsewhere, as the Empress commands. This new method of raising livestock will be much more efficient. I have the projected figures for the next ten years, if you'd care to see them."

"Stuff the figures! What she's planning is wrong. This is a human world, not some offshoot from Shub."

"You should be proud, my lord. Virimonde is to be the first such planet, the prototype. Once its worth has been proved here, all other food-producing worlds will be transformed accordingly. Your present wealth will be greatly magnified."

"Who cares about that?" said David, sticking his face right into the Steward's. "Where's the fun in ruling over one big factory? No, this obscenity will never happen here. Not as long as I'm Lord."

"What can you do to stop it?" said Kit. "I mean, she's the Empress. She makes the decisions. You argue about it too much, and she might declare you a traitor, just like Owen."

"She wouldn't really destroy a whole planet," said David. "Would she?"

"Almost certainly," said Kit. "It wasn't that long ago she outlawed the planet Tannim, and had the whole planet scorched. Remember?"

David scowled. He remembered. Billions of people had died, a civilization gone up in flames, at the Empress's command. "That was over politics. This is business."

Kit shrugged. "Same thing, as often as not."

"Yeah," said David. "I know where this is coming from. Why she chose to start with my world. It's because I'm a Deathstalker, and Owen's had such a triumph on Mistworld. She can't get at him, so she takes it out on me, the childish bitch. No, Kit, there's no way I'm going to let her get away with this."

"What can you do?" said Kit, reasonably.

"Nothing, I'm afraid, my lord," said the Steward. His voice was deferential, as always, but David was sure he could see a dark satisfaction in the man's eyes. "The Empress has never had much time for sentiment, and I doubt she will be swayed by any protest you might make. As I understand it, the transformation of food planets is part of a process to ensure an uninterrupted flow of food for the Empire during the projected future war with the aliens. As such, this becomes a matter of security, and is therefore not open to question. By anyone."

"You knew about this!" said David. He grabbed the Steward by the shirtfront with both hands and slammed him back against the wall. "She couldn't have brought her plans this far without consulting you first! She needed facts and figures, the kind only you had access to. Talk to me, damn you!"

"He can't talk," said Kit calmly. "You're throttling him. Ease up, David, and let's hear what he has to say. We can always kill him later."

David let go of the Steward, and stepped back a pace, breathing heavily. The Steward put a hand to his throat as his breath returned, and glared at David, his servility discarded. "The Empress was kind enough to consult with me, yes. I did my best to be useful to her, as was my duty. You weren't informed until now because you had nothing useful to add to the discussion. And because we expected precisely this kind of infantile behavior from you. There is nothing you can do, my lord. Nothing at all."

"I can talk to the Company of Lords," said David. "And Parliament, if need be. I'm not the only one with a personal stake in this. No other Lord will stand for this happening to one of their planets. Where's the fun in being a Lord, without people to Lord it over? This new efficiency would leave us nothing more than factory managers. Tradespeople! No, the Lords will never accept this. Dammit, I came here for peace and relaxation, not to oversee the transformation of this world into one big battery farm! Get out of my sight, Steward. I'm sick of looking at you."

The Steward bowed coldly and left. David leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily. Kit looked at him thoughtfully.

"Can we really stop her?" he said mildly. "If she makes this a matter of security…"

"Well, to start with I'll send her a reply to this message that will make her ears burn. She thinks she can pressure me just because I haven't been a Lord long. We have to stop her, Kit. These plans would undermine every Lord's position. She's trying to take away our power, in return for more money. Well, she's miscalculated this time. Being a Lord has nothing to do with credits in a bank. Our peasants have always been loyal to us first, and only through us to the Empress. They've always been a potential army we could use to defend ourselves against Imperial aggression. Damn, this goes farther than I thought. This is a blow against the fundamental rights and powers of all Lords! With our planets controlled by computers, and our peasants scattered in factories on a dozen worlds, we'd have no real power base at all. If she gets away with this, Lionstone could break the power of the Lords once and for all."

"Not all Lords," said Kit. "Only those Families whose fortunes are tied to people and places. Other Clans, such as the Wolfes, draw their wealth and prestige from technology these days."

"You're right," said David slowly. "This would hit the older, more traditional Families, who tend to oppose the Empress, while strengthening the position of the newer Clans, who tend to support her. Damn, this is complicated. Levels within bloody levels. Oh hell, I can't think any more about this now. I can feel a really bad headache hovering over me."

"Let's go to dinner," said Kit. "The world always looks better after a good meal."

"To hell with dinner, I need a drink. Lots of drinks. Let's go to the tavern in town, and see Alice and Jenny."

"Sounds good to me," said Kit.

High in orbit above Virimonde, unbeknownst to most of those below, the Imperial starcruiser Elegance. Her master, General Shaw Beckett, sat unhappily in his private quarters, drumming the fingers of one hand upon the armrest of his chair. If truth be told, he had no appetite for his present mission, but the Empress's orders had been clear and quite specific, and as a good soldier he would do as he was told. It wasn't the first time he'd followed orders he'd had no taste for, and he doubted it would be the last. Life was like that, more often than not, under the reign of Lionstone XIV, the Iron Bitch.

Beckett was a large man, and extremely fat, and his chair groaned slightly under him with every impatient movement. All of his invited guests were late, but there was nothing he could do to hurry them. Too much concern might appear as weakness, and this would be a bad group to appear weak in front of. They'd take advantage. Beckett looked testily about his quarters. He felt like throwing things, but there was nothing easily to hand that didn't have some personal or sentimental value. Beckett liked to surround himself with personal items when he traveled, a little bit of home in a strange place. And if a General wasn't entitled to a few home comforts in his quarters, he'd like to know who was.

He thought about this to keep from thinking about other things. There was a great deal in the near future that he preferred not to think about until he had to.

The door chimed politely, announcing his first visitor. Beckett growled "Enter," and the door slid open to reveal Lord Valentine Wolfe, in all his morbid glory. He was dressed in exquisitely cut clothes of eye-blinding white, topped by a long black cloak with a scarlet interior. His long thin face was white as bone, save for the heavily mascaraed eyes and his wide crimson smile. A mane of jet black hair fell to his shoulders, with heavily oiled and scented ringlets. He carried a long-stemmed rose in one hand, its petals a deep purple, almost fleshy. The stem had vicious thorns that made Beckett wince just to look at them. Valentine stood posed in the doorway a moment, so Beckett could appreciate the spectacle, and then he drifted casually forward into Beckett's quarters. The door slid shut behind him, and Beckett felt a brief but very real twinge of unquiet, as though he was now trapped in a room with a deadly predator. As, in a very real sense, he was.

Valentine looked unhurriedly about him, taking in the various points of interest with his dark-lined eyes, and then dismissed them all with the merest twitch of one painted eyebrow. The Wolfe stopped before Beckett and bowed formally. Beckett nodded curtly in return, but didn't bother to get up. It took a lot of effort to heave all his bulk up out of a chair, and he was damned if Valentine Wolfe was worth it. He gestured at an empty chair with one fat hand, and Valentine sank languorously into it.

"Greetings and salutations, dear General. You've done amazing things with your quarters. I don't like them. But then, my tastes aren't often appreciated by others."

Beckett snorted. "Possibly because you're a drug-soaked degenerate who's so far gone you probably have to flip a coin to decide which way up you are."

"Possibly," said Valentine. "Can I interest you in a little something, General?"

"You can not," said Beckett firmly. "I have no interest in clouding my mind with chemicals when there's work to be done."

"Such a narrow attitude," Valentine said easily, delicately sniffing his rose and briefly worrying a petal with his teeth. "I've often found that the right substances, in the proper proportions and combinations, can be a positive boon to a man's thoughts, leading to greater clarity and comprehension. Many the insight I've been granted, while all around remained lost in darkness. If you could only see the things I've seen, dear General, and the wonders that have been revealed to me. I ride my expanded consciousness like an unbridled horse, trampling lesser souls beneath me. However, for the moment I am entirely at your service, and just dying to hear all about our mission here."

"You'll have to wait for the others to arrive," said Beckett stolidly, not allowing himself to be baited. "The Empress's instructions were quite clear."

"And God bless the Empress," said Valentine. He swung one long white-clad leg over the other, and let it swing quietly to and fro, the light gleaming on his highly polished boot. It occurred to Beckett that Valentine looked very like a pen-and-ink drawing, of the kind found in an instructional primer, probably with the word Debauchery written underneath. Beckett had to admire the Wolfe's calm, even if it did probably have its origins in a pill bottle. Ever since the debacle on Technos III, and the total destruction of his new stardrive factory. Valentine Wolfe's fortunes had taken a severe blow. Where once he had been head of the foremost Family in the Empire, with an automatic place at the Empress's side, he was now barely tolerated at Court, and then mostly for amusement value. Production of the new stardrive had been given over to Clan Chojiro, who were having to start again from scratch. This did not please Lionstone, who wanted the new drive installed in the Imperial Fleet yesterday, if not sooner.

The two Wolfes responsible for the Technos III fiasco, Daniel and Stephanie, had disappeared, leaving Valentine to shoulder the blame, which he did with a shrug, a shake of the head, and a charming smile. These things happen. Anyone else would have been ruined and utterly disgraced, and quite possibly no longer as closely connected with his head as he used to be, but Valentine Wolfe was made of sterner stuff than that. He made good all the financial losses out of his own pocket with nary a wince, publicly disowned his missing brother and sister, and fought back with a trump card few had known he had. Valentine, it turned out, had access to a secret source of extremely advanced high tech, and that had bought him his place here today and a chance at redemption in Lionstone's eyes.

Valentine hadn't told anyone that his source for the high tech was actually the rogue AIs of Shub, the official Enemies of Humanity. It would only upset people.

The door chimed again, and opened at Beckett's command to reveal the Lord High Dram, Warrior Prime to the Empire, and official Consort to Lionstone herself. Also known, as far behind his back as possible, as the Widowmaker. Tall and lithely muscled, clad in his usual black robes and battle armor, Dram bowed to General Beckett and nodded curtly to Valentine. Beckett bowed in return. The Wolfe waggled his long white fingers in a friendly way. Dram pretended he hadn't seen that, sank comfortably into the chair farthest from the Wolfe, and stretched out his long legs before him. He was handsome, in an unspectacular way, but his dark eyes and constant slight smile were utterly cold. Like Valentine, Dram had kept pretty much to himself on the trip out, staying in his cabin and speaking only to his own people. Beckett curled a lip mentally. Presumably the Lord High Dram felt himself too grand to socialize with the lower orders. Not that Beckett was complaining. The last thing he needed was the Empress's Consort peering over his shoulder and making notes.

Dram hadn't told anyone that he wasn't, in fact, the original Widowmaker, but instead a clone of the original, grown at the Empress's command. It would only upset people.

"How long before operations begin, General?" said Dram calmly. "I've been informed my people are fully prepared and equipped, and ready for action."

"Soon, my Lord Dram," said Beckett. "This will be your final briefing. We merely await the arrival of the last few principals." The door chimed. "And hopefully, this will be them. Enter."

The door slid open and Captain John Silence, Investigator Frost, and Security Officer V. Stelmach filed in. The Wolfe and the Warrior Prime both sat up a little straighter in their seats. These three officers from the famed Dauntless were familiar to anyone in the Empire who owned a holoscreen. Their checkered career had had more ups and downs than a bride's nightie. They'd gone from heroes to outcasts and back again so fast that some people watching had been known to suffer from whiplash. Their current status was somewhat uncertain. On the one hand, they had failed in their mission to capture that most notable traitor and outlaw, Owen Deathstalker, and had been sent home defeated by his rebel allies, but on the other hand, they had quite definitely single-handedly saved the homeworld Golgotha from attack by a mysterious and powerful alien ship. When last heard of, the Dauntless had been touring planets on the outer Rim, essentially on punishment duty until the Empress decided to forgive their sins. And now here they were on the Elegance, far from their infamous ship. Beckett, Valentine, and Dram bowed courteously to them, and studied them openly. You didn't get to see legends in the flesh that often.

Silence was a tall, lean man in his forties, with thinning hair and a thickening waistline. He didn't look like much on a viewscreen, but at close quarters he had a presence that was almost overpowering. Everyone in the room knew that he was a dangerous man, but now they knew why. There was a calm certainty to the man, a quiet directness. John Silence knew where he was going, and only a fool would have got in his way.

Investigator Frost was in her late twenties, tall and lithely muscular and casually intimidating, like all Investigators. Trained from childhood to study and then kill aliens, or anything else that threatened the Empire. Even standing still and relaxed at her Captain's side, she still looked ready to kill someone. Probably with her bare hands. Cold blue eyes blazed in a pale, controlled face, framed by auburn hair cropped close to the skull. She wasn't pretty, but there was a definite daunting glamour to her, attractive and scary at the game time. She stood at Silence's side, her hands comfortably near her weapons, as though she belonged there, and always had.

After two such godlike beings, a mere mortal like V. Stelmach had to be a disappointment, and he was. A quiet nondescript man, he looked more like some anonymous civil servant than an officer in the Imperial Fleet. Presumably working as a Security Officer did that to you, even on the amazing Dauntless. He stood nervously a little behind Silence and Frost, his eyes darting from one new face to another, as though expecting to be sent out at any moment. And yet this unimpressive little man had helped develop tech to control the deadly aliens known as Grendels, and together with Silence and Frost had survived dangerous missions that had killed many lesser men. So there had to be something to the man. Beckett made a mental note to check farther into the man's background. If only to find out what the V. stood for.

He gestured for the three of them to sit down on the remaining chairs, and they did so. Silence and Frost seemed completely relaxed, though Beckett couldn't help noticing that their hands were still casually close to their weapons. Stelmach sat on the edge of his chair, hands clasped tightly together so no one could see them shaking. Beckett cleared his throat to get everyone's attention and wished he hadn't. In this kind of company it made him sound weak and uncertain.

"Now we're all here, I will proceed with the final briefing. You should all have been studying your general orders and objectives on the way here, but this is where you get the big picture. Virimonde is to be taken back under direct Imperial rule from Golgotha, by any and all means necessary. The local populace has been practicing forbidden forms of democracy, making their own policy, deciding their own lives and defying standard Imperial edicts. According to the Steward of the Deathstalker Standing, Virimonde's Lord, David Deathstalker, has proven a weak and ineffectual leader, disregarding his duties and offices, not only failing to stamp out this treason but actually encouraging it. He is declared a traitor, and his Lordship revoked. He is to be removed from office, and along with his companion, the Lord Kit SummerIsle, they are to be brought back to Golgotha to stand trial.

"We expect there to be resistance. The Deathstalker and the SummerIsle are both warriors of some note, and we have reason to believe there has been considerable infiltration of the local populace by rebel agents. The entire population of Virimonde is, therefore, to be pacified and brought under direct Imperial control, by any and all means necessary. There's no way of telling how prepared and armed the populace is, but we must work on the assumption of a worst-case scenario. No chances are to be taken, no quarter offered. This is to be a punitive mission, an example to others. A high death rate is to be expected.

"The Lord Wolfe is in charge of the Imperial war machines, assisted by Professor Wax of Golgotha University. The Professor cannot be with us right now; apparently he doesn't travel well. We can only hope his condition improves once we get him dirtside. The Lord Dram is in charge of the ground troops. A full army of marines and troopers who will take out the population centers and ready them for occupation by further troops. Captain, Investigator, Security Officer, you are personally responsible for capturing the Deathstalker and the SummerIsle, and bringing them back alive, if at all possible. Her Majesty has set her heart on putting them on trial. I will liaise among the three operations, coordinating your efforts. Lord Wolfe, you are to concentrate on the urban areas. Lord Dram, you will deal with the more scattered rural communities. Let's all try very hard not to trip over each other. I want this done by the numbers, calmly and efficiently, and with the minimum necessary bloodshed. This is a punitive mission, but let us not forget that dead peasants can't work. Now, let us discuss the logistics."

The meeting dragged on for some time, as details were made clear, problems raised, and new solutions hammered out. Valentine surprized everyone with his keen grasp of the subject, while Dram seemed surprisingly reticent. Silence and Frost studied the most recent reports on the Deathstalker and the SummerIsle, and their latest known haunts. Stelmach remained silent and just nodded in the right places.

As a major food-production world, Virimonde was too valuable to be scorched, but its people could still be punished. The peasants must know their place, and what would happen to any who tried to rise above it. The wild card in all this was Valentine with his war machines. This would be the first time they had ever been used in a major operation. The Empress had always been intrigued by the potential of war machines, and they'd performed well in practice, but only a few had ever been tried and tested in the fires of battle. Virimonde would change that. And how well they did would decide Valentine's future in the Court and in the Empire.

Eventually the last compromise was agreed on, the last detail ironed out, and they had a war plan everyone could live with. Beckett gave them as brief a pep talk as he could get away with, they all said God bless the Empress in a loud voice, and the meeting broke up. They all bowed more or less respectfully to each other, smiled meaningless smiles, and went their separate ways. Dram back to his troops. Valentine back to his machines, and Silence, Frost, and Stelmach back to their quarters. Silence and Frost were scowling heavily, and Stelmach's stomach hurt. They had no illusions about their particular mission. The Deathstalker and Kid Death were known to be two of the deadliest fighters in the Empire, and overcoming them wasn't going to be easy, never mind bringing them back alive to stand trial. But the three of them had developed a reputation for bringing off the impossible, so they were volunteered for the job. Their reward, should they survive, would be the return of the Dauntless from the Rim and reinstatement in the Empress's good graces.

"If it wasn't for my crew, I'd tell the Iron Bitch to go to hell," said Silence, not caring whether the ship's Security was listening. "I don't do suicide missions. To the best of my knowledge, neither the Deathstalker nor Kid Death has ever been defeated in combat. Hell, they took on all comers in the Arenas, until no one would face them anymore."

"They never met us before," said Frost. "We can take them, Captain. Assuming we can locate them before the invasion proper begins, and everything goes to hell in a handcart."

"I wish I shared your confidence," said Stelmach. "I don't even know why the Empress wanted me here."

"You're our lucky charm," said Silence. "Just stay back out of the way, and we'll do all the work."

"Gladly," said Stelmach. He hoped they couldn't tell that he was lying. He knew exactly why the Empress wanted him on Virimonde. For some time now, Silence and Frost had been displaying near superhuman qualities in their missions. They were faster, stronger, and more capable than they had any right to be. Ever since their encounter with the enigmatic alien device known as the Madness Maze on lost Haden, they had demonstrated powers and abilities that bordered on the miraculous. Not to mention psionic. The Empress had no intention of letting rogue espers of such potential run around loose, so this mission, with its many obvious dangers, had been arranged for Silence and Frost, specifically to bring out their powers. And Stelmach would be right there to study and report on them.

He'd been sworn to silence, on fear of his life, and it was tearing Stelmach apart. He thought of Silence and even Frost as his friends, but he couldn't defy orders that came directly from the Iron Throne. So he kept his mouth shut, fretted till his stomach cramped, and tried constantly to discover some way out of his predicament that wouldn't get him killed either by the Empress or his friends. If they had powers, and Stelmach wasn't even convinced that they had, they must have some good reason for keeping it quiet. Stelmach just hoped that when he finally found out what it was, it would be something he'd be able to include in his report. In the meantime, he worried a lot, and jumped whenever Silence or Frost spoke to him.

"What have we sunk to?" Silence said disgustedly. "Paid assassins, in all but name. All that nonsense about bringing them in alive to stand trial was just a smoke screen. They know we'll never be able to defeat them without killing them. We're supposed to kill them to save the embarrassment of bringing two Lords and heads of their respective Families to trial."

"It's our only way of getting our ship back from the Rim," said Frost. "If the price for that is the death of two strangers, I have no problem with that. I've killed before on the Empress's orders, alien and human, and no doubt will again. It's part of the job."

"It was never part of my job," said Silence flatly. "I didn't join the Fleet to kill people for political reasons."

"Then you were remarkably naive, Captain," said Frost. "In essence, that's always been our final duty. To fight and kill those the Empress has declared enemies of the Empire."

"We should be fighting the real enemies," said Silence. "The Deathstalker and the SummerIsle are just a couple of kids with too much time on their hands. Probably never had a political thought in their lives. The Empire's real enemies are the rebel underground. Owen Deathstalker and his people. Lionstone doesn't take them seriously enough. You saw what happened on the Wolfling World. What Owen and his people have become. I don't even know if they're still human anymore. They're the real danger. And that's the only reason I'm doing this. Because we need to be back in a position to protect the Empress from the coming rebellion. She needs us, whether she wants to admit it or not."

"You don't like the Empress," said Stelmach.

"Hell, no one likes the Empress," said Frost. "At best, she's an amiable psychopath. But she's the Empress. I took an oath upon my blood and my honor to serve and protect her all my days. Right, Captain?"

"Right," said Silence. "She might be a psychopath, but she's our psychopath. Our Empress. Besides, she can't live forever, and when she's gone the Empire will still be here, if we've done our job right. In the end, we're loyal to the Throne, irrespective of who sits on it. We preserve the Empire, for all its faults, because all the alternatives are worse. Without the central control of home world to keep things running, it would be only too easy for everything to fall apart, and all the worlds slide back into barbarism and mass starvation. And let's not forget the various alien threats out there. We have to be strong and organized, to be able to stand against them when they come. We can't afford luxuries like dissent anymore. Right, Stelmach?"

"What? Oh, yes; right. We have to be loyal. Whatever it costs us."

Valentine Wolfe returned to his quarters alone. They were bare, stark, and characterless, which suited Valentine just fine. At any given time, what was going on inside his head was much more interesting than anything in the outside world. For the moment he had a pleasant buzz going, but nothing more. He had some thinking to do. He sat down in his favorite lounger, and turned on the massage program. He thought best when his body was well taken care of. He pulled one of the thick pulpy petals from his long-stemmed rose, popped it into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. He and his Family were in deep trouble, and as always it was up to him to dig them out. Clan Wolfe had lost the new stardrive contract when they lost their stardrive factory to the rebels on Technos III, but Valentine still had his secret contacts with the rogue AIs on Shub. And the unparalleled high tech they provided him had offered a way out of his dilemma. He presented some of it to Lionstone, as a gift to show his worth and loyalty, and then pointed out that his mastery of such tech made him the perfect choice to be in charge of the war machines in their first practical trials. And as simple as that, he was back in favor again.

Of course, his staying in favor depended on how well the machines performed on Virimonde, but he didn't foresee any problems there. He smiled, and purple juice from the rose petal ran down his chin. He was sharp and bright and so in tune with himself he could feel his fingernails growing. Nothing could go wrong. He would succeed. It was his destiny. He was looking forward to seeing what his metal army would do to the poor peasants. There would be blood and fire and death and the destruction of cities, on a scale new even to him. He sighed deeply. Such fun.

Once he'd made a good showing here on Virimonde, Clan Wolfe would be placed in charge of war-machine production, and he could take his place at Lionstone's side again. Where he belonged. He didn't like being a lesser Lord. It offended his delicate sensibilities. And old enemies had been only too ready to crow at his fall from favor. In his apparent weakness they saw a chance for the settling of old scores. Preferably in blood. They were only waiting for him to fail on Virimonde, and then they would be circling him in Court like sharks drawn to the scent of blood in the water. Valentine sniffed. He would remember all their names when he came to power again.

Of course, there were other problems. Ever since the debacle on Technos III, his sister Stephanie and his brother Daniel had been missing. This was both good and bad news. Good, in the sense that they weren't around to stick knives in his back anymore, and bad, in that he couldn't be sure what they were up to now. Daniel had apparently gone off in search of their dead father, last seen as a computer-controlled corpse used as an emissary from the AIs of Shub. It seemed Daniel believed their father was still alive and wished to rescue him. Valentine hoped that Daniel was wrong. He didn't want to have to kill his father again. And after the AIs had killed Daniel, perhaps they could be persuaded to return his body as a Ghost Warrior or a Fury. He'd make a useful ally at Court, without his mind to get in the way.

Stephanie, on the other hand, had disappeared without trace. No one seemed to know where she was, and Valentine found that disturbing. His sister wasn't the sort to be quiet and reflective. Particularly after such a setback. She'd want revenge on someone. Wherever she was, Valentine had no doubt she was plotting trouble for him. It ran in the Family. Though rather slowly in her case. Stephanie didn't have the patience for really intricate plots. For the moment. Valentine had agents out looking for her, with instructions to bring her back to him. Preferably in several small sacks.

The other fly in his ointment was Professor Ignatious Wax, cybernetics expert from the University of Golgotha. He'd been responsible for designing most of the war machines to be used on Virimonde, so Valentine had been forced to accept his assistance. Even though he knew the Professor was really only there to spy on him, to try and learn the source of the revolutionary new tech Valentine had provided. He posed no real threat. There was no way he'd be able to penetrate the mysteries of Shub technology. Even Valentine, with his chemically expanded mind, could do little more than operate the systems. Still, the man had proved to be very irritating, so Valentine had taken steps to ensure that the good Professor wouldn't distract him while he was working down on Virimonde. Very… amusing steps. Valentine smiled happily. He would lead his machines to victory on Virimonde, falling upon cities and razing them to the ground, and Lionstone would love him again. And then let his enemies beware.

In his cabin, the man who wasn't really the Lord High Dram paced up and down, scowling. This would be his first attempt at commanding troops in the field, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He'd studied up on it as best he could without raising suspicions, but no amount of theoretical knowledge could substitute for hands-on experience. The original Dram had led troops on many occasions, to great success, but the original Dram had been killed on Haden, also known as the Wolfling World. Now his clone had to carry on the role, lest anyone suspect the truth. He had to be Dram, do as he did. He was in charge of the pacification of the peasants, and Lionstone had made it very clear that he had to be successful, whatever the cost. Rather hard on the peasants, but it was their own fault for getting ideas above their station.

The man now known as Dram sighed deeply and sat down. The day had barely begun, and already he was having to run as fast as he could just to stay in place. He had to stay on top of everything, learning by doing, while giving every appearance of being an experienced man of war. It didn't help that his own men distrusted him anyway. Apparently the original Dram had been something of a monster, hard and unyielding, and always ready to sacrifice his own men if that was what it took to ensure victory. That was how he'd first acquired the whispered nickname Widowmaker. The new Dram wasn't sure he felt that way. Certainly he didn't approve of throwing away lives. But if he didn't act that way, or at the very least appear to, people might begin to suspect that he wasn't who he was supposed to be. There were already rumors in Court… And if he was ever revealed as a clone, his short life would come to an abrupt and violent end. A clone replacing a man of influence and power was one of the Lords' worst nightmares.

However, if he could bring this off—pacify the peasants, regain control of food production, and lead his troops to victory in the sight of all—Lionstone had promised he would be rewarded with the Lordship of Virimonde. David Deathstalker had forfeited that right the moment he allowed the beginnings of local democracy on his world. It wouldn't be much of a Lordship; Lionstone had plans for Virimonde that would make the Lordship little more than an honorary title. But for all Dram's standing at Court as Warrior Prime and official Consort, he'd always known that a Lord without a holding wasn't really a Lord. Virimonde would change all that. And the changes in store would eventually make him one of the richest men in the Empire. So he had a lot to play for.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He wished he could make the rest of his world disappear so easily. Valentine Wolfe's presence was a problem he could have done without. The Wolfe and the original Dram had dabbled secretly in the Golgotha underground, and had something of a shared history of which he, the clone, knew very little. Every time he spoke with Valentine he risked giving himself away by not recognizing a veiled reference, or a shared experience, so for the most part he kept a careful distance between himself and the Wolf, and let Valentine suppose what he would. A certain coldness was to be expected, since the original Dram had betrayed the underground to Golgotha Security forces. But what else might Valentine know about the original Dram that his clone didn't? The original Dram had left extensive diaries, but there were naturally many things he'd had the sense or the caution not to put on tape, where they might be found and used against him. Dram sighed, heavily. Life as a clone was complicated enough, without your original being a devious, scheming, two-faced bastard.

The journalist Toby Shreck, known in happier days as Toby the Troubadour, together with his cameraman Flynn, arrived on the planet Virimonde inside a large wooden crate marked Machine Parts. The ride down from orbit in the dark and very cold hold of a cargo ship was an escalating nightmare of bumps and bruises. Toby sat curled into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, head hunched down to keep from banging it on the low roof, clung grimly to the handholds provided, and distracted himself by mentally composing really unpleasant obituary notices for the bastards who'd come up with this brilliant idea for sneaking him onto Virimonde.

It was his own fault, really. After the trauma, tears, and hard bloody work of covering three war zones in a row, Toby and Flynn had asked plaintively for a story they could cover without getting shot at. The underground council offered them a rustic farmworld in the back of beyond, well away from any fighting, and Toby and Flynn had a race to see who could say yes the fastest. The mission seemed straightforward enough, for once. Make a study of the peaceful rustic society of Virimonde, currently menaced by the growing mechanization of farm-worlds. Show centuries-old traditions under threat, the livelihoods of helpless people being swept aside by an uncaring Empire administration—that sort of thing. It was the kind of story Toby could have done standing on his head, but he had a few private reservations. In his experience, long-established rural communities tended toward inbreeding, in people and ideas. You ended up with societies that resisted all change, good or bad, and families with less than the usual number of eyes, one thumb among the bunch of them, and room-temperature IQs. Favorite sports: coveting thy neighbour's ox, throwing cats off high buildings to see if they'd land on their feet, and witch burnings. Or journalists, if there wasn't a witch handy. But even with all of that, Virimonde had to be better than Technos III, Mistworld, or Haceldama. So Flynn packed some of his laciest underwear, Toby made plans for extensive relaxation and as little actual work as he could get away with, and they boarded ship for Virimonde. And Toby got his first impression that things were going terribly wrong when the Captain took them down to the cargo hold and showed them the large wooden crate with the words Machine Parts stenciled on the side.

After an eternity of darkness, muttered curses, and the occasional uncertainty as to which way was up, the cargo ship finally touched down. There was a long, nerve-straining wait, and then the crate was unloaded and dropped onto the ground with what seemed to Toby like entirely unnecessary force, and there was the sound of the ship departing. Toby waited in the dark, sweating nervously. A little light streamed through the cracks in the crate, but there was no telling where they'd ended up, or if friendly hands were anywhere near. For all Toby knew they could be surrounded by a crowd of heavily armed customs officers with no sense of humor. The crate shook suddenly as crowbars attacked the lid, and then the top was suddenly prised open and put aside. Bright sunlight poured in. Toby raised an arm instinctively to shield his face, eyes streaming under the impact of the new light. A calloused hand grasped his and pulled him to his feet, and Toby found himself looking at a grinning, friendly face. Toby could have kissed him, but didn't. He didn't want to give Flynn ideas.

It was early evening on Virimonde, with dark shades of red among the darkening clouds above. Twilight was fast approaching, and the cooling air had a hushed, muted feel. Toby and Flynn walked up and down outside the Daker farmhouse, getting the cramps out of their backs and legs. The air smelled wonderfully clear and unpolluted, unless you counted the rich underscent produced by various surrounding animals and their scattered dung. The farmhouse was a large, blocky stone building with primitive guttering and a thatched roof, so old that no one in the present family could remember exactly how old it was. Toby just knew, without having to be told, that this was the kind of place that only had an outside toilet. He smiled at the farmhouse and made polite comments, while privately thinking it looked drafty as hell.

The surrounding countryside wasn't exactly what he'd been hoping for, either. It was mainly moorland, with white and purple heather; grazing land for the countless animals spread out between the farmhouse and the far horizon. It looked pleasant enough, but decidedly bleak. Not at all the kind of place you could hope to get much sunbathing done. Toby sighed inwardly and paid attention to his hosts. Adrian Daker, the head of the family, was a short, round fellow with close-cropped grey hair, knowing blue eyes, and a constant friendly smile wrapped around a clay pipe. His voice had only a trace of a rustic burr, and his face had all the usual features, in all the correct places. His wife was a large fat woman called Diana, with red cheeks, freckles, and hair so red it all but glowed. She was positively bursting with life and hospitality, and cheered Toby despite himself with promises of as much good country cooking as he could eat.

When Toby and Flynn were finally able to stand up straight without wincing, the Dakers led them into the farmhouse kitchen and sat them down at the table. Adrian and Diana then bustled around, getting a hot meal ready. Adrian covered the heavy wooden table with a blindingly white tablecloth, and shyly set out what was obviously the best plates and cutlery, only used for guests. Diana hovered over her black-iron oven like a mother hen, lifting saucepan lids to check the contents, and assuring Toby and Flynn that she'd have had a hot meal ready and waiting for them, but the underground had been very vague as to when they'd be arriving. Toby could understand that. The rebel council had never impressed him with their efficiency.

He sat back and looked happily around him. The kitchen was small without seeming cramped, and comfortably warm and cosy. Shelves on the walls were packed to bursting with a lifetime's collection of knick-knacks, obviously hand-made, some of them astonishingly cute and vulgar. Adrian produced a stone jar of thick dark cider and poured generous doses into porcelain mugs shaped like fat old men. Adrian explained that these were known as Toby jugs, and they all laughed, though Toby didn't see the point of the joke at all.

Several animals shared the kitchen with the humans, apparently through long right and custom. There were three dogs with grey-and-silver muzzles, too old now to guard or control sheep, half a dozen cats of various snootiness, and a couple of daft chickens who wandered round bumping into things. These latter took an inordinate interest in Toby and Flynn's ankles, pecking at them in a curious way, until Diana stopped what she was doing to put the chickens' heads under their wings. They promptly assumed that because it was now dark it must be night, and went to sleep where they stood. The dogs sniffed hopefully at the smells of cooking in the air, but were too well trained to make nuisances of themselves. One of them came up to Toby, sat down before him, pawed at his leg, then put his head on Toby's knee to have his head scratched. Toby did so, cautiously. He didn't have much experience with animals at close quarters. But the dog's tail thumped heavily against the stone floor, so he assumed he must be doing it right. In fact, he rather liked it. Flynn had won over the cats, and two snuggled in his lap while a third perched on his shoulder. Flynn talked cheerful nonsense to them, and they purred back happily. What worried Toby was that the damn things appeared to be listening.

The meal finally arrived, simple food, lots of it, piping hot. Toby thought it was the best he'd ever had, and said so loudly, which earned him another large helping. He demolished that in record time, too, and was seriously considering the possibility of a third, when the dessert arrived. Heavy chocolate sponge pudding, with thick white chocolate sauce. Toby thought he'd died and gone to Heaven. Eventually he reached the point where even he couldn't eat any more. He sat back, undid his belt another notch, and sighed happily. This was looking to be a great assignment. Adrian Daker grinned at him.

"Soon as I saw you, I knew you were a man who liked his food. Don't you worry, son; the wife'll feed you up good and proper while you're here. She loves to see her cooking being properly appreciated."

"Quite excellent," said Flynn, from under his cats. He'd eaten one helping of everything, and was quietly content.

"And this is just part of what we stand to lose, if mechanization continues," said Adrian seriously. "This kind of life. Simple food and simple pleasures, no less important for that. Our whole way of life is under threat, if the rumors are true. I hope you'll make that clear in your report."

"Delighted to," said Toby. "I think we'll start with some footage of you and your family working the farm. How many of you are there?"

"Seven sons, three daughters," Diana said cheerfully. "Good strapping lads and bonny lasses. The boys are still out working the land; you'll meet them later. Liz and Megs work in town, but they'll drop by tomorrow to say hello. Good-looking girls, if I do say so myself. Be married already, if they weren't so choosey. I don't suppose either of you two gentlemen…"

"Leave them alone. Mother," said Adrian, his eyes crinkling. "That's not what they're here for. There's one other daughter, Alice, but I don't expect you'll see much of her. She's taken up with the young Deathstalker and spends most of her time in his company."

"What's he like?" said Toby. "He's one of the things we were sent here to cover."

Adrian shrugged and began packing the bowl of his pipe with dark aromatic strands of tobacco. "Seems harmless enough. Handsome, rich, and luckily for us, mostly uninterested in interfering in the way things are. Best we could hope for, I suppose. Bit of a feather in our cap, that he's taken a shine to our Alice."

"They don't want to know about that, Father," said Diana, leaning forward in her chair and resting her heavy arms on the old wood table. "They want to know what we've been doing with democracy here. That's what got the Golgotha underground interested in us, right? Thought so. We began trying our luck when Owen was the Deathstalker, seeing what we could get away with. Owen didn't care. He wasn't much, in those days. He was happy with his mistress and his studies, and didn't want to be bothered with us. Steward wasn't too keen, but without Owen's backing he couldn't do anything. We began small, adding one small victory to another, until we reached where we are today. We have regular elections for town offices, and most of the decisions about farming and livestock are made at the local level. We've all been making a lot more money since we started making our own deals with the shipping companies. We run our own lives now, as much as that's possible in the Empire these days. Steward isn't happy, but David Deathstalker's actually been encouraging us. Though I'd be surprised if he knew half of what goes on out in the towns and the farmlands. He and his young friend the SummerIsle are more interested in hunting, drinking, and wenching. Not necessarily in that order."

She and her husband shared rich chuckles over that. Toby wasn't so sure. "Tell me about the SummerIsle."

Adrian frowned for the first time. "Damned if we know what to make of that one, eh Mother? Good-looking. Polite. Doesn't throw his weight around more than you'd expect. But… he's a cold one. Hard to tell what's going on inside his head. He came here once, with David, to pick up our Alice. The dogs took one look at the SummerIsle and hid under the table. Wouldn't come out till he'd gone. I felt a bit like joining them, to be honest. There was something about his eyes, like he'd just as soon kill me as not. Wouldn't surprise me if there was bad blood in that one."

"At Court they call him Kid Death," said Flynn quietly. "The smiling killer."

"Can't say as I'm surprised," said Adrian. He scowled, searching for the right words. "It's not like he's done anything, or said anything, that a man could take offense to, but… he's a dangerous man, or I never saw one. Don't know what the Deathstalker sees in him, but they seem close enough. Always together."

"Bit too close, if you ask me," said Diana.

"Now, Mother…"

"Do you think the Deathstalker will object to our presence here?" said Toby.

Adrian raised an eyebrow. "I thought he was supposed to be sympathetic to the underground?"

"He was. But he's… distanced himself, of late. I suppose being given absolute control over an entire planet will do that to you."

"I doubt he'll interrupt his play just because you're here," said Diana. "But I think we'd better keep the Steward distracted till you're gone. He's a hard man. An Empire man, through and through. Bows to everything with a title, and lords it over us like he was a blue blood himself. Thinks he's better than us. Damned fool. I can remember him growing up on a farm not twenty miles from here. No, you two just get on with your work. We'll see you're not interfered with."

"Look forward to seeing it, when it's finished," said Adrian. "The wife and I are big fans of yours. Very impressed we were, with your Technos III coverage."

"You saw that?" said Flynn, quietly discouraging another cat from climbing up on his head.

"We've got a holoscreen," said Adrian. "You're not out in the sticks here, you know."

A loud chiming came from the next room. Adrian and Diana looked round startled. "Speak of the Devil. That's the underground's signal," said Adrian. "Means there's a message coming in. Can't say I was expecting anything."

"I expect they just want to speak with these two," said Diana. "Make sure they got here in one piece."

"No doubt, Mother. I'll just check."

He got up and went into the next room, calmly puffing on his pipe. When he returned a few moments later, the pipe was in his hand, and the peacefulness was gone from his face.

"You'd better come through," he said to Toby and Flynn. "They want to talk to you. Mother, call the boys in. We'd best prepare. Word is bad things are coming."

Diana got up without a word and headed for the outside door. Toby and Flynn dumped their various cats and dogs and followed Adrian into the next room, where a large holoscreen covered half a wall. An unfamiliar face looked out of the screen at them, stern to hide his worry.

"Shreck, Flynn, you have to leave, now. It's not safe for you anymore."

"Why?" said Toby. "What's happened? Have the Dakers been compromised? Does the Empire know we're here?"

"None of that matters anymore," said the face. "The shit is about to hit the fan for all of Virimonde, if it hasn't already begun. Leave, while you still can. Empire troops will be hitting ground anytime now, all over the planet. The Stevie Blues are already dirtside, to represent us to the local rebels. They should be heading in your direction; see if you can hook up with them. If not, try to get to the Standing. Maybe the Deathstalker can protect you till we can arrange safe passage offworld for you."

"But why?" said Toby. "What's happening?"

The face looked tired and drawn, as though all his strength was leaking out of him. "The Empress has outlawed David Deathstalker, for allowing his peasants to experiment with democracy. The entire planet is to be placed under martial law, by any and all means necessary. The populace is considered to be in rebellion. Every man, woman, and child on Virimonde is to be placed under constraint, and then tried, exiled, or executed. Not necessarily in that order. Three Imperial starcruisers are already in orbit over Virimonde. More are on their way. Troops are already landing. And the Empress has authorized extensive use of war machines. It's going to get hard and vicious and bloody, real soon now. Get out of there. Now."

The screen went blank. In the kitchen the dogs were barking loudly, sensing the excitement and alarm. Toby and Flynn looked at each other. "Well," said Flynn, trying hard to sound casual. "So much for our trying to avoid a war zone. Do we head for the Standing?"

"I guess so. The Stevie Blues could be anywhere, and the Standing isn't that far from here. Maybe we can get some good footage of the fighting along the way. Just so this mission isn't a complete failure. You know, just once, I'd like things to go the way I planned them."

Flynn shrugged. "That's life. Our life, anyway. We'd better say good-bye to our hosts and get moving. We've no way of knowing how near the troops are."

They went back into the kitchen. The dogs were running around excitedly. The cats were perched on high shelves, watching everything with wise, experienced eyes. Adrian Daker had pushed the heavy table aside and opened up a concealed trapdoor in the floor. There were wooden steps, leading down into a secret cellar. Adrian was emerging from the dark hole with an armful of weapons. He nodded calmly to Toby and Flynn, and dropped the weapons on the table, next to those he'd already brought up. There were lots of them, mostly projectile weapons and boxes of ammunition, with a few hand energy weapons. Set on a farmhouse table they looked pretty impressive, but Toby knew they were nothing compared to an invading army backed up by war machines.

"Better get out of here boys," said Adrian. "It'll be getting noisy around here soon. It seems the rebellion's started a little early."

"Will you be safe here?" said Toby.

"Safe as anywhere," said Adrian, stripping guns of their protective coverings with quick, professional movements. "They'll need an army to storm this place. And with Mother and our boys beside me, the Empire will pay dearly in blood and suffering for the taking of our land. This has been Daker land for countless generations, and they'll not take it from us while there's a bullet left to fire, or a Daker left to fire it. Go, now, while it's still quiet. Head due north from here, and that'll take you to the Standing. You'll find a flyer in the stables behind the house. Energy crystals are a bit low, but they should get you most of the way there. Stay low, and try and keep out of sight. The locals won't know who you are. You might end up getting shot at by both sides. Good luck, boys."

The outer door burst open and Diana came rushing in, her eyes wide. She gestured urgently with the comm unit in her hand. "I can't raise the boys! The channel's open, but none of them are answering!"

From far away in the distance came the sound of an explosion, followed almost immediately by another. They all hurried outside, Adrian grabbing a gun from the table. Outside in the farmyard, twilight was falling. The sound of energy guns discharging was clear and plain in the quiet. Out on the heathered moor, the animals were running confusedly this way and that. Far away, someone was screaming. Diana Daker moved to stand close beside her husband, who was hugging his gun to his chest like a talisman.

"My boys," said Adrian Daker. "My poor boys…"

David Deathstalker and Kit SummerIsle, those two most dangerous men, lay sleeping on the floor of the Heart's Ease tavern. Some kind souls had draped their cloaks over them like blankets, but they hadn't stirred enough to notice. The Deathstalker was murmuring quietly and grinding his teeth in his sleep, perhaps disturbed by some dream. The SummerIsle slept peacefully, his face as unconcerned as an innocent child's. Which would no doubt have amused him greatly, had he known. Sitting not far away at a long wooden table, nursing almost empty mugs of ale, two good-looking young women studied the sleeping men with good-natured tolerance. They were Alice Daker and Jenny Marsh, girlfriends of the slumbering swains.

Alice was a tall and slender redhead with a magnificent bosom. Or, as David liked to say, a balcony you could do Shakespeare from. She had a wide smile, dancing eyes, and enough patience to put up with the Deathstalker's sense of humor, which could be somewhat basic on occasion. She was wearing the very best silks, enough jewelry to open her own shop, and the very latest in fashion and makeup, all courtesy of the Deathstalker. She was a good listener, an indefatigable dancer, and knew all the words to the best drinking songs, especially the dirty ones.

Her friend Jenny was tall, ghostly pale, and raven-haired, with sharp features and a sharper tongue. She had a slender, almost boyish figure, and enough nervous energy to run a small city. She also wore the very best in fashion and its expensive accessories, courtesy of the SummerIsle. She smiled often, laughed rarely, and was forever alert and watchful for the main chance. Which for the moment seemed to be Kit SummerIsle.

It was early in the morning, almost three a.m. The end of another long evening of drinking, carousing, and generally having as much fun as a body can stand. Since the Deathstalker was paying, they hadn't lacked for friends to join them in their festivities, but one by one drink or exhuastion had claimed the revelers, and they staggered out of the tavern doors in the general direction of home. The tavern owner finally gave up about two a.m., locked the place up, and went to his bed, leaving the remaining revelers to take care of themselves. It wasn't the first time this had happened, and also, it wasn't as if he had to worry about them cleaning out the till. Eventually even David's and Kit's hardened constitutions had given up the ghost and demanded sleep. So rather than make the long journey home, puking over the side of the flyer and arguing over directions, they just crashed out on the floor and went to sleep. Alice and Jenny, having paced their drinking through long experience, were now in that happy and contemplative stage of drunkenness where lying down and going to sleep involved too much effort. And so they sat and talked quietly together over the last of the booze, perhaps a little more openly than they otherwise might have.

"God, I'm hungry," said Alice. "Do you suppose there's any food left behind the bar?"

"If there is, I wouldn't touch it," said Jenny. "I don't know what he puts in his meat pies, but you never see any rats around here. His bread rolls bounce, his soup has things floating in it, and his bar snacks are the kind of things that start wars. I think he breeds them in dark corners, when no one's looking."

"His ale's good. And his wine. And his brandy."

"Should be, for the prices he charges."

"What do you care?" said Alice, grinning. "None of this is coming out of our pockets."

"True," said Jenny. "Very true. I suppose the boys do have their uses."

They looked over at the sleeping pair. Alice fondly. Jenny entirely unmoved. Kit farted in his sleep. Neither of the girls flinched.

"He's all right, is David," said Alice finally. "He's good-looking, considerate when he thinks of it, and rich as hell. And he's always there for me. He isn't always going on about the local elections, or the rebellion, as though they meant anything in a backwater dump like this. He isn't all work and duty and politics. He's good times, and laughs, and a bit of fun now and again. Why can't the local boys be like that?"

"Peasants," said Jenny dismissively. "They don't appreciate us. Never have. None of them can see past the next lambing, or the next harvest. They don't care about style, or sophistication, or any of the things that really matter. And none of them know how to treat a girl like a lady. God, I hate this place! I want out of here, out of this dump, this town, and off this whole stinking planet. Kit's taking me to Golgotha. He doesn't know it yet, but he is. He's my ticket out of here."

"I don't know how you can stand to be near him," said Alice. "I mean, he's David's friend, so he must have some good in him somewhere, but I swear, sometimes I look at him and I just go all gooseflesh. He's trouble. Dangerous. They say he killed a lot of men in the Arena."

"So did David," said Jenny. She drank the last of her ale and slammed the mug down on the table. "God, I'd love to go to the Arena! See men fight and die for my pleasure. Right there, in the flesh, not on the screen. And Kit's not so bad, really. He's generous enough, and he doesn't make any demands on me. A bit kinky in bed, but then, he's an aristocrat. Not that I mind. I could teach him a thing or two."

"Kinky?" said Alice, grinning. "What do you mean?"

Jenny grinned back at her. "Well, let's just say Kit's always glad to see the back of me."

"Jenny!" Alice tried to look shocked, but couldn't hold it. They giggled together, shooting glances at the boys to make sure they were still safely asleep.

"What about David?" said Jenny, eventually. "Any little… likes or dislikes?"

"Not really," said Alice. "I don't think he's had much experience with girls, to be honest. He can go all shy at the strangest moments. But I think he cares for me. I mean, really cares for me. The dear."

"Kit doesn't," said Jenny. "For which I am decidedly grateful. Emotions would only complicate our relationship. I'm out for what I can get from him, and he knows it. We have good times, good sex, and no demands either way. I don't think Kit would know what to do with love, or even affection, anyway. Probably just confuse him."

"He's very close to David," said Alice, frowning slightly. "As much as David likes me, even loves me sometimes, there's a closeness between him and Kit that I can't even touch. It's like… neither of them ever really had a friend before. Still, I'm the one David really cares for. I'm the one he's going to marry. Even if he doesn't know it yet."

Jenny looked at her sharply. "Marriage? Forget it, girl. Forget it. A peasant girl and a Lord, the head of his Family? That kind of thing only ever happens in bad soaps on the holoscreen. We're not marriage material, Alice. We're good-time girls, with all that implies. Out for a few laughs and whatever goodies we can pick up along the way. Aristos might party with girls like us, but they never marry us. They only breed with their own kind."

"Well, all right, maybe not marry, exactly," said Alice. "But I could be his mistress. Concubine. Whatever the polite word is these days. Aristos marry for politics or Clan-breeding reasons, not for love. It's all to do with alliances and advantages and preserving bloodlines. Never love. Some other woman might have his name, but I'd still have his heart."

"Even if he isn't that good in bed?"

"I could teach him," said Alice.

"Does that mean I'm not really your little stud muffin?" said David.

The girls looked round sharply to see David sitting up on one elbow and looking at them blearily.

"How long have you been awake?" said Alice sternly.

"Long enough," said David. "Very revealing, what girls talk about when they think no one's listening."

"What about Kit?" said Jenny. "Is he still asleep?"

"Who can sleep with all this talking going on?" said the SummerIsle, sitting up and running his fingers through his tangled hair. He smacked his lips a few times and grimaced. "I swear every night something crawls into my mouth and dies. I need another drink."

"No you don't," said Jenny sternly. "Go back to sleep and sleep off what you've had first."

"Do you really care for me?" said David, looking at Alice somewhat owlishly.

"Yes," said Alice, smiling. "Haven't I said so often enough?"

"I need to hear it," said David. "I'm really very insecure."

"All men want to be loved," said Jenny. "It's a very profitable weakness."

"I don't," said Kit. "Wouldn't know what to do with love if I had it."

"Yes, but you're weird," said David.

The two boys grinned at each other, threw aside the cloaks covering them, and got somewhat stiffly to their feet. They were caught in that muddy serene haze between the drunk and the hangover. They sat down beside their respective girls and poured themselves ale from the jug in the middle of the table. It was warm and flat, but life's like that sometimes. The tavern bar seemed cool and calm and clear, divorced from the world, adrift in the early hours of the morning between dark and light. David took a large gulp from his mug and pulled a face.

"God, this stuff is rough. I swear my palate goes slumming every time I set foot inside this place."

"Where's everyone gone?" said Kit. "I was just getting started. I could go all night if I wanted to. I could use a little action."

"I'm here," said Jenny.

"I mean real action. I miss the fighting and dueling we had on Golgotha. No one here worth fighting. What's the point in being the best there is with a sword, if I never get a chance to show it off?"

"Who says you're the best?" said David. "You may have all the tricks, but I have the boost."

"One of these days we'll have to find out," said Kit.

"Yeah," said David. "One of these days."

They grinned at each other and drank more ale. "Be honest," said David. "Didn't you get enough bloodshed in the Arenas? I mean, we got through a hell of a lot of opponents in our short time on the bloody sands."

"It's never enough," said Kit. "Still, there are… distractions, here."

"Glad to hear it," said Jenny. She put an arm around Kit's shoulders, and he smiled at her.

"We could always go back to Golgotha. Just for a visit," said David. "See if we could scare up some action in the Arenas. There's always some poor fool who thinks he's good with a sword."

"What about us?" said Jenny.

"What about you?" said Kit.

"If you're going, we want to go, too," said Alice.

"You wouldn't like it," said David.

"Why?" said Jenny, bristling. "Because we're peasants? Because we're not sophisticated enough to show off to your precious friends and Families?"

"Well, yes, basically," said Kit.

"Screw you," said Jenny.

"Maybe later," said Kit.

"You could teach us all we need to know," said Alice. "Oh please, David. I've always wanted to go to home-world."

"We'll see," said David. "Maybe if you're good."

"Oh, I'm very good," said Alice. "Remember?"

They grinned at each other. Jenny glared at Kit, who stared calmly back. The conversation could have gone in any number of directions, and probably would have, if a starship hadn't crash-landed right outside the tavern. The first those inside knew of its coming was a long, descending scream of straining engines, high up in the sky above the tavern. The four of them got rather unsteadily to their feet, opened a window, and looked out. The air was bracingly cool and sobering, the sun barely up. The grey skies were splashed with blood. And down through the clouds a ship came howling, with its outer hull on fire.

"Who the hell is that?" said Alice.

"Can't see any markings on it," said Kit calmly. "It's not one of yours, is it, David?"

"Don't think so. It hasn't got my crest on it. Besides, no one's supposed to know I'm here. Whoever that is, it's coming down at one hell of a pace. It occurs to me we might be a damn sight safer if we were to get away from the window. If that ship crashes anywhere near here, there's going to be wreckage and shrapnel flying in all directions."

"I think it's still under control," said Jenny. "More or less."

The blazing craft swept over the tavern, the roar of its engines deafening at close quarters. The floor shook under their feet, and streams of dust and sawdust fell down from the beamed ceiling. They all ducked instinctively, but by the time they'd reacted, the craft had turned around and headed back again. The engines cut in and out, and then it dropped from the sky, crashing as much as landing in the courtyard outside the tavern. The ground shuddered under the impact, throwing the four observers off their feet. David got to his feet first, unlocked the main door, and hurried outside. He had some confused thought about hauling any injured out of the crashed ship, but the moment he got outside the door the heat from the blazing craft stopped him dead. He threw an arm to protect his face, feeling sweat pop out all over him. He tried to force himself forward, but his body wouldn't obey him, flinching away from the awful heat. A hand grabbed him from behind and pulled him back into the tavern. Someone else slammed the door shut, cutting off the heat.

"Forget it," said Kit, letting go of his arm. "No one's getting out of that alive."

"The hell they aren't," said Jenny from the window. "You've got to see this."

The others hurried over to join her at the window. Outside in the courtyard, flames from the ship were rising higher than the tavern. But someone inside the craft had opened the emergency escape hatch, and two figures were emerging. As David and the others watched, the flames seemed to draw back from the hatch. Two women with the same face dropped down onto the blackened stones of the courtyard and headed for the tavern, apparently entirely unaffected by the blazing inferno around them.

"I know that face," said Kit. "It's the Stevie Blues."

"How the hell are they doing that?" said Jenny.

"They're clones, aren't they?" said Alice excitedly. "I've never seen clones before!"

"If they've come looking for us, we could be in trouble," David said quietly to Kit. "We owe the underground a lot of reports. It's entirely possible the rebel council might have decided we need persuading to follow the party line."

"Or, given that we know a lot about rebel plans, the Blues could have been sent to silence us," said Kit. "Good thinking, David. I'll make a paranoid out of you yet."

"Okay," said David. "This place has a back door. I suggest we use it. Now."

"What is it?" said Jenny. "Do you know these people?"

"I don't run from anyone," said Kit to David, ignoring her. "Besides, there are only two of them."

"Two battle esper firestarters are more than enough to reduce this place to ashes, along with anyone stupid enough to be inside it when they get here. Those are elves, Kit. Esper Liberation Front. The radical fringe of the radical fringe. The only time they take hostages is when they're feeling hungry."

"We can take them," said Kit.

"Fine. You take the one on the left, and I'll take to my heels. We can't fight, Kit; we have the girls to think of. All right, plan B. We'll talk them to death. No one ever accused the Stevie Blues of being particularly bright. Impulsive, psychotic, and more deadly than a Hadenman in a really bad mood, but not bright. If we keep our wits about us, I may be able to talk our way out of this."

Kit sniffed. "I'd much rather kill them."

"I know you would," said David. "That's your answer to everything. But your normal tactics aren't going to be much use against someone who can melt your sword just by looking at it."

"Good point," said Kit. "All right, you talk to them. I'll see if I can sneak round behind them, just in case."

"Sounds like a plan to me," said David.

"Hold everything," said Alice. "Do you know these people? I heard the word underground. Are they rebels?"

"Cool," said Jenny. "I always wanted to meet some outsider rebels."

And then everyone fell silent as the door swung open and two rebels with the same face stepped into the tavern. Young women in battered leathers with metal studs and dangling chains, over a grubby T-shirt bearing the legend Born To Burn. They were both short and stocky, with muscles bulging on their bare arms. Their long dark hair was full of brightly colored knotted ribbons, and there were splashes of matching colors on their faces. They might have been pretty, if it hadn't been for their shared frown and the stern, dangerous look in their eyes. They nodded briefly to the Deathstalker, glared intimidatingly at the SummerIsle, and ignored the two girls.

"I'm Stevie One," said the woman on the left. "This is Stevie Three. Don't get us confused, or we'll get cranky about it."

"Right," said Stevie Three. "We're really quite different once you get to know us."

"Good to see you again," said David, trying hard to make his voice and smile seem natural. "What brings you all the way out here, exactly?"

"You," said Stevie One. "But you can take your hand away from your sword. And SummerIsle, that is the worst case of sneaking around behind someone that I've ever seen. Now relax. We're here to help. The shit is about to hit the fan in a major way, Deathstalker. You've been outlawed."

David's mouth dropped open. He could hear the girls' shocked gasps, but for a moment he couldn't say anything. It was as though someone had punched him in the stomach and taken away his breath. "What do you mean, outlawed?" he managed, finally.

"I mean, Lionstone wants your head on a stick," said Stevie One. "Your holding is forfeit. Virimonde is no longer yours, and there's a big reward waiting for anyone who brings Lionstone your head, preferably unattached to your body, so the Iron Bitch can spit in your eyes."

"But why?" said David, almost plaintively. "I've been good. I've kept my head down, like we agreed."

"Funnily enough," said Stevie Three, "I don't think Lionstone even knows you're a rebel. She wants you dead because you encouraged local democracy and because you stood against her plans for mechanizing this planet. You shouldn't have been so open with your Steward. And you really shouldn't have threatened to go to the Company of Lords. Lionstone's calling that conspiracy against the Crown. Every other Lord is scrambling to put as much distance as possible between himself and you. They can see which way the wind's blowing. Luckily for you, Alice's parents are rebels. They told us where to find you. The bad news is that Empire ships ambushed us on the way down and shot the hell out of us. So you can forget about hopping a lift offplanet. We're all stuck here. Your best bet is to run like hell back to your Standing and barricade yourself in. We'll try and work out some way to get you safely offworld. We can't let the Empress have you. You'd be too big a trophy for her to boast over."

"Oh, thanks a bunch," said David.

"Hold everything," said Kit. "What about me? Am I outlawed too?"

"Hell no," said Stevie One. "You're still the Iron Bitch's darling. Her favorite killer, apart from the Consort."

"Unless you try and defend the Deathstalker," said Stevie Three. "In which case, you get to stand trial beside him."

"She's right, Kit," said David. "We'd better split up. If they find you in my company, they could declare you guilty by association. I'll take the flyer in the stable and head back to the Standing. You and the Blues can get the girls to safety."

"Forget it," said Kit. "I'm not leaving you. You wouldn't last ten minutes without me."

"You'd be putting your life at risk!" said David.

"Good," said Kit. "It's been far too quiet around here. I was only saying I could use a little action. But may I suggest we use the tavern viewscreen to check out the situation at the Standing first? You have enemies there, as well as friends."

"Good point," said David. "Alice, Jenny, you'd better get out of here. Go home, and keep your heads down till this is over. If they ask, you barely knew us. It'll be safer that way."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple," said Stevie Three. "You haven't heard all of it yet."

David stared at her. "There's more?"

"You aren't the only one that's getting the chop," said Stevie One. "The whole planet's been outlawed. Normally that would mean a scorching, but Lionstone has plans for Virimonde. So she's sending in the troops, to punish the rebellious and bring the survivors under direct Empire rule. The first troop ships should be landing by now. It's war, Deathstalker. The whole planet's under attack."

"My parents," said Alice, numb with the shock of the news. "They're high up in the local underground. If the Empire's infiltrated our ranks, they'll be targets. We have to contact them, David!"

"First things first," said Kit. "First we try the Standing."

"You're a rebel, too?" said David to Alice. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Hell, we're all rebels here," said Jenny. "Not much else to do for excitement on a backwater dump like this."

"The Standing," said Kit. "We have to know, David."

They gathered together in front of the viewscreen on the tavern wall, and David put in a call to the Standing, using his emergency codes. The Steward answered immediately, as though he'd been waiting for the call.

"My lord, where are you? I've been trying to locate you for hours! It is imperative that you return to the Standing immediately, to answer the ridiculous charges set against you."

"Where's my Security chief?" said David. "He's supposed to answer my emergency codes."

"He is unavailable at the moment," said the Steward. "Things are rather chaotic here, as I'm sure you can imagine. Tell me where you are, my lord, and I'll send an armored flyer to fetch you, and bring you back safely."

"Turn it off," said Kit. "If he's in charge, your people are dead. The Steward's the one who sold you out in the first place."

"I must insist on knowing where you are, my lord," said the Steward. "You are in danger every minute you're not under my protection."

"Turn it off," said Stevie One. "Before they trace the signal."

David shut down the screen. He didn't know what to say. It had never occurred to him that his own people might turn against him. Sure, he and the Steward had had words on more than one occasion, but to betray the Family that had fed and sheltered him from birth, that gave his life purpose and meaning… It had all happened so quickly. One minute he was the man who had everything, then suddenly he had nothing but a price on his head. Just like his cousin, Owen. Maybe the planet was jinxed. Laughter dangerously close to hysteria bubbled up inside him. He realized Alice was talking to him and tugging at his sleeve.

"My parents, David. I need to know about my parents."

"Of course you do. You set the codes, I have to think. Kit, if the Steward's got my emergency codes, my private security measures aren't worth shit anymore. But that works both ways. If he's got access to my codes, then I've got access to his."

"What good does that do us?" said Kit.

"I should be able to patch into the Standing's comm system, and through that into the Empire's systems. We'll be able to see what they're seeing. I need to know what's happening elsewhere on my world. I can't believe Lionstone's ordered a complete taking of Virimonde. The loss of life would be enormous. Appalling."

"Since when has that ever stopped the Iron Bitch?" said Kit.

"Kit," said David. "They said it's all my fault. My people are going to die, because of what I did."

"I've got the farm!" said Alice, and they all turned to look. The view on the screen was fuzzy, unfocused. Alice bent over the control panel, cursing under her breath as she tried to boost the signal. It finally snapped into focus, and Alice shrank back from the screen, one hand half-raised, as though to protect herself. She'd patched into one of the farm's exterior sensors, showing the farmhouse from outside. The great stone building was under attack. The stonework was riddled with holes from energy guns, and part of the roof had been blown away. What remained of the thatched roof was burning fiercely. There were two bodies lying still in the courtyard, clutching projectile weapons in their dead hands. They'd both been hit by energy guns.

Alice shook her head slowly, as though to deny what she was seeing. "That's Sam. And Matthew. My brothers. Where are the others? Where are my father and mother?"

David put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she didn't feel it. The farmhouse's front door flew open, and black smoke billowed out, thick and heavy. And out of the smoke, projectile weapons in hand, firing at an unseen enemy, came Adrian and Diana Daker. They kept up a steady fire as they ran for the stables behind the house. The camera was too far away to show their faces clearly, but their body language showed calm determination. They weren't panicking.

Energy beams flashed around them, blowing holes in the farmhouse wall, but the Dakers were hard targets to hit. And then a company of Imperial marines appeared from behind the house, cutting the Dakers off from the stables. Adrian and Diana skidded to a halt, looking quickly about them, but there was nowhere they could go. The marines opened fire. Diana screamed and fell as one of her legs was shot out from under her, and then screamed again as an energy beam punched through Adrian's stomach and out his back. He fell to the ground, still holding his gun. Diana tried to pull herself along the ground toward him. Adrian reached out a hand to her, and another beam blew his head apart. Two more blasts hit Diana, tearing her body in two. Her torso rolled away, leaving her legs shuddering on the ground. She looked across at her dead husband. Her mouth moved as she tried to say something, then the life went out of her, and she lay still.

Alice was making strangled mewling noises, her wide eyes fixed on her dead parents. Jenny took her by the shoulders and forcibly turned her away from the screen. All the strength went out of Alice, and she collapsed sobbing into Jenny's arms. David gestured for Jenny to move Alice over to the bar and get her a stiff drink. Jenny nodded and gently persuaded her friend to move away out of range of the viewscreen. She murmured soothing words, but wasn't at all sure her friend could hear her. At the viewscreen, David bent over the control panel, patching the screen into the signals going to the Standing. He jumped from one scene to another, trying to get some idea of what was happening to his world. And only then did he began to understand how widespread the horror was.

David and Kit watched silently as Imperial troops ran howling through an isolated village, shooting at everything that moved. Villagers came pouring out of their squat houses to face the invaders, but they had few guns, fighting mostly with swords and axes and farm implements. The troopers had battle armor and force shields and energy weapons, but still the men and women of the village threw themselves at the enemy, making them fight for every inch of ground. But the troops had the numbers as well as the weapons, and they cut a swift and bloody path through the village, leaving the main street strewn with the dead and the dying. Soon they were cutting down the villagers as fast as they showed themselves. The soldiers torched the buildings methodically, and shot down the elderly and the children as they ran out screaming. Soon the whole village was ablaze, thick black smoke rising up into the early-morning skies.

The scene changed to a nearby town. A small army of Imperial marines ran riot in the narrow cobbled streets, killing and burning, destroying all possible centers of resistance. Local officials were dragged out of their offices and into the street and hanged from the nearest lampposts. There was looting and raping and the butchery of innocents. Blood ran in the streets, and men and women and children ran in terror before the invading forces, driven from their homes by an enemy intent only on victory.

David and Kit recognized the tactics. They were designed to shock and intimidate other towns and villages into surrendering without a fight. Resistance meant only death and destruction. That was why the holosignal was getting out. The tactics worked. The viewscreen jumped from town to town, showing whole populations being herded away from their homes and out into the open fields, their hands on their heads. Interrogation would come later. Those who didn't move fast enough were shot. Anyone who protested was shot. And everywhere there were buildings burning, and bodies hanging in the streets, and carrion birds circling in the skies above.

To the cities came the war machines. Unstoppable battle wagons smashed through boundary walls, bricks falling like water from their armored sides. Mechanical constructs, beyond fear or panic or restraint, charged unflinchingly into enemy fire, soaking up endless punishment while their racked energy guns blazed, cutting through men and buildings alike. Whole blocks went up in flames as huge gravity torpedoes plowed through wall after wall, building after building, progressing in unrelenting straight lines from one side of the city to the other. Combat androids, robots shaped in the mockery of men for psychological effect, stamped through the streets, cutting and hacking their way through human resistance. Flesh yielded to unfeeling steel, and blood ran down metal arms and dripped thickly from spiked knuckles. There were machines small as insects, unblinking eyes in the sky, and vast metal assemblages bigger than buildings, slow-moving towers of destruction. Brick and stone tore like paper, wood burned fiercely, and men and women died screaming under remorseless metal treads. The machines slaughtered all who came before them, showing neither quarter nor mercy because that was what they had been programmed to do. Buildings fell, fires raged, and in the smoke-choked streets, sharp metal hooks tore through yielding flesh, and barbed flails ripped meat away from bones. The robots marched, the city fell, and the war machines moved on to their next appointed target.

"No," said David finally. "No. I won't stand for this."

"We'd better get out of here," said Kit. "There's no telling how close the nearest Imperial forces are."

"I am the Lord of this planet, and I will not allow this." David glared at the blazing hell on the viewscreen, his hands clenched into fists. "This isn't war. This is inhuman. There's no way Lionstone's going to get away with this. This is my world and my people and I will not stand for this!"

"There's nothing you can do," said Kit. He shut down the viewscreen, and David turned his glare on him. Kit met his gaze calmly. "You've been outlawed, David. You no longer have any followers or power base, and even your own Standing may be compromised. You can't fight, and surrender isn't an option, so that just leaves flight."

David shook his head stubbornly. "If I can get to the Standing, there's still a chance I can contact the Company of Lords. Show them what's happening here, what Lionstone's doing to one of their own. If this could happen here, no Lord's holdings would be safe anymore."

"They won't interfere," said Kit. "No one objected to Owen's outlawing, remember? While the Empress has the backing of the armed forces and the war machines, no Lord's going to risk making a stand against her."

"Then I'll use the Standing's comm station to broadcast what's happening here on an open channel, so everyone in the Empire can see what's being done in the Empress's name."

"Your Standing is most probably in the Steward's hands now," Kit said patiently.

"Then we'll take it back from him," said David.

Kit took David by the shoulders so he could stare into his friend's eyes. "David, let it go. They're just peasants. They're nothing to do with us. Virimonde is a lost cause. It was the moment Lionstone decided to send in the troops and the war machines. We can't fight this. All we can do is cut and run and hope to save our own skins."

"I won't abandon my people," David said flatly.

"They're just peasants!"

"What about Alice and me?" said Jenny, from the other side of the bar.

"What about you?" said Kit.

"You bastard," said Jenny. "You'd just run off and abandon us, wouldn't you?"

"No one's abandoning anyone," said David. "Our flyer's still in the stable out back. It can carry four of us. There's got to be some organized resistance, somewhere. You and Alice can connect us with the nearest rebel cells, and together we can take back the Standing. Stevie Blue!"

The two clones looked back from the doorway. "Yeah?"

"We are leaving; you want a lift?"

"I don't think so," said Stevie One. "Once you're safely on your way, our responsibility to you is over. We'll head for the nearest city still standing, organize resistance, and generally make trouble wherever it'll do the most damage."

"Right," said Stevie Three, and held up a fist. Blue flames crackled menacingly around it.

"Then it's time to go," said David. He looked around him, as though seeing the tavern bar for the first time. "I should have listened to Owen. He tried to warn me. Damn, I wish I'd had a few more hours' sleep. The shock's driven the booze out of my head, but I feel like shit." He stopped, and looked at Kit for a long moment. "Kit, you don't have to come with us. You haven't been outlawed, so presumably they don't know about your rebel links, or don't care. You could cut us loose and make off on your own…"

"No I couldn't," said Kit calmly. "You're my friend. And if you're determined to fight for a lost cause for no good reason that I can see, then I'll fight it with you. I am Kid Death, the smiling killer, and I will not desert my friend in his hour of need."

"You're a good sort, Kit," said David, smiling. "Weird as hell and spooky with it, but you'll do." He grinned suddenly. "What the hell; I was getting bored with peace and quiet anyway."

"Damn right," said Kit. "The holiday's over, time to get back to work. We were never meant to be gentlemen of leisure."

They turned to look at the two girls. Alice had stopped crying. Her mouth kept trying to tremble, but she was back in control.

"We're sticking with you," she said flatly. "This is our world, too. We have a right to defend it."

"Of course you do," said David. "And maybe on the way we'll find time for some personal revenge. Now let's go."

They headed for the back door together, waving briefly to the Stevie Blues. Jenny glared at Kit. "You slow us down, SummerIsle, and we'll dump you to fend for yourself. Got it?"

Kit smiled at her. "I always knew you were a woman after my own heart."

In his private command center on the planet's surface, inside a great slow-moving armored vehicle well away from the main fighting, Valentine Wolfe sat at his ease in a comfortable chair and watched death and destruction and bloody butchery on the many monitor screens around him, and was content. All Empire commands and machine instructions were routed through his systems, allowing him overall awareness of the invasion as well as individual control of his war units. He was contained inside a solid steel isolation tank, surrounded by control systems, lit by the glowing monitor screens. The ten-foot cube packed with tech would have been a claustrophobe's nightmare, but it didn't bother Valentine. Very little did, these days.

Various drugs were racing through his veins, fighting for control of his mind and body, but his will held them all in check. Before coming to Virimonde, he'd finally yielded to temptation and taken the esper drug, and his dark mind had blossomed like a poisoned flower. He now had direct control of his own autonomic systems, balancing one chemical with another, so that he lived on the highest curl of a continuous wave. And if the universe and its people seemed a little less than real, well, they always had, to him. It was only a matter of degree. He could think faster, see farther, and plan in more detail than ever before, even as his emotions thundered within him, great storms of feeling that crashed against the unyielding rocks of his self-control. Valentine Wolfe was out of his mind morning, noon, and night now, and he loved it. His brain chemistry was altered beyond recovery, and he couldn't have been happier.

People and events had become transparent to his supercharged insight, merely things and information to be manipulated to his best advantage. He could become Emperor, if he chose, but he wasn't sure if he could be bothered. For all his chemical highs, he was still dedicated to the search for the ultimate drug, the ultimate thrill and wonder. He wasn't sure what that was, or where he might find it, only that it was out there, and he hadn't found it yet. There was something still beyond his grasp, some further step to take; he could sense it. And he wanted it. To seize it and make it his, he would sacrifice every living thing in the Empire.

In the meantime, he occupied himself with the destruction of Virimonde. As a distraction, it had its pleasing moments. He watched his war machines destroy whole towns and slaughter their populations, and smiled quietly to himself, his wide crimson mouth like a wound in the skull white of his face. He took an uncomplicated delight in the endless death and destruction, savoring it as a banquet of many courses. He was becoming a monster, and he knew it. He gloried in it.

The machines moved to his order, directed by his will. His continuing alliance with the rogue AIs of Shub had brought him high tech advanced far beyond anything the Empire had. Their latest gift had been a computer system that enabled him to sink his mind into the metal consciousness of the war machines, and experience everything they did. He could become the war wagons and the combat androids, live in their steel heads, direct them as he would his own body. He could see through their sensors a world of perceptions far beyond the limited range of his human senses. He could plow through walls, fly high over buildings, and walk on metal feet through crowds of attacking humans and strike them down with metal fists. No one else could have done it, but Valentine's mind had been so altered by drugs and esp and Shub tech that it was no longer merely human. He'd been careful to hide that from Lionstone. She thought anyone would be able to control the war machines as he did once they'd mastered the new system. He let her think that, for the moment. It was useful for him to have sole control over something she wanted. In the meantime, her invasion of Virimonde gave him the chance to show off what he and his tech could do. And the slaughter and the suffering and the destruction were so delightfully diverting. Valentine had an absolute fear of boredom, and he'd exhausted so many of the usual sins and vices.

Even as his mind moved in the machines, singly and en masse, he was still plotting his next move. He'd acquired the esper drug, through a combination of bribes and blackmail, from the same scientists who used to supply Dram. And since the man currently known as Dram wasn't taking the endlessly addictive esper drug from them, it was clear that whoever or whatever he was, he wasn't the original Dram. He wasn't a Fury; Shub had confirmed that, and they had no reason to lie to him. That left a clone, or an alien impostor, either of which raised fascinating possibilities. For the moment, Valentine kept this information to himself. Knowledge is power. He might, at some later date, use this knowledge to control the new Dram, or destroy him. It all depended on how he might feel at the time. Valentine believed in indulging his impulses.

That thought widened his smile as he looked over at the end result of his last impulse. On a stand, in a glass jar festooned with wires, was all that remained of the distinguished scientist Lionstone had insisted be allowed to observe and assist Valentine in his use of the war machines. Valentine hadn't been fooled for a moment. He knew a spy when he saw one. So he'd taken steps to ensure that while Professor Ignatious Wax would still be able to observe all that happened, he would be in no position to interfere. To be exact, Valentine had had the man decapitated, and now kept the severed head in a glass jar.

It was wired directly into the command center's comm station, so that it could see all that was going on. It had screamed a lot to begin with, but Valentine just turned off the jar's sound, till it stopped. Mostly it just watched the monitors and sulked now. No doubt Lionstone would have something boring to say about this when she found out, but Valentine was certain he'd be able to talk his way out of any trouble. He always did. And in the meantime, the head made a decorative addition to his command center. He rather enjoyed the way the long white hair and moustaches floated in the jar's preservative fluids, and the way the eyes bulged when it got angry. Besides, Wax had designed most of the war machines Valentine was currently controlling, so there was always the slim chance Wax's knowledge might prove useful.

"How are you doing. Professor?" Valentine said politely. "Anything I can do for you? Rerun some of the nastier death footage, perhaps?"

"I take no pleasure in such things," Wax's head said stiffly, through the jar's speaker. "I am not like you. My interest lies only in the performance of my creations."

"I would never have thought of you as squeamish, Professor," said Valentine. "Not after all the thousands of test animals you maimed and mutilated and sent to the animal hereafter while working out the bugs in your delightful machines. Think of the unfortunate rebels here as particularly unlucky lab rats."

"I don't care about them one way or the other," said Wax. "I am completely indifferent to their fate. I merely require to know how my creations are progressing."

"They're not your machines, Professor. Not any longer. The tech links I provided finally made your machines practical in the field, so the Empress gave them over into my care. Which is why I am in charge, and you are in a jar. Perhaps you'd care to monitor the machines through my tech links?"

"You know very well I can't understand them! I don't think anyone does, but you. Which is in itself rather strange, isn't it, Wolfe? Neither you nor the laboratories you fund has ever produced anything like this before. Which means you must have had help. Outside help. I wonder from whom, eh, Wolfe? Could it be you have to keep your confederates' identity secret, because you know the Empress wouldn't approve? Who have you been making deals with, Wolfe?"

"You are entering dangerous waters, Professor," Valentine said easily. "I advise you to turn back now, while you still can."

"Or what? You'll cut my head off and stick it in ajar?"

"There are worse things that could happen to you," said Valentine. "Trust me on this."

The head in the jar muttered to itself, then fell silent. It was sulking again. Valentine smiled, and sank back into the mental link with the war machines. In a moment, he was a combat android stamping across a plowed field, the weight of his great steel frame driving his metal feet deep into the rutted earth. He reached out with his mind, and was a dozen metal men, and then a hundred, stamping in unison across the wide field. Their feet rose and fell in perfect step, a hundred robots in the shape of men, with but one purpose and one intent, moving as one.

They marched over the horizon and into a town. Rebels came out to face them, fighting with farm implements and the occasional projectile weapon. Blades and bullets rebounded harmlessly from the metal men, and the robots laid their hands upon the rebels, tearing them limb from limb, breaking their heads and necks with lashing metal flails, and tearing open their guts with jagged metal hooks. It was inevitable that they would take some damage, but as long as a spark of energy remained in their systems they pressed on, marching, limping or crawling on their bellies, never stopping. Men and women and children died screaming under metal hands, and Valentine was there.

He'd wondered why the rouge AIs of Shub had insisted on supplying him with this particular gift, but now he thought he knew why. It was their way of showing him what it was like to be living metal, to be encompassed by the certainty of steel and tech, to be so much more than merely human, free from the limits of flesh. Valentine's scarlet smile stretched from ear to ear, a new satisfaction glowing in his mascaraed, fever-bright eyes. He spread himself through the entire metal army, growing larger and larger, blossoming through every system at once, his artificially boosted, drug-expanded mind living inside every war machine on Virimonde, and loving every minute of it.

The man who was now the Lord High Dram led his troops howling through the blazing streets of a small town. Buildings burned to every side, thick black smoke billowing up into the early-morning sky. The heat from every side made Dram's exposed face and hands smart, and hot cinders floated on the air. His men spread out, plunging down every side turning and alleyway, searching out rebels and putting them to the sword. Suddenly his men began falling, as snipers opened fire from the upper story of a building up ahead. Dram roared orders, and a dozen disrupters opened fire at once, the joined energy blasts blowing the whole upper floor of the building apart in a shower of rubble and reddish clouds of pulverized bricks. Dram had his men toss a few concussion grenades into the lower floor, just in case, and then they moved on. Dram strode at the head of his troops, gun in one hand, sword in the other. Blood dripped steadily from the sword. There were screams and shouts and explosions all around, and Dram grinned so widely his cheeks ached. This was what he had been born, had been constructed and chosen, to do, and he loved every minute of it.

He shouldn't really have been planetside at all. He should have stayed safely in orbit, setting overall policy and allowing General Beckett to take care of the practical side of things. Dram had started out with good intentions, but they hadn't lasted long once the fighting really got under way. He'd watched it all on the Elegance's bridge monitors, calling constantly for more information, his blood boiling with the thrill of battle. At first he tried to use his men efficiently, killing only those who needed to be killed, and keeping destruction of towns and cities to a necessary minimum. But all that stopped when the rebel population suddenly produced guns and weapons from nowhere and began fighting back. Dram watched his men die, and the rebels defying him, and a fury roared through him, that these peasants dared to stand against him. He'd taken it easy on them, and this was his reward. Dram watched his men die, and knew he needed to be down there with them, in the thick of it all, leading them to victory while personally cutting down those who dared defy him. He needed to smell the blood and death, feel his sword sinking into flesh and jarring on bone. And so he overrode Beckett's advice and warnings, and went down into Hell on the next available pinnace.

And he loved it. He swung his sword with an arm that never tired, and no one could stand against him. He was the Warrior Prime, the Widowmaker, and he was everything the original had been and more. He stayed at the head of his troops, taking out rebel strongholds with gun and grenades, leading his men from one glorious victory to another. Buildings blazed around him, the rebels' dead lay everywhere, and the survivors ran before him, and he'd never felt so alive in his entire short life. His heart hammered in his chest, his breathing was deep and harsh, and he felt like he could go on fighting forever and a day, and never ask for anything else. From time to time it occurred to him that he wasn't fighting some faceless enemy, that the people he killed had faces and lives and histories of their own, and parents and children to mourn them, but even then he didn't care. They had defied him and his Empress and the way things were, and there was only one answer for that. If they had surrendered, he would have spared them. He was sure he would. They would have had to stand trial, and many would have been executed anyway, but all this slaughter and destruction lay at their door, not his. And so he walked up and down in the narrow cobbled streets, killing people for all the right reasons and perhaps a few wrong ones, and didn't give a damn. He was having a good time.

General Beckett's voice sounded now and then through his comm implant, suggesting he had done enough, and should stand down while his men took care of the mopping-up, but he wouldn't listen. He knew where he was needed. And when Beckett's voice grew harsh, questioning his actions and his motives. Dram just laughed and invited Beckett to come down and get his hands bloody, too. Beckett declined, and Dram laughed again. After this town was pacified there would be more towns, and then the cities. There was so much work still to be done, and he couldn't wait to get to it.

It did occur to him to wonder if his original would have felt the same. He liked to think so. That he was more than just a shadow of the original. The first Dram lived on within him, guided and shaped by the legacy of his diaries, and the fire that burned within him. In every way that mattered, he was the Lord High Dram, Warrior Prime by popular acclaim, Widowmaker by destiny.

He strode on through blood and death and the fires of Hell, and no one could touch him. It was as though he was… blessed. It never occurred to him to wonder by whom.

Captain Silence, Investigator Frost, and Security Officer Stelmach stumbled out of the wreckage of their downed pinnace and ran for the partial shelter of a burnt-out building. The war machines were everywhere, big and small, destroying what had once been a fair-sized town with ruthless, inhuman precision. Energy beams spit in all directions, exploding stonework and setting fire to the timbers and thatched roofs. It was just such a beam that had struck Silence's ship, despite the security codes he was broadcasting. The Investigator had identified the craft and its occupants repeatedly over the comm unit, but no one was listening. The disrupter beams just kept stabbing up out of the dark roiling smoke covering the town, punching through the pinnace's low-level shields again and again. With the engines stuttering and the cabin full of fire and smoke. Silence had no choice but to bring the pinnace in for an emergency landing. They plunged down through the smoke, jockeying between tall buildings and taller war machines. Silence chose the broadest street at hand and guided the dying ship down to a landing only one step up from a crash. It hit hard, skidding half the length of the street before slamming nose first into a boundary wall, but it held together and the engines didn't explode, and Silence had enough sense to be grateful for that.

The three of them huddled inside what was left of the building, little more than half a dozen walls blackened by fire and holed by repeated impact blasts, and half a roof still quietly smoldering. Silence and Frost took it in turn to peer briefly out the shattered window. The war machines roared up and down, pounding the remaining buildings into rubble. Fires blazed and men screamed. Robots in the shape of men rounded up strays and killed them with horrible efficiency. All around them were the sounds of a town dying, and the triumph of machines. Silence checked the energy levels in his disrupter, and growled angrily to himself about heads rolling when he got back. The Investigator was calm as always, assessing the odds against them with a professional eye. Without the security codes used by Dram's ground forces, the war machines would treat them as legitimate targets. Stelmach stood with his back pressed against the wall, refusing to look out the window. His heart was pounding, and he had to struggle to get his breath, but the hand holding his gun was steady. Being around Silence and Frost had toughened him despite himself. Silence looked at Frost.

"How far are we from where we're supposed to be?"

"According to the pinnace's last readings, not too far. Maybe half a mile. Easy walking distance, under normal conditions."

"Which these very definitely aren't." Silence scowled, weighing their chances. "As things are, half a mile is going to be hard going. Even for us. Investigator, try and raise the Deathstalker Standing again."

Frost accessed her comm implant and shook her head. "Still no joy. The war machines are blocking all channels except their own, and I don't have the security codes to access theirs. We're going to have to make it to the Standing on our own."

"We're doomed," said Stelmach.

"Walk in the park," said Silence briskly. "All right, there are a hell of a lot of war machines out there, but their main priority is wrecking the town. And the androids are only concerned with mopping up resistance. As long as we keep our heads down and don't interfere, we should be safe enough."

"Should being the operative word," said Stelmach. "Couldn't we just stay here till the machines get bored and go away?"

And then they all flinched as the building next door exploded into smoke and fire and stone shrapnel as a war machine targeted it with its disrupters. The ground shook beneath their feet, and what was left of the house groaned. A jagged crack ran down the wall Stelmach was leaning against, and he jumped away. Streams of dust and soot fell from the ceiling. Flames rose up, consuming what little remained of the building next door, and Silence had to back away from the heat coming through the shattered window.

"The machines won't stop here till there's nothing left but rubble," he said flatly. "We'll have to run for it. Stick close to us, Stelmach. You'll be safe."

"Can I have that in writing?" said Stelmach.

"You can have my boot up your backside if you don't stop whining," said Frost. "Now get moving, or I'll kill you myself."

Stelmach glared at her mutinously, but had the sense not to say anything else. Investigators weren't known for their tolerance. Silence edged over to the open space where the door had been and looked out cautiously. The majority of the war machines seemed to be moving away. The huge war wagons were moving off through the billowing smoke, slow and steady like great land whales. Other machines roared or flew after them, disrupter beams still stabbing out like petulant slaps at what remained standing in the town. And robots shaped like mockeries of men stamped after them, dried blood coating their metal limbs. Silence stared after them, feeling small and insignificant. He wasn't used to feeling that way, and he hated it. He looked back at the others.

"All right, let's get moving while there's still enough rebel resistance left in the town to keep the machines occupied. If we can make it beyond the town's boundary, it should be relatively easy going to the Standing. Investigator, we are running, not fighting. I don't want you doing anything destructive that might draw the machines' attention to us. Is that clear?"

"Of course, Captain," said Frost. "I shall endeavor to restrain myself."

"That'll be a first," said Stelmach, and then shut up as the Investigator turned her cold gaze on him.

"Move it out," said Silence, and led the way through the space where the door had been.

They stuck to the shadows and the smoke as much as they could, taking shelter and freezing in place whenever one of the machines seemed to be getting too close. Stelmach was terrified, but gritted his teeth and clenched his fists and somehow kept it to himself. He knew why the war machines had attacked the pinnace. Back on the Elegance, General Beckett himself had taken Stelmach to one side and ordered him to set the wrong security codes in the pinnace, so that it would be sure to come under fire. The Empress wanted Silence and Frost to be caught up in the action on the ground, so that they might have a chance to show off their alleged powers. If no natural opportunity arose, Stelmach was under orders to manufacture opportunities by whatever means necessary, then report on the results. Stelmach had wanted to say no. He'd wanted to warn Silence and Frost. But he hadn't. He couldn't. They were his friends, but his orders came from the Iron Throne itself. One loyalty had to give way to another, and Stelmach had sworn an oath upon his name and his honor to serve the Empress all his days, until death, if need be. His duty was clear. But still, as he stumbled along behind Silence and Frost, amidst the fires and smoke and devastation, he felt so bad he wanted to die.

He was thinking so hard he never saw the combat android step out of a side alley and aim a disrupter at him. Frost saw it, and knocked him aside at the last moment, throwing him to his knees. The energy beam seared over his head and blew apart the wall behind him. The top half disappeared, vaporized into brick dust, but the shattered lower half leaned forward and collapsed on top of Stelmach. He cried out once, raising his arms to protect his head, and then the bricks fell on him and slammed him to the ground, crushing him under their weight.

Silence blew the robot's grinning head away with a single shot, but its body didn't fall, so Frost shot out one of its knees, just to make sure. The metal body fell clattering to the ground, its steel limbs thrashing helplessly. Frost moved forward and yanked the disrupter from its hand, and shot the machine in the chest. It stopped moving. Silence and Frost put away their guns and hurried over to pull at the rubble covering Stelmach. He could hear them working, but he couldn't see anything. The smoke and dust had filled his eyes with tears. He could feel the weight of the broken wall pressing down on him like a bully in a schoolyard, but he didn't seem to be badly hurt. He could still feel his hands and feet, though he couldn't move an inch, trapped under what felt like half a ton of masonry. He lay still, breathing shallowly as the great weight pressed against his chest. They were calling his name, but he couldn't seem to find the energy to answer them. His pain seemed far away. He felt almost peaceful.

And then he heard the sound of approaching metal feet. Silence and Frost didn't seem to have heard them, still occupied in dragging bricks off him. Stelmach blinked his eyes as hard as he could, forcing the tears and dust out until he could see again. They'd cleared a space over his face so he could breathe, and looking past Silence and Frost laboring to free him, Stelmach could see a company of combat androids striding down the street toward them. And it occurred to Stelmach that he could just keep quiet. The robots might not notice him, still buried under rubble. They might just kill Silence and Frost and then go on, and he'd be safe. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut. But he couldn't do that. They were his friends.

He forced the warning out, yelling as loud as he could. Silence and Frost whipped around, saw the robots approaching, and their hands went to the guns at their sides. Only then remembering that they'd already used their disrupters on the first android, and the energy crystals in their guns still needed time to recharge before they could be used again. All they had were their swords. Metal blades against men made of metal, all of them armed with disrupters. Stelmach yelled at Silence and Frost to run. To leave him and run. But they stood their ground. They looked at each other, eyes locked on eyes, almost ignoring the advancing robots. Something passed between them—anger or desperation or something that might have been resignation. They turned to face the androids, who raised their disrupters. Stelmach tried again to yell for his friends to run, but he couldn't force the words past his dust-choked throat.

And then a great force arose around Silence and Frost, a presence beating on the still air like giant wings, building and building until it struck out in a rolling wave of power that tore the robots apart and scattered their shattered parts the length of the street. As quickly as it had arisen, the force was gone, and Silence and Frost were only, merely, human again. They looked at each other for a long moment, then they turned and looked at Stelmach, still held down by the rubble. He could see the calculation in their eyes. Knew what they were thinking, had to be thinking. They knew he'd seen them use their secret abilities, and knew that as Security Officer he'd be duty-bound to report them. But if they just walked away and left him, left him here to die in the blazing town, their secret would be safe, and no one would ever have to know. Stelmach understood. It was what he would have done. But even so, he wasn't surprised when they bent over him and started pulling the bricks away again. They weren't like him.

Eventually they got him out, and Silence helped support him while Frost briskly slapped some of the dust off his clothes. His head took a while to clear, but when it did he pushed himself away from Silence and made himself stand up straight.

"You saved me," he said, his voice a harsh rasp that didn't only come from the dust. "You didn't have to do that."

"Yes we did," said Silence. "We're family. You'd have done the same for us."

"You don't understand," said Stelmach, forcing the words out. "I'm responsible for our being here. I sabotaged the pinnace. The Empress had heard stories of your… powers. She wanted confirmation. So she ordered me to put you into danger and spy on you."

"Never trust a Security Officer," said Frost. Her hand fell to the gun on her hip. Stelmach made himself stand still.

"He didn't have to tell us," said Silence.

"Yes I did," said Stelmach. "We're family."

He and Silence shared a smile. Frost nodded, which was as close as she got to a smile when she wasn't killing something, and took her hand away from her gun.

"So," she said. "What do we do now?"

"We concentrate on getting to the Standing alive," said Silence. "Everything else can wait. We'll work something out. We always do."

"I hate all this improvising," said Frost.

They moved on through what was left of the town, making better time now that they no longer had to hide from the war machines. Silence and Frost gathered their power around them again, and hid the three of them from the machines' sensors. And so they were able to watch unmolested as the robots came marching down a street, driving a desparate army of refugees before them. Men, women, and children ran despairingly, lungs straining for breath, forcing themselves on despite the pain in their legs and backs and chests. The machines killed the slowest, or those who could no longer keep up, smashing their skulls with swift, efficient blows from their steel hands. Blood ran down the cobbled street and swirled thickly in the gutters. Finally the robots tired of this, or decided their priorities lay elsewhere, and they fell suddenly on the refugees, overtaking them in seconds, and tearing them limb from limb. They slaughtered them all in a matter of seconds, and then moved on, their metal feet stamping through a river of blood and gore. They passed right by Silence and Frost and Stelmach and didn't see them.

Stelmach looked at Silence and Frost. "Couldn't you have done something? I mean, I know they're rebels, but…"

"No buts," said Frost. "The price for rebellion is death."

"I don't know," said Silence. "That wasn't execution; that was butchery. I've seen war before. Seen men kill men for all kinds of reasons. But that was men, not machines. There were children there…"

Frost looked at Silence. "Don't go soft on me, Captain. They brought this on themselves. They plotted and conspired to bring this about. They betrayed their oath and their honor and their duty, and finally themselves. They knew what they were getting into."

"Do you think the children knew?" said Silence. "Do you think they knew why they were being driven through the streets like cattle and then slaughtered?"

"Their parents brought that on them," said Frost. "They bear the blame. We have to be strong, Captain. You used to know that. You gave the order to scorch the planet Unseeli."

"And I'm still haunted by what I did there," said Silence. "I thought that there was no other way. And in the end it didn't solve anything, remember? Maybe we should be looking harder for other ways."

"That's not our business," said Frost. "We don't make policy. We can't see the big picture."

"When did we ever try?" said Silence.

David Deathstalker and Kit SummerIsle, along with Alice and Jenny, made a dash for the Standing on their flyer. It wasn't the safest of places to head for, with the Steward probably in charge there, but they were short on options. Besides, when David first came to Virimonde, he'd taken the precaution of salting the Standing's Security forces with men specifically loyal to him. Just in case. The Steward had already betrayed Owen, after all. Right now, David was hoping his people would have taken control by the time he got there.

They flew high above the clouds, at the fastest speed the flyer's straining engines could produce. Kit sat at the controls, leaving David to comfort Alice. She hadn't said a dozen words since the flyer took off. She'd seen her family die and her home destroyed, and her face had set in harsh, broken lines. David and Jenny took turns talking to her, trying to reach her, but she didn't seem to hear them. Something inside her had broken, and might never be put back together again. David gave her his gun to hold, and she seemed to find that comforting. In the end he left her with Jenny and went forward to stand beside Kit.

"How are we doing?"

"As well as can be expected," the SummerIsle said calmly, not looking round. "Our security codes probably no longer protect us from attack, but at this height and speed most of the machines on the ground shouldn't be able to track us. Our real problem is the flyer's energy crystals. According to the onboard computers, we don't have enough power left to get us all the way back to the Standing, and still maintain full shields."

"Then drop the shields," said David. "Our only hope is to reach the Standing."

"My thoughts exactly. How are the girls doing?"

"As well as can be expected. I still can't believe everything went wrong so fast. You've seen what's going on below. All the towns are in flames, and there are war machines and ground troops everywhere. This isn't a strike force, it's an invasion."

"Look on the bright side," said Kit. "At least they're not scorching the planet."

"I don't even want to think about that. I've never seen anything like this, Kit. They're butchering these people. My people. And it's all happening because of me."

"No it isn't. It's happening because the peasants were stupid enough to fool around with democracy. They were just asking for trouble."

"I let them do it. I could have said no. Could have cracked down hard, with my Security people. I'd have had to execute a few ringleaders, burn out some farms, but everyone else would have been safe. I failed them, Kit. It was my duty to protect these people, keep them from harm. My duty as a Deathstalker."

"David, can we concentrate on the matter at hand, please? Like, what are we going to do if we get to the Standing and it's under the Steward's control?"

"Improvise. There are secret ways and hidden booby traps that only I and my people know about. Owen told me about them. If the Steward has got the Standing, I'll take it back from him. And then I'll cut off his treacherous head and use it as a footstool."

"Cute. Assume we can take back the Standing. Then what? It won't hold out long against war machines, and we don't have anything there that would get us offplanet. Unless that's another of your little secrets?"

"Unfortunately not," said David. "But I wouldn't leave now, even if I could. My people are dying. I won't abandon them."

"But what can you do, David?"

"I'll think of something! I'm a Deathstalker!"

"That," said Kit, "is what got us into trouble in the first place."

David thought about that, and then looked at Kit. "They're after me. It's still not too late for you to split off on your own. Take the girls and head for cover. You used to be Lionstone's favorite. She might well take you back, if you publicly disowned me."

"Not a chance," said Kit. "You're stuck with me. Forget the altruism and keep thinking. You're the brains in this partnership. Find us a way out of this."

"Let me take the controls," said David. "I know this area better than you."

They switched places, and Kit went back to check on the girls, to try and comfort them. He wasn't very good at things like that, but he supposed he ought to try. The attack ships came out of nowhere, disrupter fire raking the side of the unshielded flyer. Explosions rocked the small craft, and flames erupted in the cabin. David fought the controls as the ship plunged toward the earth. Kit grabbed a fire extinguisher and played the foam over the nearest flames. Smoke filled the cabin. Jenny hugged Alice to her. The flyer's engines cut off, and the ship dropped like a stone.

David kicked in the reserves, cursing in an endless quiet monotone. The ship's plunge slowed, but it was still going down. The attack ships struck again, and the whole rear of the flyer blew apart. Air rushed out the great hole in the rear, sucking the smoke out with it. The flames roared up, and Kit was forced back by the sheer intensity of the heat. David yelled for everyone to brace themselves, and frantically searched his sensor screens for somewhere reasonably flat to land. There was a field next to some open woodland, and David decided he'd settle for that. He took the flyer in, the controls fighting him all the way. The ground leaped up to meet them.

The ship hit hard, bouncing across the field and digging a great trench through the grass before finally skidding to a halt just a few yards short of the tree line. The cabin was full of smoke again. Flames roared as they took hold. David sat slumped forward in his chair, only his safety straps holding him upright. Blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead, and he was hazily aware he'd cracked his head against something hard and unyielding on the way down. Smoke caught in his throat, and he came suddenly awake as he coughed and almost choked. Kit was suddenly there at his side, undoing his straps. David tried to help, but his hands were numb and awkward. Kit threw back the last of the straps, and David forced himself out of the chair and onto his feet. He felt like shit, but his head was clearing. He coughed again, and glared into the smoke.

"Alice! Where's Alice, and Jenny?"

"I'm sorry," said Kit. "David, I'm so sorry."

David stared at him for a moment, and then pushed him aside and fought his way through the smoke and the rising flames to where Alice lay still next to a breach in the cabin wall. A disrupter blast had punched right through the metal hull, splaying the jagged steel edges inward. Blood dripped slowly from the sharp edges. Alice had been torn open all down her left side. Broken ribs showed clearly in the red meat, and half her guts were falling out her side. Her eyes were mercifully closed. David made himself look away to where Jenny lay trapped under the splayed-in metal, not far away. She was dazed, but still struggling feebly. David picked Alice up in his arms, and yelled back to Kit.

"I'm taking Alice! You get Jenny out!"

Kit loomed out of the smoke, and grabbed David's arm. "David, she's…"

"I'm getting her out! You see to Jenny."

Kit looked at Alice, and the red-and-purple guts hanging down from her side, and then nodded, and went over to kneel beside Jenny. David staggered over to the escape hatch, kicked open the door, and dropped down to the ground outside. Kit tugged at the jagged metal pinning Jenny to the floor. It was wide and heavy, and the sharp edges cut at his hands. He strained with all his strength, but couldn't budge the metal an inch. Jenny had shaken off her daze, and was looking up at him with desperate eyes. She couldn't help him. The metal had pinned her arms at her sides. Sweat was running down both their faces now, flushed from the raw heat of the approaching flames. Kit stopped pulling at the unresponsive metal and thought hard. The fire was getting closer, the flames leaping up as they consumed more and more of the cabin. If he didn't get Jenny out soon, the flames would cut him off from the only exit. Jenny saw his thoughts in his face.

"Kit! Don't leave me! Please, don't leave me to the fire!"

"No," said Kit. "That would be cruel."

He drew his knife and stabbed her through the eye. He wanted it to be quick. Jenny jerked once and then lay still. Kit withdrew his knife, put it away, and headed for the exit. He'd done all he could. He dropped down from the escape hatch and hurried across the open ground to shelter in the trees. They wouldn't protect him from disrupter beams, but they should confuse long-distance sensor readings. He had to find David. He'd know what to do. He found David a short way inside the woods. He was crouching beside Alice. He'd propped her back up against a tree trunk, and tried to push her dangling guts back into the great wound in her side. His hands were red with blood, and his clothes were soaked with it, where he'd pressed her close against him. He looked up as Kit approached. He was crying, the tears making slow tracks through the blood that had trickled down his face from the wound in his forehead.

"She's dead," he said, and in his voice was all the loss in the world. "She trusted me to look after her, and I failed her. Just like I failed everyone else."

"I'm sorry," said Kit.

"I killed her, you know. She died because she was with me."

"You can't blame yourself," said Kit. David's tears disturbed him, but he didn't know what to do about them. "They're killing everyone here. You tried to save her. You did your best."

David nodded slowly, unconvinced, and wiped tears and blood from his eyes with the back of his hand. He sniffed a few times, then looked up at Kit.

"Where's Jenny?"

"Dead. She died of her wounds while I was trying to free her." Kit wouldn't normally have bothered lying, but he didn't want to upset David further. He looked around him. "Any idea where we are?"

"Yeah. I know this place. The Standing's not five minutes' walk from here, on the other side of the wood. We almost made it, Kit. We were so close. Just a few minutes more, and we'd have been safe. All of us."

Kit knelt down beside David. "This is Lionstone's doing. Blame her. Now let's get moving. They'll be here looking for us soon."

David nodded and got to his feet. Kit stood up with him. David looked down at Alice. "I hate to leave her."

"She's already gone, David. She's beyond pain now. We'll take revenge for her later."

"Yes. There will be revenge, later."

David turned and walked off into the woods, and Kit went after him. It was cool and calm and quiet among the tall trees, a dark and private place almost set apart from the rest of the world. The troubles hadn't reached here yet. The air was full of the smell of grass and bark and living things. Kit strode along beside David, enjoying the calm and the songs of the birds. David strode along the open trail, eyes dark and brooding, untouched by the peace around him. Kit kept trying to think of something to say to him, but couldn't think what. He didn't have much experience with this kind of thing. So he strolled along beside David, his hands near his weapons, and left his friend to his thoughts. David would come up with something. He always did.

Kit was wary and alert, but even so the first he knew they had company in the woods was when three figures stepped out onto the trail ahead of them, blocking their way. One wore a Captain's uniform, one was an Investigator, and the third figure stood well back, holding a gun in a not very threatening way. David and Kit came to a halt, and for a long time they all just stood and looked at each other. The woods were like a great green arena, a place where destinies could be decided, and anything could happen. Anything at all.

"I'm Captain Silence," said the man with the sword in his hand. "This is Investigator Frost and Security Officer Stelmach. You're under arrest, my lords. Hand over your weapons, and come with us."

"I don't think so," said David. "I am the Deathstalker, and my people need me. Stand aside and let me pass, or die where you stand."

"What he said," said Kit. He smiled at Frost. "I've always wondered how I'd do against an Investigator."

"You'd die, boy," said Frost. "Throw down your weapons, and you'll live to stand trial."

"Get out of our way," said David. "I won't be stopped."

The Captain shrugged. "Do what you have to, my lord. In the end, it always comes down to steel, doesn't it?"

He stepped forward, and David drew his sword and went forward to meet him. Their swords slammed together, sparks flying on the air, and the sound of steel on steel was painfully loud in the quiet. Kit SummerIsle smiled his Kid Death smile and went lightly forward to meet the Investigator. They circled each other slowly, searching for weaknesses in the other's eyes. Stelmach lowered his gun and backed off out of the way. He knew he was only an observer in this.

David boosted, calling on his Deathstalker inheritance, and new strength and energy surged through him, pushing back the tiredness. Even so, he knew it wouldn't last long. It wasn't that long ago he'd spent a whole evening drinking and carousing in the Heart's Ease tavern. He almost smiled. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but his body knew different. Too much drink and too little sleep would have made him fatally slow without the boost to hold him up, and even with it he doubted he could last long. So he pressed the attack, his sword rising and falling with all his considerable strength behind it. Silence backed away, one step at a time, but still he met the Deathstalker's every blow with equal strength, which should have been impossible. They swung and thrust, stabbing and parrying and recovering, blades moving almost too fast for the human eye to follow. And then Silence stopped and would not back away farther. He met the Deathstalker's savage attacks with calm skill and would not be moved.

Kit SummerIsle, also known as Kid Death, the smiling killer, pressed his attack with more thought. He'd never lost a fight in his life, and didn't intend to start now, but this was an Investigator, after all. Kit and Frost circled warily around each other, their blades licking out from time to time, to test the other's speed and reflexes. They were masters of their craft, and saw no reason to hurry. They meant to enjoy this. They smiled at each other and went on circling.

David fought on, rage boiling within him. This one Captain had come to represent to him all the Empire forces, the blind, awful forces that were destroying his life and his world. He hacked and cut with increasing fury, drawing recklessly on the boost's support, and it was only a matter of time before Silence turned aside one particular wide blow, and ran David through. He cried out with shock as much as pain, and sank to one knee, still somehow holding on to his sword. Silence's blade had punched right through David's gut and out his back. He could feel blood running out of him, hear it splashing on the ground below. Silence jerked his sword free, and David cried out again, blood spraying from his mouth along with the sound. He tried to force himself back onto his feet, and couldn't. The boost was holding him together, but all his strength was gone. The Captain drew back his sword for the killing blow.

Kit saw David go down, and wasted no time with a cry of rage. He caught Frost's sword in a close parry, kicked her hard in the kneecap, and, while she was off-balance, he whipped off his cloak and wrapped it around her head. He would have liked to kill her then, while she was helpless, but he didn't have the time. He ran over to Silence, calling out to the Captain to distract him from David. Silence turned swiftly, and Kit ducked under the extended blade and rammed the Captain in the stomach with his shoulder. The Captain fell backwards, his breath driven right out of him, and Kit ran over to David and hauled him back onto his feet. It only took a glance to see how bad the wound was, but Kit couldn't let himself think about that. There'd be help waiting at the Standing. There had to be. He got David moving, and then heard footsteps behind him. He looked back, and incredibly the Captain was back on his feet and charging after them. Kit reached for the gun at his side, and only then realized David was leaning against it. The Captain was almost upon them. And then there was the sound of a disrupter firing, and Silence fell to his knees, shot from behind. Kit looked back, and there was the Security Officer with his gun in his hand, eyes wide with horror at his mistake. Kit threw him a quick salute, pulled David to him more firmly, and led him off into the trees.

Frost had pulled herself free from the enveloping cloak just in time to see Silence fall. She ignored the fleeing rebels, and the shocked, stammering Stelmach, and hurried over to kneel beside Silence. The energy beam had torn away most of his left rib cage. He'd wrapped his arms around himself, as though he could hold his body together through sheer strength. Frost gently pulled his arms away so she could see the extent of the wound. Blackened stubs of ribs showed clearly in the steaming wound, half-cauterized by the energy beam. Behind them, Stelmach was babbling about its being a mistake, and he was sorry, so sorry, but neither of them was listening. Silence's face was utterly white, and he was breathing in quick, shallow gasps. Anyone else would have been dead by now, from the shock alone. Frost grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard.

"Captain, listen to me! You're not going to die. There's a power in you, in us. Use it! John, dammit, you can heal yourself!"

She concentrated, focusing on the power deep within her, forcing it to the surface and on into Silence. He gasped once, and then his hand clamped down hard on hers, and he straightened up, his eyes wide and startled. They both looked down at the great wound in his side, and watched speechlessly as the flesh and bone and skin knitted themselves seamlessly together until there was no trace of the wound left. Silence took a deep, experimental breath, bracing himself for pain that never came, and then he grinned suddenly at Frost. She grinned back, and together they got to their feet again. Stelmach was standing over them with his mouth hanging open.

"I didn't know you could do that," he said finally.

"Neither did I," said Silence. "Learn something new every day."

"I'm sorry, Captain, I'm really sorry…"

Silence raised a hand to stop him. "Apologies accepted. But from now on, Stelmach, if we get in a fight again, don't help me." He turned to Frost. Her smile was gone, and she was a calm, collected Investigator again.

"Welcome back, Captain. Always knew you were too mean to die."

"Glad to be back, Investigator. Which way did the rebels go?"

"Deeper into the woods, Captain. Should be an easy trail to follow. The Deathstalker's leaking a lot of blood. Do you feel up to chasing them?"

"I think so. But there's no hurry. There's only one place they can go now, and that's the Deathstalker Standing. And once he's there, we've got him."

Kit SummerIsle eased the wounded Deathstalker down onto his bed and looked around the luxuriously appointed bedchamber. There was only the one door and the one window, which made it easier to defend the room against attackers. For the moment, the Standing was under the control of people loyal to David, but unfortunately the Steward had made his escape with most of his people, and they were probably already linking up with the invading Empire forces. It wouldn't be long before they came knocking at the front door. David lay back on his bed, gasping for breath. One of the servants had wrapped his gut in layer upon layer of bandages, but there was no doctor. Blood was already seeping through the bandages and staining the expensive bedsheets. Kit sat on the edge of the bed and wondered what to do next.

He could just leave. He could. The Deathstalker had been outlawed, but he hadn't. He could just leave the Standing, walk up to the nearest Empire forces, and claim the protection his rank entitled him to. The Captain and the Investigator he'd fought earlier might make a fuss, but he could always claim he'd acted in self-defense, and, as a Lord, no one would doubt his word. But the thought didn't tempt him long. He couldn't abandon David.

The Deathstalker groaned suddenly as he sat up, and Kit was quickly there to support him. David's face was grey now, lined with pain and fatigue, but his eyes were clear. His gaze went to his sword, lying on the bed close at hand, and he seemed to draw some strength from that. He gestured at the viewscreen on the wall before him.

"Turn on the screen," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "I need to know what's happening on my world."

"You should be resting," said Kit. "We might have to leave here in a hurry, if the Steward comes back with enough troops to storm the Standing."

"I'm not going anywhere," said David. "This is my home, the home of my ancestors, and I will go no farther. I'll make my stand here. Now turn on the damn viewscreen."

Kit shrugged and turned on the screen, and together the rebel Lords watched a montage of terrible scenes on the invaded world of Virimonde. Everywhere, buildings were burning. In villages, towns, cities. The dead lay piled in the fields like some dark, ugly crop. Long lines of refugees filed away into the countryside, carrying what was left of their homes and lives on their backs. There was still some resistance. The underground had been established here for many years. They had training and some weapons, but not enough to face experienced ground troops and Imperial war machines. But still the rebels fought on, outnumbered and outgunned, making the Empire forces pay for every foot of ground they gained. David watched his people fight and die, staining the ground they fought for with their own blood and that of their enemies. He saw Imperial marines marching through gutted villages, and massive war machines resting in the ruins of devastated cities, and finally he had to look away. Kit turned the viewscreen off.

"There's only one thing I can do," David said finally.

"Right," said Kit. "Grab everything we can sell, and make a run for it. There's bound to be someone we can bribe to get us offplanet. Then, I don't know. Mistworld, maybe?"

"No," said David. "I told you; I won't run. I'm going to surrender."

"What? Are you crazy? The best you could hope for would be a show trial and a swift execution. At least on Mistworld…"

"No! No. If I surrender, and tell the rebels to lay down their arms, the fighting will end. My people will be safe. Too many have died, Kit. Why prolong the agonies? All that matters now is to protect my people in the only way left to me."

Kit glared at him. "When did you get so damn noble? They're just peasants!"

"No," said David. "They're my peasants. The bond of duty and obligation that ties us together works both ways. I never really understood that before." He smiled sadly. "It's taken a long time, but I think I finally understand what it is, to be a Deathstalker. Turn the screen back on. See if you can raise someone in charge."

Kit saw the determination in his friend's face, and stopped arguing. It turned out to be surprisingly easy to raise the man in charge of the invasion. General Shaw Beckett on the Imperial starcruiser Elegance looked out of the screen at the two rebel Lords, and bowed formally.

"My Lord Deathstalker, my Lord SummerIsle, good to hear from you. Forgive my bluntness, David, but you don't look too good."

"I'm still here, General." David kept his voice calm and even. "I wish to offer my surrender."

"Very noble of you, David. I appreciate the gesture." Beckett scowled unhappily. "Unfortunately, I have new orders from the Empress herself not to accept your surrender, on any terms. She wants you dead, David, and the rebellion crushed. My troops took holocameras down with them. People all over the Empire are watching the invasion of Virimonde live. The Empress intends for this to be an example. I'm sorry. I can offer some protection to your friend, the SummerIsle, if you wish. I have no direct orders for his death. I give you my word…"

"I'll think about it," said Kit.

The General nodded slowly. "Don't think too long, my lord."

David smiled tiredly at the General. "Then I don't suppose we have anything left to say to each other, do we, Shaw? Destiny has shaped a path for both of us, and all we can do is follow them to their ends. Pardon me if I don't wish you good luck."

"Understood, my lord." General Beckett saluted him. "Die well, Deathstalker."

His face disappeared from the viewscreen and Kit shut it off. He looked at David. "Lie down again. Get some rest. You've got to think of a way out of this for us. You're the brains in this partnership, remember?"

"He was right, Kit. You don't have to stay here."

"Yes I do."

They smiled at each other. David put out a hand to Kit. The SummerIsle took it in both of his, and grasped it tightly. The Deathstalker's hand was clammy, and cold as death. David lay back on the bed again, with Kit's help. The whole of his side was soaked in blood now. Kit still held his hand. There was a commotion outside. Kit let go of David's hand, and went over to look out the window. Outside the main gate, the Steward had returned with his men and a small army of Imperial troops, led by the Lord High Dram, and Captain Silence and Investigator Frost.

Toby Shreck and his cameraman Flynn ran down a narrow street, the buildings burning to either side like giant balefires under the blood-streaked sky. The air was thick with dirty black smoke and floating cinders, and so hot it burned their bare hands and faces. Flynn's camera bobbed along above them, getting the best shots it could, and transmitting them live. High above, Imperial warships rained down destruction, energy beams from ranked disrupter cannon blowing buildings apart and collapsing streets. People were running everywhere, all with some kind of weapon in their hands. Toby had given up trying to keep track of where he was. One burning town looked much like another. And everywhere he went, he had to step over the dead. Men, women, and children lay in anonymous, blood-soaked bundles, cut down and hacked apart, or burning from the touch of an energy beam. Toby had never seen slaughter like it. Lionstone must have gone insane. This had gone far beyond punishment for rebellion, or an example to discourage others. Nothing could justify human butchery like this. It occurred to him now and again that he must be getting really good coverage. No one had ever filmed an invasion from this close before. He just hoped someone was watching. He wouldn't put it past the Empire ships to jam all signals but their own. Toby scowled as he ran, despite his tiredness. He hated to think this was all for nothing.

He never saw the explosion that took out the building beside him. All he knew was that there was a sound like thunder, and then something picked him up and threw him down the street. He hit the cobbled ground hard, his clothes tearing, and then he tried to protect his head with his arms, as shattered brickwork came tumbling down around him. Bricks bounced off his back and arms and legs and he cried out, his voice lost in the roar of destruction around him. Finally it stopped, and Toby cautiously raised his head and looked about him. Half the street was in ruins. Flynn lay not far away, his camera hovering over him. The cameraman was half-buried under collapsed brickwork. Toby forced himself back onto his feet and staggered over to Flynn. His ears were ringing, his hands were trembling, and his legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but he fought it all back as he bent over Flynn. Oh God, don't be dead, Flynn. Please don't be dead. I didn't bring you here to die. He found a pulse in Flynn's neck and relaxed a little. He started pulling the bricks away, one at a time. There seemed to be no end to them.

He'd barely made a start when a company of Imperial marines came trotting down the street, guns at the ready. The Sergeant saw Toby and turned his gun in his direction. Toby stuck both his arms in the air.

"Don't shoot! I'm a reporter, covering the invasion!"

The Sergeant sniffed disappointedly and gestured for his men to lower their guns and come to a stop. He glowered down at Toby. "What are you doing here? You people are supposed to have cleared this area by now."

"My cameraman's trapped here," said Toby, cautiously lowering his hands. "Help me dig him out, and we'll get the hell out of your way."

"Anything to get you out of my hair. I don't know why the Empress wanted you here in the first place."

The Sergeant gestured to the nearest marines, and half a dozen of them helped Toby pull away the rest of the bricks covering Flynn. And only then did Toby discover that either the force of the explosion or the sharp edges of the broken bricks had ripped Flynn's clothes apart, revealing for all to see the lacy black feminine underwear he wore beneath them. The stockings and garter belt were particularly fetching. The six marines backed away quickly, while their friends made lewd jokes and unsavory comments. Toby thought fast.

"They're his good-luck charms! They belonged to a female colleague of his, who he was very close to, and since she died, he wears them to remind him of her, and bring him good luck. Really. Lots of cameramen do it. It's an old tradition among news crews."

"Shut your face," said the Sergeant. "And that goes for you men, too. There's no way a freak like this could have qualified for the army news corp. Which means you two are here illegally. Probably rebels as well as degenerates."

"Of course we're not rebels! Look, I'm Toby Shreck! You must have seen my work!"

"I've seen it." The Sergeant looked at his men. "Shoot them both."

Toby stood frozen in a moment that seemed to last forever. He had nothing to defend himself with, and there was nowhere to run. Even if he could bring himself to abandon Flynn. He watched helplessly as the marines turned their guns on him, and all he could think was that he hoped the camera was getting a good view of this. And then his jaw dropped as the Sergeant and all his marines simultaneously burst into flames. The marines dropped their weapons and staggered back and froth, beating at the flames with their bare hands and screaming shrilly as the fires rose up to consume them. One by one they fell to the ground as the flames stole the oxygen from their lungs, and they lay kicking and twitching as their flesh blackened and cooked, their hair burning with a bright blue flame. And then two women with the same face stepped out of the shadows, and Toby realized what had happened. The Stevie Blues had come to the rescue again.

He grunted a quick thanks and bent over Flynn, who was dazedly trying to sit up. The Blues hauled him up onto his feet and hurried him down the street, with Toby sticking close behind them. Even in the chaos of a town on fire, people still had the sense to get out of the way of the Stevie Blues. They made good time, despite having to dodge roving companies of Imperial marines, hurrying down a series of narrow side streets that all looked the same to Toby, until finally they ended up before an anonymous door in a fairly untouched area. Stevie Three hammered on the door with her fist, and a sliding panel opened, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes. Stevie Three glared right back at them, and the panel slammed shut. There was the sound of locks turning and bolts being pulled back, and then the door opened, and the Stevies led Toby and Flynn inside. The door slammed shut behind them.

It wasn't much more than a bolt-hole, really—a single wide room with boarded-up windows and only the one exit. Guns and rifles lay stacked along one wall, along with open cases of ammunition. A dozen heavily armed men and women were staring out through cracks in the boarded-up windows. They barely spared Toby and Flynn a glance. The air was thick and close, and smelled of sweat and tension. Stevie One had a muttered conversation with one of the rebels, while Stevie Three found a gun she liked and started loading it. Toby found a chair and helped Flynn onto it. The cameraman was looking better, but was increasingly distressed at the state of his clothes.

"I mean, these were my best lacy set," he said bitterly. "I knew I shouldn't have risked wearing them down here."

"Damn right," said Toby. "They very nearly got both of us killed."

Flynn sniffed. "Marines have no fashion sense." The camera perched on his shoulder seemed to nod agreement.

Toby turned to Stevie Three. "What is this place?"

"What's left of a rebel cell, fairly low on the chain of command, which is probably why the troops haven't found it yet. We're using it as a check-in point, for rebels who got scattered when the invasion hit. We're waiting for orders, but I don't even know if there are any traces of the underground's organization left in this town. We've been hit hard. Communications have gone to hell, and there are hardly any espers here. You're lucky my sister and I were out looking for strays; we'd already decided it was the last run we were going to make. This town has fallen; it just doesn't know it yet."

"Have you got time for an interview?" said Toby. "Seeing as we've got nothing to do for the moment. There's always the chance someone's watching."

He gestured to Flynn, who nodded that his camera was still running. He settled it comfortably on his shoulder, and the camera turned its glowing, unblinking eye on Stevie Three.

"Not much to tell," the esper clone said quietly. "The invasion took us all by surprise. The chain of command among the rebels was shattered almost immediately. We have no idea how things are going in any of the main cities. Some of the rebels tried to surrender when they saw how bad things were going, but the Empire forces aren't interested in taking prisoners. My sister and I did what we could to help, taking out some of the smaller war machines with our fire, preying on troops that got separated from the main forces, but there were just so many of them… We're all tired. So many of us are dead. Our ammunition's getting low. Maybe all that's left to us is to die well. And take as many of the bastards with us as we can."

"They're here!" yelled Stevie One, glaring out one of the slits in the windows. Everyone pushed their guns through the cracks between the boards and opened fire on the advancing troops. The noise of so many projectile weapons firing in a confined space was deafening. Toby and Flynn clapped their hands to their ears. Smoke and the stench of cordite filled the air. And then an energy beam punched right through the solid wooden door, passing on through the body of the rebel standing guard behind it, before exiting through the far wall.

"War wagon!" yelled Stevie One. "It's got disrupter cannon!"

And then energy beams were hitting the room from all directions. They came slamming through the walls, catching most of the rebels before they could drop to the floor for cover. The beams filled the room with blinding light, crisscrossing like some glaring luminous spider's web. Most of the rebels were holed and blown apart in the first few seconds, their charred and scattered parts falling to lie twitching on the floor. One man's head was blown clean away, and his body managed half a dozen faltering steps before another beam took its legs out, and it fell.

Toby tried to burrow into the stone floor, his hands over his head. He'd grabbed Flynn and hit the deck the moment Stevie One yelled her first warning. He wasn't a fighter. The beams kept coming, riddling the walls with endless holes, filling the room with the stench of ionized air. A few people were crying out, in fear or shock or suffering, but that didn't last long. Finally the beams stopped, and all was quiet, save for quiet creaking noises from the weakened walls. Early-morning light streamed through the hundreds of holes in the walls, diffused by the drifting smoke. Toby slowly lifted his head and looked around him. The dead were everywhere. Torn apart and broken, like so many dolls deserted by angry children who didn't want to play anymore. Flynn was lying beside Toby, cradling his precious camera in his arms. He nodded to Toby to show he was okay, but made no move to get up. Stevie One and Stevie Three lay together, and only one of them was moving.

Stevie Three sat up slowly. Half her hair and half her face had been burned away from her head where an energy beam had touched her in passing, but otherwise she seemed unhurt. Stevie One had fared less well. She'd been hit several times, and her left arm had been shot away, the steaming wound roughly cauterized just above the elbow. Stevie Three cradled her in her arms. Stevie One groaned, and her eyes flickered open.

"Damn," she said thickly. "I think the odds just got worse."

"Shut up," said Stevie Three. "Rest. Save your strength."

"What for? It's over, love. The Empire's won."

"It's not over till we say it's over," said Stevie Three fiercely. "Don't you dare die and leave me alone. We lived together and we'll die together, and we'll do it on our feet. Get up, damn you. Come on, love. One last spit in the Empress's eye."

Stevie One smiled. "Right."

Stevie Three got them both on their feet, holding Stevie One up till her legs firmed. They looked around for other survivors, and saw Toby and Flynn looking up at them. Stevie Three smiled.

"I might have known. Good men and women die, but reporters go on forever. Stay down, boys. This isn't your fight."

"What are you going to do?" said Toby.

Stevie Three looked at the door before her, and Toby knew she was seeing the enemy massed outside. When she spoke, her voice was almost calm, matter of fact. "Once there were four of us. Clones, sisters, lovers; a closer relationship than you can ever imagine. Two died, fighting the Empire that created them, and now it's our turn. We've always known we were born to burn. All that's left is one last gesture of defiance."

"What are you going to do?" said Toby. "What can you do?"

"Die well," said Stevie One, and Stevie Three nodded.

"Sometimes, that's all there is."

"No," said Toby, his voice roughened by unfamiliar emotions. "There's got to be another way. There's always another way."

"No," said Stevie Three, almost kindly. "Not always. Every road comes to its end eventually. Get your camera ready. We're going out."

She hauled her sister over to the door, carefully undid the locks, and pulled back the bolts one by one. Flynn's camera rose from his shoulder to get a better view. Stevie Three yanked the door open and slammed it back against the wall. The esper clones stood framed in the doorway a moment, looking out at the men and machines arrayed against them. From somewhere deep inside, Stevie One found the strength to stand alone. Stevie Three glanced back over her shoulder, and showed her teeth in a smile.

"See you in Hell, boys."

She turned back to stare out the doorway, and both the Stevie Blues burst into flames. Bright blue fires burned around them, strengthening and consuming them as they focused all their last strength and rage into a final act of defiance. They ran forward, yelling their war cry, fire blazing from three outstretched hands to incinerate men and machines alike. The Imperial marines opened fire.

Disrupter beams punched through the Stevie Blues again and again, shaking them like a dog shakes a rat. They fell together, and their flames went out, and there were no more Stevie Blues, anywhere at all.

Flynn got it all on film. Toby couldn't think of a damn thing to say.

A marine Sergeant came forward, and calmly stirred the dead espers with his boot, to make sure they were dead. He nodded, satisfied, and then walked unhurriedly forward to look through the door at Toby and Flynn. Toby waited to die. He had nowhere to go, and wouldn't have known what to do with a weapon if he'd had one. He felt strangely unconcerned, as though it felt wrong he should still be alive, when everyone else was dead. He glared up at the Sergeant unflinchingly, and hoped Flynn would keep filming to the last. The Sergeant stood over him and smiled.

"You're a lucky boy, Shreck. Turns out the Empress is something of a fan of yours. She's followed everything you've done recently. Think how surprised and delighted she was when the Elegance picked up your signal. So, you're coming with us. You and your cameraman are now official Imperial reporters, and the Empress wants you covering the fall of the Deathstalker Standing. And no, you don't get a choice. So hurry up, or you'll miss it."

He hauled Toby up onto his feet and slapped some of the dust off him. Flynn got up unaided. The Sergeant looked at him and winced.

"We'd better find you a cloak. Even reporters are supposed to have some standards. Come along, lads. The Empress wants the whole Empire to see what happens to people who dare rebel against her wise and just rule. Do a really good job, and maybe she won't have you executed afterward for fraternizing with the enemy. Now move it!"

Toby and Flynn walked unsteadily out of the room of death and into the waiting arms of the Empire.

In the ancient Standing of his Clan, David Deathstalker sat on the edge of his bed, watching his planet die on the viewscreen before him. He clicked through channel after channel, but the scene was always the same. His people, fighting and dying. Fighting ground troops or combat androids or war machines, but always dying. The villages and the towns and the cities burned, and the countryside was full of refugees being rounded up by Imperial troops. One in ten would be executed later, as an example. Lionstone was very keen on tradition.

David turned off the viewscreen, and the bedchamber was suddenly quiet. He hugged himself as tightly as he could stand, trying to hold himself together, despite the blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his middle. The pain came and went now. He didn't know whether that was a good sign or not. When it was very bad all he could do was sit very still, gritting his teeth so he wouldn't call out, and wait for the pain to pass so he could think again. He felt hot and cold by turns, and sweat was dripping off his face. He tried desperately to think of something he could do to save the situation. His surrender had been turned down, and he couldn't get a signal offworld to call on the underground for help. Down below, the few staff still loyal to him or the rebellion were fighting to keep the Imperial forces out of the Standing. They wouldn't last long. Kit SummerIsle came through the open door, and David knew his news from his face.

"Captain Silence and the Investigator are leading a strike force against the main door. There's no way our people are going to be able to keep them out."

David nodded slowly. "They were never more than a holding action." He struggled to get up off the bed and onto his feet. Kit hurried over to help him. David hung on to him. His legs felt like they might go at any moment, but he wouldn't give in to them. He forced them straight and smiled at his friend.

"This is it, Kit. Once the Standing falls, the rebellion here is over. I think I finally understand what it means, to be a Deathstalker. To fight the good fight, to put it all on the line, even when you know you can't win." He gestured at the old holoportrait of the original Deathstalker, on the wall at the foot of his bed. "Look at him. Like some bad old barbarian mercenary, in his leathers and scalplock. Giles, my ancestor. I wonder what he would think of me. We never really had a chance to talk. And then there's Owen. I think I understand him a little better now. He tried to warn me, and I wouldn't listen. He said I'd never be able to hold Virimonde, and he was right. The Empress gives and the Empress takes away. God damn the Empress."

"You're feverish," said Kit. "Sit down again."

"No. If I sit down now, I'll never find the strength to get up again. Time we were leaving, I think."

Kit looked at him. "The Standing's surrounded, David. They have all the exits blocked."

"There's one they don't know about." David lurched over to the holoportrait and hit a hidden switch, and the portrait swung sideways, revealing a narrow passage. Lights came on, showing the passage stretching down into darkness. David smiled tiredly as he saw new hope rise in Kit's eyes. "Secret passage. Owen told me about it. Saved his ass when they came for him. Finishes up in the flyer bay, in the caves below the Standing. We'll grab a flyer, shove the throttle to max, and get the hell out of here before they know what's happening. I can't die yet, Kit. My people need me. If I can't save them, maybe I can arrange for them to be avenged. You know, Kit, it's taken a long time, but I think I've finally found my honor and my duty."

"You are feverish," said Kit. "Let's go."

They made their way slowly down the secret passage, David leaning heavily on Kit. Blood was running freely down his side now, and when he coughed, as he sometimes had to despite the pain, blood sprayed from his mouth along with the sound. But he kept going. He wouldn't give up. A Deathstalker never gives up. His head swam sickly, and sometimes he thought it was Owen there in the passage with him, and sometimes it was Giles. But when his head cleared, Kit was always there with him, the only real friend he'd ever had.

They reached the end of the passage, and came to a stop while Kit peered cautiously out into the flyer bay. He snapped his head back in immediately, and a disrupter beam hit the top of the tunnel mouth, blasting debris from the stone ceiling. David was caught off-balance and fell heavily to the floor, pulling Kit down with him. They lay together on the stone floor, breathing heavily. Kit fired his gun blindly out the passage mouth, to discourage anyone from coming in after them. He looked for David's gun, and found he didn't have one.

"David," he said urgently. "Where's your gun?"

"I gave it to Alice, just before we crashed. She's still got it." David spit blood onto the floor, and pulled a face. "Kit, I just tried to boost, and nothing happened. There's nothing left in me. No more fight. This is as far as I go."

"Shut up," said Kit. "Get your breath back, and we'll head back up the passage."

"No. I'm not going anywhere. I'm cold, Kit. So cold."

Kit sat up, put his back against the passage wall, and cradled David in his arms, holding him close, trying to share his warmth with the dying man.

"Had some good times here, didn't we, Kit?"

"The best."

"Pity about Alice. And Jenny."

"Yes."

"Leave me, Kit."

"What?"

"They want me, not you. Pointless, you dying here as well as me."

"I can't leave you, David. You're my friend."

"Then do as I ask. Don't die for nothing. Kill me, and then go out to them. My death will put you in good with Lionstone again. Show her my head, and she'll probably make you Lord of Virimonde. They'll think you're one of them, after all."

"David… please. I can't…"

"Yes you can. You have to. I don't want to die here, by inches, screaming when the pain gets really bad. Do it, Kit. Be my friend. One last time."

He coughed harshly, and couldn't stop. Blood spilled down his chin. He tried to speak again and couldn't. Kit hugged him tightly till the coughing stopped, then drew his knife and thrust it expertly between David's ribs. The breath went out of the Deathstalker in a long sigh, and then he was still. Kit sat there for a while, cradling the dead body in his arms. David had been quite right. The Empress would take him back, as David's executioner. She'd always had a soft spot for her smiling killer. And it wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go. The rebellion was over. Anyone could see that. So that just left Lionstone. He was a killer, and he had to go where the killing was. He carefully laid David's body down on the passage floor and arranged his arms and legs neatly. He drew his sword and leaned over David. The Deathstalker's face was very calm. Kit leaned down and kissed David on the bloody lips.